#I COULD VOMIT ITS SO INCREDIBLE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notjustjavierpena · 6 months ago

Note

Thank you for the Husband Javi series. This family is absolutely incredible. Would you ever write about their miscarriage in between Lucas and Ines? It would definitely add to and shows strength of the bond between wife and Javi.

Loss

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A/N: This was done with utmost respect and care. If anything in this piece is unrealistic and tasteless, I take full responsibility. Please read the tags.

Summary: You wake up to a nightmare.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no y/n)

Tags: Miscarriage, loss of a child, heavy angst, grief, child in distress, description of vomit, description of blood, brief mention of loss of a parent, hospitals, the inherent suffering and guilt of being a mother, hurt/comfort, somewhat happy ending

Word count: 5.4k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58943479

Loss

It is a known fact that you easily stir from your sleep when Javier is out of your reach, always needing to feel his skin on your own in some way even if it is just your fingertips touching him. It is why you are confused about being woken up by your body in the early morning hours when Javier’s hand rests so gently on your shoulder as he snores beside you. On top of it, having a toddler in the room next door makes you sleep through the night whenever you can.

Lucas doesn’t need you right now. Javier is right there. There’s a hint of anxiety in your mind because the only explanation must be that something is wrong and your brain is yelling at you to figure out what. You sit up carefully, fumbling slightly as your hand searches for the light on your nightstand. You flick it on.

However, it is not the sight of red that makes your heart skip a beat. It is that you feel it; you are sitting in a pool of your blood, its dampness cold and clammy underneath you as it has soaked through your sleep shorts only to stain the sheets in a dark, crimson color. Where it comes from hasn’t clicked yet but when you throw the covers to the side, the realization of what is happening creates a drop in your stomach that is nauseating.

Your heart sinks at the thought of what is lost and your breath catches in your throat before you let out a wreaking sob, frantically scooting back on the bed until you are pressed into the bedframe and wanting to get away from what feels like a bodily crime. Your hand is on your belly, your breathing so fast that it is dizzying.

Beside you, Javier stirs from his sleep when his mind registers the noises coming from you. He blinks a few times in his barely-awake state, confusion evident on his features, until the realization hits him as well and his eyes widen.

He sits up immediately and flicks on the lamp on his own bedside table, “Fuck, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“I’m losing it,” you breathe so rapidly that you are about to throw up, trying to abstain from looking at the trail of blood you have made from moving around on the bed, “I’m losing the baby. Javi, I— I’m losing my baby. I’m lo— I’m losing my baby.”

Javier is out of bed not a moment after, having walked around it to stand by your side. He puts a firm hand on your shoulder, demeanor having changed to show that he is completely in control of the room. He squeezes you, “Hey, heyheyhey, hey, baby. Eyes on me, mi amor (my love).”

You raise your gaze to him, your wet eyes huge like a doe’s from the panic in your body. You sound so frail as you talk, your voice filled with nausea, and Javier feels like he could punch a hole into the Earth for you, “I’m not pregnant anymore. I’m— my baby. I’m not… Javi.”

“Honey, we gotta get you out of bed, okay?” Javier tries to hold his own tears at bay. He swallows a little too often, still struggling with the disorientation of being abruptly interrupted in his sleep. You take his hand when he offers it, and he gets you onto your feet, “That’s it, there you go. We have to get you to the hospital. They have to take a look at you. We don’t know anything yet.”

“I know but… I think I do know,” you are sobbing on the spot, barely comprehensible as you do it but you still follow when he starts guiding you down the stairs. He wraps you in your longest coat, gets the car keys, and walks you to the truck all the while praising you with each step.

“But the car seats,” you cry, trying not to gag from the whole situation, “I’m bleeding.”

“Fuck the car seats, baby,” he reassures, stroking his hands up and down your shoulders, “Listen to me. I’m going to get Lucas. I don’t want to leave you here all alone but I need to get him, okay?”

You nod with a whimper, so brave in this moment of peril that it floors him a little. How do you manage to think of anyone else when you are experiencing the most horrific thing? He unlocks the car for you and makes sure you get inside alright.

“Five minutes,” he says, holding up his hand for show in case your ears are ringing like his are. Then he staggers back into the house with the most neutral expression he can force onto his face. Upstairs, Lucas is sobbing loudly in his nursery as he has sensed that his parents have gone. He is holding onto the railing of his bed, screaming his head off from anxiety but Javier feels nothing but relief at the sound because then at least he is alive and breathing. Who knew those little lungs could make such noise?

He hurries to his son’s side and scoops him up into his arms, cooing soothing words at him as he moves through the house like he is treading water. Lucas doesn’t seem convinced and Javier doesn’t blame him, frustration building up in his chest as his son cries until he feels tears escaping his eyes as well.

“I know, mijo (my son), I’m sorry we left, I’m so sorry,” he says with a shaky breath, passing the car with guilt in his chest to cross the neighbors’ front lawn. He knocks frantically on the front door, waiting impatiently while bouncing Lucas to make him settle even if it’s to no avail.

The Correas, the elderly couple, who live next door open the door with bleary eyes, startled by the noise at three in the morning. Mrs. Correa looks at Lucas with sympathy but then frowns in concern at the lack of color on Javier’s face.

“You alright, son?” Mr. Correa asks.

“I need to—“ Javier catches the swear that bubbles up in his throat but he doesn’t manage to keep his sob in. He bounces Lucas desperately but he still shrieks, “My wife needs to go to the hospital. I know it’s late but we really need your help. Can you take him? I know it’s a lot to ask for—“

They exchange glances of concern but then Mrs. Correa nods and her husband squeezes her shoulder with a little smile, “Of course, dear. Anything to help.”

Javier passes his son to them, and they already start comforting him with soothing words during his wailing for his parents. Javier hears him even as they close the door, bombarded with the image of his tiny frame being wracked by fear and confusion every time he blinks. He feels it coming as he approaches the car again, the burning sensation in his throat that makes him run to the nearest bush and empty his guts into it, coughing up bile because he hasn’t eaten since dinner time. He isn’t a father of two anymore. Was he ever? He can’t figure out where definitions start or end. This is worse than anything he felt back in Colombia.

Back in the car, you’ve gone numb. Javier finds you sitting in the backseat with your knees against your chest and your arms clutching around them. He swallows at the sight of the red stains on the car seats, the red on your palms too. You look so small as he glances at you in the rearview mirror, wrapped in yourself with your eyes distant as if you’re trying to make yourself disappear. He wants to say something but he is at a loss for words, figuring that he might make it worse if he tries to comfort you in a situation that is unable to be comforted.

However, as the car takes off and he drives you towards the hospital, things seem to make everything worse on their own accord. You suddenly gasp on the backseat, clutching at your lower belly as your pelvic floor starts to cramp up. Any hope that this might have just been bleeding is squashed because you know instantly that your body is trying to reject something.

Javier reaches behind his seat to take your hand in his own, feeling your clammy palm and trying his hardest to not let it show how helpless he feels, “I’m almost there, okay? They’ll get you something for the pain, baby. They’ll take care of you.”

You nod with gritted teeth, feeling like the rest of the drive is longer than an eternity. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours in this fog of pain mixed with grief. You don’t know when you’ve started crying again but tears drip down from your chin, landing on the coat that you try to drown in.

When he’s finally pulling into the hospital’s parking lot, you’ve laid down on the backseat with tears streaming steadily down your face until they dampen your hair. You can barely breathe every time sharp pains in your pelvic floor crash over you like a wave, causing you to whimper like a wounded stray.

Javier slams the door behind him as he hurries to help you out of the backseat. His heart hammers in his chest as adrenaline rushes through his veins. He remembers this feeling from his time in Colombia, the dizzying high from being on guard and ready to fight, but he didn’t actually think that he would ever experience it again.

“C’mon, baby, just a few steps, attagirl,” he coos as he walks with his arm wrapped around your shoulders, you hanging onto him for support as you tremble. He was, however, never quite this gentle in Colombia.

The automatic doors to the emergency room slide open and Javier can’t see anything for a few seconds due to how bright the lights are. He manages to get your staggering body inside, barely making it to the nurse at the front desk before she calls for assistance and a wheelchair.

Two nurses help you into the chair, already asking questions that quickly blur together and follow each other so rapidly that he cannot comprehend what is being said, hearing nothing but the adrenaline-infused blood rush in his ears. You answer mechanically, something that frightens him too, your mind seemingly trying to process the reality of what is happening while he feels in the middle of it, overwhelmingly aware.

They wheel you to a private examination room, helping you undress, and then onto a table. Javier follows helplessly behind, making himself known by saying your name so you don’t fear that he has abandoned you in all this. He holds your hand tightly while watching a middle-aged doctor enter the room, a serious expression on his face as the both of you cry silently. As the doctor does a quick scan of your belly, Javier tries to hold onto you, feeling as if you’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Your doctor is silent for a while, his mouth a thin line as he moves the stick around on your stomach. He looks like someone who hopes for better things than what he sees on the screen, uncomfortably quiet and drowned out by the whirring of the ultrasound machine. Eventually, he swallows thickly.

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “There’s no heartbeat.”

The words hit Javier like a punch to the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. His vision blurs with tears, and he hears a wail of grief escape your lips, raw with anguish and absolutely heart-wrenching.

He keeps hearing the sentence inside his head, feels his knees start to tremble so much that he has to grip the edge of the table you’re lying on until his knuckles are white if he doesn’t want to collapse to the floor. Your wailing is unbearable, cutting through him until everything hurts and bile starts rising in his throat again. He swallows it down despite the burn, trying not to think of how robbed he feels; there’s laughter and sibling rivalry that won’t be happening now.

In front of him, the doctor is holding his hands in front of himself, palms clasped tightly together as he gives you a moment. He looks down at nothing in particular, looking like someone counting the seconds until it is okay to open his mouth again. Javier doesn’t want him to say a single goddamn word.

But he speaks again, and Javier tries not to want to punch a hole through him. “We need to act quickly. Your wife—“

Javier glares at him. He turns to you, “Mrs. Peña, you’re losing a lot of blood, and there’s a risk of infection. We need to perform a procedure to remove everything from the pregnancy to ensure your safety and recovery.”

You look to the doctor, swallowing thickly through the tears, and then glance at Javier. He leans in to rest his forehead against yours, holding your hand as it rests in your lap, “They need to take care of you now, okay?”

“Don’t leave me,” you beg quietly, breaths shaky.

“I’m right here, I’m not leaving,” he replies, brushing his thumb over your knuckles repeatedly, trying to ground you. You nod slowly and look so small, “I love you so much, baby. You need to let them take care of you for me.”

“Okay,” your voice is barely there, weak and frightened.

The medical team works quickly after that. A nurse puts an IV into your arm and gives you something for your anxiety, causing you to half-doze off while they wheel you out of the room.

Javier walks down the hallways of the hospital until he cannot follow you anymore, his hand slipping from yours as you are wheeled into an available OR. When the doors close behind the team of medical professionals following you, the reality of what they’re going to be doing to you crashes over him like an avalanche. It is unbearable. Each second feels worse than the last.

A kind nurse touches his arm, makes him flinch, but then she apologizes and tells him the directions to the waiting room. His feet take him there without him quite knowing how but when he finally collapses into a chair against the wall, he doubles over and buries his face in his hands. A shaky breath leaves him in the colorless room, his thumbs pressing into his eyes until fireworks go off behind his eyelids. There’s the sound of the clock on the wall ticking quietly and then there’s the sound of his violent sobs, his chest burning as he finally allows himself to let devastation consume him.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He has never felt this kind of fear, not even when he was fighting for his life in Colombia, and never knew the outcome of the dangers he faced. This isn’t the same terror that ambushes and flying bullets coming from machine guns brought along because back then, he knew - and still knows - how to act to keep himself safe, to get out of there alive. But back then, there was nothing to lose and if tragedy was upon him, it was only him arriving home in a casket. This is new and the fear suffocates him because there’s no clear enemy to fight, no escape route or strategy that can save him from watching his family suffer. His instincts tell him to return the fire but there’s no fire to return. All he can do is sit idly with the feeling that he can’t fix this, can’t protect you or him from the hurt. All his instincts from the chaos of Colombia are useless here.

Instead, he just feels like he did when he sat through the funeral of his mother at barely ten years old. This fact makes him reach into his pocket and fish out his work phone to dial the number of his father’s landline with the intention of getting told what to do, his inner child screaming for the soothing words and guidance of his parent.

Chucho Peña answers groggily on the fourth ring, “¿Bueno?”

“Papá…” Javier breathes quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He feels his throat constrict as tears well up in his eyes again and how the words suddenly feel too hard to speak.

Chucho knows something is wrong from the way his son trails off and suddenly his voice comes through the receiver again, sharper and fully awake, “¿Qué pasa, hijo? (What’s going on, son?)”

Javier swallows hard around the lump in his throat, his nose prickling, “I’m calling from the hospital. We— we lost the baby, Dad. There was so much blood. I didn’t know what to do.”

There’s a moment where he can only hear his father’s hitched breath, the older man seemingly trying to process what he has just been told. He clears his throat, “Lo siento mucho, Javi (I’m so sorry, Javi). You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

“But I am sitting here and I am doing nothing,” he answers bitterly and a tear rolls down his face again just when he thinks he has it under control.

“Javier, listen to me,” Chucho commands, his voice still soft even when he is stern, “Some things we have no power over. Losing your mother taught me that. You don’t have to fix it, mijo (my son). You just have to be there.”

Javier wants to throw up at the mention of his mother. He shudders in his seat, trying to push down the flood of tears that threatens to repeat itself as before he made this call. He doesn’t want to think about his mother, doesn’t want to experience loss that same way again. All he wants is to fix it, “It’s not enough.”

“It is enough. She doesn’t need anything more from you, and even if this feels like it overshadows everything, you’ll find something to fight for. For me, it was you. And for you, it’ll be your family. Lucas. And her.”

“Fuck,” Javier’s throat tightens again as his thoughts turn to Lucas. He had barely been able to say goodbye before rushing out of the house, and the guilt of seeing his tiny, devastated face is going to keep hurting for a while. “I left him next door, Lucas, I mean. He was screaming for me, Pop, and I just left him.”

Chucho’s voice softens even further in reassurance, “You did what you had to, mijo (my son). He’s safe. Do you want me to get him? I can be there by morning. I can take care of him, handle things at the house so you can focus on her. Whatever you both need, Javi. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t want to bother you, Papá. It’s late, and—”

“Javier,” Chucho interrupts, the gentle sternness returning but when he continues, Javier swears he can hear his voice wavering even as he tries to be strong. “You’re not bothering me. You are my family. You’re my son, and you need help. I’ll be there if you need me. Say the word, and I’m on my way.”

A nurse taps Javier on the shoulder. He looks up at her and she gives him a gentle smile as soon as she sees the tear streaks on his face. She speaks softly, “Your wife is recovering from surgery. Everything went smoothly. You can go see her now, I’m sure she’ll wake up any moment.”

“Papá,” he speaks into the phone after mouthing a ‘thank you’ to the nurse, sighing softly, “She’s out of surgery. I gotta go see her now.”

“You want me to go get Lucas?” Chucho asks as a final question.

“If it’s not too much trouble then—“

“It’s not,” he reassures steadfastly, “Hang up. I’ll make sure everything is okay at home. Te quiero tanto (I love you so much).”

“Te quiero también (I love you too),” Javier replies and hangs up. He pockets his phone and pushes himself to stand, walking to the front desk to get your room number, and then practically runs down the hallway to get to you faster.

He enters the hospital room after bracing himself outside the door. You’re lying underneath the dimly lit lights in the ceiling that are supposed to be soothing but have lost their charm. Javier has never seen you actually sleep soundly in a hospital room, barely saw you do it when you had Lucas because you didn’t like the cold, sterile interior. He doesn’t like seeing it now because he knows you’re not sleeping on your own accord, especially does not like seeing it accompanied by the steady beeping sound of a heart rate monitor.

He carefully drags a chair across the room to sit by your bed, dropping down into it with a small sigh from finally being at your side again. You don’t move by the little noise, and he recalls the nurse telling him that the drugs might take an hour or so to wear off enough for you to wake.

“I’m here, mi amor (my love),” he hears himself whisper, taking your hand in his own and resting his body against the white mattress. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to doze off while still being completely aware of the room around him. He had no idea that sleep would overtake him as soon as he saw you, all the tension of wondering if he ever was going to again seeping out of his body.

The clock tells him that half an hour has passed when he jolts awake but it only feels like barely a minute, his poor back killing him from leaning forward in the chair. Your fingers twitch in his hand - a sign that you’re waking up - and the pace of the pulse monitor’s beeping increases. He straightens to watch your eyes flutter beneath your lids before you blink a few times to adjust to the lights. Confusion clouds your face for a moment before the memory of what has happened hits, and Javier sees the pain flood back in without being able to do anything. He squeezes your hand, trying to offer some comfort, but it feels useless against the weight of what you’re about to remember.

“Hey,” he says quietly and you turn your head to the sound of his voice. He is sure that he looks tired, bags under his eyes, “I was waiting for you to wake up to me.”

When you don’t say anything, he reaches out to gently run a hand over your hair, his thumb occasionally rubbing against the spot between your eyebrows, just like he has come to love it when you do it. He soothes you whilst you try to find out what is happening, speaks quietly and gently, “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

“Where’s Lucas?” You don’t register the question, voice cracking as you speak and Javier is sure you are distracted by the lack of life in your belly. He swallows thickly as you talk, “We left him. He—“

“He’s fine. He’s with the neighbors. I made sure he’s safe,” he pauses to press a kiss to your forehead before resting his head where his lips have been, “He’s okay, baby. Pop will get him in the morning. You don’t have to worry about him.”

It’s as if the fact that you don’t have to be strong for your son makes your face crumble. You breathe shakily as tears start to well up in your eyes. For a moment, it looks like you cannot breathe and then you sob.

“It’s my fault,” you tell him through tears.

“What? No… no,” Javier feels disoriented by that statement, pulling back to let you see him shaking his head, “No, baby. Why on earth would you say that? Of course, it’s not.”

“I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve known something was wrong, but I didn’t, and now— We could’ve seen a doctor—”

“No,” Javier interrupts firmly. He takes your hand to stress his words. He suddenly feels strong in your hour of need despite his own tears having started to fall from his eyes, “No, don’t do that. This wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. You did everything you could, everything you were supposed to do for our baby.”

He watches tears slide down your cheeks until they drip down from your chin, some of them even sliding down into your messy hair. He pushes the chair back when he gets up from his seat, the legs on it scraping loudly across the floor.

You are inconsolable even when he moves onto the edge of the bed, one leg stretched out on the mattress and another dangling over the edge, so he can plant his foot on the floor. He holds you gently, crumbling the sheets by wearing his usual jeans in bed, and rests his lips against the top of your head.

“Hey hey hey,” he shushes you softly and rocks you as much as he can without disturbing your IV, “You have already given me - us - a beautiful boy. You are so good to me.”

You quiet down a little at that but there seem to be no words to describe how you feel. You whimper at his words and shake your head, and it makes him ache to make all of this go away.

“Yes,” he stresses, reaching for your hand to hold it against his mouth. He kisses it repeatedly, opening your hand like a flower to kiss your palm too, “I love you both so much, and I love our baby. Even if they weren’t ready to meet us.”

“How can you love me when I can’t even—“

He shushes you gently, cooing at you as he would his son whenever he is in distress, “You are not hard to love, baby.”

“Yes, I am,” you sniffle.

“No, you’re not,” he sniffles, feeling a tear drip onto the covers, his hand still clutching yours to ground the both of you, “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. You and I are forever, you know that.”

And this is where your cries intensify because you had never expected to find anyone who would do this for you, say these things to you. You weep and kick and scream for your baby in the small hospital bed, and Javier holds you through it all, not wavering once.

Silence fills the room when you miraculously feel empty of tears even if it’s brief. You breathe deeply into the quiet room, not sure what to do from now on because it feels too surreal to imagine going home.

“We can try again soon,” Javier says eventually.

“It’s going to take a while,” you reply.

“Then it will,” he reassures, reaching up to run a hand over your hair and kissing it too.

“Okay,” you sniffle.

“Okay,” he repeats and then pulls you close so you can bury your face in his chest. He rests his palm on the back of your head, cradling you gently, “Now we’re just gonna lie here and you are gonna let me protect you from everything in the world. Just for a moment.”

You let him and he lets you cry quietly into his shirt whilst he coos at you. The only other sound is the sound of the hospital; its continuous, rhythmic beeping, and the sound of squeaky shoes worn by nurses that pass by outside. Javier rests his cheek against your head. He can tell you feel soothed by the way he breathes quietly against you, the steady and reliable sound of his heartbeat, and his chest moving up and down.

—

The sun has gone down enough over Chucho’s ranch that everything has a golden hue. You kiss and hug goodnight and then head to the car, an SUV that has replaced the truck a few months prior. You are walking a few steps in front of Javier, dangling the key for Lucas to take because he has asked to press the button to unlock the car. Your son snatches the bundle and runs along excitedly, watching the car lights with fascination as they blink when he pushes the button.

You grin over your shoulder at Javier who smiles back at you. On his strong arm, Inés is fast asleep with her legs dangling with each step he takes as he carries her to the car. Her mouth hangs open, her eyelids flutter just slightly, and sometimes, she grabs at her father’s shoulders without waking up. She wears her new sandals, the ones with sunflowers on them that she begged you to get for her when you were last out shopping with her. Javier carries her so gently. You look at the sky behind them, feeling a tug in your heart.

It’s been four years since you lost their sibling. However, there’s a feeling of peace within you now, even if that night in the hospital is always with you, lingering just beneath the surface. Now, instead of a sharp constant ache, it has dulled into a grief that sometimes knocks on memory’s door and you answer it by letting Javier hold you a little tighter in the house that has become your home even more.

Lucas crawls into the backseat and confidently clicks his seatbelt in, having neared that age where he desperately wants to show you how much he can do by himself and grins with a ¡Mira, Mamà! (Look, Mom!) to win your praise. He has grown so much since that night, doesn’t even remember it that much but you have talked to him about it a few times when he has caught you in your grief, mostly back when it was a fresh wound to your heart and tears would sneak up on you out of the blur. It’s rare that he’ll mention it now but he knows he has two siblings; one here with him and one that he didn’t get to meet.

You had been so afraid of letting him carry the weight of your grief, trying to find the right words that would not overwhelm him but seeing him grin at you out of the car window, you know that you have done just fine. You wave at him with a big smile and knock on the window as you pass by it to see his excitement bubble over in a little laugh.

You sense that Javier lags behind and when you turn around, you see him cradling Inés in his arms as she only blinks a few times but doesn’t fully wake. He is quiet as he coos down at her, cupping the back of her small head and kissing her head with a smile. He loves her, there’s no doubt. You think back to how scared you both were after losing the baby, unsure if you could go through it one more time if it were to end up in tragedy again. But here she is, your precious daughter, peacefully asleep in her father’s arms who will do anything for her safety.

He meets your gaze as he walks up to you and smiles enough to make his eyes crinkle. You offer to take your daughter but he shakes his head, so instead you walk to the side where Inés’ car seat is and open the door for them.

Your husband carefully lowers Inés into her seat beside Lucas, and you catch the way his fingers linger, brushing her cheek as he fastens her in. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, her little mouth still hanging open, completely at peace.

When the both of you are in the car - you in the passenger seat - Javier puts a hand on your thigh. He squeezes it, rubbing a soothing circle with his thumb, “¿Estás bien? (You okay?)”

You nod, glancing back at the kids in the rearview mirror before turning to him with a soft smile, “Estoy bien, te prometo (I’m okay, I promise).”

He looks at you for a moment, searching your face like he always does, making sure you’re truly okay. When he sees the truth in your eyes, he leans over the control center to kiss your lips like he has a million times before, “Good.”“Keys, mijo (my son),” he then says and Lucas hands him the car keys when he is asked, stretching dramatically to reach his father’s hand and looking curiously when Javier inserts it in the ignition and starts the car, “Let’s go home.”

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beenbaanbuun · 6 months ago

Text

fever w/ kang yeosang

words - an amount 🙂‍↕️

genre - hurt/comfort, sickfic

warnings - food avoidance because of illness, mentions of vomiting, reader is a little bratty but it’s the fever talking, yeosang is tired :((, not proof read

——————————————————————————

“you need to eat something, baby,” yeosang grumbles, arm folded crossly over his half-exposed pecs. you can’t help but focus on the way he’s standing there in nothing but a tank top and some shorts while you’re sat shivering in one of the many hoodies that you’ve stolen from his closet. you’ve been blaming the fever for how cold you seem to be at the minute, but you’ve always ran a little colder than your boyfriend. whenever he needs a sweater, you need a sweater, a coat and a scarf. you’re just a little nesh, you suppose.

your eyes flicker around the kitchen, studying everything that crosses your vision. perhaps you could have some toast, you think as your eyes land on the half-finished loaf of bread on the counter. then you think about how heavy your stomach feels, even when it’s empty, and you realise that perhaps toast isn’t the best option. you turn your nose up and move on to the bowl of fruit that yeosang had just refilled this morning. the scent of the bananas alone is enough to make you feel sick, and perhaps the citrus fruits aren’t the best choice when you’ve been struggling to keep food down.

“i’m only going to throw it up again,” you argue, trying your hardest to make your expression pathetic and sad. you commit to it, bringing out the sad arched brows and the big wet eyes. your bottom lip juts out just a little and for extra effect, you can’t help but wobble it a little. for a moment of two, you’re almost sure it’ll work. yeosang’s eyes soften and his arms go limp and fall back to his sides. you’re almost positive that he’ll let you off with another day of medicine and water, you can practically feel it on your tongue—

“you don’t know until you try.”

your shoulders sink upon hearing your words and your features drop, expressing only apathy and defeat. sure, the puppy dog eyes have never worked on him before, but there’s a first time for everything. you were certain that this would be that time.

“yeosang!” you whine, trying to grab his attention as he turns to face the countertop. he whines your name back in exactly the same nasally tone you used. “please! my throat already hurts from all the acid; i just want one day where i don’t throw up. it’ll make me feel less miserable.”

he ignores you, lifting his phone from the counter and typing a few words into safari. you wish you could see i what it says, but from your position, huddled up on a dining chair—which you would only move from if a hefty bribe was offered your way—you can’t even dream of looking around his oversized torso.

damn him for getting buff.

“google says banana’s are goo—”

“no,” you cut him off, head shaking wildly like a petulant child.

“baby~”

“they smell bad!”

with a sigh, yeosang goes back to looking.

“dry brown rice?” he offers meekly, already foreseeing the outcome of his offer. he doesn’t even have to turn around to see your face screwed up in displeasure; it’s already so clear in his mind. “nevermind, it was a stupid suggestion.”

you hum in agreement, the small sound making him crack a small smile. despite being incredibly difficult, yeosang can admit that you do have your sweet moments while you’re feverish. your mind may be muddled and your body doing everything in its power to make your life a living hell, but you still somehow manage to put a smile on his face.

if he wasn’t desperate to not catch whatever 18th century plague has taken up residence in your body, he’d spin around and kiss you. squish your cheeks together like he always does when he wants to annoy you a little, bring your face up to his, and just kiss you. it’s almost impossible not to when he’s been missing out on the feeling of your lips on his for the past few days, but when he hears the sound of your stomach churning and a pained groan leave your lips, he remembers exactly why he’s doing this to himself.

“how about broth?” he suggests, putting his mind back on the task at hand, “you like broth, baby.”

he’s right, you do like broth. or at least you like it when you’re not feeling like satan himself has put his little tapdancing shoes on specifically to do a jig atop your stomach. instinctively you wrap an arm around your abdomen which after a short period of docility, has began to cramp again. that broth really doesn’t sound appealing right now…

“yeosang…” you say, dejected and miserable. he sighs, understanding exactly what you mean by saying his name in that tone of voice; it’s a disheartened no from you.

and while it pains him to be forceful with you—or anyone for that matter—he can’t just sit and watch you waste away over a poorly stomach. he has to put his foot down for once.

“baby, you need to eat,” he sighs and rubs a hand over his face. he hates being so bossy with you, almost as much as he hears the weary sound pass from your lips just after his soft command. “just a small bowl, okay? just for me; your yeosang?”

and while it’s an obvious guilt trip, a little bribe to make you feel a little bad about refusing to eat, you can’t help but fall for it. you sigh, wrapping your arms around your knees so you can pick at your fingers guiltily. it’s not like you can help being sick, but maybe you have been a little dramatic about the whole refusing to eat thing. sure, your stomach churns at even the thought of food, but yeosang is right; if you don’t try, you won’t know. the idea of throwing up again frightens you, but broth is a liquid; it’ll be easy to come back up.

you resign with a minuscule hum, so quiet it’s almost silent.

“fine,” yeosang hardly believes the word when you say it with so much resignation, “one small bowl of broth…”

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez oneshot #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez fic #yeosang x reader #yeosang fluff

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steviewashere · 29 days ago

Text

Little Town Bar Bathroom

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Minor vomiting in the beginning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Use, Steve is tipsy for a good majority of this fic Tags: No Upside Down AU, No Supernatural Elements, Modern Setting AU, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Comfort, Fluff, Bartender Eddie Munson, Tipsy Steve Harrington, It Starts in a Bar Bathroom, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues, Down on His Luck Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Countdown to New Years, First Kiss, Implied Getting Together, Happy Ending Also here on AO3, because this one is over 5k words 😬

🎆—————🎆 Working at a bar had its perks. There was a consistent stream of regulars that he constantly talked to. He could change up the specials menu whenever he wanted—adding his own flare to the mix, if he so pleased. Sometimes, he had reign over the music. And, more often than not, he was allowed a free drink by the end of his shift.

The downsides, however, were long and weary. Customers who didn’t know what they were ordering, who swore him to Satan’s asshole if he got something wrong, and tried to barge their way in with fake IDs (as if he wasn’t going to check them). Oftentimes, the bar was packed and too hot and made him sweat like nobody’s business—hell, his shower had a run for its money the other night from how pervasive his musk had been. The last major issue he had took place in the bathrooms.

Given that this is a bar he works at, the stalls often fill with every drunk imaginable. The quiet ones that need a moment to breathe, the guys who can’t keep their hands to themselves (who Eddie has to often throw out), a few who are completely sober and just there to piss, and then the oddball loner. But since they’re drunk—well, the bathroom is often the majority of their custodial staff’s paycheck. Eddie doesn’t handle all that vomit bullshit well, despite tending the very thing causing customers to do that.

It’s tonight, though—New Years Eve, forty minutes to midnight, forty minutes to 2023—that the very thing he hates leads him to the only thing he unconditionally loves. He’s cleaning up the spilled beer on his countertop when he gets the innate, incredible urge to pee. The bar is crowded, so he wrestles in another tender, and speeds away to the men’s restroom. Everything’s going according to plan, as much of a plan as there is when it comes to using a public bathroom, up until he hears it. Somebody in the stall adjacent to him, retching up their entire soul in the toilet bowl.

He winces, just finished drying his hands off, anxiety teeming like water about to boil over, and moves on autopilot to knock on the door. “Y’alright in there, man?” Looking at the bottom of the door, he spots only one pair of sneakers—some Nike Cortez that are roughed up and peeling, falling apart from how much they’ve been used—assuming is easy; the guy doesn’t have any buddies in the bathroom with him. “Noticing there’s nobody else but us in here right now,” Eddie comments. “Can I fetch somebody for you? Help you get home?”

The guy jerks with another sound, moaning miserably once he’s done. He flushes the toilet, but makes no other move. “Alone,” he musters, “she just left me here.”

Eddie bites his tongue. Failed New Years date. Oh, boy. He sighs quietly. “Do you, uh, have someone you can call? Or…uh, I could see if my manager’s free, she could order you a Lyft? They should be free tonight, considering everybody’s drinking.”

“I…I’ll be fine,” the stranger croaks, “been in here a while. I’m sobering. Barely had anything to drink, honest.”

“You think you’re done with the worst of it? Make your way outta the stall?”

“Why? So you can berate me for making a mess of your bathrooms?”

Jeez, this guy is defensive. “No, man. So that I could get you some water, a ride home, maybe some food?”

He groans in the stall, still hunched over the toilet. “Don’t wanna go back out there. Got a fucking headache, all the booze and shit will make it worse.”

Eddie rubs a tired hand over his forehead. “My shift’s over in literally five minutes. Would you…would you feel comfortable enough to go to the diner next door with me? I’ve got some Advil in my employee locker. And I could get you a cheeseburger.”

The guy goes completely quiet and still.

He goes to try and shimmy around with the door, maybe get it off its hinges or something, make sure he’s not choking or—

But then he sniffles softly. “That sounds really nice,” he says, “you’re really nice. What’s…what’s your name?”

“Eddie, and yours?”

“Steve,” he breathes. “Sorry I’m such a sack of crap. Wasting your time.”

“Mm, you’re making it easier for me to clock out, actually. Wasting my time would be somebody trying to return a drink that’s been remade correctly five times. That’s when somebody should be sorry.” He peers down at his watch, right on the money to clock out. “I’m gonna get myself out of the schedule and I’ll come back to get you, okay? We’ll just hang out at the diner. And…I’ve got Lyft on my phone, I’ll call you one when you’re feeling a bit better.”

“Okay,” Steve sighs. “I’ll be waiting.”

He makes a quick turn out of the bathroom, rushing back towards the break room before he can get caught and berated by the other bartender he left to attend to customers. It’s as easy as 1-2-3, punching out, putting away his apron, and grabbing for his things inside his locker. Thankfully, there’s still a bottle of Advil. Granted, there’s only enough for one dose and he typically needs to take one after his shift for his sore feet, but he’ll make do this one time. This one exception—Steve.

Once back in the restroom, the stall that Steve occupied is now empty. Though, standing at the sink and lazily washing his hands is probably the most gorgeous stranger Eddie’s ever seen. Blue jeans and a deep red sweater, hidden under a tattered, brown leather jacket. Lean and tall, broad shoulders, big hands; moles dotting every square inch of bare skin, pink lips, droopy hazel eyes, and a nose that could rival every statue masterpiece. Then, he makes direct eye contact with Eddie.

Caught out. Stilled. But then he chuckles awkwardly, trying to ease some sort of tension—a tension Eddie can’t see. “Managed to get away from the toilet,” he says, “room’s spinnin’ a little.”

Quickly, Eddie’s coming up beside him, placing his left hand on Steve’s back. “How much did you drink, man? Somebody should’ve cut you off.”

“Only a few shots and a beer,” Steve mutters. “Guess I’m more of a lightweight than I thought I was? I don’t know…don’t know…it’s been a while. Usually come here when I got someone to sit down with.” His head lolls back down towards his hands, scrubbing at them loosely under the water. There’s a tired, defeated, sad glint in his eyes. “Been striking out,” he mumbles, “people looking for…for situationships. I don’t even know…what does that mean? I wanted a date, not sex.”

Eddie sighs through his nose and eases his hand up and down the curve of Steve’s spine, petting him as if to soothe him. Which, he supposes, that’s exactly what he’s doing. It’s not the first time he’s met a person out of their luck, crying into their drink. But the look in Steve’s eyes physically hurts. It reopens a hot chasm inside of him, bubbling like magma.

“Just take a minute,” Eddie murmurs, “let the room settle.”

Steve nods, slow and tired. Heavy. “Sorry, Eddie. I swear I’m better than this.” There’s a flash of a smile at those words, one that falls away just as quick as it came. He sniffles again, wet and unmistakeable. “Gonna be ringing in the new year alone, though. And I’ve got a headache. But…hey, I met you. Highlight of my night.”

When he chances a new look of Steve’s face fully, Eddie notes the fresh tracks of tears staining ruddy red cheeks. He coos softly under his breath, pressing his hand more firmly into his back, and stretches out to grab a distant paper towel. The water is still streaming from the faucet, and so he dips the napkin’s edge into the warm pour. Gently, he shifts Steve to face him better and brings the damp corner to his cheeks, patting over the tracks, rejuvenating the color in Steve’s skin so that it all matches.

For a moment, he’s caught out by the still watering hazel eyes on him—damn gorgeous they are, even like this—but they blink at him and he feels it, the stretch of Steve’s small smile. He returns it, of-fucking-course he returns it.

“Let’s get you cheered up, baby,” Eddie says softly, “the sky’s too full of fireworks for you to be sad.”

His palm strokes over Steve’s back, a heavy sweep of warmth. There’s the lulling rise and fall of his lungs, each breath unwavering and strong now, and not as nasally as it had been only moments prior. A hand sets on Eddie’s left hip, secure where it rests, fingers tightening into his belt loops.

“You always hang out with random strangers from the bar?” Steve questions quietly. There’s a hint, a little bit of something coating those words. A tidbit of heartbreak, if he had to give a name to it.

This close, Eddie can smell the last dredges of alcohol on Steve’s breath. There’s also the scent of his cologne, even as stale as it’s gone when he’d been hunched over the toilet, but it lingers. Peppery and warm and decadent like a slice of apple pie from the diner next door. He’s already getting that Steve’s as sweet as one, just needs to be righted slightly so it stands tall on the center of the plate.

The next words out of his mouth are tender and quiet, “No,” Eddie whispers, “you’re the only one.”

Steve hums, soaking up just as pie crust does. His hand tightens again on Eddie’s side. And then he sways them, half-steps, knees knocking. The sink is still streaming and there’s red rimming Steve’s honey eyes. It’s all so private. It’s almost just theirs.

“Saying I’m an exception?” Steve then murmurs.

His words land like gentle pecks to Eddie’s lips. And they’re closer than before. And he’d let them get even closer, if there was room.

“Why, you wanna be?”

“Mhm,” Steve buzzes.

The restroom door opens, a foot sandwiched in the gap of their space and the entire world. Eddie doesn’t let go, even if he was supposed to. Steve does, wearily aware. He finds himself not disappointed, though, not even in the slightest.

“You wanna be an exception over burgers now? There’s apple pie, too.”

“Yeah, Eds”—and oh, how that makes his chest flutter something incredible, his heart a newborn bird eager to take flight—“I wanna be your exception.”

If he wasn’t intrigued and swooning before, he most definitely is now.

But as it is, he simply pats Steve on the back and leads him out towards the bar again. Zipping through crowds of girls and forcing his way between boys about to brawl. There’s beer spilling out onto his clothes, that he hopes isn’t getting on Steve’s—doesn’t want to tarnish the absolute darling beauty he’s managed to rescue from the swamps of a muggy bar bathroom. Though, maybe it’s unavoidable. Maybe it’s just what is meant to happen.

Because something about Steve, his hand gripped tight in Eddie’s, the bounce of his step, his glassy eyes and loose smile when Eddie looks over his shoulder—something about the Steve of it all feels as close to myth alive as he’s allowed to believe. And, well, if there are more than three religions and some people don’t believe in any of it at all, then he can hold onto whatever the hell he wants. If Steve at his heels, chest slamming into his back as the cold outside air finally whips them in the face, is destiny, then…Eddie finally believes in destiny.

When the bar’s doors slam behind them and they’re overcome with the noise of distant fireworks and cars rolling by on crowded asphalt, Eddie begins to let go. Though, Steve grips to his fingers a smidge tighter than before.

“Wow,” Steve breathes beside him.

Eddie looks to him. His profile. The sharp angle of his nose, droop of his eyes, and curve of his easy smile. He follows his gaze, up to the sky.

A spattering of stars, only broken by the even brighter bursts of twinkling fireworks. Pinks and yellows and whites travel stark across the sky, each ember firing like a shooting star going home. He places his right hand over his chest, the beating of his heart a tumultuous, daunting thing. And he sighs, panting a short breath—

Let me keep him, he wishes, after tonight, let me have him. Please?

Steve squeezes their hands together, fingers sprawling so they can intertwine. His palm is sweaty, he’s shaking slightly. He laughs, though, a sputtering, unbelievable sound. “Thank god I’m outta there,” he whispers. Eddie gazes at the stretch of his neck, how his Adam’s apple resettles after bobbing out each individual word. There’s moles dotting there, too. Constellations, even more wonderful than the stars above them.

At least, Eddie thinks so. Objectively, he’s correct. Won’t hear anybody else on the matter.

He sinks his teeth into his lower lip and turns his eyes back to the sky. “Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, “you can only take so much being cramped in there. Everything’s a little more…”

“Sobering?”

“Real,” he corrects. “Everything’s more real.”

Their fingers are pretzeled together still. And as if to punctuate Eddie’s point, Steve makes him feel the pressure of their hands. As if to say, “We’re a little more real out here, too.” He supposes they are. And he supposes the budding warmth in his sternum—where he’s believed his soul to be his whole life—is real, too.

Eddie blinks, watching white streaks dissipate through the sky. His stomach grumbles, though, and he’s reminded with a back-handed slap why they’re out here. There’s plenty of time to watch fireworks later, but he’s only got such staggering minutes with Steve. And he promised food.

Maybe it’s too honest and maybe it’s a lot stupid—considering Steve is still such a stranger, an enigma to his brain—but he’d promise a whole lot more if he was allowed.

For now, he starts to drag them towards the diner. Only met with minor resistance from Steve’s stance. He relents quickly, though. Following after Eddie like a lost, scruffy puppy. Through the next burst of fireworks, he hears Steve’s stomach give a low grumble, too.

The greasy air of the diner hits him in one strong gust. Salt and cheese and a sprinkling of cinnamon. Pink bubblegum, too, as a hostess greets them at the door and leads them to a booth in the back right corner of the restaurant. The vinyl must be sticky when Steve bounces onto it, grimacing as his fingertips stay stuck like paw-pads on ice. Eddie finds out a second later when he saddles in right across from Steve, collecting the menus from the edge of the table as the hostess struts away to her bored stool at the coffee counter.

He hands over one menu, Steve taking it from him gingerly. With a passing, soft, “Thanks.” His eyes fall to the plastic sheet in his hands, seemingly enthralled by everything there is to choose from.

Eddie already knows what he wants, choosing to gaze ahead.

There’s a tiny pout to Steve’s lips, subtle an gentle, but definitely present. He’s muttering under his breath, thumbs tracing down the margins of the menu, half-formed sentences like, “Cheeseburger…tomatoes…lettuce—hmph—bacon optional, sounds good.” Steve takes the sleeve of his jacket and brings it up under his nose, wiping hastily at its tip. His face isn’t puffy or red anymore, just tinged with exhaustion. Even like this, slumped over a menu and recovering ever so slowly from the cold that had seeped into their bones and the roller coaster of emotions that had worked through their combined blood, Steve’s beauty is magnetic. But his thinking face? His consideration? His marveling wonder outside?

Aside from his looks, the rest of him still draws Eddie in.

Or maybe Eddie’s easier than he thought he was.

Or…or…Eddie knows what he wants.

“Oh, shit,” Steve breathes, “they’ve got fucking onion rings.”

“They’re pretty good,” Eddie amends.

Steve slams his menu to the surface of the table, hands spread, eyes wide insistently. “Of course they’re fucking good! They’re onion rings!” he softly exclaims. “Ooo, get ‘em with barbecue sauce and a Dr. Pepper? That right there is the champion of all meals.”

“Is that what you want?”

The menu’s picked up again. “Mmm…it does sound good…nah,” Steve says, eyes intense on the choices, “I’m still lookin’.”

Eddie snorts indignantly and greets their waitress. Ordering a basket of onion rings for the table, a couple waters, and a Dr. Pepper for “The man of the hour” with a half-gesture at Steve still muttering under his breath. It’s endearing how long it takes for Steve to finally settle on something, even if their combined grumbling stomachs get louder and louder, roaring over the tinny television in the opposite corner to their booth.

“You better pick something soon, else Anderson Cooper’s gonna blackout before the ball drops,” he gently teases, head nodding to the television. Steve looks to it, snorts, and glances back down at the menu. “I could also just pick something for you, if you’re too indecisive?”

“Chicken tenders,” Steve decides, “with crispy fries and a side of ranch.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Hey,” he objects defensively. “I happen to be a man of taste, thank you very much. It just so happens that I’ve got a young soul ’s’all.”

Eddie hums, face betraying him as it splits with a shining smile. Jeez, this guy is endearing. He leans over the table a bit, resting his chin in his hand; Steve mirrors him, smirking. Soft and low, he asks, “You still got a headache, Stevie?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “It’ll probably stick with me tomorrow morning. Which sucks. I should’a left the bar as soon as my date stormed off. Would’a saved me a lot of trouble.”

But then you wouldn’t have met me, he wants to say, and that would suck worse.

“I’ve got Advil when the water comes. It’s the last dose in the bottle, but it should help. And also the Dr. Pepper. Caffeine might be good.”

“I don’t wanna take the last of your pills, man. You probably need it more than I do. Been working all day on your feet, I’m sure.”

He merely shrugs. “Yeah, well…I wanna help you. It’ll bring me some comfort if I can make you feel even a bit better, y’know?” Steve doesn’t say anything to that. Just looks at him like a confused, lost dog. Like he’s being offered scraps from a hand that doesn’t shake when he sniffs it. “But if it really bothers you,” Eddie continues, “then we can figure out a way for you to make it up to me.”

Steve cozies deeper into his hand, blinking long at Eddie. “That sounds good,” he breathes. “Say the word…”

“We’ll figure it out before you go home, okay? Not something for you to worry about now.” He fishes the bottle of Advil from his pants’ pocket and opens it swiftly, spilling the tablets into the well of his palm. Steve’s other hand is flopped over on the table, atop his menu, relaxed. Eddie places the pills in his hand and closes his fingers. No argument. “After you eat, I’ll order your Lyft. And then…maybe I can get your number?” He’s cautious about the conversation, though the words hit him at once. Failed date, New Years Eve, situationship. Eddie rushes to add, “Just so that you can text me when you get home safely, that’s all. Don’t…I don’t wanna come off as, like, preying on you or something. Y’know, after the whole…Yeah. Just. Wanna make sure you get home safe.”

As soon as the breath rushes out of him, it’s like Steve breathes it in, responding with a syrupy, tired giggle fit. His hand fists the Advil tablets tighter. A flush colors his skin, travels down his neck as he loses himself to his laughter. The stretch of his smile and sprawl of his giggles make his nostrils flare. And Eddie doesn’t know how, after seeing the same on so many other guys, but the way Steve’s face simply moves with his joy stirs something in him. Awakes a part that had been hiding in a seemingly unending hibernation.

Shit.

Catching his breath and wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, Steve resettles. Breathes, “You were so worried!”

“I was!” Eddie exclaims. He makes a dramatic show of crossing his arms over his chest, pouting his lips. “I didn’t wanna overstep. It’d be un-gentlemanly of me.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs, breath finally caught. There’s a big, goofy smile on his face still. His eyes glassy with—what Eddie assumes to be—happy tears. “You’ve already treated me way better than ninety percent of the dates I’ve been on, man. Don’t worry about…about being careful when asking for my number.” He rests in his palm again, his posture growing tired, slumping into the table. “I was gonna give it to you anyway.”

“Ninety percent? Who the hell do I need to fight?”

“People who are…unimportant and too full of themselves? I don’t know, Eds, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably just…I don’t know,” Steve murmurs. He shrugs half-heartedly again. “I’m gonna go home after this and go to bed, wake up with a raging headache, and probably wish that you were still sitting across from me. Feel like you’d know how to make it better.”

Eddie hums. “Well,”—he positions himself better, sitting up in his seat and folding his hands on the table—“tonight, I’m gonna make sure you ring in the New Year happier than you are right now. And then, when you get home, you’ll text me that you did. I’ll tell you to have a goodnight’s sleep. In the morning, when you wake up, I’ll text you again, ask if you want some coffee. Maybe, if you’re comfortable, I could bring it over to your place and we could have a simple breakfast?”

“You’d do that?”

“If you want me to.”

Steve goes silent, noticeably contemplative. His eyes adrift to the table. In the mean time, Eddie orders their food and passes over the drinks when they arrive. He nudges Steve to take his pills and points out something that Anderson Cooper’s doing on the television.

But he doesn’t bring up tomorrow morning, not right now at least.

Because maybe he’s overstepping this. He’s putting himself in a position Steve doesn’t want him in. Only thirty minutes ago, they were complete strangers in a bathroom bar, groaning and grumbling at each other for being so defensive and combative. Maybe Steve’s got a friend waiting for him back home? Waiting to let him back inside and take care of him in the secret way only true friends know how.

They aren’t anything more than mere acquaintances. No matter how many half-lidded flirty glances Steve passes his way. No matter how many times Eddie’s eyes wander to Steve’s mouth as he gobbles down his serving of onion rings, a wish ringing out in his head, words caught star-bound in his throat, admiring.

He’s allowed to admire.

Not allowed to have, though.

And maybe he won’t ever get there. This will be it. A late night dinner, wishing Happy New Years, jokes tossed across the table like clumsy frisbees taking flight, and an aching in his chest. Feelings blooming in his sternum so suddenly, so abrasively, they’re thorns staggered sharp into his lungs.

He breathes, his chest seizes, and the whiff of Steve’s stale cologne burrows inside him. He blinks, his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and Steve’s strong shining summer smile brands to the deep crevices of Eddie’s brain. He laughs, their giggles blend, and the process starts all over again.

Is this what sunflowers feel like? Soaking up the sun, all that they can, and then begin the brittle early death of wilting into oneself? They have to wait so long to be born again.

Eddie doesn’t want this to be a one time thing, dead in the middle of winter, dead before it could be alive.

Steve will have his number, though. He’ll have a weakened headache in the morning now that he’s had some caffeine and begun processing a couple Advil. From there, though, the future is possible, but unseen. He’s not sure if he’s even something Steve could be looking for.

Wishful thinking, he tells himself, hopeful wishing.

“Dude, try this!”

He blinks back to himself, presented with a chicken tender thrusted into his face. It’s dripping in ranch, so Steve’s hand is cupped underneath it, trying to save the table. Eddie gapes, looking to Steve’s face.

The chicken tender is pushed into his space harder. “These are the best tenders I’ve ever had in my fucking life, and I need you to support me on this. Try it.”

At Steve’s request, he gingerly takes a bite. For some odd reason, he finds himself holding their intent and intense eye contact, unwavering. It’s just a chicken tender, nothing to write home about. Not like it tastes any different than the ones he can pick up from the Dairy Queen by his apartment, but if Steve’s saying it’s the best one he’s had…

“That’s pretty fuckin’ bomb, Stevie,” he says. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the complete truth. But it does earn him bright eyes and warm cheeks, a side by side dance in the booth across from him, and a pleased little grin. So…maybe these chicken tenders are the best, especially if they get a pretty boy like Steve to look at him like that.

“Told you,” Steve says around his next bite—half of a chicken tender and two folded onion rings. “You ever dip ‘em in gravy, though? That would blow away your socks, blow up your mind, and suck your dick.”

“You, uh, you really don’t fuck around when it comes to chicken tenders, do you?”

“I don’t fuck around with anything. I’m a set-in-stone kind of guy.”

The seriousness in his tone makes Eddie involuntarily choke on air, his eyes drifting away, flush high on his cheeks. He takes a few, quiet bites of his cheeseburger. It’s mediocre and spilling with grease, the bun is stale and the ketchup is weirdly cold, but he savors it. At least it isn’t another basket of tortilla chips and jarred salsa from the bar—he’d probably rip out his own stomach if he had to eat any more of those.

Steve tries to offer him another chicken tender, but Eddie pushes it back gently towards him. Tries not to coo over the soft, sad pout that the gesture earns him. “It’s your food,” he says, “I wanna make sure you eat it, sweetheart. You need it more than me.”

“But I wanna share it with you.”

“Stevie,” he murmurs, “I’ve already got my”—

He’s offered the chicken again. With a very forceful, “Take a bite. You worked for hours, I can tell from how tired you seem, and I want to share this with you.” And then—the bastard—adds a puppy-eyed pout to say, “Please? It would help me feel better.”

Eddie sighs dramatically, leaning forward and taking another bite. He raises his eyebrows, gazing at Steve as he rescinds his food offering. “Happy now?”

Steve nods, smiling as he does so. “Very.” He pops a fry in his mouth and crunches down on it, his grin as big as the Cheshire Cat’s. And then, his focus goes back on his basket of food, none the wiser to Eddie’s openly affectionate adoration.

He forces himself to look away, to stop getting caught up on the Steve of it all, this night. Probably one of the best New Years Eves he’s ever had. Eddie takes a deep breath, though, and looks to the television.

Forty seconds to midnight.

How’d their night drive by so damn fast?

“You gonna count down with me?” Eddie asks, interrupting the lull of silence that filled between them.

“Mm, among one other thing, yeah.”

“What other”—

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve quickly adds, dropping his food into his basket, “how much time do we have?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

He watches Steve wipe his fingers on a nearby napkin, counting aloud with “Fourteen.”

And as the numbers go down, Steve pushes himself closer over the table. Eddie can only match with him.

Ten.

This close, Steve no longer smells like his cologne. Just barbecue sauce and onion rings, the grease from chicken tenders, and a lighter thing that he can’t quite place. Something happy, whatever it is.

Eight.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have nice eyes, Stevie?”

“Don’t think anybody’s really taken notice.”

“Well…”—Eddie breathes gently—“you have really nice eyes.”

Five.

Steve slides his hand across the table, gripping for Eddie’s left. Their fingers tangle, pretzeled together. Warm, even there. His smile is warmer, though, and Eddie begins melting at the sight of it. He wonders if Steve is thinking the same thing.

Three.

“Two,” Eddie breathes.

He squeezes their hands. “One,” Steve sighs. And with it, he surges the last few inches over the table, pulling Eddie towards him, planting a delicate kiss on his lips. It doesn’t carry longer than a couple seconds, but it lingers. Lingers like the decadent, sweet scent of apple pie. They’ll have to get slices before parting.

The diner fills with cheers, whoops and hollers. There’s a burst of multi-colored light outside, painting the left side of Steve’s face with pinks and blues and yellows. Maybe it’s all so cliche. Maybe Eddie tripped and fell, went into some head trauma-induced coma where he can only dream of a picture perfect world waiting for him.

But Steve squeezes his hand again, fingernails pinching into his soft skin.

Eddie knows he’s awake.

The haziness has cleared from Steve’s eyes, replaced with romantic determination. And Eddie knows he must be mirroring something like that, too.

“Happy New Years, Steve.”

“Happy New Years, Eddie,” he murmurs—the breath ghosts over Eddie’s lips, close enough to kiss them—“best night I’ve had in a really long while, thank you.”

He wants to kiss him again, so he does. Gentle and quick, sweetly though, and drenching.

If a night could last forever, he’d pick this one right here.

“My pleasure,” he says and means it to the core of his soul.

“Can I take you up on that coffee tomorrow? I have donuts back home, we could make a morning of it.”

Eddie swallows, sure that Steve hears him. His palm sweats and the thing inside him, stirring and rolling the whole night, is finally, finally alert. “Of course, sweetheart”—it fills him with giddy pride the way that nickname brings a flush to Steve’s cheeks—“what time?”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready. I wanna hear your morning voice.”

“You flatter me.”

Steve raises their joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of Eddie’s. His lips are sticky, somehow, but sweet. The next time they kiss, he hopes Steve tastes like pie. “Good,” Steve whispers, “you deserve to be flattered now.”

And maybe it wasn’t the most romantic start to their relationship…

But Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.

🎆—————🎆

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #modern au #hurt/comfort #mostly comfort #bartender eddie munson

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harperskele · 3 days ago

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The Subversion of Expectations

A gift for @mmmilkweed, inspired by this post.

---

Shadow Milk can't remember the last time he felt regret. Has he ever? Fear, certainly. Rage? Countless times. But regret? He can't seem to recall a time he ever had, until now.

Floating lazily above Pure Vanilla's bed, he quietly hums a tune. A small doll, half-complete, dangles in the air as he works on adding its vanilla petal hair. Beneath him, Pure Vanilla slumbers, unaware of his presence.

It's the middle of the night, and the palace is quiet. Moonlight streams through the windows, casting his muse in a gentle halo. It’s far better than the sunlight, unabashed and loud in its presence; yes, moonlight is far better. Darkness is best, but that isn't an option right now. There is work to be done, and redecorating his new abode isn't a high priority right now.

Stealing another glance for reference, he stitches the petals to the doll's head with a reverence that would disgust him if it were anyone else. Here, in the quiet and the calm, he can relax the chaotic energies that drive him and focus on his craft. Certainly, he could simply create a doll with his powers, a meaningless puppet that would dissipate at will. But this, something tangible that he's made with his own hands? This gives a sense of satisfaction unlike any other.

Getting to watch over Pure Vanilla is a simple bonus, a small treat for his hard work.

He's just finished stitching on the final petal when Pure Vanilla stirs. He jolts, drifting into the shadows like second nature, and silences his little tune. Fortunately, his quarry doesn't awaken. Unfortunately, he does something worse.

Pure Vanilla groans, clutching at his chest through his pajama shirt. His legs kick aimlessly under the covers, and his face grows strained. Even his staff, leaning against his bedside table, begins to twitch and shudder.

Shadow Milk drifts out of the shadows, floating closer and tilting his head. A dream, perhaps? Certainly not a good one.

Pure Vanilla whimpers.

Shadow Milk jolts, floating backwards a few inches. He'd never expected such a pathetic, weak sound to come from such a man. He's seen his tears before, but he's never heard such a sound come from him before.

Already, he can see the tears beading on Pure Vanilla's lashes, and his struggle grows more frantic.

“No… No, no…”

Shadow Milk drifts down and plops himself next to Pure Vanilla, figuring it's better to wake him up now instead of let this nightmare play out. He reaches out to shake his shoulder, and--

“Please, not this- Don't- Don't show me this-!”

He pauses, a frown tugging at his own face. A nightmare about him? He withdraws his hand, crossing his arms.

Pure Vanilla is pale now, gasping frantically. “I won't ignore-- I'll listen-! Please-!” He chokes on a sob, writhing in what seems like pain.

It feels like he's been punched in the gut. He knows now what he's having a nightmare about. An instance early in their meeting, when Pure Vanilla - at the time, Truthless Recluse - had refused to acknowledge him and his incredible hosting skills. He was crueler then, far less patient and completely unempathetic.

He can still remember Pure Vanilla's face when the gore of seeing his maimed friends had caused him to vomit. He had laughed then, laughed at his suffering and his tears. Laughed for how easily he caved under the suffering of others, and laughed at how much work was to be done to teach him.

He can't find any humor in the memory.

He reaches out once more, frantically shaking Pure Vanilla's shoulders. “Hey, ‘Nilly!” He calls, brushing some of his hair out of his tear-stained face. “Wake up! Hey, hey! Come on now, get up!” He tries to smile, but it's strained. His voice grows high and brittle with growing panic. He can't let this keep going. He's made so much progress, gotten so much better. What if he doesn't want him around after remembering what he did?

Guilt feels like ice water pooling in his insides, but also like acid burning in his heart. He almost wants to stop, to run away. But he'd learned, from Pure Vanilla nonetheless, that it wouldn't fix anything to run.

Pure Vanilla shoots up with a gasp, still grasping at his crumpled pajamas. Unfeeling eyes snap open, as does the eye on his staff. His arm is tangled in the sheets, and he lets out a frantic cry as he tries to get free.

“Hey! You're okay! ‘Nilly, calm down!” He pleads, easily slicing away the sheet. Shadows answer his call, pressing Pure Vanilla's staff into his hands. He just hopes it's enough to help anchor him. He rests his hand on Pure Vanilla's heaving back, but he flinches away.

“No, please, I--” Pure Vanilla clambers backwards, closer to the edge of the bed, and stops just short of falling off. Suddenly, his hands fly to his mouth with a grunt, and Shadow Milk barely has enough time to usher a bucket into place before Pure Vanilla vomits. He gropes for the edges of it, and Shadow Milk pats his back once more. This time he doesn't flinch.

“That's it, get it all out. It's okay.” He murmurs, forcing an uncharacteristic softness into his voice. Once Pure Vanilla stops, he dismisses the bucket and grabs a rag through a small portal, beginning to clean up his face. “You're safe now, you're not-” He stops short, clears his throat, and tosses the soiled rag aside. “Not in that place.”

Silence consumes them, and Shadow Milk cringes at the awkwardness. Pure Vanilla just had a nightmare about his time in the Spire, his time being tortured at Shadow Milk's own hands. And here he is, helping him recover from it. He ushers Pure Vanilla back to his former spot, fishing out a softer cloth to dab at the sweat on his forehead.

Again, neither of them speak, but Pure Vanilla doesn't ask him to leave, doesn't shudder at his very presence. So he cleans him up, then pats his head.

“All done. I'll leave you be now--”

A hand darts out and grabs his sleeve. “Stay! Stay. Please.” Pure Vanilla begs. His eyes are closed again, but his staff's eye is fixed on Shadow Milk. “I don't- I don't want to-”

“It's okay. I know. I'll stay.” He sits at the foot of the bed, facing Pure Vanilla. He wouldn't have wanted to be alone after that either.

I'm sorry. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't force them out. They're the right words, the only words he can think to say, and he can't make himself utter them. Maybe it's his pride, maybe it's his shame.

Pure Vanilla's deep, meditative breaths are the only sounds that fill the room. It stays that way for what must have only been five minutes, but it feels like an eternity to Shadow Milk.

He opens his mouth to say something else, anything else, but Pure Vanilla beats him to it.

“It was you this time.” He whispers.

Shadow Milk scowls. He knows it was him. It's always him. He's the one who did it.

“They- You-” Pure Vanilla sniffles, rubs at his eyes once, and exhales. “You screamed so much.”

“I… what?”

“There was so much blood, and you were just… Calling out to me. And I couldn't move. I wanted to help, but I couldn't.” Pure Vanilla lowers his head. Seeing his face like this, twisted in pain and guilt, when he should never had felt that way, tugs at Shadow Milk's chest. “I'm sorry. I'm such a coward, I should have--”

“Okay, pause. ‘Nilly, what are you talking about?” He interrupts, scooting closer. He reaches out, takes Pure Vanilla's chin in a gentle hold, and lifts his head. Deftly, he swipes under his eyes with his thumbs, coaxing more tears into falling so that he can brush them away. “You were having a nightmare, right? About… About the Spire. What I did to your friends, what I made you see… Right?”

Pure Vanilla melts into his hand. He sets his staff aside with practiced ease and shuffles a bit closer. His arm brushes Shadow Milk's leg and stays there, seeking its warmth. He can feel Pure Vanilla's hands tremble, but doesn't say anything.

Pure Vanilla shakes his head, loosing a wet laugh. “No, it was you. You were dying. I don't know how, but-” His smile drops in an instant, and his lip wobbles. “I couldn't help you. You were in so much pain, and I--”

“I'm fine, ‘Nilly. Everything is okay. No one can hurt me, ‘member?” He pats Pure Vanilla's cheeks. “It was just a nightmare.”

“I know, but-”

“No buts.” He smiles. “Dreams are crazy. Don't read too much into it. I've even had crazy dreams, like one time I had this dream where--”

He rambles on, spinning tales of whacky adventures and strange phenomena, refusing to let Pure Vanilla talk about his nightmare again. It'll fade with time. Memories are fickle like that, especially dreams.

An hour later, as he glances at Pure Vanilla again, he sees that the man has grown still amongst his pillows. He smiles, tugging the blankets up to his chin. “Sleep tight, sweet ‘Nilly.” He whispers. He pauses for a moment, double checking to make sure he's really asleep, before he leans down and presses his lips to Pure Vanilla's forehead.

He drifts upwards, floating above his bed again, this time to keep vigil.

He'd tortured him. There was no other word for it. He'd tried to drive him insane, and here he was, having nightmares about Shadow Milk suffering. He grabs at his chest, where his soul jam sings at its proximity to its other half. Maybe it's just because they share a fundamental piece of themselves. Yeah, that's probably why. If Shadow Milk dies, it's probably going to affect Pure Vanilla. It makes sense that he would be scared of Shadow Milk dying.

It's a lie, and he knows it, but it's easier than accepting the truth of the matter.

Pure Vanilla cares about Shadow Milk just as much as anyone else, probably more, and he's starting to feel the same way.

He huffs, grabs his doll, and begins work on it once more, stealing glances at Pure Vanilla more often now. He tells himself he's not checking on him, he just needs a reference, but that's a lie, too.

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ino-takumas-baggy-sweater · 1 year ago

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Third Times the Charm (Megumi Fushiguro x Reader)

so i was innocently scrolling through tumblr dialogue prompts and then i got sucker punched and my brain absolutely vomited this in like 2 hours flat, i hope you like it besties :) (reader's CT is described in the fic itself)

Warnings: just mild beginnings of a panic attack, unless of course you count Satoru Gojo Being A Little Shit™

Word count: 2.4k

Megumi Fushiguro. Both the brightest thing in your life, whilst simultaneously remaining effortlessly dark and brooding. An enigma, frustrating to the nth degree, but also one of the only constants that you could trust in this world. He would never leave you, he was selfless to the point of being selfish, always putting others before himself and making sure you were safe before he even considered what might happen to him.

It’s not like you were weak, you were no special grade but high second was respectable for someone your age, considering a Ten Shadows user and Ryomen Sukuna’s vessel were two of your three classmates. You’d grown up alongside Megumi at Jujutsu Tech, taken in by Principal Yaga and Satoru Gojo, being the only surviving member of your clan which had wiped itself out because of your grandfather’s self-destructive pride.

The L/n clan wasn’t a big clan, not like the Gojo clan or the Zenin clan, but your clan had passed down a pair of useful techniques that you had been lucky enough to inherit, making you a valued addition in the Jujutsu community. Your Misdirect technique allows you to leave a copy of yourself in your current location and move incredibly quickly and undetected to a second location, most commonly used for a quick escape, and limited to a maximum of 5 clones, six entities in total, each acting on their own will but all returning to the whole once killed or called back. Your second technique was something you hadn’t explored much, it’s a reverse cursed technique that allows you to specifically regrow limbs, organs, or chunks lost from the body for both yourself and others, known amongst your former clan as the Starfish technique.

Starfish is only limited by the person you are healing, because it requires you to tap into their energy and feed strings of their DNA information through your brain and back into their body. The process is gruesome, best witnessed on an empty stomach, and you thank whatever higher power you believe in that you haven’t had to use it yet.

Growing up alongside Megumi meant you were close, not quite siblings but nobody could refute the fact that you came as a pair. Wherever you could be heard, Megumi’s soft voice would follow, wherever your figure lit up a room Megumi would be your shadow, and conversely wherever Megumi needed to be, you had to go with him. You were the sunshine beside him, even if you were a bit shy around anyone that wasn’t Gojo or Yaga.

Even now, as he stood with his back to you in the chaos, he protected you from threats both imaginary and corporeal. The fight had gone a bit south as having something similar to your own technique wielded by a curse user and turned against you wasn’t something you had ever prepared for. You’d quickly become more of a liability than anything else, a danger to yourself and Megumi. Though the current situation was nothing he couldn’t handle, but Gojo had insisted on sending you along, and now you knew why. Even though the curse user had decided to take a break and seemingly lounge in the depths of Rabbit Escape, you were still lost in your mind, and Megumi drops to a knee beside your hunched form.

His thumbs link after he gives you a once-over, “Nue,” He grunts, and the bird manifests beside him, “Get her out of here, I can’t protect her and defeat that idiot,” The Shikigami turns to you, shaking out it’s feathers lightly before nudging you with its mask, cooing softly. You blink heavily, your tongue’s ability to function lost in your haze of panic as you grab handfuls of its feathers to pull yourself to your feet and eventually onto it’s back. Megumi only looks back to you for a moment as he dismisses the Rabbit Escape, but it’s enough that you catch a tinge of sadness in his gaze, “Be safe,” He mutters, brushing his hand over the top of your thigh before Nue leaps into the air, carrying you tirelessly back to Jujutsu Tech.

The sudden elevation did nothing to help your nausea and you buried your face against the softness of the space just between Nue’s wings until it finally came to a slightly awkward landing. “Y/n, where the hell is Megumi?” Gojo’s voice is the bare minimum of comfort you need in order to raise your head, Nue moving to preen itself as you slide from its back. “I’m just a fucking liability,” You grunt, refusing to look into that accursed blindfold. You can sense his disappointment, but he doesn’t falter when he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest, “You’re not a liability, I made a bad call sending you out without more information, now where is Megumi?”

You can hear Nue take off behind you and your fingers dig into his jacket, “H-he should be fine,” You murmur, “Now that I’m gone, he sent me away to protect me,” Gojo tilts his head and you can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he contemplates your shivering form. “Do you love him?” He suddenly asks. You must look like a fish the way your mouth opens and closes, searching for an answer. “O-of course I love him! We’re best friends, we grew up together, isn’t that a given?” He shrugs, “Just curious kiddo, no need to be defensive,” He steps back again, “I’ll let you know when he gets back, go get some sleep,”

The second time Gojo asks you a question about Megumi you’re even less prepared, riding off the terrifying adrenaline high of the Kyoto sister-school Goodwill Event. Admitted to Shoko’s medical wing alongside your fellow students, you find yourself gravitating towards Megumi as you always have, who is tentatively watching over an unconscious Inumaki leant against his side. You take note of the blood dripping lazily from Inumaki’s lips and you cringe, remembering the moment he used his technique to save his fellow students.

Megumi looks up only a moment later, reaching for you with his free hand, “C’mere,” He grunts, pulling you down onto the bench on his other side. Your thighs press together and he rests his cheek atop your head, “You've gotta stop scaring me like that,” You roll your eyes, “When has anything other than Gojo’s pure rage ever scared you? Come on,” You scoff. He frowns, looking down at you, “Seeing you in danger has always scared me,” He murmurs softly. He sounds hurt, you suppose you all are a little bit, but he sounds positively shattered, his eyes swimming with an emotion you now come to realise is pure terror.

It stuns you to silence, “I hate seeing you put yourself on the line like that, you gotta promise you won’t do that anymore, not for me,” He urges softly, nudging his nose against your forehead, “Got it?” You can only nod in reply, and a moment later Shoko’s voice shocks the pair of you from your bubble, asking Megumi to carry Inumaki to the examination room next door. Your heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment he grabbed you and at this rate it’ll take a lifetime to recover. “Y/n you’ve got that look again,” Or one interaction with Satoru Gojo. “Come on, you see the way he looks at you, what are you guys anyway?” He plops down beside you on the bench, lifting his blindfold and taking your hands to inspect the light lacerations on your skin and clothing left by that plant curse before Yuji and Todo tagged in.

Both adrenaline and fear were still flowing through your brain, you couldn’t find it in you to focus on anything let alone what Gojo had just asked you. You stayed silent, allowing him to just look at you, until he takes your chin between two fingers which forces you to look up into his eyes. You feel like a deer in headlights, trapped by his startlingly blue eyes, “You’re good kids,” He murmurs, “If you love him you should listen to him,” You just nod. You always nod, you’re a giver not a taker. “Y/n,” Megumi calls and you look to the side, seeing him leaning in the doorway, “You’re next, come on,” He holds out a hand for you to take and you’re drawn to him like he’s a singing siren.

His hand engulfs yours with a warmth you associate with love, the innocent kind of love that blossoms from shared knowledge and a bond stretching years into the past. You only look back at Gojo once before the door shuts between you, his blindfold repositioned over his eyes, but the signature smirk still plastered across his lips. Albeit just a little softer than it usually is.

The third time he asks is when it finally drives you crazy.

Things had been quiet in the aftermath of the exchange event, a fair few weeks had gone by and you’d only gotten closer to Megumi. His love language was not physical touch, not by a long shot, but he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you if he was beside you. Whether his thigh was pressed up against yours at lunch, or he held your hand in public while Nobara held your other hand, or his head rested in your lap in the evenings as you watched movies with your fellow first years. He always seemed to seek some kind of physical connection with you, and this hadn’t gone unnoticed by Gojo. Nothing gets by his six eyes, not even his broody adopted son in all his attempts at subtlety.

You don’t even see him coming, so it makes you jump when he places a hand on your shoulder, shrieking lightly. “Jesus Gojo!” You hiss, smacking at him with the back of your hand. He’s evidently let his infinity down for a moment just to let you have the satisfaction of hitting him, “I could be Jesus yes, what an astute observation! This is why you’re my favourite student,” He nudges you with his elbow as the pair of you stand watching Yuji and Megumi sparring on the school field. Nobara left a few minutes ago to order takeout for dinner, the sun setting in the summer sky above, casting a soft orange glow on Megumi’s face. “Seriously, what is the deal with you and Megumi,” He asks bluntly, “Are you dating? Have you kissed? What’s going on?” Your eyes don’t stray from Megumi’s form as you reply, “Oh no, no way, we’re not going there today,” You declare, “We’re just friends and that’s all we’ll ever be,”

He angles his head down, shaking it as he leans into your space, “Now now, you and I both know that’s not true, why don’t you just try? You’ve got nothing to lose,” You take a step to the side, increasing the distance between your sensei and yourself as you let out a breath. Megumi and Yuji have finished sparring, the dying sunlight making them both look ethereal, but it’s always been Megumi at the centre of your attention. “Yuji! Can I talk to you for a second?” Gojo calls out and the boy nods eagerly, racing up and following your teacher as the taller man slings an arm over his shoulder. Traitor. You glare silently, but your anger dissipates quickly, turning to Megumi as he wipes his face with a towel, gulping from his bottle. “Yuji gets stronger every day, I’m glad he holds back when sparring,” He says, the soft rasp of his voice making you feel warm.

“Megumi can I ask you something?” You say, sitting down just to the side of where he rests his foot on the bench, retying his shoelaces. “Yeah, what’s on your mind?” He brushes his fingers past your thigh and you wonder for a moment if he’s doing it on purpose, before pushing through the distraction, “What are we?” He falls still for a moment, “What do you mean?”

You shift until you’re straddling the bench, bringing one foot up so you can rest your chin on your knee, “I don’t know, Gojo won’t stop pestering me, and he keeps asking if I love you,” He tilts his head, letting his foot drop to the ground before sitting on the bench himself, elbows rested on his knees. “Well, do you?” He asks quietly. You look down at the grass, breathing softly through your nose, “Well of course I do,” You murmur, “You’re one of my closest friends, I’ve always loved you,” He lets his head hang down, “Yes but do you love me, Y/n?” He presses, turning to face you and matching your bench straddle. You drop your knee in surprise and he places his hands heavy on your thighs, making your skin tingle as he grips you through your pants, “Does your heart race as mine does? Is there a place for me in your heart?” He murmurs.

You feel like a fish again, unable to reply with your mouth hanging open slightly, but you nod, swallowing nervously, “Megumi,” You sigh, “You’re everything to me,” You reach a trembling hand out and cup his cheek, stroking with your thumb, “I train as much as I can so I can be as strong as you one day and be able to protect you in the same way you’ve protected me,” He smiles softly, something you see so rarely you want to stay in this moment forever, “Oh Y/n, as long as you live my life has meaning,” He whispers, “There’s no need for you to stress yourself, I’ll always find my way back to you, even if that means I have to walk through hell,”

His lips are soft as they find yours, the sunlight finally surrendering to twilight, the time of day you most associate with Megumi. You lean into him, your free hand placed on the bench between you to prevent an awkward fall, legs spread as far as they’ll comfortably go to get closer to one another. The kiss is sweet, he tastes like the powdery candy Yuji bought earlier in the week and you tease his lips with your tongue and teeth eagerly. A soft chuckle as he brings his hand up to the back of your head, your mouths falling open and tongues exploring one another in tandem.

“FUSHIGURO! GET YOUR TONGUE OUT OF HER THROAT YOU PIG!” Nobara’s voice makes the pair of you break apart, cheeks flushed and lips tingling as the girl moves to close the distance, “I LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR TEN MINUTES!” You giggle softly as Megumi rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t act surprised, you knew this was coming,” He says, dropping his hand and linking his fingers with yours. He looks into your eyes and you know in that moment everything is as it should be, at least for a while.

Thanks for all the love on the last two fics I posted, I'm hopefully going to be writing one every few days, i've got a lot of free time on my hands right now and I'd love some requests or some random prompts if anybody is keen on sending me any :)

also I'm thinking of doing a '7 days until the new year' kind of series, with a different prompt for each day and maybe small blurbs, like one for every jjk character I write for and then all posted at once, but I'll see where I get to with the fics I'm currently working on

Post dividers from @cafekitsune

#jujutsu kaisen #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi x you #megumi fluff #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk satoru #yuji itadori #nobara kugisaki #toge inumaki #jujutsu kaisen x you

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the-kr8tor · 11 months ago

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Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

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sillyandquiteawkward · 3 months ago

Note

Quite often I think about how the crew would have realistically looked after 5 months of being stranded. How each character would have altered their uniform for comfort or practicality, outgrown and uncombed hair, beards and stubble, Daisuke’s roots growing out, everyone looking overall sickly, things like that. You put a lot of thought into how you design the characters, so I was curious about what you thought

hmmmm thats fun! here are some notes i think id make on the crew and their deterioration. whether or not they are realistic...well i havent done any research, this is all vibes based.

curly: well hes been degloved so thats one thing to note. ive been tossing and turning what exactly happened to curly. ive been just kinda going along with the consensus of hes badly burnt and just being vague. but i wonder if the foam also came into play, especially with his amputations and such. its strong enough to seal off the vacuum of space so? i do think he has Some skin left on the left side of his torso from his coveralls, but still not in good shape. other notes i could make would be i do think his other eye has been removed due to damage/infection by anya. and i like to note that his more severe wounds are on his right side. i think curly bit his tongue off or partially off during the crash. hes also opioid dependent and when he gets shifted to the back up meds his body suffers seriously due to withdrawal and pain from existing and he can hardly keep food down, losing even more weight.

anya: i think anya has hair on the finer side, so itd be stringy as hell when greasy. i dont think shed keep up the charade of keeping up appearances at all after the crash, shes incredibly busy and stressed, her hair is unstyled, but hand combed to avoid tangles. however she already has dark eyes and dark circles so not much changes there for me, altho shes stopped wearing any makeup due to no access to her things. i think sometimes she takes her coverall top off to be in her sweater, and sometimes in the lounge, removes her sandals to be just in her socks. at night shes always fully clothed no matter how sweaty she gets. i think anyas appetite is all sorts of fucked, and shes prone to getting morning sickness, so i think shes had the most amount of weight loss (excluding curly). she just looks hollow and tired. i think her fingernails are Gone. chewed to the bed. and it stresses her out she doing something unsanitary but pica be pica-ing. she also chews and swallows the ends of her hair. no one comments on this development.

swansea: swanseas the only guy you can actually See get worse for wear after months and its always harrowing seeing his ruddy face and stained shirt. you can see how far off the deep end hes jumped. swansea strikes me as the guy who cant grow solid facial hair so any hairs on his face are gray/light and patchy. he always looks damp, hes sweating a lot, and later on hes covered in his own sweat, vomit, and mouthwash. i think daisuke tries to corral him and get his shirt clean when it gets bad, but its a toss up if hes in an agreeable enough mood to allow daisuke to help him, in which case hes chilling shirtless until daisuke comes running back with his now slightly clean, but wet shirt. i think hes the only person whos gained weight during the crash, altho that is in no way a good thing and is more of a tell tale sign hes killing himself from the mouthwash. i think he has sleep apnea and has a cpap, so without it, hes incredibly sleep deprived, but hes used to it from pony express sleep shifts.

daisuke: as hes the guy with the freshest id card photo, taken likely right before they left, you can see his roots already growing out. a lot of the blond has grown and been cut off, and a lot of whats left is faded due to time and hair washing. after the crash, he still brushes his hair with his hands and washes it the best he can with sink water occasionally, even cutting it. i think hes also got some stubble going, but shaves it when it starts bugging him with assistance from the others. but hes got a lot of energy, he spends a lot taking care of his appearance, and he looks the best out of everyone, especially at the start, and then later after sobering. i think daisuke, being in charge of the food, feels a bit of a burden for eating a lot and cuts back. he looses some weight, mostly in his muscle and some of his chubbiness, but retains a softness about him, especially with swansea telling him to properly eat his share of rations. he takes care of his clothes. if he feels sweaty, hell take his nice shirt off, and if thats too much still, hell take his pony express shirt off as well to make sure it doesnt get stinky (as fast).

jimmy: hes self centered i think hes been focusing on keeping up appearances and has managed to shave a few times. i think daisuke made a comment on how thick his beard was growing in like his id card and he stole a scalpel to spend the next chunk of time shaving (and bleeding). he has lots of gray hairs coming in lately, and hes let his hair grow out. hes went from lean to thin but looks about the same due to his already baggy clothing choices, and i think hes upset hes sweaty and stinky and that his hair is greasy and messy. his white undershirt looks like shit due to sweat and being white, so he doesnt take his coverall top off. in fact, i dont think hes ever disrobed since the crash, to keep up appearances that hes unshakable.

#mouthwashing

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moonmunson · 11 months ago

Text

either way / no doubt

a/n: either way and no doubt by Odie Leigh have been on repeat currently and I relate to them so heavily so I word vomited on a Google docs. its a little rushed but oh well LMAO (I'm also always writing with a plus sized reader in mind)

cw: over thinker fem!reader, autistic coded reader, not knowing how to enter into a first serious relationship, kind lover boy!Eddie, no use of y/n

wc: 2.1k

It is the beginning of Spring when she meets Eddie Munson. Genuinely meets him, not just sees him around town and wonders what it’s like to be in his orbit. Working at the local diner, she sees him and his group of friends often. She’s served them a couple times, and they’re always respectful - albeit rambunctious. They tip well, stack their dishes for the busboys to clear, wave to her on the way out.

It’s the day Eddie comes in by himself that marks it as different, new. He sits in her section of the diner, glances her way and then averts his gaze when she meets it. That’s odd, but she doesn’t think much else of it. Not until the end of his meal - consisting of a solitary cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie - does he stop her when she checks to see if he needs anything.

He asks if she’d want to hang out sometime, and she laughs - a forced exhale of nerves. He asks why she’s laughing, and she doesn’t know what to say. After a few moments of awkward silence, she relents and shrugs. What would we do? He says anything she wants. What if she doesn’t know what she wants to do? He says they’ll figure it out together.

They end up sitting in the back of Eddie’s van, the open doors facing Lover’s Lake. She’s fidgety, and stumbling over her words. He keeps staring at her when she talks and she’s not used to anybody doing this much work to stay focused on her and what she has to say, especially because she’s not saying much of substance. He asks her so many questions, and mundane ones at that. How are classes at the community college? What’s your major? She answers as best she can.

The feeling of someone looking at her makes her skin crawl. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, she’s uncomfortably aware of the position of her nose on her face, which seems incredibly silly, and then she’s thinking about just how silly that is when he asks her if she’s alright.

“Sorry?”

“I was just asking if you felt alright. It looked like you went away for a second there,” Eddie ducks his head down to catch her line of sight. Eye contact has always been difficult for her, but this is different - warm - like sunshine. “I know I’m not the most exciting person to talk to, but I hope you’re having a good time. I enjoy talking to you.”

“I’m here, sorry. I like talking to you too.”

“You don’t have to apologize, it’s okay.”

“Sorry. Oh-” She sucks in a breath and places her hand over her mouth, eyes wide at the realization of her mistake. He giggles, a sweet boyish sound, and it warms his face. She thinks she could love that face, if he let her. If she knew how. She laughs too, despite herself. “It’s a bad habit. I really have to stop apologizing so much.”

He’s still smiling when he says it’s okay, he understands.

Later, when he drops her off at her apartment, the sun has gone down. The ride he’d offered her is relatively quiet. It’s a strange thing, to see the way someone adjusts themself around you. The usual loud heavy metal is absent here. The fast driving and sharp turns are traded in for complying with the speed limit, graceful steering and soft brakes. When he looks at her, she directs her gaze out the window - when she looks at him, he is focused on the road.

He stops her as she takes off her seatbelt and goes to open the door, jumping out of his own and running around the front of the van to open it for her. She leads him to her front door, and he asks if he can see her again, if he can have her number. She nods, and rummages around her purse for a few frantic seconds before finding her waitress notepad and pen. When she rips the page out that she’s written her number on and hands it to him, he clutches it to his chest and smiles.

“I’ll call you when I get home, if that’s okay. Just to let you know I made it back safely.”

“And if I want to keep talking to you?”

“We can talk for as long as you want to.”

“Okay.”

Eddie walks backwards for a few seconds, keeping his eyes locked on hers, paper still against his heart. By the time he’s made it back to his van, he lifts a hand up for a short wave goodbye, and turns to face the vehicle.

Now or never.

“Eddie?” In true Munson fashion, he whips around completely at the sound of her calling out to him.

“Yeah, sweets?”

“I just wanted to tell you I had a really nice time with you today. I can’t wait for you to call me later.” She tucks her hair behind her ears, needing to do something with her hands to offset the nausea brought about by her impulsive vulnerability. He smiles wider, if that’s even possible.

“I’m glad you had a good time. I’ve been wanting to ask you out forever, Gareth and the guys kept busting my balls about it. I promise I’ll call when I get home.”

She nods, her eyes tracking his steps as he makes it to his car. She watches him drive off. It feels so strange, this immediate wanting him to come back, wanting him to come inside and crawl into her brain. To know her fully. It scares her in a way she’s incredibly unused to. When she can’t hear the music blasting from his speakers anymore, she makes her way inside and slumps against the door for a few seconds.

He does call when he gets home, and they talk until the sun rises.

They spend the next few days talking on the phone. It’s easier like this, she thinks. She doesn’t have to worry about the way she looks when she’s thinking of something to say. She doesn’t have to avoid his white hot gaze, the way she can feel it trail over her face when she’s speaking. If he notices how much more she opens up to him when they’re not actively sitting next to each other, he doesn’t mention it.

When they’re not on the phone, he clings to her brainspace like moss on a tree. She can’t stop thinking about him, to the point she’s worried she’s obsessing over something that isn’t there. He’d said he had a good time, he said he enjoyed talking to her, so why does it keep bothering her so much? He feels safe. He does feel safe, but she’s not used to conversations with no expectations. No guise, no hidden agenda. If he notices the way she starts to pull away due to her overthinking, her sentences shorter and stunted, he doesn’t mention it. He carries on as usual, calling her to talk about what he’d done that day. It makes her smile.

When he asks, unprompted, if he can see her again, she says yes.

They go to the lake again. It is an early March morning, the last tendrils of Winter still grasping desperately for some kind of recognition against early Spring. He brings a blanket and hot cocoa for both of them, and she feels it in her chest - warm and sweet and chocolatey, like his eyes. It’s easier this time, talking to him. She spends less time worried about her posture and cadence - more time really listening to him speak and trying her hardest to maintain eye contact.

The early morning breeze makes ripples on the otherwise still surface of the water. It’s so beautiful. He’s so beautiful. He’s so expressive when he speaks. She used to think he was careless, jumping on tables and riling up the people he knew didn’t like him. Seeing him up close like this, she realizes it’s kind of the opposite. It’s careful, planned, the way he uses his hands, his eyes. Even when he’s talking about a book he's read a million times, she feels like she's there among the scenery and characters he describes. It’s entirely captivating. She wants to be more like him. Carefully carefree.

She’s never done this kind of thing - the relationship kind of thing. If that’s what this is, she has no idea how to traverse this new terrain. She can’t find her footing, she doesn’t know what the formula is, what the proper way to go about it looks like. She doesn’t think about sounding weird when she asks:

“What are we doing?”

Eddie pauses mid sip, brings the cup back down to his lap.

“Currently? Or like, with our lives?” He chuffs out a little laugh. Not in a teasing way, though it's hard for her to differentiate. “Because currently, from my perspective at least, I’m sitting in my van with a pretty girl talking about our favorite books. What I’m doing with my life is something a lot of people, including me, would really like to know.”

Levity, she recognizes.

“Sorry if it's a weird question, I just…” She trails off, breaking eye contact, looking at her hands in her lap. He scoots forward a bit, the side of his thigh touching hers as their legs dangle off the back of the van. He doesn’t push her to say anything, doesn’t acknowledge the unneeded apology, doesn’t fill the silence with his own voice. He just waits, patiently. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him sit this still.

“I really like you, and I really like talking to you. I’ve never done anything like this,” She uses her pointer finger to gesture between the two of them, drawing a connecting line between their bodies, “I don’t know how to, if that makes sense. I’m not really a lot of people’s type, I guess.”

“Hey, look at me,” Eddie sets the cup down next to him and very gently takes her hand, locks their fingers together. When she raises her eyes to meet his, he continues. “There’s no rush, I mean it. You set the pace here, okay? I like you, like a lot. If all you wanna do is sit here and talk, I’m totally fine with that. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sweets.”

“What if you find out how weird I am and decide you don’t want to talk to me anymore?”

At this, Eddie relinquishes his grip on her hand, hops down from the lip of the back of the van, and stands in front of her.

“Y’know who you’re talking to?” two thumbs pointed towards himself - eyebrows raised, mouth quirked in a goofy grin, “King of the freaks, misfits, and ne'er do wells. I don’t think you could scare me off, but you’re certainly welcome to try.”

“So just… be myself?” She scrunches her face up - the idea of being genuine is almost totally foreign to her.

“Be yourself!”

“Ew. Yeah, alright, fine.” She sighs in resignation and shrugs a shoulder. Doesn’t think about how convincing he is, or how willing she was to drop some of her defenses. Carefully carefree. She can do it.

They share a laugh, finishing their luke-warm cocoa together and talking until the sun is high in the sky and the temperature rises too high for them to ignore any longer. This time, the drive home is less quiet. She meets his gaze when he looks over at her from the driver’s seat, she hums along to the sound of the radio, it's nice. Comfortable.

Just like last time, Eddie hastens to run around the van and open her door for her. He extends a hand to help her down and out, and they stay connected on the short journey to her apartment’s front door. Eddie watches while she digs the keys out of her purse, unlocking the door and leading the both of them inside for a drink. He kicks his shoes off by the welcome mat, and they look like they belong there.

It is the beginning of Spring when Eddie Munson permanently plants himself in her life, a steadfast source of comfort and nourishment. It is hard for her, and it takes longer than most for her to truly open up. To show him all the nooks and crannies of her mind. He takes it all in stride - her overthinking, her quirks and neuroses. He shows her that it is entirely impossible to trust someone enough to take part in the watering and flowering - that it's not a weight she has to hold alone. She can bloom.

if you enjoyed this story please like and reblog!!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson my beloved #eddie munson imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things imagine #it is possible to be mentally ill and be in a healthy relationship #it's rotten work #not to me #not if its you #sio writes

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loser-maxxing · 3 months ago

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what happens when a dad who hungers for his son learns his son has a boyfriend ..?

hi everyone ..! so, as i have mentioned once or twice across my blog i have been working on a dad-son camping trip smut fic....

well, it is finally available to be read in all its smutty glory.. but first lets go over all the trigger warnings needed for this writing (it is an incredibly triggering story):

incest (father/son)

hard non-con (aka rape, not cnc)

underage sex (main character is a teenager)

sexual and non-sexual violence

a (skippable) vomit scene (there is a warning for once it starts & ends)

death threats, threats of knife violence

forced oral, vaginal, and anal sex

outdoor sex

i think that is just about everything i needed to warn anyone about before reading..

so, proceed with caution as you read this. make sure to take care of yourself both physically and emotionally while reading.

please let me know what y'all end up thinking of this work.. should i post more with tomas and his dad in them ..? i was thinking about working on a sequel.

just pretty please let me know what y'all think ..!

The lowly burning embers of the small fire kept them warm as the first flurry of snow greeted the dad-son duo. Tomas was thankful the snow hadn't started before they got the fire going. It was a freezing day, which made the snow seem almost inevitable at this point. The fire was pathetically crackling and burning on the few non-wet pieces of firewood they could find. The warmth hardly reached their outstretched hands, much less the rest of their body. Although the wind was brutal and cold, neither complained much about it as it had been too long since the pair spent time together.

The teenager was incredibly thankful that his dad had invited him on the trip. He saw it as an opportunity to rebuild the burnt bridge between them. His dad hadn't always been as present as Tomas would've liked, and Tomas was determined to remedy their strained bond. His early childhood had plenty of arguments and a few too many divorces for his liking. His dad was a bit of a loser when it came to it, but Tomas didn't mind much. His dad had always been supportive when it mattered, whether it was about his decision to stay with his mother after the divorce or Tomas being trans.

So, when his dad asked about Tomas joining him on the camping trip, he found the bonding opportunity he had been searching for for months. However, Tomas had expected more than just him and his dad to go on this trip; his dad seemed to imply a few different people would join them. It was a strange surprise to Tomas that they were the only two at the campsite. Tomas ignored how odd it was in favor of enjoying the trip together. What motivation would his dad have for tricking him? It had to be poor planning on his dad's behalf.

Despite this, Tomas eagerly waited for time alone to share exciting news with his dad. Tomas had recently found a boyfriend. It wasn't serious, but it was his first-ever boyfriend. There just hadn't been a good opportunity for Tomas to share this with his dad... until now. As they huddled together, Tomas found himself turning towards his dad. His dad rubbed his hands together before stretching them out towards the fire. It only took moments for his dad to realize Tomas was staring at him.

"Hey, what's up, kiddo?" he asked curiously. "Got something on your mind? Your face says you do."

Tomas blinked a few times in embarrassment before responding. "I do. I have something I want to tell you." Tomas started grinning. "I have a boyfriend now! Isn't that so exciting?"

Tomas was somewhat puzzled by his dad's reaction. His body language shifted quickly from excitement to discomfort and then to anger. Tomas felt unsure of what to make of it until his dad responded.

"You have... a boyfriend? Does he know about this camping trip?" his dad asked sternly. Tomas tried to shrug off the weirdly angry tone.

"I mean, yeah. Is there something wrong with that?" Tomas challenged. He couldn't fathom why his dad would be angry at him for such an exciting new experience. It was customary for any young teenager to have a boyfriend or girlfriend. Tomas felt his chest puff out in near defiance.

Tomas felt his dad stare at him with an intensity he couldn't quite figure out. Their breath formed icy clouds before them, and the silence became long and drawn out. Tomas began to squirm in his seat, and the sound of firewood cracking broke the silence.

"You have to break up with him," his dad said in a low tone. "I am not asking you either; I am telling you."

Tomas was confused, hurt, and irritated. Tomas finally let go of the breath he had been holding in his chest. "No," he said as confidently as possible, though he was incredibly nervous. "I don't want to do that." His dad's lips pulled tight, and Tomas prepared for what he might say. "What's so wrong with me having a boyfriend anyway? You didn't answer my question," Tomas once again challenged despite his shaky voice. "Plus, Mom already said it was okay."

Tomas immediately realized his mistake after seeing his dad's clenched fists and wrinkled face. His dad let out a deep breath, allowing the icy cloud to conceal his face momentarily. He was eerily quiet, and Tomas knew something was now profoundly wrong. Tomas wasn't sure if his refusal to break up with his boyfriend or mentioning his mom was his mistake; maybe it was both things he said.

Tomas felt afraid. This was unusual for him; he hadn't ever feared his dad before, and his dad had never given him a reason to fear him. They had many disagreements, but none made his dad look this angry.

"Since you want to act like a big, tough man who gets to make all these decisions for himself," his dad said while he stood up, "I'll treat you like a 'real' man."

His dad was quicker than Tomas could have ever expected. He didn't even have a chance to respond before his dad's cold fingers tangled in his hair. He yelped as his dad clenched his hair in tight fistfuls. Tomas was quickly pulled to his knees in the snow as his scalp was yanked on mercilessly.

Tomas wasn't sure what his dad meant by all of this. It scared him; his stomach churned, his knees tingled from the snow-covered ground, and his scalp burned as his dad tightened his fist in his hair. Finally, out of his state of shock, Tomas began to wail. Even when the hand entangled in his hair finally let go, he still found himself screaming in pain. Tomas suddenly felt light-headed and fell forward as his dad's fist made contact with the back of his head.

Tomas felt dizzy and nauseous as he fell face-first into the snow. He had expected it to be more like the movies, with cartoon stars and halos. Except it wasn't like the movies; his head throbbed, and he felt a newfound pain throughout the back of his head. Tomas craned his neck just enough to look ahead, but his vision was too blurred to understand where he had fallen. His dad must've hit him pretty hard. What could he have done to possibly deserve this?

Tomas had been so excited to share his new relationship with his dad. He had initially expected to be met with excitement, kindness, and anticipation to meet his boyfriend. Tomas couldn't wrap his head around his dad's almost jealous-like anger. It just didn't make sense: he was his dad; why would he be jealous? His stomach sank, and his head swam with endless horrific possibilities. Tomas didn't have long to think about the implications before his dad quickly delivered a kick to his side.

Everything happened so fast. Tomas was overwhelmed as his dad kicked his side again. It took Tomas a few moments to process what to do. He could only think of shrieking, wrapping his arms around his head, and pulling his knees to his chest. He frantically pulled back as his dad dropped beside him and pulled his arm back to punch him again.

Tomas grabbed his dad's wrist and did precisely what he wanted. The punch was pulled to the side, to the air beside Tomas' head, but the act had taken a lot of effort. He felt his grip loosen, and his arms started to shake violently as he tried to redirect another punch. He wasn't strong enough to prevent this one from hitting his face. It first aimed at his nose but only hit him in the cheek. Tomas, heavily breathing, shouted something incoherent. In a panicked frenzy, he put his hands out and grabbed his dad's face.

Tomas' dad grabbed his wrists and quickly flipped him onto his stomach with his son's hands held above his head. "Stop squirming," his dad shouted at him. "If you don't stop fucking squirming-- I put you on this earth; I can take you out of it."

Tomas felt his heart stop beating for just a moment. He hadn't noticed the cold, wet tears and snot running down his face. He felt nothing except for pain and the freezing cold as it fell. From how he was pinned, he could hardly turn enough to see his dad anymore.

Tomas had been expecting more punches and punishment for his unknown crime. He hadn't expected to feel something warm press against his back, almost like it was being ground against him. Tomas began squirming again, struggling to look behind him as he tried to free himself.

"Dad," he whined desperately, "What are you doing? Please." Tomas could hardly get the words out between panting and crying.

"Please stop whatever you're doing," Tomas cried out. "I'm sorry, Dad. Just please stop."

Tomas felt himself shiver as his dad let go of his wrists and placed a warm hand on his neck. The warmth would have been welcome under any other circumstances. He felt fingers hook themselves under the waistband of his pants. Tomas began wriggling and kicking, only for the hand on the back of his neck to pick him up and then shove his face into the ground hard. Tomas felt bits of dirt and snow rub against his face, some finding their way up his nose and into his eyes.

His eyes stung as he felt the hand begin pulling down his pants. It was difficult even for his dad to keep him restrained as he fought. It took at least 10 minutes for him to wrestle the pants off of Tomas. Tomas had begun grossly crying and begging with his dad.

"Dad, fuck, please stop. This is so fucking wrong and gross. Please," Tomas managed to get out between sobs. "This is sexual assault and ince--"

"Shut the fuck up," his dad barked, "You're going to enjoy this. You don't even know what those words mean at this age!"

Tomas shivered violently from the snow as his naked lower torso was pressed into the ground. It had become abundantly clear what was happening to him. All Tomas could think about was what he had done to deserve being raped by his own dad, how clueless to this side of him he had been, and how fucking cold he was.

He felt his dad's hands begin violating his exposed body. It started with him rubbing the back of his calves, then moving up to rub his thighs, and eventually squeezing his ass. Tomas felt so embarrassed and ashamed, and he felt another overwhelming wave of emotions as he noticed his extremely small cock twitch in response to each and every touch. He couldn't help but react to how his dad was touching him. It was hungry, aggressive, and eager. It was so unlike the loserly yet gentle dad he had known all his life.

Tomas felt his dad's hard cock straining through his jeans beside him. It was the only warmth he could feel, pulsating on his leg, other than his dad's hand wrapped around his neck. He hated admitting he clung to that little warmth; the cold was excruciating. His face and legs stung from it, and the warm hands were the only thing he could think of besides his twitching, leaky cock.

His dad swung himself over Tomas's legs, straddling him as he continued to squeeze his ass. His hand pushed down on Tomas's neck harder, and he started sputtering. His dad couldn't care less as his cock throbbed against his son's ass. Tomas could only think to beg at this point.

"Dad, Daddy. Please. You aren't usually like this; what did I do wrong?" Tomas whimpered as his dad squeezed his ass in response.

His dad leaned down, pushing his bulge further into Tomas' perky, red ass, rubbing it between his cheeks. It was uncomfortable but sent waves of arousal through his tiny cock. As his dad lined Tomas's ear up with his lips, the warm heat of his heavy breathing caused Tomas to shiver. As he shivered, it pushed his dad's cock further between his ass.

"You think you're grown up enough for a boyfriend?" his dad panted into his ear. "This is what your little boyfriend wants. I want this and will not let anyone else take this from me."

Tomas felt his dad lean up, and both the hand on his neck and his ass were lifted. Tomas felt too weak to struggle like he did before. He stayed sprawled across the snowy ground with his dad, keeping all his weight on his legs. Tomas heard a belt unbuckle and the unzipping of his dad's pants. He felt terror and arousal at the same time. Would this be his first time? What would he tell his boyfriend?

Suddenly, all the weight on his legs lifted as his dad stood to step out of his pants. Tomas attempted to pull himself to his knees and crawl away. A foot quickly came down on his back, shoving him face-first into the ground. Tomas cried out as the foot pressed hard, sending shooting pain through him. He heard something hit the ground before the foot was lifted. And suddenly, he felt hands wrapped into his hair as his head was pulled back.

His dad's other hand pulled Tomas's jaw unwillingly open. Once his mouth was open, he gagged as something was shoved inside haphazardly before his head was pushed into the ground. Tomas felt dizzy from the impact and the new smells that filled his nose. The scent was arousing, musky, and sweaty. It smelt like nature and the boy's locker room simultaneously.

Tomas felt his dad reach between his legs and gently run his finger across his cunt. He shuddered as his slick coated both his own thighs and his dad's fingers. He heard his dad groaning quietly as he continued to run his finger up and down his slit. His dad occasionally tried to reach even further, with some struggle, to roughly fondle Tomas's cock. Tomas moaned through the pair of underwear in his mouth. His cock twitched, and he began unintentionally thrusting into his dad's hand.

This only encouraged his dad further once he felt Tomas thrusting into his hand.

His dad put Tomas's cock between his pointer finger and thumb and began stroking as best he could from this position. The dad-son duo rocked in the snow as Tomas thrust and his dad stroked. Tomas felt disgusted with himself but couldn't help but whimper and whine as his little, sensitive cock was jacked off. Each whimper and moan caused him to inhale more of his dad's musk, which made him feel light-headed again. His dad let go of his dick, allowing him some momentary relief from the stimulation before he leaned in close to Tomas's ear once again.

"I'll kill you if you tell anyone about this, alright, kiddo?" his dad almost growled, making Tomas shiver at the threat. All the while, his cock throbbed, betraying his arousal.

"I'm being serious. If you tell anyone, even your little boyfriend, I'll slit your fucking throat." His dad gently licked up his ear. "They'll never find your body."

Tomas whimpered, which only caused his dad to moan deeply. His dad sat on his knees, both hands on his hairy thighs, before standing up. He leaned down, grabbed Tomas's hips, and quickly pulled him to his knees. He delivered a weak slap to Tomas' ass before he slipped behind him. First, it was his dad's lips on his cunt, and then he had something wet and soft slide between his cunt's lips.

"Oh god, Tomas, you don't know how badly I have wanted a taste," He breathed against his cunt. "Your little boy cock and cunny taste so fucking good. Better than I could have ever imagined."

Tomas had tears running, warming his face as his knees dug into the ground. He tried to tell himself that it didn't feel good, but oh god, it did. He knew he shouldn't grind against his dad's face, but it didn't matter what he did, did it? He kept grinding on his dad's eager tongue, feeling a building pressure in his groin. Tomas panted into the underwear like a bitch in heat as his wolfish dad continued to lap at his cunt.

His dad made sure no part of his cock or cunny was neglected. Tomas pushed back onto his dad's tongue as he felt the pressure building. His dad grabbed his hips, forcing him even further on his outstretched tongue. Soon enough, he began shaking as his dad moved his tongue into his cunt. It was so warm and soft; Tomas hadn't ever felt like this. It made warmth pool in his groin as his dad continued to flick his tongue inside him.

"Dad, Dad, Daddy," Tomas spat the underwear out and shrieked, "I can't take it anymore!"

At these words, his dad began aggressively lapping up his cunt. Tomas was overwhelmed as if he were being devoured whole. Soon enough, Tomas screamed as his vision blurred and his body spasmed. His dad's grip on his hips tightened, and he made sure his tongue stayed in place as Tomas squirmed. His dad made sure that everything about Tomas's first orgasm was his. Tomas continued to shake as his orgasm subsided, and the cold burned through his body.

Tomas was initially relieved, thinking that whatever he had done must've made amends by now. He had taken things surprisingly well, hadn't he? He turned to look at his dad, only to be pushed onto his back. Tomas was quickly gagged on his dad's cock. It only took a few moments for his dad's cock to slide down his throat. His dad promptly pinched Tomas's nose and held his head firmly in place.

Tomas began to panic as he could no longer breathe; gagging relentlessly, he could only take the cock down his throat. He started clawing at his dad's thighs as his dad slowly pulled his cock back. Tomas only managed to suck in some air once or twice before the cock slammed deep. Tomas gagged, and his stomach churned, but his dad didn't care. He continued pounding his little boy's mouth, panting like a dog the entire time.

"You ready, kiddo? You've lubed me all up," he taunted as Tomas gagged. "You look so cute choking on your Daddy's cock."

(VOMIT SCENE BEGINS)

He held Tomas in place for a few more moments before pulling his cock out of his mouth entirely right before Tomas could vomit. Tomas was coughing, throwing up, and gagging. As he fell to his knees, his dad gently jerked his cock to the sight of his teen son gasping for air with vomit dribbling down his lips. Tomas continued to cough as his dad kicked him, and he splayed out on the ground pathetically. His dad was on top of him and prepared to take his virginity. Tomas weakly tried to kick his dad off but was only met with laughter as his dad's puffy cock head teased his hole.

(VOMIT SCENE ENDS)

"Now, this might hurt, buddy," he mumbled, still laughing at Tomas, "but you'll make Daddy feel so good with your little boy cunny."

He pushed his head into Tomas's warm slit. His dad was panting, snarling, and keeping him in place with a tight grip on his hips. Tomas was overstimulated and tried to wriggle his way out of his dad's grip, but he was immediately reminded of the consequences of trying to escape his dad. The cock was deep inside him, and his own cock twitched responsively in the dirt. His dad was rutting into him, and Tomas was dizzy. If he hadn't already been laid out on the ground, he would've collapsed.

His face was pushed into the dirt with each desperate thrust from his dad. Tomas could only cry quietly as his hole was violated, and the thought made his small cock throb. He was unsure how his dad had this much stamina at his age. As his dad grunted more often, Tomas was anxious, waiting for it all to end. His tight and aching cunt could only take so much.

His dad breathed heavily as he pulled out. Tomas knew better than to try to escape as they sat there. Tomas stayed on the ground, unsure when would be a good time to get up, when suddenly his dad's slick cock lined up with his ass. Tomas tensed up and began pleading with his dad.

"Dad, haven't you done enough? Please don't; it will hurt me," Tomas blubbered. "I don't want any more of this."

Tomas's pleas fell on deaf ears. His dad, with a little bit of spit, began greedily pushing his wide cock into his virgin ass. It stretched to fit with enough force, and tears poured down Tomas's face. It hurt so, so much as his dad filled his hole. His dad's head was in, and Tomas never felt so violated– but it put so much pressure on the right places that he began shuddering. Their breathing was animalistic as they pushed against one another in pain and pleasure.

"This little boy hole was made for his daddy. Daddy'll fill you up, and no one will ever know now. Fuck, Tomas, Daddy's sorry he had to rape your holes. I just…"

Tomas screamed as more was forced deeper inside of him. His stomach began to cramp.

"I couldn't help myself anymore. Your little boyfriend can't have your holes before me."

Tomas babbled and sobbed as his dad pushed his cock entirely inside of him. His dad hadn't given him nearly enough time to adjust to his thick cock. Tomas's own cock was twitching painfully, and he felt that familiar warmth in his groin. He began bucking his hips as his dad started thrusting ferally into his hole. His dad spread his ass as he sped up with each thrust. Tomas shook from exhaustion and overstimulation as the pressure threatened to blow over.

"Dad," he whimpered, "I think I'm going--"

"Good boy, cum on your dad's big cock. You're a fucking freak for cumming on your dad's cock." Tomas felt himself leak, and the pressure released as his dad degraded him. "Yeah, cum on it just like that, you little pervert."

Tomas's vision was too blurry to make out anything, and all he could hear were the sounds of his growling dad as he brutalized his ass. Eventually, his dad began to cry out as he buried himself as deep as possible into Tomas. He could feel every single twitch of his dad's cock inside of him in his overstimulated state. His dad spent a few minutes with his still-hard cock deep in Tomas's ass. Tomas didn't dare protest.

His dad pulled his slick cock out and patted his son on the ass. Tomas didn't move, as everything felt unreal even after it seemed all would be over. He allowed himself to lay still in the dirt and snow until his dad scooped him into his arms. They slipped into the nearby tent, and his dad gently laid him in his sleeping bag. His dad started to gently pet Tomas's face as they lay together. Even when it was over, Tomas still felt his dad's hands eagerly exploring his body when his dad thought he had fallen asleep. He felt trapped but couldn't help but feel warmth pooling into his groin whenever his dad played with his sensitive cock.

Tomas wasn't sure how long he had gotten sleep for. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was his dad's fingers stroking his hard cock. When he woke up, his dad was asleep with his cock buried deep in Tomas's cunt. He felt incredibly uneasy but didn't make any effort to move off of his dad's cock. Sometimes, in his sleepy stupor, he would grind on his dad's semi-hard cock and try to touch himself until he could cum. At this point, Tomas thought he might as well try and feel good in such a shitty situation. He preferred it when his dad was asleep anyway.

Once the sun had risen, his dad stirred and pulled his flaccid, leaky cock out of Tomas's cunt. As his dad pulled out, Tomas woke up and stretched. Then, the two tried to continue on as though nothing had happened. The dad-son duo began cleaning up their campsite. It was awkward as Tomas ached, but neither standing nor sitting helped relieve the pain. As they got close to an entirely clean campsite, his dad pulled him aside and gave him a firm talk while tending to his wounds.

"What do we tell anyone if they ask you about this camping trip, Tomas?" his dad asked.

"It was a fun trip, and we had plenty of time for dad-son bonding," Tomas muttered.

"Good boy," his dad almost whispered, gently patting his cheek. "We had plenty of time for dad-son bonding and lots more to come."

#loser maxxing #loser writes #tw r@pe #tw inc*st #tw death threats #tw vomit #fauxc3st #fauxcest #t4t fauxcest #transmasc nsft #trans nsft #t4t nsft #dadcest #dadcon #dad cock #hard k1nk #hard k!nks

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dateko · 1 year ago

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˚｡⋆ GLITTER AND GIGGLES | GETO SUGURU

contents: domestic fluff brain rot, papa!geto with the twins, tatted!geto, reader and suguru are married, & suguru being the best dad even though it is written quite poorly

“I’m home!” You announce as you enter the house, feet screaming as you kick off your heels.

Surprisingly, no one greets you back. The absence of the familiar rumble of footsteps that usually storm toward you causes you to frown. There isn’t a pair of mischievous twins that wait for you at the top of the stairs, nor is there a handsome husband dressed in an apron telling you that he’s missed you all day. You deflate at this, but your ears pick up the lovable sound of hushed giggles coming from the living room.

You creep up the steps gingerly, careful not to disrupt whatever fun the girls seem to be having. And that’s when you see it. There, splayed all over your ridiculously expensive rug that is now littered with markers and glitter glue, is your husband. Your two girls occupy his sides, hovering over his bare back with busy hands.

“Girls?” You break their playful trance, and they turn to each other before you with wide eyes. “What are you two doing?”

Mimiko attempts to gather the markers into her arms as a stuttering Nanako waves her hands in your face, doing a very poor job at obscuring your view when her hands are so incredibly teeny. “Mommy! It’s nothing! We were just cleaning up.”

Your brow raises at this since you know well you didn’t raise a liar. Catching a glimpse of Suguru’s sleeping figure with his bare torso flat on the floor almost makes you think the two tired out their own father to death. But as you step closer, the sight almost makes you laugh out loud.

The tattoo of the rainbow dragon that trails down Suguru’s spine finally bears truth to its name. You’re not exactly sure where to look first. You follow the lines of pink and purple scribbled messily outside the inked lines, the loose glitter that sticks itself between the crevices of your husband’s back muscles, and the series of Sanrio stickers that wander down the side of his neck. It’s ridiculous, almost like a unicorn had vomited all over him, yet precious all at once.

Mimiko tugs at your sleeve. “Are you mad?”

Shaking your head with a smile, you pinch the little brunette’s cheek. “Hand me a marker.”

The girls giggle behind you as you kneel beside Suguru’s sleeping face. He’s gorgeous, always been, and always will be. Thought it was a shame you were about to ruin it. The marker in your hold draws an elaborate beard on his face, making sure to dance with a few swirls and twirls. You beam at how your canvas scrunches his nose, eyebrows furrowing at the feeling of your marker gliding across his skin.

Suguru scratches his face before opening his eyes, blinking repeatedly at the moment he realizes you’re home. “Morning, beautiful.” You grin, tucking a piece of his dark locks behind his ear.

“Sweetheart,” He sits up immediately, unaware of the glitter that falls from his skin behind him. “I missed you.”

You decide against scolding your husband for falling asleep instead of watching your children when he leans in to seal a kiss on your lips, and you turn away, stifling a giggle. “Come on, no kiss?” Suguru pouts. “What’s so funny?”

“Papa, you look so weird.” Mimiko pips from behind you, trying to hide her laughter.

“You have something on your face, Papa!” Nanako adds, squealing when Suguru grabs her to tickle her stomach. The house is filled with an abundance of happy laughter once more, and you can feel your heart swell with contentment. Your husband extends his arm to you and Mimiko, a soft glint in his golden eyes. The expression on his face is delicate, yet he is still completely unaware of the ridiculous lines that paint his features. “Come over here, you two.”

Suguru beams as his three favorite girls pile on top of him, bubbles of joy bouncing off the walls every which way. You can’t help but finally kiss him. You could never resist Suguru, especially when he’s always been such a good husband and an exceptional father for the three of you. The wet smack you place on his lips causes the girls to grimace, trying to wiggle their way out of strong arms.

The twins scramble out of the living room and scurry off immediately. You stay in Suguru’s lap, hand tracing his collarbone and down his shoulders as he hugs you tighter. “Don’t think I’m letting you go without a punishment.” He teases, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?"

“Oh yeah?” His eyebrow raises, unconvinced. “Well, I wouldn't be so sure. You look like Yaga right now.”

Your hands scramble to your chin as you gasp, noticing the black residue on your fingertips. Your husband watches you as you attempt to scrub off the black beard on your face with your sleeve. Rolling your eyes at his smirk, you give up. Grabbing both sides of his face, you kiss him once more. “Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

“Anything for you, Sweetheart.”

#i did not edit or proofread or put much thought or care i just hit POST!!!! because i love suguru #geto x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto x you #suguru x reader #jjk

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rooniper · 5 months ago

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The inevitable Ralph Lore Masterpost

Here it comes. After my second re-read and a week of talking about this fictional cringefail tragic girl dad to anyone who would listen, here it finally is, because I felt a need to write all of this down for future reference and also because I am very close to exploding at any given second of the day.

Also: do keep in mind some of this is my personal speculation/theories/ramblings and probably not canon, but I did try to stick to just the book as much as possible. This is not a coherent essay. Really, it’s a word vomit because I can’t stop thinking about the funny Phone Man. I still probably missed some things, feel free to chime in in the replies, might make a Part 2 unpacking some of the lore/non-Ralph related bits in the future who knows.

Anyways, in no particular order (AND OBVIOUSLY; SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT):

Pre-Freddy’s Era Details I Couldn’t Fit Anywhere Else (Or: Upbringing, College and some Coppelia’s Mom Speculation)

There’s not much info about Ralph’s childhood from what I could gather, except two things: he was bullied in school to the point where he had to hide in a locked bathroom stall to get away from his classmates, and his father was a major a-hole who had extremely high expectations for him and also used to scare him out of wanting to play hide-and-seek with him which. Goddamn. The quote “all your life you’ve gotten used to not pushing buttons” really, really doesn’t help the horrible parents allegations. So yeah the man has daddy issues, jot that down.

Expanding on the previous point: a lot of his parenting of Coppelia seems to be directly influenced by his own upbringing. The paragraph-long tangent about how he’s purposefully awful at hide-and-seek because he never wants Pel to feel as scared as he did is an obvious example, but he also brings her gifts from work pretty much constantly (and sidenote: he thinks of taking things from his job that he never breaks the rules at to bring to her all the goddamn time, while being actively hunted by murderous animatronics. That’s so goddamn wholesome I’m sorry even when he’s scared out of his mind he’s constantly thinking of her). He never puts her down the way it’s implied he was put down as a child, he seems really supportive of her hobbies by the way he talks about her reading. I have more to say about his parenting skills, but the fact that he’s terrified of becoming like his own father/parents seems to be a giant part of them.

He’s a college dropout who majored in psychology, aiming to specialize in child psychology, which makes so much sense but also I find incredibly ironic considering he later exhibits very VERY obvious signs of what’s probably PTSD and doesn’t clock it at all. But that is also going to be its separate point, put a pin in that.

It’s not just implied, but pretty explicitly stated by Ralph himself that he’s a massive overachiever. He was probably pretty academically successful in college, considering he mentions it was a surprise to most people that he’d drop out to get into security work. It’s pretty strongly implied this was mostly because he was pressured into succeeding by his parents. My man has that helicopter parents burnout syndrome, and escaped it by going into a job where he could still interact with kids like he wanted to as a psychologist but actually be happy, and that means a lot to me actually.

(Very important sidenote, because I don’t know where else to put this: the fact that his real dream job is to make children’s toys is just so real to me, especially as someone who’s also experienced academic burnout. It makes so much sense for him to want to do something with his hands where he can create something tangible after being pushed into being traditionally ‘successful’ in academia by his environment. Also put a pin in this as well because I have another point to make about the whole toymaker thing)

He seems to be at least low-contact with his family, which is understandable from what we know about his father - I’d say it’s likely he even cut contact completely after dropping out of college. The fact that he never mentions his parents as a possibility when he talks about babysitting options, or the fact that he doesn’t even consider them taking care of Coppelia when he is literally about to die seems pretty telling to me. I mean, alternatively, they could both be dead, depending on how old Ralph is, but since Coppelia’s only eleven that seems a bit unlikely.

Coppelia’s mom is a mystery. There is exactly one mention of her in this entire book and it doesn’t come from Ralph, but from Pel, so we know she does in fact exist but that’s about it. When Ralph talks about parenting Coppelia he never mentions her mom, even as far back as when Coppelia was one year old. They probably divorced when Coppelia was really young, and Ralph likely has full custody, since he never mentions Coppelia going to her mother’s for the weekend or anything like that. And that’s all we know.

Freddy’s and Related Tidbits (Or: I Stuffed Everything Related to his Relationship to Fazbear Entertainment in this Section)

He’s worked at Freddy’s for at least eleven years, because he mentions Coppelia being a month old when he already had the job and recorded his first training tape. If FNAF 1 indeed takes place in 1993, that means he was already working at Freddy’s by 1982 and likely earlier. Which, side-tangent, would imply that either Fredbear’s Family Diner was removed enough from Fazbear Entertainment by then for him not to know anything beyond the vague existence about the bite of ‘83, or that FNAF 1 takes place after 1993. But at this point the timeline is confusing enough that who knows.

He’s never moved up to management despite being there for more than a decade, also doesn’t appear to know Henry or William (especially if you believe the whole Dave-is-probably-William theory).

He was employee of the month 22 times. He also likely competed against his murderer ex-boss in disguise for the longest employee of the month award streak which is the best goddamn thing I’ve ever heard.

He’s written some of the rules at Freddy’s. Because of course he has.

He leaves passive-agressive notes to the dayshift guard and also thinks about shoving a ballpoint pen in the cleaning staff’s faces. And also talks about reporting people for slacking off. What I’m trying to say that he’s probably not the most popular of people with the rest of the staff, and doesn’t appear to realize why that could possibly be. Worst enemy of folks who don’t want to take their shitty minimum wage job extremely seriously.

On a related note, he takes his job so seriously oh my god. He does like twenty other jobs each night while the animatronics are trying to kill him. He’s probably the only person still doing reports. Management is very much implied to never read them. He writes them anyway. The fact that he was genuinely called ‘the Phone Guy’ and also was in training videos is also amazing (and also pushes the Trans Phone Guy agenda for anyone who considers Kim from the FNAF movie to be a stand-in for him).

This is specifically night-shift related: While it’s true that his survival instincts are absolutely shot, he is, when pushed, demonstrated to be capable of extreme violence against animatronics, which actually good for him. He kicks Bonnie’s head off. He beats Chica to death with a mop. He shoots Foxy with a watergun and also throws a lightbulb at him. This is not particularly important to anything but it’s extremely important to me.

Anyways, he’s really, really loyal to this company. Like, too loyal. Like, he was very much responsible and instrumental in shutting down rumors and speculation among staff after the bite of ‘87 and likely after the MCI as well too loyal. He’s management’s mouthpiece for their dirty work and that makes me feel a certain way because it’s so obvious he cares a lot about this shitty kids’ restaurant, enough that he’d defend it at all cost even when there’s so much evidence against it. This will come up again when I talk about him gaslighting himself.

This is mostly me speculating on the previous point, but I’m pretty certain a lot of his defending of the company is also a coping mechanism that he uses to grapple with the trauma brought to him by the fact that he’s spent a huge chunk of his life working for a conglomerate that’s gotten people killed. He genuinely insinuates Jeremy was responsible for getting chomped, because he must’ve done something wrong, the animatronics would never attack anyone without reason (right?). When he talks about how the media blew children going missing out of proportion, it seems less like he believes it and more like he doesn’t want to believe it - especially considering he’s only brought Coppelia to Freddy’s once in her life. He never lets her near it. He shuts her down immediately when she talks about working at it. Which, at least to me, demonstrates that on a subconscious level, he knows what he’s saying isn’t true. It’s just easier to say it than face the facts.

And lastly, he’s so clearly and passionately loyal to the Fazbear’s franchize. This fucker genuinely loves working here and is sad to go, even though management treats him like shit. We already knew that, but still, dear god those people could not care less if he lived or died and he STILL takes his night guard duties so goddamn seriously. He’s so clearly really invested in it, he talks about what a magical place Freddy’s used to be for kids, he talks about how much the job means to him, all the while it’s actively trying to kill him, he defends it to the point that it’s actively ridiculous, and in multiple endings he still gets blackmailed, disappeared or worse by the people he’s defending. And- I don’t know. It just makes me really sad. Again, I do believe his over-the-top enthusiasm for his job is probably him compensating for the fact that he doesn’t want to face the incredibly traumatic stuff happening to him, especially because as the week goes on, he gets less and less enthusiastic with every night, and just- Yeah. Fazbear Entertainment doesn’t deserve him.

Characterization, Diction and Things Like That (Or: Everything Else)

Let’s get the more positive stuff in this section out of the way first: we already knew this from the phone calls, but the way this man talks just sends me. “Time to make the donuts” when walking into a shift my favorite of his Phone-Guy-isms, but also unironically saying “oh boy!” and “what rotten luck!” right when you’re about to die is equally important to me.

Kind of related but not really: this man truly is a dad through and through because MY GOD the amount of bad puns and/or stupid references he makes is criminal. The fact that they get him actually killed in some of the endings because he keeps laughing at his own terrible jokes is also great. My favorite examples include thinking “my, what large ears you have” immediately before Foxy mauls him, the Irony Curtain, the how many night watchmen does it take to change a lightbulb, and so on. The fact that he also finds all of this absolutely hilarious means so much to me. Ralph truly is a cringefail girl dad, RIP to him he would’ve loved those awful shirts with puns that were popular with dads going to Disneyland in the 2000s.

Not gonna lie, and I’m not sure if this is just me reading too much into it, but he also reads as at least slightly neurodivergent to me. And I am ready to die on that hill. He doesn’t really seem to be the best at social interaction or with figuring people out, from the way he talks about not being able to tell if his coworkers are only laughing at his jokes to be polite or not and how he doesn’t seem to understand why they would be upset with him shoving minimal errors in their faces. He notices a single hat out of place in one of the Party Rooms and immediately goes to correct it. He makes a point about how much he hates messes and the whole “you need order, you crave order in your life” quote resonated so deeply with me that it’s uncanny. He’s a “stickler for rules”. The fact that he worked at one place for eleven plus years also makes me think he’s probably not the best with change. I could go on. I don’t know, I wouldn’t be able to tell you why, but I just can’t see him as fully neurotypical.

He’s also just a really curious dude, to the point of his curiosity overriding his survival instincts. Which is a horror protagonist trope if I’ve ever seen one. The scene where he lifts up a strange robot cupcake he just found directly to his face with zero hesitation is just. Yeah.

He loves Foxy, which we already knew, but also the fact that he explicitly states that he’s still scared of him and Pirate Cove by association makes me kinda sad. Also, related point, he’s a self-proclaimed fan of pirate stories, so I’m pretty sure that’s where Coppelia gets her taste in books from, but that’s besides the point.

In general, he just really loves the animatronics, too? Like he waves at them after his shift. Like I already mentioned, he talks about how much they mean to him, and how much he loves the fact that they brought joy to kids. It’s kinda sweet.

The most questionable thing about him is the way he. Uh. Talks about guns/cops in a way that kind of makes me remember he was raised in Utah around the 1960s. There are a few specific passages that make me extremely concerned about what his opinion on the second amendment is. But that is luckily left unspoken so I’ll be moving along.

The job stresses him out so much he consumes a packet of raw poptarts because he’s so hungry by the end of it. Which, while iconic, is also very deeply concerning. Which brings me to my biggest point

My god this man has Trauma. So much Trauma. He represses so much. The entirety of the beginning of Night 3 is just him describing that he forgets details about his shifts as soon as he leaves them. He gaslights himself constantly that nothing bad is happening (after Night 1, for example, he calls the entire shift the night before a bad dream and convinces himself he’s just “misinterpreting” events, which is goddamn concerning), but he’s also actively wasting away despite telling himself he’s not (my man looks into the mirror and his only and first comment is that he looks terrible). Not to mention the dissociation. He spaces out when he comes home on two seperate occassions, and loses and entire hour each time without realizing it. God I hope in the endings where he survives he eventually gets therapy.

Coppelia and Life Outside of Work (Or: This Section is Concerningly Short)

This man loves his daughter so goddamn much. So, so much.

No but seriously the interactions between him and Coppelia are so pure and well written and they were my favorite part of the book, somehow, even though I wasn’t originally sold on the concept. The “with what?” “excellent point, I’ve got nothing” kills me still. The scene where Coppelia curls up next to him after he comes home from his shift makes me want to sob. He makes her pancakes and they banter and she test limits but it’s obvious she also loves her dad, and that is- AAAAAA

Back to my bullshit, though: Ralph does kinda read as the type of parent who’d spoil a kid rotten if given the opportunity to do so. At some point Coppelia directly says that he “gets her everything she wants”, and- yeah. This is similar to the point I made previously about him bringing her gifts all the time. She does seem like a good kid, though. He’s just a girl dad to the extent that he’d probably wear a shirt with girl dad written on it, you know?

He’s also really protective of her. And worries. A lot. Not just when he calls home or rushes home to check on her, but also when he talks about being a security guard at her school and whenever he forbids her from ever ever going near Freddy’s. Say what you will about him defending a company to a possibly unethical extent, but he’s not about to endanger his daugher over it, and I respect that.

The only concering thing about him and Coppelia is the fact that Coppelia apparently drew herself stabbing him when she was little. Which is. Well. Not ideal. The fact that he finds this completely normal is very in character, though.

On Coppelia by herself, though: the fact that she ‘tinkers with stuff in the basement’ concerns me. I wouldn’t at all be surprised if after the canon ending, she ends up to be a technician at Freddy’s at some point. Also, the fact that she’s a gamer warms my heart.

Now, on other outside-work activities: I love the implication that my man not only bowls and always pays for dinner, but that he bowls and pays for dinner while dining with his serial killer ex-boss. God, that’s awesome, I love that so much.

Tying back to a point I made previously and also to a point I saw some people make that I really, really resonated with: there are actually a lot of parallels between Henry/William and Ralph, especially concering parenting. I don’t think the fact that his dream to be a toymaker is accidental, either, or the fact that he goes out of his way to point out that he wants to make toys that aren’t at all mechanical. Because even though he’s also a dad trying to make his kid happy with his creations, unlike William and/or Henry, he doesn’t want to make anything bigger than himself, or anything innovative; just wants to make simple things and make a kid’s day better. I don’t know man keeps me up at night, you know?

And, because this is only important to me: he owns a Kit-Cat Clock. This is somehow the most fitting thing I could’ve read about his taste in home decor.

And because I don’t know how else to end this: that’s a wrap! Was this book perfect? Hell no. The Bronwen plotline makes my brain hurt. But was it incredibly fun? Oh hell yes. And now I have a reference point for any future writings I do where Ralph is an active character, so that’s a major bonus. I have many thoughts but not enough time to put all of them down so I’m stopping here, major thanks to @graceandtheidiotsquad for pushing me over the edge and making me actually finish this with a reply lmao. And that’s all! Phone Man please get out of my head now before I go insane.

#when i tell you rent free in my head i mean rent free #i start uni in like 4 days i can’t still be unwell over a goddamn fnaf book and yet #ralph my beloved i love you you silly silly man #fnaf #phone guy #the week before #fnaf the week before #fnaf the week before spoilers #reference

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wa1kerbait4592 · 9 months ago

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planet of the apes 🦧

dude… i have now seen the new kingdom of the planet of the apes in cinema twice and the first time around i wasn’t all that impressed and i left the theatre kinda disappointed but the second time around i left a little more impressed and a little less disappointed.

the movie was still weak compared to the first three films, (the rise, dawn and war) but im glad it was made.

as a whole i believe this franchise is criminally underrated on multiple different levels. The poetic nature of the films is something i don’t think i would ever articulate or write on paper to perfectly capture how beautifully made these films are, they are just chefs kiss

proximus caesar was a funny villain that i think deserved more screen time and back story, it makes me kinda sad to think that we wont really see his character again.

the symbolism that links all four films together is incredibly well done and throughout the entire series there are crumbs of the films that came before them, which is a part of the reason why i love these films so much. i like how they made noa so similar to caesar, not only in his appearance but in his characteristics. i like to believe it was intentional that noa and caesar (particularly in dawn of the planet of the apes with malcolm) cautiously but willingly trusted a human. noa is so incredibly similar to caesar it would be criminal to suggest otherwise.

dude these films are so visually well done you almost forget you are watching cgi. the visual effects alone blow my mind but the accuracy and attention to detail when it comes to the mannerisms of the apes is out of this world and deserves more recognition. in terms of cinematography planet of the apes have always been amazing at beautifully capturing emotions from all the apes and even better at showing the wonders of a post-human run world. the forests and surroundings that the apes find themselves in continue to amaze me, especially in this newest film were we see a variety of different landscapes.

as much as i am growing to love kingdom of the planet of the apes, i feel as though we could have waited for noa and his story. i think cornelius and the others that were left behind after caesars death deserved a closing chapter. i would have loved to know how the community handled the loss of their leader and saviour and how they all moved on. also i feel as though we needed back story on how the apes separated and became different clans spread all across the continent. as an example i would have also loved to see how the misinterpretation of caesar and what he stood for became so strong and wide spread, as well as why noas clan and their elders knew nothing of caesar or chose to leave him out of their history. there were a lot of open ends and unfinished stories that deserved more screen time, but in saying that, that could mean an eternity of story telling that everyone may not want to see.

at the end of kingdom of the planet of the apes they left it open for another film which i am looking forward to seeing where they take story line. are they going to fully circle around to the original films were they capture more humans and start to use them as slaves or will the story begin to get repetitive? i hope repetition won’t sneak its way into these films like is has with so many other franchises, but we can only hope right?

anyways-

long live monkeys… i love monkeys and we need more monkey movies

also- i know i don’t really do this sort of this thing on this account but i was beginning to genuinely tweak if i didn’t word vomit my thoughts on these movies <3

#planet of the apes #rise of the planet of the apes #dawn of the planet of the apes #war of the planet of the apes #kingdom of the planet of the apes #movie review #movies #monkey #proximus caesar

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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The Prince and The Fox (4)

[ modern! • Aemond x friend! • female ]

[ warnings: kissing and fluff, just weird teenagers ]

[ description: After the events of her childhood, despite her best efforts, her neighbor and the younger brother of her friend Helaena, Aemond, does not want to know her. This state lasts until a house party organized by his older brother, Aegon, during which an incident occurs that will change their relationship forever. Slow burn, angst, toxic ex-Alys, rough Aemond. This is several anon requests combined into one fic. ]

WARNING: The main plot between the characters takes place in high school.Yes, in high school. The belief that teenagers wait with an intimacy when they are in love in high school is ridiculous to me. Aemond and the character here are the same age. Don’t ask me how old they are, in my country you are of the age of consent in your first year of high school and an adultin the last year of high school, so if it is more convenient for you, think about it that way and decide for yourself. In this story, I am not following the trail that they are magically friends right away, but how they become friends and what that even means. I’m writing this fic to give the perspective of young, lost people, not adult women who want to see exactly themselves in everything they read. If that’s all you expect, this isn’t the fic for you.

I don’t want whining about this in my comments or asks. I will delete these and block you. You have been warned.

Aemond + Evans Series Moodboard

This is my first story that has its own playlist, but yes! Get in the mood! Story Music Playlist

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She and Helaena lay side by side, watching the second and first parts of Shrek, laughing out loud, speaking their favourite dialogues from memory, however, her thoughts kept running back to what happened a few hours earlier. She clenched her eyelids at the mere mention.

They kissed.

She had no idea if that was good or bad.

Did he now think of her as easy to get?

Did he despise her now?

She had a lot of doubts swirling around in her head and for some reason she felt like crying again, even though the experience itself turned out to be incredibly pleasant for her.

It was her first kiss ever.

During the night she couldn't sleep, twisting from side to side, restless, listening to hear if perhaps he was up or walking down the corridor.

There was complete silence.

She shuddered when, a few hours later, her phone's display lit up and vibrated loudly, waking her up and blinding her; for a moment she struggled to open her eyelids and adjust to the light.

After a while she succeeded and unlocked the keypad. She saw with a pounding heart that she had received a message from him.

She swallowed loudly, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart, the cold sweat on the back of her neck.

Fuck.

She wrote him back quickly, deciding that just 'no' would sound too dry and might let him think she was angry with him.

He didn't write back for a long time and she was afraid of what he would reply, that he would write back to tell her that it all made no sense, that it was a big mistake and that he regrets that they did it.

She felt like she was about to cry and vomit from stress and fear at the same time, all she could hear and feel was the hard pounding of her heart.

She jumped down on the bed next to Helaena when a notification suddenly displayed on her phone that she had received a new message from him.

She drew in a loud breath, tightening her lips and swallowed hard.

She rose silently, slipping the duvet off her, walking slowly barefoot towards the door. She furrowed her brow as she grabbed the handle and pressed it, the door began to open with an unpleasant creak of wood.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Helaena, horrified, but she merely turned in bed, sleeping on.

She left without closing the door, afraid that another sound like that would surely wake her, and ran on tiptoe through the corridor towards his room. She knocked quietly feeling that her whole body was quivering in terror.

She thought he preferred to tell her what he thought of her to her face.

He opened it for her and looked around the corridor to make sure no one had seen anything, letting her in and closing the door behind him.

The only light in his room was his lamp standing on his desk, surrounding the whole space with a pleasant, warm glow.

She stood in place playing with her hands, staring at the floor, afraid to look at him.

"Did you want this? You know…what we did." He muttered wearily, his fingers rubbing against each other in a nervous gesture.

She looked at him surprised, his face stony, she had no idea what he was thinking. She swallowed loudly, not knowing what to answer, looking at him with her lips slightly parted.

"Yes." She admitted with shame, feeling herself tremble all over.

Silence.

A long one.

She felt like she was about to die.

"Me too. What now?" He asked, as if he wanted her to tell him the result of a maths equation.

She looked at him in disbelief, not believing he had said that. They both seemed extremely surprised by this discovery, by what had happened.

She licked her lower lip, which was almost burning with nervousness, having no idea what to answer.

"I... I don't know. It's probably too soon to… you know." She muttered, and he stared at her in silence, she felt that she couldn't very well convey what she was feeling, what she was realising.

Good God, she was attracted to him.

She really was, but it was too early to talk about a relationship, they barely knew each other.

What was she supposed to tell him?

"I…I just wish I could spend some time with you occasionally. Or just text you. If you feel like it too, of course." She said quickly, lowering her gaze again, feeling like she was in kindergarten when she couldn't express herself properly.

"I like the way things have developed between us over the last few weeks. I don't want to ruin it with unnecessary haste. But I don't regret what we've done." She said finally, lifting her uncertain gaze to him.

She saw him nod and swallow loudly, letting the air out of his lungs, as if he felt relieved, as if he didn't know himself what to make of it all, what to think of it, how to behave towards her now.

"Mmm."

They stood like that in silence, looking away again, not knowing if they should add anything more, she could feel the tension growing between them again, his hands clenched into fists.

"Do you want me to go back to Helaena now?" She asked uncertainly, scratching her shoulder, feeling with embarrassment how much her hands were trembling.

He looked at her and hesitated for a moment.

"…Yeah." He muttered, lowering his gaze, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants.

She nodded, feeling an ache in her heart for some reason, knowing, however, that it was the right thing to do. She walked past him and glanced at him standing next to the door.

"Good night." She said softly, looking over her shoulder, his lips tightened.

Silence.

He looked like he wanted to say something else and she didn't know if she should leave or not.

They stood like that for a moment, she heard him swallow loudly, he wasn't looking at her.

"Do you wanna kiss again? Before… you know. Going back to normal." He grunted out in a low trembling voice with difficulty and embarrassment, as if he didn't believe those words had left his mouth.

She stared at him with her eyes wide open, feeling her heart pounding fast, heat spilling over her lower abdomen.

Oh God.

She didn't know whether she was more terrified by his request or by the way her heart squeezed with joy, a wave of heat flowing through her body.

"Y-yeah. Okay."

She muttered embarrassed at how desperate she was, how hot she was at the thought that he wanted to touch her again, that he liked it too.

She swallowed loudly as he drew his hand towards her, looking down at her with his lips slightly parted, his gaze dark and hazy. She gently grasped his fingers and approached him feeling her heart pounding hard, feeling butterflies in her stomach and a pleasant tickle between her thighs.

For a moment they just stood looking at each other, his trembling hand gently slid her hair off her shoulder behind her back. She felt a pleasant shiver at that touch, close, intimate, filled with some kind of affection.

She felt his thumb on her cheek as it dug in and ran over her soft skin, his healthy eye looking at her as if half asleep, dreamy, his warm breath enveloping her face.

He leaned over her and their foreheads touched, she parted her lips slightly in a hastened breath feeling as if they were burning with the desire for him to touch her already, to relieve her.

It seemed to her as if he had read her thoughts, his lips clung to hers in a soft, warm, calm, loud kiss. She closed her eyes and sighed, reciprocating his gesture by placing her hands on the sides of his neck, her fingers trailing along his jaw.

He groaned and kissed her deeper, suddenly clamping his hand in her hair and pulling her tighter, surprising her completely, making her sigh loudly into his mouth, throwing her hands over his shoulders, wanting to feel him as close as possible.

The tips of their noses rubbed as their lips danced and brushed against each other, sinking into each other's soft texture, spreading each other's moisture and saliva, both of them panting quietly, his pleasant, warm breath, his closeness calming her.

She knew she should pull away, that this was supposed to be just one kiss, but instead their lips found each other again and again, their hands stroking each other's hair and cheeks.

He pulled away from her for a moment, pressing his forehead against hers, not letting her go from his embrace.

"− maybe − maybe stay with me, just for a little while longer − if you want −" He whispered in a low, trembling voice, as if he was afraid of what he was saying and of her reaction, that she would laugh at him, that she would spurn him.

Hey, Cyclops, do you have a girlfriend?

She pressed her lips together at the thought that he might have thought he was repulsive for her.

She nodded her head.

"− do you want to lie down? − I - I won't do anything to you −" He muttered, adding a second sentence quickly, afraid she might misunderstand him and get scared. She felt her throat dry up and couldn't get anything out, so she nodded again.

He took her hand gently and set himself down on his bedding, laying on his side, facing her, his head on his pillow. She lay down right next to him, looking up at his face.

He put his hand on hers, stroking it with his thumb, and just looked at her, sighing heavily, as if what was happening now required a lot of effort on his part. She smiled at the thought, and he blinked.

"What?" He muttered, wrinkling his brow, embarrassed, his hand stopped in mid-motion.

"I like you." She said softly, sincerely, warmly, feeling wonderful and safe, never had anyone been close to her like this before, no one's touch gave her such pleasure.

She heard him swallow hard and lower his gaze, embarrassed, his thumb began stroking her hand again.

"I like you too." He whispered softly and looked straight into her eyes, there was something intimate, private about it.

She lifted her hand slowly and touched his cheek, running her fingers over his face as if she were treading water with them, she heard him sigh quietly and closed his eyes, drawing in air loudly.

She moaned as he leaned closer, their lips naturally clinging to each other in a hot, wet kiss, he pulled her to him, she could feel the warmth of his body, the trembling of his hands, his restless, laboured breathing.

She blinked when she felt something in his trousers pulsate hard, hitting her stomach. He drew in a loud breath and pulled away immediately, looking at her shocked.

"− I − I'm sorry − I didn't mean to −" He mumbled out embarrassed, and she looked at him surprised, not knowing what he was actually apologising to her for.

"What was that?" She asked amused, raising her eyebrows and he looked at her with parted lips, she had never seen anyone so embarrassed and horrified before in her life.

He licked his lower lip in a nervous gesture, she had a feeling he was never going to get out what he wanted to say, complete chaos in his mind.

"− I − I think I just like you a bit − too much now − you know what I mean − right? −" He asked uncertainly as if to see if she knew what he was talking about, not believing that she could have been that unaware.

She blinked and pressed her lips together, opening her eyes wide when she realised what he meant, felt her cheeks turn all red and swallowed with difficulty.

"− I − if you're uncomfortable, then go − I'm sorry, I didn't mean to − fuck, God, why −" He growled, pressing his face against his pillow, unable to look her in the eye, clearly embarrassed that he was unable to restrain his physical instincts.

She looked at him in disbelief.

He desired her.

"− no − I mean − nothing happened − I felt good about kissing − I know you won't hurt me − it's okay, really −" She mumbled out sincerely believing her words.

He pressed his lips together, looking at her as if in pain, and sighed heavily, lowering his head back down, pressing it to her forehead, stroking her cheek and hair.

They lay like that without saying a word, just looking at each other, breathing quietly, she felt her eyelids growing heavier as she drifted off into sleep, her fingers trailing over the exposed wrist of his other hand.

"Sleep. I'll carry you to Helaena later." He whispered softly, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers, and she hummed quietly under her breath and closed her eyes, concentrating only on the pleasant touch of his warm hand, his thumb stroking her skin.

She felt safe.

She shuddered, not knowing where she was or what was happening when she felt someone lift her, darkness all around her.

She squealed quietly and he hushed her, stroking her back, grabbing her under her hips, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist and throw her arms around his neck.

"− shush, Foxy −" He whispered, opening his door quietly, walking slowly towards Helaena's bedroom. He stepped inside trying not to make any noise and placed her gently on the bed beside her, looking at her for a moment longer.

He just ran his thumb over her cheek before lifting himself back up and leaving, closing the door quietly behind him.

She fell asleep feeling a pleasant heat in her heart.

She was falling in love.

_____

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possessiveandobsessive · 3 months ago

Text

The Spirit of Determination

Nyra "Rook" Thorne is somehow responsible for the fate of all of Thedas. If she's going to pull it off, she's going to need a hell of a lot of determination. Lucky for her, she knows a guy and his demon who can help her out with that.

Hello! This is the part I've been the most excited for! I NEEDED a Lucanis POV of the time Rook was trapped in the Fade, so I wrote one! I hope everyone enjoys, it's a long one!

Part 7: In the Company of Spite

Detached. Hollow. Destroyed. These were the only words to describe how Lucanis felt when he woke up after the battle with Ghilan’nain.

The assassin had opened his eyes and was confused for a moment. He had no memory of how he had come to be unconscious or how exactly he had ended up in the small infirmary bed. Groaning and holding his aching head, Lucanis slowly sat up and searched his mind. Everything he remembered was a blur of noise, adrenaline, and pain. He had been fighting Ghilan’nain with Rook and Davrin, and then… Lucanis thought he might vomit as the fragmented pieces he could recall started rapidly putting themselves back together. Harding had sacrificed herself to free him and Rook. She was gone. The cheerful, red-headed dwarf had been thrown down a pit filled with blight and disappeared to a place only the dead knew. They couldn’t even bring her body home. Harding was just a memory now.

Lucanis’s brow furrowed deeply as the rest of his memory began playing through his mind at top speed. After Harding was killed, he ran to Rook’s side to help her up. Then she had given him the order to kill Ghilan’nain, and he had. He remembered the elation, the rush of finally completing the contract he had been working on for so long, and then-

ROOK IS GONE! Spite’s screech filled Lucanis’s mind, cutting off his train of thought. TAKEN! STOLEN FROM US! LOST! GONE! The demon raged inside him, seeming to grow louder with each syllable. Spite was a creature of emotion, and he was in complete turmoil over Rook’s absence.

Rook…no she can’t… It was too late for denial though, because now Lucanis remembered the rest of that night. He remembered exactly how he had ended up here. Rook had been taken, most likely dragged into the Fade given the way in which she had vanished. She had screamed; she had screamed his name. Lucanis threw himself onto the ground and shoved his head into an empty bucket that sat near the bed. His stomach churned and emptied its contents violently. The intensity of his fear and grief combined with the likely concussion he had received during the cursed battle was too much for his battered body to handle. Spite’s incredibly loud shouting in his mind was not helping matters either. He sat up slowly, not wanting to further upset his stomach, and wiped a hand across his mouth. Lucanis could feel the tears that had automatically begun to fall at the memory of Rook’s anguish rolling down his cheeks. If he had been in any state to ponder, he would’ve thought much more of the tears themselves. Lucanis had not cried since he was a boy, not even over Caterina’s “death”. He tried to catch his breath and slow his pulse when the demon’s shouting picked up again.

KILL THE DREAD WOLF! KILL THE GODS! KILL THEM ALL! KILL THE ONES WHO HURT HER! The thoughts were thunderous now, Spite’s rage bleeding from every word. WANT HER BACK! GET. HER. BACK!

Lucanis slapped his hands over his ears out of instinct, but the wailing was inside his mind, and he couldn’t escape it. Spite continued to rant and rave, mostly saying the same phrases over and over. The Crow grimaced deeply before shouting out loud into the empty room, “SPITE! Stop! Stop yelling, I cannot think straight!” Taking another deep breath, Lucanis had just started to get up when he heard Spite’s voice in his mind again. This time however, the demon’s volume was significantly lower, and his tone dripped with bitter resentment.

This is YOUR fault. You left the dagger. You got hurt. Rook had to fix your mess. Now she is gone. You are the one to blame Lucanis.

Lucanis’s jaw nearly fell open at Spite’s declaration. He had never heard the demon speak so clearly or with so much control before. The worst part though, was that Lucanis feared that Spite was right. The dagger had slipped from his grasp when he was thrown off of Ghilan’nain. It was his fault that it had remained in her chest. Lucanis did fall unconscious after he was thrown, and he assumed it was either the magic that fueled the blast, or his concussion that prevented Spite from taking over. Finally, he had awoken only in time to do nothing except watch as Rook disappeared. It IS my fault, the man thought miserably, If I had been quicker or smarter about the final blow, this could have been prevented. Rook would still be here. I could finally tell her how important she is to me…

It was that final thought that broke Lucanis down completely. He had never gotten to tell her. He had never been able to tell her that all of her feelings were reciprocated. Lucanis never got to tell her that he owed her his life and soul, that she had saved him in more ways than one. He never got to hold her close and feel her strong heartbeat against his skin. He had never gotten to kiss her. Lucanis thought about her lips frequently after the incident in his room, and he kicked himself daily for being such a fool and walking away. He had wasted so much time fighting his heart that he had missed his opportunities to love and be loved by the most incredible woman he’d ever met. Now, she was gone, and it seemed impossible that he’d ever see her again, let alone get the chance to apologize and tell her his truth.

“You’re right” Lucanis spoke aloud, addressing his demonic counterpart, “It’s my fault she’s gone, and I’ll suffer for the rest of my life knowing it.” The crow paused for a moment before doing something he’d never imagined he ever would. He addressed Spite again: “I’m sorry Spite. I guess I failed us both.”

A resounding silence followed his words. Lucanis wondered if Spite had gone somewhere in his mind to ignore him, and realized that at one time he would have done anything to achieve that. Now, he just felt strangely alone and empty in the quiet of his mind. Lucanis had very nearly begun to call on Spite when the door to the infirmary opened loudly. Taash stood in the doorway looking exhausted and somewhat irritated. The young Rivani really looked as if they hadn’t slept in days, but still managed to sound firm when they addressed him.

“Good, you’re up. Thought I was gonna have to start screaming in your ear or kicking you or something.” Taash paused, looking Lucanis up and down before meeting his eyes again and continued, “The Corpse Fu- I mean Emmerich said we all needed to talk when you woke up. Apparently he has some information he wants to share with the class.”

“Is it about Rook?” Lucanis asked, probably sounding too childishly hopeful for a grown man and assassin. “Also, how long was I unconscious?”

“You’ve been completely out for the last 3 days. As for what it’s about, I’m not sure…” Taash said slowly, “I know he and Neve have been spending pretty much all their time in the library and Emmerich’s quarters reading dusty-ass, old books. I’m not sure what exactly they’re looking for though.”

Lucanis was shocked to hear that he had been asleep for the past three days, but just nodded at Taash’s explanation and began to walk towards the door. He was planning on going straight to see Emmerich and getting filled in on the details of the two mages’ plans, but Taash stopped him.

Wrinkling their nose at Lucanis and giving him a look of distaste, Taash spoke bluntly. “Maybe go clean up first. You smell like shit. Plus, you need to eat something. I’ll go tell Emmerich you’re awake and the team can gather after you’re done.

Lucanis badly wanted to argue and insist that he speak to the necromancer immediately, but he could smell himself now that they had pointed it out and agreed with Taash’s assessment. So instead of arguing, Lucanis simply sighed and hung his head for a brief moment before looking back up. “You are right, Taash. I’ll go clean up and eat and then I’ll join you all in the library.” Taash seemed satisfied enough with this response and nodded at him as they moved aside for him to exit the infirmary.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lucanis had never gone this long without hearing from Spite. He had managed to make it back to the pantry, clean himself up, don fresh clothes, and begin making coffee and soup for himself (and for the others later) without a single word or provocation from the demon. Difficult as it was for him to admit or accept, he found himself actually worrying about Spite. Shaking his head in utter disbelief at what he was about to do, Lucanis reached out in his mind for its second occupant.

Spite? Lucanis hesitantly called on the demon internally, Spite… are you there? He could feel a kind of rustling in his mind. It was comparable to the sound of someone emerging from a pile of blankets, and Lucanis imagined Spite rolling out of bed. Ludacris as the thought was (and probably not an indication of anything good for his overall sanity) it brought a small smile to Lucanis’s face. The smile quickly fell when he heard Spite’s raspy response.

What do. You want? Spite’s words were shockingly restrained and quiet. He was completely different now from how he was only an hour or two before now. Lucanis was taken out of his thoughts about Spite’s attitude shift when he heard the demon ask again, What do. You want. Lucanis?

Perturbed, Lucanis questioned Spite aloud, “What is going on with you? I’m grateful for some silence and peace, but you’ve never let up or been silent like this for so long before. What is happening?” His questions were met with silence for a beat before Spite answered.

We were weak. Spite and Lucanis. You made. Me SOFT. Took my. Nature. From me. What is Spite? Not. Demon. Not like. Before! Spite seemed to grow more agitated with every word. He was almost back to his yelling by the last few. Lucanis just felt more confused than he had before though.

“What do you mean, Spite? I know that you think I was too weak to save Rook, and I agree that I was, but I don’t-” Lucanis was forced to stop abruptly when Spite interjected. Stupid Humans. Spite finally manifested after he said this, and began pacing in front of Lucanis. He continued his rant.

“Humans. Don’t make any. Sense! Want something. Don’t take it. Feel something. Don’t say it. Spite doesn’t. Understand.” The demon halted his pacing and approached Lucanis. His ghostly purple form wavered as he came to stand directly in front of his host. Lucanis could feel something coming from Spite, something akin to… anxiety? Maybe sadness? Definitely frustration as well. He couldn’t dwell on it, because Spite continued, “Now. Spite feels… different. Not like. Demon. Not like. Human. Not. RIGHT! Lucanis. And Rook. Do something. To Spite. Change him. What is Spite? Want Rook. Rook would. Know. Rook. Always. Knows!”

Lucanis was again speechless. Spite was a much more complex being than he had imagined all this time. Or, maybe it hadn’t been all this time. This change could be more recent, after all, Spite had just claimed that Lucanis and Rook were “changing” him. Was that even possible? Could a demon change? He had never heard of such a thing, but before the Ossuary he had never heard of a non-mage becoming possessed either. He had definitely not heard of an abomination maintaining a human form and thought. So maybe there was also more to demons than anyone realized.

“Spite,” Lucanis began, “What do you mean you’re different? How are Rook and I responsible for changing you?” Spite’s face (his own but not quite) twisted into a frustrated snarl before he began pacing again.

Spite does not. Care. Like humans. Spite exists. To Spite. Demon. Has one. Purpose to fulfill. One feeling. Drives. He turned on Lucanis again, pointing at him in an accusatory manner. Now it is different. Spite feels. Like Lucanis. Feels more. Feels… affection. Feels… fear. Feels… joy. Spite does not. Understand. Does not. Know what to. DO!

Lucanis surprised himself when he felt a rush of empathy towards Spite. He too felt lost in uncharted territory. Before the Ossuary, he had been a master assassin. That had been all, nothing more or less. Lucanis had been a weapon for his grandmother to wield as she pleased, and so he never needed to decide anything for himself. He had never needed to listen to what his heart had to say. After meeting Rook and joining the team though, that had all changed. He wasn’t allowed to sulk on his own or isolate himself to wallow in self-pity. Lucanis had a team, a whole team to support him and show him what it was like to feel. He had learned from the others what it felt like to love, to feel joy, to be terrified to lose something, and to be ecstatic when he got it back. Spite hadn’t had any of that support or guidance. He had just been trapped within Lucanis’s jumbled and chaotic mind, forced to accept any changes in character that Lucanis underwent.

“I didn’t realize,” Lucanis began, speaking softly and lowly to the frustrated demon in front of him, “I didn’t think about how my turmoil and changes would affect you, Spite. I’m sorry.” Spite stared at him with a furrowed brow as Lucanis added, “I didn’t know what to do about the new feelings at first either, not until Rook helped me understand.” Guilt curled in the assassin’s stomach as he realized: “I didn’t let you talk to her… I was worried you’d say or do something to hurt her, but you just wanted help finding your place in all of this.” Lucanis met Spite’s gaze then, and they stared at each other for a moment before the demon broke the silence.

“Lucanis and Spite. Same?” Spite questioned, sounding more confused and surprised than frustrated now. “Both new. Neither the same. Change each other? Yes. Lucanis changes Spite. Spite changes Lucanis. Rook helps both. Rook saves both. We. Need. Her. Back!”

Lucanis met Spite’s eyes after the spirit’s last proclamation. “Yes, we do.” he agreed, “We need Rook. So we are going to make a plan, and work together, as one, to save her. Are we in agreement?” Spite stared at the mortal man in front of him, as if sizing him up to see if he had what it took. He must’ve been satisfied, because he then said, “WE will. Save our. Rook. Together. Lucanis can. Tell her his truth. Spite can see her again. Thank her. For helping Lucanis. And for. Making Spite more. More than Spite.”

Man and Spirit approached one another and shook hands. They had a new deal, and neither of them were willing to break it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When Lucanis entered the library after having eaten, the rest of the team was waiting. Everyone was seated in their normal spots, making certain members’ absences all too noticeable. Neve sat alone on the loveseat she had previously always shared with Harding, Bellara’s normal station behind Emmerich’s chair to the left was vacant as well. The part that invoked the largest sense of ominous wrongness was the empty chair on the opposite side of the table from the majority of the Veilguard.

Rook’s seat being empty broke yet another piece of Lucanis. If he tried hard enough, he could almost picture her there, in enough detail to convince himself she was actually here. Shaggy black hair, snowy skin dusted with freckles, and the green eyes that had him enraptured from the first moment he had laid eyes on her in the Ossuary. Sometimes Rook had the most fierce, determined expression as she discussed strategy and the obstacles ahead of them on a mission. While other times she wore her crooked smirk as she made a wicked comment that had everyone laughing. Her eyes would crinkle at the corners and her smile would become a full blown grin as she watched her team in the temporary moment of levity.

Miss her, Spite’s voice spoke softly in Lucanis’s mind. He himself agreed, though he wasn’t sure if the comment was an observation of his feelings, or if Spite was stating how he felt. Either way, the statement rang true. It looked like everyone else in the room was having similar thoughts as well. Neve and Emmerich seemed to gaze through Rook’s chair, both mages eyes glazed over from exhaustion, grief, or both. Taash had their head ducked down, with their elbows resting on their knees. White knuckles on their tightly clenched fists were the only real indicator of the distress they felt. Davrin was staring at the wood carving he held in his left hand. It looked recently finished, and when Lucanis got closer to the table, he could see that it was a rook piece. They were all broken and devastated, but they were still here, and they still had a job to do.

Upon finally arriving at the edge of the table, Lucanis cleared his throat to announce his arrival. Emmerich turned to face him before asking, “How are you feeling Lucanis? You were unconscious for quite a while. I was beginning to fear that Neve and I had overdone it on our spell. I do apologize for that by the way, under normal circumstances I’d never put someone to sleep against their will.”

Before Lucanis had a chance to respond, Neve was chiming in. “You gave us all quite a scare there, Mage Killer. I was worried we’d lost you to Spite.” Lucanis ignored Spite’s bristling in the back of his mind at this comment. Don’t like. Cold Mage. Too masked. Can’t see what’s inside.

Rolling his eyes internally at Spite’s muttered comments, Lucanis addressed everyone present. “It is I who should apologize. I,WE, lost control that night. Between the battle itself and losing Rook, neither Spite nor I could control our combined response. I am grateful that you all did what you did. I could never have lived with myself if any of you had been hurt by my own hand.” Realizing that he had turned his gaze down to stare at the floor at some point in his small speech, Lucanis turned his eyes back up to meet Emmerich’s. He was surprised to find the older man smiling at him. “What?” Lucanis questioned, looking around to see everyone giving him odd looks.

“I’m just pleased to see that you and Spite have reached an understanding.” Emmerich said in a kind and cheery tone. “I was getting concerned that you’d be unable to settle the conflicting parts of your natures and…” The necromancer trailed off, seemingly unable to complete the sentence. Neve however, had no such qualms.

“We were concerned you’d awaken as a full blown abomination and we’d have to kill you.” The Tevinter detective was straightforward and blunt, something Lucanis appreciated about her. It was unpleasant being on the receiving end of her rather icy stare though. Suppressing a small shudder, Lucanis simply nodded in understanding before adding, “I would neither expect nor want anything less.” Neve seemed satisfied with this comment and sat back.

Emmerich then addressed the whole group, his expression morphing into a sober one. “As most of you are aware, Neve and I have been researching everything related to human visitation in the Fade. There’s not much material available, but from what we have been able to find combined with what the Inquisitor was able to tell us from her own trip into the Fade, we have come to one undeniable truth.” He paused and scanned the room to make sure everyone was following and then spoke again. “To enter or exit the Fade, conditions specific to the particular area you seek to journey to or leave must be met. It is obviously impossible for us to know exactly what conditions must be met for Rook to leave where she is currently trapped, but one condition that is the same for any part of the Fade across the board. That is that the Veil must be weakened or cut through on the outside for any travel in and out to be possible.”

Lucanis’s brow furrowed, “If we can’t be sure what conditions must be met for Rook to get out, why is any of that good news?” The assassin wanted to pace back and forth as if he was some kind of caged animal. He knew some of that was Spite, but plenty of it was his own impatience and frustration.

Emmerich seemed unbothered by Lucanis’s pointed question and directed his answer to him. “We know we will need to make a small hole in, or seriously weaken the Veil around where we expect her to exit. Rook will be the only one who can complete the condition on her side to escape, so we need to focus on finding the most likely place she would be exiting from, and come up with a way to safely weaken the Veil.”

Neve snorted, “Yeah, we JUST have to do all that.” She shook her head before adding, “I believe it’s possible, but it will take time, most likely weeks at least. We will have to hope that Rook can hang on wherever she is, because even if we don’t eat or sleep, there isn’t enough literature on the topic for this to be a quick discovery.”

Gritting his teeth, Lucanis forced any immediate response back down his throat. He knew they weren’t lying, but the idea that it was going to take so long just to find a potential solution was maddening. The crow looked to Emmerich again, “Is there anything the three of us can do now to assist?”

Emmerich just shook his head, “Not in terms of finding Rook. I’m sorry, Lucanis.” The older man did seem to feel genuinely empathetic, something Lucanis was not accustomed to but appreciated nonetheless. Emmerich spoke again, this time a smile making its way onto his face and into his words, “Though I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say: your cooking alone is more than enough of a contribution to our efforts.”

Lucanis found a chuckle slipping from his lips without thought at the almost begging tone underlying the words. Without Bellara around, he supposed he was really the only competent cook among them. Emmerich and Taash were alright, but Davrin and Neve’s attempts at making dinner previously had been truly offensive to the palette and contained almost no nutritional value. Given that Emmerich was far too busy to spend time in the kitchen and that Taash really only knew how to make two dishes well, it made sense that the necromancer was slightly desperate, though he had attempted to seem as if he was joking.

“Yes, I think I can manage that.” Lucanis responded, “In fact there is already soup prepared for dinner tonight.” The way his companions eyes lit up at this was enough to settle the useless feeling in his gut, for now at least.

“Wonderful!” Emmerich responded enthusiastically. “Now that we’ve filled in Lucanis and-”

“Wait,” Davrin cut in, “Sorry to interrupt Professor, but I talked to Taash earlier about what we could do in the meantime, and both of us agreed that we need to check in on our allies and make sure that they remain prepared for the final assault when it does come. We planned on visiting the Wardens tomorrow, the Lords the following day, the Veiljumpers next, and then the Mourn Watch.” The warden turned to face Lucanis before adding, “We figured you’d want to be the one to check in with the Crows, Lucanis. If you’re willing to wait a few days though, Taash and I would be more than happy to join you.” Davrin grinned slightly, “Assan loves Treviso, and I’ve been wanting to try this coffee you seem so obsessed with.”

Lucanis felt warm at Davrin’s statements. He knew that the warden bringing up Cafe Pietra was just an excuse to join Lucanis when he went back to his home city to check in. He was touched that Davrin seemed to recognize that he would struggle to travel back without Rook at his side. Lucanis hadn’t visited Treviso a single time without her over the last 5 or 6 months since she had saved him and he joined the Veilguard, and Davrin was correct in assuming that the thought of going through the Eluvian without her steady presence was not a happy one. Though, as Lucanis studied Davrin and Taash’s faces, he realized that he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

“I’d appreciate the company,” he said after a moment, “If the two of you would like, I wouldn’t mind accompanying you to check in on the others as well. It won’t do me any good to sit around pacing the length of the pantry hundreds of times a day. Plus, I wouldn’t mind the excuse to kill the enemies we will likely face as we travel.” “Killing is good.” Spite added cheerfully using Lucanis’s mouth. “Crush! The bad ones. Rook would. Want us to.”

Lucanis shook his head as Spite receded. Since Rook had entered his mind and freed them, Spite’s takeovers had been fewer in number and easier on both his body and mind. It seemed it was even smoother now and less aggressive since the two had spoken and reached a new agreement only around half an hour ago. As he returned his attention to the group, he saw that they were all staring at him with widened eyes, but did not seem afraid. Rather, the team seemed amused at Spite’s comments and Lucanis’s eye roll following the declaration.

“Of course you’re welcome,” Taash said in a gruff tone, “The more blades the better, and it’ll feel more normal with three of us anyway.” “Sorry, four.” they amended at Assan’s indignant screech.

“It’s settled then!” Emmerich clapped his hands together, “I do so love it when we have a solid plan, it seems a rare occurrence these days. Now, I suggest we all go and get some of the dinner that Lucanis has so generously prepared, and get to work!” The necromancer paused, “Well, I supposed ‘get to sleep’ would be more appropriate for everyone aside from Neve and myself. I have a feeling we will be up for hours yet.”

With that, the meeting of the remaining Veilguard was adjourned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Three Weeks Later

Lucanis felt like he was losing his fucking mind. Three weeks had come and gone and they seemed no closer to finding Rook than they had the night of their meeting. Scowling, Lucanis threw another knife at the pantry wall. He had been travelling and training with Davrin and Taash to keep busy, but he was running out of patience. Spite was handling it even worse than Lucanis was. He was on edge, constantly restless and shifting in Lucanis’s mind. The spirit’s fuse was practically non-existent at this point, everything pissed him off. This was doing nothing to help Lucanis’s own attitude. He found himself wanting to snap at everyone around him, and his jaw was permanently clenched. I don’t know how much longer I can take this, he thought to himself in a growl, They have to be close to locating her, it’s been so long since they started looking.

Let me. Talk to them. Spite suddenly interjected into Lucanis’s angry brooding, I might. Be able to. Help. Spite has an idea. To share with the. Strange Wizard.

Had Lucanis not been filled with so much frustration and angst, he might have found Spite’s name for Emmerich funny. Instead, he simply began walking towards the main Lighthouse to find Emmerich. Once he might have questioned Spite further or hesitated to give him what he wanted, but he knew by now that they wanted the same thing: Rook back.

Lucanis swung open the door to Emmerich’s quarters without knocking and walked right in. The room was in complete disarray, books and tomes strewn about everywhere there was space. Manfred was desperately trying to keep up with cleaning up old teacups and rearranging the stacks on books that seemed to have been tossed to the side. He hissed and chittered in an agitated tone, but when the skeleton noticed Lucanis standing in the entryway, he seemed overjoyed. “Determination! Determination and Lucanis visit!”

Lucanis felt Spite move within him and allowed him to come forward and respond to his fellow spirit. “Curiosity.” Spite greeted Manfred cordially before asking, “Where is. The Wizard? Spite needs to. Talk.” Manfred, seeming even more excited now that Spite had addressed him, simply motioned for Lucanis and Spite to follow him up the stairs. Upon reaching the top, Lucanis was not really surprised by the sight before him. Emmerich was passed out on the floor, still clutching a large book in his hands, and Neve was asleep on her side across the small couch. Her hand hung off of the edge and hovered above an empty coffee cup and another book. The two mages were clearly exhausted beyond belief, and Lucanis felt a small twinge of guilt as Spite spoke again out of his mouth.

“Wizard! Ice Woman!” Spite shouted at the sleeping figures, waiting a moment as they jerked awake and looked around in bewilderment. “Spite has an idea. Can maybe help. Find Rook! Need you to. Wake up!” Neve sat up immediately at this comment, her eyes clearing of sleep and taking on the focused edge that was her default. Emmerich ran his hand down his face and groaned slightly before getting to his feet and addressing Spite in a curious voice. “What do you mean Spite? You think you know how to find Rook?” The last statement was filled with surprised eagerness.

Lucanis felt Spite nod his head and respond, “Felt something. Last night when. Wizard was trying to. Manipulate the Wall.” Spite had always referred to the Veil as “The Wall”, which Lucanis supposed made sense, but had taken him a few times to understand what the spirit meant. Lucanis’s attention was brought back to Emmerich as he heard him intake his breath quickly. “What do- What did you feel? I was indeed trying to sift through the layers of the Veil last night to see if it would be possible to weaken a single point without cutting through the Veil itself. You felt something when I did this?” The scholar in Emmerich was coming out as a look of excitement took over his features.

“Spite felt Rook. Could feel her. Close to. The Wall where. The Wizard picked at it. She is. There. She is. Alive. Tries to. Come home! Spite can find her. Am certain now.” Emmerich and Neve’s jaws dropped open as they stared at Lucanis and Spite in disbelief. Lucanis was just as shocked as they were, Spite had said nothing of this to him. Lucanis was asleep, Spite murmured to him internally, Needed sleep. Spite did not want to wake. Wasn’t sure until this morning. Felt her again.

“He says he felt her again this morning.” Said Lucanis as he took control of his body back from Spite, who put up no fight. “Were you doing it again earlier?” Lucanis was practically vibrating with nervous, excited energy.

“No…” Emmerich spoke slowly, “But… it’s entirely possible that the place where I thinned the Veil last night is still weakened. If Rook were close to it, then…” Lucanis, Neve, and Emmerich stared at each other for a breath before all three jumped into action.

“Neve!” Emmerich ordered, “Start the enchantment the same way I showed you last night. You’ll need to hold it for as long as you can. It will most likely take Lucanis, Spite, and I several minutes to locate her.” The necromancer then turned his attention to Lucanis and Spite. “Lucanis, I’m going to grab your arm to anchor you to me and my magic as I push through the opening in the Veil. You’ll need to channel as much energy into Spite as you can, and be ready to pull Rook through once he locates her.” Emmerich then looked past Lucanis to the place where Spite had manifested into his physical form. “Spite, I need you to go further in. You have the best sense of direction and sense of Rook’s energy in the Fade. You’ll need to guide her to where we are waiting to pull her through to this side.”

Spite nodded vigorously, looking as serious and determined as he ever had. "Spite will find Rook. Will bring her back. Bring her home. Spite will not fail." Lucanis wasn’t sure if it was his imagination playing tricks on him or not, but Spite seemed to glow a lighter shade of purple now. He abandoned the thought as Emmerich signaled that they were to begin. “Now Neve!” Emmerich grabbed Lucanis’s left forearm with more strength than the assassin had expected as he too began to wave his left hand and murmur words Lucanis couldn't make out under his breath. The Crow turned to face forward, where the air had begun to shimmer and glow slightly. It suddenly glowed much more brightly, making Lucanis squint as he watched Spite hurry through the shimmering patch. Emmerich tugged on Lucanis’s arm as he too, began to move them towards the spot Spite had disappeared through. As they stepped into the unstable opening in the Veil, Lucanis felt electric tingles shoot through his body and tasted something akin to burnt metal. Pure magical energy, he thought faintly.

Spite weaved his way through the layers of what the humans referred to as “The Veil”. He could feel Rook much more clearly the further into the Fade he got. Spite stopped suddenly when he realized he had reached an invisible wall. He knew it was there because warning bells had started going off throughout his being. He could smell ancient, powerful magic. It smelled like a cage. The spirit scowled as he paced back and forth in front of the cage that he could now smell was the Dread Wolf’s own creation. Dickhead Spite grumbled, Always up to some kind of trick or setting some kind of trap. Trickster is always too afraid to engage in real battle and get his hands dirty. Coward. This wasn’t solving his problem though.

Spite could then sense Rook getting closer and closer to where he stood on the opposite side of the prison. She seemed to be running now. Spite could faintly hear Lucanis and Emmerich calling out to her.

She can hear them! He realized suddenly, and shouted to Rook, “Here! Rook! Come this way, Spite will guide you back!” After an agonizing moment, Spite could feel her change direction slightly and begin moving towards him. “Yes! That’s the right way! You’re almost here! I can almost reach you!” Spite shouted, his voice taking on a slightly desperate tone. Come one Rook, he begged to himself, Please come home. They all need you. He needs you. WE need you.

Then, it happened. Spite could feel her arm break through the wall of the cage. He grabbed her immediately and helped her to fight through the barrier that wanted so badly to keep her. MINE! Spite growled angrily in his mind. Pulling as hard as he could, even tapping into Lucanis’s strength, Spite finally got Rook on the other side of the prison with him. Giddy excitement hummed throughout Spite’s form as he quickly guided her towards where he could feel his tether to Lucanis grow stronger. He could hear Emmerich and his partner more clearly now as they shouted for Rook.

When he could at last see their shadowy forms at the very edge of the Fade, Spite pulled Rook towards him, closing the rest of the distance between her and Lucanis. Guiding her hands into Lucanis’s outstretched ones, Spite made sure Lucanis had a good hold on her before returning to his host to lend his own strength.

Lucanis felt her hands on his own and had to fight tears as he fought to pull her from the Fade. It didn’t seem to want to give her up, and for a split second Lucanis was terrified he wouldn’t be able to get her out. Spite’s energy washed over him then, their souls weaving back together upon the spirit’s sudden return to his body. Together now, they had no trouble freeing Rook from the final layers of the Veil. Lucanis tumbled to the ground as he and Spite dragged Rook into the mortal plane where she belonged. Rook landed heavily on top of him. Her weight pressed against his body was a welcome feeling after so long without her.

Pure relief washed over him as the green eyes which had captured his heart upon their first encounter, slid up slowly to meet his own. She was here. She was really, truly, here in his arms. Rook looked exactly as she had when she had been pulled into the Fade three long weeks ago. He watched as she quickly took in her surroundings, noticing for the first time himself that Taash and Davrin had joined them in Emmerich’s quarters at some point during the rescue. Turning to look down at the woman in his lap again, Lucanis watched as a small, exhausted but relieved smile found its way onto her face. Then, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she went limp in his grasp.

Just sleeping, Spite’s words stopped his immediate panic in its tracks. Rook is exhausted. Much energy spent in the Fade. She rests now. Safe with us. The spirit seemed incredibly content for the first time in… well maybe ever. Lucanis closed his own eyes as he felt several tears run down his own cheeks in relief and gratitude. Rook was home.

Thanks for making it if you read the whole thing, I know it was a long one!

Part 8

Part 6

Part 5

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

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#dragon age the veilguard #dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #spite dragon age #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #lucanis and spite #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age writing #the spirit of determination

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