#*hit him with a sledgehammer but same difference

[humanmorph]

games to finish this year:

- outer wilds ✅ (i will have to look at a guide finally even though i DONT LIKE IT) I wish I'd done this sooner (just gotten help). Incredible game

- kentucky route zero (i never played the final episode when it released and at this point i might aswell start over)

- BREATH OF THE WILD ✅ (I SHOULD. DO THIS TODAY ACTUALLY. did this. it took an embarassingly short amount of time what with me having everything fully upgraded) 

[love-toxin]

MEAT - thomas hewitt (leatherface)

a/n: i had to be a little silly ehe <- delusional

(cws: fem!reader, DDDNE, extreme violence, blood, gore, broken bones, a whole array of weaponry, domestic abuse, forced relationship, evolution of victim -> perpetrator, psychological torture, mentions of very dubious consent, breeding, huge size difference, ownership marking, protective tommy, implied cannibalism, unnamed victims of the tcm.)

wc: 10.7k

Lungs burning in your chest with the humid Texas heat, you forced the corn stalks aside as you stumbled through them in a frantic sprint. Each leathery pod whacked against your shoulders, your hands, your chest, and your bruised-up legs, but you wouldn't stop for nothing.

You couldn't stop. The people you'd hitchhiked with were all dead, or at least very well on their way to being so–they had been hunted one by one, by bear traps and shotguns and hay hooks, and you were sure you were the only one the family were left hunting. It'd taken all night to spread you thin and weaken you all with sadistic tortures of every kind. Now your group was down to one. You. Hauling ass was not enough to describe how frantically you were tumbling through the crop field, practically hand-over-foot crawling with how dizzy you'd gotten. Blood loss and a few hits to the head would do that to you.

Finally, the maize parted one last time to spit you out into the dewy grass, the labyrinth of sameness finally coming to an end. But when you tilted your head up to the starry night sky, your heart dropped into your feet at what laid before you. The farmhouse. You'd run in the wrong direction. Warm light glowed from within the drapery behind the windows and you spotted the older woman standing on the porch, a rag tucked between her hands as she called out a name. Terrified and hoping for the blessing of going unseen you army crawled your way right back to the corn–

Thunk. Only halfway there, the grass split with the force of a sledgehammer dropping into it. A boot stepped into view right by your head; attached to it was an enormous calf, and your eyes trailed upwards slowly to reveal the whole of that crazed maniac you'd seen manhandling the others into that house of horrors across the lawn.

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

forever

[moni-logues]

Germs

Pairing: Hoseok x reader (gn)

Genre: comfort, sick fic, established relationship

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: When you come down with the flu, the last thing you expect is your germophobic boyfriend to come to your aid. But Hoseok is full of surprises.

Content: I mean, honestly, nothing, reader is ill.

A/N: I'm feeling rusty and tired so the aim is to get out some short little drabbly bits! this is one of them! I have just written it in the last hour; it is unbeta'd and honestly, not thought through at all and not edited lmao but it's Hobi and it's cute so.

* *

You took a stuttering breath in and then let out an unexpectedly forceful sneeze. Hoseok’s head immediately appeared around the kitchen door where he was cleaning up dinner. 

“Was that a sneeze?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“... No?”  

There was absolutely no denying but Hoseok had been telling you for two days now that you looked like you were coming down with something and you didn’t want him to be right. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, coming out of the kitchen fully. 

He threw a box of tissues at you and continued on to the bathroom, via the kitchen. When he came back, he sprayed the air in front of you with an antibacterial aerosol, he took out wipes for the TV control, your phone, the coffee table, the snacks on the table you had yet to open. He placed a glass of orange juice in your hand with vitamin C tablets and echinacea. He pressed a hand against your forehead and peered at you closely, looking for a glassy eye or unusual flush. He did all of this whilst wearing a mask.  

You had long given up trying to stop him—it was futile, which is why you had been so keen to deny the sneeze.  

When he was satisfied that you had taken the tablets and drunk your juice, he put a mask on you, too. 

“No taking chances, treasure. You are getting ill and I won’t have it.”  

You didn’t protest. You didn’t argue. Once he hit this point, there was no going back. You'd be sleeping in your own apartments for the next week at least. You also didn’t have the energy. Because you were pretty sure, too, that you were getting ill... If you were being honest.  

* 

The next morning hit you over the head with a sledgehammer. Your body was lead. Your head was an anvil. Even the blood in your veins felt sluggish. You were sweating under the bed covers, stifled. You used all your energy to smack your alarm clock into silence and pick up your phone. You sent a message to your boss to let them know you would not be coming into work. Then you let your phone drop somewhere in the bed and tried to go back to sleep. 

But sleep wouldn’t come. You tossed and turned but every position made you ache. You were too hot and too cold. Your head felt thick and muggy but you felt too alert to sleep. Everything was wrong.  

You wanted a cool flannel on your forehead and some hot, healing broth. You wanted a blanket and a blast of fresh air. You wanted a cold shower and a nice, hot bath.  

You wanted a cuddle. You accepted that this would not be coming from your germophobic boyfriend, but a stuffed animal really wasn’t cutting it. You sent him a plaintive text and received a string of exclamation marks and emojis in return. He promised to send you soup but you wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed to receive it. He promised to send you medicine, but same deal.  

You knew it wouldn’t actually make the illness leave you any faster or make any physical difference to your body; you just wanted him close to you. His heart-shaped lips on your forehead, his long arms around your waist, his clean, musky smell. The comfort you felt in his arms, the security, the safety, the softness. You knew he wouldn’t come. He was an angel in all ways but his penchant for cleanliness. You knew his care-taking could not extend to comforting you while you were ill. It was just his thing. He had never said as much but you watched him clean feverishly; you had to listen to his chastising of you whenever you didn’t clean something the right way or enough or just let him do it. He was a perfectionist and it extended into every area of his life. Including germs. And you were riddled with them.  

You left your phone ignored and sank back into the damp, sweaty sheets and tried again to find sleep. 

* 

It did, eventually, find you and you woke, hours later, to the echoing sound of knocking and a buzzing sensation somewhere near your legs. You flung your arm around beneath the duvet to find your ringing phone and answered it, speaking your very first words of the day. 

“Hello?”  

You sounded even worse than you thought you would. 

“Ohh, my girl, you sound so bad.” Hoseok sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Come and let me in, will you? I’ve been knocking at your door for ages.” 

It must have been a fever dream. Hoseok at your door? Hoseok entering the sick bay? Surely not. But the knocking came again from the other side of your apartment and his voice rang through the phone, asking to be let in.  

“Ok, hold on,” you wheezed into the phone before hanging up. 

With tremendous effort, you pulled your leaden body into a sitting position and gave yourself a few seconds to balance yourself. Then you stood carefully and shuffled to the front door. You had to pause, holding yourself up on the door frame, exhausted from the short walk there. You weren’t entirely sure you were not about to pass out and if that was going to happen, you really had to open the door before it. So you took a deep breath and pulled it open. 

Hoseok gasped and immediately put his arm around your waist, taking your weight on him as you stepped backwards and let him into the apartment. You let him lead you back into the bedroom but he took one look at the bed and steered you out again, setting you down gently on the sofa. He was still wearing a mask and you saw him click open a small bottle of hand sanitiser from the bag he’d brought with him.  

“Have some water,” he said gently, placing a bottle on the coffee table in front of you, alongside some painkillers and yet more vitamin C.  

Then he disappeared and you heard him fussing in the bedroom. He came out with an armful of laundry and put it in the washing machine. He walked back into the bedroom where he fussed some more. He took several trips back and forth between the supplies he had brought with him and your bedroom. He checked in on you to make sure you were drinking the water he’d brought. He made you a cup of herbal tea. You heard the fridge open and shut but couldn’t see what he’d been putting in or taking out.  

At some point, you nodded off again, this time sweating into the sofa cushions and shivering with no blanket. When you woke up, you had been transported.  

The room was bathed in a soft, warm glow; the sheets you were lying on were crisp and clean and smelt fresh like detergent; the air smelt fresh, too, clean, not too strong. You were too warm, again, but it wasn’t just your body this time. It was the body of the man pressed against you, his arms around you, his head resting against yours. 

“Hobi?” you asked, your voice not quite yet woken from your sleep. You cleared your throat and tried again.  

He pulled back to look at you. 

“Hey, treasure, are you feeling any better?” His voice was soft and quiet, as if being too loud might hurt you.  

His fingers were light as they brushed against your cheek. His lips were as soft as you wanted when he pressed them to your forehead. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked.  

“What do you mean? I’m here to take care of you! Of course I am!” 

You couldn’t work out if it was your flu-riddled brain that was making you stupid or that Hoseok really wasn’t making sense. 

“Why would you take care of me? I’m ill.” 

“Yes, that’s why you need taking care of. Has the fever fried your brain that badly?” 

You used what little strength you possessed to push back from him. You looked up at him with a deep frown and his pretty, open face looked back, his lips lifted at the corners in a gentle smile, his eyes sparkling, his hair falling slightly into his eyes.  

“But I have germs. You hate germs.” 

He chuckled and pulled you back into him, pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“I hate germs,” he conceded. “But I love you.” 

[rafecamerons-national-anthem]

𝑅𝐸𝒥𝐸𝒞𝒯𝐼𝒪𝒩-𝒟𝑅𝐸𝒲 𝒮𝒯𝒜𝑅𝒦𝐸𝒴

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew Starkey, fresh off a stunning performance, feels a deep pull toward the new intern, Y/N. After a night of shared dreams and vulnerabilities, he confesses his feelings, only to face her gentle rejection.

✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮

The adrenaline of live theatre had once again claimed him, but tonight felt different. He could feel it in his bones, a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation that he hadn't experienced since his first opening night.

"Drew, you absolutely killed it out there!" exclaimed his best friend and stage manager, Mark, as he rushed backstage, his eyes gleaming with pride. Drew couldn't help but smile at his friend's enthusiasm, despite the turmoil churning within him. "You're going to be the talk of the town, buddy. That was your best performance yet!"

But Drew's thoughts were elsewhere. The haunting eyes of the new intern, Y/N, had captured his attention from the moment she'd walked into the theatre weeks ago. Her quiet confidence and unassuming grace had drawn him in, and he'd found himself thinking about her during every performance, every rehearsal, every quiet moment alone in his dressing room. He had no idea if she felt the same, but he knew he couldn't ignore the connection any longer.

As the cast and crew began to disperse, Drew found himself lingering in the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He watched as she moved with poise and efficiency, ensuring every prop and costume was meticulously placed back in its rightful spot. Her dedication to her craft was unparalleled, and he found it both alluring and intimidating.

"Hey, Y/N," he called out softly, his voice barely audible over the clamor of the theatre's backstage. She turned, her eyes widening in surprise before a small smile graced her lips. "Could I…I mean, would you like to grab a coffee with me? Somewhere quiet, where we can actually talk?"

The silence that followed was deafening, and Drew felt his heart drop into his stomach. Had he misread the signs? Had he been too forward? But then she nodded, the smile growing into something that seemed almost shy. "Sure, Drew. That would be nice."

The cool evening air hit Drew as he stepped out of the backstage door, and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Y/N followed closely behind, her eyes scanning the bustling streets of downtown. The city lights twinkled like a sea of stars, casting a soft glow over her features. He offered his arm, and she took it, her touch sending a jolt through him that he wasn't quite prepared for.

They walked in silence for a few moments before Drew felt the need to break it. "So, what do you think of the city so far?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Y/N glanced up at him, her eyes reflecting the streetlights. "It's…intense. But I like the energy. It's a good change from the small town I'm used to."

Drew nodded, understanding all too well the lure of the city's pulse. "What brought you here?"

"The same as you, I guess," she said with a small laugh. "Dreams of the stage. I want to learn everything I can about theatre, and this is the place to do it."

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer, and he found himself opening up to her in a way he hadn't with anyone in years. "Yeah, me too. But sometimes… it feels like the dream is slipping away, you know?"

Her gaze grew serious, her grip on his arm tightening slightly. "Why do you say that?"

He sighed. "I don't know. Just the pressure, I guess. The constant need to be perfect, to make every performance better than the last. It's like I'm chasing my own shadow."

Y/N stopped walking, turning to face him. "But isn't that what makes it worth it? The chase, the growth?"

Her words hung in the air, and Drew found himself looking into her eyes, searching for an answer he wasn't sure he had. "I suppose so," he murmured, "but sometimes it's just… overwhelming."

With a gentle nod, Y/N leaned in slightly. "You're not alone in that feeling, Drew. We all have our moments of doubt. But look at you tonight, you gave a performance that had everyone on the edge of their seats."

Her genuine belief in him was like a balm to his soul, and Drew felt his shoulders relax. They continued to walk, their steps in sync as they navigated the cobblestone streets to a quaint little café that Mark had recommended. The place was tucked away, a hidden gem that offered the quiet they both sought.

Once inside, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the soft hum of jazz music enveloped them, creating an intimate atmosphere that was a stark contrast to the bustling world outside. They found a cozy table in the corner, the dim light casting a warm glow over the worn wooden surface. Drew ordered for both of them, his eyes never leaving hers.

As they waited for their drinks, the conversation flowed easily, covering everything from their favorite plays to their childhood ambitions. Drew found himself opening up about his own journey to stardom, the highs and the lows, and the sacrifices he'd made along the way. Y/N listened with rapt attention, asking insightful questions that made him think deeply about his choices.

When their coffee arrived, she took a sip and leaned back in her chair, her gaze thoughtful. "You know," she began, "I think the most important thing is to find joy in the process, not just the end result. You're living your dream every day, even if it doesn't always feel like it."

Drew's heart swelled at her wisdom, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. "You're something special, Y/N. I'm so glad we did this."

Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she smiled. "Me too."

Their hands remained intertwined as they talked late into the night, sharing stories and dreams, and slowly, the weight of the world lifted from Drew's shoulders. It was as if he'd found a piece of himself that he didn't know was missing, and he was determined to hold onto it tightly.

But as the hours ticked by, the unspoken tension grew thicker between them. Drew knew he couldn't ignore the feelings any longer, and he took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to say.

"Y/N, I know this might sound crazy, but I think…I think I'm falling for you."

Her eyes searched his, filled with a mix of shock and something else, something he hadn't expected. Fear? Panic? Or was it something else entirely?

Her silence was like a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the room. Drew's heart raced as he waited for her response, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but the words had slipped from his lips as naturally as breathing.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Drew, I…I don't know what to say."

He could see the conflict playing out across her features, and his heart sank. Had he misread the situation? Had he just ruined their friendship?

"Look," he said, trying to lighten the mood, "you don't have to say anything. I just wanted to be honest with you. We can forget about it and go back to how things were."

But she didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she laced her fingers through his, her eyes never leaving his. "No," she said softly, "you don't understand. It's just…I can't."

Drew felt his heart plummet to his feet. "Can't what?"

"I can't do this," she replied, her voice trembling. "I can't be with you like that. Not now."

He frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

Her gaze dropped to the table, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm just not ready, Drew. I'm still figuring out who I am, what I want. And I don't want to risk losing what we have, or messing up this opportunity for either of us."

Drew's mind raced as he tried to process her words. He had never felt this way about anyone before, and the rejection stung like nothing he'd ever experienced. "But you…you don't have to choose," he protested, his voice low and pleading. "We can figure it out together."

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with regret. "I wish it were that simple. But it's not. I need to focus on me right now, on my career. And I can't do that if I'm…if I'm distracted."

Drew felt the weight of her words settle in his chest. He knew she was right; he knew he should respect her decision. But it didn't make it any easier to accept. He nodded, his throat tight. "Okay," he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady. "I get it."

They sat in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Drew felt like he'd lost something precious, something that had barely begun to blossom. But he also knew that pushing her would only drive her away, and that was the last thing he wanted.

With a sigh, he took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste mirroring his mood. "Thank you for being honest with me," he managed to say, his voice gruff. "I'll respect your decision."

Y/N offered a sad smile. "Thank you for understanding."

The rest of the night passed in a blur, their conversation forced and stilted. Drew's mind was reeling, trying to piece together what had just happened. He had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. And yet, as they parted ways outside the café, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief.

Maybe she was right, he thought as he walked back to his apartment, the city lights blurring into a haze of color. Maybe it was better this way, for both of them. After all, the theatre was a fickle beast, demanding and unyielding. It didn't leave much room for anything else.

But as he closed the door to his quiet apartment, the reality of her refusal settled heavily on him. The emptiness in his chest grew, filling him with a sadness that was as deep and vast as the ocean. He had never felt so alone in the midst of so much noise.

With a heavy heart, he stripped off his stage makeup, the remnants of his character slipping down the drain like sand in an hourglass. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for the man he'd been before he'd met her. But all he saw was the same lost soul, adrift in a sea of doubt and fear.

Tomorrow, he'd put on his brave face and step back into the spotlight, ready to give another breathtaking performance. But tonight, he'd allow himself to feel the pain of rejection, to mourn the loss of a love that had never quite had the chance to take root. And he'd hope that, with time, the whispers of their friendship could grow into something stronger, something that could withstand the tempestuous storms of the theatre world.

[thatchickwithtoomanyhobbies]

The End (Daniels)

***An alternative universe where sledgehammer killed off everyone but Daniels Saving-Private-Ryan-style. AKA- what would’ve happened had my mother been part of the writing staff. Note: Events in this story are different than the canon storyline (duh). Slight *puke warning*! Implied *Self-Deletion*! Do not read if that’ll be upsetting!***

He had to find him. Robert Zussman- his best friend, the last one left from his platoon, the man he vowed to fight to the end with, the person he cared about most in the world (besides his wife and child of course)- had been taken by the Nazi’s nearly four months earlier.

He’d been beside him for so long. He grieved the loss of their other friends with him. He’d given him words of encouragement when he found out he was going to be a father. He’d helped patch him up after a long day of battles. He’d been there for him through thick and thin, and the least he could do was go save him now. If only he could’ve saved the others…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles had perished storming the beach. The poor man had seen the shell dropping and tried to jump out of the way, but he was too late. The bomb dropped right on top of him, sending him flying.

Zussman and Aiello had gotten to him first, and were surprised to find him still alive, glasses smashed, his legs below the knees gone. They’d tried to tourniquet them, but it was no use. The man had bled out less than a minute later crying for his ma. Apologizing to the air. Saying he was sorry it had to end this way.

He’d taken his last breath in Zussman’s arms, trying to tell him to tell his ma he loved her and would miss her.

The poor chap never got the chance to finish his sentence before his heart stopped. Daniels took his camera off his body, promising himself he’d send it back to his ma when he got the chance. From what Stiles had said of her, she’d want the thing to remember him by.

That poor woman. She’d already lost two of her five children in a car accident several year prior. Now she had lost yet another one to a dictator hungry for power.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Pierson was lost when the church had collapsed at Marigny. Aiello was with Jones taking out the AA Guns when German artillery started hitting the church. Once the building started coming down they’d all rushed to get out of it. Daniels had gotten knocked off the ladder when the bell fell and lay dazed on the floor under a fallen rafter.

Zussman, determined to help his friend, stayed back and helped pry off the piece of wood and get Daniels on his feet costing them precious time. The sergeant had yelled at them to keep moving. Quickly, before the building came down. By the time Zuss had gotten himself and Daniels to the door, the building was coming down on their heads.

Pierson, in one heroic action, grabbed both men and threw them out of the building and onto the street to safety. The last last thing the two soldiers saw was their Sergeant looking up in horror as the building collapsed, trapping him beneath the rubble.

Once they cleared the street, the remaining men dug through the remnants of the building for him, hoping that maybe he could be alive. It was in vain, as they found no trace of their commander in the rubble.

Pierson had a wife and two young sons back home. Sons that would now grow up without a father. In a way, Daniels blamed himself. If he hadn’t gotten trapped, perhaps Pierson would still be alive.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They had lost Aiello and Turner on the same day just minutes apart, something that made their deaths seem the worst out of all of them.

It was the same day he’d gotten the news that he was going to be a father. Aiello had teased him about it most of the morning to the point where he had snapped at him. Something that Daniels deeply regretted now. He’d take back his hash words to the man and laugh with him. Tease him back perhaps.

Turner had sent Aiello along with second platoon as they were a few men short. They all thought they’d be fine. Apparently not.

From what Daniels heard from the other men, Aiello- forever stubborn- had run ahead when they heard a singular shot ring out. Whether from a German or from Aiello they had no idea.

Daniels found out when he climbed the hill to find Aiello lying dead in the mud, a singular gunshot wound to the chest. There was no time to grieve him. No time for a even a prayer for him to reach heaven. The had to keep moving.

All he had wanted was to get home and throw himself headfirst into a music career.

“Forget Frank Sinatra! Frank Aiello is the next heartthrob, boys! I’m gonna top the billboards!”

He’d never get the chance to find out if that was true, his drum set back home now sitting forever unused.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Turner was gone just a few minutes after Aiello. In some ways his was the hardest hitting of all, as he had given his life for the men to escape. But Daniels blamed himself, as Turner had been helping him up when he was shot in the back.

Turner insisted they leave him behind. To retreat while he held them off.

“No sacrifice too great,” he told Daniels managing a weak smile. In his opinion, this was too great a sacrifice. Turner had a wife and three children back home. With this one action, he was making her a widow and his three children fatherless.

Turner commanded them to go yet again. Zussman had grabbed him by the arm and ran. He had been forced to watch as Turner was inevitably shot dead by the Germans and lay lifeless in the middle of a German forest.

His family would never get to see his final resting place or say their last goodbyes. He was yet another casualty of this terrible war.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zussman was the last one left from the first platoon besides Daniels himself, which made finding him even more urgent.

Zuss was the only one who knew just how much they had suffered. How much loss they had endured. How lonely the nights got once everyone was gone. The nights they’d console each other from memories plaguing their minds. Nobody knew like they did. He needed to find him. If he were to turn up less than alive…

He pushed the thought out of his head. He’d be alive. He’d be ok. They’d go back to the states together and maybe he could move Zussman in. Hazel would be ok with it. He could be an uncle to the baby and earn his keep helping out with chores on the farm. He’d suggest it to him when he found him.

He didn’t wait for the truck to stop before jumping out and running into the camp, screaming Zussman’s name. Maybe he’d hear. Maybe he’d answer. As he ran through the camp, he soon realized that it had been deserted and not too long before. He hoped, prayed, that Zuss was still alive. Unfortunately that prayer was not to be answered.

He looked up passing the gallows, noticing there was a man hanging there. He stood and stared, wondering how people could do this to their fellow humans when suddenly the horror dawned on him.

“Zussman! No!” He screamed, climbing up onto the platform to cut his friend down.

It was too late. Zussman was gone. He picked up his best friend and held him in his arms, his body was still slightly warm. He had been just a few minutes too late. If only he had gotten there sooner.

He put him down and let loose the contents of his stomach. It was his fault. If he had gotten there sooner. If he had driven faster.

He held his best friend in his arms and sobbed. He was last one left of the first platoon. The only one who survived the horrors of this war. They were all gone. He’d be the only one to go home to his family. He took the Saint Michael pendant off of his friend. He wasn’t catholic, in fact he had been raised baptist, but the longing to have something to remind him of his friend was stronger than his religious ties.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He rode up to the old farmhouse, barely a shell of the man who had left it nearly a year before. He lost everyone he cared about in Europe. His best friends. His superiors. He was the last surviving member of the first platoon.

That was odd. He figured Hazel would meet him outside when he arrived. Maybe she was inside nursing the baby. She had always been a bit more conservative, so she didn’t want to expose herself. That explained it.

As he walked up the front steps he imagined how good it would feel to hold her again. To kiss her lips. To snuggle up next to her on cold nights. He had missed her so much.

As he went to open the door he realized that it was unlocked. That was strange. She always locked the front door. It was the back door they left unlocked during the day. He was starting to feel uneasy now.

“Hazel?” he called into the house, door slightly ajar, hoping to hear her voice. He received no answer. He pushed the door open all the way. The sight that met his eyes shocked him.

The house was empty. Every single piece of furniture downstairs was gone. This couldn’t be happening. He’d heard stories from other men of this happening, but he never thought it would happen to him. He hoped this was some sort of cruel trick on Hazel’s part.

He quickly ran upstairs, calling his wife’s name. Praying he’d find her and his son up there, only to find the upstairs just as empty as the floor below.

He ran down the hall to their bedroom, crying slightly. He hoped she’d be in there. Maybe she sold the furniture to pay the bills. Or perhaps she was getting it replaced. He knew that was unlikely, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe the reality of the situation.

He burst into the room, finding only the old bed and mattress stripped bare. There was a note taped to the wooden headboard. With trembling hands he removed and read it. He broke down in sobs as the reality set in.

The baby wasn’t his and Hazel was gone, having moved in with the kid’s true father and taken the furniture for their new house. Everything he had was gone. What was the point? He had no wife. No son. His friends were dead. He couldn’t do it.

He pulled the picture out of his pocket, the one of him and the boys in basic and the only one Stiles ever got with Pierson smiling. He missed them. They had all been lost overseas.

He felt for the pistol in his other pocket. He managed a slight smile at the realization it was still there. He pulled it out and walked downstairs, out the back door, and into the fields behind the house. This was the end of the line for him.

He couldn’t wait to see the boys again. Stiles and his constant yapping, Aiello cursing up a storm, Zussman’s antics. Even Pierson and Turner. He rubbed his thumb over the picture.

“Hey, boys. I’ve missed you…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The neighbors heard a singular pistol shot ring out across the fields dividing the houses. That was pretty normal to hear coming from the Daniels’ family farm. Red was probably shooting at another rat that got in the house. If only they knew the reality.

In an instant, the war had claimed yet another life, this one on American soil.

***I will admit, I may have shed a few tears writing this one. Especially Daniels’ ending there. Killing off the characters you love will do that to you. Perhaps I should go to therapy.***

[shinmiyovvi]

That's Not My Neighbor Timeline

This timeline will show some tidbits of what would be the story of my ocs before the events of the game itself because I have my brain working late at night and I want to share this with you guys :3. This will contain some spoilers about the formation of the D.D.D. and the beginning of the Trojan Horse Project.

1945

Oswald D. Keppler founded the Department of Doppelganger Detection as the General Director of the said department.

The Trojan Horse Project was funded by the Military Department of the Government with Keppler as the General Director of the project and Dr. W. Afton as the Lead Scientist of the said project. 

Some of the prominent employees of the department are Dr. Stanford Abelforth and Dr. Aditha Gulliver who have contributed their expertise in their specialized fields. Both are dedicated to the experiments being conducted in the lab and were praised by many.

1946

A teenager Ollie was scribbling in his notebook about vehicles, fascinated by the world of motorsports. While engrossed with his hobby, a loud noise can be heard outside of his room. His mother cried from fear as she tried to grab the telephone to contact the police, only for the doppelganger that was in the form of his father to kill her before she could utter a word through the phone. Curious and frightened, Ollie rushes out of his room to get the whole glimpse of the disgruntled form of his father. 

Before the doppelganger can kill Ollie, Lazaro happens to arrive earlier than expected as he quickly grabs Ollie away, causing him to have a scar on his right eye. He then grabs his pistol and shoots the doppelganger 4 times. Despite knowing that it's just the doppelganger of his older brother, he feels guilty for doing it. After the events had happened, Ollie then lived with his nonna and aunt throughout his life before moving in to live with his uncle.

In the same year, Ruslan Gulliver, the husband of Aditha, was hired by the D.D.D. as the first doorman of the apartment building that he would be working on. Throughout his job, he encounters different doppelgangers of the tenants in which he is capable of diminishing the differences between the original and the latter. 

1947

Aditha begins to feel unease with the project as she only tells her concerns about Stanford which he is the only person she could trust. Although she also wants to reveal the purpose and objective of the project to her husband Ruslan while having a dilemma whether to reveal it or not, her life is cut short after finding out that Afton happens to hear her conversation with Stanford. Her death was orchestrated by Afton who sent out a doppelganger that was in the form of her husband to “silence” her before she could even report this to the authorities despite the project being funded by the government as she believes this is considered “immoral” and “dangerous” to humanity.

The real Ruslan finds out about this from Stanford as he goes to save her, only to see her dead by the said doppelganger. Out of pure rage, he grabs a sledgehammer, hitting the doppelganger several times before he is now covered in blood. The next year, he quit his job as a doorman before returning years later as a building janitor to reveal the truth beneath the lies of the department.

1951

Delora is an office clerk who works the 9-to-5 shift at a business company. After her shift, she plans on visiting her parents after a tiring day at work from filing documents to answering phone calls through the telephone. When she arrived at the Steding Residence, she noticed the door was open. Curious, she went inside the house, hearing faint weeping noises from the kitchen. To her surprise, she saw her “aunt” from her mother’s side covered in blood as the cold lifeless body of her parents was lying on the floor.

Her “aunt” told her a fabricated story where a doppelganger got inside the house while she was visiting her parents to bring some apple pie. She also stated that she already called the police and was on the way to the scene. Delora noticed the slight difference between her aunt as she doesn't recall her having amber eyes and her mother has grayish ones as well as a mole on her chin. Not buying the story, she grabs a kitchen knife and stabs the doppelganger that was impersonating her aunt at least 7 times as the police arrived into the scene.

One of the officers tries to arrest her but Lazaro stops them midway from handcuffing Delora. He wants to interrogate her first from the beginning until the end of the story about the death of her parents and her alibi. She was taken to the station and asked several questions, once her alibi was considered valid, Lazaro let her go and ended the case. That day forward, Delora becomes more cautious around her surroundings as she develops mistrust of the people she happens to meet.

1955

The business company Delora worked in suddenly went into bankruptcy, causing her to lose her job as an office clerk. While looking for other job opportunities, a mysterious man who happens to be one of the members of D.D.D. gave her a proposition of working as a doorwoman of the apartment building. He believes that her skills of telling which is the doppelganger could stop the rampant invasion of doppelgangers in the building and would be a vital help towards society. Delora was hesitant at first, but she agreed either way.

In February of the same year started her job as the doorwoman of the building in which she encountered different tenants living in each apartment room of the said resident. There she met Ruslan and Stanford who shared a distrust of the D.D.D. and told her to be mindful of the organization that hired her. Throughout her time as a doorwoman, she begins to feel doubtful of the organization as she wants to find out the truth from the lies that the government fabricated to keep the image of the D.D.D. intact. With her snooping around, Dr. Afton becomes more mindful and observant of her actions as her involvement will cause them gravely.

[fellow-fandom-fruitifier]

Ok, so, I’m gonna spill my silly little interpretation of 6EM’s and SWK’s (Too lazy to type their full names.) childhood/relationship. I know I’m probably not right, per se, but I just really want to spill my thoughts about them.

You guys knows those families with the one “troubled” kid and the one “just fine” kid? Like the “I know you’re a child but your sibling needs more attention than you because they’re worse off.” kinda thing? And the kids too young to say/understand otherwise so they just kinda… deal? THAT’S how I see SWK’s and 6EM’s childhood. (Minus the sibling part, I don’t personally view them as having a familial relationship, but it’s the best example I could think of that made sense.)

I view it as like 6EM was the (more) reasonable one. The one that was pushed off to the side and left to deal with the background problems so other people could focus on the more important “problem”. A.K.A SWK. It left him neglected and feeling used, and because of how he just took what people gave him (Again, so SWK could be the main focus.) no one took his advice seriously/they just brushed over him. But he didn’t care (That much.) because he had SWK. He had one reliable in person his life, one constant that would always be there for him not just with him. It was probably a really codependent thought process. (And SWK was really greedy so he probably didn’t notice any real stress, and was probably convinced it didn’t matter what he did. 6EM would always wait for him after all.)

Then it was just gone. Everyone has a breaking point and 6EM’s was building for literal centuries. Seeing SWK with other people was probably like hitting a horribly cracked pane of glass with a sledgehammer. SWK was one of the only, if not the only, person 6EM probably felt like actually cared. And now he’s been replaced. I imagine that 6EM felt used for a long time and the only person who didn’t make him feel like that was SWK, but seeing that? Him just chilling with new friends? Not even a thought towards his most loyal friend? I imagine it’d make him feel like a toy thrown out when a child got bored.

I don’t think 6EM or SWK were responsible for the formers death. I think they were both kids (YOU CAN NOT CONVINCE ME THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS WERE ANY OLDER THAN 25, in celestial years or whatever, YOU JUST CAN’T.) who didn’t have literally any form of guidance and grew up with each other, but with very different social expectations. 6EM was horribly codependent and SWK was horribly selfish. The difference is that SWK was given a chance to grow and learn, and 6EM just… wasn’t. I assume that they just thought the other had similar experiences and thoughts as themselves because of how closely they did everything together ‘n stuff; but that just wasn’t true. You can grow up close to someone, maybe even in the same house or town and with the same people, but that doesn’t mean your experiences were anything alike.

I think that’s were it actually started to go wrong, it’s not that they were hiding things from the other, it’s just that they thought the other already knew because they were going through the same thing; even though they actually weren’t going through the same thing.

SWK grew up strong with the idea that he was unstoppable. That he could just take anything he wants. That people would just support him no matter what, that they’d be there no matter what; but he also grew up with the expectations of a king. He grew up thinking he had to be the strongest, he had to protect his family. That lead to his greed and need to protect mixing. He went to Heaven so his family could live a secure life but also because he was power hungry.

6EM grew up as an outcast, he was not well liked and the only person who was truly his friend was SWK. His best friend who literally promised him everything he could ever want. (Read: staying on FFM together forever.) He grew up with the expectations of being someone who would always be there for the other. Someone who would do anything for the other, someone who would just take whatever was given to him. Good or bad. He had a best friend who promised, and promised, and promised. A best friend who seemed capable enough to actually keep those promises, a best friend who 6EM gave his everything to and expected the other to just keep said promises. 6EM made himself a warrior, a tool essentially, for SWK because he was content just being dragged along. So when it all fell he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t allow himself to have a different purpose.

Two very different people who both expected the other to be there but in different ways. 6EM expected SWK to always come back and SWK expected 6EM to always be waiting. They were kids who took on roles too grand for their age and were given no guidance. SWK was given the chance for guidance when 6EM was not, I highly doubt it would have been any different should the roles have been reversed. I’d bet money that SWK would have attacked 6EM’s new friends to. They were both possessive, just in different ways. 6EM wasn’t ok with the change because SWK was the only thing he thought he knew, so he lashed out. SWK had changed since their last interaction and he defended.

I don’t think SWK meant to kill 6EM, either he was too blinded by rage to stop, or the final strike was a miscalculation. Maybe there’s a completely different reason for 6EM’s death, I don’t know. That’s just my thoughts on these silly little dudes. (I know I explained more of 6EM here but that’s mainly because we don’t actually know much about his childhood. Like, sure, we mainly have 6EM’s side of the whole death story, but that doesn’t mean we actually have his backstory. We know more about SWK’s childhood and shit than 6EM’s, so I wanted to focus more on the latter. Also because he’s my favorite and I’m very biased.😌)

Conclusion: 6EM was codependent and dedicated his everything to SWK, being brushed off as the lesser version while doing so many unnoticed things for SWK; he didn’t see a purpose outside of SWK. SWK was selfish and possessive/protective, just expecting things to go his way because he was strong, expecting 6EM to just be ok with whatever he gave him no matter what; but also had a lot of expectations to be the best. SWK and 6EM’s relationship was (almost) always unhealthy, it just didn’t look like it. Two enablers with different roles, a possessive leader and his most dedicated follower.

(Additional thing I want to add here: I think that if 6EM was given the chance to properly learn/process shit before LBD yanked him from the soil, then he wouldn’t have tried to get revenge. Dude was sent to the Diyu, not therapy, of course he’s gonna come back with an even worse mindset/“coping skills”.

Edit: I forgot to add that their past dynamic made it achingly easy to view 6EM as a victim and SWK as an abuser, when they were actually both in the wrong. Guilt isn’t an easy emotion to deal with. I think that there might have been a point where 6EM knew he was just as guilty as SWK, but no one likes the thought of turning out like their abuser. I think it was just too much so he kinda just forcefully blocked it out, ultimately stopping himself from healing properly and letting his spite for SWK fester.

Edit 2: … I can’t stop talking about them. My brain is filled with these gay ass monkeys and I keep realizing more. Where 6EM can’t stand guilt so he passes on blame, SWK just ignores it or denies it. They both can’t take guilt but in different ways. Head in hands, flailing and wailing, ugly sobbing. THEY’RE SO SIMILAR IN SUCH DIFFERENT WAYS AND I’M JUST AHAHAHWHGSJSNJXBSKMSKS

Edit 3: OK ISTG THIS IS THE LAST ONE, I PROMISE I WILL EXERCISE SOME SELF CONTROL AFTER THIS! SWK got self esteem issues from having too high standards from others but too low standards for himself. While 6EM got self esteem issues from having too low standards from others and too high standards from himself. I don’t know if that makes sense but I am fighting my ADHD rat brain to leave it at that.

Edit 4: I lied, I don’t have self control. 6EM likes being on the stage because he was neglected as a child [Craves attention he wasn’t properly given.] and SWK has stage fright because he had too many expectations as a child. [Fears attention that he was given too liberally.])

[geekedoutbunny]

If at all possible, may I request the following: During training with Goku, Broly is suddenly reminded of the day his father died, & takes off, & the reader finds him & comforts him as he cries because he thinks it was his fault. Please??

Broly x Reader Memories Fluff

Ooooo! A hurt/comfort fic!!?? OKAY!! OKAY!!!! Let me see what ya gurl can do for you!!! I'm not too sure what the setting is, so we'll just say that we're at your and Broly's home, and ya'll already have an established relationship.

Thank you for the request Anon, and I hope this is to your liking and that I did this story justice.

MASTER LIST | NSFW CONTENT

It was a sunny day, you and Broly just had lunch about an hour ago, he helped you clean as much as he could, and your sweet little puppy was now on your lap sleeping. You yourself were on a lounge chair, a small table next to you with an umbrella, giving you shade.

You were wearing a relaxing summer outfit, enjoying the nice breeze that blew through from time to time. In the distance, you were watching Broly and Goku train with one another. It was rare when Broly trained, as he didn't too much care for violence. But today, like many other days, Goku came by asking Broly to train with him, but he always declines.

However this time around, you encouraged him to go out. He needed the exorcize and the proper training to help defend earth..... and you just simply needed a break. You loved Broly, you truly did, it's just that he was like a giant child and you needed a proper break.

So training with Goku has become a once-a-week habit for you guys to practice. They'll train for about 2 - 4 hours and then you'll both take a sweet famous 'Broly Nap'. Today was no different, they've been training for about 40 minutes now, and you've just come outside to watch them from afar and to also give Broly encouragement to want to get stronger.

"GO BROLY!!! WOOHOO!!! YOU GOT THIS!!!" You'll yell words of encouragement, and that always seemed to help him out. You couldn't hear what they be talking about whenever they have their pauses in the middle of training, but they always clashed once more, so you guessed it was just Goku giving Broly some pointers.

In the distance, they were currently training, but they were also talking.

"Is that all you got, Broly?" Goku taunted him as he dodged Broly's quick and powerful hits. Broly scowled in irritation, getting annoyed that he couldn't hit Goku. "You're really slow Broly, how are you going to protect (Y/N) when you can't even hit me?" He taunted further, making Broly growl in anger.

"GRRRRAAAAAAA!!! STOP TALKING, AND FIGHT!!!" He shouted in rage as he landed a powerful punch on Goku's cheek, stunning him, and allowing him to sledgehammer him down to the ground. You watched with a relaxed expression as Goku quickly fell to the ground, and collided with the Earth, making you reach over to the table, to hold it steady as the ground briefly shook.

"Damn, they gonna spill my damn drink before I can even finish it." You grumble to yourself. Goku shot back up towards Broly, a cocky smirk on his face. "That's it Broly, use that rage, that same burning passion that you have for (Y/N), use it in every battle, the love you feel for her, use that same raw emotion to protect her and all of Earth." He said in an encouraging tone.

Broly nodded in understanding. Goku then laughed. "Too bad your dad isn't around, he'd be really proud to see you right about now, though I wonder how he'd feel if he saw you've settled down?" Goku innocently spoke aloud, as he looked down at you.

Broly's calm expression turned into a sad one. "Father, he died, because of me." He said in a sad voice. Goku looked over at him in confusion. "Broly?" He questioned, he then gave him a sad yet understanding smile. "Broly, it's not your fault buddy, trust me." He said, going back to a time when he learned that he was the cause of his grandfather's death.

He blamed himself for a long time, but he didn't have time to grieve. Frieza appeared, and then Cell and right after Buu. He had a son and a planet to protect, so he didn't get to feel that way for long. "No, it's Broly's fault. Because of me, losing... control.... He died because I wasn't strong enough to protect him... Broly failed." He said in a somber voice, tears gathered into his eyes, memories of seeing his father's body, slumped over behind him.

"Broly.... Hey buddy, it's not-" Goku tried to comfort him, but Broly blew up. "STOP!!! STOP LYING TO ME!!! IT WAS MY FAULT!!! I SHOULD'VE BEEN IN MORE CONTROL!!! BECAUSE OF ME, A STRAY ENERGY BLAST KILLED HIM!!! BECAUSE OF ME, HE WAS LEFT DEFENSELESS!!!" He shouted in anger, feeling betrayed that Goku, his friend, would lie to him.

"Broly." Goku said under his breath. Broly said nothing, as he darted off toward the horizon. You sat there, looking at the whole thing, trying to understand what the distance shouting was about, but it didn't take learn for you to understand that it wasn't just petty anger.

Goku stayed there for a moment, watching after the area where Broly flew off to. "GOKU!!!" You shouted his name, catching his attention. He looked down at you, seeing you flagging him down. He sighed, and slowly floated down towards you.

He scratched the back of his head nervously. "What happened? Where did Broly go?" You asked him, worried about Broly. "well..." He explained what happened, and you went off. "GOKU!!! ARE YOU STUPID OR WHAT!? YOU KNOW HOW HE FEELS ABOUT HIS DAMN FATHER!!!!" You shouted at him, he chuckled nervously as he stared down at you. You glared at him a little longer, before you decided to just drop it with a sigh.

"But it wasn't your fault, it's not like you brought it up, you just reminded him of it is all... Can you take me to him? I wanna talk to him, I'm sure he needs the comfort." You said in a small voice. He stared down at you for a moment, his face unreadable, before he gave you a smile. "Sure." He said in a kind voice.

Broly was off on a cliff, he was sitting on the ledge, looking over the city. His tears dried on the way there, but he still had sniffles. He wanted to go home, in his warm bed, with his little companion, and with the love of his life. He liked your cuddles, you somehow always made it all better. He missed you.

You and Goku touched down, a good distance away from Broly. You let go of Goku, quietly thanking him, as you walked towards Broly slowly. "Broly?.. Honey?.. Are you okay?" You timidly asked him as you approached him. He didn't even acknowledge your presence. You continued to walk over towards him, and once close enough, you placed your hand upon his shoulder.

"Broly, are yo-" You stopped in your sentence when Broly whirled on you and he engrossed you into a hug. His face buried into your neck and his arms wrapped around you. Your feet were off the ground, his body hunched slightly over you. "B-broly?" You called out, confused.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm not stronger." He said in a low voice. You listened to his words, soaking in what he was saying, you then wiggled an arm free, wrapping it around his neck and curling it into hair, making him relax instantly. "It's okay Broly. You're strong, very strong. Your father's death isn't your fault, you didn't know he would die." You tried to comfort him.

He shook his head. "No, I should've been more.... focused on him.... I should've been focused.... If only I didn't get angry and lose control." He said, his grip on you slightly tightening. You closed your eyes, getting adjusted to his grip. "B-Broly... it's okay, I promise. Listen to me, you're doing an amazing job, and your father would be proud of you, I promise. He'd be jumping for joy...mentally."

You said in an encouraging tone. "How do you know?" He asked, sounding like a hurt and lost child, the wavering of his voice, gave away the fact that he was on the verge of crying. "I don't.... I don't know.... I can only go off of how much he loved you... he cared for you.... and seeing you grow, into a mighty warrior, seeing you thrive, would make him a proud father." You told him honestly. His grip on you slowly loosened, and you took a deep breath.

You gently cupped his face in your hands, looking him in his eyes. "Broly, listen to me. I love you, with all of my heart. I adore you. I love your little giggles, I love your naps, I love your messy hair, and I love how gentle you are. I love you, for you Broly. And I'm sure that your father did too. He doesn't blame you for his death, you were doing his last wishes, and that was being a warrior." You told him, as you gently cupped his face.

He stared at you, his eyes wide in shock before they gathered with tears and he ducked his head. You smiled sweetly at him. "Come on Broly, let's go home, we have a baby to take care of." You said sweetly. He gave you a confused glance.

"A baby? But we have a puppy." He said in a confused voice. You sighed. "Yes Broly, that's what I was talking about." You said in a drained voice. He gave a small "Oh." You shook your head and wrapped your arms around his neck. "Let's go home." You said. He smiled and nodded, before wrapping an arm around your waist and he flew you both home, for a famous 'Broly Nap'.

MASTER LIST | NSFW CONTENT

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - LVIII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Fic is rated explicit; MDNI. Chapter on AO3 here.

Days passed in a hazy blur, only interrupted by impending responsibilities that could not wait.  Without additional hands, all the necessary weapon plans for Natlan fell into Zandik’s lap, as they had before the ball. It was expected; after all, the respite couldn’t last forever.

“It’s oxymoronic, isn’t it?” you asked, standing in front of the wide window of your sitting room.  “The fact that the stars shine in front of Celestia demonstrates one point of many that fate is not what it seems, that it’s a falsehood to keep us in a cycle.  It is everything you stand against, Zandik. And yet…”

“And yet like any other relationship, fated bonds must still be chosen and prioritized.  Having this connection is forced upon us but that does not mean we have to choose it.”

Choice. So many considered fate to be immovable. But if the end was always the same, he said, what did it matter what path you chose to get there?

A sentiment clearly not shared by his colleague, who was, for now, keeping his distance. The only times you saw Pantalone approach were strictly business; he was cordial (for her would never let it be said he was unkind) but aloof. You weren’t quite sure if that was at Zandik’s request or simply a courtesy, but you cared neither way.

Nonetheless, it was odd.

As you composed, you imagined fingers up and down your spine, lips on your breasts, and a laugh so deep you swore one day you would drown in it.

The earth shifted and yet nothing changed at all. So many assumed coupling was the be-all-end-all, that once that threshold was crossed, there was nothing left. If anything, it lent itself to strengthening the intimacy between you, the foundation all the stronger for it. He predicted your notes just before you hit them, smiling in approval as you played a newly-written composition; in turn, you knew precisely where he left the wrench, the sledgehammer, and the more delicate tools of his trade, knowing what he needed out of sheer instinct.

Both of you moved to a beat all your own, adjusting as needed based on a change in tempo or rhythm, but never once thrown off.

Like breathing.

You weren’t certain what, precisely, Zandik was working on any longer and he never quite explained it in-depth. Whenever you asked, his back straightened and he gave an enigmatic smile.

“You’ll see soon enough, rooh 'albi,” he said. “The mechanics are far simpler than they seem.”

The words should have settled your stomach but they only seemed to widen the growing pit in its depths. After all, weapons were hardly your forte, even though you wielded your own. This was a wholly different matter; it was about less self-defense and more a pre-emptive strike, from your understanding. Perhaps nothing more than a trump card never to be used.

On occasion, you ventured out of the Palace to continue working with the other musicians (not without the Tsaritsa’s intervention and approval on the matter). Standing on the stage and working with those who knew what it was to put their very being into their creation sent a nostalgic pang through you; some elements were universal, no matter where you were.

It was, nonetheless, rewarding.

As was the revelation both of you stumbled across deep in shared slumber.

You knew you could influence and affect your dreamscape, change things as needed on the fly; neither of you ever managed to create the same environment twice, not to the same details. You filled in the gaps and your brain recognized the familiar and filtered out the changes without much fanfare. It passed for almost real.

On a whim, after both of you fell asleep still joined to one another, Zandik hypothesized it might be possible to create a singular space and retain it in its entirety. After all, this bond had its own rules, and they did not entirely align with Teyvat’s. He’d extensively tested the growth of certain flora in unusual environments, how gravity could be manipulated, how trees could be felled with a mere flick of a finger.

So why would it not be possible to create a bubble? After all, he posed, Omega had done a decent job of it with you. Not perfect but clearly it was possible to retain the same narrative and idea throughout a dream and return to it.

As soon as the words left his mouth, your lips tugged into a frown, a knee-jerk reaction, one he immediately understood. Had he learned nothing at all from Omega’s antics, from your reassembled memories? Worse yet, had he fixed you just to break you himself? Surely not.

He spread his arms slightly, palms up, as if to say he had nothing to hide.

“Humor me, just once. I am only curious to see the capacity to which it can be taken. After all, nothing is better than one’s firsthand account of an experience. And if nothing comes of it, then so be it.”

It took days to properly test. All you did was create a single door frame, empty and without hinges. Something unusual that would stand out amid the trees and the reflective river nearby while also being otherwise unobtrusive. Zandik measured and recorded its exact location, height, and condition.

Nothing changed in the next dream, nor the one that followed.

“Previous dreams were not as stable, prone to usual behavior observed in a typical sleep cycle; nothing was ever exactly the same. Omega used sedatives to put you into a deeper sleep that allowed for consistency, one long continuous dream…”

The behavior of the dream remained even with a week of celibacy, ruling out any connection that sexual intimacy played a part.

You found him pouring over his notes after dinner one night, the lights so dim you wondered how he could even read.

“The only conclusion that makes the most logical sense,” he said, “is that embracing one’s fated bond provides a level of subconscious and unconscious equilibrium. Dangerous, really, given human nature’s tendency to crave variety.”

The disgust that he was exploring an idea left behind by Omega, successful in all but happiness, was outweighed by the delight of possibilities now presented before you. Raw unconsciousness did not adhere to the laws of the waking world and you found yourself enamored with the potential.

Together, you compiled ideas and blueprints, perfecting a method with which to transfer the knowledge of what you saw and read and making it accessible while you slept. When you weren’t composing, you were settled into a corner of the laboratory, surrounded by books on architecture and structure and design.

“One must know the rules in order to break them. Otherwise you are simply sowing chaos without understanding the consequences,” he said, gesturing to the shelves upon shelves of books. “After all, you wouldn’t just put notes on paper without knowing the ideas behind the most pleasant sounding chords and note progressions, would you?”

The terms were foreign at first, and it took more than one demonstration to explain a principle; Zandik happily obliged your questions, even if the same rules of physics and weight were not applicable.

He drafted; you offered suggestions. Asleep, you raised beams and adjusted floor plans, a skeleton deep in a nameless forest.

You awoke one morning not in your own bed but with your head on the desk, arms and neck stiff. Around your shoulders, a familiar weight and material. You pulled the cloak around you and buried your face in the fur collar, relishing Zandik’s lingering scent as you stared blearily. Down here, without the sun as your guide, you could not gauge the hour. Even the clock on the wall, an ancient thing that worked differently than the clockwork dials you were used to, only provided a tiny clue. The fourth hour. But was it morning? Or just before dinner?

Zandik’s back was to you, across the workshop, jacket and bird forgotten as he circled the bench and his latest creation. He hadn’t slept; even without his absence in the dream, you could see the giddiness in his step, in the motions of his head. Your soulmate was running on pure excitement.

Rising from the chair, the cloak whispered against the floor as you rounded the desk and made your way over. Zandik did a double-take when you approached, smile wide, eyes gleaming. If you ignored the dark circles, you could see the familiar boyish fervor you adored so much; he was eager to share, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s done, rooh 'albi!”

He spread an arm wide, encouraging her to take a look at the large device on the table. It looked like nothing more than a military grade container, the kind you saw on various caravans leaving and arriving at the Palace. The hum of energy that came from it and the various thick cables connected to it were the only giveaway that it was, perhaps, something else entirely.

Whatever it did, it was always a joy to see the tangible results of his work and concepts. Often, the more destructive ideas never truly left the workshop; they were less tactical and useful for actual battle and merely proof of concept. Most things in the various levels of his laboratories were just that: an experiment to see if something was possible.

You enveloped him in a hug, wrapping his cloak around him to the best of your ability as you did so. Pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek, you whispered your congratulations as your burrowed yourself against him.

His nose brushed your hair, and his excitement faded only enough to momentarily pause and take in your presence. He pulled way, more grounded now that he had another presence, but his eyes betrayed his steady voice, fire still dancing behind them.

“Field testing is in a couple of hours,” he said, cupping your face. “The Tsaritsa and the Captain will be in attendance. I would like for you to be present; this would not be possible if not for you.”

Something in his phrasing tickled your brain but you couldn’t place it. How could you not see it through, when you’d been by his side all this time? You would have insisted if he had not asked (which perhaps, you considered, was precisely why he did).

“I would love nothing more, mon rêve.”

[all-risejd]

Chapter 20: Tilted Dimensions 2

Another crossover with After Shine

From the outside, Tilted Dimensions didn’t look that much different from the other buildings on its block back in Tampa, Florida. Seeing the weathered blue sign, with black lettering, white accents around the letters, in Cincinnati, Ohio, however made Danika pause. The building looks exactly the same, from the mismatched brick that sat over the painted blue sign, to the large windows that opened the front to sunlight, and the white metal chairs and tables out front. She pulls her phone out and quickly texts Finn to let him know she was now running late, and would be picking up donuts. Looking around the cold city that was threatening snow, she tucked her scarf a bit tighter and hurried across the street.

Tommy was behind the bar, his usual barista uniform on, with his tried and true black beanie on his head, and a crooked smile on his face, “Ms. Danika.” He grinned, “Good to see you, Ms. Nessa beat you here.” He pointed her toward a corner booth, where Nessa was in fact sitting. Danika looks at her watch, it's barely ten in the morning, she assumes it's going to be another hour visit, so she sets her watch to time them. Tommy calls after her, “I’ll bring you a drink, and some pastries.”

“Thanks, Tommy.” She mutters back, already sliding into the booth across from Nessa. Danika has gifts for the slightly older woman, having started carrying them around since the last time they saw one another. She slid her messenger bag into the booth against the wall and shot Nessa a big smile, “What the fuck happened to your hair? How have you been? Tell me the drama.” She leans forward, elbows on the table, her eyebrows dancing.

-/-

Nessa looks up from her hot chocolate when Danika slides into the seat across from her, asking a million questions. She sips her drink and wipes the whip cream off her lip before answering strategically, “I wanted to match the colors of the group, I was standing out too much. I have been adapting… They know who my ex is, we have talked and I told Angie and Aalyah and it went well. We are now all just getting harassed by them to have children…” Nessa’s leg bounces up and down rapidly and she begins to chew on her nails again.

“I’m fairly sure Rey is terrified at the concept of us adding children to the melting pot at this moment…” Danika exhales, as Tommy approaches with her White Chocolate Mocha and what looks like a pile of cookies. Nessa immediately grabs one, when Tommy is close enough, as Danika continues to talk, “So, the ex, he must be in the Industry if you're worried about it.” Danika doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer to a point, Tommy settles both down and heads away, Danika sips her drink, smiling at the warmth.

“I’m not so worried about that, I'm processing that trauma and am never alone when in an arena or event… Yes he is in the company, not just the industry. I know they would never let anything happen. Hunter……. Well I have issues with him but he at leasts is investigating the allegations from others especially since I have now told him but ….. I would love to hit him with his sledgehammer right now.”

“I know where that is in the vault, if you’d like directions.” Danika grins warmly, “Met Scrap Daddy yet?”

Nessa smirks, trying to hide it behind another drink of her hot chocolate. “The Scrappiest of Daddies. Yes and apparently I earned his respect when I said I’d go for his job when he implied I wasn’t a real wrestler. Oh yeah I’m training heavy on it right now. We have had some incidents because of Jefe. And with what I just found out… if it gets out… I’m screwed”

“Ohhh, earned it. I just demanded it.” Danika’s smile is one of mischief, “Although I’m pretty sure either of us could competently do Scrap’s job… no one is a real wrestler in the beginning, that’s why it’s called pro-wrestling, you have to become a professional, and to do that you have to be given a chance, did you hook up with those girls I told you about? And Jefe incidents for you are probably about as fun as Angie incidents for me, and whatever you just found out we can compare to Dominik got arrested at Christmas and spent many nights in jail.” Danika said it all in one go, then realized Nessa probably would prefer it if she didn’t drop bombs and rapidly talk.

“Uh well I demanded more training from Hunter who gave in too easily and now I know why. Asuka, Zelina and Indi are currently training me as well as our lovely partners. Like you, I now have many marks on my neck to keep covered. Courtesy of mainly Luis and Dems. Dom leaves his marks below the collar. After we returned from a week off to help Dems I was all… marked up and had it covered but people saw before it was covered and Jefe made Zelina go off script and hold me down wiping off the makeup… DOMINIK MISSED CHRISTMAS!... Yeah that beats my thing, we don't even need to bring it up. Are you ok! How are the kids?” Nessa rapidly asks when she processes the last thing Danika said.

“We are talking about your ex in the company and the thing you got blindsided by, we aren’t cruising by that. However, for now, I’ll explain.” Danika grabs a cookie and bites into it savagely, “Angie called the real police to a kayfabe story.” Danika pauses to grab another cookie to brutalize as Nessa whispers bitch. “The whole household was fucking messy. Like - it was Jace and Angel’s first Christmas with us, and Dom was so upset he missed it, and like he got hurt, not badly, but bad enough.” Danika pauses, thinking again, “Fergal was amazing through it all, and Luis came to the rescue, we borrowed The Bella's cabin in Canada, and AJ is no longer even remotely associated with us, he got injured, and is out. Uh, oh - oh - Rey and Dom made up after everything, and Rey is maybe flirting too close to the sun with Liv.” Danika’s on her fourth cookie.

Nessa munches on the cookies like she is eating popcorn watching a telenovela and nodding along proudly when she hears about AJ’s injury and non association but chokes on the cookie hearing about Jefe and Liv. Tom appears and sets down a glass of water in front of Nessa and pats her back before walking off again. Danika waits for her to recover, before adding the juicy bit of information, “He touched the butt on live TV, Nes, the butt.” Danika’s pitch is scandalized and a bit worried. Nessa begins to giggle uncontrollably once she stops choking.Sobering up Danika offers, “They are good together, like… I hate to say it but they really do seem to find comfort in each other, and if it makes Jefe happy, it makes us happy. Aalyah is a bit, uh, grossed out sometimes, Dom I think is proud that Jefe’s still got it.”

“As gross as that is, I get it. Angie and Jefe are arguing he wants to disown Dom until he comes back but she isn’t having it. She actually said that all of the Judgement Day are now her kids and any kid by any of them are her grandchildren. We can’t go a day without being harassed about grandchildren.” Nessa jokes and looks out the windows nervously before yawning. “Sorry it’s late here. We just finished Backlash and I’m in Puerto Rico so we got that out of the way early.” Nessa shrugs and eats another cookie.

“It’s early for me,” Danika admits, “It’s January sixteenth, Jefe has pretty much adopted Fergie, Luis, and Dems.” Danika admits, “Angie keeps tabs on us through Vickie, uh, Vickie Guerrero, I’m not sure how close your Dom is with Vic or the Guerrero girls, la familia.” For a moment Danika is silent then, “Did you get to meet Luis’ family? In Puerto Rico? He hasn’t let me meet his familia, I’m meeting Kevin Nash instead, he’s basically his wrestling daddy, other than Scott Hall, who I met as a teenager, but can’t meet again…” Nessa winces hearing his name and shoves a whole cookie in her mouth to buy some time. “Oh shit, please tell me Kevin Nash is not your psycho ex!” Danika almost lunges over the table to grab at Nessa’s hands in worry. Nessa rapidly shakes her head and continues chewing on the cookie, crumbs falling on the table, Nessa fighting back a gag while trying to swallow the cookie.

Danika visibly relaxes, then her brain catches up, “Wait a moment, what issue have you got with Nash, he’s pretty daddy as far as I know, like his old school gimmick was Big Daddy Diesel, and let me tell you, he’s big, he’s daddy energy, and he looks like he is super cuddly.” Danika ticks the things off like a research report.

Nessa gags, sticking her tongue out and dry heaves at the thoughts Danika is putting in her head. She collects herself long enough to take a sip of water and gasps a few more times to get her breathing right again. “No Luis did not want us to meet his family yet….” Nessa just ignores the Kevin sized elephant in the room.

Danika is a patient person, with those she loves, honestly, but, “What's the Kevin Issue, it’s that or the ex. We learned last time we don’t get to leave once the door shuts until we talk about everything. Not that I want to leave you but with the hour limit I’d like to get the icky stuff out of the way and then start the fun, like the gifts I brought you…” She pouts a little bit.

Nessa gasps and holds out her hands making a grabby motion and pouts wanting the gifts right away.

“Good girls get gifts, that’s what Luis taught me, you're not being very good now are you.” Danika counters.

“Hey no domming without informed consent you aren't my Dom so knock it off… Please,” Nessa pouts harder.

Danika rolls her eyes, her Dominik and this Nessa are cut from the same baby girl cloth, seriously. “Fine.” She says evenly, “You can have one gift for one question.” A smirk lights up her face, “Whatever your issue with Nash is, the sooner you tell me the sooner we can figure it out, and I’ll even let you choose which gift you unwrap first.” It’s a slight manipulation and tiny powerplay, but Danika’s worried about Nessa. “And you still haven’t told me about the hair, like did you just do it or did you get permission… asking for a friend. .”

“Danika, while I appreciate a good bribe, I don’t appreciate manipulations. I have dealt with that too much. That being said. I just did it. Remember I have control over my style…” Nessa holds out a hand expectantly for one of her gifts since she answered a question.

“Sorry, I guess I’m used to leveraging things to get what I want, growing up the not-daughter daughter of Rey Myesterio does that to a girl, but… good on you for defending yourself. I forgot how your contract is massively different from mine,” Danika pauses, thinking, “Would you like the Damo, Dominik, Rhea, or Finn gift, ooooor the one I brought just for you?”

“Dominik gift please…” Nessa bats her eyelashes, her hand still outstretched.

“I wish you were in my world, you're precious and I’d keep you.” Danika turns to dig through the bag, producing a simple blue and gold wrapped square, she hands it off with a smile, waiting for Nessa to tear it open so she can explain the gift. Nessa gently unwraps it like she is trying to save the wrapper, but really she is trying to annoy Danika who pushed her buttons. Danika has never met another person who takes care in unwrapping to Angie-Mysterio levels, but apparently Nessa does, as someone who has spent many Christmas’ waiting, she just sighs and sits back, watching.

Nessa sees that Danika is not reacting the way she expected so she just pouts and finishes unwrapping it seeing a picture of Eddie and Dominik. “That was taken a month before Eddie died, it’s the last time they spent any time together. It was a Guerrero party, not that that’s important, but there is only one other copy of it in my world, and I had to get Vickie to make copies. My Dom didn’t have it, and I’m pretty sure your Dom doesn’t, so, if you ever wanna make him cry big tears… now you can.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Well if I want to make him cry bitch baby tears I can just tell him I am pregnant.” Nessa gingerly runs her finger over the photograph and sets it down on the table with care, far away from any beverage or melted chocolate.

“Does Dom not want children, or would he be so happy he’d cry? I feel like there is a joke in there I’m missing, somewhere.” Danika hums, already looking for Tommy to bring her another drink.

“Yes, before he decided to be an imbecile and dump me, we were trying for a baby. When I realized he wasn’t coming back I got an IUD. Now we are back together and with the others and Ma just keeps hounding us about when we are going to try again. But I’m like we are still learning each other, it’s not the right time and she is all like ‘two of you are well past the age of when you should have had children so get started ’blah blah blah’.” Nessa bemoans, plopping back in the booth and crossing her arms.

Tommy comes back, placing a cup of tea in front of Nessa who looks up and thanks him and takes a sip, happy it is the perfect temperature. He also settles another White Chocolate Mocha in front of Danika who blows him a kiss in thanks before gazing at Nessa, “I, uh, I’m going off birth control, I haven’t really talked to the others about it, but it makes me icky.”

“I have an appointment next month to get mine out. It is causing me pain, like, constantly. Though I am all for starting a family, but idk how the others besides Damian feels and maybe Dom. It is something we all agreed has to be agreed by all because big decisions are a group decision and that is one of the biggest decisions. I talked to Luis about it and he has talked to the others but they haven’t talked to me and I am waiting on that. Though I should tell you what Luis said to Angie when she was harassing them over the phone,” Nessa smiles, thinking that Danika forgot about the other issue.

“You can tell me what Luis said, but I still wanna know what your issues with Daddy Kevin are and the ex. Then I can tell you more of my current problems.” Danika offers, sliding a blood red gift toward Nessa, this one is the one that Danika had wrapped while thinking of Rhea, and Nessa.

“You are the most infuriating woman…” Nessa complains then continues, “I am paraphrasing because he said it in Spanish and you know how the translations go, he started with I then changed to we…” Nessa blushes and watches for Danika’s reaction before continuing, Danika to her credit only hums, curious. “We would love to give you grandchildren, as many as possible and that she would make a perfect grandma… I almost went to the bathroom to rip out the IUD myself at that point.”

“You are not the first person to call me infuriating, at this point I just count it as flirting.” Danika settles back and thinks about what Nessa said, then, “Angie is a good Abuela.” She offers diplomatically. “Now, about that thing with Daddy Diesel.” At this point Danika is just teasing her, a smile pulling on her lips, “Are you going to open the box or not.” She hums, and pushes the red wrapped gift at her again.

Nessa’s eye twitches but she grabs the gift and unwraps it normally seeing a shirt with Rhea Ripley before she was Rhea Ripley. The image of the young girl is one hundred percent Demi Bennet, with long blonde hair, and an innocent smile, the girl there hadn’t been chewed up by WWE yet, hadn’t found herself, and her power. Instead the young blonde beaming up at her was pure joy. The shirt was cropped just below Rhea’s trunks, with BENNET across the back shoulders. “That was Rhea’s first Merchandise ever made, like for the Indie Circuit, she had others made that were more popular, but we have to share it, because as far as I know it’s the only one in existence.”

Nessa squeals and hugs the shirt to her chest. “Oh my god I love it. I would wear it on Raw if I could, but I am going to wear it next time we go on a date. Oh I can’t wait to see her face!” Nessa plans and taps her feet excitedly under the table. She continues hugging it to her chest and takes a deep breath. “Hunter gave me such a good contract because he knows my father,” Nessa admits and continues, “They are like best friends and I was kind of ambushed after the show. The others don’t know I just freaked out and texted them I was going on a walk and probably to a coffee shop since I knew I needed to vent and calm down I’d probably find this place here since it is like the TARDIS and going where I need it to go.”

“If Hunter is close with your dad that limits who your dad could be - uh XPac? Shawn? Road Dog? Billy Gun? Oh, wait, fuck, Nash is your father!” Danika looked at her with wide eyes, grabbing a cookie for herself, “Jesus, fuck, Dios, do you exist in my world?” She wonders aloud, head tilted back thinking hard.

“Yeahhhh… Come to find out my Dad, the one that was abusive growing up knew and that was why he did it. Though he wouldn’t grant the Get… the divorce, the Rabbi had to force it by convening a rabbinical court and issuing a decree because even getting shunned he wouldn’t give her the Get. Until someone beat some sense into him literally…” Nessa’s eyes widen a realization coming to her but she continues, “Nash paid for everything, even my nursing school. I am just blindsided by this and don’t know how to go forward or even tell the others…” Nessa sips her tea.

“Your step-dad sounds like a fucking asshole, good on the Rabbi who saw the need though. Kevin is about as subtle as a brick, so I’m going to guess he just dropped that shit on you, with no preface. If your Luis has a relationship with Nash, go through him, Nash and Hall, uh, Scott Hall, were big influences in Luis’ persona as a wrestler, and he loves them both very much. Knowing that Nash is your father he could help facilitate you two meeting in a favorable way, probably not at his house, his wife is grieving a son, still.” Danika leaned into the table a bit more subdued.

“I think that is part of the reason why he is reaching out now. One he has learned about my past, things Mom didn’t tell him and he was worried when he saw the marks. And two as a way to heal himself and earn forgiveness for the slight he views that he did against me. He doesn’t want to lose his last child I guess and I can’t hold that against him… But why now, why not before, or when I turned 18… or even after the divorce.” Nessa’s eyes fill with tears and she sniffles, using her sleeve to wipe her nose then eyes.

Danika slides out of her side of the booth, and carefully joins Nessa, to hug her and help her clean her face off, “Kevin has his demons, all wrestlers do from his generation, and hell, our generation. I have a feeling Kevin kept his distance to protect you. It’s not easy to be in a wrestling family, I’m not blood, but the adoption made me a Nepo baby. There is a lot of like… negativity that comes with being one of their children, everyone deals with it differently. I made my own brand, and… oh, shit you don’t know.” Danika looks at her carefully, “I worked with Impact, first, then AEW, I still have a ghost contract with them, and now I’m signed to WWE. I was never not going to be in the business, Kevin might have thought he was giving you an out…” She offered, sadly.

“That's what I am afraid of. Hunter didn’t know when I first applied which is why it got ignored. But when Rey came with the idea and pictures he knew and was on board. I am a Nepo baby, and when - not if - it gets out. I’m realistic, it will get out eventually and it is going to be so bad.” Nessa taps the table with her finger, other things still on her mind. “Other things are bugging you or you wouldn’t be here either. Let's take a break from me please.”

Danika hums, “Fair enough, uh, so… the biggest thing I’m dealing with is the fact that Shelton Benjamin is an absolute piece of shit and did this interview with Logan Paul, I think I mentioned he’s one of my best friends, either way he tried to like steer this whole narrative about how Demi and Luis are abusing us, and like…” She exhales sharply, Nessa grabs her hand to lend support, “So, the thing is, Fergie has barely accepted who we are to one another, let alone admit that he’s happy with us, and Vero, uh, Fergie’s soon to be ex-wife, has been on the warpath lately, so… both of them are pushing these shitty narratives about our dynamics, and I want to pitch this idea to Hunter and Scrap Daddy about me and Damo both being with Finn…”

“Well yes do it, I love that so much. OH yeah Scrap Daddy told me and Luis to be more affectionate on camera even though I just like started and we are barely just now dating but ok no problem. He held me and touched the butt on TV like your Jefe with Liv. And that is so gross about Shelton Benjamin, did the interview air? How are you going to deal with that?”

“So far Logan is holding the interview from airing, he wants us to talk about it and do an interview with him before it airs, if it ever airs, he might end up cutting snippets out of it, we aren’t sure. As far as dealing with it, next time I see that bastard I’m going to throw ring dust in his eyes.” She grinned violently, “The only other thing I’m panicking about is Buddy and Aalyah’s marriage, which I’m sure they will want me to plan.” She exhales bothered.

“Wedding planning is hard love, you do so much for everyone you need a break from what I hear from you.” Nessa nudges Danika’s side and sips her drink again.

“You know while I agree with you, I’m the only one of us with a formal manager, TJ Wilson - he’s married to Nattie, pretty sure in every single universe.” Danika grabs her own drink and sips it, “I have a vacation planned, I’m going to Dems in a couple weeks, then she’s going on to Australia with Jace and Lainey.” Danika offers. Then studying Nessa for a moment, she leaned over the paper to snag a black wrapped box, that was larger than the other two, and passed it to Nessa, “This is for Damo.” She grabs another cookie.

Nessa rips the paper off like a little kid and laughs seeing it is a replica of the 1960’s batmobile and that it is an RC car. “Oh he is going to love this. So, the plan is to go back with these gifts like I spent the time getting these ready for them because I can’t sneak all this back in the hotel room for a later date” Nessa halfway seriously asks, trying to control herself from opening the box and playing with the car. Their time is limited.

“I think we can probably play with the car a little bit, I’ve been dying to. I bought Luis one in my world, and it’s wrapped to give to him as a surprise. I mean, you can trade bags with me, I fit them all in my messenger bag?” Danika offers, unsure.

“I didn’t bring a bag, I literally ran out of the arena.” Nessa looks at her apologetically.

“Well shit.” Danika mutters, then looks toward the counter, “Maybe Tommy can help?” The man does not appear when summoned, “Maybe he’s like BeetleGuise and you have to say his name like three times? Chant it backwards, write it in blood, promise your first born-” Before she can get that out, he appears disgruntled, holding out a large brown paper bag with Tilted Dimensions across the front, “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” She sasses as she grabs it.

“Thank you Theta,” Nessa smiles at him and throws her arms up in success when he shushes her. “Take me with youuuuuu.” She whines and lays her head on the table as he walks away.

Danika snorts, hard. “Now about that ex?” She prompts, “I still have two more things for you.”

“It’s JD McDonough, we, uh, were together for a few years when we met at a live show I went to on a whim. As always it started out great but quickly went bad very bad. My saving grace was when he got signed to NXT in 2017 I refused to move with him because I found out I was pregnant and wanted to stay near my mom and with my job that had good benefits. That went about as well as you expect.” Nessa stares ahead, getting trapped in the memory, her hand resting on her stomach.

“I take it, the baby didn’t make it.” Danika’s voice is soft, “I lost a baby between the twins and Angel.” She offers, seriously, “It takes forever to heal, emotionally.” She adds, reflective, “And he’s in NXT in my world, actually semi-friendly with Fergal.”

Nessa comes back to the present with a hm before processing what Danika said. “Yeah, about a month after. I told him we were over, never told him about the baby and the distance helped. Dom, Dom really helped me with that, and the hospital mandated therapy. Sometimes it is still so raw but, I was, I am ready for the next chapter and to try with them. Finn, he was the most vocal in his defense when another woman spoke up, but I know Dom would never willingly associate with someone who is ok with that type of person. Finn apologized to me a few days after he found out who. The problem is JD has since been drafted to Raw with the rest of us. Which is why I am never alone.”

Danika tosses an arm around Nessa, snuggling into her, as she pushes the last two gifts at her, one is wrapped in some sort of Irish themed paper the other in deep purple. “I’m glad you found Dom. I’m glad you found your way back to Dom.” She amends, then, “I’m glad you found them, your Judgment Day.” Danika considers what Nessa said about Finn, before adding, “Fergie has changed so much in his time with us, I’m fairly sure he can’t stand the thought of AJ or JD anymore, but we haven’t had the chance to interact with JD, yet. I’m sure it won’t go well, you should talk to Hunter about him, I know it’s scary, but Hunter is one of the biggest protectors of the women's locker room, a part of me thinks it because of how dirty he treated Chyna towards the end, but I have no concrete proof.”

“I… I’m not exactly happy with him, but I think he knows and has a plan up his sleeve. We were in his office after the Zelina/Jefe incident and Damo brought it up and I kinda froze. Hunter then started sending a barrage of texts, some I assume to Nash, the rest to others. Now that I think about it the Usos and Roman have been lurking a lot as well as Ava and others in the locker room…” Nessa realizes as she speaks, “Ohhh he is laying a trap”

“Hunter finds his hands tied by the board a lot more than I think he wants them to be, but he’s clever, sneaky to a point, if he’s got a plan, then you have nothing to worry about. I don’t say this about many men, but you can trust him, and if you get a chance to know TJ, you can trust him too. The Bloodline tends to help me keep up with my kids on the road, not going to lie, Tio Roman is a fan favorite with my kids.”

“Roman is a sweetheart, so afraid of his cancer coming back is always up my ass for a checkup. And …. Fuck he knows about Nash!. Am I the last person to know…!” Nessa realizes when thinking about their past interactions. “He always asked about my dad and how my childhood was, I thought he was just curious. Sneaky fucker.”

“Roman Reigns is never just curious.” Danika snickers, “It’s good he has you, Nes.” Danika offers, with a smile, “Someone who can tell him and he trusts to keep it under wraps. I help him plan shit, from time to time. We sort of are angling for a tentative truce with them, so that’ll be fun kayfabe wise. As far as you being the last to know about your dad, I doubt it. Nash traveled with Kishi, uh Rikishi, Roman’s uncle, I’d imagine the Attitude Boys and Divas know, but the youngbloods and new kids probably don’t.”

“Well that makes sense.” Nessa comments and eats another cookie.

“Hey, not to one hundred degree change the topics, but you gotta open these and next time if you are more comfortable with your training I can teach you my finisher.” Danika smiles almost evilly.

“Oh I would love that… Please. I learned Zelina’s DDT. I can’t do the Riptide even if I tried.” Nessa agrees and opens the present clearly meant for Finn, inside is a lego set that both girls know he’s been looking for (he’d started looking in late 2018 and had yet to track it down, it is something he bemoans from time to time). The Old Trafford, Manchester United Stadium lego set in pristine condition in Nessa’s hands had to cost Danika a fortune, and if she was giving Nessa one, that meant Danika had found two. Nessa sits there shocked and in awe. “You didn’t have to do that, this is too much… shit.” Nessa forces out, guilt setting in that she didn’t bring anything for Danika, she was too in her feelings.

“From personal experience the RipTide is a bitch to take.” Danika for a moment looked traumatized, “I’m going to assume by your face that your Finn has also been after this.” Danika taps the box. “Hey, he really wants it, trust me. And I’m not trying to be mean, but judging by our previous discussion on job history, and money, I sort of… assumed that we could agree money isn’t an issue for me, and although this set is rather expensive, Finn in every world deserves it.” The way Danika says Finn’s name is twisted with love and a bit of bitter pain.

“Ok spill what is wrong with your Finn?” Nessa asks, hearing the twinge in Danika’s voice.

“My Fergie keeps running away. Like, we all told him how we felt about him - and it’s all of us, like Dom suggested we just hold him down and kiss him, but consent is sexy ok, so that obviously didn’t happen.” Danika frowned, “Vero really fucked his head up.” She settled on, “Or maybe all his previous relationships did, I don’t know. What I do know is he seems to think he is unlovable and broken, and just… bleah.” She whined, “Jefe keeps handing him Twizzlers like that will just make it all better, Dom likes those more than anything, but Finn keeps giving them to Dom and Liv - because apparently Finn likes red vines, and Dios, that was word vomit, oops.” Danika giggled awkwardly.

“My Dom likes them too, honestly they are a part of foreplay through aftercare with him.” Nessa smirks, enjoying the payback from earlier as Danika wrenches loudly, obviously bothered.

“Please never tell me what the Twizzlers do.” Danika dropped her forehead onto the table letting out an exasperated noise, “Ewwww. I’m never going to eat another Twizzler offered to me from Liv’s bra again.”

“Ohhh Twizzlers in a bra I’mma start doing that and eating them while I valet the matches!” Nessa exclaims, excited by the idea.

“Well they are never cold.” Danika offered, unbothered, still face down. “And you never know when you need a snack.” She adds, almost giggling, before raising up to look at Nessa again, “Open that one, it’s yours.” Nessa rips it open, tossing the paper behind her and seeing a small brown leather journal, “It’s a recipe book, I put some of everyones favorites in, and then some that I know other superstars like, since I do a bit of like a YouTube cooking channel, if you ever need to befriend Bianca, her favorite Japanese meal is in there.” Danika offers when Nessa doesn’t immediately say anything, “And you mentioned you liked to cook, I have uh, three of these, the journals come from Barnes and Noble…”

“Oh thank you, this is going to help so much!” Nessa starts flipping through the first couple pages and seeing annotations about who they are for and good times for the meals.

“I might have cornered Becky Lynch at some point to find out what Fergie’s favorite foods are, and I got Buddy and uh Bronson Reed - he’s a meatball, let me know when you’ve met him - to tell me normal Austrailian celebration dishes, and then I talked Zelina into giving me traditional Puerto Rican food, which was a whole issue because she hates me…” Danika offers, smiling softly.

“Well she can get over herself.” Nessa responds to the Zelina-comment.

“I get why she hates me, though.” Danika sighs, “She has this misconception that I’m appropriating culture.”

“How, you were literally adopted and raised in that… wow your Zelina had issues.”

“I don’t think she sees it as me being raised in the culture.” Danika shrugs, “I mean at some point we are going to have to talk about, especially with Creative pushing Edge toward re-starting the LWO, but… right now we sort of just avoid each other. I think she dislikes my relationship with Damian, too, but I don’t really get it, she isn’t throwing nearly as much heat behind the scenes at Demi who is publicly only dating a Latino, ahem Dominik, too.” Danika shrugs again, “My Zelina has a lot of issues, I’ll agree. I’m glad yours is better.”

“Mine is trying to teach me Spanish so I can speak it and not just understand it… but it isn’t sticking lol like I can’t pull the words from my brain to translate to spanish. But she is patient with that, not with training. She is kicking my ass but I am all the better for it.” Nessa bites into another cookie and continues talking while chewing to see Danika’s reaction.

“It is admittedly hard to learn a language the older you get. Picking up Japanese when I was seventeen was a bitch. Oh, did your Luis do Ring of Honor too? If so, he totally knows Japanese…” Danika smiles warmly, then adds, “I could suggest some tricks for picking up the Spanish so you're more fluent?” Danika thinks for a moment, “So, uh this next question is hopefully not going to be super disrespectful… So when I joined the Gutiérrez family I was questionably Southern Baptist, naturally I converted to Catholicisim, specifically the Americanized version of Roman Catholicism… with Nash as your father… like isn’t Judisim passed through the parents, like don’t both your parents have to be Jewish for you to be considered… I dunno, worthy? Are you still allowed to be Jewish?” The last little bit comes out in a rush, Danika likes knowing more about different religions in general, but her upbringing (in both households) has left her with a bit less time to study them.

“Oh it doesn’t matter who the father is, it's all to do with the mother. If the mother is Jewish then so is the child. Is the simplest way to describe it. Next time I can explain more since we have more things to cover right now” Nessa waves her hand dismissively.

Danika shoots her a relieved smile, glad that her lack of knowledge didn’t blunder their friendship, considering she’d already sort of been bad. “That’s good. I lowkey can’t wait to hear about you and Nash bonding.” Nessa looks at her warily,

“I don’t know about that. He had a lot of time to come forward after the divorce like I said. And 8 years after I turned 18. I don’t know how much bonding we can really do… Do you think when we have kids I can raise them Jewish at the very least teach them of their heritage. I know Dom, Luis and Finn are catholic and Rhea is Christian oh this is gonna be a problem isn’t it.” Nessa plops her head down on the table repeatedly, the thunking filling the small cafe.

“Uh, my Dems is Catholic coded, but - I don’t think you will have a problem.” Danika waves her off, “Let me see, when Dom and I had the twins, we did traditional familia names from his side of the family, but but he let me have them both baptized in the Catholic way and the Southern Baptist way, no offense to the Catholics, I’m not sure what throwing some Holy Water at an infant does, best to just dunk them completely under and wash the sins of the parents off early…” She mutters the last part, sounding a bit like Angie and Rey. Shaking her head she adds, “I don’t know how much you know about Nash’s son, the one he lost, but Tristian struggled with Alcoholism, during his sobriety journey, which… I might be off a bit but probably a lot of that after you were eighteen time, Nash was focused on getting his son sober, and the sobriety fucking killed him, like it was a seizure brought on by his body pushing back on the lack of alcohol.” Danika explains evenly, “Rey, my Rey, was so broken open, for him, we all prayed for Kev and his wife, Tamara.”

“So you mean to say I’ve lost both brothers to drugs and alcohol then, and I guess I get it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. My whole world has been turned upside down, and what if this gets out… I’m supposed to have my first match soonish…..” Another look of realization crosses Nessa’s face, “Son of a Bitch”.

“Which son of a bitch are we cursing now, beebs?” Danika grabs for another cookie. “If it’s Tio Adam, er, Edge, then we can curse him and wish for a child to be named after him in the Jewish sense, not the Catholic sense.”

“No it's Cody’s ass, he knew and before his match with Finn came up to me and said that we, this new generation needs to stick together. He fucking knows and gave me his and his wifes number.” Nessa explains.

“Oh, I’d been meaning to ask if you’d met Cody. He trained me at the Nightmare Factory.” Danika beams for a moment, then, “Dusty knew Kev, so does Dustin - Cody’s older brother, they are pretty tight even with Dustin in AEW.” Danika offers, “So Cody probably thought you knew by the sounds of it. Him and Brandi are good people, you should know I’m biased because our kids are friends, but they both love wrestling, and both are very devoted to the children of past Wrestlers.”

Nessa sips her tea, “Well I think it is clear to him now I didn’t know, we, that being our lovely idiots jokes about my dad not being my dad and mom having some explaining to do.” Nessa sighs heavily. “I have to talk to Kevin don’t I?”

“Not to be that person, but yeah, you absolutely do. Nessa Nash has a hell of a ring to it. I mean, as far as ring names. It’s probably cooler than Danika Mysterio.” Danika offers, attempting to cheer her up, “And as far as having a parent in the business, Nash is probably one of the better ones. He got his life sorted, and together. He’s not… he’s not a bad man.” Danika offers, reassuringly, “If anything, he’s been misunderstood for a long time. It could frankly be worse, could you imagine being the love child of Chyna and Hunter? The Industry wouldn’t know how to handle that, just… trust the other legacies, they can guide you through how to be a legacy without being super Charolett about it, or like Cody about it where he’s obsessively in love with his father’s fame to the point he wants to finish his father’s story.” Danika thinks for a moment, “Maybe don’t trust Edge though, he likes stepping on legacies to get what he wants, other than recent stuff, just the whole fake-married-to-Vickie-Guerrero bit after Eddie’s death should be enough warning.” Danika devours her cookie with a sad look.

“Well I’ve not had a run in with him thankfully. I guess after Raw I’ll meet up with Kevin with one of the group, maybe Dom. I need someone who isn’t really close to him to be my support and the way you describe Luis and Kevin's relationship makes me worried Luis will try to push a bond. Dom would be squarely on my side that I know. But wouldn’t Luis be hurt if I didn't choose him? As for the other legacies, I think I will, we know Roman knows and already supports me… the bastard, and I guess I'll do that.”

“Dom is your best bet, Demi is a huge fan of Nash, and Fergie is friendly with him, they’ve worked together in the past.” Danika thinks about her question in regards to Luis, “I think Luis would ultimately understand, you just have to be open and explain it to him - you aren’t sure if you're ready to have a real relationship with Nash, and you don’t want Luis to be negatively impacted if something goes wrong between the pair of you. If Roman knows about your relationship to Nash you can bet the twins and Solo do too, so don’t let that catch you off guard, and probably Heyman as well.” Danika reminds.

“Well I know the twins know, they were dropping hints when I did their checkups before Backlash. I honestly think all the legacies know or figured it out…”

“They too are about as subtle as a brick to the face.” Danika hums. “No one really talks about this outside of the Industry but there are two classes of wrestlers, born wrestlers like the legacies who tell each other everything even if they don’t like each other and those who fought their way in. Through adoption I get the legacy flag, just like you get it through Nash. There is a division, and it sucks, no matter how hard you try to shake it off, but you're probably right. One legacy knows, and they all do, and their spouses.” Danika offers, sadly, “So, quick question, our worlds tend to be similar enough, how bad is it when Edge restarts the LWO, like is Rey heartbroken? Does Chavo Guerrero have shit to say? How does Dominik handle it?”

“Oh Jefe started it after Dom betrayed him, Dom is hurt and Edge is MIA since Wrestlemania. Chavo from what I hear is not happy with it either. And he has been in constant contact with Dom.” Nessa starts fiddling with the plate of cookies, unsure if she wants to grab another.

“I’m sorry, fucking what? Rey hated LWO when he was bullied into it the first time, why in the fucking world would he have restarted what he saw as a discrimination group against most wrestlers, that were by and large the answer to NWO without ever being able to handle the fucking…” Danika’s rant tapers off, and is replaced by a bit of giggling. “Oh god…” She trails off, “Chavo must be pissed in your world, he always felt like Eddie replaced him with Rey, and your Rey just fucking…” Danika’s laughter is getting louder and louder, sides shaking a bit, “That is… that is so… Oh I wish I could tell the others.” She finishes, giggling harder. Nessa can’t help it but starts giggling as well at how absurd it all is.

“I pray Jefe comes around, if he doesn’t it will just Kill Dom.” Nessa softly says out loud once the giggles die down.

“Dominik is a lot stronger than most people give him credit for, we both know that. My Dominik had to discover that his real father was Eddie, that Angie cheated on Rey, and that Angie blamed Rey for her infidelity, and that her hatred of one act of perceived kindness from Eddie has now caused her to regret Dominik… Your Rey, while a bastard, doesn’t sound like he’s taken it to that level, just yet. Even with him being worried about your marks, he’s still Jefe, still trying to protect, he just can’t understand yet.” Danika, sobering up from her giggles, admits, “Rey wants to restart the Filthy Animals, as a secondary stable to our Judgment Day, his own nod to Konnan.”

“I wish I had your Jefe,” Nessa groans, “I could tell him and not Angie that I am getting my IUD out.”

“Oh, Madre is gonna want them babies.” Danika teases.

“She is already harassing us about it, and Benito. Hunter dropped hints as well. LIke damn give us some time to figure things out please. I may have had sex with Dom but I don’t think we are back to that… yet…”

“When the time is right, the time is right.” Danika shrugs her shoulders, “Angie was livid when Dominik and I first got pregnant. She wanted us to get married. Not happening, we both agreed we wanted to marry for love, and now that we are a polycule like… marriage is hard.”

“Marriage is hard normally, I think it is hilarious we are talking about kids and not marriage, but something might come up in the future. You know, thank you for making me feel better, I feel more grounded. Who knows maybe next time I will be pregnant…” Nessa jokes, the wish clearly in her voice.

“I will do my solid best to bring Angel next time I see this place, so you can cuddle a half Dominik baby.” Danika promises. “And if you want to be pregnant, then do it, your career isn’t wrestling, you told me that yourself. With women like Maryse getting storylines while pregnant I’m sure you can too.” Danika adds, “In my AEW contract, and my WWE contract, I have a stipulation that guarantees if I am injured or otherwise unable to compete I get to be a manager or I get to be an assistant to the GM.” She flashes a predatory smile, “I worked my ass off to get those assurances.”

“That is a good idea, I think I am going to read over my contract again. Knowing Jefe he might have done something like that knowing him and Ma.” Nessa taps her chin.

“The caveat to that, for me anyways, is that I don’t get to have a creative say in my hair or clothing or my characterization.” Danika shrugs.

“Yet I have that for the most part. I’m just lucky I'm in a story with Luis and we are all actually together. Like last Monday in kayfabe, Benito called me a whore after hitting me with the kendo stick. Poor thing felt so bad after and then proceeded to harass me for nieces and nephews again.” Nessa hums thinking, before adding, “Apparently we are going for a love square between me, Dems, Dom and Damo. I don’t think that will work… Oh shit yeah we just blew past your Finn problems. Honestly you might just have to sit him down and go hey we love you like we love each other and just reiterate how much you love him and that he is worthy. It's like the negative you hear it enough you believe it but this time with positives” Nessa glances at the clock, frowning as she realizes that time has gotten away from them again and they have less than ten minutes until the hour is up.

“I wish I could say we hadn’t already thought about that in the case of Fergie.” Danika tracked Nessa’s gaze, and sighed, “Ten minute warning, huh, doesn’t Tommy normally-” Her sentence trailed off as the man himself reappeared from the back with new drinks for them both, a bag for Nessa, and two different delicately wrapped pastry boxes. “Hey, Sergeant Tom, while I’ve got you here,” Danika snagged his wrist, batting her lashes up at him, “Next time, instead of a kitchen back there, think we can have a wrestling ring?”

The man gave her an exasperated look, “Contrary to you're believes, Ms. Danika, this is not the Room of Requirement, from Harry Potter.” That made Danika snort, “However, there are things that… just like myself, will appear when they are needed.” He gave her a wink, before he looked to Nessa, “I hope you enjoyed your visit, Ms. Nessa.” With that he wiggled out of Danika’s grip and headed for the back.

“You know, I still don’t know if he’s the TARDIS or if this building is the TARDIS…” Danika mumbled under her breath, before sliding out of the bench seat, she’d slid into so she could hug Nessa, she stretched her arms above her head, before moving to lean against the opposite side of the booth, stretching again, popping her back and shoulders before rolling her neck just right, the crackling noises made her grin and hum contentedly before she slid into her side of the booth again, “So, now we have eight minutes.” She offers, looking at her watch, “I don’t think goodbyes are going to get any easier.”

"No, I don't think so. I wish we existed in the same universe so we didn't have to meet only when things go to shit. I think when I get back to the hotel I'll tell them as a group about Kev." Nessa looks at Danika sadly.

Danika tried to give her a reassuring smile, “I’m sure Kevin Nash won’t be the hurdle you think he is. I’ll talk with the others and figure out how to prove to Finn that we love him, and want him for more than just sex… although I imagine the sex is going to be delicious…” Danika trails off, clearly thinking about Finn, his abs, and the implications of getting him naked in her bed.

"OH THAT REMINDS ME!" Nessa startles the other woman with her shout, making Danika shrink away, her hands instinctively coming up to her ears, it’s the first time Nessa has seen any of the scars she assumed Danika had from her upbringing, frankly it's a different sort of unsettling with how Danika presents herself, charismatic and larger than life. Nessa blushes and continues this time quieter, "So they came back after Dom and I did the bing bing and of course Damo was pouty. But Dems said we both want her under us soon and Finn said all of us."

Danika relaxes and rolls her eyes, “Who wouldn’t want one of us in their beds, honestly. We are a whole meal… Did you just call sex bing bing?” A smile pulls at her lips, before she’s giggling again, “Bing bing… That is… you're my official favorite human.”

Nessa blushes harder at the praise and tries to defend herself,"it's less vulgar than the other words and .. well… shut up" Nessa tries to hide her face, even though the older of the two it’s clear she’s more modest and respectful about certain things.

Danika snickers hard, “Vulgar is a fun word,” Then adds, “I’m not sure what our idiots call it, but unless they are being romantic about it, I think we universally just call it fucking around. Not important, we are running out of time.” Danika pouts, “So, you are headed back to the hotel and are going to talk to your idiots about Nash - I’m going back to Ohio to talk convince Fergie that we really do love him, and then I’m going to squish Shelton Benjamin and Vero Rodriguez under my killer heels.” She wiggled her eyebrows elaborately, and pretended to squish the napkin on the table with her fist.

"Yes and I'll keep the boys from catching a case on JD as well. Now that I think about itIi have to add Kevin to that list…" Nessa realizes as Danika nods along empathetically - over protective father figures can be the worst, even if they are only doing what their hearts demand.

Tommy cleared his throat from behind the counter, “Not to rush you ladies, but…” He tapped the clock ticking on the counter, they had under three minutes.

“And yet you will.” Danika levels him with a rather unimpressed look, before sliding out of her side of the booth, grabbing her bag, and moving to help Nessa stack all of her gifts together so they can muscle them into the large bag Tommy had brought Nessa, settling the box of pastries on top of the gifts. “So… obviously, we needn’t try to find this place, it finds us.” She offers meekly. Tears sting at her eyes, she’s never been particularly good at goodbyes.

"Hey Tommy, will it find us for good stuff too, not just the bad?" Nessa asks, tears pricking her eyes as well, pulling Danika into a tight hug. Danika hugs back just as tightly, squishing her face into Nessa’s neck, the older girl taller than her this time.

Tommy smirks, “That is completely up to the pair of you, and what your hearts need.” He taps the clock again, the minute ticking down. “Go on now.” He offers a bit sternly.

"I'll go first since I got here first," Nessa offers walking to the door, sadly not wanting to leave her friend. Danika watches her push out, and disappear from the front view of the coffee shop, for all intents and purposes, Nessa is now lost to her until the universes collide again.

“Hey, Tommy, what happens if we…” Danika turns to find him gone, “For fucksake, someone someday is going to answer the question: what happens if we leave together.” She huffs, before slamming out the door herself, scarf kicking up around her shoulders.

-/- Nessa deflates as she steps onto the sidewalk and turns around, the coffee shop no longer there, in its place was a plain brick wall. The street is abandoned save for a few people walking the opposite way down the street. She is thankful the street is well lit and she can see the hotel just a block away. She checks her phone to see only one missed call and a text from each of her partners responding to her initial text asking for some time alone to walk. She sends a quick message to the group chat, “We need to talk about Hunter just told me, I’m almost back.” sending that message opened the floodgates and her phone blew up with messages asking if she was ok and what happened to make her run out of the arena. She hugs the strap of the bag closer to herself, careful to not crush the pastries that she is going to use to bribe the others, ducking her head a bit as she takes off walking.

-/-

A light dusting of snow has landed on the sidewalk as Danika presses back out into the crisp air. She cradles the pastries closer to her chest, before taking a few steps away from the ringing bell. She looks back, amused to see that Tilted Dimensions has vanished, in its place a stone gray painted building sat vacant with a For Sale sign tacked on the window. She can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from her lips as she makes her way back to the travel bus, darting across traffic, more than eager to meet Kevin Nash now. He might not have a daughter in this universe, but she and her kids could fill in some of the holes in his heart - if he’d let her. Her heart turned sad at the thought of Finn’s little broken gaze lately, shaking the thought from her head, Nessa was right, they (Luis, Demi, Dom, and her) had to fight for him, he was more than worth it.

-/-

Nessa enters the front lobby of the hotel and goes straight to the receptionist, a sheepish look on her face.

“Excuse me miss. I’m sorry but I lost my card to my room 512, booked under the name Martinez.” Nessa informs the young woman behind the counter. The young woman with the name tag Taylor, tosses her bright red hair behind her shoulder and giggles.

“Not the first wrestler to lose their card tonight. Here you go” She activates a new card and slides it over. Nessa thankfully grabs it and holds it in her hand, her other one still holding the box of pastries. She goes to the stairs wanting to delay as much as possible not wanting to have this conversation. Five minutes later she is in front of the hotel room she shares with her partners trying to ready herself for the fussing that is about to come and the answers she is about to give. She swipes the key card and enters the room, averting her gaze and closing the door behind her. There is a silence in the room, everyone waiting for Nessa’s lead. She heads over to the bed where Dominik is sitting next to Rhea, Finn and Damian sitting opposite them. Nessa sits beside dominik, resting the messenger bag in her lap, the box of pastries on top. Her gaze still staring at the brown carpet of the hotel.

Rhea clears her throat, deciding to break the silence, “We are glad you are safe. Your text earlier worried us. Now will you tell us what had you rushing out of the arena alone at night in an unfamiliar place where you can’t really speak the language?” Rhea softly chides, her worry showing through her voice and Nessa looks up, her hands trembling as she holds out the pastry box. Rhea reaches over Dominik and grabs the box, placing it on the bed beside her. Dominik grabbing Nessa’s hand, rubbing circles into the back of it. Nessa swallows thickly, the knot in her stomach reforming.

“Uh,... I… Uh. Hunter had Kevin in the office… He uh…” Nessa sighs, slumping against Dominik, struggling to find the words.

“Did you get fined?” Finn asks, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Nessa shakes her head. “No, uh Kevin needed to talk with me….. Um… I… The betting board was right….” Nessa manages to get out, hoping they catch on quickly.

“The betting…. OH… OH A Chroí i am so sorry.” Finn realizes first and slides off the bed getting to his knees in front of Nessa, resting his hands on her knees, squeezing them to try to offer some comfort.

“What, that you are secretly a…. Oh that isn’t what had the most tallys when we went in” Damian begins to joke, the realization making his heart break for Nessa. Seeing her in such turmoil and being unable to help making him feel so useless.

“He uh, Kevin… he is…” Nessa stutters, struggling more to tell her partners, people she loves than when she told Danika. With Danika it didn’t feel so real but to say it out loud now makes it all too real.

“Kevin is what, what about the betting board?” Dominik asks, clearly confused. “Dom” Rhea softly calls his name, her tone telling him to stop. Nessa takes a deep shaky breath and swallows again.

“Kevinnashismyfatherandidontknowhowtohandlethis” Nessa blurts out, staring at the wall behind Damian and squeezing Dominiks hand a little harder. Finn gently grabs Nessa’s face to have her look at him, his eyes scanning her face.

“Say that again but slower. We don’t know how to help you if we don’t know what is wrong.” Finn soothes, his accent helping ground Nessa who nods her head, his hands following the movements as they are resting on her cheeks.

“The locker room was right, my mother… had a relationship with Kevin Nash who is my father and I don’t know how to process this” Nessa sniffles. Finn uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears that escaped before standing up, pulling Nessa up momentarily and taking her spot on the bed and pulling her onto his lap. Her messenger bag placed back on her lap.

“First Nes, I think you should talk to your mother, explain what you were told and get her side. I’m sure she has a good …” Rhea begins to try to defend Nessa’s mother but Nessa interrupts her.

“She did, he was an abusive asshole to her and then to me up until she left him. Just my luck i fell into a similar situation before Dom.” Dominik squeezes her hand and gives her a soft smile when she glances over at him. She continues on, telling them what Kevin told her before she ran out of the arena. Nessa fiddles with the flap of the bag waiting on their reactions, glancing at their faces which are a mix of pity and understanding and curiosity. Damian who is still sitting opposite Nessa is the first to speak again.

“I still think it is a good idea to talk to your mother, she would have some good insight as to what you should do next and maybe why he just now told you at 26. I also think that you should talk to Kevin. By the sounds of it you ran out of the arena without hearing him out.” Damian offers his thoughts and grabs Nessa’s hand, his chest tightening at the betrayed look she is giving him.

“I know you are close to him and look up to him and can offer me insight to him as a person but he just dropped the bomb, no lead up, flipping everything I know about my life on its head. I need you on my side in this to help me, not to push what might help someone else.” Nessa explains, trying to pull her hand back from Damian but he won’t let go. He sighs and takes a moment to collect his thoughts before responding,

“I am on your side in this, we all are and want what is best for you. I think we can all agree that at least talking to him, hearing him out once you have had time to calm down and think it through yourself will help you decide how to go forward. I promise you I will not push you to something you don’t want. If you say no the topic is dropped. I’ll even offer this Mariposa, Dom is clearly your comfort, your person, your safe space. Take him when you talk to Kev.” Damian offers, pulling her hand to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Nessa lets out a sigh of relief,

“Thats what my friend Danika thought I should do. Get your insight on Kevin and take Dom when I talk to him. Oh she also helped me find some gifts for you guys, well for me and you.” Nessa takes both her hands back, wiping the snot from under her nose and flipping the flap of the bag over. She pulls out Rhea’s shirt first handing it to her. “This is a loan of sorts, I promised we would share this shirt with her, but she figured you’d appreciate seeing it again. She is a big fan of yours” Nessa winks at Rhea who takes the shirt so gingerly Nessa thinks Rhea is afraid to rip the shirt. Treating it like a delicate antique.

“Well when you see her next thank her for me. This is actually very sweet.” Rhea smiles, setting the shirt on the bed, all of them watching what Nessa will pull out next. She pulls out the replica batman car and hands it to Damian, Finn eyeing it with Jealousy.

“Thank you Mariposa, and thank Danika whoever she is. Also, please understand if you don’t want to talk to him that is your decision and I will support it.” Damian promises, setting the box on the bed beside him, keeping a hand on the box. Nessa sighs and rests her hands on top of the messenger bag and looks Damian in his eyes.

“Damian, I know you will support it on the surface, but deep down you would want me to talk to him and at least have some sort of relationship with him. I know that you see him as a type of father figure, at least in the industry. And that is ok Luis. But thank you for trying to push your feelings aside for this.” Nessa softly calls him out but her tone holds no malice, only understanding. Damian relaxes seeing Nessa isn’t upset with him just the situation. Nessa clears her throat and gets off of Finns lap and reaches into the bag again this time pulling out the lego set and handing it to Finn whose eyes light up.

“Oh this is way better than the batmobile thank you, i’ve been looking for this everywhere! You have to tell me how much this cost your friend so i can pay her back it must have cost a fortune.” Finn turns the box over in his hands, looking like a kid at christmas and glancing at Nessa.

“She said there will be no payback. Money is no issue for her and she wanted to do something nice for her friend by treating her partners. She is the only other person I know in a relationship like ours so she is really helping me navigate things.” Nessa explains, her hand in the bag, the picture in her gentle grip, knowing this next one will be bittersweet.

“Dom, this one I don’t know how she found it but she has connections and called in a favor with a distant family member.” Nessa explains pulling out the photo of him and Eddie and handing it to him. “She thought you should have it.” Dominik takes the picture in one hand, the other tracing around Eddies figure, tears welling up in his eyes before spilling over. The grief of missing him coming to the surface. Rhea wraps both arms around him, pulling him to her chest and running her fingers through his hair. “Eddie would be so proud of the man you have become.” Nessa sits back down this time next to Dominik, resting her head on his back, wrapping her arms around around them while they allow Dominik to cry, getting out his hurt and pain of missing is Tio Eddie.

“He would be so mad at how I am treating my dad” Dominik sniffles and Nessa scoffs as does Damian.

“He would be pissed at what Oscar has done to you and Nes. Would have whooped his ass over it actually.” Damian points out, lightly tapping Dominiks foot with his own. “He also would have dragged you back to Nessa by your ear and pulled both of you to a chapel to get married.”

“I don’t know how he would have taken this” Dominik gestures between all of them and Nessa giggles. “A little of oscar, a little of pride and I think he would have accepted us like your mom did” The others making noises of agreement. Bringing up Angie brought another thought to her head that she tables for later, knowing this moment is not the time to bring it up.

“Look, it’s late and we have had a very taxing day and we have to catch a flight super early tomorrow to be in Florida so we can stay at Dems before Raw. So lets go to bed. Things will be better in the morning after we sleep.” Damian suggests, parroting something his mother told him throughout his childhood that rarely failed. No one disagrees, but no one makes a move from where they are sitting, Dominik still sandwiched between Rhea and Nessa, holding the picture of him and Eddie. Finn caressing the box of Legos and Damian looking at the four of them with a mixture of adoration and annoyance, yet again he is going to have to be the adult.

“Get ready for bed, Now” He orders, putting more timbre in his voice which gets the others moving, scattering around the room like cockroaches, grumbling about him Domming them until he clears his throat and they continue in silence not wanting to earn a punishment that night.

[lollipencil]

Light as a Feather

Do you know that GIANT Microbes sell a number of heart plsuhes, including a Heart of Gold plush? This little number is inspired by them.

Enjoy and be gentle. ---

The scales stared mockingly at Jake, the sight of it weighing on both the heart in his chest and the fake one in his hand.

It had started a week prior. For whatever reason, Steven had bought those scales, and had them jury-rigged to always be lower on one side. Then he put a metal feather on the lower side and two golden heart plushies from someplace online on the other.

And now, Jake was standing there with a slightly different plush rom the same place. He looked down at it, rubbing his thumb along the black embroidery on its front. Why had he bought that one?

For a moment he thought about what he was going to do. About giving a sign. But it was far from the first time, was it? The date, the van, the rooftop, when they were dead, Ammit-Harrow. How many more hints could he give? "Maybe," whispered a harsh voice, "they don't want to know you. Why else would they keep ignoring you?"

Two goldfish swimming in the tank. Two hearts on the scales. The third crying out for the others to help-

Jake tossed the plush aside and marched out. It was a stupid idea anyway.

---

The soft broken heart in Steven's hands felt like lead. "Why didn't we let them out?" finally filled the silence inside and out. "I don't know," Marc rasped, "I don't know." "...Any idea how to fix it?" "Nah...But, I might know where to start."

---

Déjà vu hits Jake like a sledgehammer when he wakes up. Standing before those dammed scales, fake heart in hand. Frustration surges up. He goes to throw the plush with force, when he gets a good look at it.

Gold. Bright shimmering gold, with wide eyes that looked up at him. Jake stared back before blinking up at the scales. Two still sat there.

Almost as if on its own, Jake's arm moved from its position to place the heart with its brothers. As soon as he let go, he braced. For the scales to suddenly shift and lower with a slam. For raised voices to start demanding answers. To suddenly blackout.

Nothing.

Jake looked at the three hearts, breathing deeply. He could feel them. They were awake, they knew. It was what he wanted, so why were his hands shaking?

"I'm-I've-" Every attempt to explain himself stuck in his throat. Silence continued, then warmth filled Jake. It wrapped around his mind from two directions like a blanket. He sighed and mentally leaned into it.

Questions would likely still come, arguements likely following. But three hearts were sitting on the scales, as light as a feather.

[britcision]

Okay it’s time for the primer for the Four Heralds AU cuz I’ve got so much to post and some of it only involves the heralds tangentially so other people might read it.

SO!

As the title suggests, there are four heralds of Andraste:

Tavi Adaar - a qunari mage woman, she/her pronouns, bisexual, mostly blind (late stage retinitis pigmentosa), 23

Corin Cadash - a nonbinary dwarf warrior and blacksmith, they/them pronouns, sex positive asexual, ADHD and arthritic as hell, 42

Lluciano Lavellan - an elf rogue, he/him pronouns, femboy, omnisexual twink, seizures both of the motor and absence variety, AuDHD cranked up to eleven, 25

Séamus Trevelyan - a human warrior, trans man, he/him pronouns, gay as hell, chronic insomnia and hard of hearing (binaural, moderately severe), 37

Only Séamus was actually supposed to be at the Conclave, but Lavellan is our game protagonist and victim of most major plot events

(A different group from Adaar’s mercenary troupe were supposed to be sent, but got waylaid on the road so Adaar’s group subbed in since they had the shortest travel time

Lavellan was actually specifically told to stay as far away from the Conclave as possible with his scouting, walked over a single hill, and said “hmm where was I not supposed to go again oh well can’t be important” and went to check out the Conclave

(He was hiding from the other actual Lavellan spy when he came across Justinia and Corypheus)

And Cadash is a menace to society, entirely stealth free, chronic pain bitch who is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but an unforeseen flu ravaged the local branch of the Carta and since dwarves very rarely get sick, none of them knew what to do about it

Corin, being a blacksmith, at least had a semilogical reason to be carting a large load of lyrium, and no one who talked to them for five minutes would believe they were capable of being a spy, which was close enough at the last minute

Trevelyan is the oldest son of the Trevelyan family in the Free Marches, who hoped he would eventually become a templar right up until this whole “rebellion” thing made it a bit unsexy

He’s a knight instead, and actually prefers living and training with the knights to being at home so he did get himself one whole non-nepotism promotion

Most of his friends and all of his subordinates went to the Conclave with him to keep the peace and be a bit more impartial. Oops.)

This whole thing mainly started with me looking at Cole and going “you know what would be funny and extremely counterproductive? An Inquisitor with ADHD hanging out with Cole”

So now we have four beautiful, disabled, queer heralds because why stop at one?

(Tavi has also been fucking around with time magic, mostly around Slow spells, and it got weird with what Corypheus was doing and accidentally replicated the anchor they were all playing Keep Away with

Lluciano got hit in the face with at least one, he didn’t used to have the green face tattoos but so many Dalish do that no one has asked and he hasn’t noticed yet

None of them are at full power, but they’re not quite even quarters and can combine when focusing on the same rift to speed things up

Corypheus only needs one)

The full herald rundown will be linked here when it exists!

Fic (by me) and art (by @ekwolfwood) will be added in reblogs

Lluciano and Corin are staring in most of it so far, by dint of Luci being the main character and Corin being A Problem On Purpose slightly harder than the other heralds

[chirpybirdy]

today in why did i write that, sledgefu time loop fic :D

ive been wanting to write a time loop fic for awhile but didnt get any further except for a looong list of ideas all sharing the title.

fic linked above, but also pasted below the read more. warnings for Snafu saying mean things sometimes and homophobia.

“A goddamn time loop. We don’t have marine training for a goddamn time loop.” The officer comes over to check on them. Asks them if they need anything. “We need more men,” Snafu complains, “And we need them trained for time loops.” At least Snafu is sane enough to know they would never take the two of them off the line to train for time loops. “I’ll ask them to work on it.” The officer says. Snafu makes his displeasure clear as mud with his usual unintelligibility.

-----

Sledge listens to the violence as the replacements introduce themselves; possibly for the hundredth time, probably doesn't matter. Snafu, for his part, has a confused grin spreading on his face making it awkward for everyone. Sledgehammer takes time to note the eye color of the replacements and in doing so recalls what a recruiting sergeant had asked him. "Do you have any scars?" He asks the replacements. They stumble over their answers, excitement and pride suffusing their soon-dead faces as they mistake his efforts to survive as a decent guy wanting to compare misadventures. Snafu finally has his grin in place—torture on his mind, and Sledgehammer feels the attention land on him first. "You sweet on these boys, Sledgehammer?" The replacements aren't happy to hear Snafu say that. Sledgehammer doesn't even bother to roll his eyes. "Want me to tell them to fight bare-ass naked for you? Or is stripping just the one time enough?" The replacements are more scared of Sledge now than war or Snafu. Sledge appreciates the novelty but his attention remains on scanning their faces hard for distinguishing marks. They shift uncomfortably but it won’t be long. "You making sure when they get blown to bits you can put your boys back together?" There it is. Sledgehammer looks over at Snafu and matches his friend’s grin. The wiry Cajun huffs out a laugh and turns back to the boys, "Now that you’ve introduced yourselves to Sledgehammer, go say ‘hi’ to the shell that’s gonna hit you."

-----

“What about you?” Snafu asks. Days later, hours later, who cares. “Inch long scar on my right knee. You?” “Man, I have no idea.” Sledge accepts that answer, but resolves to find out for himself sometime.

-----

Every morning, Sledgehammer duly adds to the tally. The mark is left in the same place he had placed it yesterday, but he doesn’t worry about it. He marks it again and again. He worries he’s crazy sometimes and Snafu tells him he is. “Definition of insanity, Sledgehammer, expecting this day to be any different.”

-----

“We’re not men anymore. Men fuck. Men get old.” “Then we weren’t men before.” “Speak for your damn self, Sledgehammer.” “Fuck you.” “Ah, ah, I give you the orders.” He grins and slides over mischievous against Eugene’s back. He says into his ear, just loud enough for him and for the replacements-who-will-die-again, “I’ll fuck you.”

-----

Sledge throws down his shovel and uses his hand to smear mud on the side of Snafu's neck, gentle as applying warpaint. “Taking me in, Sledgehammer?” Snafu asks, rolling his head into Eugene’s hand like an affectionate cat.

-----

Sledge listens to the violence as the replacements introduce themselves. Replacements replacing themselves. Names of men indistinguishable from names of men. It’s a waste of men and, even if they weren’t a waste, meeting Sledgehammer is a waste of time. He doesn’t say it. Smiles friendly, briefly. Nice (this time) and quiet. Snafu says the quiet part out loud, "I don't need to know your name. Tell them," He jerks his dirty head towards the enemy, "And spell it right. They're carving it on a bullet for you." It will be a shell. As always, as Snafu knows. The same one, with the same care. Then again, they are all the same.

-----

Sledgehammer runs through the lord’s prayer again. The sound of violence is only shelling. Sledge watches faithfully as that-one-mouth-he-trusts forms shapes of ugly words. Snafu cusses easier than breathing—much easier. His face goes red to white to blue in relentless hatred.

-----

It’s their job to know where everything is. Sledgehammer wakes Snafu for his watch. They shuffle quietly. Sledgehammer laid on his back now as Snafu scans the surroundings. Sledgehammer watches the sky. One moment they are being rained on and the next, like loading their mortar, they are being rained on. “Did time just go backward?” Why Sledgehammer asks this now, he has no earthly idea. Snafu doesn’t take his eyes off his task; takes his fingers and presses them first to his own lips and then, blindly, to Sledgehammer’s. “Time stops when I’m with you, Sledgehammer.”

-----

“So, is it better to die at the end of the day or the beginning?” “Shut up.” “What would you rather? Come on, Sledgehammer. See, I think we are supposed to snap and kill each other. Let me know how you wanna do it, that’s an order.” “I don’t care, sir.” “I think you want me to go first. Say like, choking on your fat cock. And just to be nice to you, while you’re killing me with little Sledgehammer, I will bite that thing clean off. My last action here on this earth. My honest promise to you, Sledgehammer, and you can bleed to death refusing to call over a corpsman.” “Sounds great, sir.” “Don’t call me ‘sir’, Eugene. I suck your dick for a living.” “Jesus, Snaf. Shut the hell up!”

-----

The fucking replacements are introducing themselves again. Sledgehammer snaps, “Tell me tomorrow.” Snafu reacts like it’s the meanest thing Eugene has ever said and he loves it. It kind of is. “Hear that? Make it through one fucking day and Sledgehammer here will host a sleepover.” “Any advice?” “Yeah, tons. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He grins like it’s an in-joke they’ll say themselves one day. They die when they get shelled.

-----

The officer is on his way to check on them and there is no way they are going to stop making out in their foxhole. Sledge is resigned to it, and Snafu doesn’t mind either. Instead of trouble, the officer tells them to be careful. It doesn’t sound right, somehow, and Sledgehammer finds himself asking for clarification before the officer can head off, “Hang on, careful with what?” The officer grimaces, “I only mean, don’t get distracted.” “Sir, I’m kissing Snafu.” Sledgehammer states, and at least one other foxhole heard that. The officer turns purple, but they still don’t get to leave. Snafu gripes on him, telling him that he should have told the officer he was in love.

-----

Sledge throws down his shovel and uses his hand to smear mud on the side of Snafu's neck, gentle as applying warpaint. "You don't want to do that." Snafu tells him. "Why not?" Sledge keeps his hand in place as Snafu turns away. His fingertips advance into his hair, and it feels like the first time for Sledge. The muddied, salty locks are always the same but it doesn’t matter because it is always the first time for Sledge. He can’t ever get used to it because the sensation itself is always new. Snafu repeats himself—maybe even for the first time, "You shouldn't do it." He waits for Sledge to back away. "Why?" Sledgehammer pushes. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

-----

The replacements wander off, ignored. “Do you think we have to save them?” Sledge asks. “Hell no. Pass me that damn shovel.”

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Fictober '23 Prompt No. 16 — "Do you know a way out of here?"

Category: Original WIP: Darkspace Portent series Rating: T Timeline: beats the hell outta me lol CW: blood, brief vomiting Word Count: 932 Additional Notes: canon non-compliant. just a fun bit I decided to explore

***

Warren blinked, a bit surprised that his eyes were already open. He'd been unconscious, and he realized his comeback accompanied a blinding headache that circled his head like a slow-moving cyclone. He reached up to press a palm against his forehead.

"God," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck..."

He heard movement coming from somewhere around him, but something sticky against his head distracted him. He pulled his hand away from his head and, though he was doused in mostly shadow, he could see a dark substance on his skin, shining under a low, lazy white strobe. Mental processing kicked in bit by bit.

"What...?"

"The day you stop dying will be a momentous occasion without a shred of a doubt," a very irate, very out of breath, and very familiar voice blurted.

Warren, dazed, waved his hand in front of his eyes, and it left a blurry trail behind it. A drop of the fluid landed on his cheek. "I...can't..."

A face appeared in his line of sight, above him, and it lowered down to him, hands running over different parts of his body. It was...Thrive. An intense frown digging into his brows and the corners of his mouth. Smears of the same dark fluid across his face with no discernible source.

"Considering the circumstances, I should let you rest," Thrive said, "but we're in a pressing situation and I'm going to need you to move."

Warren blinked again. "What?"

"You have to get up."

With that, Warren was in the air. His feet lowered, and solid ground forced him to stand, though a sledgehammer of dizziness made that a two-person job. He clutched Thrive's shoulder on the threat of pitching in a direction that would acquaint him with the floor.

"The hell's goin' on...?" Warren muttered.

"The short of it is," Thrive grunted, hooking an arm around Warren and leading him forward, "we've been attacked."

"Attacked..."

"The Node. The Consortium Node, the largest station in the Milky Way. I've estimated around thirty-five percent of it has been annihilated, and that number is only increasing."

One step. Two steps.

"Where...?"

Thrive took a couple of steadying breaths by his ear. "We're at the center of it."

The strobing light didn't appear to originate from any one spot, its breathing pattern consistent and all-encompassing. After a moment of muffled and distant thuds against what Warren was sure were walls, he determined that he wasn't even sure the lights weren't exclusively seen by him.

"What's...on my hand...?" he asked, bringing it up to his face again.

Thrive's hold on him tightened, and his impatience grew with every shambling step Warren took. "...Your blood. It's your blood."

"Did I...get hit...?"

As if a form of punctuation, the floor jerked beneath them. Thrive grabbed Warren into a bear hug and swung them around, falling back-first into the sudden gaping darkness below. Impact was almost instant, jarring, and shook another flash across Warren's vision, but it was absorbed almost entirely by Thrive's spine.

Thrive rolled so he could secure Warren with his body and assess their new surroundings at the same time. "We're in the Southern District. I don't think much of it is left."

He looked down at Warren and it was hard to miss the fleeting grimace.

Warren swallowed, his thoughts coming in with more clarity than when he'd first come to. "How bad?"

Thrive looked as if he didn't want to answer. "There was a collapse. A portion of the district imploded. You were struck on the head by debris and died."

"Yeah." Warren wanted to fall asleep, his headache becoming more pronounced. "...That happens a lot, doesn't it?"

Thrive shook his head, tight and tense. He got to his feet and helped Warren to his without a word.

"Do you..." Warren leaned on Thrive again as they moved through rubble and what he sure hoped weren't bodies littered around them. "Do you know a way out of here?"

"Not at the moment. We'll have to be careful—I'm unsure where the station ends and space begins."

"Okay..." Warren, lightheaded, nodded, his chin sinking closer to his chest. "Yeah...I guess we..."

Thrive's arm tightened around him once more. "Warren," he said firmly. "Warren."

Warren didn't quite catch the concern in his voice as his ears plugged and his knees buckled. Thrive caught him and scooped him up, into his arms once more, sidestepping massive sheets of metal and piles of glass strewn at their feet.

He was in and out. At some point, Thrive set him down so he could vomit without risk of aspiration. They continued on, their path growing more narrow, until Thrive came to a halt and his fingers dug into Warren's shoulder and thigh.

"S'matter," Warren mumbled. When he didn't get a response, Warren opened his eyes and registered the unobstructed view of the Node nebula and the Milky Way stretched out in front of them. Framed by jagged edges of the Node, the void sparkled with pieces of the station and bursts of energy firing all around.

The electric blue containment barrier remained in place, fizzing at the points of contact with the walls. Warren determined they wouldn't hold for long.

"What now?"

Thrive's jaw ticked, his lips tight. His gaze swept over the destruction and the aftermath of the attack.

He didn't say anything. He let out a heavy sigh and carefully pressed his forehead to the side of Warren's face. Warren, in return, cradled his head and tangled his fingers into his hair, closing his eyes and allowing himself to exchange futile comfort through their touch.

[reasoningdaily]

Ralph Yarl was on his way to get his brothers. The 16-year-old headed to pick up the twin boys from their friend’s home, accidentally mixed up the address, ending up at a house on Northeast 115 Street instead of Northeast 115th Terrace—an honest mistake anyone could have made. This one nearly cost him his life.

Ralph rang the doorbell, prepared to greet his brother and make their way home. He instead was met by 84-year-old Andrew Lester, who shot Ralph in the head through the glass door. Lester then shot Ralph again in the arm after Ralph fell. Despite his injuries, Ralph somehow made it to not one, not two but three neighbor’s homes, one of which Ralph to get down on the ground with his hands up. A different neighbor finally came valiantly to Ralph’s aid.

Ralph would end up spending days in a hospital recovering from his wounds—for knocking on the wrong door.

Andrew Lester, who shot Ralph, later told investigators he was “scared to death” by Ralph’s size and his own potential inability to defend himself. As much as people would like to believe Ralph Yarl’s story is an outlier, unfortunately, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to a Black child.

In April of 2018, then-14-year-old Brennan Walker did what many kids have accidentally done— missed his school bus. He stopped by a home that looked safe, one bearing a sign that said “Neighborhood Watch,” to ask for directions. The home belonged to Jeffery Zeigler. Instead of giving the teen directions to his school, Zeigler ended up shooting at Brennan, who ran for his life. Zeigler's wife screamed at the teen and called the police, saying that a Black male was trying to break into her house and her husband chased after him into the yard.

Luckily Brennan escaped, physically unharmed.

Not all kids are so lucky. In June of 2021, Coby Daniel, then 6 years old, left his bike in front of his neighbor’s home while playing outside with his friends. The neighbor, Ryan Le-Nguyen, threatened the child with a sledgehammer, then when back into his own house and fired at Coby, hitting him in his arm. 

In May of 2012, 13-year-old Darius Simmons watched his mother, Patricia Larry be confronted by their neighbor, John Henry Spooner, who accused Darius and his older brother, of stealing his shotguns. When she attempted to verbally defend her sons, Spooner drew his 9mm at her. Darius, who was at school at the time Spooner’s guns were stolen, denied he stole the weapons. Spooner shot Darius close range in the chest. He later died. 

Note the similarities: Zeiglar’s wife assumed that a Black boy who was knocking on her door was attempting to break into their home, Spooner assumed the Black kids in his neighborhood had robbed him, and Lester said he was “scared to death” by Yarl’s size. These are not random wacky misconceptions but are, too often, the biased views neighbors hold about Black children—that they are delinquent, deceptive, and dangerous.

Black children are “adultified” or viewed and treated as adults and even punished like them. Adultification is a legacy of enslavement and results in Black children receiving harsher punishments in school, being 18 times more likely to be criminally sentenced as adults than white children their same age1.

One study found that Black teen boys, in particular, are viewed as “less innocent” and therefore less in need of protection or care, while a separate study found that perceptions around Black teen boys, in particular, viewed them as “adultlike,” bigger, and more formidable.

This misconception of formidability and the absence of innocence leads to fear and suspicion. But fear or suspicion too often leads to Black kids’ harm or worse, their deaths. 

Thirteen-year-old Sinzae Reed was sitting outside of an apartment building. Fifteen-year-old Jordan Edwards was riding in a car leaving a party. Twelve-year-old Tamir Rice was playing in the park with a toy gun. Seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin was walking home after school in the rain. Fourteen-year-old Emmett Till was spending the summer with his cousins, and with the death of Carolyn Bryant, no one has been held accountable for his gruesome murder to date. 

These were all Black boys who were perceived as community threats. They should've been able to play outside or ask for directions or show up at the wrong door without fear of losing their lives.

These Black boys deserved to be seen and treated as children.

[unfriendlyamazon]

just like we never said goodbye (memories | aspirations)

happy @joukaiweek!! my dearest friend @luvdevilart sent me their beautiful picture for day 1, and i knew immediately i wanted to do a friends as kids au to complement it. we’re starting this week off with something really sad people so strap in!!!!

Title: Just Like We Never Said Goodbye Rating: T Characters: Joey Wheeler, Seto Kaiba, with special appearance by the friendship gang and Zigfried von Schroeder Word Count: 5446 Warnings: Nostalgia, Depression, Drug Mentions, Implied Parent Death Summary: Joey Wheeler lives across the world from the place he grew up, from the people he knew, and from his own emotions about growing up. It takes one chance meeting with Seto Kaiba for everything to come flooding back.

...

Joey had come in for a pack of cigarettes and stopped short at the counter. Rows of magazines sat next to the register, mostly tabloids showing the faces of well known celebrities bathing on the beach or getting out of their car at the club. Tucked beside them were the more prestigious catalogs, tech and lifestyle magazines. A face stared at him from the glossy photos of the TIME magazine. A tall, lean figure, cut smart in a black turtleneck with a purple sequined coat flared at the broad shoulders. An arm jutted out in a strongman pose, showing the VR gaming technology strapped to his arm. Dark hair brushed against pale skin, framing the sharp features of his face. It was his eyes that made Joey stop. A deep blue, wide and soft against the angles of his face. Everything else had changed about him, but those remained the same.

He picked up the magazine and saw the name emblazoned in strong letters across the page. Seto Kaiba. The surname was different, but the rest was the same.

“You want your smokes?” Ron said from behind the counter. He shook a pack of Lucky Strikes Joey’s way.

“Yeah,” Joey said and reached for his wallet. He waved the magazine at him. “This too.”

He walked the two blocks back to his apartment, a trail of cigarette smoke burning behind him. The magazine was tucked into his jacket, and his heart pounded against it every step of the way. Cold had hit New York like a sledgehammer, and the inside of the apartment complex didn’t do much to keep it out. He bounded up the stairs and unlocked his door, right as his roomie was making her way out.

“I’m gonna be late tonight,” Anzu said by way of greeting. “There’s some mixer downtown. Gotta shimmy and shake for the bigwigs.”

“Finally, you’re big break,” he joked. “When’re you gonna get us an apartment with heating?”

“You cut those cigarettes out, we’d already have one.” She wrinkled her nose. “You stink.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off. “Don’t freeze out there.”

She tugged down her knitted beanie. “On it. You’re still working with me tomorrow night, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I could use the change.”

She headed out, and Joey shut the door behind him. He took off his shoes, tossed his keys into the little plate Anzu kept by the door, flipped the switch on the heater that didn’t do a damn thing, and went straight into his room. Only when the door was closed did he remove the magazine from his jacket and toss it onto his bed. He moved around it, shedding his jacket and his flannel shirt. He found everything to do but look at it. Why he was acting like he just bought his first dirty magazine, he didn’t know, but it took him twenty minutes to finally sit down in bed and open it up.

Seto Kaiba, the adopted son of Gozaburo Kaiba, had taken over his company at a tender age. Before most kids knew what they wanted to do with their lives, he’d been made CEO of a million dollar organization, and immediately gutted it. There was no kindness in his tone, just clipped responses to questions about his personal life and his relationship with his adopted father. The photos were aggressively fashion. No minimalist tech bro bullshit. Long coats draped across his shoulders, highlighting his tall shape, and boots climbed his legs. Pictures in his office highlighted his ostentatious shape amid the clean corporate whites, and the backdrop of the Japanese city in neons behind him. He’d grown from nobody to tech titan in only a few years, and had exploded onto the American scene with his recent deal with Industrial Illusions. This holiday season every gamer would be dying for his VR system, and the bevy of licensed releases that would come with it.

It was a long way from that kid in Okinawa.

Joey closed the magazine and set it face down beside him. He opened his phone and scrolled through the ancient pictures he’d managed to save on there. Serenity had found a pack of Polaroids in her last move and scanned them in. Saved to a folder on the cloud from her computer, he couldn’t bring himself to download but a few of them. Old pictures of the beach stretching out behind them, and the rich green fields they would run in. Blurry faces of his sister laughing as he grappled her, and then them respectfully bowing their heads when they visited a shrine, dressed in traditional clothes. His mom appeared in a few of them, holding Serenity close with sad eyes. He scrolled quickly past the one of his dad cooking breakfast, a small version of him lifting an arm up to help, and paused at the image of him and Tristan climbing rocks on the beach. There were a few others from the kids they played with, and he examined each and every one of their faces. No one he recognized. After a few thoughtful moments, he opened a browser and searched Seto Kaiba’s name. A wall of the same face appeared in his phone, and he saved one picture before switching to his messages. Yugi’s name was at the top, and he sent the photo with the question: Have you heard of this guy?

It’d just be morning on the other side of the world, and no way his friend was waking up that early. He clicked a few of the articles that popped up, but there wasn’t much about Seto Kaiba from before his adoption into the Kaiba family. A younger sibling was registered with the family, and that was it. No mention of Okinawa. No talk of a summer spent digging holes in the dirt and chasing fireflies across the grass. No sign of the laugh that had graced a young boy’s face, with chubby cheeks and lanky limbs he hadn’t grown into yet. No mention of hands that held his kid brother’s as they twirled in circles playing stupid games, or the laughter as their festival lights spread sparklers in the dark. No mention at all of the sudden shadow that fell over his face after a rainy night sent a car careening off the road. No talk at all about the sudden goodbye and the empty home. Just the cold, empty space of a life that he wanted to forget.

Joey couldn’t blame him. His own family had fallen apart, not suddenly, but like a house weathered down to its cracked foundation. He’d escaped his own past, in a way. Not as successfully, it seemed, but he didn’t have a Wikipedia page to update or a bio in the New York Times to keep straight. It was hard not to cling to those happy memories, and to mourn their loss all over again. All because he saw a familiar face in a magazine.

Joey closed his face and closed his eyes. The nostalgia trip had exhausted him. They weren’t the same kids on a bright beach playing tag in the sand without a single care. They never would be again.

He’d do what he always did. Keep moving, don’t stop. No time to think, no time to look back. But as his breath moved in and out of his lungs, he let himself linger on those memories, just for a little while.

...

The stiff collar of the crisp white shirt dug into Joey’s neck. He fiddled with the tie and stopped himself. No, catering wasn’t his favorite gig, but it put extra money in his pocket, and Anzu and her friends were usually a good time. Tonight’s gig was at some gallery in Manhattan, a real bourgeois affair. PR girls and finance bros were dressed in couture suits worth a thousand bucks, sliding mozzarella bites off toothpicks with their teeth as vaguely undanceable club beats played. They bounded off the white walls to create a hollow echo. Joey made his rounds, and the crew rotated in and out of the kitchen, stopping to chat briefly and stealing appetizers off discarded plates.

“You’ve been in a mood lately,” Anzu said as she emptied half-drunk glasses into the bin. “More than usual.”

Joey chewed on a stuffed bell pepper that hadn’t made it onto the plate properly. “It’s just the season.”

“Try not to look so sad,” she said, patting his face. “You get better tips when you smile.”

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she picked up another tray before sauntering out the door. Wiping his hands on his vest, Joey snagged a platter of champagne and followed after. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he ignored it. Yugi had answered him back sometime in the middle of the night, no new information worth sharing. To the world, Kaiba Corp’s CEO had sprung fully formed into power at a tender young age, no history, no nothing. It didn’t matter anyway. Joey’s life had split when his parents did. There was no undoing what had already been done.

He made the rounds, and the tray lightened as upper class yuppies took their fill. He might as well be a ghost to them, which suited him fine tonight. Work the job, get the money, go back to smoking weed and playing video games. What else was there to life?

He rounded the walls to a smaller corner of the gallery, two drinks still on the tray. A party guest stopped in front of him, picking up both drinks with thin manicured fingers by the stem. He turned, bright pink hair flipping over a fur lined coat, and a pitched German voice called out, “Herr Kaiba, toast with me.”

The sudden assault on all Joey’s senses froze him. The party goer had a wide, veneer smile and a made up face, brushed lightly to highlight the cheekbones and plump the lips. It took Joey a few seconds to tear his eyes from the garish individual in front of him to see his companion. His heart stopped. Like a phantom stepping out of the pages of the fashion magazine, Seto Kaiba strode forward. A long white coat flared behind him, the belt open and hanging loose to reveal the clean black silhouette beneath. The boots he wore were heeled, giving his already impressive height a few extra inches so that he loomed over the crowd. Shoulders back and hand at his waist, he had all the casual ease of a 90s super model. Seto Kaiba looked exactly like his picture in a way that felt unreal. Joey almost pinched himself to see if he was dreaming.

“Our first trip to New York together,” the German said, extending a glass to Kaiba. “Hopefully not our last.”

Joey was no longer needed for this exchange. With his plate empty, he should bow out gracefully and only show back up when he had something to offer. But the German waved a hand at him, signaling a request.

“Bring more booze around,” he said. “It’s been terribly dull so far.”

Seto’s eyes drew to Joey, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of something. Was it recognition? No, his face was passive and straight. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t say a word. Joey held his tray to his chest like a shield.

“You got it,” was all he managed out before he turned and fled. He headed straight back into the kitchen and slammed the tray down, calling out to no one in particular, “I’m taking my break.”

The first cigarette didn’t slow his heartbeat, so he lit a second one. He breathed out a long stream of smoke and watched it dance up into the streetlight. The back door to the kitchen led to an alleyway and some dumpsters. He wished he’d brought something stronger tonight, but this was cool, this was chill. So the past had risen like a zombie from the grave, like the hand on the monkey’s paw curled and the dead came back alive but not quite right. He felt like Alice through the looking glass, staring at a strange reflection. He didn’t know what bothered him more: his own reaction to the whole thing, when all he had was a summer friendship a decade ago, or that Seto had looked straight through him like he didn’t even remember. But why would he? Why should he? Everything was so much better for him now. He had money, and fashion, and a German boyfriend by the looks of things. Why would he want to remember anything from that time? Joey didn’t.

He finished the second cigarette and pulled out his phone. The message had been from his sister. Another squeeze to his heart. Tonight was shit. Time to cut and run. Anzu would forgive him for ditching her.

Inside the gallery, someone was speaking to the audience. Joey ducked past the crowd to give Anzu a heads up. The lights had gone down briefly, making faces hard to see. He rounded another corner, where he smacked straight into a person. Joey staggered back, holding his face as he muttered apologies, and then a low voice said, “Jounouchi.”

Joey blinked rapidly, staring up at the tall figure of Seto Kaiba. With only the flickering screen and the low lights from the gallery pieces, he looked even more ghost like. This couldn’t be real.

“No one’s called me that in a long time,” he said. “It’s Joey now.”

“Of course.” His long fingers twisted the stem of his champagne glass. “You’re working.”

Joey tugged at the stupid vest he wore. “Actually about to ditch.”

The flickering light caught the blue of his eyes as his head tilted just slightly, like Joey was one of the art pieces on display.

“Let me give you a ride,” Seto said. “Wherever it is you’re going.”

Joey blinked again. “Uh. I’m okay–”

“It’s a good moment to sneak out.” He placed the champagne glass on a display case. “I think I’ve had enough of my companion tonight.”

“The German guy?” Joey glanced back at the crowd. “He’s not your boyfriend?”

A smirk broadened Seto’s lips, and that was a familiar face. “He wishes. I’ll get my driver. You get your coat.”

He didn’t wait for Joey to respond, only marched past him. Joey stood there a moment longer. Was this really happening? He wanted to run away and ditch it all, but his chest tightened at the thought of letting this opportunity go. If not now, when?

Joey grabbed his fleece lined coat from a locker and found Seto outside. He chatted with an older Japanese man who immediately moved to open the door to a black town car when Joey padded up. It felt extra weird being escorted into the leather lined seats. A small bar was tucked into the side, and a laptop had been left on the seat. Seto didn’t say a word as he got in, and Joey dropped into the seat beside him.

“Where are you going?” Seto asked.

“I’m gonna be honest,” Joey said. “I was trying to get away from you.”

Seto stared at him, and a smile cracked his face. Joey huffed out a laugh as he gripped his hand through his hair.

“I’m craving fries,” Seto said to his driver in Japanese. “Take us somewhere we can sit.”

Joey undid his tie as the car took off onto the busy New York street. He felt like he could breathe again. Seto removed his phone and tapped away at it, the blue screen illuminating his face.

“I couldn’t believe it was you,” Joey said. “I mean, you look crazy now.”

Seto laughed again, eyes not moving from his screen. “You don’t want to see me, and you insult my fashion sense. Meanwhile you’re dressed like a low rent maitre d.”

“I was working,” Joey said.

“Not very well,” he said. “You’ve left.”

He leaned back in the seat, fluffing up his hair. “Yeah, well. It’s just a side gig anyway. They can boot me for all I care.”

“Very American of you,” he said and finally put down his phone. “And I was worried you might be different.”

Joey looked up at him. Street lights passed overhead, briefly illuminating the interior. He wasn’t sure if this would ever feel real.

“I didn’t think you remembered me,” he said.

“You have changed,” Seto said.

“So have you.” He reached across, picking at the white thread of the jacket. “You’re Seto Kaiba now. I guess things worked out okay for you in the end.”

Seto shifted his arm away. “I guess you could say that.”

Joey swallowed and sat back again. “You still got a little brother?”

“Little sister now,” he said, a smile easing back onto his face. “Adena’s in a private school in California. It’s easier for her there.”

“Mazel tov,” Joey said. “That’s cool for her.”

He nodded solemnly. The car pulled around a corner, and when Joey looked out he saw the golden McDonalds arches.

“You wanna eat here?” he said, looking back at Seto.

The car came to a stop, and the driver’s door opened. Seto shrugged.

“I travel a lot these days,” he said. “I’d rather have something familiar.”

They shuffled up to the counter, dressed in their Saturday night best. Seto paid for them both, and they took up a booth in the back away from the evening drunks and partiers. He looked even more ridiculous in the red plastic booth, one leg sticking out and the other propped up on his knee, his coat draped behind him. Joey removed the vest and unbuttoned his shirt, relaxing into his coat. He chewed on the straw of his soda.

“So why are you in New York anyway?” he asked.

“I spoke at a conference today,” he said, examining his nails. “I’ll fly back to Tokyo tomorrow. Zigfried insisted we not waste our evening.”

“Your boyfriend,” Joey said.

He wrinkled his nose. “Absolutely not. I have taste.”

“You ordered a twenty piece chicken nuggets,” Joey said.

“I have better taste than Zigfried.”

Joey bit down on the straw. “But you are gay, right?”

Seto looked at him, splayed out like a super model, manicured nails tapping against the plastic table. “Is that a question?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I knew it. I knew it when we were kids too.”

Seto smiled. “I don’t believe you.”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

He picked at the collar of his white coat. “That’s true. You knew who you were at that age.”

“I knew I was a boy,” Joey said. “I don’t know if I knew who I was.”

Seto was watching him with that same discerning stare. “Tell me. Who is Joey?”

Their meals came on red trays. Seto opened a mountain of sweet and sour sauce packets while Joey bit into his burger. Two large fries sat between them, filling the tray with salt and grease. Joey chewed for a while, trying to come up with an answer.

“I work a few jobs,” he said. “Mostly doing deliveries. I like stuff like that, no one over my shoulder, lots of time to take a smoke break. Me and Anzu rent a place together, she’s a friend of a friend. You’d probably like her.”

Seto swept a fry through a glob of ketchup. “You ended up here from Okinawa.”

“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t long after you left that we did. Ended up all over the place, but somehow my dad always found work in Brooklyn. It’s basically the only place that feels like home. So when I was old enough to go out on my own, I came back here.”

“You had a sister as well.”

Joey wiped his mouth. “She’s getting her masters at UCLA. We talk every week. Tristan’s in California too. I don’t know if you remember him.”

Seto’s blank expression told him no. He picked up his own soda thoughtfully and washed down his fries.

“You don’t have anyone here,” he said.

Joey chomped down on his burger and swallowed it half chewed. “I got friends. I still got penpals from all the places we lived.”

“But not here.”

He shook his soda cup, rattling the ice still left inside. “So what? It’s what happens when people grow up. They move, they leave. I’m lucky for the people I do know.”

“It’s interesting,” he said, “that you describe this place as home, but it’s the place you have the fewest connections.”

Joey slammed the cup back down. “What does it matter to you anyway? You were the first to leave.”

Something flinched in Seto’s face. “I wouldn’t say that was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Joey ran his hands through his hair and groaned. “This is too weird. Can we both say this is weird? Why are you here right now?”

“I told you,” he said. “I had conference.”

“No,” he said, waving a finger between them. “Why did you pick me up tonight? Why do you care what I’m doing with my life? We don’t know each other. Why bother?”

“You think we don’t know each other,” Seto said. He stared Joey down, unblinking, with an intensity Joey hadn’t met in a long time. “If that’s true, then all you’re doing right now is wasting my time.”

“Fuck you,” Joey spat out, and he stood up from the booth.

He didn’t bother to wait for what pithy reply Seto had. He grabbed his coat and stormed outside. The cold was like a force slowing him down, and he fumbled into his coat as he hunted for cigarettes. The hit of nicotine spiked inside him. He was aware of the door swinging open, and he turned on his heel.

“And where the hell do you get off?” he shouted at Seto’s face. “You gotta interrogate me about my life because what? You don’t feel good enough about yours? You dragged me out here! You’ve got all the money and the power in the world, so what do you want out of me?”

Seto took a single step forward. The lights of passing cars crossed over his face, illuminating his unreadable expression. Joey shored his shoulders, like he did when he was preparing for a fight.

“When was the last time you were happy?” Seto asked.

It was a knife to Joey’s heart. His whole body slumped in one exhale. Defeated.

“I left everything behind,” Seto said in his silence. “Everything. My home, my connections, my childhood. I feel every day like I’m grasping at threads to hold what I can remember. But you want to run away from all that.”

“It wasn’t a good time,” Joey croaked out.

“But there were,” Seto said, “good times.”

He closed his eyes. The polaroids filled his head, the smiling face of his sister, the smell of grass as he and Tristan rolled across the grass, the festival sparklers reflecting in his eyes, the heat of the summer sun warming his skin. His whole life felt like an uphill climb, and he’d never turned his head to see how far he’d come.

The headlights of Seto’s car appeared behind him, casting his face in darkness. Joey stared up at him.

“So that’s what you want out of me,” Joey said. “Nostalgia.”

The light caught the edge of his smile as Seto shook his head. “That’s not all I wanted.”

The driver opened the side door. Seto’s fingers found Joey’s wrist, the pad of his fingertips pressed against the pulsing heartbeat. The touch sent electricity through his arm and down his spine. It was the first time they’d actually touched each other since they were 10 years old. This wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy, or some kind of bad trip. There was more than nostalgia happening here.

“I dunno,” Joey said. “We might be going in two different directions.”

“It’s true,” Seto said. “But I think we can meet in the middle.”

Joey snorted out a laugh and dropped his cigarette. “I changed my mind. That was the worst line.”

Seto huffed out a breath, rolling his eyes. It was so bratty, and for a moment beneath the veneer he wore, Joey saw the face of his friend. Everything was different now, but some things were always going to be the same.

He reached a hand up, taking Seto’s face, and he kissed him. Seto took a beat, and then he pressed his lips against him, moving with an explorer’s curiosity. Against the cold, his face was heated, and Joey reveled in the skin on skin contact. It wasn’t like kissing a stranger. It was new territory for sure, but there was comfort in it, along with the thrill.

Joey fell back on his heels and smiled. Seto arched forward to chase him.

“Had to make sure I knew what I was getting myself into,” Joey said, patting Seto’s chest.

Seto grinned wide. “There’s still time to run you know.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Seto kissed him again, and then hand in hand they climbed into the car.

...

The hotel room was the perfect temperature, and with the cloth covered windows, Joey could pretend it wasn’t even winter. He stretched against the messy sheets, breathing in and out. It was the nicest fucking hotel room he’d ever been in, even in the dim lighting, with a kitchen and seating area bigger than the apartment. The shower ran in the bathroom with sweet smelling steam pouring out against the sliver of golden light. The sluggish euphoria was leaving his body, and Joey clicked on the light to check his messages.

Tonight had ended a hundred miles from where it started. He’d have to explain himself to Anzu, and he had work and his life to get back to, but for now he could enjoy himself. Joey tossed his phone aside and stood, shimmying back into his shorts. Okay, maybe he was being nosy. He’d never been in a place this fancy before. A table had discarded coffee cups and leftover wrappers tossed in the trash, and the fridge was full of glass bottles of bubbly water. The closet showed more outfits carefully hung up, but the suitcase had been kicked over and shirts tossed aside. Joey suspected Seto’s driver was responsible for anything that looked organized. Especially because there was a desk set up, papers piled up in mismatched files, and a briefcase left open with materials spilling out from it. Joey tapped a file folder with his finger. It was too difficult not to snoop. The pile of papers gave way with another careful nudge, sliding onto the floor. The contents of the file folder scattered out, and Joey cursed as he dropped to his knees to pick it up.

The top pages were a blur of numbers and figures and dollar signs with more zeroes than he could count. He shoved them back and paused when the corner of an old, half-crumple piece of paper stuck out. Pink crayon scratched across the page, faded and carefully covered in a protective sheet. Joey pulled it out and saw a princess drawn in pink, next to a sketchy knight in blue, and a dragon behind them both. A blue crayon arrow pointed to the knight with a carefully copied SETO in child’s script, and in pink it was signed ADENA. Joey smiled as he tucked it back into the file. A polaroid landed at his feet.

He expected to see Seto with his sister, and his heart stopped when he saw his own face instead. It was him, still just a kid, wearing the same rough worn jeans and tennis shoes he’d worn every day, his shaggy hair hacked at with kitchen scissors, and a tooth missing from a wide faced smile. His arm was thrown around another figure the small and lanky form of a young Seto. Dressed in clean, crisp clothes, his big eyes were framed in dark heavy bangs, his big ears sticking out, and his face curved up in an almost imperceptible smile. They sat together on the grass, with the sun shining down on them. Scrawled in pen in the corner was the year 1993.

“I couldn’t hold onto a lot,” Seto said from behind him, and Joey jumped up. “But I managed a few things.”

“Sorry,” Joey said. He scooped up the rest of the papers and dropped them on the desk. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

Seto smiled as he ran a towel through his hair. “You did.”

“I didn’t mean to get caught,” Joey admitted. “I can’t believe you have a picture of us. I couldn’t find one when I looked.”

“You looked,” Seto repeated.

He flopped back down on the bed. “I mean, I saw your picture on a magazine and I was like there’s no way that’s the same scrawny kid. I wasn’t lugging around your picture in a locket or anything.”

“It’s not in a locket.” Seto dropped down on the bed beside him. “I hold onto all sorts of things I think will give me inspiration.”

“You find me inspiring,” Joey said with a grin.

“It’s a nice reminder where I came from,” Seto intoned. “So I don’t let the little people down.”

“Jackass,” Joey groaned. “And here I thought you were pining for me all these years.”

“Don’t get bigheaded,” he said.

Joey snorted out a laugh. “It’d be kinda romantic if you were. And creepy. But also romantic.”

“It’s good to know you don’t find those things mutually exclusive.”

Seto laid down so their heads were touching, bodies splayed out at different angles. It was a strange way for Joey to be after sex. Usually he was out the door as soon as he could stand. Seto didn’t seem bothered either.

“Things might be different in the morning,” Joey said out loud.

Seto nodded. “It’s like you said. We’re going in two different directions.”

“Yeah, but.” Joey swallowed. “We already met again once. Maybe they don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Seto was silent for a few heartbeats before he rolled over so he was facing Joey.

“Give me your phone,” he said.

Joey laughed. “Why?”

“I don’t trust things to be left up to fate.” He took the proffered phone and frowned at the cracked screen before swiping over to contacts. “If you want to meet again, you’re going to tell me. Don’t worry about where. I have a private jet.”

Joey laughed again, burying his face in the comforter. “You don’t have to keep impressing me you know!”

“I’m just naturally impressive.” He tossed the phone aside and sidled up beside him. It wasn’t quite cuddling, but there was comfort in each other. “People say I’m crazy, you know.”

“Is this more sweet talk?” Joey asked.

“And stubborn.” Seto’s blue eyes blinked up at him beneath dark lashes. “And ruthless, when I want to be. I don’t like having my time wasted, so if my inbox is going to sit empty I’m not going to hold my breath. You said you wanted to know what you were in for.”

“I guess I did.” Joey breathed out. “People have said those same things about me. I’ve got a long history you don’t know about and the rap sheet to prove it. I had some hard times and I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I could say the same thing.” Seto’s lip quirked up in a smile. “At least your rap sheet isn’t listed on Wikipedia.”

Joey rolled on his side. They were face to face now, breath mingling between them.

“It’s not like we’re dating,” he said. “You’re an international tech giant CEO, and I’m…”

“Hard to pin down,” Seto said.

“Right. So we’re, what, exactly?”

Seto’s mouth curved down as he folded his lips together. Joey held his breath as he watched him.

“I think,” Seto said, “we’re friends. It’s what we’ve always been.”

A smile cracked Joey’s face. He breathed out a relieved laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I like it. Friends.”

It wasn’t the full story. It would never be the full story. Even in the dark of the room, with the cold midnight outside, with each kiss and touch and sigh, Joey could feel sunshine, smell the ocean, and for a moment linger somewhere where he was happy. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t make him want to run away. Yeah, they were miles away from where they started tonight, but maybe it was where they’d been going the whole time.