#GIVE HIM HUGS OR ELSE

[kennahjune]

Teen Dad AU

Part 2!!

Starting the tag list with: @mugloversonly @jackiemonroe5512 @thestarslittleking @jonesen4coffee @virginlemontea @blackpanzy @littlebluejane @paintsplatteredandimperfect @astrid-nomically-steddie @maferisa-7 @phantomrose17 @child-of-cthuhlu @sofadofax @thoughtfulbreadpolice @fandomnerd103 @artemisiscursed @croatoan-like-its-hot @silenzioperso @myownworstenemyyy @feral-possums-in-the-bog @mente-sindescanso @mrslectermoriarty @y4r3luv @a-couchpotato @aknelimdoogladania @she-collects-smut

…

Thursday came in a false sense of security.

Steve woke up to the gentle sun in his face, the breeze of an open window in his hair, and his son’s chubby baby fingers wrapped around his hand.

Steve grinned sleepily at Louie and laughed when baby Louie smiled so wide back at him that his paci fell out.

Steve held Louie close while preparing a small breakfast of eggs and toast, then continued to hold him while making his bottle and setting out a few cheese puffs for him teethe on.

Steve made sure Louie ate first, helping him hold the bottle and then laughing at the pure mess he makes with the cheese puffs. Then Steve himself ate. Clean up was quick enough witch a wet rag and a speedy wipe-down.

Later on, just as Steve was thinking about preparing lunch, the front doors opened.

“Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT.” Steve angrily whispered to himself. Little Louie stared at him from where he was propped on the couch, not a thought behind his wide eyes. Though he obviously knew something was wrong with his dad.

Steve was quick to buckle Louie into his car seat, bundling him up with a blanket and giving him his bear.

“Stephan? Are you in the living room? Come grab our bags, please,” Cynthia Harrington called from down the hall.

There was no getting out of this. No way of getting Louie to the car without his parents seeing. But he’s sure they already knew of the baby, or suspected something. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were nosy motherfuckers set on ruining Steve’s life.

Steve sighed and looked at Louie. He knelt in front of the car seat and rubbed a hand gently on his son’s face. Louie grabbed his finger and smiled around his paci.

Steve wanted to cry.

“Stephan! Your mother called you so answer her!” Richard Harrington yelled. Steve heard the wind outside pick up aggressively and cursed the mornings sunshine.

“Coming!”

Steve padded into the hallway where his parents were taking off their jackets. Cynthia and Richard were picture-perfect— or they would’ve been. If it weren’t for the pressed line of his mother’s mouth and the hard line of his father’s jaw. Steve knew what was coming before they did.

“Stephan, the bags.” Were his mothers first words to him. Not “Hi, son, how have you been?” Not “Sorry we’ve been gone for nearly 8 months.” Not “How are you feelings after that concussion from last November? We’re terribly sorry we couldn’t stop work to simply call and make sure you were ok.”

No. None of that. Instead he was demanded around like a fucking dog.

“Um. Actually, I had to talk to you both. If you don’t mind—“

“Save it. Take the bags upstairs and meet us in the living room,” Richard stated harshly.

Steve flinched. He hated himself for flinching. But they couldn’t go in the living room. Not while Louie was still in there.

“Actually, dad— it’s very important and I just really need to talk to you guys—“

“Stephan!”

Steve winced at the pitchy tone of his mother.

“Please, I promise— It’ll be worth your time, just— just give a minute, please.” He was begging now. He hated begging.

Richard had grown tired of Steve’s fumbling for words and shoved past him. Steve knocked into the wall with the harshness.

“Stephan, you will listen to your mother and take the bags upstairs and meet us—“

“Dad, wait—“

Richard stopped in the doorway to the living room, whatever insult or command he was going to throw Steve’s way dying on his tongue.

“Stephan. Why, in the Lord’s name, is there a baby’s car seat in my living room?”

His tone was calm. Steve knew better than to think he was actually anything other than furious.

“Thats— that’s what I needed to speak to you about. Please, I—“

Steve should’ve anticipated the slap.

But he didn’t. And his head snapped to the side with the force that left him seeing stars.

Steve didn’t stay long enough to listen to his dad yelling slurs or his mom crying. He simply grabbed Louie’s car seat, picked up his shoes by the door, and left.

.

Steve had been driving for near three hours before he pulled over. He’d circled the entirety of town before finally pulling into a small dirt path by the quarry. Belatedly he realized someone was crying.

He hurried to get out of the car, rounding to the back and sliding into the backseat to sit next to Louie’s car seat. But Louie wasn’t crying, he was sound asleep.

Steve realized he was crying.

He startled when a broken sob tore itself out of his throat. He hurried out of the car and dragged himself the few yards to the edge of the quarry.

He sat down and let the rain pelt him from all angles. His face stung. Steve knew the slap would bruise phenomenally in the morning. It’d probably affect his tips at work.

He swung his feet idly on the edge, belatedly realizing he wasn’t wearing his shoes or even socks for that matter. His heels where starting to bleed from each time he rammed them into the rocks on the edge of the cliff.

Steve doesn’t know how long he sat there in the rain. He snapped back to reality when a particularly loud burst of thunder rumbled in his gut. He went back to the car.

Louie was still sound asleep. Steve figured he himself should most likely sleep as well. He didn’t know when he’d be able to get a place for them, but he’d already been saving up.

He curled up in the back seat next to baby Louie. He didn’t bother with a blanket, and he knew he’d get a cold with his clothes still being wet, but he deemed it fine.

Steve’s sleep was fitful and restless. Filled with slurs and yelling and running from monsters that shouldn’t exist.

.

It was a week before he finally got a place.

Not that long, sure. But it was a week of pure dread and exhaustion and nightmares.

The trailer he was looking at was located near the edge of Forest Hills. It was two bedroom one bathroom and had a small living room (with no ceiling light) and a kitchen (that barely had any wiggle room). But it was his.

He’d been at work when he got the call— as that was where he told the landlord to call. Mason— the line cook— called him back.

“Hey Steve-o! That landlord guys on the phone!”

Steve jumped so hard he nearly spilled the waters he was carrying.

“Be right there, Mace!”

Steve was quick to get the waters to the table 7 and take their orders for the night before he rushed back. He tossed his notepad at Mason and snatched the phone.

“Hi, Mr. Gardison!” he greeted cheerily.

“Stephen, hi. So…”

And Steve was given the trailer.

He was vibrating with excitement by the end of his call. When Steve returned the phone to its holder he was picked up from the ground in a bear hug. He laughed and hugged Mason back.

“You got the place!” Mason cheered.

“I got the place!” Steve laughed.

The rest of his day went swimmingly. He would be able to officially move into the trailer on Friday— which was fine by him. Two days of waiting was nothing.

Steve was given congratulations from a few of the regulars. Mr. Jinkins gave him a good slap on the shoulder while Miss. Gladson pulled him into a hug. They tipped him an extra 5 dollars each before they left.

At the end of his Wednesday shift, Steve gave out hugs to most of his coworkers. Mason, Allya, and his boss Michelle got hugs while George and Gwen got high fives. Steve left feeling light on his feet with a to-go bag for dinner.

Thursday was filled with the lunch rush. Steve had to take his break early to check on baby Louie in the back. He felt bad turning George’s manager office into a daycare but George assured him it was fine.

“Hey honey,” Steve’s cooed at the baby in his arms. “How are you doing, huh love? You’ve been cooped up for so long I know.”

Louie gripped his baby hands into the front of Steve’s apron. He was back in the kitchens today, Allya taking his place up front waitressing.

Steve hopped around and lightly bounced Louie against his chest, humming quietly and gently.

Louie whined and continued to cry.

“I know Louie, I know. You hungry? Hang on baby.”

Steve made sure Louie was fed and burped and laid him done for a nap. He only had an hour of his shift left.

Thursday finished off normally and Steve left with his usual dinner. He drove out to the quarry and parked before sitting in the backseat with Louie to eat.

Eventually he took Louie out of the car and sat with him on the rocky ground of the quarry. Steve held Louie close in his lap, letting the baby play with his hands and fingers and babble about nothing and everything.

Steve occasionally answered with little gums of encouragement, but for the most part he let baby Louie talk to himself. He was lost in thought, daydreaming about the trailer and how they got to move in tomorrow.

Before Steve knew it Louie had fallen asleep and he himself was on the verge. He got them both settled in the backseat once more and allowed himself to drift off.

…

We’re finally, maybe, getting somewhere lol. Tag list is open to everyone still, feel free to ask for a place!! We’ll get into some of Steve’s school life in the next part hopefully 🤞

Part 3:

[transkingcobra]

Halsin, my beloved, why do you always look so sad when I take screenshots of you being serious

[turboemmy]

i watched this movie bc of your sillay guy design @y2kazoo

[redr0sewrites]

i will forever defend these two- NOT to start discourse but they are both so heavily mischaracterized by the fandom its INSANE like omg yes they are flawed but they are also trying their best PLEASE leave them alone 🙏🙏🙏

as usual im yapping in the tags if anyone cares

[juminies]

we're back to the childhood theme and he is so cute 🥹

[dontworryihaveyourblorbos]

I don’t really know how to say this in a better way so imma just say it

If you think John Dory is a bad character then respectfully, you have no idea what being an oldest sibling is like.

He didn’t abandon his brothers. He was pushed to a point of having to be responsible for four younger brothers, ranging from baby to teenager, trying to coordinate and pull off good if not perfect shows, trying to help Rosiepuff raise both them and himself while also dealing with trollstice and the troll tree while also struggling with an ever growing *need* to be perfect. It doesn’t matter how much you love your siblings- if you’re stressed enough, you’re going to snap and you’re going to snap at them. And you know what? He probably hated himself for that too. And for the fact that he couldn’t be perfect. Any oldest sibling knows the guilt of not being good enough and presumably tearing down their younger siblings in the process…it’s awful. No fuckin wonder he walked away, bro was what, 17?? 18??? He shouldn’t have had to do that. And he didn’t just abandon his brothers knowing what was gonna happen to Branch. From his perspective, he walked away knowing full well Spruce and Clay could step up, and that Rosiepuff would still be there. He had no way of knowing Branch would end up alone and gray, because if he did, he never would have left.

John Dory is not a bad character. He loves his brothers.

Edit: some people are saying he didn’t come back until he needed something. He came back to an empty troll tree- he thought his brothers were dead. He probably only left for a few months or so! He didn’t abandon them. He had every intention to come back and did. His family was just gone.

[jenna-louise-jamie]

i cannot stop thinking about ian rider. more specifically, how alex had so many unprocessed feelings about him after his death. imagine being an orphan, getting adopted by your uncle as a baby, having him raise you for 14 years then discovering he lied to you your entire life. that he [unintentionally or not] trained you to be something you never wanted to be under the guise of bonding with you. never being able to ask him what his actual intentions were because he's dead. never getting closure for it. im going to throw up.

[smileyobrien]

STAR TREK: STRANGE NEW WORLDS — 2.08 "Under the Cloak of War"

[cerise-on-top]

Hank, Sanford and Deimos with a Reader who does Handcrafts

Gonna post my old MadCom stuff since people seem interested in it! I didn't write too much back then, but I'll post it anyway and hope for some MadCom requests as well! What the title says! Reader knits, crochets and embroiders in this! The format is different from how I usually write, but that's because I wrote this months ago, if not in 2022! I don't remember when, but it's been a while since I wrote this!

Hank

If you get his attention while doing one of your crafts, expect him to just stare at you for a while. He knows what knitting is, since you can use those needles to stab someone with enough force, but he never really cared much for any of it. So, seeing you do those small, but precise movements has him somewhat curious. If you beckon him closer to check out what you’re doing, he will approach you, taking your piece from your hands and gently examining it, before returning it to you.

While he won’t join you that often due to his occupation, Hank will lie down next to you from time to time, watching you work until he falls asleep eventually. Doing so next to you, especially when you’re knitting or doing embroidery, takes a lot of trust on his behalf, so it’s a rather rare occurrence, but it might happen. Still, sometimes even Nevada’s most wanted can’t resist getting some sleep in.

If you give him a scarf or anything of the likes it might seem like he doesn’t like it at first. As he only grunts in acknowledgement and doesn’t wear it, it might seem disheartening at first glance. But rest assured, he’s well aware that him wearing it would only get it covered in blood, and he wouldn’t want your creation, that you put so much love into, to get sullied like that. Hank does keep it somewhere hidden where only he can find it so that it won’t get stolen as well, he truly does treasure anything you give him.

Sanford

He has helped his mother crocheting every once in a while when he was young by holding her wool for her. Sanford always thought it to be really cool how you can make something so beautiful out of something as simple as wool and yarn. Much like he did when he was younger, he’ll hold your yarn for you, making it more comfortable to knit or crochet for you. Unlike Hank and Deimos, he will try to learn it as well. It seems relaxing, so why not? But by no means is he a master. Due to his strength, he will likely rip the yarn and wool apart from time to time and come to you for help.

In order to relax and unwind a bit, he’ll likely come to you and ask if you would like to practise your craft for and with him. Having you around in and of itself already makes Sanford happy, but just getting to spend time with you without having to worry about being killed by the enemy makes it all the better. If you let him, he will hold you close, lean into you, put you on his lap, anything you’re comfortable with.

Please give him a sweater. Because he’s never wearing a shirt he gets cold fairly easily. He’ll cherish it dearly and wear it whenever he can, and whenever he knows it won’t get ripped. Another thing he’d be very happy with would be a piece of embroidery. It reminds him of better times and gives him hope, especially when your piece of art is something pleasant and sweet to look at. Because of that, he will put it up somewhere in his room where he can always see it. Even if Deimos makes fun of him for it, he will simply lightly jab at the smoker, all the while smiling at it.

Deimos

He’ll lovingly call you a grandma for having hobbies like these. Even while doing embroidery, where you stab things thousands of times, he will snicker at you whenever he catches you doing any of these things. Though, he doesn’t mind that sort of thing at all since that means you’ll be sitting still for a while, meaning you’ll give him a chance to unwind with him. Deimos will wrap his arms around you, leaning onto you or just cuddle into you in general. No fighting, no getting hurt, just watching you do the same movements over and over again.

Despite possibly calling you boring, he does have great respect for your craft, since he can’t do any of it. It’s too tedious and he can’t sit around for long enough doing something like this. It’s simply not exciting enough. But the moment you give him his first sweater, he will think it’s the most awesome thing to ever exist. Proud as a peacock, he will flaunt and taunt his new piece of clothing, especially to Sanford and Hank, declaring just what a great lover he has.

Present him with a plushie and his mind will be blown. He always thought knitting and crocheting are just for woolly hats and sweaters and scarves and all. If he sees you made him a tiny grunt, he will simply lose it, run around the Status Quo base and show everyone what you’re capable of. It doesn’t even matter to him whether or not it looks good. Your hands are magical to him and absolutely everyone has to know just how cool and epic you are.

[httpiastri]

awesome lawson 💓

[arisveah]

terrible awful realization

[image transcript:

arisveah: and the surgery scene was so much more piercing seeing it from a different angle like omg now we have the idea that he was screaming the whole time omg.

best friend: RIGHT

arisveah: (referring to a previous comment about the exposure) "nerd" okay star wars. what am i supposed to do with the knowledge that charlie was screaming for half an hour what the fuck. what do i do with that? poor boy. if he ever escapes his voice is going to be absolutely shot. and plus saying all that (referring to the horror of promoting a future sex channel with your voice and not your authority) on stream- poor man might never say anything again (if he gets out) :(

End of transcript]

[eleonorvoncarter]

[seagull-scribbles]

If I don’t survive the night,

If I make it to the morning-

[honeysulani]

well, hello?

[midwinterrmemento]

The Monster in the Mirror

➢ pairing: Napoleon x GN!Reader [Ikemen Vampire]

➢ genre: angst, hurt/comfort

➢ word count: 2,327

Even the strongest of soldiers have their moments of weakness. But who is there to catch them when they fall?

Burning.

The feeling ripped Napoleon out of his heavy sleep and he jolted up with a choked gasp, hands flying to his throat. The silence of the bedroom was shattered by a fit of coughing, as he attempted to rid himself of the horrid sensation in his chest. Yet he could not breathe, he could not think. There was nothing in that moment but burning—the thirst which so easily overpowered his mind and all his senses. 

Wrestling his way out from the blankets, he fell to the floor with a heavy thud. His breath came in shuddering pants as he struggled for air, managing to stumble his way toward the bathroom. Driven purely by instinct in a blind search for something to quench his thirst, he threw the door open. Immediately, he nearly collapsed forward onto the sink, but steadied himself just in time by gripping onto the counter. 

It was not the first time Napoleon had experienced something like this. But while it was no less dreadful, he had, at least, learned how to prepare for such an attack.

Pale, trembling hands tore through the drawers and cabinets. There was Rouge around here somewhere, he knew it. He purposefully kept a small supply stored away in case of an emergency of this exact sort.

“Merde.” 

The curse fell through his lips, not even a word so much as a strained breath. 

He couldn’t find it. How could this be? He knew it was here, it had to be. Yet with his desperation overtaking him, he was losing any semblance of coherent thought by the moment. The burning was rising up from his chest into his throat, and soon it would consume his mind. 

Time became a blur.

It seemed that, at some point in his frenzy, he had managed to locate the little glass bottles of Rouge hidden in the cabinet, but he could not even remember drinking them. Nor could he remember how they ended up broken on the floor.

The next thing he knew, all was silent, save for his heavy breathing.

He was sitting on the bathroom floor, slumped weakly against the wall as he recovered from the attack of bloodlust. His head in his hands, his heart pounding in his ears, he gradually began to regain his senses.

In the wake of that burning sensation, there was now only shame.

Napoleon lifted his eyes to find shards of glass and spilled drops of blood on the floor. He could feel the residue of it on his hands and on the corner of his mouth. The metallic taste of it lingered on his tongue. And as his stare landed on the mirror, he saw himself there, pale and trembling, with blood smeared on his face.

In his mortal life, back when he believed that vampires existed only in myths, he often heard it said that they could not see themselves in the mirror. He had since found, through his own experience, that most superstitions about vampires were simply incorrect—he could eat as much garlic as he wished, for one, and he could spend time outside in the sun without fear of melting. It had always been a pleasant surprise to discover those things in the past.

Never before had he wished that one of those superstitions was true.

To be able to see his reflection gazing back at him now, practically unrecognizable, felt like a taunt. A reminder from the universe of where he stood now—stuck somewhere between man and vampire. As much as he might retain a trace of his humanity, he had taken an irreversible step towards becoming a monster, and would never again be the same.

A fitting punishment for a bloody emperor, a cynical part of him thought, to be condemned to an eternity of hunger-induced craze, unable to survive without spilling the blood of others. For a man who once ruled the world to be crippled by his own weakness, made to kneel before nature.

Since the day he first woke here in the mansion, inexplicably, he had constantly asked himself, 'Who did this to me? Who turned me into a monster?'

His reflection seemed to laugh at him now.

You, it answered, staring back at him with compassionless eyes, You did this to yourself.

A wave of nausea washed over him suddenly. Napoleon placed his head in his hands once more, letting out a shuddering breath. He could no longer bear to look.

But just as despair threatened to overcome him, he was called back to reality by the sudden awareness of another presence in the room with him, the saving grace of a hand reaching out for him.

He could tell it was you even without lifting his head.

"...You should be asleep, nunuche."

His voice sounded strained, even as he attempted to downplay his sufferings, so as not to worry you. But you knew his habits too well to be fooled.

"Couldn't sleep," you murmured. "Wanted to see you."

You did not comment on the broken bottles on the floor, the stench of blood in the air. You did not point out his vulnerable state or show any sign of being repulsed by him. Instead, you moved carefully to sit beside him, waiting until he was ready to lift his head.

It never came easily to Napoleon, to allow himself to be seen in such moments of weakness. As an emperor, he had constantly hidden those feelings, constantly kept his guard up so that his enemies would not be allowed even the slightest opportunity to strike.

But you had always been an anomaly there.

By now, you were so in tune with his emotions that it was pointless to try to hide. Just by caring about him, you had so easily slipped through his defenses where even the mightiest kings and generals of Europe had failed.

If he were in a better frame of mind, the thought would have been funny. As for now, he could manage only a short, self-derisive laugh.

"You had a feeling something was wrong, then."

He still couldn't bring himself to look at you, but he could feel your eyes watching him.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you," came your soft reply.

He couldn't help but laugh again, a bit more genuinely this time, though his voice still dripped with shame. "Maybe."

Moving slowly so as not to startle him, you began to rub his back soothingly. Silence hung in the air for a moment before you began to speak again.

"It must have been bad, if it could wake even you, of all people..."

A lighthearted comment, gently addressing the elephant in the room without asking about it directly. Napoleon closed his eyes, focusing on the warm, grounding feeling of your hand on his back, before letting out a sigh.

"...It was bad," he admitted solemnly.

He felt ashamed just thinking about what you must be seeing. The evidence of his weakness and loss of control—blood and broken glass strewn all about the room, while he sat back against the wall, pitifully curled in on himself. Even more than he hated feeling this way, he hated the idea that you had to witness it.

But once again, you seemed to sense his thoughts. Once again, you spoke to him in that gentle tone.

"This isn't your fault, you know."

"You're too merciful, nunuche," he sighed. "I was caught unprepared. If one knows there might be an attack, they should never allow themselves to be caught unprepared..."

"But there's more than that, isn't there?" you said knowingly. "There is something else that's bothering you."

Napoleon was quiet for a long moment. In truth, he did not want to face it again. But now, with your presence beside him, he found the nerve to raise his head slightly, locking eyes with his reflection.

Now that he had gathered his bearings somewhat, he looked more human again, save for his unnatural pallor. But he could not help but feel that he looked weak, like someone who was just sitting around awaiting his demise.

It sparked something within him.

All at once, he remembered how it felt—the fervor of being a young artillery captain, a revolutionary with a point to prove and people to protect. Just as vividly, he remembered the resentment of a deposed emperor who could not stand feeling helpless and defeated, unable to save those who had depended on him, unable to save even himself.

The reflection that stared back at him now was, in many ways, that same man. The idealistic captain and the bitter emperor, rolled into one, morphed into this undead creature.

"It's one thing to struggle to predict your enemy's moves," he said lowly. "It's more frustrating for an attack to come from within."

You did not know him in his mortal life, and you had accepted that there were parts of him you might never be able to fully understand. Yet you could tell, somehow, that when he looked at his reflection, he was seeing his past self.

"Still, you managed to respond in time," you reminded him gently. "You won the battle."

After all, he had reached his supply of Rouge in time to save himself from his bloodlust.

When he turned his gaze to you, however, there was no relief in his expression. As he smiled wryly, you could swear there was even a trace of fear hidden there.

"I wonder how long that will be the case."

It was a strange thing, to hear Napoleon doubt himself. It hurt your heart to see such uncertainty and vulnerability in his face, when he had done so much throughout your time together to alleviate those same feelings in you.

"Napoleon," you began slowly. "There is a reason you are so trusted here, you know... Not only the children who look up to you, but also the residents, who have lived hundreds of years and seen the very best and worst of the world. If all of us have faith in you, it is no fluke."

His eyes trailed back to the mirror, looking once again into the past you could not see. “I could still disappoint you yet,” he remarked quietly, bitterly.

“Napoleon.”

When you repeated his name, your tone sounded more serious, causing him to glance at you with a bit of surprise. For a moment, you simply stared back at him, your eyes far gentler and more forgiving than his own. 

“I won’t pretend to understand what it is that haunts you,” you said carefully, “but I know you must’ve been lonely.”

He huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “What are you saying, nunuche…?”

“I’m saying, I know you carry a burden that is heavier than most. And I know you’re used to feeling like you have to do it on your own, like you have to be strong for everyone all the time.” The words tumble out. “But you don’t need to handle these things alone anymore. Everyone here cares about you. And not just because of what you can offer them.” 

His expression fell slowly, as he listened to you speak. 

“Lean on them. Lean on me,” you implored, taking his hand in your own now. “Let us be here for you, the way you have always been there for us.”

He studied you quietly for a moment, and then—

“Snrk.”

He began to laugh. It was still a soft, weary sound, but it sounded much more like him—the Napoleon you knew. And it was such a relief in that moment that you didn't even have the heart to tell him to knock it off, as you normally would.

“You know,” he said, a little glimmer of amusement in his eyes again. “You really can be quite tenacious sometimes.” 

“Yes, well, I wonder where I got that,” you teased gently, glad to see him coming back to himself, but not about to let him off the hook. “And anyway, I’m serious.”

Napoleon gave your hand a little squeeze. “I know.”

“If you don’t listen to me, then the real nunuche here is you.”

“I know, I know.” A smile flickered on his face again. 

He turned his gaze back towards the mirror. Now he could see the light in his own eyes again, still lingering there despite all the pain and stress of the years. That wounded, monstrous part of himself was there, as well. But with you there, seated beside him, he could almost look past it. He could almost see what you were seeing in him. You, who had so bravely extended your hand to him, even after seeing him at his worst.

This time, he would be the one to reach out to you.

Pulling his eyes away from the mirror, Napoleon instead looked to you. It was almost an instinct now, to wrap his arm around your side and draw you closer to him. And you were happy to oblige, leaning into his embrace. Your touch was warm and comforting. Grounding. A reminder of the humanity that still remained in him.

"You win," he muttered, letting himself slump against you a little at a time. "I'll lean on you awhile."

"You better."

He laughed through his nose at your immediate reply, his eyes falling closed. Enveloped by your warmth and affection, he could feel a semblance of peace again. He could let go and forget about everything else except your presence. And he could trust that everything would still be okay when he opened his eyes again, all because you were right there beside him.

He didn't know how long this moment would last, but he would savor every second of it.

With his head leaning on yours, his arms wrapped snugly around you, he allowed himself just this moment to breathe. Gradually, his heartbeat settled down as you sat together on that cold bathroom floor, and the rest of the world—past and present—faded away.

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month Day 2: Tears

Based this scene from one of my fics.

If you know which one, you know.