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phoward89 · 6 months ago

Text

Based on this ask

Masterlist

Stepcest, Stepson!Coryo x Stepmother!Reader, Sub!Coriolanus, Soft!Dom!Reader

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. Crassus Snow is a cold hearted asshole. Smut (p in v), Stepcest, Cuckold, older man/younger woman, arranged marriage, cheating, affairs, mommy kink, breeding kink, Sub!Coryo, Soft!Dom!Reader, pregnancy

Part 1:

You were absolutely livid when your mother brokered a marriage contract for you. A marriage between you and General Crassus Snow. Oh gods, how you wanted to puke. He was so much older than you. Like he's a man that's at least 50 if not 60. He's at least a good 30 years older than you.

Just the thought makes you want to cringe. And when you called your brother, Rein, to plead for his help he refused. He's an officer in the peacekeepers based in 12 and he didn't want to ruin his future by getting on the bad side of General Snow. Especially since Commander Hoff highly respected General Snow, who had been the commander in District 12 before he took it over.

So without a way out of your marriage, you're stuck with General Snow. Or Crassus as the cold, sinister old fuck insists you call him once you're moved into the grand penthouse he shares with his mother, Grandma'am, and his son, Coriolanus.

The name sounded familiar to you, but you just shoved the notion away. It's not like his son, who was in his last year at the University, was home much to worry about him. Or at least that's what Crassus said.

So one night while sitting in the main room with Grandma'am and Crassus, who was so cold and hard-hearted that it scared you, you're surprised to see Coriolanus Snow, your soon to be step-son, walk into the room. You also weren't expecting him to be so handsome. Coriolanus was a younger and more attractive version of his father, Crassus. Also, his eyes weren't dead and hateful. Yes, Coriolanus had the shame icy blue eyes that his father had, but his still had a soul shining in them. That much you could see.

Coriolanus' brow rose as he saw you sitting with his Grandma'am and across from his father, who’s nursing a Scotch on the rocks while waiting for dinner to be served, whenever he enters the main room of the penthouse he's been avoiding ever since Tigris moved out into her own place a few months earlier. Coriolanus doesn't remember your name, but he remembers your face from the Academy. You're his age, maybe even a year or so younger, if he remembers correctly.

“Father, you seriously can't be marrying her. She's too young for you.”

“She is a tad bit young, isn't she?” Crassus mockingly asked his son. Looking between you and his spitting image, the cruel General sickly smirks, “But Y/N reminds me so much of your mother at that age. And I’d be a fool to turn down a young, beautiful, wet, tight cunt to give me the heir I deserve.”

“Crassus…” Grandma'am chastised her soulless son, earning her a sharp glare from him.

“Mother, I advise you to stop taking up for the useless boy. My son's weak, always was and always will be.”

But from your point of view there wasn't anything weak about Coriolanus. Nope. Not one bit. He was tall with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, a chiseled jawline, a prominent nose, and large hands that looked both strong and gentle at the same time. He looked like he was carved from the images of the ancient gods themselves

Your wedding wasn't a high end affair. It was modest, but classy. Only the elite were invited. Even your older brother, Rein, was able to get leave to attend your wedding. His girl from District 12 wasn't allowed to come. You thought your brother was a piece of shit for not fighting harder to bring her or for coming without her, but he snapped right back that he couldn't risk his future for some coal dust covered pussy. That your new husband could open doors for him and his career.

And when your reception got to be too much, you found yourself on the terrace of the fancy hotel/ballroom your wedding was being held at. Your life was over before it truly begun.

“You're going to get that dress of yours dirty sitting on the patio like that.” Coriolanus’ deep, elegant timbre sounded out from right behind you.

Looking over your shoulder at the tall young man with striking blue eyes, which held concern in them, and platinum blonde curls, you sigh, “I don't care, Coriolanus.”

“Well, you should care. Tigris worked hard on your dress.” He retorted, coming up to your side and taking a seat next to you. Pulling silver cigarette case and matching lighter out of his blazer pocket, Coriolanus stated, “You feel like your life's over being ball and chained to the hateful old goat, huh?”

“He's your father, Coriolanus. You shouldn't call him a hateful old goat.” You chastised your new, but handsome, stepson with a melancholic tone in your voice.

Oh, why couldn't your mother have brokered an arranged marriage with the Snow son. You'd much rather be married to Coriolanus than Crassus.

“He's my father, so I can call him a hateful old goat.” Coriolanus replied, cigarette dangling between his lips, as he lit up his smoke. Putting his case and lighter back into his pocket, only to take his first drag of his smoke, he sincerely told you, “You don't deserve to be married to such a cruel man. You're too young and beautiful to be wasted on the likes of him.”

You didn't say a word, just gave him a curious look. A look which caused him to give you a thin line of a smile before offering to share his smoke with you- to help calm nerves.

And that was the beginning of something for forbidden between you and Coriolanus.

For all his big talk, Crassus was useless in bed. He, for a lack of a better word, couldn't get his dick up. He even chewed on the special blue pill, but sometimes that didn't even work. And all you were was a warm, tight hole- a fleshlight for him to fuck and rut into. You got no pleasure out of fucking him.

Before or after you said I do.

But you did find pleasure somewhere else. In the arms of your stepson, in fact. As sick and twisted as it sounds, you found solace in fucking Coriolanus. Coryo, as he insisted you call him once you started fucking around behind his father's back.

Although it's taboo in the eyes of society, hell the nation of Panem, it feels right. You and Coryo are of similar age, find each other very attractive, and get along well. Despite what you two have being considered wrong, being stepcest, neither one of you’s going to end your affair.

An affair that's happening in the Snow family penthouse right underneath General Snow's nose. But he's not bright enough to figure it out.

No…

“Fuck…” Coryo groaned, his long fingers digging into your hip bone as you rode his cock. “Mommy, your pussy feels so good…” He nearly pants, kneading your breast with his large hand as he felt your cunt squeeze his cock.

“Your big cock feels so good too, baby.” You whine, bringing your hand to rest on top of Coryo's large one that's on your hip while using your other one to balance yourself by resting your palm on your stepson’s firm chest. “So good.” You sigh, lifting yourself up and quickly sinking down onto the girthy 8 inches that's deliciously stretching out your cunt.

The platinum blonde, whose curls are like a halo around his head, gives you a lustful look with his cerulean eyes. “Mommy, I wanna suck your titties.” He whines, baritone husky, but submissive.

Yes, Coriolanus Snow, the son of the almighty General Crassus Snow, was a sub in bed. A sub with a mommy kink. It was something you discovered the first time he fucked you and, although it stunned you to discover that someone so tall, large, and manly in every sense of the word was not dominant at all between the sheets and wanted ‘mommy’ to boss him around, you didn't shame him for it. Instead, you embraced his kink. Your situation’s already twisted, might as well add in the Dom/Sub mommy kink element to it too.

Coryo felt safe enough with you to share his desires, kinks, and fantasies. Unknown to everyone, his confidence and bravado was a well worn mask and underneath it he's just an insecure boy. But with you, well, he's able to feel needed and like he matters.

And him sharing his mommy kink with you gives you a sense of control in your otherwise uncontrollable life. Being dominant in bed helps you deal with your life as much as it helps Coriolanus deal with his.

You and Coryo have a safe word in play in case he can't handle something, but so far he's never used it. Truth be told, you're a bit of a soft dom to him. But he enjoys it. He enjoys anything you give him.

Grabbing his platinum blonde curls in your hands, you roughly pulled Coryo up towards your breasts. “Then suck on mommy’s titties, baby.” You order, causing him to latch his lips onto your nipple.

Your back arched from the feelings Coryo was coaxing from your body. The feeling of his large cock hitting the special spongy spot deep inside of you every time you spear yourself down onto him paired with the feeling of his wet tongue swirling around your nipple had you feeling euphoric. Coryo was blessed with a magical tongue. Whether it was kissing, eating your cunt, or sucking your nipples, his wet muscle always made you pant and quiver.

You literally begin to quickly bounce up and down of Coryo's cock, causing the mattress springs to loudly creak in the dead of the night, as you desperately chase your high. Coryo bites your nipples, only to soothingly run his tongue over the stinging rose bud. Your nipple falls from his mouth with a loud, wet pop.

“Mommy, please, I wanna cum…” The platinum haired angelish devil of a boy beneath you begs as his hips desperately buck up. He's beginning to feel his release build up and he wants permission to cum.

Permission you won't give him, because you have to cum first.

“Not yet, Coryo. Mommy has to cum first.”

“But, please Mommy. I need to cum so bad.” He whinily begs, eyes pathetically looking up at you while his chin's perched in your cleavage, causing his head to bounce up and down with every movement you make.

“I said no, Coryo. Now be a good boy and stop begging; take what you're getting.” You sharply snap, all the while rocking your hips as you straddle his dick.

“But mommy-” Coryo began to whine, once again, only for you to shut him up by wrapping your hand around his throat and roughly pushing him back down into the mattress.

His icy blue eyes were blown as dark as midnight with lust as you choked his neck, not hard enough to cut off his breathing, but just enough to punish his bratty behavior as a sub.

“Don't be a selfish brat, Coryo. You know mommy cums first.” You tell him in a tight tone, that's a bit rougher than usual, as you continue to fuck yourself on his large cock as he lays on the bed- a look of pure pleasure spread across his face.

You continue to hold him down by the neck as your tight, wet cunt clenched around his large, veiny cock, causing Coryo's to whimper and whine with the desperation to cum. Oh, the feeling of your warm, wet, pussy around his aching cock’s too much. Too much to handle and he just has to cum.

Coryo feels like your motions and movements have been nothing but teasing; have done nothing, but rile him up and make him feel like he's going to explode any minute with both madness and pleasure.

“Please, mommy, I need to cum. Don't make me hold back anymore.” The almighty Coriolanus began to cry as he struggled to hold back his orgasm as you rode his cock harder and faster than before.

Your hand was still wrapped around his throat and that didn't help matters out, since it was a turn on for him- seeing your blood red nails wrapped around his pale throat and lightly resting on his windpipe. His hips bucked up frantically and he panted as he attempted to rebel and chasing his high. But you needed to cum first, it was one of the rules established between you and Coryo for the Dom/Sub play. Despite how desperate Coryo seemed, you had to cum first and you had to give him orders to help you get there.

“Rub mommy’s clit, baby boy. If you really want to cum, rub mommy's clit just the way you know she likes it.” You order your lover, holding back a moan as you feel his tip hit your cervix just right.”

Coriolanus quickly nodded his head, causing his sweaty platinum curls to rustle against his pillow, before bringing his hand to where the two of you’re connected, only to run fast and hard circles into your clit.

“Let me cum in your cunt, tonight. Please, mommy, let me knock you up.” Coryo told you, his voice thick with lust a bit softer than usual.

Your breath hitched as you felt both the weight of his words and the intense pressure of your upcoming release hit you. All you could do was shake your head and half-moan, “You can't, Coryo. I’m married…” Even tho you didn't say the words to your father, they hung in the air like a heavy cloud.

“But don't you want a baby, mommy?” Coryo asks, the hand that was on your hip gliding over to your lower stomach. Slowly stroking your lower belly while pressing quick and sloppy circles into your swollen clit, the platinum blonde below you says, “Let me give you a baby. Please, mommy, nobody has to know it's mine.”

“Coryo…” You gasp, feeling the right know of pleasure inside of you getting ready to unravel.

“You'll look so beautiful, full of my seed. Oh, mommy, please, let me knock you up tonight.” Coryo pleaded his case once more as he lay beneath you, at your mercy since he's your sub.

If you say no and got off of him after you cum then he'll have no choice, but to cum on his stomach (which is what the agreement’s been between you two since your affair started). But if you take pity on him and agree to letting him cum inside of your pussy, to fill your womb with his seed, then he'll be the happiest man in the world.

Coryo feels your cunt clamp around his cock and he knows you're about to cum. He's getting his teeth, holding back his own release, as your movements above him grow more frantic. “Please, mommy, let me give you the one thing that hateful old goat can't. Let me give you a baby.”

You're too far gone down the rabbit hole by this point in your life to say no. You're already fucking your stepson in an illicit affair, might has well have a baby too. Nobody’ll know. It'll be a dirty little secret between you and Coryo.

“Yes, yes, Coryo.” You moan out as you cum hard around Coriolanus’ dick. “Cum in mommy’s cunt; knock me up.” You breathlessly order as your juices messily run down your thighs and onto his.

Your hand that's wrapped around Coryo's remains there as he thrusts his hips up one, two, three times. You gently run your thumb over his Adam's apple as you feel him shoot ropes of his thick, hot seed deep into your womb.

Leaning your face down, you whisper against Coryo's lush lips, “You're mommy’s good baby boy, Coryo.”, before kissing him.

Coryo whimpered into the kiss before needily pressing his lips against yours. He could never get enough of your lips on his. He craves your kisses like a parched man craves water.

“I do love being your good baby boy.” Coryo tells you, his breath a mere whisper against your lips, as he breaks off your kiss to let you catch your breath.

Coryo's softness in your sex life is something that you greatly appreciate. Especially since your husband's so rough when he does manage to get his dick up long enough to do something. Coriolanus being soft in bed, but cunning and calculating out in the world with his studies at the University and his social affairs just shows you how versatile your lover is.

Oh, why couldn't he be your husband?

“Will you stay with me tonight, darling?” Coriolanus asks as you gingerly get off of him and take the empty spot on the mattress next to him.

Shaking your head, you sadly sigh, “You know I can't, even tho I want to.”

“One day we'll be able to be together, my love. You'll see.” He sadly smiles, pulling you to cuddle with him for just a few moments.

Moments that are very precious to both of you.

A month later when you miss your period, you just know that you're pregnant. And when you go to the doctor to confirm your suspicions, you're given both a blood and urinary test. And the results for both are positive.

It's easy to make your husband, Crassus, believe that the baby's his since you drug him with sleeping pills whenever you fuck your lover, Coriolanus. And you know without a doubt that the baby belongs to Coriolanus since when you're stuck fucking Crassus it ends as soon as it begins due to his little blue pill problem.

Grandma'am’s shocked to hear that she's going to have another grandbaby. In fact, she made a remark about how she always thought she'd become a great-grandmother instead of a grandmother again. That remark had Coriolanus' smirking.

Tigris, your neice-in-law, congratulated you when she heard the news, but the look on her face was anything but happy. In fact, she looked a bit worried for you.

Crassus didn't seem overjoyed about your pregnancy. No, he just acted like it was your duty to give him a child. He even made a remark about how the baby better be a son or else he’ll hide it away somewhere- give it up. That remark made Coriolanus mad. He literally got into a fight with his father over it.

Thank the gods, the doctor told you that the baby's a boy. So you don't have to worry about Crassus taking the baby away from you. But you know deep down in your heart of hearts that Coryo would never let his evil old bastard of a father do that to your baby.

To Coriolanus’ baby.

Grandma'am seemed happy to be having another grandson and told you all about how she named her sons, Crassus Xanthos and Cadmus Xanthos, and how the traditional of the male Snow heirs having the initials CXS has been implemented by your husband, Crassus, whenever he named his own son Coriolanus Xerxes Snow. Of course, you assured your mother-in-law that your baby would have a name worthy of a Snow.

Crassus didn't seem to care about the pregnancy or discussing baby names. He just told you that you better fulfill your duty of birthing him a healthy son. He also told you to figure out a name for the baby; that he's too busy as the Minister of National Security to worry about such things.

And since it's your job to figure out a name, you decided to enlist some help from Coryo.

“Do you want me to name the baby? I know he doesn't care about you or what you name our son, but I care.” Coryo tells you one night as you cuddle with him in bed. He's got a protective hand over your belly, always taking his role in it's life very seriously.

The ‘he’ Coriolanus refers to is his father; your husband, Crassus. Neither one of you use his name anymore. It's easier to talk about him, deal with him and his communist rule over the Snow family that way. And right now he's out stone cold in the bed your suppose to share with him since you spiked his nightcap with sleeping pills. It's something you've been doing a lot lately in order to spend more time with Coryo.

“You want to name the baby?” You ask, tears of joy welling up in your eyes.

Coryo smiles, only to say, “He's my son, of course I want to name him.”

“Then you can name him.” You tell the platinum blonde with the halo of curls, giving him a soft smile before resting your head on his shoulder.

“I have the perfect name in mind, mommy.” Coryo kisses your head, his timbre a soft rasp, as he gently strokes your belly. He flinches slightly as he feels the baby kick against his hand. “He kicked me, Y/N.” Coryo smiled in awe, his baby blues shining with pride.

“He’s saying ‘hello daddy’.” You tell your lover, causing him to smile and tell you the name he wants to give your son.

Crassus was too busy working to be bothered by the birth of the newest Snow heir. Coryo on the other hand missed his University classes to be by your side while you gave birth. He held your hand and whispered reassuring words to you through your entire labor.

Since your husband wasn't around, your stepson was given the honor of cutting the cord. The doctor and the nurses didn't say a word, but they did share some looks that implied they thought something fishy was going on between you and Coriolanus.

After everything’s said and done, Crassus comes to visit you and the baby in your hospital room. You're resting in your bed and Coryo's sitting by your bedside with your newborn son in his arms.

“I see you're still alive.” Is how Crassus greets you. A greeting that earned him a cold, narrow eyes look from Coriolanus.

“Yes, Crassus.” You nod. “I'm still alive.”

Looking at his son's, one nearing the end of his University career and the other a few hours old, Crassus makes the observation of, “Coriolanus, I see your bonding with your baby brother.”

A smirk appears on Coryo's otherwise stoic face as he tells his hateful father, “I love him as if he was my own.” Looking between you and Crassus, Coryo adds in, “Mommy let me help her name him.”

Crassus raised a brow, giving his eldest an odd look. The old man couldn't help, but wonder when Coriolanus started to call you mommy. Maybe he'll ask his mother, Grandma'am, about it. Surely she'd know more about the milestones you and his son are making them he does. He is, after all, working to make the nation of Panem a place of order, a place where the Capitol shines and the Districts are kept under an iron thumb.

Looking down at the bundle of joy held lovingly and protectively in his arms, a baby boy with wisps of whitish blonde hair and big bright icy blue eyes, Coriolanus reveals the name of the newest Snow heir to his father.

“Cassian Xandros.”

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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Summary: After you attend Harris's birthday party, Eddie's forced to confront some big feelings, and a Valentine's date has the two of you navigating a much different type of big feeling.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (f! receiving), fingering, protected p in v, slight breeding kink, very fluffy smut, brief mention of parental abandonment

WC: 8.6k

Chapter 12/20

Eddie's card credit to @girlwiththerubyslippers Mixtape credit to @lofaewrites Divider credit to @saradika

The mingled scents of wood polisher, stale cigarette smoke, and old frying oil invade your nostrils the second you step into Hawkins Lanes. Bowling balls thud as they make contact with the fiberglass lanes, subsequently crashing into the waiting pins. You offer a smile at the exasperated teenager clearly nursing a hangover, holding back a dry heave as he sprays a pair of red and blue shoes with a can of deodorizer that, given the undertones of pungent sweat permeating the air, is likely well past expired.

“I’m here for Harris Munson’s birthday party?” It comes out like a question rather than a definitive statement, and you hold up the gift bag in your hand like it’s some kind of evidence.

The teenager jerks a thumb towards the back left of the building, not bothering to look up. “Party room’s down there,” he mumbles, and you thank him as you walk along the pink and purple carpet.

You’ve arrived a little early, hoping to steal a few moments with Eddie before the chaos of the day begins. Wayne is the only one in the small room, stretching to hang up a sign proudly declaring ‘Happy Birthday,’ each letter a different color of the rainbow. He grins when he sees you approaching, and you hold one end of the sign in place as he adheres it to the door frame with Scotch tape.

“Good to see y’again, darlin’.” Wayne greets you with a grin, taping your side of the banner.

You put your arm down and return his smile. “You, too!” you chirp, glancing around the room. “Where can I put Harris’s present?”

The older man points to an empty table off to the side. “Right over there should be good,” he figures aloud. “Ed just took Harris to the little boys’ room, but they’ll letcha know otherwise.”

You nod, gently placing the bright yellow bag atop a table covered with a Hot Wheels-themed cloth. Amusement dances on your lips at the realization that Eddie must have splurged on decorations; it’s far better quality than one from the local 99-cent store.

“Ms. Sweetheart! You’re at my birthday party!” Harris’s enthusiastic voice captures your attention, and you spin around just as he’s launching himself into your arms. A tiny human rocketship.

“I am!” You laugh, motioning towards the gift table, “and I left your present over there.”

Harris’s face lights up and he starts towards it, arms outstretched and ready to tear through the tissue paper, but the sound of his dad clearing his throat stops him in his tracks.

“Remember,” Eddie says, keeping his tone calm but firm, “we’re gonna open everything once all your friends are here, after we eat cake.”

Harris juts out his lower lip in a pout. “But Daddy,” he protests, “I wanna open it now!” He stomps his foot indignantly, and you have to suppress a laugh at how silly it looks with the clown-esque bowling shoe on.

“Harris, can you wait until you open the ones from your friends?” You phrase it like a favor, hoping to appeal to him that way. “I’m really excited about what I got you and I want them to see you open it, too.” Of course, you couldn’t care less about what a bunch of random four- and five-year-olds think about your gift, but you had to think quickly before the whine escalated to a tantrum.

He releases a sigh of exasperation but ultimately concedes. “Okay, I guess I can wait.”

Eddie mouths thank you and winks as the four of you walk out to the lanes to wait for Harris’s friends. You feel a hand slip into yours, too small to be Eddie’s, and beam when Harris looks up at you with pure joy.

“Daddy! Grampa Wayne! I’m holding Ms. Sweetheart’s hand!” he exclaims, baby teeth on full display

Eddie ruffles Harris's hair. “I’m jealous.” If prompted, he’ll claim that he’s envious that his son chose to hold your hand instead of his. But you and him–and Wayne, let’s be real–know the real meaning behind his statement.

As Harris’s friends arrive and the birthday boy greets each of them with a hug, you and Eddie spring into action and line them up to get fitted for shoes. There are five kids, three boys and two girls, and though you recognize them as Ms. Marion’s students, you don’t know any of them by name. The bowling shoe laces are flimsy, and a few of them struggle with the fine motor skills necessary to tie them.

“Can I help you with that?” you ask one boy, who nods and extends his leg towards you. You crouch down and rest his foot on your knee as you double-knot the laces. When you finish, you look up to see that the rest of the kids have formed a line for your shoe-tying expertise.

Eddie returns from dropping off the guests’ gifts in the party room, laughing when he stumbles upon the queue of children. “You don’t have to do all that, Sweetheart,” he tells you, using his hands to assess the weight of different bowling balls before distributing them to the kids.

You shrug as you finish tying the last shoes. “I don’t mind.”

Eddie has reserved two lanes for the party, and before anyone can figure out who will be bowling where, Harris is tugging on his Black Sabbath t-shirt.

“We wanna play in teams,” he reports matter-of-factly. You’re not sure who ‘we’ refers to, since you didn’t see him corroborating with any of his friends, but you don’t question it aloud. “Team Harris and Team Daddy.”

Eddie gasps with feigned offense, bringing his palm to his heart. “What? You don’t want me on your team?”

“Nope.” Harris shakes his head, curls swaying back and forth. “I want Ms. Sweetheart on my team.” He pauses as he glances around the group, eyes brightening when his gaze lands on the eldest Munson. “You can have Grampa Wayne.”

“Old man’s probably gonna break a hip.” Eddie grumbles teasingly, picking up a red marbled bowling ball and hoisting it up to his chest.

Wayne scratches the top of his head. “And yet I can still kick your ass.” He keeps his voice low so that little ears can’t hear, but you and Eddie can, and you tuck your lips into your mouth so none of the kids catch on.

Harris is up first, squatting down and using two hands to roll the ball down the lane. His method proves to be somewhat effective when he knocks down a few pins, and the scoreboard screen flashes a giant number 5.

“That’s how many years I am!” Harris proudly announces, skipping back to where the rest of his team is standing. He cocks his head at the ball return’s open mouth for the neon green ball that Eddie had handed him earlier, eagerly scooping it up when he spots it. Assuming the same stance, he once again rolls the ball and successfully topples two more pins.

Eddie raises his brows incredulously. “Hmm, let me try that strategy.”

“I don’t think there’s enough pins for all of your years,” you quip, and Eddie sticks out his tongue in your direction before mimicking Harris’s approach, knees aligned with his toes. He draws the ball back between his legs and releases it a few inches ahead of him, smirking as it cascades down the lane.

His cockiness is apparently earned, since he gets a strike. He attempts a victory moonwalk, clumsily dragging one foot behind the other in a manner that would make Michael Jackson regret ever making the move popular. The heel of his shoe catches on the floor and he stumbles backwards, landing on his ass.

The kids burst out into peals of laughter, and you and Wayne join in once it is evident that Eddie’s not hurt, only embarrassed. You stoop down, clutching your ball between your palms as you grin. “That’s what you get for gloating,” you whisper in his ear, a joking lilt in your voice. “Try setting a good example for the kids next time.”

Unbeknownst to you, one of the kids, Kelly, strikes up a conversation with Harris while you’re up to bowl. “Is that your mommy?” she asks him, strawberry blonde pigtails softly swishing as she looks over at you.

“No, but she’s gonna be my mommy soon!” Harris replies happily. “She and my daddy are gonna fall in love and then she’ll be my mommy.” His voice lowers as concern mars his words. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? Because it’s my birthday cake wish and I need it to come true.”

Kelly nods, taking this obligation seriously, and she averts her gaze when she spots you walking back to the ball return. Since you’d only knocked down eight pins, you take another turn, slipping your thumb, middle, and ring fingers into the holes, frowning when you don’t get the spare you’d hoped for.

Harris’s chipperness brings a smile back to your face. “Ms. Sweetheart, can you teach me how to bowl like a grown-up?” He blinks a few times, hammering in his naturally docile nature.

“Of course!”

When it’s Harris’s turn again, Eddie watches you go up with him. It’s noisy, but he zeros in on your sweet tone among the clattering of bowling pins and cacophonous conversations.

“See, you put your middle finger and ring finger here, and your thumb here,” you’re gently explaining. “And then you lift the ball back just a bit, bring it forward, and let it go.” You go through all of the motions without actually letting go of the ball, Harris’s eyes glued to your every move. “You try.”

Harris follows your instructions, pink tongue poking from his mouth in sheer concentration, and knocks down a single pin. Eddie braces himself for his disappointment, maybe even escalation to a tantrum, so he’s pleased when his son spins back with a wide, toothy smile.

“I did it! I knocked it down!”

“You’re amazing! I’m so proud of you, Harris.” Eddie’s posture softens as Harris runs into your arms and gives you a giant hug, tiny fingers digging into your biceps as he squishes the side of his face just below your collarbones. When he does this, Eddie notices that Harris’s cheeks have lost some of their chubbiness; his son’s baby-like features subtly disappearing to make way for attributes of the older child he’s growing into. It brings a slight pang to his heart, and he swallows the emotion and focuses instead on the bonding moment between you and the not-so-little boy.

There’s a shared love; more than that, there’s trust. Harris knows he can rely on you to teach him with kindness and patience, that you won’t berate him or yell at him for doing something incorrectly. You’re his Ms. Sweetheart.

Wayne takes note of the goofy smile adorning his nephew’s face, nudging him before he drops the bowling ball on his foot. “I know you’re in love with her, but she ain’t worth losing your toes over.”

Eddie’s face flushes pink, the tips of his ears burning now that he's been caught. “I’m not in love with her, Wayne.” At least, I didn’t think I was yet, but now I might be.

“Whatever you say,” Wayne mutters under his breath, taking careful steps towards the lane. “You, uh, might wanna wipe the drool from your chin before you take your turn, though.”

Team Harris ultimately wins, mostly because Wayne throws the game so the birthday boy can have a victorious moment. You, Eddie, and Wayne quickly corral the kids into the party room, seating them at a large rectangular table for cake and presents before anyone can take offense over the game results. The three of you breathe silent sighs of relief when you easily shift their focus to the next activity.

Eddie pulls his lighter from his back pocket, flicking it on and lighting the five thin blue and white striped candles unevenly jabbed through the chocolate frosted homemade cake. He picks up the plate, supporting it from the bottom as he leads the group in a hilariously off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

Harris squeezes his eyes shut before blowing out the flames with gusto, a big grin on his face when he opens them again.

Feeling a hand clap on his shoulder, Eddie swivels his body to see his uncle armed with a disposable Kodak camera. “Let me get a picture of you and the birthday boy,” Wayne insists, peering through the little viewfinder and snapping a photo. Eddie’s crouched down, right arm slung over Harris’s shoulders. Both of them wear matching smiles; the only difference is that Harris is still sporting his baby teeth.

“Now Ms. Sweetheart!” the little Munson declares. Eddie goes to leave, pressing his palms to his knees and standing up, but Harris grabs his wrist and pulls him back. “No, Daddy. You and me and Ms. Sweetheart together!”

You shuffle over to stand on Harris’s other side. When you place your hand on his upper back, Eddie’s slides over yours, the two of you and Harris chiming “cheese!” in enthusiastic unison.

Blinking from the brightness of the flash, you extend your arm and make a ‘gimme’ motion with your hand. “Let me get one of the three of you,” you say to Wayne, who begrudgingly places the camera in your outstretched palm.

Eddie pulls him in closer. “Alright, Munson men. Flex those muscles!” You giggle as the three of them bend their arms to show off whatever biceps they have.

“Ms. Sweetheart, who’s got the biggest muscles?” Harris asks as you lower the camera.

You scrunch up your nose as though seriously contemplating the question. “Um, me, obviously!” You smack your own bicep, sending Harris into hysterics.

“That’s so silly!” he cackles, glancing up at Eddie. “Daddy, isn’t Ms. Sweetheart so silly?”

You expect him to agree with his son, but he just puts his hands on his shoulders and gives a quick squeeze as he says, “Nah, she’s the strongest person I know.” Your stomach flip-flops when he peers at you through his impossibly long lashes. He picks up the plate and brings it over to the smaller, empty table. “Let’s cut this cake before the kids start revolting.”

The two of you use plastic knives and forks to divide the cake into slivers and toss them onto paper plates. Once all of the kids have their slices, Eddie licks the excess frosting from his fingers and hands you a plate.

“Havin’ fun?” He carefully wraps the question in a joking tone, but you can tell that he’s genuinely curious about whether you’re enjoying yourself.

You spear a piece of your slice with the plastic fork. “I am, actually.” The chocolate melts in your mouth, and your tongue glides over your lips to catch any crumbs. “I haven’t been bowling since I was a kid.”

“And it shows,” he teases, wincing when you flick his cheek. “Hey, now—violence is never the answer. What values are you instilling in these impressionable young minds?”

Harris pops up from his seat, waving an empty plate. Whatever cake bits were left on it have tumbled to the floor. “Daddy, I’m done! Can I open my presents now?”

“Jesus, did you inhale that thing?” Eddie wonders aloud, but ultimately agrees. He grabs a bunch of thin napkins and wipes Harris’s hands and face, laughing when the boy sputters as the paper presses against his lips. “Har Bear, you don’t wanna get your presents all messy.”

Once he’s all cleaned up, Harris grabs each of the gifts and brings them to his seat at the head of the table. He tears through brightly colored wrapping paper at lightning speed. Eddie tries to keep track of who gave what as his son unveils a Hot Wheels track from Charlie and his brother Brendan, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure from Kelly, a G.I. Joe from Emma, and—regrettably—a tub of Gak from Zachary. He makes a mental note to pick up a harmonica or a kazoo or something else noisy when that kid’s birthday rolls around.

The last gift left is from you, and you twiddle your thumbs as you await Harris’s reaction. Should I have gotten him a toy?

“It’s a stencil kit,” you feel the need to explain, as though you wouldn’t be able to handle the embarrassment of him asking what it is. “So you can trace shapes for your art. It’s got all different ones: food, animals, holidays…” You clamp your mouth shut, willing yourself to stop talking.

Your panic is short-lived; Harris’s brown eyes light up as he runs to you and wraps his arms around your legs in another giant hug. “I’m gonna draw you so much things!” he promises, gazing up at you excitedly.

“I can’t wait to see what you make me.” A drawing from Harris holds a deeper meaning than you ever realized. It’s more than a simple display of creativity; it’s a symbol of love and acceptance into his life.

He looks at his dad now with pleading eyes. “Can Ms. Sweetheart come to our house after the party so I can draw her a picture? Please?” He stretches out the last word so that it has at least five syllables.

Eddie looks at you expectantly, a timid smile on his lips. “Well?”

“I think that’s a great idea.” Your response earns you another quick squeeze from Harris before he darts back to his seat to further inspect his gifts.

Eddie’s warm voice is low in your ear, his fingertips ghosting the small of your back in a manner that lets you—and only you—know how starved he is for touch. “And you can help me get rid of that slime thing, too.”

Once the party has ended and you, Eddie, and Harris are back at their apartment, the cherubic boy takes the stenciling kit into his room.

“I’m gonna do art in here so you can’t peek,” he declares, clutching the kit to his chest as though there’s already something to hide.

Eddie chuckles, raking a hand through his curls. “Okay, bud. We’ll be out here, watching TV. You go be a little artíst.”

Once he hears the bedroom door click shut, Eddie puts the TV on a random channel and plops on the couch with a soft oof. You sit down next to him and he puts his arm around you, allowing you to snuggle in closer. The shirt fabric against his underarms is slightly damp with the day’s sweat, but you’re far too comfortable to even consider it an issue.

Your unsuccessful attempt at stifling a yawn has Eddie grinning. “Can’t hang with the kids anymore?” he goads, lips flush against your scalp.

“It’s exhausting being on the winning team,” you playfully retort, adding in an over-the -top fake yawn to drive home your point. “Not that you would know.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pulls you closer to pepper kisses across your neck and cheek until you’re a giggling mess. Satisfied with his handiwork, he allows himself to sink deeper into the cushions and lets out a yawn of his own.

You rest your head on his shoulder, gently brushing his curls back so they’re not in your eyes. A hum of contentment escapes you as you fully relax for the first time today.

You feel a slight nudge on your chin as Eddie tilts it upwards and kisses your lips. The gloss you’d applied before the party is long gone, a casualty of conversation and cake consumption, but he has no complaints.

“Been wanting to do this all day,” he murmurs, shooting shivers down your spine. “And when I saw you helping Harris? Baby, I just…” he searches for accurate words. Nothing he can think of seems to fully convey the depth of his feelings, but he tries his best. “I’m so fucking lucky. We’re so fucking lucky.”

The feeling of your body against his relaxes him further; a marvelous white noise replaces the plethora of overanalyzed problems constantly buzzing through his brain. The heaviness of sleep falls over both of you, and you shift your body even closer to his in a primitive quest for the safety his presence brings. Whatever show is on the fuzzy TV set is now a dull hum until it’s muted by the dreams your subconscious brings.

Eddie only stirs fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door hinges give a soft squeak, ears trained to pick up on Harris’s innocuous noises that often precede chaos. Grogginess overpowers attentiveness, so he misses the smile on his son’s face and the way he whispers, “my birthday wish is coming true.”

Gray clouds cover Hawkins the next day, drenching the small town in cold rain. And while Eddie is certainly grateful that it’s not snowing, this means that he has to find indoor activities to keep his endlessly energetic son occupied.

Luckily, Harris is still enamored with his birthday gifts, particularly the stenciling kit you’d given him. He sits at the kitchen table now, tracing an outline of a cow on a Valentine for his classmate. Eddie’s not quite sure of the correlation between the animal and the holiday, but he’s learned that some battles are best left unfought.

“That looks great, Har Bear.”

“I know.” Harris agrees, not looking up from his drawing as he says, “Daddy, you should make a Valentime for Ms. Sweetheart.” Before Eddie can answer, Harris slides over a piece of red paper and a black marker.

“I should, huh?” Remembering a trick he learned back in elementary school, Eddie folds the paper and draws half of a heart against the crease. He has to use Harris’s blunted safety scissors, much too small for his fingers, to cut the paper. Pleased when he sees that it actually resembles a heart, Eddie taps the marker against his dimpled chin as he contemplates what to write. “You really like Ms. Sweetheart, don’t you?”

Harris nods, putting down the blue marker he’s using and reaching for an orange one. “Mhm. I love her, Daddy.”

Eddie’s heart soars at the confirmation of Harris’s adoration of you, but he tries not to make it obvious. “That’s, uh, that’s good.” He finally decides on a simple message: Be Mine, and he signs his name underneath with a dash. It feels a little less impersonal than “from,” but isn’t as strong as “love.” Do I love her? He wonders. No, it’s only been one date. He can’t fall in love this quickly. It’s not possible. “How’s this? Be mine,” he reads aloud, underlining each word with his finger.

“Oh, I like that.” Harris picks up a green marker and writes the same two words on a pink sheet of paper. The letters are a little too big for the paper’s limited space, and he ends up squishing the “e” in “mine” very close to the edge. “How do you spell ‘mommy’?”

Eddie’s throat goes bone-dry. “You wanna make a card for your mom?” Harris has never wanted to make anything for his mom before; never brought her up, really, but maybe that was changing now that he was in school and surrounded by children with present mothers.

But Harris shakes his head. “No, it’s for Ms. Sweetheart. I wanna write ‘Be Mine Mommy.’”

It takes Eddie a second to realize that Harris means “be my mommy,” and he massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Um, Har, you can’t just ask her to be your mom.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t want to tell Harris that wants to make sure you’ll stick around, nor does he want to make a promise neither one of you can keep. “Because you…you just can’t, okay?” It comes out harshly, and he sputters to fix his tone when he sees Harris’s lower lip quiver.

“But it’s not fair! You didn’t have a daddy, so you got Grampa Wayne as your daddy. I don’t have a mommy, so I want Ms. Sweetheart as my mommy!”

Eddie flash backs to their zoo trip, when Harris had innocently asked him if Wayne had taken him out on father-son days. There’s no child-friendly way to articulate that Wayne had initially been legally obligated to act as his guardian. “I know, bud. I know you do–”

“Then why can’t I ask her?” His expression shifts from anger to confusion, brows pinching together.

Because she could say no, Eddie thinks. Because the responsibility of being a mommy was too much for your biological mother to handle; why would Ms. Sweetheart take it on? What if she doesn’t have a problem being your mommy, but she finds issue with the idea of being connected to me?

He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “Look, Har. I know you want her to be your mommy. And between you and me, I’d love for her to be your mommy, too.”

“But–”

“But, grown up feelings are weird sometimes,” he presses on, borrowing your verbiage from Thanksgiving, “and feelings like love take time. But I’m gonna make you a promise right now.” He sticks out his pinky finger. “I promise that if me and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love, I’ll tell you, and I’ll let you ask her to be your mommy. Is that a deal?”

Harris looks dubious, but ultimately hooks his pinky around his dad’s. Eddie breathes a sigh of relief that the crisis has been averted for now.

“Before we can ask her to be your mommy,” Eddie continues, “I need to figure out the perfect Valentine’s Day date to impress her. Wanna help?”

Harris purses his lips in concentration, resting his chin in his hand. “How about McDonald’s? They have a ball pit!”

Eddie has to tuck his lips into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “A definite contender,” he finally manages. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Friday night. Valentine’s Day.

You had been unsure whether Eddie wanted to do anything for the holiday; your relationship was still so fresh, and you didn’t want him to feel pressured. When he crept into your classroom Monday morning with a coffee and a heart-shaped note—far more conspicuous than he’d intended to be—you couldn’t hide the excitement on your face.

The card reads Be Mine and currently resides under a magnet on your fridge, finding a home among the plethora of drawings from Harris. It’s got some creases in it that Eddie had explained were the result of Harris shoving it into his backpack that morning. You thought it was perfect as is.

“Are you free on Friday? For Valentine’s Day?” he’d asked, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. When you answered in the affirmative, he visibly relaxed. “Great. I’m taking you out.” His smile lights up his face. “Wear something that you don’t mind getting messy, and I’ll pick you up at 6.”

You’d wanted to try and pry more information from him, but Carol Perkins and her son Frankie walked in just then, and you’d put away the heart as quickly as you could as Eddie scrambles from the classroom.

You stand in your bedroom now in your Levis 501s and a fuzzy red sweater, taking one last look at your makeup in the mirror reflection. You scrape your fingernail along the bottom of your lip to wipe off any excess gloss. Underneath your outfit is a special surprise, wishful thinking if the night goes well.

At 5:55, you sling your pocketbook over your shoulder and make your way down to the lobby. You spot Eddie the moment you step out from the elevator. He’s pacing, hands shoved in his dark wash denim pockets and lower lip pinched between his teeth.

Your voice draws him from his thoughts. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him so your stomachs touch. “You look really, really handsome.”

“You’re…you’re beautiful.” He’s almost breathless as he says it, eyes roaming down your body and taking in the view. The way your sweater drapes the slope of your breasts has his heart leaping into his throat. He kisses you slowly before proclaiming, “My beautiful Valentine.”

You reach into your purse and pull out a tiny red gift bag, letting it sway and dangle from your fingertips. “I got you a little something.”

The tissue paper crinkles as Eddie rifles through it to pull out a silver lighter, much heavier in his palm than the usual plastic Bic he uses. “Sweetheart, this is…” He takes a closer look and reads aloud the engraved words etched on the front. “Fill my heart with song…”

“It’s from Fly Me to the Moon. Because of Thanksgiving, when you played the record, and Grandma…” you trail off, not wanting to get choked up, “and because you’re a rockstar. My rockstar.” You kiss his lips again, feeling his palm softly cup your cheek.

“I have something for you, too. Um, I didn’t get to wrap it, but I hope you like it.” He unzips his jacket, exposing the gray t-shirt clinging to his pecs. He digs into the inner pocket and clutches a cassette tape, handwritten label stating,“Ms. Sweetheart’s Mix.”

“‘S nothin’ crazy, just some songs that remind me of you.” There’s an array of genres and artists on there. Guns ‘N Roses, of course, as well as Frank Sinatra. There’s Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me, Un-Break My Heart by Toni Braxton, and a plethora of songs with ‘sweetheart’ in the title: Bob Dylan’s Sweetheart Like You, Bing Crosby’s Let Me Call You Sweetheart, The Spaniels’ Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight.

Tears prickle along your lash line, and you blink them away before you smudge your mascara. “Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” You hold the gift in two hands, giving it a small shake to emphasize your excitement.

A small pang in his chest has Eddie realizing that he wishes you’d ended that statement with you instead of it, but he tries to shove the thought down by kissing you, tongue parting your lips, hand traveling up your side. His hands aren’t even touching skin, only your sweater, yet it’s so electrifying that you feel your thighs clench in wanting.

“C’mon,” you urge him gently, “let’s go on this date before we end up making out in the lobby all night.”

Eddie cocks his head. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Eddie…” Truthfully, you’re thinking the same thing, but your desire for a romantic Valentine’s Day date with him propels you towards the door. You take his hand so he dutifully follows.

“Fine,” he relents with an exaggerated sigh, smile showing off the soft dimples in his cheeks. “But only because you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, y’know that?”

“Oh, I know.”

Twenty minutes later, Eddie’s car pulls up to The Novice Chef. You’ve never been–taking care of Grandma didn’t allot you much time for hobbies–but Jess has told you about their incredible cooking classes. She and Robin went to one right before Thanksgiving and insisted that they’d perfected the art of turkey basting.

“Figured we could learn how to make pizza since we’re basically funding the local Surfer Boy,” Eddie grins, turning the key in the ignition. The car stills and the two of you unbuckle your seatbelts, pushing open the car doors. “Just, uh, no olives on my half.”

You find an unoccupied cooking station with two aprons on it, the venue’s cursive logo displayed on the front in an eager advertisement. You slip one over your head and Eddie does the same, twirling his finger in a turn around motion. You feel the brush of his fingers on the small of your back as he ties the strings in a bow. After returning the favor for him, you squeeze his waist, giggling when he yelps in surprise.

“What was that for?”

“I dunno; you’re just really squeezable.”

Eddie just shakes his head, already missing your touch after that brief moment. He slides a rubber band down his wrist and ties his hair in a bun at the nape of his neck before slipping his rings off of his fingers. He flexes his hands, almost taken aback by their nakedness, and you suppress a heaving sigh when you catch sight of the protruding veins, dark purple snakes that disappear amongst soft arm hair.

“All right everyone, let’s get started.” The unfamiliar voice brings your attention to the front of the room, where the instructor is standing behind his own station. “My name’s Argyle, and I’ll be your tour guide on our journey through Flavortown.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “First thing we’re gonna do is knead the dough.” He gives a demonstration and then invites the class to try on their own.

“Damn, that dude has some badass hair,” Eddie muses, noting the man’s long raven locks that are pulled back into a waist-length ponytail. He nods approvingly and flips the silver bowl of dough onto the table. A small puff of flour rises as it hits the surface with a thwack, and you’re very glad you’d heeded his warning not to wear something new.

Eddie presses the heel of his palm into the dough, kneading it with precision. Flatten, stretch, flatten, stretch, until he’s satisfied with the consistency. He shapes it into a thin circle, fingertips digging into the edges to form the crust. The movements are hypnotizing, and it’s not until he clears his throat that you bashfully realize you’ve been staring.

“Y’good, Sweetheart?” A sly, knowing grin stretches from one cheek to the other; now you’re certain that he’s caught you.

“Y-Yeah.”

The next step is to spread the sauce onto the dough, Argyle explains, and Eddie places the crust onto the pan and steps aside so you can take over. You dip the ladle into the pot, filling it to the brim. Bits of dried basil and oregano swim in a red tomato sea as you use the ladle’s base to evenly distribute it across the crust.

“Y’got a little somethin’ on your face.” Eddie whispers in your ear, making you stop mid-swirl.

“Huh? Where?” You use the back of your free hand to wipe at your cheeks and chin for any sauce that may have splattered, but a close inspection shows nothing.

Eddie leans over you, his chest flush against your back. You fight the urge to press the curve of your ass to the seam of his jeans, wiping a sweat-slick palm on your apron. “Right…” he swipes his finger down the ladle’s curved side, catching some sauce and dotting it on the tip of your nose, “here.”

“Eddie!”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got it.” He leans over and licks the sauce off, a quick lap of his tongue on your skin. The unexpected sensation makes you giggle louder than you’d intended. You clap a hand over your mouth, surely smudging the gloss, but you’ve already drawn the instructor’s unwanted attention.

“Lovebirds, are we here to flirt or to make pizza?” Argyle punctuates his rhetorical question with an exasperated sigh. You duck your head in shame and Eddie just coughs to stifle his own mischievous laughter.

“All right, now for the cheese,” Argyle continues, dipping a hand into a glass bowl and retrieving the ingredient. “Some people think that ya just pile it on; the more cheese, the better, but there’s an art to–hey, not cool, man!” He’s looking right at Eddie, and you glance over to see your date drop a handful of shredded mozzarella into his open mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cheese, but you’re willing to bet that his apology is anything but sincere.

Argyle rolls his eyes, not even attempting to hide his irritation. “You got one more strike, and then you’re out.” He points one finger at Eddie and then jerks his thumb backwards to emphasize his point.

“Yes, sir,” Eddie salutes, and you elbow him in the ribs.

Once the cheese has been sprinkled across the sauce–whatever remains after Eddie’s impromptu snack, anyway–you reach for the mushrooms. Eddie’s sharp gasp makes you freeze up before you can grasp any.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, placing his flour-coated hands on his hips.

You flick your gaze from the bowl of mushrooms to his impatient face. “Um, putting toppings on the pizza?”

“Not that one, you’re not,” he argues with a disapproving shake of his head. “Vegetables don’t belong on pizza.” He picks up the bowl of pepperoni and starts layering the slices on top, either unaware or indifferent to the fact that some of them stick together in a double layer of cured meat. “This is more like it.”

You nudge him, triumphantly layering mushrooms around where he’s placed the pepperoni slices. “It’s called compromise, Eddie. It’s how relationships work.”

His jaw drops and he places his hand over his heart like a southern belle who’s just been presented with extraordinary gossip. “Oh, this is a relationship?” He snickers when you give him a small shove. “I had no idea. I just thought we were two friends who make out sometimes.”

“God, I hate you.”

“I hate you, too.”

An hour later, stomachs filled with pizza that might rival Surfer Boy’s, you and Eddie return to your apartment. A tense stillness fills the air when he walks you to your door, daring either of you to speak your mutual desire into existence.

You’re the one to break the silence. “I had an amazing time tonight, Eddie.”

“Yeah?” he asks almost incredulously, as though he doubts the truthfulness behind your words. He pushes the insecurity aside with a joke. “Even though I almost got us kicked out?”

The memory brings a smile to your face, though you would imagine that the annoyed instructor would not share the same sentiment. “I still need to get you back for that.” You lick his nose and giggle, knocking his hand away when he lifts it to his face. “Don’t wipe it off!”

“And what if I do?” Eddie takes a step closer, resting one hand on the small of your back and putting the other on your cheek. He kisses you and you lean into it, pressing your body against his. His tongue parts your lips, and you hook a finger into his belt loop as you melt into each other.

“Do you wanna come in? Or do you have to get back home to Harris?” You’ve pulled the trigger. There’s no turning back now, and though you’re certainly in a healthier place than the last time you’d made this suggestion, the fear of a similar reaction has your heart in your chest.

He shakes his head, nose rubbing against yours. “Wayne’s staying with him tonight.” He omits the fact that his uncle was the one who’d offered to babysit overnight, a not-so-subtle hint at his expectations of Eddie’s evening plans.

“All night?”

“All,” he kisses you again, “night.”

You fumble with your keys and unlock the door, Eddie wrapping his arms around your waist from the back as though he never wants to let go. As soon as you get it open, its grimacing creak mere background noise to the pounding in your ears, you’re kicking off your shoes and pulling Eddie into the bedroom.

Your hands on his shoulders pin him against the door, only moving them to the hem of his shirt to begin tugging it over his head. It proves to be a difficult task as you try keeping your lips on his neck, but he wraps his fingers around your wrists and stops you.

“Been dreamin’ about worshiping this body…you,” he clarifies, pupils blown so wide that they overtake his chocolate irises. “Please,” he adds, a slight break in his voice. His begging starkly contrasts the bravado that dominated his personality the night you’d met. There was no patience or tenderness, just teeth clashing and hands searching for the fastest and easiest way to bring pleasure.

You nod. “I have a surprise for you first.” You take off your sweater, drawing it slowly up your torso to build up the anticipation, and toss it to the side.

Eddie goes slack jawed at the sheer mesh bra that leaves nothing to the imagination, just as you’d expected him to. He quickly snaps his mouth shut and swallows, a last-ditch attempt to salvage his machismo before he fully loses his mind.

“It’s a matching set, if you wanna see.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie walks over, pressing kisses to your collarbones that leave your knees weak. His thumbs graze your breasts, slipping the bra straps down and unhooking the clasp. It falls to the ground and he stoops a bit, bringing his mouth to one hardening nipple and sucking it before moving onto the other. “Perfect.” He trails kisses down your stomach, dropping to his knees as he does. “Perfect.” He lifts one hand, kissing each individual finger right on the first knuckle. “So perfect.”

He remains on his knees as his nimble fingers, still cold from the brief walk to your building, unbutton your jeans, and you shimmy out of them eagerly. His eyes widen when he sees that your panties do, in fact, match your bra: a red-tinted mesh thong that has everything on display.

“Baby,” he moans, grabbing one ass cheek in each of his big hands and pressing soft kisses to your clothed pussy. “Baby…f’me?”

“All for you, Eddie.” Your breath hitches when you feel his lips graze your most sensitive spot. He’s not intentionally teasing you, but logic has no place in your current state.

He kisses down your thighs. “Lay down f’me, yeah?” You do as he asks, laying your head down on the pillow as your body sinks into the mattress. Eddie climbs on top of you, slotting one knee between your slightly open legs. He brings his lips to your ear, gently biting your earlobe and singing in a low murmur, “got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…”

You giggle, the breath from his whisper tickling the shell of your ear, and you tilt your head slightly so you can see his face. “Can I undress you now?” He nods, and you wrestle with his shirt to expose the pale expanse of skin. There’s a dusting of curls across his chest, thicker in the middle and thinner around his nipples. You plant a kiss on his left bicep and drag your palm down his tummy, practically concave during his teenage years but now has a slight softness to it, stopping when you reach the bulge in his pants. He groans at your touch, and you feel his cock twitch slightly. Eager to alleviate his pent-up energy, you undo the button and tug down his zipper, cupping his erection through his navy blue boxers.

“Not yet,” Eddie mumbles, “not done showing you how much I l–care about you. How much you mean to me.” With a burning in his cheeks from what he’d nearly admitted, he drags your thong, a wet patch formed on it, down your thighs and past your calves until it drops to the ground unceremoniously. He balances your legs on top of his shoulders and pulls himself in closer, nudging your clit with his nose as he licks a stripe up your folds. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, brushing it with his tongue. Soft brown eyes peer up at you, desperately seeking your approval.

“F-Feels good,” you manage, words caught in your throat as pleasure seeps into your body. “Please keep going.”

Eddie needs no further convincing, reveling in your growing wetness against his face while slipping his middle finger into your pussy. You whimper at the feeling of him inside you, bracing yourself for a comment about how needy you are, but he just continues to draw you closer to your orgasm. His finger glides in and out, in and out, rhythmic but not too slow. The bed shifts ever-so-slightly, and you realize he’s rutting his hips against the mattress, desperate for relief.

Your hand finds purchase in the curls adorning his scalp, digging your fingers into them and giving a small tug. Eddie lets a second finger into your tight hole, curling them upwards and hitting your sweet spot over and over.

“Right there, th-that’s it, please, Eddie,” you beg, your moans barely audible over the sounds of him fervently fingering you and lapping at your cunt. “Fuck, Eddie, ‘m gonna cum!”

Eddie just lets out an “mmm,” in acknowledgment, the vibrations shooting through your core and bringing you right to the edge. Your release overtakes you and your thighs instinctively squeeze against either side of his head. He makes a mental note to ask you not to do that because he absolutely needs to hear every noise you make while you cum.

“Y’good?” he asks as you drift down from the high, still perched between your legs. He wipes his slick-glistened lips with the back of his hand before licking the taste of you from his fingers. “I can keep going, trust me.”

“Need you closer.” You try to sit up, but your legs fail you, and you flop back onto the bed. “I have condoms in the top drawer–”

“Brought my own,” he grins, reaching into his back pocket–now positioned just under his ass from the way he’d dry humped the bed–and pulls out three connected foil packages. “Ribbed, for her pleasure.”

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, but it’s the truth. The way he took care of you, made sure you were okay after, offered to continue eating you out despite the raging hard-on he’s sporting…his chivalry isn't lost on you. You watch as he strips down until his body is rid of any clothing, tearing one wrapper and rolling the rubber down his cock, and you bite your lip in anticipation of its delicious stretch.

There’s an unspoken disappointment at the addition of the barrier, regardless of its practicality. You want to be as close as you possibly can without anything in the way, but neither of you are in any rush to give Harris a sibling.

Imagine it, though, Eddie can’t stop himself from thinking. Imagine the intimacy of filling her up every night until she’s carrying my baby. Taking any little bit that drips out and stuffing it back inside to make sure it takes. Imagine kissing her growing bump every morning to greet her and our unborn child.

He puts one thigh on either side of yours, looking into your eyes as he asks, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

Eddie lines up with your entrance, pushing in gently and keeping his gaze trained on the way you take him in. Inch by inch, he disappears into your wanting hole until he bottoms out. He holds your hips while he finds a steady pace, and as soon as you arch your back, he’s slipping his hands around your waist just above the curve of your ass. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispers. “You make me so fucking happy.”

Your hands grasp at his shoulder blades and you kiss him, tongues intertwining while you moan into each other’s mouths. “I’m always yours, if that’s what you want,” you promise, wrapping your legs around his.

“Of course, that’s what I want. Most beautiful girl in the world, asking me if I want her to be mine.” He grins cheekily, burying his head in the crook of your neck and sucking on it lightly before asking, “do you want me to be yours?”

“Yeah,” you exhale as his cock presses against your walls. “Yeah, I want you to be mine.” You smile, moving your hands to the nape of his neck and deepening the kiss. You want to be the only one he touches like this, the one who goes to bed next to him every night and wakes up next to him every morning. The one who celebrates his wins with him and brings comfort during the losses. You want everything that comes with belonging to each other.

Eddie thrusts into you, pulling wanton moans from your lips. “Say my name,” he pleads. “Need to hear you say it.”

“Eddie,” you pant, not able to fathom a single thought beyond the pleasure you’re feeling and who’s bringing it to you. “Eddie, ‘m so close. You feel too…too good.” Good is an understatement; perhaps a more accurate adjective would be euphoric, but finding a more elaborate term is low on your priority list.

Eddie’s peak is not far behind, with the feeling of your warmth around him bringing him closer every second. “Always wanna make y’feel good, baby,” he says. His face hovers just above yours, a bead of sweat sliding down the bridge of his nose onto the tip of yours. “I gotta–”

“Cum for me, Eddie,” you tell him, and with your permission, he pistons his hips a final time and spills into the condom. Your walls contract around his length as you finish with him.

Eddie stays inside you as the two of you catch your breath, smiling and stealing kisses from each other. He’s never felt anything like this before; for him, the thrill of sex is typically fueled purely by the primal instinct to get laid, but he’s in no rush to let you go. His cock begins to soften and he slowly pulls out, chuckling when you whine at the loss of fullness.

“Gotta toss this,” he says, removing the condom with a soft hiss and tying a knot. “Then I’m gonna hold you, mmkay?” Part of him is waiting for the post-sex adrenaline to wear off and the inevitable crash down when he realizes he’s mistaken lust for passion, urgency for belonging, but that doesn’t happen. As much as he’d love to be inside you again, hearing and feeling your satisfaction as you unravel for him, what he wants more than anything is to lay next to you and keep you safe. Safe from what, exactly, he’s not sure, but something compels him to protect you.

He takes you in his arms, the two of you a tangled, sweaty mess of naked limbs. Perspiration mats his sparse chest hair to his skin, but you press your cheek to it anyway and breathe in his scent. Your body grows heavier as sleep overtakes you, but Eddie’s low voice pulls you back for just a second.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?”

I love you. The words want to flow freely but come to a screeching halt on the tip of his tongue. It’s only your second date, and his mind is clouded with the sappiness of Valentine’s Day and oxytocin; what if he just thinks he loves you? Or what if he truly does, but you don’t feel the same way? Would you tell him, or would you pretend to reciprocate to spare him the hurt? Which is worse?

I love you. But it’s too soon to feel that, to know it for certain. And if he rushes things, he’ll get Harris’s hopes up–get his own hopes up–only to be met with heartbreak and disappointment.

I love you. And what would that admission accomplish, anyway? Where would you go from there? What would it change?

“Get some rest,” is what he settles on, biting the inside of his lower lip in shame. He kisses your forehead and watches you drift off, grateful when the exhaustion of the evening hits him and he follows suit.

I love you, is his last thought before he falls asleep, but he convinces himself that he’s not ready to speak it into existence.

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theamazingdigitalraceway · 18 days ago

Note

It’s Me Again Don’t Worry The Cast Isn’t Fighting Someone WAY Out There League This Question In Particular Is Different I Stole Caine Credit Card 💳 And Copy One For Everyone Each What Would They Do?

CAINE: "....why are there so many online charges with my credit card??"

POMNI: A modified nerf gun. It fires 30 rounds a second and has tacks on the tips of the darts. She just saw Jax walk by with a fiberglass shark and she doesn't trust him.

RAGATHA: She wouldn't use it. She'd give the card back.

JAX: A life-sized fiberglass shark, 12 gallons of glue, a large hairbrush, 3 cucumbers, a bag of marbles, and a glass humanoid sculpture that's nearly invisible to the naked eye. Don't ask.

GANGLE: Art supplies. That stuff is expensive.

ZOOBLE: A customized pinball machine where they hit Caine in the face with pinballs.

KINGER: Large, fancy terrariums for all his insects.

GUMMIGOO: Buys a sandwich and gives the card back.

LOO: CLOTHES. Shoes, jewelry, purses, hats, sunglasses. Any kind of fashion accessory.

SETH: He'd max out Caine's credit card on bitcoin just to mess with him.

ABEL: 12-year-old scotch.

#the amazing digital raceway #tadc raceway au #raceway au #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc au #raceway seth #raceway abel #tadc caine #tadc pomni

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the-red-thread-that-strangles · 7 months ago

Text

Rei is late for the first time since he's started working at Poirot.

Neither terrorism attacks nor hostage crises have affected his being on time. Not even a runaway horse managed to keep him.

But he spends one night with Akai Shuichi, and his perfect record is ruined. Asshole.

Despite his calling ahead, Azusa gives him a worried look. He stops briefly to give her a mock-embarrassed apology, turning up the charm. Promises he won't be late again. Then he's off to the storage room.

He needs to fetch his ingredients and get to baking.

Rei's going to find Akai and strangle him, just as soon as his shift is over.

Roughly 12 hours earlier.

There's a gun aimed right between his eyes.

That in itself is nothing unusual. The situation could be worse, really.

After all, his own gun is pointed right back at Akai Shuuichi's annoyingly smug face. At this distance, he'll be able to read his movement, react in time. He'd rather talk, but if the sniper fires, Rei will drag him into hell too.

Blood for blood. Mutually assured destruction.

(His excitement is slightly dampened by the fact he's rather certain Akai won't kill him.)

"Caught you." Rei can't help the satisfaction slipping into his voice.

Finally. After three years, their game of cat and mouse is over. He'll have his answers.

The most pressing of which-

"Where's Scotch?"

The words cut into the silence, sharpened by fear. His best friend might still be dead, after all. (If he isn't, why hasn't he contacted Rei?)

It's not like he has much to go on to suspect he's alive, besides the fact that Akai himself came back from the dead. Rei can only hope he brought Hiro along.

Before Akai answers, there's a click. The world becomes dizzyingly bright, expanding past the muzzles of their guns.

Rei blinks the disorientation away. Spots silhouettes from the corner of his eyes. He hasn't met them before, but he's familiar, of course, with the owners of this house. How long have the Kudos been watching them?

While he's busy processing that revelation, Akai holsters his gun. Part of Rei hates how nonchalant Akai is about all of this, exposing himself so easily. Like Rei isn't a threat, won't put a bullet in his head because of a couple of witnesses. (Hates that he's probably right.)

"I propose a trade. For old time's sake."

(The words leave a bitter taste with Rei. They haven't exchanged anything, not goods, not words, not warmth, in years.)

Akai snaps open a cheap flip phone - likely a burner. His thumb hovers over the call button. The fingers of his other hand, long and dextrous, wrap around the barrel of Rei's P7M8, tugging gently, but insistently.

Rei considers his options. He holds no illusions - without his gun, he won't be able to dispatch Akai. But he's more than capable of holding his own for long enough to escape, if need be.

(He could just fire, right now. It wouldn't have to be lethal. Could take the phone by force. But chances are, whatever information Akai has, he'll be much less willing to share it with a bullet wound.)

Rei looks up at Akai, meets his green, green eyes. The part of him that shows genuine emotions, some days. (Not that Rei is one to talk.)

Finds Akai looking...tired. He wears a small smile, but it's worn around the edges. There's no open mockery, no quiet amusement. It's just the two of them, and an offer.

Rei lets go of the gun. He hopes he won't be needing it, tonight.

Akai helps him up, his hand warm and steady. As soon as he's upright, Rei lets go - he can walk perfectly fine by himself, thank you very much.

The FBI agent shows him to the living room, tells Rei to make himself a home. After all, the Kudos have promised to give him some privacy, for his chat.

For a moment, the sniper lingers, gaze caught by the phone. Then Akai casts his eyes down, and leaves Rei alone.

Silence, if not for the crackle of the damned fireplace, fills the room. Rei hesitates for a moment. Then he presses 'call' for the only number in the directory.

The phone crackles with static, beeps as it establishes connection, then-

"Hi, Zero."

The world stops moving. Relief floods his system, sapping the tension from his muscles. He leans against the soft backrest, breathing freely for the first time in a good long while.

Their talk is short. Rei asks some questions to establish it's truly Hiro, not an imposter (though that would make a very poor basis for the negotiation the Kudos have planned).

Hiro tersely explains some things, although he isn't allowed to give away much. He's in the FBI's witness protection program. That they're talking at all is a massive bending of the rules, authorized only because of Akai's insistence. He claimed it was of critical importance to their mission.

It certainly is, to Rei.

The next hours are a blur.

The sofa dips when Akai sits down at his side, the Kudos already having taken their seats on the other side of the small coffee table. (He wishes Akai would sit farther away. That he be less reasonable in his assumptions and demeanour.)

It's somewhat surreal to think that celebrity actress Kudo Yukiko of all people gives him a steaming cup of chamomile lavender honey tea. Good thing working with Vermouth has knocked most of the starstruck behaviour out of him; his younger self would have made a fool of himself.

He can't afford that. After all, they are seeking him out in an official capacity, requesting PSB senior agent Furuya Rei's cooperation.

It certainly is strange for them to reach out through him, considering his known enmity of Akai. But he's a professional - he might be reluctant to work with the man, but it's not his decision to make. He'll relay the offer, unless it's utter garbage.

So he pays attention while they share what they can of their plan to take down the organisation. Listens to their pledge for equal contribution, and their promise of crediting the PSB with a successful operation; an obvious play intended to soothe the wounded pride of the Japanese, after years of illegal activity. But it's the least they can do.

If one were to ask Rei, the offer is certainly worth considering. The PSB has been working the case for five years now, and while they have gathered intel, and managed to place Bourbon as a vital asset, they're barely closer to shutting the organization down than when they started. It's sprawling, interconnected with various businesses, and, worst of all, active internationally. If they don't cut off all its heads at the same time, odds are the members will simply flee to a different branch. Maybe lie low for a bit, and then go about their business with renewed vigour.

It seems like an international cooperation might just be necessary to achieve this task. So he'll be their messenger; it's above his pay grade to decide whether to take them up on the offer or not.

Though privately, he hopes his superiors agree; every day they lose ground to the organization. By this point, Rei doesn't really care anymore whose plan it is that finally does the organization in, as long as it gets done. (And as long as he and the PSB are finally treated with the appropriate amount of respect.)

Still, he can't help thinking they wouldn't be having this conversation now, if these foreign agencies had respected the official channels ahead of time. Maybe Hiro could be hiding in Nagano then, with his brother, instead of being confined to the other half of the globe. In the US, of all the terrible places to be. He shivers.

By the time they're done it's very late. Rei is already half-dozing off, despite his best efforts to stay awake. It would be highly irresponsible to drive in this state, so he's asked their hosts for a coffee (he's sure a place housing Akai will have more than enough of it to go around). He'll just rest his eyes for a moment, until they're back.

Something light is being dropped on him, almost stirs him to consciousness. But it's warm, soft, and smells of huddling together in an abandoned apartment.

(Of long-forgotten small comforts.)

Not a threat.

Thus satisfied, his body collects its due, and he's dragged back under, into deep, dreamless sleep.

Which brings Rei to the reason he's late.

Someone, and he has a very good idea of who it was, put his phone in airplane mode, drew all the curtains shut, and kept the rest of the house quiet.

(Let him sleep for as long as he needed to.)

So Rei wakes up with a start, in a barely familiar place, the digital clock on the wall indicating it's way past opening time for Poirot. Shit.

He grabs his belongings, pistol, clothes and keys and all, and dashes out the door. He swears he can see Okiya - no, Akai, he was right, damn it - look down on him from that favourite window of his. Asshole. Contrary to him Rei has a job, a cover to maintain. He'll get back at him, yet.

It should probably worry him that he can perform the drive to Poirot on autopilot. Too many late-night stakeouts turning into impromptu naps, requiring him to drive straight to work after. So much trouble, over nothing. If Akai had just cooperated sooner-

Then, what? Rei hadn't managed to track him down before his supposed death, and the less interaction there is between Okiya Subaru and Amuro Tooru, the better for both of them. He grinds his teeth, barely manages to brake in time for a redlight.

(Hates that he understands the caution, to a degree.)

The universe really is conspiring against him, today.

After the lunchtime rush, a certain pocket-sized detective is ushered in through the door, followed by his guardian and her best friend. The kid gives him odd looks all throughout ordering lunch, too sharp in a way that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand in up. Rei gives him his sunniest smile, and an extra packet of sugar. He's played games with Gin and Vermouth in worse conditions; he won't yield to a particularly precocious six-year-old.

Despite getting more sleep than the last three nights combined, he's not feeling too well. A single good night's rest can't undo weeks of insomnia. If anything, it only makes apparent what he's lacking.

He finds his mind wandering, glad the preparation of food comes automatically, by now. Whisk and mix and pour. Fry, remove from the pan...

"...uro? You seem unwell."

Too-familiar green eyes stare back at him, bags under the eyes and all. Rei barely manages not to flinch.

Of all the people to catch him spacing out, it just has to be Akai's little sister. The gods must truly hate him.

"Ah, miss Sera. I apologize, I was just pondering some new options for our menu." He winks, gives her his most dazzling smile. "The chamomile lavender honey tea cake has me under its spell."

In response, she just wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. Squints at him with those jade eyes that always see through him too easily.

"Are you sure you're not running a fever? It seems a little warm in here already, yet you're working in a sweater."

Rei blinks at that. The temperature seems fine to him. Azusa hasn't said anything about it either.

"I appreciate the concern, but I assure you, I'm perfectly fine. Now, what can I get you?"

One slice of red velvet cake (of course - why did they even keep that on the menu?) and a macchiato later he's rid of her.

For now, at least - she's joined her friends at the window seats, and judging by the way she keeps sneaking glances at him when she thinks he isn't looking, he hasn't seen the last of her yet.

Still, her questions are odd. Surely he doesn't look that terrible?

(Vermouth has taught him some of her secrets; he's been concealing the shadows under his eyes for a while now. Nobody's ever found him out. Why is it now that people notice?)

He continues to work mindlessly, unfocused. This damn shift just doesn't seem to want to end.

He just about manages to avoid knocking Ran out for leaning over the counter, into his space. She remains blissfully unaware of the danger she just escaped, smiling brightly, kindly.

"Excuse me, I have a question."

Rei closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, counts to four. Smiles at the girl. "Go ahead", he says, continuing to whisk some cake batter.

Ran leans in closer, conspiratorially.

"Masumi is too shy to ask" - that's a bold-faced lie, if he's ever heard one, and he's something of an expert on the matter - "but she'd love to know where you got that sweater."

Now, Ran's a lovely young lady, always eager to help. It's a pity she's being manipulated for Sera's gain. Because there has to be more to the question, even if Rei can't see it yet.

Of course, he can't tell the girls the truth - Kazami bought it for Bourbon's cover. But the best lies are closest to the truth, so-

"I apologize, but I do not know where it was bought. A friend gave it to me." His best calculated-apologetic smile smoothes the blow, hopefully.

"Oh. I see." Ran visibly deflates. Still, her good manners prevail. "Thank you, though!" And with that, she's heading back to her table.

Strange. What could Sera possibly want with his sweater? If she wanted to track him down, surely there's more efficient ways, and it's not like he doesn't have a dozen similar cream sweaters-

Wait. Cream?

Rei's pretty sure he dressed in black to infiltrate the Kudo manor. He's not been home and he hasn't changed for work.

He manages to supress a groan, but he's sure there's some unpleasant emotion visible on his face.

...he must have grabbed the sweater along with the rest of his belongings in the morning rush.

Now that he's looking at it, it's clearly a little too large for him. It's also warm, fuzzy, soft, and utterly unoffensive. That's probably why it didn't register, before.

The sweater does smell decidedly of Akai - cigarettes and a hint of his obnoxious aftershave. The warm scent of curry is new - though unsurprising, given his foray into cooking. Great. That's why they've been staring at him. Sera likely recognizes the sweater and Conan spends enough time with Akai to know the scent.

His gut instinct is to go change, right now, get rid of the damning piece of connection to the man he has too many conflicting emotions about. But a long-sleeved black turtleneck is hardly appropriate work attire for Poirot. Besides, if he changes now, the pair of detectives watching him will just have their suspicions confirmed.

So he grits his teeth, takes in a deep breath that smells too much like Akai, and gets back to work.

Rei does change out of the sweater as soon as he's done with his shift.

(It doesn't help. The scent lingers.)

He's tempted to just toss the sweater, but can't help feeling like it would be a waste. It's quality craftsmanship, well-worn but taken care of - this kind of sweater would pill, otherwise.

It really shouldn't be faulted for its owner's flaws.

So he puts the sweater in a bag, intending to have it dry-cleaned and give it back later.

He should really hunt down Akai, too, but if he's honest, he's just too tired. He probably shouldn't even drive, in his condition, but he needs to get to a safe place, to think about the developments of the night.

He reports to Kuroda, showers thoroughly, and falls into bed.

Rei can't have slept long. The sunset colours the world in blood red hues by the time he wakes up, out of breath, heartbeat too fast.

Visions of smoke and ash cling to him. Explosions, destroying him one by one, until nothing remains but death alone.

Hagiwara and Matsuda, taken by violent flame.

Hiro's remains, crushed and burnt beyond recognition.

Akai's smile, grimly defiant, as he's shot by Kir. He too finds his end in a blaze, lacking glory.

They're gone.

Consumed by the inferno that seems to follow Rei around. Which burns everything he cares about, leaves him freezing in its wake.

(He can't even cry, his tears evaporating in the heat.)

Rei shivers, draws the blankets closer. Hopes for a little bit of cover, a little bit of warmth.

Please. If he could just shake off the nausea. If he could stop his spiralling thoughts. Logically, he knows that's not all true, even if his heart burns. Akai and Hiro aren't dead.

It's a lie, they're alive, it's a lie, they're alive, it's a lie a lie a lie a lie-

A set of sharp barks rips him out of his thoughts, back into the present.

Oh. He's woken Haro.

The little guy stands in front of his bed, ears tucked back and hackles raised. A defiant ball of fluff that cares so much, trying to growl the nightmares away.

(It might just work.)

Slowly, shaking and somewhat off-balance, he reaches down to scoop up his dog. Wiggles the blanket off his shoulders so he may cradle the whining bundle of fur to his chest. It's soothing, to feel the warmth of another living being by his side. They sit, the silence permeated by Haro's huffed breaths. His body heat seeps into Rei's chest, nestles in his heart.

"I apologize for worrying you. I'll be fine, soon."

He's not alone.

Haro nudges his hand, demands to be pet. Rei obliges, of course he does.

He's not alone.

Still, the headache is a pain. He won't be able to go back to sleep like this, will need to grab a painkiller.

He makes his way to the kitchen counter, keeping to the walls because he's still somewhat unsteady, carrying his bundle of warmth along.

The dog throws a fit as they pass the bag with Akai's sweater, growling and yapping at it. Despite the circumstances, Rei can't help but smile.

"I'm glad to see we feel the same way about him."

Wait.

Inspiration strikes in the form of a very stupid idea.

Because that sweater, with its stupid mixed scents, reeking of Akai, is proof he didn't just imagine last night's events. Tangible and olfactory and physical proof. If he were to wake from a nightmare, with it by his side...the anger at Akai would surely keep the pain at bay.

It's worth a try.

As he goes back to bed, Haro lies down beside him. Rei keeps petting him, one-handedly. With the other, he holds on to a cream sweater that isn't his.

When he breathes, it smells of too-long stakeouts in windy apartments.

Of Rye's extra blankets, the ones he started to bring when he noticed Bourbon always freezing; irritating to no end, how he was always better prepared for cold weather than Rei.

(It smells of Bourbon's cooking, given in exchange for soft blankets.)

Scents of a tentative alliance, as thread-bare as the fabric between them.

Grounded between the warmth of Haro, and the scent of Akai, Rei falls asleep, waiting for the dog days to finally be over.

#we're tackling the original sin #the tea party (dun dun dun)#i'm a little sad that “personalized heating unit (read: Haro)” got left on the cutting room floor #anyways I have a migraine but I want this out so here you go #i realized that I mostly write rei taking care of akai. have some implied akai taking care of rei in this one #sweater weather AU #akam #dcmk #long post #(i would like to formally apologize to squad leader date btw. I promise rei isn't any less upset about his death #but we are having a fire/explosion themed nightmare. i couldn't fit him in. I'm sorry)#(also rei. bit of dick move not to let akai talk to hiro...)#oops you are right mi although I'm not quite sure how to tag for that #um #mention of canon character deaths #specifically matsuda and hagiwara #iris writes fic

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wastemanjohn · 1 year ago

Note

You KNEW my prompt was gonna include pregnancy lmao but I’m gonna say samdean accidental pregnancy — your choice if Dean or Deanna, your choice which season but I wanna see Dean(na) confessing to Sam that s/he’s knocked up!

here you go mate <3 (sorry for sneaking my deanna and david bowie headcanon in here but i had reason to believe you wouldn't mind xD - and exploring this pushed me nicely out of my comfort zone so thank you for the prompt!)

The skies over the salvage yard are pink with shepherd's delight clouds. The evening breeze has a little bite, and the air smells like rotting oil and dead leaves. The latter scent is one Sam associates with shoplifting school supplies, with the good coffee shops opening up on campus again. It's an awkward nostalgia, but it comes to him anyway as he buttons up his shirt for warmth and makes a start on staking out the boulevard of broken cars, armed with two bottles of El Sol and a mental note of all the phrases he's learned not to say. Deanna's gotta be out here somewhere.

The thing is, Sam thinks as he passes the nearly restored Impala, it had seemed like his sister was doing a little better. She's still sharp tongued and irritable, but she's not been spending 12 hours a day doing god knows what under that hood. She's been hanging out with Sam and Bobby more in the evenings, not really saying much, but sometimes she smiles with her whole face at something someone says, and Sam's always a little surprised at the force of his relief. She's even been talking a bit about getting out on the road again, even if she never directly mentions Dad; but Sam's caught her quietly leafing through his journal now and then lately. Not that he's said anything about it, because that's just asking for trouble; and anyway, regardless of any improvement, Sam still has no idea what's going on in Deanna's head, really. She feels very far away.

She went out this afternoon. For hours. Didn't say where she was going; but it's got to be the first time she's left Bobby's place in weeks. She left her phone behind on the nightstand, in this way that Sam couldn't help but suspect was intentional, because there had to be something about that; had to be something in the way Deanna caught Sam's eye through the window as she was coming back, coming all slow down the path with Dad's jacket over her shoulders and this tight expression on her face. Something in the way Deanna had sharply changed direction at the sight of him, veering off until she faded into the salvage yard and Sam couldn't see her anymore. And it's not that Sam meant to be hovering near the front of the house at the exact moment of her return like a worried parent, but shit happens.

Let her be, son, Bobby had said, without looking up from his scotch and that leatherbound demonology book he'd been annotating all day. Harder you push, the more she's gonna clam up.

It bothers Sam when Bobby talks like that, like he knows Deanna better than Sam does or something. As for letting her be - well, if Bobby knows Sam at all, he's got a strange way of showing it.

As Sam goes deeper into the yard, he can hear music. Tinny, faint; but Sam recognizes David Bowie. He spent enough time being subjected to every single tape the guy ever made, even the really out there ones, over and over again as a kid to know that voice anywhere. That had been one of Deanna's more intense phases. Sam thinks she finds him comforting now, maybe; familiar, well worn, like an old blanket. She'd deny that, of course, the way she always denies shit that she thinks sounds girly, or maybe just vulnerable - but it hadn't been lost on Sam over the past year, how Deanna would play those tapes during nearly every overnight drive they took. Her hands always a little too tight on the steering wheel, Dad's unknown whereabouts breathing down the backs of their neck like a spirit.

Sam follows that bustling piano, ch-ch-changes, until he finds his sister. She's sitting on the floor, leaning against the dented door of an eighties truck with a mangled hood. The windows are down. The music is coming from inside.

Dad's jacket is so big over Deanna's shoulders. It practically drowns her, looks kind of ridiculous, if Sam were to be mean about it; still smells like Dad's cigarettes. Deanna doesn't look up, when Sam approaches, but she doesn't hide her face or snipe at him to fuck off either. Which means this is already going well.

"Hey." Sam says it cautiously. "What are you doing out here?"

Her eyes roll up at him. "Making bacon and eggs, jackass. What's it look like I'm doing?"

Sam doesn't know, actually. Still, he takes the sarcasm on the chin. He holds one of the beer bottles out to Deanna; she glances at it, then shakes her head.

It surprises Sam, but he doesn't push. "You look like crap," he offers.

Deanna snorts. "Well. Don't you know how to make a girl feel special."

There's no bite in it. That tells Sam they're okay. She does, though; look like crap, that is. Tired; washed out. She's been sleeping in the day a lot. Bobby says it's the grief, that she needs it. Sam could believe that. He wonders, though, if Bobby's heard Deanna throwing up in the night lately. Not just one of her tactical upchucks to stave off a hangover, because she's not been drinking all that much lately; but these real hacking puke sessions that jolt Sam out of sleep in the early hours of the morning. She never comes back to her bed afterwards. And Sam has his suspicions about that too, like with the left behind phone; it's Deanna's way of not giving him a chance to pry. She knows how thin the wall between the bathroom and the spare bedroom is.

"Can I sit?" Sam asks.

Deanna shrugs. It's as good as permission.

Sam lowers himself down beside her, gets comfy on the rough gravel. He puts down the beers; doesn't feel much like drinking by himself.

They sit in silence for a while. Puts Sam on edge; but it's hard to know what to say to Deanna most of the time these days, which isn't a position he's ever been in before. Then again, they've never been in the position of losing their father before, so there's that. It still doesn't feel real. It probably never will.

"Keys were still in the ignition," Deanna says, nodding up towards the truck. "Tapedeck works. Engine's salvageable. Bobby's way too quick to junk these babies. Upsets me."

Sam smiles. "Dare you to say that to his face."

"Hey, maybe I will. If he gave me half a day with this death trap I'd get her purring again. Turn her into a whole new woman."

She folds her arms, tilts her head back against that dented door. Her eyes are kinda pink and bleary.

"You should see the tapes in the glove compartment," she adds. "'S a fucking goldmine.

"Is this Hunky Dory?" Sam asks.

Deanna raises an eyebrow. "Wow. And there I was thinking you weren't paying attention all this time."

"You didn't exactly give me a choice. You only played this album every day for like ten years."

Deanna grins. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. I knew you'd learn to love it eventually."

"Love is a strong word," Sam replies.

Deanna snorts again. Something like affection passes over her face. Sam hasn't seen that in a while.

"I lost this album years ago," Deanna says. "Think it ended up with Dad, maybe. You know how our stuff used to always get mixed up."

Sam's a little stunned. And maybe it shows, because Deanna narrows her eyes at him. "What?"

"Nothing." He swallows - "Just that you, uh, mentioned Dad."

"Yeah. So?"

It's quick, defensive enough for Sam to know to shut up. He's getting good at that kind of thing.

Deanna's scowl fades; she grins, lightly punches his thigh. "You creep. Quit staring at me."

Sam didn't realize he was. But if they were a different kind of people, maybe Sam would tell Deanna how pretty she looks under the dying sunlight, under those pink, glowy clouds; but he wouldn't really know how to put something like that, and Deanna would never let him live it down if he said it aloud anyway. So he keeps it to himself. Instead, he watches Deanna pull at a spooling thread from her shirt sleeve peeking out from beneath Dad's jacket.

"You know," Deanna says, "being out here always reminds me of us being kids. Bobby letting us play in the yard until the sun went down. Bringing us lemonade. Do you remember?"

Sam smiles. "Yeah, Dee. Of course I remember."

Deanna carries on like she wasn't expecting an actual response. "We'd never had homemade lemonade. Remember how I used to try to make it for you when we got back on the road? Mine always kinda sucked, though."

Sam feels a little on edge, hyper aware of everything his body is doing, like he's trying not to spook a wild gazelle. This is the most Deanna has spoken in weeks. "You tried," he offers, because she did, Deanna always tried so hard with stuff like that. He hasn't thought about Deanna's crappy lemonade in years. With Bowie warbling about life on mars on the stereo, and the memory of Deanna's sticky too-bitter attempt alive on his tongue, it feels like it's 1992 again.

Deanna keeps pulling at that thread. "You know, back when I used to watch you - I was, I dunno, maybe ten or eleven. And you were so - you were so damn innocent, you know? Just really cute, I guess."

"Cute?" Sam echoes.

"Yeah." There's this tight, half-smile on her mouth that Sam can't quite read. "You were so curious about shit all the time. Always wanting me to tell you stories. Always getting yourself scraped and bruised because you couldn't stop fucking climbing stuff."

Sam isn't sure what to say. There's something about remembering himself as a child that makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it's the idea of being so small and so helpless; or maybe it's the memory of that hard-to-place unease that lived inside of him like blood from the moment he was fully sentient, that gut-deep sense that something about his life - his family, his barely present Daddy - just wasn't right.

"You were a pain in the ass," Deanna continues, with this fond chuckle. "Asking me questions all the time. Wanting to know how every little thing in the world worked. If I didn't know the answers, I'd just make 'em up. You believed everything I said." She clicks her tongue. "Man, do I miss that."

Why are we talking about this? Sam nearly asks. But that runs the risk that Deanna will snap shut like an oyster, and Sam will never get the answer at all. So he keeps his mouth closed. He lets Deanna carry on.

"Sammy, I used to -" She trails off, looking weirdly sheepish. "This is so so fucking weird, but like - when I was watching you, I used to wish you were actually my kid. And you - you kinda were, you know? Felt like you were mine... mine just as much as you were Dad's."

Dad, again. Sounds so unfamiliar in Deanna's voice now that it takes Sam a moment to process the revelation that came before it. "You did? Seriously?" is all he manages.

"Yeah." She's looking at her lap. Still that tight half-smile. "Seriously."

And Sam struggles to know what to do with that, what it means. Because it's hard, lately, for Sam to be angry with his father about much; makes him feel almost empty, actually, after a lifetime of nursing this near-addictive resentment over things he never fully understood. And of those things, Deanna - getting her stuff mixed up with Dad's, being so intertwined with him, resembling her martyred mother so much Dad could never stop commenting on it - Deanna seeing Sam as her own, apparently - well, he doesn't know. Sometimes Deanna just says shit. He probably isn't meant to read into it.

And besides, Sam doesn't know anything for sure. Always felt like he never really wanted to. And as he's already made his choice to love his father, he needs to keep it that way.

Deanna shuts her eyes, then. They're puffy under her lashlines, kissed with gray. "I mean," she says, "Don't get me wrong. You annoyed the crap outta me sometimes." She shrugs, hard, like a defence to an attack Sam hasn't made. "I - I do know that, Sammy. I know there was times I coulda been nicer to you." She looks a little pained.

"We were just kids Dee," Sam offers. "Not like either of us were exactly saints."

"I keep remembering," Deanna continues, in that way, like Sam hadn't spoken again, "There was this time Dad kind of - got caught up in something. Still don't know what. But he wasn't home when he said he'd be. We were running out of everything. Food, money. No one was answering the phone. And you - you were driving me insane, Sammy."

Deanna says the last part a little too quietly; her head bows, hair covering her face. And Sam thinks he knows where this is going. He's getting a little uneasy.

"You just - you kept on and on with your damn questions. 'Where's Dad? What does he do while he's away? When's he coming back?' Then you - you asked about Mom."

"Deanna-"

She shakes her head, cutting him off. Something bitter on her lips, not quite a smile. "Who punches a five year old in the face, Sammy? I can't believe I -"

"You were only nine, Dee." Sam reminds her, when she doesn't finish the sentence. "You didn't know any better."

And it's true; Dad made sure of that, with his shoot first, ask questions later manifesto. But Deanna would never see it that way. She just laughs, colorless, bitter. "Yeah. I did. I shoulda, at least. I just -" She huffs. "Sometimes it feels like I just - I couldn't stop screwing up."

"You were doing it all by yourself." As the words leave his mouth, Sam registers how they sound. Like something you'd say about a single mom, some divorced thirty something with three kids, working two jobs to keep everyone fed and clothed. Not a nine year old.

"I guess -" Deanna sucks in a breath. "I just think about that a lot. That's all."

There's this dread growing inside of Sam as he watches Deanna's mouth twist up; she blinks, angrily. "Are you - crying?"

"Shut up," she mumbles.

She turns her face away a little. Draws her knees up to her chest. And it's strange and unsettling for Sam to see, like a horse walking on its hind legs or something; because Deanna doesn't cry, crying is for girls, and anatomy aside, she doesn't much like being seen as one of those. Even before Dad's pyre she stood, solemn and silent, breathing slow, composed. A hell of a lot more composed than Sam was, anyway.

"What's going on, Dee?"

She shrugs. That's very different to I'm fine.

And if things had been in any way close to normal over the last couple of months, Sam might touch Deanna's hand right about now. Lace their fingers; cup her face. Kiss her, maybe, the way she hasn't let him kiss her in a long time. Not since - well - not since the night they let Dad go. Sam can still remember the heat from the fire on his face, the way Deanna's hair felt grainy with ash; how her lips had tasted earthy and swollen, how she felt so small and fragile in his arms, more than she ever had. Still his big sister. Still the person he wants when he's scared and spiralling and doesn't know what to do but grab onto her, and hold on and on and on.

Deanna sniffs, loudly. "I just - I had so much on my shoulders, you know? Dealin' with you... dealin' with Dad..."

Her voice cracks a little. Sam says, "It was - it was a lot. I know."

A lot. So much summed up in those two words, but it's not like Sam's had a lot of practise in talking about this.

Deanna laughs down at her folded knees, all thick. "You don't know, Sammy. You don't know at all. And I'm - I'm really glad you don't."

Sam isn't sure what to say to that. Partly because he can't gauge Deanna's tone, and partly because that feels like one of the most honest things Deanna's ever said to him. And now he's really worried.

"I just - I always wished I had another chance, you know? A chance to do over all those screw ups I made."

Tentatively, Sam reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. It tenses a little beneath his fingers; but she doesn't pull away. That's good.

"I don't know where all this is coming from, Dee," Sam admits.

There's a pause, and Deanna seems to blink for a little too long. "It's - Sammy, I just keep on thinking. Dad's - Dad's gone."

It's the first time she's actually said it. Sam swallows; throat feels a little thick. "Yeah. I know."

"And I was just getting - you get used to things being one way, you know?" She runs a hand through her hair, shiny with grease like oil slicks. "It's always like that. You start getting used to things, and then - then some other shit happens. And suddenly things are a whole new way. Before you can even fucking -"

"What do you mean?"

"Sammy, I knew something was wrong. I - I think I knew all along. But - today..."

Sam does everything in his power to keep his growing anxiety out of his voice. "Where did you go today, Deanna?"

Her lips press together. She's still looking at her lap.

That dread expands, curdles, in Sam's gut. "Tell me."

Her hands are shaking against her thighs. "I - I went to the doctor."

That's absolutely the last thing Sam expected. "Since when do you go to the doctor?"

"I kinda had to."

Sam watches the little quiver of her fingers; and with that, he thinks back to the puking, the tiredness, how not right his sister looks. He thinks about Jess, how they were talking about what color to paint the living room 24 hours before she went up in flames on the ceiling. He thinks about Dad calmly sending him off for coffee before he…

Things are one way. Then suddenly they're another. Before you can blink, before you even remember your own name.

"Are you - are you sick?" Sam tries to keep his voice even.

Deanna isn't looking at him. "Kinda."

Sam thinks about Deanna hooked up to wires and machines. The miracle; how miracles don't happen. He's been harboring a little fear that there has to still be something wrong. A lacerated organ. A foreign object. Something they must have missed. But he thought - hoped - it was just that - a fear.

Sam sucks in a breath. "Okay. So - so what..."

Deanna smiles grimly. "Turns out I've got a parasite."

He watches Deanna shift. Her hand move towards one of the pockets of Dad's jacket. She keeps her eyes on her lap as she passes a small slip of paper to Sam. Small, rectangular. He takes it.

It's a moment or so before he realizes what he's seeing. Kind of like a photograph; a fuzzy sepia. Odd shapes that slowly begin to make sense.

"Ten weeks," Deanna says, her voice a little hoarse with disbelief. "I'm - I'm ten fucking weeks pregnant, Sammy."

Sam stares numbly at that ultrasound still. At the shapes, like two beans stacked on top of each other. Faint, fuzzy lines. Tiny arms. Tiny legs. He stares at them until they blur.

Ten weeks. Ten weeks since -

"So it's - " Sam can't finish the sentence.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's yours."

Her voice sounds very far away. And Sam can smell ash and fumes, traces of hospital grade body wash on Deanna's skin, skin that was bruised all over from cannulae and wires; and Sam couldn't catch his breath because Dad was gone, the last of him was just yards away on that burnt out pyre, gone; and Deanna's hands were on his face, tangled up in his hair, forehead pressed against his, and she was straddling his lap in the Impala's backseat, her eyes shut, muttering ssh, ssh over and over, maybe to Sam, or maybe to herself, but she kept saying it, even through the long kisses she kept pressing to his mouth; and Sam remembers he could barely see, he felt like he was choking on that ashy air, but he had Deanna, and he needed Deanna, he'd never needed her so much in his entire life. And Deanna understood, the way she's always understood things like that; and Deanna had kept on with her kissing and ssh-ing as she moved on top of him, fast, desperate, and Sam had clung onto her waist and met each roll of her hips, fast, anguished, because he couldn't get close enough, deep enough; and Deanna had been making these pitchy, breathless sounds like she was in pain, but she didn't stop Sam, and the whole time her eyes were wide and fixed on his face; and Sam remembers tangling her hair around his fingers like rope, he remembers arching up against her as he came, his body going through the motions, his senses numb to it. That numbness hasn't really left him since.

"Sammy, say something."

Deanna's voice, strained, cuts through the memory. Hauls Sam back to the present; Bowie, rotten oil, dead leaves. That autumnal breeze. His sister's face, tight and worried. Sam recognizes that pallor a little more now: shock.

It's passing through Sam as well. Of all the things he expected - this was nowhere on the list. Nowhere close.

"Alright," he manages eventually. Amazed at how calm he sounds. "What do you wanna do?" Because that's the thing to ask, right?

Deanna's lips twist again. "I mean - like, right away, I thought about just - you know - going off and taking care of it. Not even telling you. Just - "

"You wouldn't have told me?"

"I said I thought about it, Sam." She clicks her tongue; another rough wipe of her eyes. "I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

Sam keeps staring. Staring, at that image. That tiny, tiny baby.

"Is that what you want?" he manages, eventually. Hoarse as Deanna. "To - take care of it?"

Deanna's pause seems to roll around the length of the yard. Then, her eyes stray to her lap again. "You know, Dad used to lecture me about this shit. Made it very clear how disappointed he'd be if I ever accidentally got myself knocked up."

Sam says, "Really?"

"Yeah. All the time." There's something acidic in Deanna's voice. "And you know why he harped on about it so much?"

"Why?"

"Because he said it wouldn't be fair to bring a kid into all this. Into the life." Deanna laughs, this flat, one-note thing. Something sharp flashes through her eyes; something gone too quick for Sam to fully identify. "Can you believe he said that to me? After everything he..."

She stops. And Sam watches Deanna's face reset, as if she hadn't expressed something like anger towards Dad for the first time ever. Something like what Sam has been saying, feeling, thinking, ever since he was old enough to understand. Everything Deanna always denied.

"It wouldn't have to be the same." It comes out of Sam's mouth before he can catch up with it. "You know. The same as we had it."

Deanna keeps on looking at her lap.

"You -" Sam takes a breath. "You know that, right?"

Deanna sighs. More like the breath whipping out of her body. "I'm not gonna stop looking for the demon, Sammy."

She says it like she expected Sam to insist on it. He clarifies: "I'm not saying we do. I'm saying we make it work."

He has no idea how. No fucking idea. His brain hasn't quite absorbed what's in front of him yet, the news undigested; but he's certain, somehow, of that.

Deanna gives that odd laugh again. Sam isn't sure what it means, this time. "It's also..." She picks at that thread on her shirt again. "I mean, the doctor said it looked healthy. But what if it comes out and it's like, a cyclops or something?"

"Why would it be -"

Deanna's shoulders rise. "You've seen Deliverance, right?"

Oh.

Sam swallows. His eyes stray back to the picture. Not that he can see much; not that there's much to see. But there's enough there for Sam to think it looks absolutely perfect.

"There are risks," is all he can think to say. "But it's - you know. It's not completely inevitable."

Deanna narrows her eyes. "You've already looked this stuff up, haven't you?"

She says it in this accusatory way. Sam runs his thumb delicately across the grainy image. "There was always a chance this could happen, Dee."

Always a chance. They've never done much to mitigate it, really. There's not enough space in Sam's brain right now, to wonder why that is.

Deanna skips over it too. Runs a hand through that greasy hair. Her lips twist.

"I just think," she says, after a while, "even if it comes out with three heads, playing a fucking banjo... would I care? You know?"

She's still not quite meeting Sam's eyes. Sam prompts, "Would you?"

"I mean. It's not like it'd be the only freak in this family, right?" A smile spreads across her mouth. "Sammy, you know I wouldn't care. I'd -I'd love it no matter what."

"Me too." It comes out thick; Sam's never been more sure of anything in his life.

He hands Deanna back the picture; takes her hand, deceptively delicate and cold in his, as he watches her eyes fog up with tears again. She doesn't hide this time; leans in to press her forehead against Sam's, just like that night ten weeks ago, just like they've come full circle. And fuck, it feels like forever since Sam's been touched like this, touched by anyone; he's just wondering if leaning in for a kiss would be pushing it, when he feels Deanna's plump, dried out lips brushing his. They feel a little sticky, and there's this malodor to her breath, but Sam barely registers it. It's like coming home.

I missed you, he doesn't say; can't, when Deanna's mouth would smother it anyway. When Deanna would only screw her face up and call him a big girl, and he'd rattle with guilt about feeling a little humiliated by that, but he'd feel it anyway.

Deanna pulls away first. She's a little flushed, and Sam can faintly see the capillaries in her face, like pink lines on a map under her skin; she squeezes his hand, laces their fingers. Moves them together until Sam's palm is flat against her stomach, the warmth of her body underneath that worn flannel.

"I keep thinking I can feel it," she whispers. "Now I know it's there."

Sam watches their interlaced hands dumbly. Overwhelmed. He can too.

"I kinda hope it's a girl." Deanna's voice has that hoarse quality again. "So I can - so she can have a Mom. So she can have what I didn't have."

She says it at the exact moment Sam finds himself hoping it's a boy. His reasons are similar. But for someone who doesn't like to talk, Deanna's always been way better at articulating stuff like that.

"You'll be a great Mom, Dee," he says, firmly. You were to me.

"Alright. You don't need to kiss my ass." Deanna ruffles his hair, like she did when she kissed him goodnight as a kid.

It takes Sam a moment to find his voice again. "I mean it, Dee. We'll make it work." He says it with this conviction that rises up from somewhere deep. "And I'm gonna be here for you, alright? Every step of the way."

Deanna groans. "Jesus Christ. I knew you'd be like this."

But she's smiling. And Sam allows himself to as well.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

“You know Dad would kill us, right? But man, do I wish he was here right now.”

She says it with a laugh in her voice, her face all twisted up; and Sam can't help but remember how he and Jess had talked about kids, vaguely, sometimes, kind of like a concept, a distant dream. How Sam had thought to himself about Dad a lot then, too, the way he never really stopped thinking about Dad and Deanna. He remembers wondering to himself whether Dad would be proud. Whether he'd even want a grandkid; if he'd want to know at all. Back then, Sam genuinely toyed with the idea that Dad wouldn't even care. Never come back, Sam.

It's not the same, now. Holy fuck, this is not the same, and it can probably only be a good thing that Dad's not here to know about this; so Sam pushes away the thought. He puts his arms around Deanna's waist and pulls her as close as he dares.

"It'll be okay," he says again, because he can't think of anything else. Because it has to be.

Deanna's looking at him kinda intently. "Sam, do you think this is Dad's way of like - you know - coming back?"

"Uh - what?"

Deanna shrugs. "Dunno. Just - hormones talking, I guess." She squeezes Sam's hand against her stomach. "Forget I said anything."

Sam's not sure he can. They don't say anything after that.

#asks #prompts #samdeanna #johndeanna if u squint #my writing #yes I know I literally always play in this part of the Canon sandbox #but whatever i invite you to sue me #cw discussions of abortion #cw childhood trauma #cw intergenerational trauma #cw incest #this came out very soft by my standards lol #well apart from all the incest and trauma #it's so heavy on the incest lol

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bidoofenergy · 1 year ago

Text

little cousin of a friend

Rafael doesn’t know what words to use, how to explain what he feels for this kid that’s basically half his age, but he does know he would douse himself in the rest of the Scotch and light himself on fire for Alex.

also on AO3 (1990 words)

2018

The kid has a crush on him. Rafael can tell, even if Alex can’t. Alex stares at him from across his tiny office and picks up Skittles for him on coffee runs and blushes when they argue. He complains and whines and hounds him over the most miniscule details, but when it’s 12:30 and Rafael doesn’t have a lunch meeting, Alex is halfway to Five Guys already. He had memorized Rafael’s order within the first few weeks, waving off Rafael’s offer to text it to him with a “yeah, yeah, I know what you get.” Rafael is emotionally constipated, like any other gay man in his late 30s, but he knows what a crush looks like on the face of a young brown boy.

And now Alex is lying on his office floor, both of them drunk off their asses on Scotch nicer than 20-year-old Alex has any business drinking. But it’s been a bad week, so Rafael orders pizza and tries to lighten the mood with good stories, hopeful stories about why they’re having this shit week in the first place. Alex is only in this town because he’s working for Rafael, and it feels like the least Rafael can do for his… employee? His friend’s kid?

They have a weird relationship. Alex is some fucked up combination of annoying little cousin, mentee, and friend. Rafael doesn’t know what words to use, how to explain what he feels for this kid that’s basically half his age, but he does know he would douse himself in the rest of the Scotch and light himself on fire for Alex.

Rafael is slumped in one of the chairs, because he knows how to handle what he drinks, holding up his phone so Alex can see the pictures from the floor. There isn’t much he’d critique the President for, but she’s kept Alex so close to the center of it all, had him running the race before he was fully grown—Alex is at a real risk of burning out young. Rafael can see it in him, because it’s in himself. At least Rafael had to muscle his way into political spaces first—Alex is in the thick of it, all day, every day, and it’ll wear him out if nothing changes.

But Rafael isn’t his dad, even if he’s old enough to be and, Christ, that makes him feel old. He’s not Alex’s dad and all he can do is remind Alex why he’s there, why they’re both there.

Alex isn’t looking at the pictures. He’s pretending like he is, like he’s listening to Rafael talk, but he’s got a far-away, dreamy but determined look on his face and Rafael gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Pick someone else,” he wants to beg, would beg if it wouldn’t just encourage Alex. “Pick someone else to admire, please.” He doesn’t know if he can bear the weight of Alex’s admiration. He’s so open, so bright, so young and Rafael…

There’s at least one senator with a binder full of Rafael’s secrets, holding it over him like a guillotine blade, and Rafael wants to take down as few people as possible when he falls.

On top of it all, on top of the admiration or crush or hero worship, Alex doesn’t even know that’s what’s happening. Initially, Rafael thinks he’s just good at staying closeted, but he’s too good—too eager to talk about girls on Tinder, too genuine as he listens to one of Rafael’s friends talk about growing up trans and black.

Rafael’s mentee-slash-annoying-little-cousin of a friend has a massive crush on him, and he doesn’t even know it. It’s not his place to say anything, to Alex, who needs to figure this out on his own, or Oscar, no matter how many bathroom bills he blocks, or June, who doesn’t even like that Alex is here, or Ellen, the goddamn President. It’s not his place to say anything, to anyone.

He exhales this secret on little puffs of cigarette smoke—Alex is queer too Alex is queer too Alex is queer too—on his smoke breaks, the only time Alex is willing to leave him alone.

What’s one more secret to carry?

2020

Richards outed Alex and Rafael can’t even prove it. It’s 6 in the morning and Rafael woke up with a horrible feeling in his gut, so bad he thought he had appendicitis again even though his appendix ruptured seven years ago. He grabs his work phone and there it is, the Google alert he had set up for Alex: FSOTUS And Prince Henry Are Totally Doing It!! It’s all so ridiculous he could laugh, but all he can think about is Alex, his little cousin of a friend, forced out in such a humiliating fashion, and he nearly cries.

For one horrible, terrifying moment, he remembers the night before and that horrible gut feeling is back. Is this because of that conversation? Did somebody hear them— “Sería una mentira, porque no sería él.”—and manage to put it all together?

But no, there’s photos of Alex and Henry kissing and, worse than that, emails. Pages and pages and pages of emails, between Alex and Henry, more than he could possibly read—more than he ever wants to read—and that’s when Rafael knows this is Richards. In that moment, it’s nothing more than a gut feeling, but it’s more actionable than any of his other thoughts have been so far.

The Daily Mail broke the story, but it’s easy enough to feed a newspaper anywhere in the world a story like this. The Daily Mail would run it with a single out-of-focus picture, and they got a treasure trove. The emails were dropped on WikiLeaks, which means they might as well have been dropped out of a helicopter in terms of Rafael’s ability to trace them.

He wastes nearly an hour trawling through forum boards he remembers from his teenage-hood and Reddit pages he’s kept an eye on in recent years. Most people are mean and homophobic and varying levels of racist, but he manages to find a pocket of sympathetic queer anarchists, seriously discussing possible sources of the leak. He lurks and watches as, again and again, people ask “Richards?” and throw around phrases like “politically motivated” and “right to self-determination”.

Rafael’s skills might be 20 years out of date, but it’s laughably easy to gain access to an email server he already has an account on. But there’s so much data and only so much time before Richards knows he has it. There’s no time for him to work through all these emails to find anything of substance. Selfishly, he wants to fix this all himself; swoop in and save this horrible, horrible day for Alex.

There’s only one person he can trust with this—one person that will be able to parse this data and cares enough about Alex to do it properly. With any luck, there will be other things Richards has done for Nora Holleran to find in this pile of data.

Making a sockpuppet account is a given—he’s old not stupid—but he hesitates before he sends the email. They’ll need verification for any worthy newspaper to run the story. Thousands of emails mean nothing if there’s any chance it’s all made up. He stares at his cursor, blinking innocently at the end of probably the most important email he’ll ever send. He trusts Nora to do right by Alex, but he doesn’t know if he can trust her to do right by him.

And in a flash, he’s thinking about Alex two years ago, when Rafael got to know him for him, not as Oscar Diaz’s youngest kid. He’s so sad and mad, thinking about that kid getting his hopeful, caring, enthusiastic ass crushed under Richards’s heel all for the Presidency, that kid he got to know over Skittles and scotch and Five Guys.

Five Guys. He has to laugh. For all Alex’s complaining about not being there to play delivery guy, he had memorized Rafael’s order in the first few weeks.

2021 SCB. BAC CHZ GR ON A1.

Alex will get it, and know that Rafael trusts him—and that’s all that really matters. Rafael won’t kid himself. He’s never earning back Alex’s trust; he burnt that bridge. But maybe he can earn Alex’s forgiveness.

2021

Alex swings in and throws a pack of tropical Skittles onto Rafael’s desk. He falls into his usual chair and starts talking and it’s like nothing’s changed.

Everything has changed.

There’s a weight the size of a 6-foot-something white man missing from Rafael’s back, no longer breathing down his shoulder and whispering “imagine who I’ve hurt since I hurt you,” into his ear every time Jeffery Richards shows up on TV. He can breathe, properly, fully, and he didn’t realize the pressure that was on his chest until it was gone.

It helps that he’s also stopped smoking.

The boy—the young man across from him is so open, so bright it almost hurts Rafael to look at him. Alex has been like that the whole time Rafael’s known him, since he was a stretched-out 15-year-old shadowing his dad with a notepad full of surprising insights—but it’s different now. He’s slowed down a little. He’s always been confident, always been a cocky little shit, but he’s not as aggressive about it now. It feels earned, settled into the line of his shoulders, instead of on top of them, weighing him down.

Alex is sitting across from Rafael, in the same office in the Dirksen building, the same leg flung over the armrest in a way that makes Rafael wince and then feel old for wincing, but he’s not talking about politics. He’s talking about Henry, his boyfriend, and his friends, way more than just two. He’s asking about Rafael’s life, about nicotine patches and if he’s ever going to use the Hinge profile Alex had set up and has he recently been to a party that had a single person whose office wasn’t within a seven-block radius? Alex is asking Rafael this, as if he didn’t spend most of college in the Senate building on Friday evenings, pursuing policy rumors and harassing sitting senators.

Alex pauses in the middle of a story about Henry’s dog being chased by rats to check his phone, face going mushy in a way Rafael knows he doesn’t realize. He stands up and says, or really demands, “You’re having dinner with us.”

Us, as in him and Henry, so intertwined they’re casually a single unit. Rafael loves young queer love, even when it’s sweet enough to make him nauseous. “I don’t know, kid, I’m pretty busy right now.” He says, and it’s true.

Alex rolls his eyes. “You’re always going to be busy, but I’m not always going to be here.” He says, and it sounds so simple out of his mouth. Alex has always been good at that. “I miss you; I love you; come have dinner, and we can make my royal boyfriend pay and call it “reparations”.” He’s laughing, but Rafael is still stuck in the middle of his sentence.

It’s said so casually, because of course it is, it’s Alex. Alex wears his heart on his sleeve and has no trouble saying how he feels—once he figures it out. But it still blows Rafael away to hear it said. He’s earned it back. It means more than he can ever tell Alex.

Of course, he’ll go have dinner with them, his annoying-little-cousin-friend and his boyfriend.

He shuts down his computer and starts packing up his stuff. Alex blinks, like he’s surprised he won so quickly. “Love you too, asshole.” Rafael says gruffly, clapping him on the back like the emotionally-constipated middle-aged man he is.

They leave together, an old man and a much younger, much better version of himself.

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwarb #alex claremont-diaz #rafael luna #god luna & alex are so important to me #red white and royal blue book #rwrb book #rwrb fic #my fic

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whiskyblog · 11 days ago

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Our whisky of the month for November! A very special flavour experience.

Fettercairn Whisky 12 y.o.

Fettercairn Whisky 12 year old is an outstanding single malt Scotch whisky from the distillery of the same name in the Scottish Highlands. Founded in 1824, Fettercairn has built a reputation for producing high-quality whiskies that combine both tradition and innovative techniques.

#Fettercairn #Whisky #Bonn #WhiskyCloud

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thewhiskyphiles · 2 years ago

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Tamdhu 12 Years Old

Tamdhu Speyside Single Malt Scotch Whisky Aged 12 Years #Tamdhu #whisky #review

Tamdhu Speyside Single Malt Scotch Whisky Aged 12 Years Image courtesy of Master of Malt 1. What they say Pour yourself a dram of our 12-year-old expression and you’ll appreciate why we mature our spirit entirely in the finest sherry oak casks. The luxury box reveals the stylish bottle, allowing the natural amber spirit to shine from within. You’ll taste the intense richness on the palate and…

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#12 Years Old #43% ABV #84 points #OB #Scotch #Single malt #Speyside #Tamdhu #Tamdhu distillery #Whisky

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maximumwobblerbanditdonut · 7 months ago

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"Landcon's Propose"

On March 5th, 2024, the organisers presented a proposal for an activity to the Land Con family. However, it was just an idea for consideration and not a concrete plan. This proposal was not included in the Private Lounge which cost €330. However, a parallel decision was made quickly within a month and it ended up costing an absurd amount of €350 per person for a Blended Scotch Whisky. 🥃

The organisers or SH himself should have invited Michael Henry, Loch Lomond’s Master distiller, who with his expertise, training and education helped to created and developed SH's whisky, No matter what SH’s fans think there is no interest in talking about them. The whisky had its genesis in Loch Lomond distillery and Michael Henry is a whisky blender by title, all Scots know that. In the end, SH cannot fool everyone all the time.

See other whisky tasting and you can compare

£75

Enjoy a unique Macallan whisky experience that will take you through a flight of the renowned Double Cask Series of 12, 15, and 18-year-old Macallans with perfectly paired cheeses, Macallan cocktails, and tapas. Guests will receive a detailed explanation of the whiskies, how they pair with the cheese, and the best way to try whisky from the knowledgeable team.

= €86.98

Posted 19th April 2024

@castlemaine123 Women are consumers. Never forget that, they even buy things they don't need all the time because people like to spend money. These women are contributors to SH's economic position, who demonstrate their loyalty and vie for his attention just to appear on social media. They are unfamiliar with alcohol, mistaking his cocktail videos for educational purposes 😆 They can't differentiate between whisky brands as they have not tried any others. If they are happy buying an experience there is nothing to do but cannot deny that SH’s collaborators and organisers see these women as tools 🔨 used to satisfy SH. They don’t care about them or what happens to them. What matters is profit. But these women think a whisky experience with SH is an exclusivity🤦‍♀️

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braingutzz · 1 year ago

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ethan (he/it) and scotch (she/her)

these two are some silly fellas that claim the title of "unsuper villains". they commit petty crimes like theft, breaking and entry, fraud, and some other things!—.. ethan is a zaney early-thirties inventor with a knack for overthinking and investigating. his partner in crime, scotch, is a 12 year old runaway raccoon that craves the violence and thrill that their life of villainy holds.

while they are villains, they don't want their city of origin to be destroyed! this is where the super villains come in! every week or so, another poweful villain comes into play to cause havoc and destroy the surrounding area. ethan and scotch work together to tinker with ethan's inventions and put a stop to these dubious destroyers.

#art #my art <3 #original character #oc #character design #character art #ocs #oc art #my ocs #ethan #scotch #raccoon #goat #theyre found family

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lieutenanthowell · 9 months ago

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gif credit!

TASK 001. 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛.

BASICS.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄

Guin Cadair Howell

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

Balto, Grizzly Adams, etc. Balto came from his knack with sled dogs (and his tendency to do the head tilt thing). Togo led the hardest leg of that serum run, where's his statue? Where's his fucking Disney movie? There is a Togo movie? Okay. Does he want to watch it? Fuck no. Grizzly Adams was inspired by the fact that despite his "freakass feral survivalist" upbringing, he's entirely incapable of growing a wild-man level beard.

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌

Burn Gorman

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒

Scarred up like a fight dog or an old stag - the most immediately noticeable of these are on the left side of his face: a gouge through both lips, another in his eyebrow, and several scattered across his cheek. Callused hands reflecting firearm use, unarmed fighting, and physical labour, with some slight skewing to his little and ring fingers on, again, the left side.

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

Has three color tattoos, all got during his late-teenage years in the army and at least somewhat damaged by injuries sustained in service of the Foundation: a wolf’s head biting a human hand, on his left bicep, a bear’s head with fireweed on his right bicep, and an owl, wings open, across his chest. He’s also got stick and pokes of, on the inside of his left and right forearms, respectively: the constellation Orion, with special emphasis on Mintaka, the first star in the "belt" to rise and set, on the left, and on the right, Cassiopeia, the Little Dipper, and the Big Dipper, with the North Star emphasized between. Done by his dad when he was a kid to help him remember how to navigate by the stars (all of these constellations being useful landmarks). Pierced right ear. Never wears anything in it on duty.

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁.

45, 06/12/1978

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂

He doesn't know! And doesn't care! I don't know, but I googled! Sagittarius, Earth Horse. Which makes total sense because he can bowhunt AND like a horse he will stomp someone into the earth if he takes the mind to. Am I doing this star thing right -

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍

Doesn't have one. Born somewhere in the Unorganized Borough, Alaska; Galena is listed as place of birth on the paperwork only because that's where his birth certificate was issued.

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘

David Howell, father, status unknown; Bronwyn Howell, mother, reported missing in 1987.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒

Cis male / he.

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

Bisexual.

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

Divorced (2014). Single since then. Complicated lately.

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒

Focused, practical, perceptive.

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒

Blunt, independent, aloof.

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

Smoking. Scotch, ideally Glenfiddich. Fidgeting with a butterfly knife lifted off a dickhead in Xi-13, carpenter's pencils (he likes the shape better, and does chew the ends), peeling wrappers off things unless the stickiness is the kind that annoys him, swinging keys on lanyards until they wrap around his hand then back the other way, tying knots, and so on. Avoiding eye contact unless absolutely necessary. Stopping at the nearest bathhouse or sauna anywhere in the world there's one available after a shitty day on the job.

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒

Photography. Hiking. Camping. Finding new places to eat and trying every new food he can.

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄)

None.

THE FOUNDATION.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄

MTF Operative

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒)

MTF Operative, primarily, in several MTFs, most notably Gamma-4, "Green Stags" and Beta-777, "Hecate's Spear"; Tactical Response Officer and Security Officer.

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

MTF Xi-13, "Sequere Nos" - Platoon-strength rapid response unit, tasked with responding quickly to dangerous and/or anomalous situations where the threat has not yet been identified but military-grade force is deemed likely, including but not limited to large scale containment and security breaches.

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒

Marksmanship, combatives including knifework, tracking, and general survivalist skills, including field first aid, hunting, trapping, foraging, rock-climbing, swimming, horseback riding, and dog-mushing.

EXTRAS.

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

[Dying Breed] was effectively recruited in the field by MTFC Anatoly Kuryakov, then in command of MTF Delta-14. The Task Force encountered [Dying Breed], then a Private First Class stationed in Fort Wainwright, Alaska, while in pursuit of SCP-121959-1; following an initial interrogation, MTFC Kuryakov employed him as a guide. Impressed by his skills and steadiness, Kuryakov not only neglected to administer any amnestic once SCP-121959-1 was secured, but returned to Site-31 with [Dying Breed] in tow, ready to apply.

Enlisted at only nineteen, [Dying Breed] was cleared for fieldwork by twenty-one after rotations in Security, Parazoology, and Tactical Theology. The record and reputation he has established since is marked by contrasts. He’s exceptionally effective in achieving objectives; like his recruiter, he’s also known to achieve this by bending protocol and sidewinding around orders, and to justify his borderline insubordination without remorse. He has served the Foundation’s purpose to the utmost of his ability and at great personal cost, but actively refuses (and, arguably, sabotages) opportunities for more prestigious promotions. He’s intensely loyal to the few fellow operatives who earn his trust - such as [Elevator Music], with whom he has maintained close contact despite a brief marriage and briefer divorce - but largely keeps to himself, detached and impersonal. It is generally believed that [Dying Breed] is only more disciplined than decorated because of the enemies he’s made throughout his long, tumultuous career. Regular personnel interviews determined that this did not disturb him in the slightest, and that he intended to continue serving until such a point as he was deemed inarguably unfit to do so.

As such, his request for an extended leave of absence was a surprise, even considering the circumstances. The events involved in the Foundation’s encounter with SCP-192001-1, unclear as they remain, are detailed elsewhere. For the purposes of this file, we highlight the following aspects: the alleged violent breakdown of [Live Wire]’s cognitohazard resistance, the alleged friendly-fire wounding of Senior Researcher Tom Dalton, inconsistent eyewitness and medical reports of [Dying Breed]’s own injuries, and [Dying Breed]’s response to descriptions of [Live Wire]’s conduct. [Dying Breed] has never requested extended leave prior to this incident; however, he has also never lost a colleague as close as Senior Researcher Tom Dalton.

(See record of service for assignment history, from 02/12/1999-; see also personnel off-duty surveillance records, from that date. These resources may also be referenced for further information on the relationship, personal and working, of [Dying Breed] and [Elevator Music], who was married to Senior Researcher Dalton at the time of his death.)

Upon emerging from a medically induced coma administered by [Elevator Music], [Dying Breed] completed extended debriefing, a disciplinary hearing re: the unauthorized decommission of SCP-192001-1, and an application for leave, to begin immediately. All three were resolved to the satisfaction of the Foundation. His last known location, prior to his timely return for post-leave assessment, was Fairbanks International Airport, Alaska. Routine attempts to monitor his movements between 18/12/2022 and 24/01/2024 proved largely unsuccessful; his activities during this time remain of special interest, as do any medical reports, interpersonal complaints, and/or other assessments in relation to this operative.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

Old... Friends? Frenemies? Fuck-Yous? Foundation acquaintance. Guin's been on staff at the Foundation since he was nineteen, so, math, that's... twenty-six years. Any characters who've been around the place that long, especially if they were at all involved with MTFs Delta-14, Gamma-4 or Xi-13, could have run into him and that could've gone... however it did! Up for anything, here - positive, negative, long-term or one-time-only. How did they leave whatever it was they had going on, dynamic wise? How's it feel, to be face to face again on a new Mobile Task Force, and such a fraught one, at that? Stop. Stop It. Unlikely friend. Whoever this is, for one reason or another, they've decided they've got a bone to pick with the old dog. What that means is up to you - well-intentioned badgering, mutual friction that just won't quit, some hierarchical crap, anything that strikes your fancy! Whatever their reason or tactics, he'll weather it with that weird motherfucking zen of his, which could easily be mistaken for tolerance, fondness, dismissal, or something else it's probably not. But might be. Who knows? Maybe not even him. Don't ask. Team Spirit. Fellow antisocial bastard OR pain in the ass. Guin is, usually, a functional loner; he works with a team more than within one, and this tends to get stood for by superiors given the nature of his skills and usual role. But MTF Chi-00 isn't likely to leave him the same degree of license. Open to characters who are similarly not into that OR a total keener for the whole team bonding... thing. Hoo Hoo, Motherfucker. A fellow night owl, mutually putting up with something like company. Isn't this nice? Not really talking. In the near-total dark. Several yards apart. Fantastic. It'd be a real shame if somebody ruined this by saying some weird shit about how the last job went. Yeah, better not. The Unkickable Puppy. What am I saying - he'd never kick a dog. But this junior team member has, somehow, wound up in Guin's good books. Maybe he just likes the cut of their jib. Maybe they're actually an absolute goddamn liability in his eyes and he's sick of it, but their wet cat levels are so off the charts that he can't manage to come down too hard on them. Either way, they need a hand with those ropes. Regrettably, he might be that. Don't Feed the - Things. SCP sympathizer. It'd be easy to assume certain things about Guin's perspective on SCPs based on his job description and certain rumours, but - you know what they say about assuming. Nonetheless, he's also lost a hell of a lot to the damage an unsecured, uncontained anomaly can do. The tension here, between a sympathizer's well-meant, humane compassion and his hard-headed, pragmatic drive to protect what he can is going to result in some fantastic fires, no doubt!!

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒

Broken Ace, Brutal Honesty, Combat Pragmatist, Conditioned to Accept Horror, Crazy Survivalist, I Did What I Had To Do, Kick the Son of a Bitch, Loners Are Freaks, No Social Skills, Old Soldier, Pet The Dog, Sergeant Rough, Thousand-Yard Stare, The Unfettered, Unreliable Narrator, What You Are in the Dark, and others REDACTED for spoilers.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

Rust Cohle (True Detective), Amos Burton (The Expanse), Nikolai (Eastern Promises), Dick Proenneke, Wooded Landscape in Snow by Ludvig Munthe, The Wolf by Alfred Wierusz-Kowalski, Man Proposes, God Disposes by Edwin Landseer, New Moon by David Lados, The Ritual, The Blair Witch Project, and others REDACTED for spoilers.

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

#fhq.prompt #fhq.guin #parental death tw #death tw #just mentions/imagery but!!

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