#I invite anyone to disagree with me and let me know your thoughts

[greygilberti]

Having recently discovered discourse on The Haunting of Hill House (2018) and recently rewatching the series and then watching episodes with commentary, I just feel the need to weigh in.

First off: I have read titular book multiple times before this show was even made. It was the first book I was assigned in college that I enjoyed, so when I have opinions about the show, it is not something I haven't weighed against the book.

Secondly: When Amblin approached Flanagan about making this show, Flanagan stated that great adaptations of the book had already been made in 1963 and 1999 with the movies. He didn't pitch the idea to someone, it was pitched to him. Yes, he came up with the idea to expand it into a family and helped create what it is, my point is that he didn't come into this wanting to dissect this story, it was brought to him. He did a phenomenal job in the writing room, creating the story he did (I could go on and on and on, but I shant). When writing, he felt closest to Steven because Shirley is upset with him using their personal fanily stories for fodder for fame. He said he felt he kind of did the same and knew how certain characters felt or acted because he had seen it happen in real life, so he KNOWS and treated these tough subjects with great respect in this retelling.

Thirdly: The literal description of the show says it is a "modern reimagining of the Shirley Jackson novel" so no one was blindsided and could've read the book or not before watching the show. It literally says they reimagined it, not retold. Flanagan used SO many callbacks. He went and read the source material and paid homage, not only to the book, but to the other 2 movies as well!

He did not do the book dirty. He tried to give all Jackson fans across multiple sources something that was fun and new but not destroying the memory of the source material.

I've spent years hating movies and shows that were remakes but then couldn't get simple costuming or scenes correct and I'm tired. Flanagan did an amazing job. He put so much heart and soul into not only Hill House, but everything that he creates, and I just feel like any energy hating on him could be spent better elsewhere.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, these are just some of mine. I could wax poetic about Flanagan for hours, but I will stop here. I personally don't understand how anyone could dislike this series, but to each their own.

[erwinsvow]

I ACC LOVE UR ACC SMMM

Btw, can you pls do a bsf!rafe (who's low-key a little perverted) with shy, innocent!reader??

haha i feel like everyone looves pervy best friend rafe. this is like maybe if kook trio reader was actually shy reader

the boys were so nice, such good friends to you. you hadn't expected that a friendship between parents would lead to them inviting you into their exclusive boys club, the fourth in their trio.

but all of you got on surprisingly well—you could tell they were censoring themselves sometimes, maybe a couple less inappropriate jokes, drinking a little curbed because you weren't quite comfortable yet handling three drunk boys.

topper and kelce were nice, if not a little too polite. they never really bothered you, though they tried to include you in their conversations and make an effort.

no, it was rafe who really included you. he was everything a good friend should be—picking you up and dropping you off, never letting you walk home alone even if you guys were just hanging out at tannyhill down the road. he would get you your drinks and make sure you were a part of the conversation, never letting you sit alone or feel ignored.

he was being a great friend.. if not a little too much, too posessive. he didn't like when you talked to other boys, sometimes even if you were entranced in a conversation with top or kelce. sometimes it felt like he found reasons to drag you away.

and sometimes, though you thought you were imagining it, that rafe wouldn't actually do such a thing, you felt like he was touchier with you than others. he would often rest a hand on your knee at lunch, keep you on his lap at a party when you were too drunk and giggly to know better, to know this wasn't normal.

"that girl was looking at me.." you tell rafe, seated next to him on the couch. he'd just had you in his lap, but you'd crawled off to go freshen up, returning to the spot next to him. his arm is swung around your shoulder, his hand on your thigh.

"who?" he asks, glancing around. he doesn't see anyone.

"over there. she's been looking at you all night. i think we gave her the wrong idea, rafe-"

"wrong idea?"

"she's gonna think.. y'know. that we're together, or something." he doesn't even turn to look around, to see who it is.

"who cares, kid? let 'em think what they want." you look up a little confused, and rafe leans in to talk into your ear. "lions don't care about the opinions of sheep, right?" the way he says it, though any other day you'd smack his arm and laugh, makes your whole body shiver.

"yeah," you agree, not wanting rafe to think you disagree with him.

he spots kelce and top in the distance, walking closer, and he scoops you back into his lap with two strong hands on your hips. "gotta make room," he says while you squirm.

you settle in though, making yourself comfortable. he has to try hard not to keep staring down the front of your dress or moving too much—doesn't want you to know he's hard for his new little best friend.

yet, that is. no, he's gonna have you folded in half on his bed that he keeps telling you is perfectly fine to sleepover in, bent over in the back seat of the truck he picks you up in, pushed against the wall in the bathroom at the club where he takes you to show you around.

he's playing the long game, and he's enjoying it, a hand on your waist while you sip on your drink and talk to him about something, not kelce or top.

[tender-rosiey]

candy pretty! — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: okay but what would nanami do if his little girl had a crush on gojo’s son 😏

nanami is a mature man, calculated, collected, and the picture perfect adult. he is the best husband who, without fail, treats you like a queen.

he is also the best dad out there and your six year old daughter will always defend that with her entire being. she is also very ready to throw hands at whoever disagrees. right now, however, the one throwing hands is your husband.

and it’s either at gojo’s son or gojo himself.

but the boy did nothing, and gojo deserves a beating anyways so he settles for the latter.

that’s at least until his darling daughter came in with the biggest smile on her cute face and holding a note—probably written by gojo’s son, considering the very terrible and unstable handwriting, but the small smiley face and cute heart—as she squealed, “daddy, daddy! akio invited me to a playdate!”

it takes every bone in nanami not to walk to gojo’s house and throw him in the nearest trashcan where he belongs; instead, he smiles gently at his daughter, “that’s great, d/n. when are you going?”

“right now!”

“sure—wait…now?”

she nods excitedly. nanami sighs then gives her a thumbs up, and the girl takes it as a cue to excitedly run to her room with giggles and squeaks, “mommy, he said yes!”

he hears you respond through the door and he can practically hear the smile in your voice, “really? that’s awesome! let’s get you dressed up, pretty girl,” you and her run happily run to her room and nanami smiles at the sound of footsteps.

he loves how lively it makes the house feel.

then hears the door close and he leans back into his seat.

moments pass by. a deep breath he takes, and a stare he gives the ceiling before mumbling very quietly, “what the fuck.”

“ooo, daddy said a bad word!”

“put the money in the jar, kento!”

ugh, this is going to be a long day.

the both of you are already dressed, and your daughter is busying herself with her favorite comic while you help your husband get ready.

he is glaring at the mirror and you chuckle while straightening his collar, “what’s on your mind, handsome? dad instincts acting up? she is growing up; she is bound to have crushes.”

he nods with a sigh, “I know, but like it’s gojo’s kid.”

“yeah?”

“no, y/n, it’s gojo’s.”

“oh right…ew. ew to gojo, not the kid. akio is an absolute sweetheart.”

he snorts, “he probably takes after his mom,” then he kisses your forehead when you’re done tying his tie, “but the thought of being related to gojo is just…” he grimaces, shaking his head, and that’s all you need to understand.

he can almost imagine it: them a couple of years later, completely and utterly in love, and he would be so happy for them. anyone who ensures the happiness and safety of his daughter is an a+ for nanami.

then gojo will enter, loudly and dramatically, and he won’t hear the ending of his annoyances, a pain he thought he will get rid of before he enters his 40s at least. he looks at the bright side: at least, he will have you by his side.

you lightly smack his—very broad and muscular—shoulder, “now, you’re being dramatic! he isn’t that bad.”

a stare of silence is what you’re met with until your daughter interrupts the judging look of your husband, “mommy! daddy! ‘gotta go! he is waiting!”

your husband sighs once again and you giggle, pulling him with you towards the car.

the ride is quiet, save for your and your daughter’s singing and her rambles about how excited she is to see akio, along with your husband’s frown as he realizes that maybe he is getting protective of her even against akio.

it doesn’t take much time, before you’re already in the gojo household and are seated while the kids are playing in akio’s room.

it’s just you, kento, and gojo because mama gojo went out to work. you would’ve loved to catch up with her about the latest gossip in town.

gojo grins as he looks at the both of you, “so how’s nanamin feeling about the kids’ love story?”

an instant scowl is plastered on your husband’s handsome face and it makes you and gojo laugh out loud. gojo understands why he is protective. when he has a daughter himself, he will probably never let a boy near her.

you cup kento’s face to press a kiss to his cheek and it relaxes him, even if it’s just a tiny bit. gojo lets out a whistle and both you and your husband glare at him.

you hear some rustling in akio’s room, before your daughter bursts out, red-faced and running towards you. she buries her face in your legs and you softly ask her, “what’s wrong, honey?”

nanami gently rubs her back and it encourages her to speak up, even if her voice is a mere murmur, “akio called me pretty,” she fidgets with her fingers. you and nanami share a look of a helpless smile and pat your daughter’s hair.

soon after, akio comes running out of his room , “d/n? are you okay? miss y/n, is she sick? is she okay? I can get that…uh—yellow thingy mommy gives me when I am sick!”

you chuckle and stroke your daughter’s hair lovingly, “don’t worry, hun; she is just a little shy about being called pretty,” you hear her huff on your legs and she looks up to frown at you.

you chuckle and kiss her forehead while nanami is staring—read: probably glaring or planning something—at akio.

akio tilts his head in confusion, “but she is pretty? the prettiest girl ever! even prettier than candy!”

your daughter whines, burying her face further into your leg, “akioo, stop!”

gojo chuckles, watching the scene unfold and thinking about how his very evident charms were passed down to his kid.

but the compassion in his eyes as he worriedly looks at d/n is definetly from his mom. akio pads his way to d/n, and gently pats her head, “I am sorry; please don’t be mad at me.”

he pouts and looks away while blushing, “you’re my favorite person to play with…and I never—um,” he hides his faces his shirt, “want to make you sad.”

your daughter peaks at him and you could swear you could hear the slow music and the chiming bells. you could also bet that the wind is a paid-actor cause when did the window open anyways?

your husband taps your shoulder and points at gojo, who is turning on a fan to give this sweet moment more drama.

and so, after a while, the playdate comes to a close and you’re at the door saying goodbye to the gojos—who you will probably see tomorrow, but whatever.

gojo is leaning against the door as he grins, “let’s do this again soon.”

your husband takes out a cloth to wipe his glasses, “I would rather not.”

you gently elbow him before kneeling beside your daughter, “come on, d/n; say bye to akio and uncle gojo.”

“bye bye, uncle gojo,” she waves and he excitedly waves back then she looks at akio in silence.

the poor boy is overthinking why she isn’t saying goodbye to him and he is probably about to tear up. however, your daughter finally musters up the courage and walks towards him.

they look at each other for a moment before your daughter pecks his cheek and dashes to the car.

akio stares in front of him before becoming a blushing mess and falling to the ground. it’s chaos from there on out.

gojo is cackling like he never laughed before in his life. your husband is speechless and probably planning murder. you’re trying to do your best to calm him down, but it seems like there will be no stopping this man.

family dinners will be so interesting.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part six

authors note: i'm very sorry in advance for how this ends, it was just getting wayyyy too long, and there was no good place to slice it in half, so i cut it before shit unfolds, so yes please don't hate me!!!

pairing: roman reigns x black!reader

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: fluff, language, suggestive dialogue, angst

song inspo: ‘with me’ by destiny’s child

words: 6.5k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wanderingreigns

“Whoa.”

Mariah’s reaction is expected. Your living room, specifically the sofa, is occupied by several of Callie’s dolls. A tea party that you were so kindly invited to attend this morning. 

“Girl, you should see her playroom. Pretty soon the floor is going to be non-visible.” 

A small part of you regrets not trying to straighten up before Mariah came over, but this is also your literal best friend. You know she’s seen more than almost anyone else in your life, and she would never judge you, let alone over the state of your apartment when she has a child of her own. 

Mariah looks over at you with a raised brow. “He did all this?” You nod. “Why?”

“Because she’s his little girl and of course he’s going to spoil her. A quote.” You chuckle as you and Mariah decide to just sit at the kitchen island. It’s probably best to leave the dolls untouched as Callie’s likely to wake up from her nap wanting to play again. 

Mariah gives you a look. “You don’t find that weird?”

Confused, you ask, “what?”

Mariah shrugs and circles the top of her water bottle with her index finger. “I don’t know. He just found out about her, and now he’s buying her stuff? Seems like he’s trying to buy her love.”

“You don’t know Joe.” It’s an easy dismissal, because you do know him and know that’s the last thing on his mind. “That’s not him at all. He just wants to see her happy.”

Mariah looks unfazed and stands ten toes down, adding on, “then he should be here full time instead of randomly popping in.” You just look at her, slightly confused where this is coming from. “I mean, I’m happy she’s getting to know him, but this is all so messy, you know? He’s married. He has a wife, and he’s coming here seeing his secret child with his secret mistress.”

You can only look at her, stunned by her words, even if a small part of you knows there’s some element of truth. Joe swiftly dodged the only question you’ve asked about how and when he’s going to tell his wife about Callie. It was a valid question that deserved an answer.  But the things Mariah is saying, you can’t tell if it angers you because it’s not true or hurts you because it is. 

She seems to detect your conflicted emotions and reaches over with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be negative. I just remember how hard it was for you when you and Joe broke up the first time. I hated seeing you so hurt.”

“We’re not together, Mariah. We’re coparenting.” You hate how soft your voice is, giving away that her words now have your head spinning. 

“So you honestly mean to tell me that you have no feelings for him? None whatsoever.” You can’t give her an answer, or either refuse to. It’s another valid question but the answer isn’t as simple for you to express. You know you feel something for Joe, but that could just be because of the fact that you two share a child together. There has to be some type of emotional connection between any two people who create life. “Exactly. Just be careful. He broke your heart once before. Don’t let him do it again.”

Your feelings are so mixed, agreeing with certain aspects of what’s being said and disagreeing with others. Mariah has triggered some big thoughts, ones that you probably should sort through at some point. You’re just not eager for right now to be that moment.

“Enough about me, what’s been going on with you?”

You pray she knows you well enough to know that you’re desperate to change the subject. “What do you mean?”

“I feel like we haven’t spoken much lately, and I know that’s partially on me. It’s just been a lot on my end, I’m sorry.” 

She shrugs. “It’s cool.”

Something tells you that she’s just saying that, and there’s a level of bitterness towards you for the distance. But, you can’t allow yourself to be hurt by that, because it’s fair. Mariah has been too good of a friend to be ditched the minute your ex comes back around. 

‘How are things with Caleb? Are you guys getting along any better?” Caleb and Mariah have only been married for two years but have already hit a rough patch, enough where he’s temporarily moved out of the house. Last you spoke with her, they were supposed to meet up to discuss what they were going to do, especially for the sake of Miach.

“Did you see him at my place last time you were there?” Her response is all you need to know that that is still a sensitive spot for her as well. Understandably so, but her shut down is so cold and unlike the sweet, gentle friend you’ve always known her to be. You were always known as the outspoken, brutal friend, though it seems that maybe as the years go by, the roles are reversing. 

Unless there's something else at play.

—-------

Today is going to be a good day. 

For Callie at least. 

Your earlier conversation with Mariah, who seemed far too eager to leave when you mentioned Joe would be arriving in less than two hours, is still circulating in your head. You know she’s only trying to look out for you, and you’re very appreciative of that, but there was some undertone to the way she spoke to you that you can’t shake off. Like, it wasn’t coming just from a place of concern, but something else that didn’t seem as genuine.

“Mommy, why are we cleaning?”

Because mommy is too broke for a maid.

You instead settle on the answer, “because we want our home nice and clean, baby.”

“But, it is clean.” She’s not entirely wrong, it’s just every so often you like to deep clean, dusting, mopping, the extra shit that usually isn’t done with daily cleaning. 

Taking a break from wiping down your kitchen counters with some overpriced cleaner you picked up from Target, you see Callie is ready to be done, the dust rag you’d given here now sitting on the coffee table.

With a heavy sigh, you ask, “you wanna play, don’t you?” Her eyes widen and her head nods enthusiastically. A quick glance at the clock indicates that Joe should be knocking at your door any minute, so you try to buy some more time. “Alright, let mommy finish here, and I’ll come play with you.”

“Yay!”

Chuckling, you listen to the sound of her run in the direction of her playroom while you finish scrubbing the counters, even if they’re as clean as they can get. It’s most likely a result of all the overthinking you’ve done the past few hours. The older you get, the more you realize you’ve become that ‘i’m anxious, so let’s clean until we’re physically exhausted’ mom. Which, technically, isn’t a horrible thing, but it’s also probably not the best way to deal with your emotions.

Not that you’ve always been the best with that either.

And that’s when you hear it, the solid two knocks you’ve been waiting for all morning. 

Smiling, you call out for Callie who marches out seconds later with a doll in her hand. “You wanna see who’s at the door for mommy?” Callie looks rightfully confused. At the same time you taught her how to open, close, and lock the door because you never know what can happen, you stressed to her that she is to never open it without permission or unless during an emergency. So, you emphasize, “it’s okay.”

Shrugging, she skips, literally skips to the door. You chuckle. This kid has so much damn personality. Moving to the sink to rinse your hands, you move slowly, waiting for it.

A loud gasp. “Joe!”

You can mentally picture the absolute surprise and happiness splashed over her little face. Grabbing the towel to dry your hands, Joe walks in holding Callie who you haven’t seen look so happy since the last time Joe was in town. 

“Mommy, Joe’s here!” 

Kids announcing the most obvious things will always be hilarious. “He sure is.” Leaning against the counter, you focus on him. “Hey.” He looks good, but he always looks good. That was always the damn problem.

He takes in you for a second, eyes lingering longer than what’s probably necessary, “hey.” He easily returns his attention back to Callie who can’t seem to stop smiling, which makes you smile. You love seeing her so happy. "I missed you."

"I missed you too!" She glances over at you, partially contrite. “Mommy, I’m gonna play with Joe instead, okay?”

You pretend to be shocked, standing upright and crossing your arms and making a face before laughing, waving her off.

“That’s fine, baby, because I am going to take a nap.” It’s much needed. Your sleep has been kinda shitty lately, and you know yourself well enough to know that exhaustion makes you bitchy. And the last thing you want is to unintentionally take that bitchiness out on her. Even Joe. Walking up to them, you poke him in his stomach. Jesus, he’s ripped. “Help yourself to anything. Just make sure she doesn’t destroy my house, please. And make her clean.”

At that, her face sours, and Joe chuckles.

“You got it.”

Satisfied, you walk back into your room, deciding to close the door. Callie will absolutely welcome herself in if need be. Plopping down on the mattress, you stare up at the ceiling, taking in a deep breath, momentarily stopping yourself from closing your eyes. For a second, you forget that Callie is not alone and unattended, thus preventing you from sleeping.

Call it being an anxious, overprotective parent, you’ve never allowed yourself to nap when it’s just the two of you. Even when she’s asleep, and when you do, you set an alarm to wake you up every ten minutes, just to make sure she’s still knocked out. It makes taking time to rest pretty difficult, if not impossible, but it’s what makes you comfortable.

It’s an easy sacrifice to make for your child.

So having another adult around, her dad, of all people, is a nice feeling. You know she’s safe and watched over. And it’s what allows you to actually fall into a peaceful slumber. 

Just for a little bit.

—-------

It is, in fact, just for a little bit.

Because you’re awoken by your phone ringing, your mom on the other end wondering what time she can expect you and Callie to come over.

Shit. 

You completely forget that you’d agreed to bring Callie to see her as it’d been “too long," according to her. You partially agreed, realizing you haven’t visited your mom since the day everything went down, what with you reaching out to Joe again and that whole fiasco.

And that’s another thing.

Your mother has no idea he’s back in the picture.

Walking out of the room, you find them in the living room, of course, watching Toy Story 2. 

Callie’s eyes light up when she sees you, but that doesn’t pull her from her position, tucked right under Joe’s side on your sofa. If you had your phone, you’d try to snap a picture. 

“That wasn’t long,” he snickers, and you glare, stopping yourself from flipping him off.

You move over to the sofa, sitting on the armrest. “That’s cause my mom called and woke me up.”

“Grandma?”

Nodding, you explain to both Callie and Joe. “I forgot we were supposed to go visit her today.”

She moves up on her knees, asking, “can we go?” She looks over at Joe. “Joe can come with us!”

You consider her suggestion. Your mom didn’t even find out about Joe until you told her you were pregnant. You kept that part of your life a secret from her for good reasons. This doesn’t seem like the best way for her to find out, to drop it on her yet again. However, one look at Callie’s desperate expression, and you already know your answer.

“Of course,” you then add on, “if he wants to.” 

Callie, being Callie, answers for him. “He wants to!” She tugs on his sleeve, excitement bubbling. “You can meet my grandma!”

You glance over at him, “are you sure? I’m sorry, I know this was supposed to be one on one with her….”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “If she wants to go, let’s go.”

You nod, praying this doesn’t end up being a bad idea.

—-------

“Mama!” You call out, watching Joe shut and lock the door behind him. Seeing that allows you to focus on where the hell your mother is. She usually meets you at the door when she knows you’re coming over. “Where is this woman?”

The car drive was pleasant enough, Callie talking almost the entire time, as expected. And Joe eating it up the whole time, also, as expected. 

You can see now he’s definitely going to be that dad. The dad who finds anything and everything his kid does to be adorable. You can’t wait for him to be on the receiving end of one of Callie’s temper tantrums and see how he handles it. 

“Grandma!” Callie suddenly calls, all the while keeping her hand in Joe’s. “I’m here!”

Finally, the sound of footsteps from upstairs as your mom comes down the stairs, home phone, yes, a home phone, held between her ear and shoulder. “I told her Bishop wasn’t gonna go for that, but you know how she is. Old fool.” It’s when she’s in the vicinity to see that it’s not just you and Callie, her eyes grow wide. “Cheryl, let me call you back.” 

Damn. 

You know that tone, that ‘let me talk to you’ tone. 

Thankfully, you get a brief save. The sight of your mom makes Callie drop Joe’s hand to sprint off to meet her on the steps. “Grandma!”

She leans down to pick up Callie, smothering her with kisses. “My favorite little lady.” 

Callie giggles as your mom descends from the steps, Callie on her hip, to approach you and Joe who’d, wisely, remained quiet up until this point. 

You watch your mom’s eyes land on him, but before she can say anything, Callie jumps in. 

“Grandma, this is Joe! He’s mommy’s friend and mine too!”

Fuck. Your mom’s eyes travel between him and Callie, once, twice, and on the third time, you know. You just know that she knows.

And that’s when you jump in, knowing you desperately need to speak with her. “Callie, why don’t you show Joe the play area?” 

Her eyes blaze with enthusiasm as your mom places her back on the ground. Callie’s little feet carry her back over to Joe who seems to understand you need to talk with your mother.

“Come on!” Taking his hand, she begins to direct him to the back of the house and through the sliding door. 

Your mom waits until she knows the two of you are alone to speak. “Girl, you done got my blood pressure all up.”

“Mama—”

“That’s Callie’s daddy, ain’t it?” She doesn’t even give you time to answer. “Don’t try to lie, either. She looks just like him.”

There’s no need in denying the obvious. “Yes.”

Her mouth drops open in rightful shock. “And just when did you plan to tell me he was back in the picture?” The questions keep coming, understandably so considering how you’ve just dropped this on her. “And why is she calling him by his first name?”

“Because she doesn't know,” you answer the second question, hating the disappointed look on her face. “We–he hasn’t told her yet.” 

“It just keeps getting worse.” She’s rubbing her temple and you just know she’s gonna need to take an Excedrin before the night is over. “Tell me everything. Now.”

And so, you do, starting with Callie’s initial question about her dad, to your phone call with Joe, his visit where he confirmed he had a daughter, all of it. And when you’re done, your mom is visibly shaken.

“Lord, he found out about her through social media?” You still feel badly about that, about a lot of it. “Well….does his wife know?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t really talked about that yet.” Before your mom can protest, you add, “we will. I’ll make sure of it. He just wants to get to know her first. For himself.”

Your mom chuckles, obviously having studied the close interaction between the two of them in the few minutes she’s been privy to see them engage with one another. “seems like that’s already a done deal.” 

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “He’s really good with her.”

And it’s the truth, Joe seems to be naturally good with a lot of things, but there’s something so impressive about his ability to interact and connect with Callie. It’s so natural. 

“So, are you two…..”

“No,” you shut that down immediately. “We’re just trying to navigate coparenting.”

Your mom nods but doesn’t say anything, and you know her well enough to know it’s because she doesn’t entirely believe you. But, she won’t push.

“Well.” She claps her hands together, nodding to the backdoor. “Let me go properly introduce myself, since you got me out here looking rude. Probably got that boy thinking I don’t like him.”

“I promise, he’s not like that.” You two start walking toward the backyard where you’re certain Callie is talking a hole in his head, describing the play area your mom put together just for her when she spends the night.

She places her hand on the sliding door but pauses to look at you, “let me just say this though, that is one fine young man. I see now why you had a hard time letting him go. The devil sure knows how to tempt people.”

“Mama!” You try to suppress your laughter as the two of you walk out, sure enough to find Callie on the swing, Joe pushing her as they share their own conversation. 

She walks up to him, wearing a warm smile, giving a wink to Callie. “I’m so sorry about that. My daughter just didn’t tell me you were gonna be here.” 

Joe, forever respectful, starts to indirectly apologize.  “I hope it's not a problem. If so, I can—”

She waves him off, “oh, hush.” She leans in to whisper, “you’re practically family.” He returns her smile as she introduces herself by name, he offers his, and your wonderful mother then informs, “well, this one is gonna help me tend to my garden, cause winter will be here before we know it.” She leans down and kisses the top of Callie’s head, as she’s stopped swinging and is instead sitting. Her eyes light up at the idea of gardening with your mom. The same way you used to garden with your grandma. A bit of a tradition being passed down. “And in the meantime, you two can go finish organizing the office.” 

Your eyes widen. No wonder she didn’t hear you all coming in right away. That room, once your bedroom, became your mom’s storage area and over the years has accumulated stuff on top of stuff. Nowhere near a hoarding level, but just a lot of things that she doesn’t want to part with but needs to organize. “Mama, that's not—”

“I don't want to hear no complaining. You really want me up on that ladder?” You roll your eyes, realizing she’s referring to the top of your old closet where she keeps the storage bins of memorabilia, mostly photos. “I'm not getting any younger. What if I fall? Then you gon feel bad.”

“You're so dramatic.” Your mom acts like she's 75 and at death's door sometimes. The woman is 52 and teaches a Zumba class at the rec center every Saturday. She could fall and jump right back up like nothing happened. 

She places her hand on Joe’s arm, smiling slyly. “You got this strong, handsome man to help you out.” One thing you’ve learned as you’ve gotten older is that your tendency to unintentionally flirt from time to time 100% came from your mother. Clearly. “Besides, if you do fall, you'll be fine. You got enough booty back there to cushion it.”

“Mama!” One glance at Joe, and you see him make a face that reads clearly 'she's not entirely wrong.’ At that, you shove him, not that it does anything. He's solid as a rock. “Fine, we'll organize your mess, but not for long. Joe is only in town until tomorrow night, and he did not come here to be a part of your cleaning crew.”

“I don’t mind,” Joe adds. Of course, he doesn't. He hasn’t seen it yet, and he’s a gentleman. “Whatever you need help with, I’ll do it.”

Your mom gives you another look and then looks at him. “I like you, Joseph.”

Callie lifts her head, adding, “I like him too!”

I like him too.

“Well, get to it. When we’re done, ya’ll can help me fix some dinner.” Her eyes then land on you. “Well, not you. You can make the lemonade or something.”

Joe coughs awkwardly, poorly hiding his laughter. “I’m getting really sick of ya’ll coming for me and my poor cooking skills.”' 

Your mom directs Callie to grab her caddy with their needed gardening supplies. “Baby, you are a lot of things, but a cook ain’t one of them.” She points at Joe, sharing, “remind me to tell you the story about how she almost burned down my house.”

“Okay, we’re gonna go now.” You grab Joe’s hand and lead him back into the house toward the stairs, which he motions for you to go up first, realizing after the fact that he probably did so to stare at your ass. 

This man….

Entering your former bedroom, you stretch your arm to show you just what you signed up for. He walks in, clearly surprised. “Okay.”

“Yup.” There’s items scattered all over, your mom clearly in the middle of trying to categorize the millions of family photos ya’ll have. “Still don’t mind?”

He shrugs forever unbothered. “There’s two of us. We’ll get it done.”

Sucking your teeth, you look around, trying to figure out where the hell to start. “Your optimism is annoying.”

Chuckling, his smartass remarks, “Glass half full, baby. Glass half full.”

“Yeah, yeah, well glass your ass over there and reach me the ladder. I need the box these pictures can go in from the top.” 

He follows where you’re pointing but also gestures to the closet. “That one?” Joe makes a sound and instead of following your directions, casually walks over to said closet, reaches up and grabs the box with all the ease of someone who’s 6’3. 

Smug expression on his face, he hands it to you as you glare. “Show off.”

Joe assesses you, eyes settling on your chest before redirecting them to your face. “Maybe I should have let you get up there. View and all.”

Holding back your smile is difficult, so you settle for biting on your bottom lip and bumping his side as you move past him. “Shut up.” You know his gaze is on you and that should bother you, his flirty comment should bother you, but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t at all.

—-------

“I still can’t believe you were a cheerleader.” 

There’s probably been a decent combination of conversation and organization in your time working together to ‘unmess’ your mom’s mess. That’s not entirely surprising though. Joe has always been immensely easy to talk to, to be around. And you couldn’t deny that you missed this kind of interaction with him, the most and maybe first since he’s re-entered your life. You wholly understand why he spends and devotes most of his time with Callie, but there’s a small part of you that’s missed this. 

Missed it being just the two of you. 

Chuckling, you comment, “you’re not the first. I was….different in high school and college than I am now.”

He’s intrigued, asking, “how?”

“Well, for one, I don’t party damn near every night anymore.” One thing you could never deny about your early days was that you always liked to have a good time, liked to make your expected appearances at whatever party of the week, or day, was happening. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t drink or smoke. That was never my thing. I just….I liked to have fun, probably too much fun more often than not.” You chuckle to yourself, grabbing a stack of photos to put in the container. “Now, I like to be in bed by 9:30, 10 at the latest.”

He smiles and looks over at the wall that still has many of your cheer accolades proudly displayed. “Obviously, you were pretty damn good.”

Shrugging, you push some of your hair behind your ear. Not that it does much. Your curls have always been voluminous and wild. “I was, but….it came at a cost to some extent. Cheer is insanely competitive, and I didn’t always handle that the best.”

Competitiveness was something you deeply struggled with when you were younger. Feeling like you had to be the best, not even better than anyone else per se, but the best that you could be. Always trying to prove that you were good enough.

Looking back now, you have a solid guess of where that came from and what drove it. 

Joe’s studying you, trying to gauge your comfort level with this conversation. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” you answer, honestly. “Until I didn’t. Shortly before college, I think, is when the love started to fade.”

“But you cheered in college too, didn’t you?”

You nod, explaining, “I got a scholarship for cheer, and I wasn’t about to put that stress on my mom to have her help me figure out how to pay for school when I had an easy ride.” Around that time is when your relationship with your mom started to strengthen, and the last thing you wanted to do was risk messing it back up by being selfish. You’d cheered damn near your whole life, what was another 4 years? 

“I like your mom,” he announces, almost suddenly. It’s unsurprising. Most people do. But, there is something that pleases you about her tentative approval of him and now his of her. 

“She’s really great. I don’t know what I would do without her, and Callie adores her.” You look over at him, playfully. “Not as much as she adores you, though.”

You can see the delight in his eyes. “Yeah?”

His disbelief surprises you. How can he not see how crazy Callie is over him? “Are you kidding me? That lil girl already doesn’t shut up, but she really doesn’t shut up about you. It’s Joe this, Joe that. The first thing she asks me when I pick her up from school is always if she can call you.” Deciding this is a perfect segue, you add on, carefully. “You know….you should tell her. I can promise you, she won’t be upset. She’s gonna be thrilled.”

She already loves you.

You don’t know if it’s too soon to say that, if it’s something you should even say vs let him hear from Callie herself. You just know that there’s probably very little he could do at this point to make Callie not love him. She’s hooked.

“Christmas,” he announces, adding, “I’ll tell her when I come back for Christmas.” 

This surprises you, as he hasn’t discussed his next visit up until this point. You also don’t feel the need to comment or counter his plan and timeline to tell Callie. You can’t think of a better Christmas gift for her. “You got the time off?”

He nods, providing specifics. “I’ll be here the day before Christmas Eve. Gotta fly back out on the 26th though.”

“Stay with us.” Where this comes from, you’re not sure, but there’s not a lot of regret once it's released. “I know you hate that damn hotel, and Callie would be thrilled to have you around 24/7.” Getting up off the floor, you carry the now filled container and move up the ladder you’d used a couple times because he’d been preoccupied organizing other areas. Sliding it back in the same spot, you descend down the steps only to feel strong hands grip your waist. 

Bringing you to the ground, he carefully turns you around, but that’s not what you’re focused on. What you’re focused on is how close he is to you, your chests nearly touching, his eyes burning into you. Instantly, your stomach is knotting. You know that look, know it all too well. 

“Joe….” Your voice is soft, much softer than it needs to be when trying to assert yourself. And you hate yourself for the tiny sigh that leaves your mouth when he brings his palm to your cheek. “We—we can’t—”

“I’m divorced.”

This man, so fine and kind, and damn near pressed against you is distracting, so much so that you’re briefly disconnected from what he’s just said. But, it’s forcing yourself to come back to reality that his words truly hit you. You’re not sure you could have ever guessed that statement would ever leave his mouth. 

Slightly in shock, staring at him with bewilderment, you stammer, “w–what?”

“Two months ago, Jadah and I filed for divorce. It was uncontested, and the state of Florida is one of the quickest when it comes to processing these things.” His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still, as if he knows you want to move away from him. “I got notice it was finalized a few days ago.”

You’re listening, you really are, but hearing is another story. This has to be some type of sick joke, some type of cruel prank ripped directly out the pages of a journal kept and maintained so long ago. Cause you’d absolutely written about this at one point, written about what it would be like if he were to leave his wife. 

You just never could have anticipated it would one day become a reality.

“I—I don’t understand.” Joe only found out about Callie less than a month ago, so there’s no way she was the reason for the split. Still, you have to ask. “Wh–why?”

Something flashes in his eyes. Hurt. “It was long overdue.” He doesn’t say anything beyond that, and while you expected more, you can also see there’s more to the story. More that he’s not saying, but it’s the brief glimpse of pain that prevents you from pushing. Whatever it is, it’s clearly difficult for him to discuss. 

“Oh.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but you’re truly in a state of shock and don’t know what else to say. 

The biggest and only issue that ever existed between yourself and Joe has always been his marriage, the fact that he was already taken. It was the only reason you ever broke it off with him, but now, he’s standing before you, telling you that this is no longer the case.

You’re all of the emotions: confused, nervous, happy, hopeful, and so many more that you can’t even label.

“I didn’t say anything at first, because meeting Callie was my priority. Establishing a relationship with her was a priority. And it still is, but…..” Your eyes shut as he drops his head in the crook of your neck. “I’ve missed you.” Your hands gradually lift to lay against his chest as he sighs into you, ‘I’ve missed everything about you.” Eyes remaining shut, your nails claw gently against him as he moves his mouth over your neck. “The way you smile, the way you laugh.” His hand on your back slowly inches downward. “The way you taste.” Your breath catches as his teeth graze your collarbone. “The way you feel when I’m inside you.”

“Joe,” you breathe, the air suddenly thick, your throat tight. Breathing is incredibly arduous in this moment. “I—”

“Mommy! Joe!”

Joe’s suddenly across the damn room, it seems like, as Callie enters at both the perfect and worst time with a smile, completely oblivious to what she’s just interrupted. “Grandma said come eat!”

Frowning, you glance at the clock and realize it’s most definitely dinner time and that your mom had most likely just had Callie help her prepare the meal instead of asking you two to help.

Huh.

She moves across the room, tackling Joe from the side and craning up her head as she excitedly asks, “Wanna see what I made? Grandma helped me!”

Leaning down to pick her up, he answers, “of course, I wanna see.” He begins to walk out the door as Callie calls out for you to follow behind.

And you will. 

You just need a moment.

Because what the hell just happened?

—-------

I’m divorced.

It keeps playing in your head, on a vicious repeating cycle, like that annoying song the radio plays every 15 minutes, forcing it down your throat.

For almost the entire time you were together, you infrequently allowed yourself to dream about what your life would be like if the circumstances were different, if he wasn’t already taken. If he wasn’t already married. And each time only left you feeling worse than before, because it was stupid. You were three years deep into the situationship; if he hadn’t left his wife by then, he wasn’t leaving her period.

It was a harsh pill that took you forever to swallow.

And even then, you knew that you could never be happy. Not with the knowledge that he’d left his wife for you. It may be bliss initially, but the guilt would have eaten you up and ruined things regardless.

So accepting and telling yourself that it would never work out long-term was what kept your head above water, especially in the two months after you broke things off. And once you learned you were pregnant with Callie, there was a new kind of stress, a new kind of distraction.

Not that it made you forget about him. Hardly.

Every check up, every milestone, every kick, your mind would wander to him. Wander to a fantasy world where you imagined he was with you every step of the way, the two of you preparing together for the arrival of your first child.

Even as the years went on and Callie got older, you still would find yourself from time to time imagining how different things would be if he was around.

Well, now he is. He’s not only around, but he’s going to be actively involved in Callie’s life for the rest of her life.

And he’s now single.

All of this makes for one fucked up emotional rollercoaster ride.

Dinner is an experience, only for you, maybe Joe to some extent. He’s always had a tendency to compartmentalize emotions though, unlike yourself. Granted, if it was a struggle for him, he did a damn good job not showing it. It also probably helped a ton that Callie talked a hole in his and your mom’s head.

You knew your mom could see something was up with you but graciously opted to not ask you any questions. You wouldn’t have any answers to give her anyway. 

And you indicated as much when you were back at your apartment, and Callie in her room gathering her favorite pajamas for bed. 

“I just need time to think.” 

It’s all you can offer him, because it’s the truth. There’s so much more to consider than you could have imagined, and it’s really hard to contemplate when you still have Mariah’s voice oscillating in the back of your mind, your insecurities, and even your mom. 

So many differing perspectives, it’s hard to focus and hear your own.

Thankfully, he accepts that answer, and you accept that you’re running out of different ways to escape confronting your own emotions. 

Maybe.

Because this day has already been exceedingly long, and you’re more emotionally exhausted than anything. So when Callie comes to you complaining of a tummy ache, you administer her Children’s Tylenol, lay with her until she falls asleep, and take advantage of this rare opportunity to turn your brain off and just rest.

The hard shit could wait.

—-------

“Mommy!”

There's a certain tone every person has that's reserved for emergencies, saved for moments when something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

This is one of those moments.

You nearly trip with how quickly you jump out the bed and sprint down the hall to Callie’s room. Hitting the light switch, your stomach drops when you see her.

On her side, in a fetal position, crying profusely. 

Rushing over to her, you see too that she's pale and a hand to her forehead reveals she's burning up. Sheer panic climbs up your body, settling into your stomach and the back of your throat. Still, you do your best to not show her your fear.

“Baby, is it your tummy?” You take a hand to feel her stomach, but she screams out in pain, making you jump from her reaction.

“Mommy, it hurts,” she sobs, and you're instantly moving the blankets off her, already knowing what you need to do. 

Hand on her forehead, you assure, “I’lll be right back, okay?”

You rush back into your room, sliding on the first pair of shoes that you come across. You grab your phone off the nightstand and throw it in your purse, all in under a minute, still too long. And as soon as you're back in her room, you waste no time in lifting her into your arms. 

She winces, so you reassure, “come on, baby. It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

It's what you're telling yourself, the only thing keeping you from panicking. Unsure and uncaring at this moment if you lock the front door behind you, you carry her down the steps and into the dark of night, carefully but quickly buckling her into her carseat.

Hating to see her continue to cry, to be in pain, you kiss her forehead, “I’m gonna get you some help, okay? We're going to the hospital.”

She can only nod, and your eyes water. Your forever talkative child is rendered speechless by her pain. It crushes you.

Hopping into the driver's seat, you grab your phone, trembling fingers locating the address of the hospital. You hit share and send it to Joe before pressing the call button and tossing your phone into the passenger seat to zoom out of the parking lot.

Your phone is connected to your vehicle, ringing three times before he picks up, voice heavy with sleep. “Hey.”

“I need you to meet me at the hospital. I already sent you the address.” You do your best to remain calm and collected, to not scare Callie more than she's already scared. Even if you’re fucking terrified. “Something is wrong with Calista.”

[ixiot-ghostrebel]

i love a good old traumatized reader

reader whose favorite acolyte is xiao, even if he killed them once or twice ! at least he had the courtesy to make it quick..

reader who flinches every time someone makes a sudden move near them. we study their every move with an intense gaze, our body rigid and cold.

reader who does their best to disguise their emotions, but really can’t help but look at certain acolytes with apathy. i mean, who would look someone in the eye after they removed your limbs?

reader who wakes up screaming almost every night, still plagued by memories of the things they endured.

we try to act collected, sure, but the facade cracks sometimes around our closest acolytes. the ones we know we can trust- as friends. ((maybe kazuha, xiao, or itto. big guy. himbo. good hugs. also small guys. good for cuddling.

but yippee!! itto or kazuha never even tried to kiII us! that’s a win in my book. xiao on the other hand,, has beheaded us twice! we thank him for making it painless though. i like to think they all get along well

Few Headcanons + Slight Discussion

Sorry, Anon. This is too angsty and beyond my level of bad writing so no oneshot today 💀 Not to mention that this request is giving me heavy "mary sue" or "damsel in distress" vibes. I don't particularly like those if I'm being honest. So, instead, please accept these headcanons!

Although this idea is really good and well thought out, I personally disagree the idea of Reader even trying to be around their acolytes.

Sure, they may still have their favorite character and all that, but let's be honest, anyone who's gained PTSD at this level like Reader would want to stay away from everyone as far as possible.

However, I admit that to the people that were nice and didn't try to kill Reader, they will certainly be talked to. Said-characters will probably have to be prepared to face a lot of unhappy glares and faces.

Though I do doubt Reader will be even willing to go out all that often, so they'll probably invite them to their palace or something. Or maybe, if you wanna make it so that Reader does go out once in a while, Reader sneaks out and does their best to hide and visit said-characters.

Since this request has a slight soft spot for Xiao, despite him being one of the killers, I like to imagine that Reader has a admire-stay-away game with him. They admire them from afar, but won't go close or even start a conversation with him in fear of being killed.

Reader ain't risking being killed again, no matter how fast that man will make it. It's still traumatizing, alright?

Alright, back to the characters that didn't attempt to kill Reader. Itto and Kazuha are so going to get spoiled by Reader with a lot of things—personally made dishes, random gifts, and just simply having a relaxing good time.

Half suspect that Reader will be silent. They are trying to be aware of their surroundings at all times, even during these relaxing moments. Itto and Kazuha have to constantly remind them to have fun and relax because sometimes Reader gets to irked up of being caught.

Let's be honest, these two can protect Reader just fine. They've had their encounters with the Raiden Shogun (sort of, on Itto's behalf), so they aren't exactly scared.

And that's all I got! Sorry if this wasn't what you wanted, Anon, but it's the best I got. See you all around, now! :)

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: I was originally going to reject this request, but I figure it would be better to just make headcanons of these. Do note that i might not be so lenient as I was with this request. I don't really like too angsty reader—sometimes they're just too much. It gives me "damsel in distress" vibes and I don't really like it.

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

[queenofthearchipelago]

Hey! I just saw your post about some meta doing good but then misunderstanding the characters at some point. If you do not mind sharing, what are certain misconceptions that you usually see and don’t agree with?

Hi! I don't mind sharing but before I answer this I wanna say that I do love that this fandom has so many interpretations of Aziraphale and Crowley's actions and thoughts and motivations. I think some of those interpretations don't always line up with everything we see of them in the show and I feel that both of them have areas where they can be misunderstood. But if anyone reading this finds themselves disagreeing with me, that you do see some of what I'm about to say in their characters, I'm not trying to take your version of Crowley and Aziraphale away from you and like, ruin that fun by saying people are wrong, or something. Fandom becomes really stiff when the culture only has one idea of who the characters are.

That said, I'll start with Crowley because I've always found him most relatable, and so I think about his character more than Aziraphale's.

The first thing is Crowley's temper. I've read quite a few metas talking about how Crowley needs to better manage his anger because it shuts Aziraphale down and makes it harder for him to talk. I don't see this. I mean, yes, Crowley has a temper. Crowley has been shown to be angry. But I've not seen it shut Aziraphale down. When Aziraphale gets nervous around an angered Crowley, it's always because Crowley has said something blasphemous. Such as at the bandstand when Crowley is cursing the Great Plan. Aziraphale becomes scared FOR Crowley and Crowley is never angry AT Aziraphale. I can't think of a scene off the top of my head where anything Crowley does makes Aziraphale feel like he can't say something he clearly wants to say.

But also, I feel that this take of Crowley's character, that he struggles with his temper around Aziraphale, somehow erases how gentle he really is with Aziraphale. He's always so patient with him, even when it would make sense for him to be off the rails angry. And also also, the two main times we see Crowley lose his temper around Aziraphale (the bandstand and then the fight in episode 1 of this season) are both times of great desperation. The world was ENDING. He was SCARED (He's really good at hiding how scared he is). And then Gabriel shows up and Crowley doesn't know how but he feels this will disrupt every single good thing in his life. And so he explodes in the street, something we don't have reason to think Aziraphale saw. Crowley literally left to go cool down. I think he did his best.

I also see a lot of metas speak to Crowley's apparent lack of self-worth. I've spoken about this before, I think Crowley is very confident in who he is. I think he knows himself better than Aziraphale knows himself. Crowley has ALWAYS known who he is, his arc is not one of self-discovery. It's actually Crowley's dedication to being himself despite what Hell would have him be that causes him conflict and intrigues Aziraphale so much.

That also leads into this idea that Crowley can't see himself clearly and therefore can't accept Aziraphale's love. As if he can't comprehend why Aziraphale might love him. But, we literally watch as Crowley graciously accepts every advance that Aziraphale makes. Crowley is the one who "goes too fast" and he probably has a lot of joy every time Aziraphale makes another step forward. It's Aziraphale who said, "Let's go out for lunch" the first time. It's Aziraphale who invited a demon into the bookshop meant to be an embassy for Heaven. It's Aziraphale who said "our car", and then Crowley gave him the keys. Crowley even blatantly says, "We've spent our entire existence pretending that we're not." This implies that he KNOWS. He knows Aziraphale has been pretending too, for 6,000 years, and before that too. Crowley knows he's loved, the problem was that he wasn't allowed to be loved by an angel, and neither of them ever got to say it out loud.

And then there are other, smaller things I see in metas that I don't generally agree with (though I completely understand how people got there). Which is this idea that Crowley feels rejected by Aziraphale. I mean, yes, but also no. I don't think Crowley got in the car at the end and drove away thinking that Aziraphale loves Heaven more than him. I think he's more angry that every single time Aziraphale falls to Earth, Heaven tugs on this rope around his waist and pulls him back up. I think Crowley understands Aziraphale's dilemma a lot better than we think he does.

And also, more recently I've seen some speculation about how Crowley wanting to run away is somehow a character flaw? Like, I agree with the point that both of them were wrong. Fixing Heaven won't work, so Crowley was right. But also, running away isn't a long term solution for them because they both love Earth too much. But I don't exactly see this as a character flaw? In season 1 when he mentions running away, let me remind you that THE WORLD WAS ENDING. He was desperate and he was scared. And in season 2, it wasn't so much a plea to literally run away into the stars and escape as it was an immortal being saying, "Look, Gabriel and Beelzelbub did it. Wherever they are, they're together, and they're dedicated to being happy together. Can we do that? Can we do that forever? In this bookshop or in the stars (in a cottage in the south downs?) Because I love you and I don't wanna think about belonging to anyone else anymore. WE don't need to belong to anyone else anymore. What do you say?"

And as for Aziraphale, I've said before that I don't think he wants Crowley to be an angel so that he can love him more. Aziraphale loves him as he is. And I think there are more articulate posts out there outlining why. The ask for Crowley to be an angel again has nothing to do with Crowley himself except that Aziraphale thinks Crowley would be safer that way. Aziraphale can fix Heaven FOR Crowley. Crowley's fall was wrong and he can now right that wrong. This happened, tragically, because Aziraphale loves him exactly as he is. And as much as Crowley's heart is broken right now, I don't think he doesn't know that. He knows the love he's had from Aziraphale these millennia was real. He knows it.

This became an essay, maybe one day I'll figure out how to get my points across quickly lol. But yeah, these are just my thoughts about who I understand these characters to be in canon. And I know that even though it's been nearly a month since the season dropped, people are still working through all the details that led up to our favorite angel stepping into an elevator and the demon who loves him more than life driving away alone in silence. I'm honestly still working through it too, there's still so much to think about.

[shiorimakibawrites]

Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)

A Tale of Two Men (Part 1 of Cozy Corners)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Divider Credit: @firefly-graphics

A Tale of Two Men

You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.

You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.

You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.

Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.

The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.

His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”

“I take it that you disagree?”

“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”

“What?”

The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.

“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”

Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .

Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.

“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What?”

“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”

“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”

Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”

“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”

“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”

“Infinitely.”

You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.

“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”

He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”

“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”

“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.

“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.

She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.

Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.

You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.

He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”

“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.

“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.

“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.

When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.

“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”

“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”

“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”

“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .

“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.

“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”

You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”

“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”

“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”

“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .

“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”

“That’s a shame,” you said.

“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”

“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”

“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”

“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”

You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”

“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”

He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”

Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”

“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”

After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.

Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”

“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”

He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .

“Would you like me to open the door for you?”

“Please.”

On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .

“I saw that.”

You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?

“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.

“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”

Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”

“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.

“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.

“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”

“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”

“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”

The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”

“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”

“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”

“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.

“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”

You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.

You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.

Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.

By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.

Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .

“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.

“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.

You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .

There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.

Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .

You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.

Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.

“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”

Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.

It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.

Except it never came.

What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.

Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.

“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”

Then he threw himself at the man.

Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.

You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .

You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.

You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .

The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .

Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”

That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’

Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”

Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”

You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.

“Good! Now again . . .”

It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .

“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.

Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.

“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.

That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.

“The police,” he said.

Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”

As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”

A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”

You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”

You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”

“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .

“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .

“Spitfire?”

Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .

Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.

It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .

“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.

Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.

It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .

“What are you doing?”

You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?

“Not at the moment.”

Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.

“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”

He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”

“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”

You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.

“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.

“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.

You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.

Notes:

A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.

It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.

The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.

I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.

Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.

This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.

From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.

In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.

But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.

A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.

A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.

A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.

Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).

At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.

How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).

It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.

The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.

Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.

‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.

A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.

The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.

A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.

Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.

The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.

Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.

The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.

A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.

[subwaysurf45]

Meeting the Family

Summary: Bucky was having his family’s annual birthday celebration because seeminly everyone was born in Feburary. you were invited which meant you had to meet the large family Bucky comes from, and with your luck it didn’t go as smooth as you wanted it to. 

Words: 5k

Warnings: panic attack, spitting, mention of stress hives, protective/clingy Bucky, mentions of poverty (if you squint really hard) 

Spring reading week was definitely needed already, you sat in your tutorial while you managed to stay on top of the practice questions rather than doze off like the guy beside you. It was rapping up and people were already starting to pack up and some had already left. 

The moment the lecture ended you raced out the door, not before saying goodbye to your TA and wishing him a nice week off because you - though you hate to admit it - like to suck up sometimes. Once you were walking with Bucky on campus and saw one of your profs, Bucky stood for five minutes as you pitched up your voice and asked about her kids. He never let you live it down that sometimes you were a teacher’s pet. 

Natasha was standing at the bus stop with your duffle bag in hand, you had packed it last night and begged her to bring it to you so you could catch this bus rather than the next one that comes in an hour. She had a smirk on her face as you jogged up, taking the bag with a smile. 

“I can bring your backpack back to the house, if you want?” Nat offered, her hand already outstretched to take it. 

“No,” you caught your breath, “thank you though,” you smiled and pulled her in for a hug, “have a nice reading week, I’ll be back Thursday.” 

“I still can’t believe you’re up there for six days,” she laughed, “throwback to when you thought he hated you.” 

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, “and yes, I’m up there for a week, apparently there’s some birthday thing because seemingly everyone is born in February.” 

The bus driver honked and you hugged Natasha goodbye, quickly tapping your card and found a spot. You were by yourself which was great, you needed to put your duffle bag somewhere. This would be a full day of travelling instead of the ride you could have got yesterday, Bucky’s parents have some cabin that’s three hours away but this day would take double the time due to a bus and then train ride. 

You had two important tutorials today that you couldn’t miss, it also helped that Friday had a discount for student bussing, there was always a brightside. You shot a quick text to Bucky to let him know you were on transport number one and super happy to see him. 

You had met Bucky’s parents before you two started dating because Bucky invited the entire group up to the cabin but forgot to let his parents know and they had the same idea. You then spent the weekend with ten people; half were in college and the other were retired. 

It definitely was an important night for you. 

“James,” Ernie slapped Bucky’s shoulder, “I need you to understand that you don’t meet those kinds of women everyday, that girl is perfect for you, you have to sweep her off her feet.” 

“She’s dating someone, Ern,” Bucky whispered, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his camp chair, “this weekend blows.” 

“No it doesn’t,” you looked over your shoulder and paused your manicure for Ernie’s wife, “I think Melissa would disagree, would you not?” Melissa nodded and held out her nails, “see?” you looked at Bucky and smiled, but you could see something was actually wrong. 

“I’m going to bed,” it was rare for Bucky to leave the party first, he normally started it. He threw open the patio door and you watched as you stomped upstairs. 

Ernie looked at you, “are you seeing anyone?” 

“It’s complicated,” you sighed and put down Melissa’s hand to grab the other, “he’s…” you groaned, “I know he’s not right for me but…sometimes proximity and being in a relationship for as long as I have is comfortable, y’know?” 

“I don’t,” Ernie said bluntly, “If my lady was away from me for three months I’d write her letters, I’d keep that love alive-” he cleared his throat, “tell me, has this boyfriend made sure you got here okay? Sent you a whatever those are called…texts yet?” 

You purse your lips together, it seemed everyone’s conversations had ended and they were all looking at you. You looked over at Nat who nodded sadly, knowing the answer already because you had already told her. 

“No,” you whispered, “he…he didn’t want me coming because he doesn’t like me around my friends ‘cause…” you looked up at Nat again, not wanting to air out everything in front of these people you barely know, there’s layers to these things and you didn’t want ruin this weekend by talking about your shitty boyfriend again. 

Ernie sighed, “take it from me,” he tipped his bottle towards you, “a lot of people say life is short but when you’re aware you’re in a mistake it feels like a million lifetimes,” he took a long swig, “slowly withering away.” 

You took a shaky breath and stood up, “I’m also going to hit the hay, see you all tomorrow.” 

Half an hour later you were sitting on the corner of your bed, sobbing into your hands as you tried to keep quiet. You could feel this weight from your chest release but also it felt like a heavy blanket was weighing you down, you could barely sit up straight or breathe. 

Five years of a high school sweetheart wasted, all because you told him you didn’t like that he didn’t check up on you. The things he called you, the names. Those names pressed harder on your chest, squishing you down until you were gasping for air while tears streamed down your face. All of your senses were becoming distorted, your vision was slowly losing focus and you couldn’t see out of your peripheral vision, the feeling of your fingers scratching down your neck felt like TV static, everything sounded like you were underwater. 

“y/n?” The door burst open and you could only hear your name being called from underwater, from his long brown hair tied up being the only thing you could register, you knew it was Bucky. He took your hand that was tugging down your throat to try and create air hole and placed it on his own chest, he took your other hand and held with his, after making sure you could keep your hand on his chest by yourself he cupped your cheek, “breathe, honey, you have to breathe,” he could feel his rapid heartbeat, it wasn’t helping like it normally does. 

“I-” you managed to hack out, trying so hard to gain control. He gently tapped your face to try and bring you back, you couldn’t hear him talking over the pounding in your ears but you knew he was trying. Thrashing out, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him close, feeling things begin to settle when he held you tightly. 

“You are very safe,” he spoke directly into your ear as he held you close, “you are safe with me, alright?” 

“Okay,” you whimpered, balling up his t-shirt as you breathed in his scent which lowered your heart rate. “We broke up,” you gritted your teeth, “I called him a while ago.” 

Bucky pulled out of the hug but kept his hands on you, “how did that happen?” 

“I didn’t like how he didn’t check in on me,” you looked down at your lap, “and I…and he bit back and called me names and I just had enough, so I broke up with him and he screamed at me,” you let out a wet laugh, “I froze and his voice sounded so crisp it was like he was standing in front of me so I didn’t hang up, he just kept going until I snapped out of it.” 

“Do you want to come sleep in my bed?” Bucky brushed away your tears, “just so you’re not alone?” 

“Okay,” you timidly stood up. 

“We will be stopping for five minutes at the Main Station, please take your time getting off and remember to take all your personal belongings with you, have a nice rest of your day, thank you.” 

You sat up straight and got off the bus, heading out into the main area and looking up at the screens to try and find your train platform number. You walked around for a while and noticed it was number 14 but you had time, so you got yourself a snack while you waited beside the tracks with a few other people. After sending Bucky another text you looked down the tracks and snacked on your cream cheese bagel, patiently waiting for the light to appear in the distance. 

********

The house was already buzzing with family members, they were all asking about if you were going to be there. Apparently your mother had told them about you, you had met Bucky’s immediate family but no cousins or grandparents yet; this would be the big day. 

“So you’re making her take a train and a bus to get here when you could have stayed back one more day?” Bucky’s uncle was already tipsy, for some reason getting upset and the situation. 

“y/n and I both talked and we agreed this was best for the both of us,” Bucky sighed in annoyance as you took another sip of his beer, “I’m driving her home next week and picking her up form the station today, so…” Bucky rolled his eyes and headed into the kitchen to find his mom plating all the appetizers. 

Winnie looked up and smiled, “could you be a doll and bring this out?” she nudged the spinach dip, Bucky nodded and picked it up. “Is everything alright?” 

Bucky looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, “can people just stay out of my relationship?” he whispered while he walked around the island to get near his mom, “I mean, my God, we aren’t going to crash and burn just because she wanted to go to two very important classes which makes her have to come up today,” Bucky placed his beer down, “it's just everyone is on my ass about it and it’s starting to piss me off.” 

Winnie nodded, “you’re the oldest out of this generation in the family Bucky, all your cousins are younger than you and you’re the first to introduce a girl,” Winnie cupped his face, “people are just excited there’s fresh meat, I bet you any money they’ll swarm her when she shows up.” 

“That is the exact opposite of what I want to happen,” Bucky leaned against the counter and crossed his arm, Winnie stepped in front of him. “Have you mentioned in the e-mail about-”

“Yes, I have,” she scrunched her nose, “no one will make a single comment about what or how much y/n eats, no one will mention anything of the sort.” 

Bucky let out a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back, “I want this to be enjoyable for her,” Bucky looked at his mom who was nodding, “y’know, I want her to like my family but I also know the sheer number of Barnes’ can make anyone feel cornered, and when she feels cornered she…” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, “and the last time she was here she broke up with her previous boyfriend,” Winnie placed her hand on his clenched jaw - making him relax it.

Her eyes flicked between Bucky’s, “you get protective and this anxious when she does, you hear?” Bucky nodded again, “right now, you are going to put that bowl on the coffee table and then come back for the chips as well as the pigs in the blanket and then you will go pick up your lovely girlfriend,” Winnie spoke softly and Bucky closed his eyes, “and you won’t crawl all over her with information and you won’t be glued to her hip all day, you can’t be the one to corner her, alright?” 

Bucky bit his bottom lip, “I love you, Ma.” he pulled her in for a hug, “I got really lucky with you, didn’t I?” 

Winnie chuckled, “I'm speaking from experience of meeting your father’s parents back then,” she sassed, “now go run all that stuff,” she waved him away. 

After putting everything out and finding George, his dad, Bucky got the keys to the truck and headed out. He brought a blanket for the passenger seat as the window in the old truck didn’t fully close and the heaters didn’t work. Bucky kept one hidden in the truck for himself when he was driving his dad's car. 

********

It had been five minutes since you got off the bus, you were shaking as you stood in the parking lot. Your arms folded over one another and you bounced in spot to keep from freezing solid, nothing helped with the outfit you were wearing. The train had the nicer bathrooms so you changed there, pulling on black tights to go under and a chunky wool dress that seemed like an oversized sweater; something Bucky would wear. 

The cabin was in the woods and a little more North, making it colder than campus even though the winter was not completely gone yet. Spring break was more like the end of winter break for where you lived, but a break was a break. 

A truck pulled in and flashed its headlights, you ran up and opened the door. Bucky looked nice with his dark green flannel, black shirt complimenting his hair and eyes. You lunged over the center console and hugged him, his hands pulling you as tight as he could. 

“You look so pretty,” he whispered, “you’re going to have my eight year old cousin wrapped around your finger,” he laughed as he took your duffle bag and threw it in the back seat. After you got settled in, Bucky drove away, taking one hand off the wheel to place on your thigh. 

“So,” you sighed, “what do I need to know?” 

Bucky laughed, “you’ll find out soon enough,” he briefly looked over at you, “just-...” Bucky scratched his stubble that was growing in, “I have a lot of family members and I was talking to my mom about this,” Bucky looked over once he stopped at the red light, “you’re the first person someone has brought home, I’m the first to have a girlfriend and bring her to a family thing so…”

“Go on,” you cupped his cheek. 

“They are going to be all over you,” he admitted, “they already are and you weren’t there yet,” he pushed out a laugh, “so I’m not trying to scare you or anything, I just want to to be prepared and if you start feeling anxious just tell me, we’ll take a second outside, okay?” 

You nodded, “that’s lovely Bucky,” you smiled wide, “you talked to Winnie for advice about me,” you cooed and scratched his cheek when he got extremely red, “I love that, baby, thank you.” 

“And…” Bucky swallowed hard, “I just want full disclosure with this,” he turned down a dirt path, “I ask them to keep comments about food to a minimum, I just want you to know that.” 

Your lips parted with a gasp, “really?” he looked over like he was in trouble but was met with you melt into your seat, “I really appreciate that, lovey, thank you.” 

The moment you stepped foot in the cabin you were greeted with loud chatter coming from another room, Bucky called out and you heard Winnie call back. Bucky took your bags from you and also hung up your jacket, smiling as he gave you suggestive eyebrows when he saw your full look, it was becoming a running joke between the two of you. 

Winnie ran over with her apron on, she held her arms out for a hug and you gladly fell into it. You had met George and Winnie a few times before, it was easy to find out that Bucky was a copy and paste of Winnie, everything about him was the same. She took your arm and stole you away from Bucky, taking you into the kitchen with her. 

“So,” she opened the fridge, “I picked up those ingredients you sent me, they are all over in their little corner,” she pointed to the top right, “dinner is going to be early so whenever you need to start just go ahead, alright?” 

“Sounds good,” you nodded. Before heading into the busy living room you were pouring yourself a glass of white wine, “George, nice to see you!” you reached out for a hug and he gladly accepted. 

“You got your work all done?” He asked as he took out another beer for himself, “Bucky told us you two two tutorials?” 

“Yep,” you took a small sip, “I was confused about the lesson and I didn’t want to be thinking about it this entire week so I thought I would clear it up for the big celebration,” you giggled until you quickly realized something, “has it arrived, by the way?” 

George couldn’t contain his smile, “it has, it’s going to be in your spare room under the bed.” 

“Perfect,” you raised your eyebrows, took your glass, and headed into the loudest room in the house. 

********

Repeating the same conversations over and over bored you like crazy, you didn’t know how many times you had to go over your entire life story until the entire room was on the same page. It was the same thing every time. 

You were standing by yourself with your second glass in your hand, what looked like an uncle had locked eyes with you and was coming over. You smoothed down your dress and smiled back, when he walked up he shook your hand and then faced the group before the both of you. 

“How are you liking the family so far?” simply from the way he talked you started to figure out who his kids were, you could also tell he was on Bucky’s dad’s side. His posture was almost perfect, a sweater tied around his neck and hanging off his back like a cape. 

“I’ve met some of you guys before, just in passing, but seeing everyone together is very sweet,” you giggled and looked over at Bucky who was showing his eldest grandpa something on his phone. 

“What are you studying?” he asked and took a sip of what looked like whiskey, it was odd because almost everyone else was drinking wine or a beer from the bottle. 

“Psychology,” you said for the ninth time, “but I’m definitely going back to school after, to specify.” 

“Huh,” he poked his tongue against his cheek, looking around the room again. He seemed to be waiting for something, he fixed his posture and you tried to look at where he was looking but nothing could be found. “I have my PhD,” he leaned down and added when you didn’t ask. 

“When did you defend it?” your eyes lit up, “i’ve always wanted to watch one happen in real life, it’s so amazing what you guys can remember and work with on the spot, I’d be too nervous,” you laughed and brough your glass up to your lips. 

He seemed to grow red very quickly, “I haven’t defended it yet, I’m…” he paused, “I’m close to submission on my paper.” 

“Oh,” you nodded, “so you don’t have it yet?” You couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the way he was trying to get out of the hole he dug himself into, he was far from actually having his PhD. part of you felt like he already had people call him Doctor. 

“I don’t,” he gritted out, “I’m going to grab a beer.” 

********

You were working away in the kitchen to make your little desserts for everyone, Winnie had taken her break and was mingling with everyone else. Bucky joined you not too long after to simply sit and watch, he watched you in silence as you looked back and forth between the recipe and the bowl in front of you. 

“I love it when you talk to yourself,” Bucky muttered, “you’re adorable.” 

“Shut up,” you grabbed the whisk and started mixing. 

You and Bucky stayed together in comfortable silence, both of you had done tons of talking already and just being near one another was enough. He had this calming presence that worked even when you weren’t aware you were up tight, it seemed his aura lowered your heart rate no matter what. 

People would come in and out to fill their drinks or see what was going on in here, a lot asked if they could help but you kindly declined. The music could be heard from the kitchen but not the living room, you bopped around as you placed the cookie mix onto the cookie sheet. 

At one point Bucky made his way around the island and towards you, picking up your wine glass and going to the fridge. He filled it and added ice cubes when you asked, making you smile to yourself as he softly replied. You looked over your shoulder to see him move swiftly but with care, slowly dropping them in so it didn’t bang against the glass or cause the wine to splash up. 

His hands made their way around your middle, you plunked the cookie dough on the sheet as his head dropped to your shoulder and stayed there for a while. His entire body was pressed up against you, Bucky just swayed as you worked. Every once in a while he’d place a soft kiss to your shoulder to reach around to tuck some hair behind your ear, nothing that got in your way or annoyed you. 

“I think it’s almost dinner,” Bucky whispered, giving you a squeeze. 

“Can I sit beside you?” you joked, looking over your shoulder to see his smiling face. It was a no brainer but you still found it sweet he nodded quickly. “I also think this is going to be my last drink,” you took a sip, “it’s really nice but I’m getting tipsy,” you both laughed. 

Bucky let go and took the tray to place in the oven, “my dad always breaks out the whisky at night,” he shook his head to himself, obviously remembering something, “beer makes me happy and funny drunk while whisky makes me all needy and clingy, get ready for that.” he walked over again, “I mean it.” 

“You already are a grade A clinger,” you pecked his lips, “looks like you’ll be miserable with me in the guest bedroom.” 

Bucky quickly shook his head, “nu-uh, I’m sneaking in or bringing you with me, I’m going to fall asleep on top of you, I’m calling it now.” 

Everyone made their way into the dining room, you found your spot beside Bucky and looked around at all the food in front of you. For a moment you were overwhelmed but Bucky’s hand was swiftly placed on your thigh, when you looked over Bucky wasn’t even looking at you, he was talking to his gramps again. 

As the food was passed around you put enough on your plate, getting coy when Bucky gave you a bun without asking. Little conversations began to build but you and Bucky stayed in your own little world, whispering to each other and laughing as if you were out on a date with no one else around. 

After a while Bucky’s youngest cousin began to ask you questions, it was much more entertaining than the adults. She asked if you had any imaginary friends or dogs, everyone laughed as she rapidly fired questions. 

“Do you and Bucky love each other?” the little girl asked. 

“Very much so,” you giggled and leaned into Bucky, he kissed your temple. 

“So…” she lost her train of thought, “do you and Bucky kiss?” 

Everyone laughed and Bucky answered, “sometimes,” causing the room to awkwardly laugh. 

The eight your old tucked her chin into her neck, “do you hold hands?” 

You lifted your hand to show you were already holding it, bringing your other hand up to sip your wine. 

“Do you have sex?” 

Immediately spat out. 

The white wine sprayed all over the kid’s face and food that people were eating, everyone erupted into belly laughs, including Bucky, but you stared horrified at the little girl crying in front of everyone. Your hand covered your mouth as you sat in shock, the little girl’s mother scolded her for asking that and wiped her face off with a decorative napkin. 

“That was too good!” the PhD faker slapped his knee, everyone agreed except you. 

You sat in horror as everyone calmed down and worked around their infected meals, you just curled up and kept your head down. The last thing you wanted was for this to become a household story that will show up next year, the embarrassment made your entire body boiling hot. You reached over and grabbed Bucky’s ice water, taking a couple gulps which also meant he looked over at you. 

“No,” he whispered, “no stress hives,” he rubbed his thumb down your neck, “baby, it’s okay,” you didn’t listen as you kept drinking his water, feeling him rub your back as you tried to cool down. 

Occasionally someone would laugh, all you thought about was the kid being wiped down in the nearest bathroom, it looked like a whale breached right beside her. She probably didn’t know what that meant and had run out of questions, she was so cute when asking other questions you knew she was coming from a good heart but not the right definition; she must have meant to say something else. 

You kept to yourself for the rest of dinner, not really engaging in the conversations and no one talked to you anyways. Eating quickly, you finished with enough time to get the cookies out of the oven and have a moment alone in the kitchen. You found another cup and filled it with ice water, letting Bucky keep his own glass. 

“Here are the cookies,” Bucky called as you walked in with the platter, “you guys, they’re amazing,” he took some of the plates away from the people who were done, “does anyone want coffee or tea?” 

“Oh, Buck, I can do that,” George stood up from the head of the table, “stay here, alright?” 

Bucky sat down and was quick to pluck a cookie for himself, making sure you saw him eat it and encouraging other people to eat as well. They all began to snack away, quickly looking at you with wide eyes; they were a hit!

“It’s a very old recipe,” you smiled. 

“Tell them the story,” Bucky nudged your arm. 

“Well,” you smoothed out your placemat in front of you, “My mom and I were moving out of this apartment complex because they were tearing it down for some…I don’t know, high rise,” you looked around to see everyone intensively listening, “and so when they were in the middle of construction my mom and I went back to check it out and it turned around there was this cookie recipe that seemed weird on paper with all the ingredients but we gave it a shot, it was old and crumpled up but you could buy it all at the store,” you took another bite, “so when we told people my mom’s friend said that it was probably used as insulation because our complex was old and people used to use news papers,” you laughed, “so we think this recipe literally came from the inside of a wall because my mom and I were in the rubble when we found it.” 

“Isn't that crazy?” Bucky laughed and took another, “when I first heard it, I was like maybe it was keeping you guys warm the entire time, maybe it was next to old newspapers that kept you guys warm?” He slung his arm around you. 

“Why couldn’t you guys get real insulating stuff?” one of the teen cousins asked. 

“It was an old building,” you took a sip of water. 

“Yeah but like,” he paused and scrunched up his face, “couldn’t they fix it, make it with modern materials?” 

You thought about it though you knew the answer. You held yourself back from saying it was the cheapest building on the block but you instead smiled and said, “I’ll give you the landlord’s number, you can set him straight.” 

Everyone laughed and the PhD guy chimed in, “does this recipe call for you to spray anything in it, because I don’t know if that’s a culture thing,” he chuckled, and the rest of the group laughed. 

You could feel the heat spreading around your neck again, “ha, ha,” you smiled through it, “I’ll never live that down, will I?” 

“It’s such a funny story, I’ll tell that one instead of that recipe one for next time,” he had the audacity to wink at you. His smile fell quickly, you hadn’t given him a face but when you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky beside you, it was clear. 

If looks could kill. 

********

You had called it a night a while ago, curled up in bed after finishing some work. Most of the family had left before it got too dark, not wanting to drive out of the lonesome woods in the middle of the night. Bucky stayed down for a while, of course drinking his whisky with his dad. 

“It could have been worse,” you said out loud as you looked at your duffle bag sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. Nothing was perfect but you had made friends with Bucky’s family and learned a lot, they seemed to really like you and not swarm as much as you thought. 

Hearing heavy footsteps coming up the stairs you listened close, smiling to yourself when you were able to label them as Bucky’s footsteps. Your back was to the door but you still closed your eyes, wanting to see what he’d do if he saw you sleeping. The door cracked open and you heard a gasp, he was drunk and needy. 

His hands slipped under your curled frame and picked you up, “my sack of potatoes,” he whispered to himself and left the room, turning off the light. When you were tossed onto his bed you opened your eyes, Bucky was taking off his shirt and nice pants. 

“Are you really going to-” he cut you off as he slipped under the sheets and laid right on you, just like he said he would. His face nuzzled into your chest and his arms held you close, you couldn’t help but play with his hair and watch how fast he fell asleep. “It's your birthday soon,” you whispered, “you’ll get your present soon.” 

Bucky held you impossibly closer, “it’s already here, baby.”

Masterlist 

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[namelessweapons]

On Religion, Fictionkin, and the importance of 'Gatekeeping'

Long post. Under a cut. Herein when I say 'We' I mean the nebulous idea of a community, I will be using 'I' in this for us, for clarity.

I will be redacting the names of any people or events mentioned herein in passing. This is not a jab, a "Callout", or a focus on one person, event, situation, or otherwise, anything mentioned in passing as examples are just that, examples, and if you recognize any of the people, places, things, or events mentioned herein, you are invited to not name them, they are not individually important.

My last disclaimer is that this is an Essay, not a Debate, I will not be 'Engaging' anyone about it who disagrees. I will not be 'engaging' anyone about it who agrees either. Equality.

I state herein that I will be dropping the term 'Fictionkin', as it's been completely aided to ruin by people who aren't even Fictionkin, and that I place a new word down that I will be using, I will make another post just about this word as well, but do know I do that in this essay.

EDIT: Yes this is okay to reblog! No worries

When I say 'Spirit Animal' what do you think?

Your knee jerk reaction if you don't know me was probably to recoil, it's a term that's been appropriated to the point of near uselessness in conversations with people who aren't indigenous. My father is native, or rather, he's half native and half Salvadoran. But he has closer ties to his native roots, for this reason, I spent a lot of time with my indigenous nation on the reservation parts of my family lived on, and I've never been to El Salvador once.

Your next thought may be wondering why I don't drop what nation I'm from, it's because it's really easy to doxx people with that information, so I will not be doing so, it's not super important anyway, the only important part is that my people have a concept that has been appropriated into this nebulous concept of 'Spirit Animal', it's now a fundamentally useless word to me, and many other indigenous people as well, because people who don't believe the same things we do took a concept, and a word, and gave it their own meaning, and ran with it.

This post isn't about being native, and it's not about spirit animals, but it is about the idea of taking concepts and, more importantly, words that already exist and are attached to a belief system, and re-appropriating them into other meanings.

Where is this going? I'm getting there.

I've been out as 'Otherkin', specifically 'Deitykin' for around sixteen years now, and out as 'Fictionkin' for a large chunk of that. Before I continue I'd like to say that being Fictionkin is not 'A Delusion', it is not a medical condition, believe me I've seen therapists and psychologists, it's a keystone of my religious identity and spirituality, once upon a time I probably wouldn't have had to clarify that to my own community.

You see, it used to be that when you said you were 'Fictionkin' it mainly meant one of two things, either it was a religious belief, or you had caught on to the part of tumblr who began using it to mean 'I just really love and identify with this character, teehee!', and when that started happening, people for whom this was a religious belief, a deep an important part of their identity, pushed back, and said 'hey, we were here first, this is our religion, can you maybe get a new word for your roleplay?'

And that was the correct response, it is not only rude, but morally reprehensible to take something from people as important as a deeply set religious belief, and to say 'no, actually, you have to let us use it for this totally unrelated thing, that will make people assume the completely wrong thing of you'

It's this sort of colonizer mindset, this is why I started this off talking about the fact that I'm indigenous by the way, because I knew I was going to use this word as a comparison and I wanted people to know where I was coming from in regards to my relationship with it. But it is a very similar mindset, it's the mindset of 'I am going to use this, and you have to share, and if you aren't okay with that, you're an icky gatekeeper and the onus is on you to move'

No, it isn't, the onus is not on me, or anyone else for who this is a fundamental religious belief to 'move'.

Back then we were pretty good about setting boundaries, when someone would say 'I choose to identify as this character' or 'I just identify deeply with this character' the community was pretty good at standing its ground and going, no, that's not correct, there's no issue with that, but you need to get your own word, because this word exists, and we as a religious community are using it.

However I was recently made aware of the fact that apparently, somewhere along the way, some people decided that it was playground bullying to not allow people to appropriate spiritual beliefs and religion, now I'm not sure exactly when that started, I logged off the internet for a while to focus on my religion off the internet and also to deal with a fire and being homeless.

When I came back I still wasn't aware of it right away, in fact I wasn't aware of it until my spouse, who lives in the same home as me, attended an event and got to watch someone use the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly.

Now I did not choose to attend this event, I work a very busy job, I also wasn't aware there was a discord for it or I may have joined to people-watch, but in the end knew it wouldn't matter, because my spouse and I live together, and I can community watch over their shoulder should I desire to.

Back to the situation, someone used the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly, or rather they used a term other than 'Fictionkin' and attached the meaning that already existed of the word 'Fictionkin' to it, because at some point when I wasn't looking, Fictionkin were pushed out of their own words and their own spaces in favor of this new meaning, which seems to range from anything from;

'I have medical delusions about being this character' 'I choose to ID as this character' 'I just identify very closely with this character'

to a myriad of other things. I'll circle back to this, the point is I was completely taken aback when I saw the people in charge of the group wrist slap not the person who was using the wrong definition and implying by extension that everyone using 'Fictionkin' was delusional, or choosing their identity, or similar, but the Fictionkin who were attempting to protect their words from being appropriated.

This is, to me, morally disgusting. I find it fundamentally abhorrent, and I recognized something in it, that tiny sliver of a moment where I was like, oh, this is exactly like how white people took things from my culture and ran with them to the point where they're fundamentally useless outside of spaces that have been carefully screened to only include the original users, because outside of that everyone will make wild assumptions. I get the same roiling feeling in my gut when someone goes 'Oh, fictionkin, like the people who have delusions!/Really like a character!' as I do when Britteneigh who works at Holister overhears me speaking about [REDACTED] and goes 'Oh my goshh you're talking about spirit animals! my spirit animal is-'

Before anyone gets into a huff, no, I am not 1:1 comparing being fictionkin to the oppression my people have faced, so take your hands off the keyboard, because I wouldn't have replied to your lack of reading comprehension anyway to be frank. One situation reminding me of another does not mean I am 1:1'ing the situations and the fact I have to explain this here before it even happens says a lot about my faith in tumblr's reading comprehension. I know.

Back to my essay, the feeling was very similar, this was a word I had used for a long time, a word I was around for when it was created, and a word I had watched be kept very carefully so as not to be watered down, so that an already small and spread out community would have a way of discussing our experiences, feelings, and needs, without becoming scattered, lost, and lonely.

Because that really is the point of having specific religious denominations, my father was a hobbyist theologist, I grew up with bookshelves popping up around me filled top to bottom with religious texts. There are Christian denominations you can't even get to share a room because their root beliefs are so different, so they have different words. Imagine for a moment that an 18 year old walks into your catholic church -- you're catholic in this scenario -- and tells you, someone who has been catholic since you yourself were a child, the following:

"I think your delusional dependence on the saints is really quirky and cute, I've been in touch with God himself for two years now, but you're cool too"

You would probably not be entirely happy, and I think most people would understand why. It's more complex than that of course, ironically I'm watering down a theological belief to make a point about not watering down theological beliefs, I can be a hypocrite, as a treat.

Allow me to loop back to my original point. I came back, feeling lonely and eager to re-engage with my religious community now that my life was more stable, only to find that at some point my religion had been bulldozed over in the name of (misguided, I'll get to that) "Inclusion". I had been, have been, left Spiritually Homeless so to speak, never knowing if a place I popped my head into would be for people like me, or for people so fundamentally different from me that we effectively have nothing in common.

I don't have anything against people with delusions, I have non-religious delusions when my OCD peaks. I don't have an issue with people who relate very closely with fictional characters. I don't even really have an issue with people who 'choose' to identify as a character other than the core idea of this essay. I don't mind sharing casual non kin or non religious spaces with these people, why would I?

I would say 'after all, they aren't hurting me'

Except like, here's the thing.

They Are.

I came back to what I considered my home, my religious community, and I found that while I had been gone, I and people like me had been forcibly removed from the spaces we had made, pushed out overwhelmingly by either people who had either appropriated our word outright, or worse still, by people who aren't fictionkin, have no right to speak on fictionkin (much less the words we use or how we defend our religious institutions), and who have bullied us out of our spaces on this unacceptable, fundamentally selfish, colonizer-minded idea of 'Not Gatekeeping', of 'Radical Inclusivity'.

They are hurting me by depriving me of spaces where I am comfortable, understood, don't need to constantly re-iterate my religion, and they are hurting me by depriving me of a word that historically has been the only real word to get into contact with the few other people I share a religion with, and by telling people I have a disorder that I do not have, as again, I do not have religious delusions, I simply partake in a niche religion. There is nothing wrong with having delusions, there is something wrong with force-diagnosing me by proxy.

And guess what. Sometimes things just aren't for everyone. Sometimes things just aren't for you. And you have to be okay with that. Or if you aren't okay with it, you're going to have to deal with it, because it's just the way things are.

Now, since I know someone is going to get into it, what I'm talking about here has nothing to do with the queer definition of Radical Inclusivity, not relevant, not related, not a religion, not the same, do not bother bringing it up.

When I say, 'I am Fictionkin', I want people to know right away two things.

I am a fictional character (or rather, I resemble a fictional character and can be considered a nonfictional version of them for all major purposes)

For spiritual reasons, this is a religion for me.

I do not want, at any point, for any reason, anyone to have to ask or wonder, if this is a self ID thing, a medical thing, a love of the media thing, I fucking hate half my media, shining resonance refrain is dogshit and here's why-

Different essay. Sorry.

This is getting quite long, so I will now turn around and backtrack to my original point.

Thanks to a lack of gatekeeping, partially from the community itself, and overwhelmingly by people who paint themselves as having authority who aren't even Fictionkin forcing Fictionkin out of their spaces to make way for unrelated people, the word no longer has meaning, and despite being there when it first began being used, it is no longer a label that fits or that I am comfortable with.

For this reason, I will be hereby using the term Fictotheism, Fictotheist, Fictotheological.

{Use: I practice Fictotheism, I am a Fictotheist, I am Fictotheological}

My fictionkin status is religious, it is spiritual, I will be using this word because that point is baked in, it will be difficult to appropriate by anyone else, I have created this word to be like a bra; it should feel uncomfortable to use for anyone whom it does not fit.

I do not care if other people use it, in fact, if it does fit you, please do. I am not demanding anyone use it, it was created for me, and for me alone, as someone who was pushed out of my original community, it is too late I believe to reclaim Fictionkin, which is unfortunate.

My hope is that a new word will primarily give people a clear immediate idea of what I am, and that if for some reason others should begin using it, that it will create a community that is once again not only in-contact, but at less risk of being pushed out of our own community.

My only request to anyone who uses it, is that you gatekeep it. I am not only asking you to gatekeep it. I am telling you to. It must be in order to keep the definition intact. 'I identify as a character perceived as fictional for religious reasons', this is the definition, there are no other definitions, so sayeth the lord. This is a joke by the way, I'm not that pompous.

Not the demand to gatekeep this word however, that was genuine.

In closing, the word Fictionkin has been stolen from the people who originally used it, and I think that's quite frankly disgusting, but there is no fixing it now, the only way we could have fixed it was to gatekeep it when we first started being pushed out. Regardless of which word picks up traction next, I hope that this time we, as a community, can come together to keep people; especially people who aren't even fictionkin, from forcing us out of our own churches.

I will end on this note, partially for humor, and partially to nip this in the bud.

Spouse: 'People will definitely try to force you to use Fictionkind or say it already exists for this reason (despite it also being watered down)'

Me: Good, they can get fucked, this is my word for me baybee!!

[watchyourbuck]

17 please

Every step Eddie took, Buck followed suit. His eyebrows were contorted in worry, and he kept fidgeting.

“Are- are you sure this is gonna work?”

Eddie inhaled deeply, moving around the kitchen in the limited space he had, picking bowl after bowl of snacks. He turned to his boyfriend with a stern look. “Buck,” he said, his tone bordering on exasperated, “please stop worrying. It’s gonna be okay. Here,” he added, handing him the dishes forcefully, “take these to the table.”

Buck pursed his lips, pulling the bowls close to his body. “Eddie, I’m just- I don’t wanna fight ‘em.”

“No one’s fighting anyone.”

The promise sounded wobbly, like it could break at any moment. But, then again, Eddie had earned his trust. At least he wasn’t facing them on his own.

“Okay,” Buck whispered, defeated. “I’m- I’ll give you space.”

His boyfriend was very obviously tired, and he wasn’t being precisely useful.

“Park it,” Eddie ordered, sighing. He put his hand up, stopping Buck before he could make it through the threshold. “Come here.”

Buck obeyed, blinking away a few tears. Eddie grabbed his arm, pulling him in.

“It’s going to be okay,” he reassured him, placing his hands on Buck’s neck before leaning up to kiss him.

It was long, and soft and enough to make Buck’s shoulders relax.

Then the bell rang.

They were here.

Almost immediately, Buck’s look of panic returned to his face. Eddie breathed out, pulling away from him, then gave him a kiss on the cheek before walking to the door. “C’mon baby.”

Buck stayed behind. Frozen in the middle of the kitchen, with half a pound of mini toasts and salty chips.

Admittedly, it was kind of selfish, but he couldn’t let them in himself —besides, Eddie hadn’t waited for him, either.

Soon, though, the voices of Ramon and Helena Diaz, and Phillip and Margaret Buckley filled his ears to the brim. They were asking for him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Buck!”

“Coming!”

The bitter taste of the word ‘baby’ got stuck in his throat. Not yet, not yet.

Who told them this was a good idea?

Irrupting through the kitchen door was enough to make their guests stare. Eddie glanced between them, forcing a smile Buck knew fake a little too well. He copied it. “Hi- hi mom, d-dad,” he said, his voice quiet.

Eddie walked towards him, taking back the bowls into his own. “Go,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side in repetitive little motions.

“Oh, uh- yeah, h-hi!” Buck muttered, moving as fast as he could through their crowd. “Mr. Díaz, Mrs- Mrs. Díaz.”

Both men patted him on the back, reminding him how strong they actually were. He gulped. He was okay, he was safe.

Margaret kissed his cheek, leaving an imprint of her lips. Buck wiped it with the back of his hand, smiling down politely at her so as to not offend her. Helena barely acknowledged him; she simply glanced at her own son with suspicion.

Right, he guessed this was a very particular invitation after all.

As soon as he was done, he stepped back, returning to Eddie’s side. He had finally settled the bowls down on the table, where they belonged.

The six of them stared at each other.

“Mijo, what’s going on?” Helena blurted, crossing her left leg over her right one. “Don’t- don’t get me wrong,” she added, looking over at Buck’s parents, “I- I’m thrilled to see you all, but-,”

“Nothing, ma,” interrupted Eddie rashly, “Buck and I have- we have busy schedules, that’s all. You’re always on my case about seeing me more… we thought it’d be a nice-,”

“Buck’s not all that busy,” exclaimed Margaret, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This… firefighting thing is more like a hobby.”

Buck felt his neck and cheeks color. Always good to know what your mother thought of your job.

“I disagree, Mrs. Buckley,” Eddie said after a second. “Being a firefighter is a highly demanding job, and some may think it resembles a hobby, but both Buck and I, and our entire team, actually…, we put all our efforts into taking care of you.”

The last word made Buck lower his head, his ears perking up. He knew Eddie better than anyone else in that room, and that was a direct shot.

“Edmundo,” called Ramon, his voice stern and his eyebrows furrowed. “Be respectful to your friend’s mother.”

Not that it should have, but he felt as though ‘friend’ had stabbed him in the throat.

Eddie fell silent. So much so that Buck raised his head and looked at him, his eyes wide and expectant. It took him a second, but he eventually returned the stare. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I thought we’d have more time of small talk, but- it is what it is.”

“Eddie.”

“Buck-,” he muttered, putting his hands up and closing his eyes. “It’s time”.

“I don’t understand,” interrupted Helena. She sounded upset already, as if she could sniff their confession from a mile away.

“I’m afraid neither do I,” followed Margaret, looking among the guests, but eventually blinking up at her husband.

He took her hand. “Care to tell us what’s going on, Evan?”

“It’s- Buck, dad,” he tried. “Whatever.”

“Okay,” repeated Eddie. “Everybody shut up.”

“Mijo!”

“Edmundo!”

“No, mom, dad. It’s time you listen to what we have to say.”

Buck gulped, blinking. He could hear his own heart in his ears, and it was making him dizzy. He looked at Eddie, who straightened up where he stood.

“You were right. We do have something to tell you,” he started. “This could have been a text, but out of respect for you, and for Buck, I’ve decided to do it this way.”

“Did you get a girl pregnant?” Ramon asked, short of standing up. Buck took a step back. Jesus Christ.

“No.”

“Then what’s so important you had to fly us out from Texas?”

Eddie licked his lips. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. ���Mom, dad, Mr., Mrs. Buckley… Buck and I are together.”

The way Phillip’s face changed in real time made Buck realize Eddie had grabbed his hand in the process. He was holding it, and squeezing it. He felt like he was going to pass out, but he managed to squeeze back.

“What is this?” Phillip said, a disgusted look plastered on his face.

“Together, together?” Margaret said, her smile faltering.

In a hurry, Ramon stood up, and Buck couldn’t help his reaction. He took two steps back, hiding behind Eddie. “What are you telling me, Edmundo? That you’re a fa-?”

“Ramon!” Helena interrupted, mimicking her husband. She put herself in front of him, trying to push him back.

Eddie took a step forward, and their hands slid away from each other. “Yes,” he said, his features hard, and unnerved. “Yes, I am. You got a problem with that?”

“Evan,” said Phillip. “Come here right this second.”

Buck was breathing heavily. This is exactly what he didn’t want. Oh, god, oh, god. He put his foot up, but Eddie extended his arm, crossing his body. “No,” he said, “he’s done taking orders from you.”

“So, he’s taking them from you now?” Margaret said, putting her hands up in desperation. “Evan- what have you turned into?”

“Mom,” he tried, his voice weak. “I’m not- I didn’t turn into anything, I’ve always-,”

“This city has turned my boy into a homosexual,” she cried, covering her face with her hands.

Eddie scoffed. “Buck’s bisexual, Maggie. I’m gay.”

“You are no such thing!” Ramon exclaimed, stomping his foot on the wooden floorboards. “You are sick, and I will punch this sickness out of you if I have to.”

“Ramon!”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie muttered, smiling. He ignored Buck’s tug on his shirt, taking another step forward. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Please, Eddie-,”

“Evan Buckley,” called Phillip. “We’re leaving. Go to the car.”

Buck frowned. “What? No.”

Phillip launched forward, keen on grabbing Buck by the shirt, but Eddie was faster. He put himself between them, staring up at his boyfriend’s father. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

“You’re not very tall.”

“But I was in the army, and I’ve seen torture that’d make you wet your pants like a little boy.”

“Edmundo!” Helena yelled, pushing past her husband to get to him. She grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away. “This is not who we raised you to be. What’s- what’s happened to you?”

“He takes it in the ass now,” scoffed Phillip, clicking his tongue mockingly.

Buck gasped, his eyes wide. Oh, hell no. “Actually, that’s me, dad.”

Silence. Eddie slowly turned to his boyfriend, the echo of fear resonating through his features.

“I’m the one that takes it the ass, dad, and boy do I love it.”

Like a maniac, Phillip reached for Buck. He grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him to himself. A few cushions were scattered on the floor, and it made them stumble. That was window enough for Eddie, who took the man’s wrist and turned it.

Everyone started yelling.

Buck fell to his knees, hitting his elbow on the glass table behind him. He winced, and Eddie ducked, dodging Phillip’s fist.

They both stood up in unison, finding their way back to each other. Eddie was the first to scream back. “All of you. Out. Now!”

“Eddie,” Helena whispered.

“Get out of my house. All of you.”

They all stared, but an ounce of common sense collectively reached their brains. One by one, they exited the perimeters, leaving Eddie to wrap his arm around his Buck protectively.

“I got you, baby, I got you.”

Buck broke into a sob.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Please take this as a very late Seven Sentence Sunday!

Tagged (yesterday) by @hippolotamus @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings & @lover-of-mine thank you so much! Go check their works if you haven’t yet💗

Tagging some friends and peeps who I believe may be interested in the ficlet! Let me know if you wish to be removed!! @your-catfish-friend @mattsire @butraura @bucksbirthmark @wildlife4life @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @buckleyobsessed @eddiebabygirldiaz @eddie---diaz @spagheddiediaz @malewifediaz @eowon @smilingbuckley @firemedicdiaz @princessfbi ✨

[bookishwithathought]

ACOSF Bonus Chapter Breakdown

Part II - Azriel and Elain

***IT IS LONG, BUT I WANTED TO DOWNLOAD ALL MY THOUGHTS ON HERE. IF ANYONE READS IT THROUGH, BLESS YOU. WILL CONTINUE IN FUTURE POSTS***

Part I: https://www.tumblr.com/bookishwithathought/749493410186117120/acosf-bonus-chapter-breakdown-part-i-azriel-and

**This is just me, analyzing the life out of the bonus chapter and all the possibilities. My thoughts and no one else's. If you agree, great. If you disagree, love it. If you want to share why you disagree, love it even more. If you are disrespectful while disagreeing, I kindly request that you move along and if you insist you will be left to argue with yourself**

How did I miss this important bit from the first part?

This implies that Az and his shadows are a package deal. The shadows are an important part of his character, his very being. Throughout the series there are so many comments and observations about the shadows, and if they weren't important then the author would have no need to give them the amount of attention she has.

BACK:

These details are important, especially since it's been established the shadows are an important part of Az's very being.

When comparing the shadows' behavior toward Elain to everyone else in Azriel's life, it's worth noting that they vanish in Elain's presence, or move in a way that implies uncertainty, insecurity or fear.

Elain was a social butterfly prior to being turned Fae, open and inviting, and this subtle forwardness seems to point to her being on her way to returning to herself, moving forward from mourning Graysen and her mortal life.

Azriel is letting his emotions override his reasoning.

To consider:

It can either be positive, where emotion leads to action for good, or negative, where it can lead one to ignore warning signs.

2. His conscience was warning him and he chose to ignore. His wants and needs broke forth, overriding his senses and dismissing any potential repercussions or fallouts from this decision.

"I want what I want, consequences be damned"

*Clearly Elain is attracted to Az, otherwise she wouldn't have leaned into him. We see her beginning to just want again.

(I'm redacting because I want to keep it as PG as I can)

Why wait for his shadows to go to sleep to allow himself this freedom?

Possibilities:

His shadows know it's wrong and would encourage him against it

Azriel knows it's wrong and doesn't want to have his companions whisper into his conscience

Azriel felt uncomfortable acting on his desires in the presence of his shadows and didn't want an audience

My personal thought: It's like hiding something important from your greatest friend who'll always be honest with you and hold you accountable because you don't want to be honest with yourself and you don't want to leave any room for your conscience to be awakened.

Personal note: I love the half-hearted attempt at resisting lol at least their conscience wasn't completely thrown out of the window.

Her arousal: reminds me of Violet Bridgerton and wanting to be "gardened" in Queen Charlotte (iykyk) lol. In all seriousness, this points to Elain being ready for love again. She is ready for touch, for intimacy.

Side note: Shout out to Azriel for still showing self-restraint, letting Elain take the lead on this. It's possible that he's letting her take the lead to appease his conscience, to be able to point out that he wasn't the initiator (not that it matters, at the end of the day, if you're still a willing participant. If there is blame to be had, you share it regardless of who started it) but I'd rather think the best of him in this moment, letting Elain set her level of comfort and pace here.

Trusting and hopeful and open:

Possibilities

Elain was ready to think forward, of the future, of the possibilities

Tied with her not knowing the darkest/roughest/morally grey parts of Az so she only has an image of him that's incomplete. Implies her desires for Az is incomplete because she doesn't know him wholly

Terrible...sacrilege...tainting...:

Possibilities

Az feels unworthy of goodness because he sees himself as unworthy of goodness

He idolizes Elain, putting her on a pedestal

He sees himself as not good enough for Elain, not even his presence is good enough for her. It corrupts, it taints, it stains.

He views Elain as innocent and pure, which in itself can be patronizing. We could point to the following excerpt from ACOSF

Personal note: I wondered, while reading this passage, if this was also directed at Az himself (I fail to remember the right terminology for this), because based on the bonus chapter he certainly believes he has a darkness Elain shouldn't be exposed to. So much so that he comments he knew she had no idea of his "unsavory" side, and the only way for one to truly know another is if the other person reveals who they are. He hid parts of himself, either because he thinks Elain is too good and pure or because he's worried of how she would react to who he honestly is. Either way, hiding parts of yourself is dishonest.

Immediate satisfaction. Here Azriel isn't thinking of a future with Elain. He has a desire he wants to see satisfied. After that? In this one moment, there is no "after that." Not to say there wouldn't be later. For now, there isn't.

{Side note on "Offer and permission": love to see on page consent.}

To be continued...

[beevean]

I saw the post about Shadow having NPD and your comment on it, and I gotta say, it does somewhat bother me how fans will shove multiple neurodivergencies, personality disorders, mental disorders, etc on characters as if those are just funny quirks and not highly serious afflictions that influence entirely how you can live life and how others treat you. Autism and ADHD are the ones I see most commonly used, but there's certainly more. And it's treated as just a goofy little personality trait, thrown onto characters in the way that you would say they don't like raisins in their apple pie or are fond of the colour red because they wear red clothing at times. It truly feels as if there is zero regard for how such a divergency would actually influence character behaviour, nor how it fits in canon, and any "proof" often is cherrypicked or plain incorrect (e.g. "Sonic can never sit still, ADHD icon!!!" What, Sonic who likes taking naps and reading books in the games, and Sonic X as well? Even in Boom he lazed around endlessly!). I'm all for letting people write ND characters, but it does get irking to see every single character be characterised with Fun Buzzwords™️ like that, no matter how unfitting or stereotyping.

To be fair, NPD is not one of those "silly disorders" like autism/ADHD (they aren't silly either but I hope you know what I mean), which yes are assigned like candy to characters who dare to be quirky or a little naive. I do understand why people with it would want to destigmatize it.

It's the concept of "I am/have X so my fave is just like me fr fr" that makes me raise my eyebrow.

Do you really believe Shadow is a narcissist? Where? What symptoms does he display? Saying stuff like "I am the Ultimate Life Form" is not synonymous with having such an unstable ego that you crave praise like air.

But if your reasoning is not based on canon interpretations at all, but it's just projecting... that's not a headcanon to me. That's just you inserting yourself in the character you like. And, to be very blunt, I am not interested in this game, because I don't know you, and you haven't given me any reason to even consider your proposal seriously.

Saying "Shadow has low empathy but a solid moral code" is very different already. I can compare your statement with canon and agree. I don't know if this means he has a disorder, and I wouldn't assign one to him (I mean, my man is already Traumatized and recovering, I think it's enough), but at least you are making something that resembles an argument and invites engagement.

I'd even take absurd statements like "Sonic has low empathy", something I read once. At least it comes from an interpretation of canon, one I heavily disagree with, but it still has more thought put into it than "he's just like me fr fr"

I probably sound like a bitch, I'm aware. I'm not preventing anyone from doing what they want (although please put more thought into assigning autism to characters because enough of you seem to think that any kind of personality means autism and ND people are just empty shells of assholishness). I just personally am very, very bored of this approach to canon that can be boiled down to "I want my faves to be like me", when for me the fun is reading canon and extrapolating from it.

[allycat75]

I don't know why, but I still hope there is time for you, Boston Dumb Fuck. I hope you deserve the consideration and kindness still offered you.

Despite what you may think, I am actually rooting for you. I think you got tangled up in something nefarious that was bigger than you thought and didn't have the proper people around you or the coping skills to get you out. But the decisions and their ensuing consequences are still your own, so let me remind you why I am here and why I will continue to push you (not that I think you are reading my posts. I am just screaming into a void):

You roped us all into this by trying to convince us you are happy in a relationship when it is obvious to almost anyone you don't like her. You maybe thought you were helping the cause by doing a bad job, but that act to save yourself came crashing down on your observant fans, hard. Because when we pointed out the many obvious inconsistencies, we were branded as crazy and jealous. Then there is the gaslighting with changing timelines, photoshopped pictures, sightings and non-sightings, poorly acted jump scares and general mindfuckery. You can't now un-invite us to the party because you don't like what we are saying about the ambiance, like a spoiled brat at her Sweet Sixteen celebration. We will defend ourselves from lies and manipulation and not accept the labels of "unhinged", "bully", "crusty old hag", "mentally unstable" or "delulu" (among others)

She is an awful person and by tying yourself to her like this you implicitly approve of her racism, antisemitism, fatshaming, arrogance, clout-chasing and entitlement, forever. That hypocrisy cannot go unnoticed considering your former stances on these subjects and your role as the face of ASP. The site may be useless and bland on its own, but politics is full of people talking out of both sides of their mouths, and you have made the platform potentially polarizing at a time when we need serious, clear discussions with no distractions

The fact that you look absolutely miserable and discuss your life as if it is not your own is more than a little unnerving. This is in no way to shame you, but rather out of a genuine concern for your safety and why you did this to yourself when you had every opportunity provided (hence, the "Dumb Fuck"). You have talent, but are wasting it on brain-dead pap because you seem afraid of depth and unearthing something blocked deep within your psyche

Show how your behavior parallels the issues of the world at large and how we accept things we shouldn't. We have kept quiet about unchecked privlege, intent vs. impact, performative activism, being child-like vs. childish, ageism, greed, mental illness and wellness, the power and weaponry of sexuality, toxic masculinity and misogyny, generational wealth, integrity, alternative facts and emotional truths, misinformation and disinformation, value placed on hard work, attributes of healthy relationships, preciousness of time, and the effects we have on our fellow mortals, all of which has got us to now, on the brink of societal destruction. And we see this epitomized in the microcosm of your shitshow

And I don't care if this is just how it is done in Hollywood. It shouldn't be- it's dumb, dangerous, unethical and doesn't work. Movies used to not have sound and Harvey the Hutt used to be a free and powerful man. Things evolve!

So please do better and until you do, I will be supporting you and calling you out on your shit. It's called tough love, and it may not be for everyone, but it is the tactic I am using for now. Anyone who disagrees has every right to block and/or ignore me. The only one I wish to debate any of this with is the BDF himself, and he ain't listening.

[he-who-writes]

Dorian had woken up that morning with a knot in his stomach. His parents were so set about him proposing to Lady Cora. She was a nice, noble girl, the ideal wife for a prince like him. And he didn’t truly have a reason to disagree - she was indeed a beautiful and kind young woman who would probably give him lovely children and they would live happily ever after. But something felt wrong and he couldn’t quite figure out what. So he’d decided to share with her his secret project, to trust her with something so precious to him, and see if her reaction helped him settle his doubts. If she was to be his life partner, then surely she would respect his interests and maybe even be enthusiastic about it, right?

After breakfast, the young man had suggested a walk around the castle grounds, and the duchess had graciously agreed to accompany him. Once they had walked far enough from everyone who could hear him, Dorian had confessed he needed to show her something, but that she must promise to never tell a soul what she had witnessed today. Although hesitant, the girl had acquiesced, and followed him past the gardens and into a wooded area that even gardeners didn’t enter. Almost an hour walk into this forest is where the prince had hidden his passion project. In a small clearing, he had built a rustic hut of some sort and various structures to serve as a playground. On one side was a small table, a bench, and a small drying rack where he regularly hung fish stolen from the castle’s kitchens. That day, he had only a satchel tied to his belt filled with small bits of already dried fish, as it would’ve been too suspicious to bring fresh ones on a walk with Lady Cora. As they emerged into the meadow, the duchess stopped and looked around her with confusion. Dorian took her hand and gently pulled her along to the bench where he invited her to sit, which she did after taking a moment of pause. 

“Right. Well, here we are. Now, I’m sorry to insist, Cora, but you must promise me. Swear on your life. That you will not speak of this to anyone. Not even a servant. Not a single living soul. No one must know of this place and what I’m going to show you. Not only would my father be furious but I would probably never see the light of day again.”

“I understand,” said the duchess. “I promise.”

“Good. Good…Now, I’m going to…Let’s see. I’m going to show you. But please don’t scream. They’re not dangerous. They’re very, very well-behaved. And they won’t do anything to you.”

Seeing the perplexed and slightly worried look on the young woman’s face, Dorian squeezed her hand with his in reassurance, then turned around and called out into the trees. The noise he made was more of a croak than a word or a name, like a dog with a sore throat, but it did the job. Within moments, he heard rustling from the bushes and then about a dozen of glemtkins shuffled out of the woods sniffing the air and squeaking. Lady Cora put a hand to her mouth in shock, but she thankfully didn’t move or make a sound. The creatures cautiously creeped closer, one of them getting ahead of the others curiously and pawing at Dorian’s thigh with a grunt. He glanced behind the prince at the duchess, let out a series of small chirps, and when nothing happened, every glemtkin scattered into the clearing happily, suddenly ignoring the humans. The young man sighed in relief and sat down on the bench next to his betrothed-to-be, who still looked completely bewildered. They sat in silence for several minutes, during which Lady Cora finally let her hand fall into her lap, watching the beings play like children in a schoolyard. 

“So…you have pet glemtkins?”

The noble woman’s voice had a quiet but still distinctive tone of disgust and when Dorian looked at her, she was pinching her lips so tightly that he thought she was holding back vomit. At that very moment, he realised he could never spend his life with her. 

“They’re not pets,” Dorian shot back with an irate look. “They’re not animals. They’re like…children.”

“But you do know they’re not all transformed human children, right?”, she asked almost condescendingly.

“I know, I can tell them apart,” replied the young man as he watched over the gaggle of creatures happily playing. 

There was a moment of silence before Cora spoke up again. “My apologies but you…uh…how?” The prince glanced at her, then back at the glemtkins running around. He knew he could never marry her. But maybe she could still be on his side in this fight. Maybe she could recognize them as beings worthy of life, unlike most people who considered them dangerous, or worse, vermin to be exterminated. As one of them passed by, a little male about the size of a four years old boy, Dorian plucked him from the ground and sat him down in his lap. “Easy,” he stated as he opened the small satchel and gave a handful of dried fish to the struggling creature, who immediately relaxed and started munching on the provided snack. Now that he was distracted, the young man lifted up the glemtkin’s stained shirt to expose his midriff. “See? He doesn’t have a navel. I’m still not sure how the gestation works but the ones who were never human don’t have a belly button.” 

He put the creature back down and he waddled away with a fistful of fish that the others immediately begged for, which led to them wrestling in the grass. “They don’t have mammary glands either,” Dorian added matter-of-factly. “The young ones don’t nurse, they’re born with teeth. Ask me how I know.” He chuckled as he raised his left hand to show a faint crescent-shaped scar near his thumb. “They’re ready to hunt straight out of the womb. They eat fish and small critters from whatever body of water they were born in.”

The duchess frowned as she spoke up. “They’re born in water? Do they swim then?” “Oh, of course. They’re actually born with gills. Like fishes. They lose them after a few weeks though, that’s why you can’t really use that as a marker of whether they were ever human kids. I think they develop lungs in the womb but don’t truly use them until they start walking on land. I’m not sure. I know they breathe like you and I, though.” Some of the glemtkins who hadn’t been able to snatch a piece of fish came squawking to him, gesticulating wildly and pointing at the satchel. Dorian smiled as he opened it and started distributing the food to the little ones, offering one to Cora. “Oh! Oh, no, no, thank you, I’m not hungry”, the noble girl said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s not for you, Cora, it’s for them. I was merely suggesting that you might try giving it to one. They’re very food motivated…You could make a friend.”

A glemtkin wearing a blue dress of which the hem was caked in mud reached out towards the duchess then, her small green hand trying to touch her hair with something like admiration in her eyes. Dorian knew this one had been human once, from the way she looked to how she interacted with him generally. Maybe she remembered her own mother’s hair in the way Cora’s was styled. The creature gurgled in a way that sounded almost exactly like a happy human baby, a noise that quickly turned into a yelp as the young woman slapped her hand away. “Keep your filthy paws off of me!” The duchess commanded and everything suddenly became silent. The other glemtkins who had been nibbling on their snack a few feet away stopped moving and the prince’s warm smile fell. The little female started wailing then, loud and desperate, and all of her fellow creatures ran back into the woods with small cries of terror. Dorian stood up from the bench and scooped up the little being into his arms, hugging her close and petting her braided hair. 

He wanted to apologise to her, because he had promised that they would always be safe with him and now, although not his fault directly, he had broken that promise. But he didn’t know yet how much glemtkins understood his words, and even less how to convey them in a manner that made sense to a child. He instead opted to hum a lullaby, one that he thought she might have known before her transformation, an old song of warm summers and slow rivers. Soon the creature had stopped crying and, when he finished the last note, he carefully put her back down. Before he could even say anything, she had followed the others into the forest, and Dorian finally turned to Cora.

“We are leaving.” His voice was cold. Sharp. He still offered his arm to the duchess to hold a semblance of decorum, but there was no enthusiasm in his gesture. And certainly no love. She seemed to realise that she had made a big mistake as she took the offer in complete silence, and they walked back to the castle’s gardens without exchanging a single word or glance. Once they were well within the safety of the grounds, Dorian stopped.

“Here. I’ve fulfilled my duty of bringing you back safely. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to. If you could tell my father I won’t be attending dinner tonight, I would appreciate it. Have a good day, Duchess.”

The woman stammered some words but the prince was already walking away, and he didn’t stop to hear her out. Nothing she could say would change his mind now. On the bright side, his doubts had been confirmed - there wasn’t going to be any proposal. He only hoped his parents would accept his decision. 

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

May I request a minific with Survival AU Dagger and his fem s/o? Like, her reminding him that he is enough, that he's important. Stuff like that.

OH ME HEART-

Lady (Mistress) has a swing in the back of the courtyard, under a tree, that’s big enough for two people. Lately, (Name) has seen DAGGER sitting there alone, when it’s dark out.

Sometimes he’s sitting up, using the one foot he has to push himself back and forth, looking incredibly lost in thought. Sometimes he’s lying spread out on the entire swing, letting the swing sway gently by itself… still looking incredibly lost in thought.

The two of them have become quite close since Lady (Mistress) rescued Dagger and his family. (Name) isn’t ashamed to admit she’s shared several kisses and embraces with this man, and hopes to share many more.

However, what’s rather sad to her is that she doesn’t think he sees himself the way she sees him. Especially after whatever circumstances led him and his family here, he doesn’t seem to believe he’s worth much or appealing to anyone. It breaks her heart to notice the little ways that he shies away as if he doesn’t think he’s ‘good enough’.

So she ventures out tonight, assuring her lady that she’ll be back in soon, and lowers herself down onto the swing beside Dagger after strolling through the courtyard. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

To his credit, he doesn’t jump so much as startles a little. He’s prone to being dramatic around other people, so she’s grateful she gets to see a side of him that many others don’t get to see. It feels special and intimate.

“Sure is, darlin’.” Instantly he shifts to make room for her, patting his lap in a clear invitation for her to lay her head there. “Good night f’r cuddlin’.”

She laughs and obliges, nestling her head against his legs. “Every night’s a good night for cuddling if it’s you I’m cuddling.”

He offers a snort as he runs a hand through her hair. “Agree t’ disagree, I s’pose. Shouldn’t y’ be inside ‘bout now? It’s gettin’ dark.”

“Well, I couldn’t fall asleep without you beside me,” she hums. “Why do we have to agree to disagree, anyway? You don’t think I like cuddling you more than anyone else in the whole world?”

All he has to offer is a shrug followed by the gentle comb of his fingers in her hair. “Not that y’ don’t like it. Jus’, y’know… I don’t… I ain’t nothin’ special, y’know? A cuddle’s a cuddle. Mine ain’t no different.”

She wraps her arms around his waist and is quiet for a moment. “We’ll have to agree to disagree, then. Because I’ve cuddled at least a few people in my life, and your cuddles are definitely the best. You don’t think you’re anything special? Really?”

“… Nah.” He speaks up softly, even though silence would tell her everything she’d need to know. “I ain’t. Don’t always understand why y’ wanna be with me, ‘ey? Y’ could ‘ave other men. Ones w’o ain’t missin’ a leg ‘n’ try’na recover from a buncha crap ‘n’ ‘aven’t…” His breath catches in his throat. “… Ones w’o ain’t done bad things.”

“Everyone’s done bad things at one time or another.” She gives him a squeeze. “We all have a past, my love. It doesn’t mean that people should choose someone else instead of you. And you have the whole, big future ahead of you to do whatever you want with.”

He lets out a sigh, and his breath freezes in midair. It’s only the beginning of March, after all. Still cold. “Assumin’ that ain’t y’ jus’ being all wide-eyed ‘n’ too sweet. Wot ‘bout my leg? The one that ain’t there?”

She moves her arms so she can take his hand. “Missin a part doesn’t mean you aren’t a whole person. Your soul isn’t missing pieces, is it? Your heart isn’t missing pieces, is it? Who cares what anyone else thinks of you, as long as the people who know your heart love you?”

He doesn’t say anything, so she tugs his hand up to her face and presses a tender kiss to the back of it. “You’re important to me, Dagger. You’re handsome and kind and if there was someone exactly like you, personality and looks and talents and everything, who was born with two legs, I think I’d still choose you. Because you’re you. Don’t you think if I wanted a different man, I would have chosen another man?”

She lays her head back down, closing her eyes. “But I don’t. I want you. And we can agree to disagree on whatever else we want, but on this subject, I think you’re just going to have to learn to live with that. I’ll get you agreeing with me on this one thing some way or other.”

The world is frozen and beautiful and she can barely see him, but she knows he’s smiling, because of the shape his lips are in when he kisses her forehead.

“I know probably no one has ever said that to you before,” she murmurs. She’ll have to get up and cajole him inside in a minute. Just one more small, sweet moment out here.

“That’s alright. I promise, I’ll say it enough to make up for all the times you should have heard it. I’ll say it so much you’ll be hearing it in your sleep and you’ll be sick of it.”

And she thinks that’s the way it ought to be.

‘I love you’ are the only three words that one can never possibly wear out, aren’t they?

[we1come-to-swerves]

disclaimer!! ; [ the following contents ( dialogue, general storyline, characters ) entirely belong to james roberts. i own none of it! i am only responsible for the descriptions added. ]

word count ; 8,157

[ cybertron. yesterday. ]

“they say that 12 million years ago, on this very spot, the first cybertronian realized he could change shape,“ a flame-colored figure stood proudly before thousands of others; voice loud enough to reach any being from miles and miles away. “six million years ago, right here, nova prime told the world that he’d built an ark. and four million years ago to the day, optimus prime stood where i now stand and turned down megatron’s first and only invitation to surrender.“

loud cheers echoed from the masses and the response only seemed to fuel the bot in his speech, vocalizer raising the tone as he picked up, “what happens here tomorrow will rank alongside those moments. tomorrow, this patch of land becomes a launch pad. tomorrow, i will board the lost light and set off in search of our ancestors.“

“they were known as the knights of cybertron. they’re real. i’m going to find them.“ the cybertronian stated, almost matter of factly, before pausing for a second and only for a second. though the way the crowd froze— awaiting eagerly for his next words— could have fooled almost anyone present into thinking time itself had stopped and let an eternity slip past.

“and i want all of you to come with me!“ a buzz of excitement washed over the public. the cheers grew loud once more, perhaps even louder than before, and so time seemed to start again. 

rodimus’ hope-filled words rang across the large crowd of bots, each and everyone of them a different size, a different shape, a different color, but the same look of longing etched upon their features, “bumblebee says it’s your duty to stay here, on a planet you no longer recognize, among people who resent you for the sacrifices you’ve made in their name. i say: you’ve done your duty. the war is over. that day you never thought would come? that’s today.“

rodimus’ face, splayed across hundreds of screens for all the spectators to see, then broke into a grin as his voice softened just in the slightest; “you’ve earned the right to see the universe without a gun in your hand.“

as the crowd broke into a rhapsody of praises and applauses, rodimus prime turned to look back at his companions. he hadn’t been alone on that platform, despite what you could’ve been led to believe by the way all optics had seemed only capable of focusing on his frame during the speech. rodimus smiled proudly at drift, the latter returning the expression almost immediately as he nodded in approval, knowing already what his peer seeked. the orange bot’s smile turned into more of a cocky smirk however as he then sent a look to the imposing blue and red figure standing only a few steps behind him. ultra magnus’ famously strict expression did not change, but rodimus didn’t need it do so to know his soon–to-be second-in-command was pleased ( or, at least as pleased as he could be ) with the result of the launch announcement. 

two figures stood only a few meters away from the main crowd, looking on at the sea of people. “kid knows how to work a crowd. we could be witnessing a mass exodus at this rate.“ 

a mocking “pffft.“ and a cross of the arms was the only response.

wheeljack’s eyebrows raised as his optics moved to look at prowl in slight surprise. “are you disagreeing, or are your pistons playing up?“

prowl somehow managed to deepen his frown. “wheeljack. i can observe 800 moving objects and compute their direction of travel in 0.5 seconds. this is no different. as soon as rodimus said he was leaving i mentally compiled two lists: those who’d go with him and those who’d stay behind. trust me. all reliable indicators suggest that tomorrow’s launch...“

“...is going to be one big non-event.“

[ kimia. makeshift autobot headquarters. the autopsy room. today. ]

“he transformed himself to death.“ a body laid on the autopsy table; devoid of life, graying and riddled with holes of various sizes. a protest sign sat on the floor right next to it. “his transformation cog looks like a lump of coal. he must’ve been changing non-stop for weeks. where’d you find him?“

“outside, on the steps. he was a NAIL. a protestor. he did this on purpose, to draw attention to our ‘illegal occupation’ of cybertron.“ bumblebee’s optics followed ratchet’s frame as the latter rolled out from underneath the table and sat up, seemingly done with the autopsy. the smaller bot’s grim look never once left his face as he continued, hands placed on his cane for support, “thanks for looking him over. metalhawk said he’d only accept a verdict of suicide if it came from y—“

with a loud transformation noise, the corpse changed back into its alternate mode, cutting off bumblebee’s sentence and surprising him enough to make him drop his cane and almost topple over. “WOAH!“

"relax,“ ratchet reassured, practically unbothered as he got to his feet, “it’s just a reflex action. rigor morphis: the dead body assumes its preferred shape. and yeah, sometimes it’s the alt mode.“

ratchet glanced down at the vehicule now sitting on the autopsy table before raising both his hands so that they were at optic level. he scrunched up and stretched out his digits with a light frown. “he wasn’t dead when you brought him in. he still had a spark. it was tiny, but it was there. i should’ve been able to save him. an overheated transformation cog! i’ve fixed millions of them! millions!“ he gave a noise akin to a sigh as his frown deepened, “it’s these damn fingers. they’re getting too old. seizing up.“

“anyway...“ ratchet dropped his hands as he stared ahead blankly for a few moments before finally adjusting his voice module and continuing, “i’m leaving. with rodimus. tonight. i’m sorry. i’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you.“ there was a pause and no answer followed. “the massively awkward silence suggests that probably wasn’t it...“

bumblebee slowly started shaking his head as he smiled almost in disbelief. “no. uh-uh. no way. you’re joking, right? this is one of your jokes.“ upon noticing ratchet’s averting gaze however, the yellow bot’s face fell. “i need you here, ratchet,“ he exclaimed, “you’re the best there is— the only autobot to have saved the life of every prime since nominus.“

“precisely.“ the doctor agreed sharply. “i’ve been doing this too long. it’s time someone else became chief medical officer— someone who isn’t losing their touch,“ he added with a certain sadness.

bumblebee raised his cane accusingly towards ratchet as his voice raised. “i’m panicking now. you’ve made me panic. i’ve got the shakes. look. look at the cane. see that? i’m not doing that on purpose.“

the taller cybertronian gently placed his hand onto the stick, lowering it slightly as he frowned. “you don’t even need a cane anymore. i told you, i’ve found the spare parts i need to–“

ratchet’s sentence was cut off as bumblebee started his rambling once again, “did he seek you out? rodimus. did he give you all that scrap about finding the knights of cybertron and ‘retracing our steps to the golden age’?“ the yellow autobot accused before finally letting his cane fall fully as he averted his gaze, his voice lowering and almost muttering this time. “it’s all scripted, you know. drift writes it for him.“

“look, it’s not about the destination so much as the journey. rodimus has promised to pick up some waifs and strays along the way. you and i both know that not everyone’s accounted for. a lot of autobots are still out there— and some of them could be injured. maybe i can help them. and maybe i can find a successor in the process. think of it—“ ratchet paused, choosing his words carefully before smiling slightly, “ think of it as my swan song.“

amongst dark rocky wasteland, a purple cybertronian jet can be vaguely distinguished. the figure seems to be flying around almost aimlessly; observing, reminiscing.

to the east: tetrahex, subterrania, pess pess, the vaulted heights of k’th kinsere, obex, mesmerica, the pious pools, and a badly lit basement where i first met scourge.

to the west: the first city, the fragmented whole, the shadow of the underbase, warrior’s gate, the transeptum of infinite reach, and a balcony where i watched the greatest moonrise of my life.

all gone, now. not ruined, just gone. removed.

my world has been scorched to the bone and now there’s nothing left except emptiness and the smell of burning metal. a far cry from what it was.

at least i’ve got my alt mode. at least i’ve got my wings. no i/d chip in the back of my head— rodimus was true to his word in that respect, at least.

maybe the chip wouldn’t have worked anyway... ever since i was ejected from vector sigma’s chamber i feel like i’ve been given a new lease on life.

the question is, what to do with it?

okay, cyclonus, time to bring the farewell tour to an end and see if rodimus remembers the promise he— wait. down there— life signs. familiar life signs.

the cybertronian gives a thoughtful hum. maybe there’s a reason to stay behind after all...

the jet stirs from its course and descends towards a small worn down structure.

[ kimia. prowl’s quarters. ]

“so. you’re off then.“ prowl crosses his arms, looking away from the bot in front of him. “this is a setback, chromedome. a real setback. i’m disappointed in you.“

a smaller cybertronian sitting only a few ways behind looks up from his datapad almost incredulously at those words. if the bot didn’t have a visor, his eyebrows would’ve been raised in almost disbelief at the audacity prowl had. optics glancing briefly from him to chromedome, the minibot doesn’t waste much time before going back to his initial task— seemingly choosing his mental well-being over involving himself in these matters.

“yeah, well i’m sure you’ll get over it.“ chromedome answers dryly, not having the will to look at the bot he’s conversing with either, choosing simply to tilt his head in the opposite direction instead.

this doesn’t end up being very efficient however, considering only mere seconds later, prowl latches onto his shoulders— forcing the two autobots to speak face-to-face. “i’m going to level with you. somehow— don’t ask me how— rodimus has found two hundred autobots willing to join him on his fools’ crusade. well, good riddance,“ prowl manages to growl out between clenched teeth, “i can make do without each and every one of them. but i can’t—“

“even ratchet?“ chromedome asks in a deadpan tone.

“ —make do without you. you’re gifted. you can do things no one else can. if i had your talents...“

“primus help us all.“

prowl’s head snaps towards the small autobot. “rewind! you’re his best friend. can’t you persuade him to—“ his face falls blank. “—your light’s on. are you recording this?“

the small camera attached to the left side of rewind’s head continues beeping a bright red, confirming prowl’s suspicion. the light emitting from rewind’s visor flickers, almost like a blink of surprise as he answers, “um...yes?“

“well don’t. it’s extremely annoying, you filming everything all the time.“

rewind motions to his camera. “i’m an archivist. i’m archiving,“ he states matter of factly. “this could be an important conversation. it could have repercussions!“

before prowl can respond, chromedome directs the bot’s attention back to the matter at hand, eager to finally end this tiring argument. “prowl, you and i go way back, yeah? you know i’ve done more for the autobot cause than most. and you know i’ve done things that, in hindsight, i bitterly—“ chromedome cuts himself off with an exasperated groan. “—oh, forget it. the point is, using my ‘talents’ in the way you suggest is hardly going to help me draw a line under the past.“

noticing his partner’s souring mood, rewind placed his datapads down and jumped off the table he’d been sitting on. a few quick strides and he was by his side, gently placing a hand on chromedome’s arm as he steered him away. “c’mon,“ he urged softly, “you’ve said what you wanted to say.“

prowl’s fists clenched. “you know what your problem is, chromedome? you think that just because the war is over we can afford to stop fighting!“ before his brain module could even process his own actions, prowl’s digits had reached the underside of the table and it was sent flying across the room, left-behind datapads clattering to the ground.

a few beats passed as he stared at the mess with a certain emptiness in his optics, his hand then finally reaching for his communicator and bringing it to his lips. “it’s me. prowl. i couldn’t change his mind. no, this was always a possibility. i’ve already made the necessary modifications. all you two need to do is load the cargo. what? yes, of course i’m serious. i’m always serious. “

[ cybertron. six million years ago. ]

note to self, tailgate: don’t panic.

a bot sat in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from his flickering visor and a jagged hole up in the ceiling of the cave he was in.

don’t panic and definitely don’t look at your legs.

he found that the task would be a lot easier if the missing limbs would quit emitting sparks every now and then.

find your calm place. think happy thoughts. everything’s fine. everything’s really, really fine.

the minibot’s optics drifted around the darkness, searching for a distraction, and catching sight of some scrap metal laying around. one of his digits had a nervous twitch as he tried to forget where that material came from in the first place. giving up on finding something in the surroundings that could occupy his thoughts, he simply offlined his optics for a moment and let his mind go blank as best as he could.

okay. okay, good.

and here comes the preliminary damage report, right on cue…

the panel on his arm flashed a bright blue as writing slowly appeared on the screen: “preliminary damage report: YOU’RE AN IDIOT.“

i’m a what? what kind of a damage report is that? if i believed in rungian analysis i’d say that my self-loathing has finally spread to my internal readouts.

tailgate looked up at the gaping hole in the ceiling above him, despair filling his optics. with all the spikes filling the edges of the opening, only a few rays of light were capable of reaching him and he knew that meant he too would hardly be visible through that gap from all the way down there if someone were to pass by. the thing is— the thing is— i am an idiot. taking a shortcut across the mitteous plateau, the most fragile terrain on the planet, just to make sure i reached the ark in time for takeoff. and now i’m trapped in these catacombs with— what— about six hours to go until launch. if nova prime and the others leave without me their mission is doomed to failure— yet all i can do is sit here and self-narrate.

his screen lit up again: “final damage report: ambulatory systems at 18% efficiency... internal chronometer malfunctioning... transformation cog misaligned... ATTEMPTING REPAIRS...“ tailgate’s spark seemed to dim as he read the words over and over. translation: no legs, no watch, no alt mode. could be worse, he tried to reassure himself unsuccessfully. 

tailgate stared blankly at the soft light emitting from a few energon cubes which had fallen out of the trailer he’d been carrying prior to his fall. he was surprised the vehicule managed to survive it without much damage. if only he could say the same for himself.

hey... the bot let himself fall forward as carefully as he could, placing himself in an adequate position to crawl as an idea slowly formed in his head. maybe i can use the equipment in my trailer to detonate my energon rations, blast a hole in the ceiling and call for help... the young cybertronian’s visor glowed brightly with new found hope. 

...good plan. ha! not such an idiot after all…

[ present-day cybertron. ]

“i’d just like to say... um,“ the bot hesitated before muttering: “argh. never done this before.“ scratching his head with a claw, metal creaking against metal, he tried once more. “okay, second attempt. i’d just like to say… thank you.“

fuel splashed around and out of the container as his arm moved around in a movement of impatience, his claws tightening around the bottle he held. “oh, come on— don’t give me that look, i’m being sincere! i am! look—“ he motioned towards his single optic, glowing eerily in the dimly lit room. “this is my sincere face.“

“now shut up a minute while i say my piece,“ the cybertronian growled out, pouring the remaining fuel onto the floor before continuing in a sort of disorganized ramble, “my life— i’ll be honest with you— my life hasn’t been that easy lately. i’ve had some ups and downs, you know? i’ve taken some knocks, yeah, i know, boo hoo,“ he almost mocked. “i mean, the whole wreckers thing— being dropped from the team— that was harsh. i know some people say i deserved it, but— yeah.“

his optic flickered down to the dozens of fuel containers laying at his feet for a brief second, a certain sorrow in his gaze. kicking one, he starts again. “so anyway— thank you. this private time we’ve shared— it’s meant a lot. over the last few weeks, ever since the NAILs came back, you’ve helped me get by. no, really, you have. you’ve helped me offload and vent my frustrations and— and express myself, i guess. i suppose in a way you’ve kept me sane.“

raising a small torch with the light reflecting off his autobot badge, the bot tilts his head as his optic slims, almost as if smiling despite his lack of features. “but all good things must come to an end, and if there’s one thing i’ve learned it’s how to say goodbye and mean it. so without further ado—“

before the flare can be freed from his claws and start its descent towards the fuel-covered floor however, a deep baritone voice interrupts: “hello? anyone in here?“ cyclonus opens the door tentatively, red optics glowing almost even brighter than the light creeping in from the outside. “scourge? is that you? i thought i detected your—“

whirl’s head snaps towards the intruder, a single yellow light meeting two crimson ones for a brief moment. cyclonus’ mouth falls agape as his gaze soon falls onto the strung up figures behind the cybertronian who he can now recognize is not scourge. mutilated bodies cover each wall of the room, lower bodies missing for some, nails planted into their arms and heads shoved inside chests for others.

“haven’t you ever heard of knocking?!“ whirl yells out in blatant rage.

“what the hell are you doing?“ the horned cybertronian almost demands, bewildered at the sight he’s been met with.

the only answer cyclonus receives however is whirl promptly taking off into a sprint and knocking him right out of the building, taking the door with the both of them. “oof! oh, so i’m the one in the wrong...?“

metal crashes against stone as cyclonus’ back lends roughly onto the ground, multiple meters away from the building. the guns attached to whirl’s torso dig uncomfortably into cyclonus’ stomach. the older cybertronian raises his hand in defense, trying to calm down his attacker. “listen, whirl— it’s whirl, right? i’m not interested in fighting.“

the bot’s eye turned into nothing more than a thin line. “tough...“ his left arm flung back, throwing the flare he had still been holding, right into the trails of fuel leading to the building. “...because i am!“

a massive explosion engulfed both cybertronians, reddish flames and fumes covering the area. a fighter jet escaped the fiery cloud, an attack helicopter following close behind.

[ the lost light. ]

chatter resonated from the long line of cybertronians, hundreds of optics observing the imposing starship stationed only meters away and preparing for launch. at the front of the queue, red alert looks up from his datapad with an unimpressed glance at the bot before him.  “i’m going to need to search your briefcase, brainstorm.“

“you’re kidding, right?“ the aforementioned bot asks, almost seeming offended by the question itself. “this case contains a work-in-progress,“ he shakes the luggage around in front of red alert’s disinterested optics as if to press his point, “if i open it outside of a controlled environment, do you know what’ll happen? end of the world, my friend. end of the world.“ 

upon noticing the impassive look he received, brainstorm continues, “i’m serious. i’m almost certainly serious. besides...“ the weapons engineer pats around his frame before pulling out a card and practically shoving it in red alert’s face once more. “...i’m exempt from all security checks. see? special dispensation from rodimus himself. it’s authentic. check out the rubsign.“

red alert glanced between the card and brainstorm’s smug look. “so as head of security i’m supposed to let the galaxy’s most famous weapons engineer on board without checking his bags?“

“the galaxy’s most famous weapons engineer, eh? you’ve been reading my autopedia entry...“ the winged bot somehow managed to look even smugger.

“did i say famous? sorry, i meant to say notorious.“ red alert deadpanned. “next!“

the head of security looked back down at his datapad as brainstorm walked by him and into the lost light with a grumble. “name?“ he asked.

“megatron.“ a deep voice answered. “but you can call me...death.“

red alert didn’t even need to look down at the much smaller red and white autobot to know who had spoken. “swerve. please tell me you’re here to wave us off.“

“no, no, no,“ the bot shook around his three-fingered hands, “i’m here for the quest. love a good quest. haven’t been on a quest since the whole luna 1 thing. the moonquest.“

“stop saying ‘quest’.“

swerve grinned. “so, can i go on board?“

“of course—“ red alert finally looked up from his datapad, optics narrowing. “if you promise to never ever speak.“

“next!“ he called out to the following passenger, a strange sound of almost disbelief escaping his voice box as his optics fell onto the numbers displayed under the cybertronian’s arm. “one hundred million!“ he exclaimed before awkwardly regulating his voice back to a more acceptable volume, “that’s an impressive serial code, er...“

the orange autobot’s optics, which had focused on his own arm at red alert's words, raised— staring at the bot before him incredulously. “it’s rung,“ he reminded with slight hurt in his voice, “you know me, red alert.“

“rung! of course! sorry! i didn’t recognize you...“

rung’s eyebrows raised. “i was your psychiatrist. for six centuries.“

“never mind that,“ red alert hurriedly tried to change the subject, “what’s in the crate?“ his finger pointed at the large box rung held against his chest.

the hum of aircrafts could be faintly heard in the distance.

“nothing. just trinkets,“ a small smile formed on rung’s face as he looked down at his collection, “i collect model spacecraft. arks, mainly.“ the bot took out one of the models and held it out for red alert to inspect.

both cybertronians still seemed unaware of the quickly approaching shapes on the horizon.

the head of security eyed the object curiously. “we were at war for four million years. how have you managed to hold onto this stuff?“ 

hearing red alert’s somewhat impressed tone, rung’s smile grew a little more. “i guess i have a knack for keeping out of harm’s—“

a purple fighter jet slammed into rung, putting an abrupt stop to his sentence and ripping off one of his arms with a loud “KUNK“. his collection of small aircrafts was sent flying into the long line of cybertronians, right along with the box in which they had been placed for better carrying. red alert and multiple other bots crouched instinctively as to avoid getting hit as well.

before anyone could even register what had happened, the jet continued its panicked flight, an attack helicopter giving chase but luckily not breaking any other unattending cybertronian’s arm off. 

[ the bridge of the lost light. ]

rodimus is leaning against the ship’s window, arm propped up above his head and gaze fixed on the outside. his attention is briefly turned towards his third-in-command however when he hears the familiar static of a voice module switching on. 

“and the total so far is...“ drift’s blue optics drift across the screen of a datapad. “two hundred and eight.“

a joyous laugh accompanied by a fist pump erupts from the flame-colored autobot. “oh yes. stick that up your exhaust, bumblebee.“ rodimus turns towards his companions, pride evident in his features.  “you know, when i gave that ‘gun in your hand’ speech i—“

“great speech.“

rodimus sent drift a grin. “thanks,“ he answered breathily before continuing. “—i never imagined so many would sign up. two hundred and eight? that’s amazing. that’s gotta be some sort of record.“

smiling slightly at the amazement in his captain’s tone, drift turns towards the taller bot beside him, handing him the datapad he had been holding, “your new crew mates, ultra magnus.“

the second-in-command's face scrunches as his optics land on the screen however and drift tilts his head at the sight. “why are you frowning? i mean, why are you frowning even more than normal?“

rodimus, who had been standing a few ways behind, turned his head towards the window as his audio receptors picked up the low sound of engines. optics narrowing at the sight of a vaguely familiar purple jet, his attention was brought back to his companions before he could ponder too much on it. 

“he’s dangerous... he’s delusional... he’s a liar... he’s mad— i mean literally mad...“ ultra magnus went on and the sheer intensity of his glare only seemed to increase as his gaze moved down the list of names. “he was demoted after that incident with the turbofox... i arrested him for impersonating a senior officer... he owes me money... i don’t trust him or him, especially not in their combined form... and if he’s who i think he is, never, ever let him near a crossbow.“ ultra magnus sighed as he lowered the pad, “and those are just the a’s.“

the datapad seemed tiny sitting in his particularly large hands as he handed it to rodimus’ open digits. “you should’ve put me on the door. i’d have turned away any wayward characters.“

rodimus scoffed humorously, “magnus, your definition of a wayward character is an autobot who wears their badge at an angle.“

the autobot’s expression stayed perfectly serious as he gave a curt nod, “yes, in direct contravention of the military regalia act!“

rodimus grinned. “sometimes i wonder how you see the world, my friend.“

ultra magnus stared at the two bots before him, his internal readouts displaying information on what his optics were reading as usual.

[ rodimus

dreams of being heroic and important. tends not to follow rules too closely. means well but his impulsive actions often get him into trouble. can be hotheaded.

risk of future criminal activity: variable. ] 

[ drift: ex-decepticon

resist urge to arrest on sight. used to fight for megatron. one of the most terrible warriors ever to stalk the face of cybertron. granted amnesty under the reintegration act.

risk of future criminal activity: off the scale ]

magnus stayed quiet.

the sound of two missiles being fired tore through cybertron’s skies. cyclonus maneuvered around the projectiles, feeling their heat as he passed in between them. “alright—“ a loud crash echoed as they ended their course against a rocky peak, cyclonus changing back into his robot mode and landing on that same structure only mere seconds later. "—enough is enough.“

the horned cybertronian used his left arm and legs to put his skidding to a halt, metal claws digging into rocky ground. “i said i didn’t want to fight you, but that doesn’t mean i won’t. and when i get going, i will kill you,“ his voice rumbled threateningly. “i don’t even know why you’re doing this.“

“you barged in. you saw things.“ whirl reminded as if that was reason enough.

“which— URGH!“ cyclonus threw his arms in front of his own chest protectively as whirl’s alt mode slammed into him, though it did not do much to soften the impact. the metal plating of his chest creaked painfully. “—implies that i’m going to tell someone what i saw. which in turn implies i care. i don’t. i mistook the sweeps for scourge. my mistake. end of story.“

whirl shifted back to his robot mode, effectively throwing cyclonus even further along the peak in the process and making him land roughly at the edge of the summit. “oof!“

whirl’s singular optic glowed menacingly as he approached the older cybertronian in quick strides. “they were already dead. i just scraped ‘em off the ground. besides, they were never really alive, were they? not alive alive. they’re like turbofoxes— a brain stem, a weak spark and a set of learned responses. so i wasn’t actually doing anything wrong.“

cyclonus groaned slightly as he started to get back to his feet. “whirl, i don’t care,“ he insisted once more. “i’m late for an appointment. now can we please stop fighting?“

“what do you think, decepticon?“

the purple cybertronian sighed in growing frustration. “i’m not a decepticon. never have been. i fought beside galvatron as a fellow cybertronian. now— for the last time— are we done?“

“AAAARRRGGHH!“ 

that was the only answer he got as whirl charged directly at him. whirl’s metal limbs collided with cyclonus’, throwing both bots off the cliff and sending them plummeting towards the ground below.

[ the past. ]

tailgate’s small form was slowly nearing his trailer. the energon cubes sat only a few ways from him, casting a soft glow on his visor as if taunting him. 

this would be... easier... if i didn’t keep...

his hand reached forward though it didn’t get very far before his vision went black as his system shut down, his upper body crashing onto the floor.

time passed.

the gears in his body slowly started wiring once more as his optics turned on, letting him see again.

...passing out.

tailgate felt out of it. he could barely tell how much time he had spent stuck in this cave. he couldn’t even feel some of his limbs anymore; the remaining ones, that is. 

still... if i’ve done my sums right... i’m gonna reach the ark in time...

he reached a shaky hand forward once more, determined to carry out his plan.

three figures make their way through rocky peaks in quick, hurried strides. 

chromedome stares down at the screen on his arm. “ten minutes to launch,“ he sighs before glancing at his short partner, who’s leading the way only a few steps ahead of him. “you know, rewind, if you had a decent alt mode we wouldn’t have to walk to the launch pad.“

“oh, it’s started,“ rewind exclaimed, throwing his arms back in exasperation, “the alt mode bashing. every time you get agitated...“ the small autobot took on a fakely enthusiastic tone, “let’s have a go at rewind because he turns into a giant memory stick and not a... super space tank or— or— whatever.“

chromedome glanced down at him with a shrug. “i just don’t see the point of turning into a giant memory stick. you might as well be a monoformer!“

“remember the old saying? ‘everyone’s shape serves a purpose.’“

ratchet huffed out a laugh. “yeah? tell that to sky lynx.“

SKATCH!

the words had barely left ratchet’s lips when the loud sound of two figures violently crashing onto the ground only a few meters before them muffled the echo of his voice almost fully.

chromedome, rewind and ratchet all stopped in their tracks, optics widening in shock. they seemed frozen to the spot for a few seconds, as if their processors needed a little extra time to understand what had just happened. 

a cloud of dust and rubble had covered the shapes of those who’d crashed mere moments ago. the three autobots could only vaguely distinguish a figure slowly getting to its feet as the sound of metal limbs moving around was heard. 

tentatively, ratchet took a few steps forward; letting his optics adjust as the dust slowly settled. his gaze focused on the standing figure first, something akin to disbelief spreading across his features.

“whirl..?“

the lanky bot towered over the purple figure, who had taken most of the impact from the fall, judging from his lack of movement. the cybertronian laid face first on the broken and cracked rocks, one of his horns laying not far before him, detached from his helm.

ratchet frowned in slight confusion. “you okay? what’s going on?,“ he questioned the ex-wrecker.

whirl seemed agitated as he answered accusingly; “he attacked me after i caught him desecrating corpses. i suggest you look away now if you have an aversion to exploding heads,“ he almost growled, as he lowered the guns attached to his chest towards his target.

ratchet had approached whirl enough to reach out a hand in an attempt to calm him down. “he’s offline, whirl,“ he pointed out, “whatever he’s done, he’s not a threat. best lower the gun, eh?“

whirl’s head whipped around, optic thinning into a glare. “you talking me down, doc? is this you talking me down?“ his voice raised dangerously. “like i’m some kind of maniac that needs— that needs talking down?“

ratchet put his hands forward cautiously, as if surrendering. it wasn’t hard to notice whirl’s growing agitation, and he wasn’t much of a fan. he couldn’t comprehend why the ex-wrecker was so set on finishing off this offline cybertronian; but then again, this was whirl. his decision making skills were questionable at best, it was better not to ponder on them too much. nevertheless, he tried to reason once again, against his better judgment, “i’m just saying—“

“no, i’m just saying. he started it. i’m finishing it. and a nice, clean headshot is always the best way to finish it,“ the bot uttered with finality, the barrels of his firearms starting to glow dangerously as he prepared his shots, still aimed directly at cyclonus’ unmoving frame.

ratchet’s optics widened. chromedome took a step forward, as if to help the medic stop him. rewind went to hold his partner back but stopped in his tracks as a strange sound reached his audials. the smaller bot looked around in slight confusion; strangely enough, it had sounded as if coming from below. a bad feeling washed over him, and he seemed ready to alert the others of it when— FROOM!

“ARRGH!“ whirl’s agonizing scream resonated along with the sound of the blast. a huge, bright, purple ray of energy had sliced right through the ground below the group of cybertronians, hitting whirl straight on and blasting off both his firearms and a chunk of his chest plating in the process. his figure, along with multiple pieces of debris, were blasted back multiple meters away, landing roughly on the rocks.

the three bots who were still standing approached in quick strides the newly made opening in the ground, clearly in complete shock at the string of events which had just occurred, and continues occurring. staring down the fuming, gaping hole, it was quite hard to see much. but a tired voice was soon heard.

“any chance of a hand?“

rewind, chromedome and ratchet glanced at each other. a few beats passed. then, chromedome shrugged, getting to work, as the others soon followed. and with a joint effort, a small blue and white cybertronian was soon pulled from the cave.

“c’mere, pal. i don’t believe we’ve met,“ chromedome stated as he grabbed tailgate’s arms as to fully pull him out of the opening.

“have— URGH!“ tailgate yelped in pain as chromedome held him up fully, though the latter didn’t exactly seem to notice the small one’s discomfort, head only tilting to the side at the sight of his missing legs instead. “—have i missed the launch?“

this question was soon the least of the cybertronian’s worries however when his gaze landed on whirl’s battered figure, laying motionless some distance away. the small one’s spark seemed to visibly drop at the sight. “by the shadow of the underbase!“ he exclaimed. “did i do that?“

seeing his agitation, chromedome tried to place the damaged cybertronian down, but the latter’s panicked movements made this quite a challenge, resulting in the taller bot dropping him a little too high from the ground; the poor guy’s frame therefore crashing rather roughly on the rocks. chromedome flinched slightly at the impact and seemed ready to apologize, but if the fall had hurt him, tailgate didn’t even seem to register it as he only continued to panic on the aftermath of his escape from the hole he had, inexplicably to the others present, been in.

“stay calm. stay calm. stay calm.“ tailgate’s frame started shaking and his optics began fizzing, sparks buzzing from his visor. he reached a trembling hand forward, as if trying to crawl towards his accidental victim. “he’s de— he’s de— he’s de—“ the panic was getting the best of him, his voice box kept cutting off his own sentences, “—he’s dead! i killed him!“ 

a defeated sound akin to a cry left him, before his frame came crashing down completely; his upper body slamming against the ground, as his body seemed to shut down on his own from the sheer intensity of his own emotions.

ratchet, chromedome and rewind stood in silence and let a few seconds pass by. their optics moved from the purple cybertronian, still laying face first against the rocks, the still fuming hole, the debris scattered all around them and whirl’s chest which continued to fume as well. chromedome’s visor flickered, as if blinking in disbelief at the scene before him, despite witnessing the whole of it with his very own optics only mere moments ago.

rewind stared at tailgate’s unmoving frame. “this is turning into a very odd day.“

ratchet let out a sigh as he finally seemed to regain control of his limbs, the surprise slowly subsiding. he bent down next to tailgate’s small frame, placing a hand on the latter’s back gently. "whoever he is, he’s just had some sort of panic attack. he mentioned the launch. i’ll fix him once we’re on board the lost light.“ the doctor’s optics then fixed themselves on another wounded’s figure. “i’m going to regret saying this,“ he started with a slight grimace, “but we’d best bring whirl along too. we can’t risk leaving him... well, anywhere, really.“

rewind glanced around quickly, before starting to turn around. “i’ll, er, catch you guys up... i’ve just got to say goodbye to someone.“

ratchet and chromedome nodded in acknowledgment at the minibot's words, before soon busying themselves with carrying the two battered bots; though chromedome's gaze stayed fixed curiously on rewind as the latter’s frame disappeared in quick strides towards only he seemed to know where. 

two cybertronian figures stood in an alleyway between wordown buildings.

“yeah, yeah, i got ‘em. wasn’t easy, though. you’re gonna have to pay me double.“

rewind scoffed, almost snatching the disks from the hands of the con before him. “swindle, i’d be happy to— provided these are genuine.“

swindle put his hands up in defense with a sly grin at the subtle accusation, “hey, you can’t fake this stuff.“ he tapped the objects with one of his digits, before tilting his head. “i gotta say, i didn’t think wholesome little autobots like you were into this kind of thing.“ 

the decepticon chuckled. “you’re sicker than i gave you credit for.“ 

the smaller bot glared slightly at swindle's words before glancing down at their reflections in the golden disks he held. for once, rewind’s camera was not on.

aboard the lost light, rodimus prime sat in the captain’s chair, hands resting on the armrests placed on either side of him as the ship prepared to finally take off. his second and third in command stood only a few ways behind, busying themselves with checking, and double-checking that everything was in order for the launch.

“red alert wants to talk to you. something about ratchet bringing a weapon of mass destruction on board...?“ drift trailed off in slight confusion at the words he himself was reading, looking up from the datapad.

“it can wait,“ rodimus assured, optics still fixed forward, “it’s time we were off.“ 

“incoming call from bumblebee.“ magnus stated. “want to take it?“ he turned his head towards his captain questioningly.

rodimus’ optics narrowed slightly, before blankly answering; “no.“

cybertron’s skies had grown dark; thousands of stars were now perfectly visible against the deep shades of blue. prowl and bumblebee stood amongst a small crowd of bots; sky lynx and mirage not far from the two. even from multiple miles away, the lost light was perfectly visible.

a loud rumbling resonated amongst the plains as the rear thrusters began emitting bright blue lights; preparing for the take-off, at long last. the huge ship slowly lifted off the pillars which had been supporting it thus far.

prowl’s frown seemed to deepen as he looked on. bumblebee’s face, on the other hand, was blank. although, his hands, which were clasped on his cane for support, had a particularly tight grip this time around.

once at a high enough distance from the ground, the lost light angled itself towards the skies. the bright light of the engines now facing the crowd, shining upon their figures.

bumblebee turned his head towards prowl, “i thought you said you had a plan.“

bumblebee’s head snaps towards the skies once more however at the booming sound of an explosion, horror filling his optics at the sight they’ve all been met with.

only then does prowl glance down at the smaller bot’s frame, optics fixed on the latter's reaction.

the lost light had disappeared in a gigantic, fiery explosion, only mere seconds after its take-off. 

[ elsewhere. ]

amongst the darkness of space and the thousands of stars stands a lone planet. craters of various sizes, ranging from obscenely large ones to smaller joint patterns, cover its surface. a trail of greenish gas follows the planet in its slow course.

a large, bright blue light flashes only a few miles before it. with tendrils of energy crackling around, the lost light appears. 

flashing red lights, a blaring alarm; panic fills the command chamber of the lost light. multiple bots have to resort to clinging onto nearby objects to stay afoot as their ship suffers rough shakes. the more unfortunate knock against walls or end up thrown against the hard floor.

a disoriented rodimus attempts to stay upright as best as he can, leaning most of his weight on the tilting side of the ship. “would somebody please tell me what just happened?“ he demands loudly, trying his best to be heard over the loud, blaring sounds. “perceptor? mainframe? highbrow? anyone?“ the captain glances around frantically. “COME ON!“

“we quantum jumped before we were ready!“ finally answered mainframe, tapping away at the ship’s control pannels, desperately attempting to fully understand the current situation. “we’ve hopped halfway across the galaxy and we’re flying blind, and i’m sorry but i don’t know why!“ he concluded agitatedly.

“damage?“ rodimus asked through gritted teeth. this wasn’t going well.

mainframe grimaced. “one of the rear thrusters exploded, deck 6 is in flames and—“ a horrified look spread across his features as his optics locked with a particular something on the screen before him. “oh no.“

rodimus’ head snapped towards the bot at the latter’s alarmed tone. “what? what is it?“

“we’ve got a hull breach— one of the hangars on the upper decks.“

the captain’s optics widened with evident panic. the hangars were filled with passengers. a breach meant there was a high chance multiple of them had either been seriously harmed or sucked out of the ship entirely. this wasn’t just an unfortunate start to their quest anymore; cybertronian lives were at risk.

“resealing... now, structural integrity restored. heat shields in place. rodimus?“

rodimus’ fists clenched. “set us down,“ he ordered. “we’re not going anywhere until we find out why the quantum engines malfunctioned.“

he didn’t need to insist. the piloting team immediately got to work, and the lost light entered the nearby planet’s atmosphere soon after his words; flames licking at the front portion of the starship in its fast descent towards the plain, rocky ground below.

drift, who had managed to get back up once the lost light had calmed down on the shaking, checked the command screen, blue optics taking in as much of the information present as quickly as he could. “sensors indicate we’re missing fizzle, polaris, waverider, hyperion, rad... we’re 40 autobots down, all told,“ he glanced worriedly at his captain. “they must have been... i mean, the breach must’ve—“

rodimus didn’t let him finish. “they’re not dead,“ he declared, as if stating a sure fact. “i’ll tell you that now. no one dies on my watch. no one. not this time,“ despite the determination in his words, his voice shook ever so slightly as he assured the last part. “we’ll find them. as soon as we touch down, we’ll find them...“

“...we’ll find them and we’ll fix them and we’ll get back on track, and we’ll make this day a good day.“

“big place,“ rodimus remarked, leg propped up on the rim of a nearby crater and optics scanning the surroundings. there was only rocky uneven wasteland as far as they could see. two rather large planets, similar to the one they were on, could be seen in the skies. “where do we start?“

ultra magnus, who was standing a little closer to the ship, tilted his head. “how about over there?“ he proposed, pointing somewhere before the two of them.

rodimus’ gaze followed magnus’ digit. raising his hand to shield his optics, he stared curiously at the dozens of lights seemingly raining from the planet’s skies. “under the meteor shower?“ he questioned in slight confusion.

the second in command glanced at his captain, an unreadable expression on his face. “that’s not a meteor shower. that’s fizzle, polaris, waverider, hyperion, rad... they’re burning up as they enter the atmosphere.“

a deep exhale escaped rodimus, as he let himself crash down on a nearby boulder. “not a good start,“ he muttered with a grimace, digits pinching the bridge of his own nose as he let his optics offline.

“sorry?“

the captain groaned. “i said not a good start.“

[ cybertron. prowl’s quarters. ]

the table which had been thrown multiple hours before still lays on its side. datapads and the such are scattered around, untouched since they had landed from their fall in their respective spots earlier in the day. amongst those, a transmitter crackles to life. scrambled, buzzing sounds can be heard, echoing through the dimly lit room until, slightly clearer this time—

“hell— kzzk! hello...?“ speaks a barely distinguishable voice. “can anybody hear me? it’s— kzzk! of the lost light.“ 

multiple miles away, amongst purple rocky plains, a large, cleanly cut hole is visible. rubble of various sizes surround it. only a few steps away, the ground is cracked and partially shattered. a metal horn still lays on the broken surface. though, no cybertronian is in sight.

the transmission continues. “this message is an experi— kzzk! a failed experiment, i think. because if it had worked, i wouldn’t have had to send it in the first place... i’m calling from the future and— wait a second— and i have a— kssk!— for rodimus: abort the mission. do not leave cybertron. there are terrible things out here, we were not prepared.“

a long distance away, at the lost light’s launch pad, bumblebee sits quietly. his helm is held tightly between his hands. prowl stands only a few steps away from him, optics blank and mouth forming a thin line, simply looking on at his fellow autobot’s mourning. he finally lets his gaze wander, optics landing on small, orange forms not far from the two of them; models of arks, spacecrafts.

“but if i’ve miscalcula— kssk!— and we’ve already left, please find a way to get this message to him now. it’s a list of dos and don’ts. actually it’s just a list of don’ts. don’t open the coffin. don’t let them take skids. don’t go to delphi. and do not— i repeat do not— look in the basement. and for the sake of the cybertronian race itself, please dont— KZZZZZZZK!!“

the unoccupied room falls deathly quiet.