#I made you cry twice? maybe? but I have a list now so next time hopefully its a popeyes

[togenabi]

apothecary diaries

vinsmoke sanji (opla) x fem!reader

♡—you need peppermint for a salve you're making, but sanji bought all of it, and that's seriously not fair.

word count♡— 3.7k

genre♡— fluff

content notes♡— opla sanji, afab!reader runs an apothecary and likes to make things, inaccurate chemistry for the sake of the story, mentions of flames in bottles, please do not do that, no use of y/n, not fully proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note♡— I love sanji sm he makes me cry. might be first in a series, but we'll see. please enjoy. xoxo, belle.

The third time a pirate entered your shop, you genuinely considered closing up early today.

You level him with a stare despite the man being twice your size. You cut him off before he can get a word out.

“No, I don't have anything that works against people made of rubber.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you gesture to the rest of your wares. “Now, are you going to get anything else? Or should you be on your way?”

He leaves, disgruntled, but without a fight.

A huff escapes your lips. The nerve of these people.

Ever since that outrageous bounty for that new pirate came along, suddenly every pirate and pirate hunter in the East Blue was gearing up to chase after him. All the poisons that were gathering dust in your storage were cleared out within days of those posters showing up.

It was good berry at first, but they got more aggressive, and started demanding more of everything. More doses than you were comfortable handing out. More dangerous poisons that could kill everyone in the room if the seal loosens by even a crack.

You took up this apothecary business because you wanted to help people. It wasn't exactly your dream to become a poison dealer.

The shop bell rings again. Thankfully, this time it's one of your elderly neighbors and not a pirate seeking poison.

The old lady smiles at you, the sides of her eyes crinkling. “You seem to be quite busy these days, dear.”

“If only they were paying customers like you, Ma'am.” You pick up a box of loose tea from the shelf, already knowing her usual order.

She gasps in concern. “Oh my, did they steal from you?”

“Only my time.” You grimace slightly, remembering how many pirates barged in last week.

“Would you like some honey with this? We have fresh jars from today's shipment.” You offer as you tally her order.

The lady hums in agreement. “Yes, I think some honey would be lovely.”

During slow days like these, you like to tinker with new recipes to sell. On a desk at the very back of the shop, obscured by thick curtains, is your beloved workstation.

You review your notes from the previous day. You'll need to get some peppermint for the healing salve you're developing. Taking a small jar of the experimental paste, you test a small amount on your hand.

Indeed, it needs more peppermint. Maybe you should use extract instead of crushed leaves next time, so that the texture is smoother.

The problem arises when your go-to herb supplier says he's run out of peppermint.

“Please tell me you're kidding.” You groan, looking down at your sadly empty whicker basket.

“M’sorry, lass.” The vendor shrugs, not looking very sorry at all. “You just missed the guy who bought everything. I promise I'll get you your peppermint next week, though.”

Resigned, you sigh, reading through the rest of your shopping list. The salve, at least, can wait a week as it's still a work in progress. The rest of your list, however, are crucial ingredients for your usual bestsellers.

“Fancy looking lad. He asked about spices. Told him to go to the shops down by the river.”

Your stomach drops. Everything else you need are sold by those shops.

Mentally cursing that vendor, you run as fast as your feet can take you. You're not letting some tourist get the better of you when it comes to ingredients.

You reach the river in record time. You'd feel proud if you didn't feel winded. Even so, you scan the road for anyone matching the tourist's description.

There doesn't seem to be anyone remotely fancy around. Triumphant, you go on with your shopping.

You begin to feel better as you cross more things off your list. You've almost forgotten about the peppermint incident, if only you didn't suddenly smell so much of it pass by.

A tall blond man walks by, clearly doing a lot of shopping based on the boxes of supplies he's carrying. The scent of peppermint hits you again. In a paper bag, at the very top of the boxes, you spot bunches of those leaves you've been so desperate for.

You can only clench your jaw in frustration and frown at the back of his head. He purchases a large amount of meat and fish in the next stall, and you gather that he must be some sort of chef. No normal person buys so much meat that the shopkeep offers to deliver everything. But that's what happens to this fancy looking lad. He must not be normal then.

“Yes, my ship's in the docks. You can't miss it, thank you so much for your help.” He smiles. His blue eyes wander the stall, then travel to the next stall over, where you are.

There's a moment of surprise when he finds you already looking at him, but his expression changes instantly into a suave one. It almost makes you want to back away, but you stand your ground when he approaches.

“Aren’t you stunning? I was feeling tired, but your pretty face woke me right up.”

You turn away, pointedly ignoring him. He can't flirt with you while smelling like peppermint. It's just not fair.

“Sorry for the hold up, lass. What's it you need?” The shopkeep you were waiting for shows up just in time. You continue to not pay the blond beside you any attention.

“Cinnamon and salt, please.” You respond. “Pink, if you have any.”

“I'll have the same, good sir.” Fancy pants says. “Though, my salt doesn't need to be pink.”

As the shopkeep rummages through his supplies, the blond continues to speak to you. Why does he keep speaking to you?

“Pink salt is lovely to look at, same as you,” He begins, “But other than the color, there really isn't a difference to normal salt, isn't there?”

He shrugs, his broad shoulder shifting his suit jacket slightly. “You're paying extra for the same result. It's all the same when you cook it.”

“I'm not using it for cooking.” Is your only response.

The shopkeep returns before the stranger can reply. “Here's the salt for you's.” He hands you a bag of pink rock salt, and the stranger a bag of regular salt.

The dread from the peppermint vendor returns when you realize the shopkeep is holding only one bag of cinnamon. He pats it and says, “I could split it so you both get half.”

“I was here first.” You insist desperately. “Sell it to me.”

“...My hands are tied here, lad.” The shopkeep sells you the cinnamon, and it's quickly tucked into your basket when you get your hands on it. The stranger doesn't barter for it. Good.

And with that, you cross out cinnamon and salt from your shopping list. You were able to get everything except the peppermint, which stays neat and legible at the very top of the list.

You crumple the paper and toss it into a nearby bin before making your way back to your shop.

“Are you on your way to get some peppermint?” How did the stranger catch up with you so quickly?

“No.” No matter how much you wish you were.

You try to walk faster, but his pace is steady even with a large box under one arm and several others tied up with twine held in his other hand.

“But it was on your list.” He seems to be very interested in your dealings. Is he always this dedicated when he flirts?

You cross the bridge that arches over the river together. The townsfolk who recognize you and not the man next to you begin to whisper amongst themselves.

It takes everything in you to resist rolling your eyes. After a week of pirates, you suspect your shop will be full of gossiping neighbors soon.

“A certain someone bought all the best peppermint today.” Of course the scent of it wafts over you again as you say so.

“Ah.” Understanding dawns on his face. “I see, I'm sorry if that inconvenienced you.”

It was your turn to shrug. You were about to say that it was okay, but then remember that you wouldn't be able to complete your salve until next week.

You pout before you can help it. “Did you really have to buy all of it?”

He breathes out a laugh. “I normally wouldn't, but my friends tend to have endless appetites. It always pays to have plenty of supplies.”

Even in the middle of the bustling street, a certain group of strangers stand out. They're gathered outside the tavern. You don't know any of them, but you recognize one of them as that infamous new pirate with the exorbitant bounty on his head.

“Speaking of my friends...” The blond trails off, nodding towards that particular group.

You just about stop in your tracks. He's with them? He's a pirate?

Okay. A rich, flirtatious tourist you could deal with. A random pirate crew? You would probably still be fine.

But the crew with the highest bounty in all the East Blue? That's just asking for trouble to happen.

While the stranger is distracted by his friends, you slip into an inconspicuous alleyway. You'd have to go a little further around to reach your shop, but that's alright as long as you avoid those Straw Hat pirates.

Luck seems to not be on your side, though. Because fancy pants shows up to your shop later that evening.

He grins. “You didn't tell me crossing that bridge together meant something. I would have talked about something more romantic than peppermint if I knew.”

Of course, word travels fast in a small town. You should have known someone would tell him. And that he would be able to find you easily if he wanted.

“How does the legend go, again?” He asks teasingly. “If two people cross the bridge together on the day they meet... Theirs souls are bound.”

“It's a myth.” You dismiss his charming grin and try to ignore him.

He leans his elbows on the counter that separates you. He's hunched down, but still towers over you somehow.

“It's romantic. And I'm glad it happened to us.” He smiles. “May I at least know the name of the person my soul is now bound to? Mine's Sanji.”

“Well, Sanji. Are you going to buy something?” You ask and avoid giving him your name.

Sanji, surprisingly, nods. He grabs two cans of your special handmade tea and a large jar of honey.

“I'll buy these,” He places the items on the counter. “And give you this.” He holds out several sprigs of peppermint. You blink at him in surprise.

“...Thank you.” You gingerly take it, and carefully set it to the side.

You're silent while you ring up his order. It's when you're taking out a paper bag for him that you finally cave and reveal your name.

The smile that blooms on Sanji's face isn't how you expected it would be. You expected him to look arrogant, to look proud that he was able to sway you like he did other women before.

But he looks at you sweetly, dimples showing and eyes sparkling. You wordlessly hand over the paper bag.

“A pleasure, darling.”

You would have thought that would be the last time you saw Sanji. But, be it luckily or unfortunately, he finds you the next day with the rest of the Straw Hats tagging along.

Only this time, they seem to be on the run.

You hold open the door for the Straw Hats and, one after another, they flood into your shop. Sanji smiles and says something about your hair, but you can't process the words with his friends scattering to hide.

“Sanji, what the fuck?”

“I know, I know, love. I'm sorry we had to reunite like this. We just need to lay low for a bit.” He reassures you, caressing your shoulders as he does.

“I'll make it up to you! I'll cook you a romantic, candlelit dinner.”

You frown at him, unimpressed.

Sanji kisses his teeth and sighs. “I'll give you the rest of the peppermint.”

You perk up instantly. “Deal. You can all hide in my workstation.”

“Hi, I'm Luffy!” Their captain greets you jovially. “That's Zoro,” Luffy points to the swordsman. “Nami,” The woman. “And Usopp.” The one hiding under your counter.

“Of course, you know Sanji already, being soulmates and all.”

You trip on nothing, and Sanji grabs your hand to steady you. You glare. He just smiles.

“Your shop is really cool!” Luffy exclaims, looking at all the trinkets on the shelf.

“Thanks.” You say dryly, pushing the curtain partition aside. You lead them to the back of the shop.

“Make yourselves at home.” You wave a hand towards the couch and some chairs around your desk. They should be fine here as long as they don't need to stay the night.

Through the gaps in the window blinds, flashlights and shadows stream into the room. There seems to be an active search party out for these guys. You suddenly can't believe you agreed to this for peppermint.

Zoro, whose three earrings glint in the light, shifts to scratch at his chest. You spot bandages from the gap in his shirt.

You grab the small jar of salve from your desk and toss it to him. He catches it, but looks from the jar to you and back, confused.

“It's a healing salve I made. It should help soothe your skin.” You explain.

The swordsman still looks unsure, but opens the jar anyway. Zoro sniffs its contents, and tries putting a small amount on his chest.

You beam at him, unable to help feeling proud at how his shoulders visibly relax after using it.

“Thanks.” Zoro says simply.

“No problem.” You nod back, still smiling.

Luffy looks at the jar as if it's a miraculous cure-for-all. “That's amazing.”

“It smells really good, too.” Usopp says, sniffing at the air around Zoro.

“Do you sell that here?” Nami asks.

“I will, once I make more.” You answer. You never realized how uplifting it was to share your work with new people.

Subconsciously, you turn to Sanji. But, why is he frowning? You follow your gaze to find he's looking at the jar in Zoro's hand.

Before you can ask him if anything is wrong, Luffy bursts out excitedly, "You're a doctor! You should join our crew!"

You wince. “No, I'm a chemist.”

“Cool!” Luffy's enthusiasm does not wane. “So you can heal, right?”

You're about to correct him before they assume things out of your pay grade when Usopp claps his hands in realization.

“She's even better than a doctor!” Usopp insists. “She makes the medicine that the doctors give out!”

Just as you were about to interfere with how much they were overestimating your skills, the shop bell rings. You turn to the clock. Shit, you should have locked up twenty minutes ago.

You meet everyone's eyes and they all nod, understanding that they need to be quiet. You switch off the lights in the back room for good measure.

The customer is a pirate you've never seen before. He looks angry, glaring at every possible hiding spot in your shop. Particularly the room you just came from.

You're careful to completely shut the curtain behind you.

“How can I help you, sir?” You put on your best customer service smile. “I was just about to close the shop, but if it's urgent, I'll help you find what you need.”

The pirate grunts. He's not buying what you're selling at all.

“Perhaps some calming tea? You look like a refined gentleman who would enjoy this.” You hold up a can of tea as if that will help you seem less suspicious.

“What's behind the curtain?” He points behind you accusingly.

“My work area, where I make all the fine products you see before you.”

Stomping forward, he seems to have had enough of your stalling. Fine.

Just as he's about to bash his fist down onto your counter, you grab a suspicious looking dark jar. You hold it up threateningly.

“The hell is that?!” The pirate snarls.

“Haven't you heard? I'm the go-to poison dealer in all the East Blue.” You bluff. “A whiff of this, and you'll sink like a rock, my friend.”

He freezes, but glares at you more fiercely. You pretend to twist the lid.

“Y-you'll kill yourself too, then!” He barks back. “Let's see your bullshit poison then.”

“Oh, but that's what makes me so brilliant.” You grin, laying the act on thick. “I'm immune to all the poisons I make.”

Your hand settles ominously on the lid. “Shall we test who survives?”

The pirate scrambles to leave. He's out before you can blink. Without missing a beat, you lock the front door and draw all window blinds down.

You rest your back against the door. Letting out a loud exhale, you almost let yourself slide down to the floor. How long do you have to deal with pirates like that?

Thoughts of yesterday with Sanji at the market fill your thoughts. If only all days could be like that, where the worst of your problems had been a peppermint shortage.

“You guys can come out, now.” You call out to the Straw Hats.

“Uh... Is that really poison?” Usopp asks, staying very far away from the jar.

You laugh, though it comes out airy due to your tiredness. “No, those are just some herbs I left to ferment.”

“How brilliant of you, love.” Sanji is beside you in a few strides. Him and those long legs.

“Was he the one you guys were hiding from?” You ask. The crew members shake their heads.

“No, actually.” Nami says. “We were hiding from a bunch of—”

Your shop explodes.

Sanji is quick to pull you into his arms and shield you from the debris with his own body. For a minute that feels like eternity, you can't hear anything. Your ears are ringing, and dust clouds over all your years of hard work. You sob into Sanji's arms.

“No!” You cry out.

Marines step into the shop, wood planks cracking and glass panels shattering under their feet. There are so many of them. You don't understand. Even if you hid the Straw Hats here, they shouldn't be allowed to destroy private property, right? Right?

“We got a report of illegal poisons in the area.” The leading officer states, his face stoic. “Just our luck that we run into pirates as well.”

You look to the Straw Hats, all of them are positioned to fight, save for Sanji. He's still cradling you protectively.

Taking a shaky deep breath, you lift your hand to rest it on Sanji's arm. He instantly looks down at you, silently asking if you're alright.

You're not yet, and if you're being honest, you'd rather stay in his arms until everything is over. But you nod anyway. Sanji gently lets you go and gets ready to face your new enemies.

“Get them all.”

Chaos breaks, and you run to duck behind a shelf that toppled over. The Straw Hats put up a good fight, but there are just too many Marines. Your eyes find round bottles of herbs scattered around you, and you come up with an idea.

“Guys!” You yell. “Buy me some time!”

“Anything for you, darling.” Sanji winks at you before sending a Marine flying. You gape at his audacity. The rest of them don't even react, but you notice they rotate slightly, surrounding you to keep you from being interrupted.

Grabbing as many of the bottles as you can, you stuff them with shards of wood and more dried leaves. You take rocks from the debris and strike them together.

With a few sparks, the herbs and leaves catch fire. You act fast, throwing the bottles at the Marines.

The bottles shatter, bursting into flames once they hit their mark. The Marines panic and become disoriented, giving the Straw Hats an advantage despite being outnumbered.

Eventually, the Marines run and scatter, leaving only the few bravest of them to fight. The Straw Hats make quick work of them.

When the battle is over, you watch the dust settle over the ruins of your apothecary. It's going to take years to earn enough berry to restore how everything once was. You can't help but feel heartbroken.

Sanji sits down in the rubble next to you, wrapping you in another embrace. You let yourself fall into him.

“We'll help you get everything back. I promise.” He swears, voice slightly muffled into your hair.

“Or, you could come with us! Join our crew!” Nami hits Luffy on the shoulder.

“What? It's true!” Luffy insists. “We need someone like her!”

You pull back from Sanji's embrace to look at him. He doesn't say anything, but something tells you he wishes for you to come with them. The others look at you expectantly as well.

No one speaks to persuade you further. But when you compare this rag-tag team to your ruined apothecary, your answer suddenly feels very clear. If you're to slave away to earn the berry for rebuilding your home, why not spend that time with them?

The back of the shop is less affected, even if the sight is still dreadfully sad. Your notes are thankfully intact, and you're able to find a bag and shove some extra clothes into it. It saddens you that you're so quick to pack up your life, but you'll come back. Someday.

When you return to the others, they're all smiling. Sanji more so, but you should have expected that.

He holds out his hand, and you reach out to take it.

“I change my mind,” You jest. “I'll take that romantic candlelit dinner now.”

Sanji laughs loudly while he guides you to walk over the rubble safely. You catch some of the others laughing too, but they walk a ways ahead you and Sanji.

“Like I said,” He says with his signature grin, “Anything for you, my dear.”

Your mind must be playing tricks on you, because he still smells like peppermint. Now, that's really not fair.

© togenabi 2023 | see here to be added to my taglist ♡

[anna6anana]

I was always more into villains

How the two of you met was the most Cliché in the book but you would not have changed it for the world.

a freak gust of wind had taken your umbrella while you were coming out of the 7/11, and after the day you had had with a client that wasn’t happy with almost anything you had suggested for her living room, you slumped down on the sidewalk.

You were wet, hangry and on the verge of tears before the rain was cut out by someone. Making you look up at the kind stranger that had suddenly appeared beside you.

You had to admit, he looked cute in his shaggy hair and trench coat, maybe a little awkward having to suddenly comfort a crying girl on his way home, but still. Something made your heart do a little flip flop when he offered to walk you to your apartment so you would not get a cold because of the rain.

It might also had been that you were weak for guys with strong nose. Yeah, weird but in your opinion, it made a person have character. Just like a piece of furniture in a room that in a way should not have fit in theme or tone wise. But was so unique in its looks it just…fit.

So, with a small smile you said yes and after meeting him at least twice a week in your search of dinner.

(You knew how to cook it was just easier to go get something since the hectic work week and usually on your free days you committed on trying to cook something new. varying results. but usually the result was eatable.)

He asked if you had a favourite animal.

“Buy me coffee first and I might tell you.” You joked, and busted out laughing when he appeared behind your door with a latte and spend the afternoon talking about Panda’s and Cat’s before he thanked you for the company and asked if you wanted to go to the zoo next time?

“Sure, I haven’t been in a while.” you said and a week later you were happily watching animals with him, lifting his arm on your waist when he looked so lost what to do on a date.

two dates after that he gave you a peck on the cheek.

two months later he was taken off guard when going for your cheek, you turned your head and got his lips brushing yours. His blush was so adorable.

Yet something kept bugging you. The dates and all the usual stuff couples do seemed so Alien to him, like he was from a completely different world.

and a week from that you got your answer.

You blinked, not sure if you were trying to wake up from a weird dream or trying to convince your brain what you were seeing.

There he was, your boyfriend in a cape with a weird tail, slicked back hair and… was that a tattoo?

Shaking your head to get your mind out of the gutter you opened and closed your mouth a couple of times, trying to ask what was going on but none of the questions was spoken before you heard someone yell something about dark lord and running away.

Before you snapped a hold of his hand and quickly led him behind your neighbour’s garden wall just as red and blue ranger ran past you both. None the wiser.

After your pulse had gone down, you snapped your angry eyes to him. Making him a little nervous, yet oddly impressed of your expression.

You would make a fantastic second in command with that gaze.

“Explain. now!” You snapped and after few seconds of silence he sighed deeply and told you everything.

“So…Am I on that destruction list since I’m human?” you finally asked, and he said you were an exception along the pandas and cats.

After some more silence you looked up before smiling at him that cheeky smile he had come to adore.

��O well, I was always more into villains anyway.” You chuckled.

the next thing you knew, you were swept into a muscular arm’s and kissed so deeply it stole your breath away.

“Marry me?” He got out after he finally let your lips go. And without any further words, you bit your lip and pulled him back into a kiss with a sighed ‘yes ‘

He took a long lunch that day.

[sluttywonwoo]

instead of you [part twenty] || l.mh

pairing: [best friend’s brother] lee minho x college!reader ft. han jisung

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either. 

warnings: swearing, angst, reader has emetophobia,

word count: 3k

a/n: revamped my tom holland series from my main blog ( @wazzupmrstark ) to try and motivate myself to finish it!!

series masterlist | early access to the next chapter on ko-fi

As soon as the cable car reached the peak, Minho ushered you into the Men’s Room with your head buried in his shoulder so that no one could see you. He blocked the door with the trashcan once you were inside to prevent other people from coming in. Anyone else who had to use the bathroom would just have to hold it until they were back at the loading dock.

You were a goddamn wreck, and that was sugarcoating it. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, your nose was running- you’d gotten some snot on Minho’s shirt, which would have mortified you way more if you weren’t having a meltdown, and you couldn’t catch your breath no matter how hard you tried.

Minho helped you up onto the counter and yanked a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall for you to blow your nose and wipe your eyes with.

“Thanks,�� you murmured as you took them from him.

He slotted himself between your legs, eyes searching your face. He had this helpless look on his face and you just wanted to kiss it off, but that was what had gotten you here in the first place. It was clear that he didn’t really know what to say, and you didn’t blame him.

You, yourself, couldn’t pinpoint the reason you were crying. It was either your paralyzing fear of heights that had sent you spiraling a few minutes prior, or the fact that you were falling for your best friend’s brother and had kissed him… also a few minutes prior. The most likely answer was a combination of both, but you weren’t ready to come to that conclusion.

You let Minho dab at your cheeks with a paper towel, let him attempt damage control, even though you were far beyond repair.

“I’m such a horrible person,” you groaned.

“No, you’re not,” Minho assured you in a hushed tone, but even if he believed what he was saying you knew it was a lie.

In his mind, you had kissed your boyfriend’s brother twice now. Once had been his fault, you were both drunk, and even if you’d shittily played it off like you thought you were kissing Jisung, it was still Minho who had initiated it. The second time was on you. You were sober and you knew exactly what you were doing. But the reality was potentially worse. You’d kissed your best friend’s brother twice, when you were supposed to be pretending to be in love with him. You’d betrayed him, and if he ever found out you were afraid it’d ruin your friendship. And what made it worse, was that stupid list of rules you’d agreed upon on the plane before meeting his family. There was an entire clause dedicated to not flirting with Jisung’s brothers. You were pretty sure kissing went way past flirting, not to mention all of the other things you thought about doing to his brother.

“Yes, I am,” you insisted. “I kissed my boyfriend’s brother! Twice!”

“Technically, the first time was my fault.”

“But the second time- there shouldn’t have even been a second time.” Minho didn’t respond. “I’m the worst girlfriend ever!”

“You’re not the worst girlfriend ever. It’s not like we slept together.”

You gave him a look. “Well, I’m a pretty bad one.”

“I mean, I kissed you back. I’d say that makes me a pretty shitty brother.”

“We’re both awful people,” you seceded, sniffling. “Maybe we deserve each other.”

Minho’s upper lip twitched almost imperceptibly, but he shook his head.

“Are you going to tell Jisung?” he asked.

“Should I?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I just- I know it’s wrong not to tell him, but I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I mean, you love him, right?”

“Yes.” You answered automatically, because for the millionth time, you did love Jisung. But not in the way Minho thought you did.

“And you don’t want to break up with him?”

“No, I don’t.” You stared at the ground, suddenly fascinated with the dirty grout between the tiles. “Do you think he’d forgive me if I told him?”

Minho didn’t respond right away and your heart sank. “Probably. Eventually. But I don’t think he’d forgive me.”

You felt your eyes well up with tears again. “B-but you’re his brother. He has to forgive you.”

“Jisung, uh,” he paused and you thought he might’ve been getting emotional too. “Jisung hasn’t had it very easy because of me. I know he’s always kind of felt like he was living in my shadow, that’s why he went abroad for uni. He’s completely unique, you know? Of course you know, you’re his- anyway. He’s got his own talents and ambitions, and so many achievements! But he feels they pale in comparison to mine. I think most of it comes from people who used to pretend to be his friend or use him to get to me. I know h- I know he resents me for it.”

You shook your head. “That’s not true.”

“Why do you think he never told you what I do for a living? Why do you think I’m always joking about him being upset with me?” You pursed your lips, unable to give him an answer. “Exactly. And you, I’ve never seen Jisung look at anyone like the way he looks at you. If he finds out I kissed you, more than once, if he finds out that I think-” he stopped short. “That’s just one more thing he thinks he’s lost to me. I don’t think he could forgive me for that.”

“He’d get over it eventually,” you tried.

“I don’t know if he would.”

You could tell Minho had been beating himself up over this for a while. Maybe you had more in common than you thought.

You weren’t sure if Jisung would forgive you either if you were being honest with yourself. You knew Minho was right on some level. Jisung had always been a little possessive of you, but it wasn’t until you met his brother that you understood why. You’d stabbed him in the back in spite of that, and yet part of you still wanted Minho.

You wanted to take him by the collar and kiss him again and again until you couldn’t think anymore. You wanted him to kiss you back, chasing your lips like he couldn’t get enough of you.

He was like the sun: blinding and brilliant and warm. If you lingered in his presence for too long you’d get burned.

“I have an idea,” Minho murmured finally after a painful silence. “You’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?”

“Maybe… tell Jisung after the trip is over? I know it’s asking a lot, but it’ll just make things less complicated.”

“I… don’t think I’m going to tell him,” you said quietly.

“Wait, really?”

You nodded. “I don’t want to ruin you and Ji’s relationship.” And selfishly, I don’t want to ruin me and Ji’s relationship.

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.” You sighed and pushed your hair out of your eyes. “I’m sorry for kissing you.

“It’s fine. Guess we’re even now.” He gave you a weak grin.

“Yeah, we’re even. Consider your IOU voided.”

“Do you still have the postcard?”

“It’s in my backpack back in Tokyo.”

His smile brightened and he opened his mouth to respond, but at the same time, the door to the bathroom rattled against the trash can as someone tried to get in.

“Sorry, man, it’s um, out of order,” Minho sputtered out in a panic as he walked over and pushed the door closed with more force. He held his hand to it for several seconds as the person on the other side continued wrestling with it.

You gave him an anxious look, but he just returned the look and shrugged. He seemed entirely too calm for someone who was about to be discovered in the men’s room with a woman that looked like she’d just been railed. You looked like a mess for a completely different reason, but you knew no one would believe you if you tried to explain yourself. And after being recognized once today it wouldn’t surprise you if it happened again. Minho was pretty famous. Getting caught fucking someone in a bathroom halfway across the world wasn’t a great look for a K-pop idol.

Maybe you should get down from off the counter. Sitting up there only made you look guiltier.

Minho didn’t let up until the knocking eventually stopped. He was stronger than you thought he’d be. He’d only used one hand to hold the door closed while the other person had seemingly thrown their whole body weight into it. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said casually and helped you hop down. “Your eyes are still pretty red, you should splash some cold water on your face.”

You followed his advice and turned on the faucet, cupping your hands underneath the running water and bringing them to your face. The chill was a shock to your system, grounding you in the moment and helping soothe the burning of your cheeks.

You straightened up and made eye contact with Minho in the mirror who had been standing behind you the entire time watching. He handed you another paper towel to dry off with. You thanked him silently and turned around, looking to him for his approval.

He gave you a once over, uncrossing his arms and reaching toward you hesitantly. “Can I?” he asked, eyes flitting to yours. You nodded and he brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes. “There.” His voice had dropped to a whisper and you found yourself staring at his lips again. He was a walking distraction. He didn’t even have to do anything to have you at a loss for words. “I think… we should probably keep our distance from each other. At least, for a little while.”

You did your best to ignore the pang in your chest as you nodded in agreement. He was right, and you knew that. The fact that he was the one to suggest it should be a relief to you, but it wasn’t.

“Okay, let’s go back down to the bus before they leave us here.”

Minho held your hand in the cable car on the way back down the mountain, but neither of you spoke. The bus was also silent. Minus the handholding.

There was only one more stop before the tour was finally over and you could collapse into bed and try to forget the entire thing. It was a bullet train that would take you back to Tokyo, but it was running a couple minutes behind so your tour group was ditched at the train station by the guides who left with the buses while you waited.

You were standing next to Minho on the platform when his mother pulled you aside suddenly, asking to speak with you for a moment. Your heart leapt into your throat as you followed her a couple paces away from the group. What could she possibly want to talk to you about? Did she know something? Was she going to confront you about how close you seemed to be with the son you weren’t dating? A million possibilities ran through your mind, but you honestly had no idea what to expect.

“Is everything okay?” you asked breathlessly.

“Oh, everything’s fine! I’m sorry if I worried you by asking for a word. I just wanted to let you know that I talked to Jisung earlier today and he mentioned your… aversion to stomach illnesses so Dom and I looked to see if there were any extra rooms available at the hotel and we’ve booked you your own for the next few days until we leave. Jisung can join you when he’s feeling better, but we didn’t want you to have to deal with that ickiness.”

“Oh my god, you didn’t have to do that!” you exclaimed, embarrassed that Jisung had told his mom about your stupid irrational fear.

“Well, you and Jisung were supposed to have your own room anyway, but someone,” she looked pointedly at her husband, “messed that up. We would’ve switched you both sooner, but nothing at the resort had opened up. It’s not a big deal, trust me, okay? We want you to get some good rest and I know you won’t be able to do that with the twins keeping you up all night. We know Minho will be fine with them, but you shouldn’t have to suffer through that.”

You clutched your hands to your heart. “That’s so thoughtful of you, thank you!”

“Of course! We just want you to be comfortable, love.”

You thanked her again, but she insisted that it was really nothing and let you get back to standing silently with Minho.

The train pulled up a few minutes later and everyone got their tickets stamped as they boarded and filed into their seats. You and Minho sat across from each other while his parents took the seats beside you- Dom next to Minho and Nikki next to you.

It had been a long day so no one was in much of a mood to talk, thankfully. You tried to nap, but you were still too on edge to relax. The events of the day had exhausted you, but not enough for your body to give in to sleep. It was like your brain was trying to protect you from letting your guard down.

Y: what did you say to your mom??

J: what do you mean

Y: she told me you talked to her about my “aversion” and now i have my own room??

J: oh yeah

J: you’re welcome ;)

Y: it’s EMBARRASSING

Y: they got me my own hotel room??? like? i don’t want them to spend extra money on me!!

J: technically they were already going to spend that money anyway but dad fucked up the reservations. they’re still saving money

Y: ig but still :(

J: look, i knew you wouldn’t get any sleep tn if you came back to our room. i still can’t keep much down and neither can felix. it’ll just stress you out- not to mention that you have a tendency to puke whenever you’re around people who are also sick

Y: …

J: you know i’m right

J: i didn’t want you to be miserable

Y: i know…

Y: thank you. i love you.

J: always :)

J: and make some use of that alone time ;)

You rolled your eyes and slipped your phone in your pocket. His idea might help you relieve some stress, but you knew you’d be out like a light as soon as your head hit your pillow.

Your new room was much smaller than the one you shared with the Han boys, but it was cozy. It was on a completely different floor, which made you feel a little lonely, but mostly you were relieved to have your own space. There wasn’t a kitchenette like there had been in the other one, which wouldn’t be a problem since you weren’t going to be doing any cooking, and a queen-size bed lay in the middle of the room. You almost cried when you saw it, thinking about how you’d get the whole thing to yourself for at least a night.

As tired as you were, you still took the time to shower the day off. You scrubbed yourself with the bar of hotel soap until your skin was raw and the bottom of the tub was full of suds. All of the sweat and grime was long gone, but you still felt dirty.

Eventually, you gave up and rinsed yourself off before wrapping one of those big white towels around you and calling it a night.

You went to sleep naked, not having bothered collecting a change of clothes from the boys’ room. You didn’t want to venture in there if you didn’t have to, and you’d just text Jisung in the morning to bring you something to wear anyway.

-

The morning came far too quickly. You felt like you had barely blinked and the sun had already risen. It was past nine, the Hans had let you sleep in a little, but only barely. There were still plans for today, and you had to be downstairs and ready for them in a little less than an hour. You weren’t sure if the twins were feeling up to tagging along today, but you hoped they would. You didn’t know how you were going to spend another day alone with Minho- especially now that you had agreed to keep a distance from each other.

You texted Jisung to ask him to bring up a change of clothes. His mom had left the second key to the room with him so that he could join you when he was feeling up to it so you told him that he could just let himself in and leave the clothes on the bed.

Instead of waiting around, you decided to be proactive. You pushed yourself out of bed, groaning at the stiffness of your muscles, and made your way into the bathroom to wash your face. You used the bar of hand soap sitting on the counter to lather up- against your better judgment- and then rinsed it off with cold water to wake yourself up.

As you dried off with a washcloth you heard the door to your hotel room open and close and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“Y/n?”

“In here!” you called back, not thinking twice about it. Jisung had seen you naked plenty of times, and even though you had told him to leave the clothes on the bed you figured he might just want to say hi or something.

The bathroom door slid open and you turned towards Jisung to ask how he was feeling, except it wasn’t Jisung standing there. It was Minho.

no taglist bc i'm feeling lazy sowwy... but lmk what you think i always appreciated feedback!!

if you want to be tagged in the future, add yourself to my taglist here!

[justalonelybunnyonahill]

I feel like later on I will definitely get hunted down with pitchforks and torches but oh well!

And the scene you cried out is much later so like they're completely safe! (I cried my eyes out writing out the details so I can write it later so like that's totally a lie BUT its not like I also made you cry--ok nope thats a lie as well)

Like it's not like I had a "wheel of tragedy" that I spun as a joke for a certain something to happen to Tanjiro! He's gonna be fine!

*runs over*

MAKE TANJIRO SUFFER EVEN MORE THAN HE DOES RIGHT NOW AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

*scuttles away*

me, eyeing my drafts: that's the one thing you'll never have to worry about! there's plenty of suffering to go around!

I love anytime I get comments about how they cried or how bad it is for Tanjiro now and I have to hold back the evil cackling because it gets so much worse!

(It's actually so bad because I have so many moments planned out already and I just want to get to them but NO I have to build up to them!!!!)

(I literally get antsy because I have so many sad ideas that are just itching to be written)

[faketrex]

18, please!!

Thank you, friend ash! 💝 Prompt 18 is, "the end of the line at a b-list movie star’s meet-and-greet."

RWRB AU with a meet-cute. Obviously.

...

"He's not a fucking b-lister, he's an independent."

"Okay–"

"The Maple Season made me cry, Nora. Twice. It's fucking art. When's the last time a movie made you cry?"

"And that's not related to the fact that for two months each year, your blood turns into pumpkin spice syrup, like some kind of extremely basic seasonal werewolf?"

"Nora–"

"I'm happy for you, really. So are you going to come to dinner and tell us all about it after you meet your idol, or not?"

Alex shuffles forward. There are only two people ahead of him in the line now; only fifteen feet or so between Alex and Rafael Luna. He might need to lie on the floor in his apartment for a while after this is over. Then again, hanging out with Nora and June might help him chill the fuck out. And carbs, carbs would definitely help, in both beer and French fry form.

"Save me a seat. I'll be there." He hangs up. The line inches forward.

And then, all of a sudden, it's his turn. Rafael Luna is seated right in front of him, all dramatic cheekbones and horn-rimmed glasses and crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled and the collar wide open.

Alex panics.

"The Maple Season made me cry," he blurts.

Luna smiles and raises his eyebrows. "In a good way, I hope?"

"Fucking–I mean, yes, definitely, in the best way." Alex sets his poster down on the table between them, watching as Luna pulls it closer and peels off the sticky note with ALEX written on it. "That scene in the barn? After Oliver loses the race? It's fucking heart-wrenching. I can't believe you didn't win the Best Supporting Actor Oscar."

"You're very kind," Luna says with another grin, "but usually you have to be nominated for an award in order to win it."

Alex laughs. "Well, yeah, of course. I'm sure you're going to get there someday, though. The Academy would be criminally stupid not to recognize you for everything you've done. And–" He takes a deep breath. This is it. "And–I wish I'd seen queer Latino representation like yours on-screen ten years ago."

"Thank you. I really appreciate that, Alex." Luna, Rafael fucking Luna, looks right into Alex's eyes as he says it, making Alex's knees wobble in a way that he's already planning to leave out of the story when he tells it to Nora and June. "I'm lucky to have fans like you who make it so rewarding to keep doing what I love."

"No, thank you," Alex responds. "I mean–seriously."

"Would you like a photo with Mr. Luna?"

"Oh, sure." At the assistant's prompting, Alex turns to face the camera, trying to focus on smiling while wracking his brain about whether there's anything else he absolutely needs to tell Luna now, during what might be his only shot to ever do so. When the assistant steps away again, though, all Alex's thoughts come to a complete halt.

The next person waiting in line is tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair that sweeps over his forehead. He's got a rolled poster under one arm and a book under the other, like he's been spending his time in line reading instead of scrolling on his phone like a normal person. Alex blinks slowly at him as their eyes meet, feeling like a deer in headlights. Luna is right behind him still, but all Alex can focus on now is this man–

"Alex?"

"Thank you," Alex repeats reflexively, breaking out of his daze and turning back around to pick up his signed poster and roll it carefully. "It was so great to meet you."

"Take care," Luna replies, and that's it, it's over, Alex moves to the left, out of the line, and out the door.

When Alex gets outside, it feels like he's forgotten to do something important–like breathe, maybe–for the entire time he was talking with Luna. He zips up his jacket with his free hand, still holding the poster in the other. He closes his eyes for a second. He needs some French fries and a beer, for real.

"In my opinion," someone to Alex's left says, "he's one of the best artists of his generation."

"What?"

"I mean, there's no one who compares, really," the man continues. It's the blond who'd been in line just behind Alex. "Did you hear that his next project is going to open at the Venice festival?"

"Fucking finally, right? He deserves it."

"He certainly does."

Alex watches while the guy pulls a rubber band out of his pocket and slides it around his own rolled poster. He should probably say something, but his brain seems to have called an intermission on thinking. It's the post-Luna effect, probably. Or maybe–

"I apologize if I've bothered you," the man finally says after a few moments of silence, fiddling with his poster. "I'll–"

"No, no, you're good," Alex interrupts, reassuring. "It's cool. I think we're on the same page. I'm Alex."

"I'm Henry."

"Nice to meet you."

"It's my pleasure," Henry replies. "And I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I really just wanted to tell you–The Maple Season made me cry, too. I went through a entire box of tissues."

Maybe Alex should feel embarrassed or something, but the shy, sheepish smile on Henry's face is making his knees do the wobbly thing all over again.

"Tell me about it," Alex drawls, and when he blinks slowly at Henry from under his eyelashes, he's gratified to see that Henry's cheeks turn pink, enough that it's visible even in the dim evening light.

...

(Alex is late to dinner, but he ends up getting not only Luna's autograph, but also Henry's phone number. It's a pretty stellar evening, all things considered.)

[crispy-kitten-princess]

If i ever were able to list all the things i dislike in Magisterium series, this post would've been endless. Instead, I'd mention smth i love so much that it makes me re-read the series for the fifth time and gives me inspiration for new drawings and playlists

The first one is aesthetic. I don't think I've ever read a YA book with the death and necromancy as the main lore theme. Also, the first book in series is so sweet and innocent compared to the fourth I can't believe it lol. Corpses. So gothic. So edgy. Love it

The second is very similar to the first - chaos magic. We come across elemental magic in all sorts of media, but they don't usually have the 5th element, or if they have it's more likely to be electricity or smth. Not ACTUAL NECROMANCY omfg... I love it. Also Makars being able to manipulate not only chaos (the void itself) but the soul.... Cute

So next. The main character ofc. Callum Hunt. What can I say he is such a cinnamon roll hating himself for what he is not. Screaming, crying, throwing up. I can feel his pain with every fiber of my soul he's so relatable. He is a type of chaotic neutral main character which is rare I guess, and at the same time he doesn't act like a total jerk and piece of shit. Can't name some other like him, idk. He's sweet but also edgy. His self-confidence is below the surface of the earth. He's just like me frfr my poor little meow meow. Also he is disabled and it influences the events of the book. Sometimes. Cool, representative. Not a disabled person myself but can appreciate it

Another reason for me to love the series is the changing of Call's secrets idk how to call this. The structure of his character lore. His secrets and abilities, they're layered.. you know... And every book one by one uncovers these layers: 1 - he uncovers that he is the reincarnation of Constantine. 2 - he gets his powers (which made Constantine evil at the first place). 3 - he learns more about Constantine's family, and the whole world finds out that he "is" the Enemy of Death. 4 - omg how much he uncovers here lol i can't. May be my favourite book thanks to its maaad vibe. Everything he learns here makes him closer and closer to Constantine. 5 - i know that most of the fandom thinks it was stupid to make Constantine himself a reincarnated thousand-years-old evil Makar. And i may agree. But in the moment of reading this it was so impactful for me idk why.... I literally cried idk!!! Lol. Love the moment where Call opens his memory to help his friends to fight wolves or smth, and PASSES OUT. KING. So, the other secret is uncovered here. Everything he learns makes him understand Constantine's/Maugris's motives, but he never ever becomes anything like them nor wishes to follow their path. Pretty symbolic and meaningful

Upd. SOME MOMENTS ARE FREAKING HILARIOUS

So what can I say? Every series has it's weak and strong points. Some of them become classic literature, some are forgotten in the abyss of YA books. I understand why Magisterium's place is with the second type of series, and it's not even saddens me anymore (we're so underground teehee). But i see many posts where the series is shitted over, and not much of posts appreciating the things that we actually love in it. Aren't they the reason you started and finished it sometime? So I'm here spreading positivity! And also because I'm so tired of being a fan of this shit so i tried to acknowledge all that i love, and why am i here in the first place

I think it's all for now, maybe I'll come with more ideas later

Fandom are you alive? Heh am I a Call kinnie to the point that i become necromancer?...

P.S. sometimes i think I'm so cringe to be periodically obsessed with this STUPID POOR-WRITTEN CHILDISH BOOK ABANDONED EVEN BY IT'S OWN CREATORS BUT I CAN'T HELP IT...... AND THE WORST THING IS THAT I DIDN'T EVEN READ IT IN MY EARLY TEENS (except the 1 which i read when i was around 13. Read it twice in one week so maybe that's the moment my brain was damaged) I READ IT WHEN I WAS 16 ALREADY aaarrrhh I'm so cringe. Why obsession why why why why why why i hate this but this is literally the only book which makes me cry and scream and feel every fucking time i re-read it even when i know EVERYTHING THAT'S GONNA HAPPEN LITERALLY EVERYTHING reading it all again for the 6th time FOR GODDESS SAKE WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME

[hockeyboysimagines]

omg I'm sorry!!! I should have looked at the list first sorry

can I switch brothers then? lmao. Matthew in Otta for Brady's game and meet the girl at the candy machine? I can cleary imagine him bragging about the hat trick and looking at her across the ice.

No worries Anon! And you never EVER have to ask me if you can request or talk about Matthew Tkachuk. The answer is always yes. This was so cute. Hope you enjoy it!!🤍

The absolute LAST thing Matthew wanted to be doing was sitting in a dimly lit roller skating rink, listening to bad 80’s music but because he was a good brother and future brother-in-law here he was.

His game in Ottawa had so happened to coincide with Emma’s nephews 6th birthday. While he liked Brady most days, he loved Emma so when she had asked him nicely with her best smile, he’d sighed and flatly agreed to come. Brady came over and kicked his foot.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah okay. If you didn’t wanna-“

“I’m here aren’t I? What am I going to do? Strap on a pair of skates and do laps?”

“If your planning to do that, let me get my phone out. Wanna document the moment.”

“Fuck off.” He stood and stretched “I’m going to the bathroom.”

He made his way through screaming kids, falling kids, and crying kids nursing injuries in various spots from falls and collisions. As he neared several candy and soda machines, a girl caught his eye. The lights from the large spinning disco ball were catching her long hair, as she reached a hand forward and shook the candy machine.

“I don’t know buddy I can’t get it.” She shook it again, and the little boy standing next to her sighed and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

“Excuse me? Do you need some help?”

She turned, and smiled. He felt like he’d been hit by a bus. He was certain that she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and he wanted to clasp his hands and thank God that he’d decided to be a good sport and come to the party he didn’t want to come to. He also wanted to personally thank whatever moron had decided to put a candy machine from the 1930’s in a high traffic roller rink, because it’s malfunction had now given him the chance to come in like a knight in shining armor and offer her the assistance she needed.

“Yes please. It’s stuck I don’t know-“

Before she could continue, Matthew wound up a fist and punched the machine, not enough to break it but enough to make it teeter and knock the candy loose. The boy gave a cheer and reached down to pull it out, before turning and zooming away.

“Hey! What do you say!” She yelled after him.

“Thank you!” He called over his shoulder before disappearing back to his friends.

She turned back to Matthew and smiled “Thank you. You just saved me from hours of complaining.”

“My pleasure. I’m Matt.” He extended a hand.

“Y/N.” He hand was soft and warm, and fit perfectly inside his own. He realized as he shook it that he was holding it a little too tightly, and staring openly at her. He released her hand and cleared his throat, thankful for the bad lighting to hide the redness that was creeping up his neck.

“So is that your-“

“Brother. He’s here’s for a birthday party, and I’m lucky enough to get to take him.”

“Funny enough I’m also extremely lucky to be here at a birthday party.” He glanced around before his eyes landed back on her “Maybe in more ways then one.”

And that’s how it started. They talked, and talked and talked some more, talking so much in fact that Brady had wandered the rink twice looking for him, thinking he’d left. As parties began to wrap up, and kids filtered out, Matthew panicked knowing his time with her was coming to an end. He spotted her brother making his way over and as a last ditch effort to see her again he blurted out “Hey, crazy idea but would you want to come to my game tomorrow?”

“Game?”

“I uh-I play hockey. My brother Brady-“

“No way!” She turned to look at her brother who was staring at Matthew open mouthed revealing several missing teeth, and slid his glasses back up his nose “ Matthew Tkachuk!” She looked between them and pointed at him.

“You know how this is?”

“Of course I do. He’s only the best player ever and-“ he went on to list all his stats, which was actually pretty impressive if Matthew was being honest.

“I had no idea.” She said laughing.

“So? Wanna come?” He asked, nodding his head at her brother “Maybe bring my number 1 fan with you?”

“Oh we’ll be there.” He looked up at her and made a face “Well don’t look at me that way. You can stay home but I’m going.”

She glanced between them for a moment before she pursed her lips “Oh-okay. Sure.”

“Wait really? Awesome, and then maybe after we-“

“Slow down Casanova. Let’s start with a hockey game. And then maybe a date. We’ll see how you play.”

“Oh yeah? Okay I’ll make you a deal. I score a goal we go on a date. If I don’t, you can forget I ever even saved you from a day of complaining.” He held his hand out “Deal?”

“Okay. Your on.”

He did score. In fact he scored 3 times.

She chuckled, shaking her head as he scored his third goal and turned to point at her in the crowd. The stadium booed around her, as it was mostly Ottawa fans in attendance, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept across her face. He made his way to the bench, various teammates giving him fist bumps as he went and sat down next to someone, turning to them as they spoke. She saw him shake his head and point across the ice at her. She felt her face get red, thankful he was so far away, and glanced at the scoreboard.

“He scored that hat trick for youuuuuuu.” Her brother teased, giggling and making kissy faces at her.

“Oh be quiet.” She gave him a nudge and rolled her eyes. She would never hear the end of this.

She watched as he celebrated with his team when the clock wound down, buzzer sounding to signal that Ottawa had lost. She watched as he made his way across the ice to the side gate and slowed down in front of where she was sitting. He knocked on the glass and grinned a mile wide.

“Guess this means I won!” He said gleefully, winking at her and pointing towards the score board. She felt a surge of excitement as she watched him skate to the side gate and exchange words briefly with an arena employee, pointing in her direction and waving before he disappeared down the tunnel.

She walked her brother out of the arena to where her parents were and made her way back inside, waiting quietly until she heard the doors bang open and turned to see Matthew standing in the doorway.

He smiled widely at her and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, she was glad she’d lost a bet.

[cdyssey]

Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana. 

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm. 

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is. 

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying. 

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

[fanficfish]

on watching anime and being legally blind

did i write about this yet? I don't know! anyways!

for anyoen that doesn't know: I'm legally blind, nada in one eye and just enough to get by on the left but it's very light sensitive. And if you know of my second blod @fandomsimnation then you know i'm a bit of a geek. I was able to list off most anything in MHA before it got too cazy (basically before the villain arc lol it was great), and I bounce between Ouran, YLIA, Hetalia, Persona 4 (sometimes 5 if I"m feeling adventurous but it's rare), and YOI. I tend to have an "anime of the next two-three months" thing going on but hopefully I stick in my Hetalia phase for a while, much more productive to what I'm studying as a student right now.

also I didn't take Japanese. I regret that a bit but tbf my school was kinda ehhhhh with all of that, my French would make Tamaki Suoh cry.

anyways

i love dubs. which means I don't really get to hear the originals but like. Dubs are great. Not just because of the voice actors, which i'm very much into following a few, but because dubs usually mean "i don't have to replay the episode twice and pause every five seconds to read thetext". I still don't know how people watch dubs and keep up, i tried once with my mother's KDramas and gave up after an episdoe or two because that was a headache and i couldn't pause the tv.

and like, I'd totally listen to the original if I understood anything. Guess it's time to start learning japanese lol.

but i find this problem when I want to watch anything, sometimes even the dub. Especially with Hetalia, sometimes I miss the accents and there's usually on-screen text exxplaining the jokes. I love those. And thankfully it's usually in English so it's not much of an issue but it made me think.

dubs are great. subtitles are great. but sometimes, I wonder what it's like to be able to read the onscreen texxt without smashing my phone in my face or using my giga-monitor....

but i suppose that's just a thing I've gotten a bit used to. Maybe it's why I use that one anime site to watch animes and not on a streaming service or osmething, so I can watch stuff and replay as many tiems as needed to properly get what's happening. Wikis are great and so helpful, people who write plot synopsises are the best fr. And yeah just

generally it's really awesome we can do dubs. Because it helps sometimes, if i can just hear what they're saying and not squint at subtitles and just follow alogn without having to jerk my head around to read subtitles and then see the image because i can't do that at the same time.

i don't know what the point of this post was. Probalby just rambling. But hey maybe someoen on the internet will see and go "wait that's perfect for my fic" so i'll go with that.

also i'm going to curse whoever doesn't label episodes by episode number on the wikis. Please, they're using episdoe numbers PLEASE USE THEM I can't keep clicking to find the episode I want to watch for the plot :(

(insert the tiny minifigure saying "Hetalia" real fast here)

[deathberi]

I wasn't super baby, I was only 5 when it came out and my brother bought it. But I think I played it by myself the first time when I was like 9 or 10. I don't remember how I felt playing it, as I said, my English wasn't the best, but I got drawn into the world and story either way, without knowing details.

And so happy when other OG fans of Clerith exist, I get Remake just made it super easy to fall in love with them, but tiny pixel!Clerith ;;

And I do feel kinda bad for being anime only fan, haha. I just didn't read lots of manga when I was younger, especially not longer ones, so just never started. But I'm making that right now, bought the first out of the three boxes with 20 volumes in it, so I can start anytime and buy the other 2 when I'm done and have the money. : D

(And I'm just now finishing Rebirth for the third time or the last two chapters, I finished all the sidequests earlier (even the last one that was sent from hell, haha. And I just finished watching Aerith's trial in the Temple again and can't stop crying, haha)

//☁️🌏🍓💀

90s babies are not old dont call yourself that jshdjdjs 😂w even as a kid im pretty obsessive with understanding everything related to my favs and i dont really attach to a lot then so really they were one of my very first loves~ i think being long time fans really just make it all the more kind of...exciting? idk the most apt term i suck at english calming at the same time? for us when knowing that there are more of us like that out there <3 and that are still here after all these years

well at least you're beating me in the physical copy department? lol i literally only have just the matching ichiruki covers 😂 kubo's volume cover gaming is really good though so i definitely considered collecting everything before but nahhh it flew out of my priority list since i buy lots of other collectibles anyway. really cool you got the first set now though thats already a lottt~~ must be nice looking at them :3

(nice? or not nice? ToT im still not immuned to the last chapter... i've played it full twice, rewatched the cutscenes endlessly its part of editing >w<... aerith's trial is something i cant get through without making a mess of my face like hnggg that was too...too much my baby girl!!!!!! i still have a few sidequests to go and tbh im not that all in to do the remaining ones yet (lol some T&Y quests) but my latest rebirth achievement would be uhhh i finished the world intel! i havent decided on my next goal for rebirth im not really in a hurry to get the plat, maybe should start on a hard mode playthrough bc i didnt set that at first so i'd get done through the story very quickly >w<)

[rubyleaf]

Went through my blog again for the funsies and discovered an old, old tag game from 2016. And boy, am I shaking my head at it. Not only is 17-year-old me hilariously and stubbornly convinced she's straight, she's also very self-deprecating and generally not in a good place.

So I thought: why not answer these questions again, over seven years later, just to see how things have changed?

So here goes. The update.

MOST RECENT:

Drink: Water! I have a glass next to me right now and I'm staying nice and hydrated :) Phone call: Mom, earlier this afternoon, to make sure I'm still healthy and haven't died from acute Moved Out And Living Unsupervised Disease. Shockingly, I'm alive and well. Text: Dad, joking about the Berlin lioness boar thing. I still refuse to believe it was a boar BTW. I don't know what it was, but those pictures do NOT look like a boar.

Song you listened to: Saosin – "You're Not Alone" Time you cried: You know, I genuinely don't remember. Might've been weeks ago. I barely cry anymore these days, except from laughter or the occasional tearing up over a heartwarming scene in a show.

Dated someone twice: No, and unless the circumstances were very special, I wouldn't. If the ship has sailed, it has sailed for a reason. Been cheated on: Single, thriving, in my lane, cannot be cheated on if I don't have a partner. Peace and love on Planet Earth. Lost someone special: Lost touch with many friends over the years. Staying in touch is still hard. But honestly, some of them turned out to not be that special after all in the first place and a lot have stayed too, so really, it's fine. Been depressed: Nah. Been drunk and thrown up: Still don't like alcohol, still don't drink ✌️ Your three favourite colours: Purple! And pink, and the third one…maybe red!

IN THE LAST YEAR, HAVE YOU:

Made a new friend: So many. So so many. Fallen out of love: Yep! Laughed until you cried: Just this week alone! Met someone who changed you: I think so! Found out who your true friends are: Yes. And to the people who turned out not to be—thanks for making it easier to watch you leave right now. Found out someone’s talking about you: In the "bringing up my existence" way? Yes. Badly? No—someone probably did, but not my problem.

EXTRAS

How many people from your fb list do you know irl: What Facebook? Do you have any pets: Not at the moment. Hard to keep any in a dorm room. I'd like to maybe get a small dog someday though! Do you want to change your name: Not anymore. When I was little I used to hate my name because everyone kept misspelling or mispronouncing it, but now I like it even if people still get it wrong all the time. Sometimes it still feels weird and othering, in an irrational sort of way, but I can't imagine myself being called anything else. What did you do for your last birthday: Had drinks with some people from my orientation group in one guy's dorm apartment. Casually came out as bi over a game of Never Have I Ever. Wound up at a party even though I had an 8:30 AM class the next morning. Zero regrets. What were you doing last night at midnight? Sitting on my bed and hitting play on the brand-new Meet Me @ the Altar song that dropped last night!!! Name something you can’t wait for: MM@TA EU tour in October! I've been obsessed with them for two years and finally they come here to play some shows and the first time I saw the announcement I legit busted a lip in my excitement. Unfortunately not a hyperbole.

Last time you saw your mum: Last time I visited home—early May I think? What is one thing you wish you could change about your life: Better executive functions so I struggle less with getting stuff done, especially uni stuff and household chores. Currently trying to do something about that, actually! If I'm really lucky I might get an ADHD diagnosis in the foreseeable future and maybe meds…? What are you listening to rn: Fall Out Boy – "We Didn't Start the Fire" Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: Often. It's quite a common name where I live! What’s getting on your nerves rn: One word: THESIS. Which I for some reason struggle to do anything about. Blood type: Still unknown! Nickname: Several shorter forms of my civilian name. On here, Ruby. Zodiac Sign: Aquarius Pronouns: she/her Favourite tv show: At the moment: ATLA (and Legend of Korra), Ted Lasso, Good Omens. Probably more I'm forgetting. High school: Graduated in 2016! College: In my Masters! I have an undergraduate degree in law now :D Long or short hair: Long, down to my hips. I used to have short hair as a kid, but I’ve always wanted long hair. Height: 159 cm or 5′2.5′’. Do you have a crush on someone: I try to tell myself that no, I'm just very fond of the person. Platonically. What do you like about yourself: I'm creative and adaptable! I'm good at winging it when the situation requires it, and I usually get things figured out one way or another. I'm a hype woman for my friends, and I like the way I can find joy and excitement in all corners of life. Also, not to toot my own horn but I'm really proud of my style right now! Right or left handed: Right-handed. First surgery: None. Piercing: None. First best friend: Probably Rebecca, in first grade. It’s a shame I moved away, I wonder what she’s doing now. First sport you joined: Ballet, when I was five or six. Kept doing it until early fifth grade, then changed to horseback riding. First vacation: Probably to my grandparents’ vacation home somewhere at the North Sea. Don’t remember a thing though, I was one or something.

RIGHT NOW:

Eating: Nothing. Drinking: Water, still! I’m about to: Hopefully write a bit more for the mystery project 👀 Listening to: Meet Me @ the Altar – "Give It Up"

WANT:

Kids: Yes, eventually. I'd like a stable partner first (although if push comes to shove I wouldn't mind raising my kids solo), and most importantly I'd like to be my own person for a couple of years and not be bound by duty to everyone else. Travel, explore the world and myself, get all that out of my system so I can truly go into motherhood with no regrets. Get married: Yes, if I find the right person to do it with. Career: Study law and work for the EU or an NGO.

WHICH IS BETTER:

Lips or eyes: Eyes. I don't pay much attention to lips outside of someone having a cute smile! Hugs or kisses: Kisses are nice, but I still prefer hugs! Taller or shorter: IDGAF. I still love my tall lanky noodle men, but I'm not picky. With women, even less so. Girl is taller than me? Awesome, great for being held. Shorter than me? CUTE. Older or younger: Around my age, rest doesn't matter. I'm at an age where anything between 20-30 is fair game, but any younger or older and it gets creepy. Romantic or spontaneous: A mixture of both. Nice stomach or nice arms: If the person is nice, their body will be nice too. It's an automatic process. I don't make the rules. Sensitive or loud: A combination of both! Troublemaker or hesitant: Secret third thing where they're chaotic but also too shy to really make a move.

HAVE YOU EVER

Kissed a stranger: Does "someone I talked to all evening but didn't know before that and didn't meet again afterwards" count? Drank liquor: Tried a bit, same as everybody. Found it nasty. Didn't try again. Lost glasses/contacts: Don't have any to lose. (Given the way I've been treating my eyes: yet?) Had sex on the first date: I'm asexual and I refuse. Broke someone’s heart: Yes, and let's leave it at that. Turned someone down: I'm a woman existing in public. Having to turn down random men is a recurring part of my experience. Cried when someone died: Not really—I seem to shut down and go blank more than anything else. I used to feel guilty about it, but now I've learned that everyone processes grief and loss differently and it doesn't mean I care less. Fallen for a friend: Yes, repeatedly, it has yet to end well, and it will probably happen again.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN

Yourself: Mostly yes. There are some things I need help with before I can unlock my full potential, but one thing I've learned is that I always manage in the end. And once I get proper help, I have no doubt I'll be just fine. Miracles: I don't like to rely on them, but I do believe that unlikely good things can and do happen. Love at first sight: Not for myself, I need to get to know a person before I fall for them. I do believe in attraction at first sight though. Heaven: It's a nice thought, but whether or not it exists doesn't matter to me. Our task in life is the same regardless: try to be kind and treat others well and hopefully leave the world a slightly better place. Santa Claus: No, and never really have. My parents never claimed he was real; my Christmas presents always came from the family that visited on Christmas Eve. Kissing on a first date: Did it once, it was okay. I think it's one of those "take it or leave it" things—if the chemistry is right, sure, go for it, but it's definitely not for everyone in every situation.

[apeekatthestars]

Okay, so this feels long overdue. It's been way too long since I last journaled, work has been too hectic, and I've just had a long cry last night. Ever since Charlotte quit, it's been starting to feel like I don't have enough hands - like my mind is just listing out things I need to do after I finish the task at hand, while my hands are still doing said task. It's been...a lot. To be fair, while the assigned tasks are insane, a major part of the stress has been this skeleton submission for Stephen Ng's case. I'm honestly very hopeful that the matter will get wrapped up before the hearing, but we do still need to lodge the written submission. I'm on the 4th draft, and Mike keeps telling me my drafts are wrong - which is fine, which is normal, and so I have just been churning out more and more drafts, each one 20 to 30 pages long, in an attempt to finally get it right. I've stayed up working on drafts until 2am twice already, on top of an insane workload on all my other files. The straw that broke the camel's back was yesterday - I literally just did what he told me to do, and it was still fucking wrong. I think the problem is that he says things like "Quote their Defence" and assumes I know what he means - but there are a lot of ways to quote things, and I've never seen a skeleton submission that looks like what it appears he wants, so that's a lot of very costly trial and error. I just...feel very broken and tired, and I want to just walk away from this whole career. I'm clearly not made out for a career in law. My mind simply isn't adept enough. I can't process things on the spot. That rules out oral advocacy and legal discussions. And nobody's mind seems to work like my mind, so people say things and I don't understand them on the spot until I've had time to transcribe recordings of our conversations and read them back. And I don't know the law, and it feels like it's too late to rectify such a fundamental thing.

Alright, that's enough feeling sorry for myself. I have my limitations, that much is certain. However, that doesn't mean I'm giving up without a fight. If I can finally figure out what a "proper" skeleton submission is supposed to look like, I can create a list of questions and a protocol, so that I know the tone I'm supposed to strike in future. This will be a massive win in terms of my career. I'm so close to it - maybe the next draft will be a winner, now that (hopefully) Mike has finally expressed what changes should be made. We can do this. Stupidity isn't a sin - we can work around it and still get what we deserve.

Am I doing something wrong? No, we're not. We are learning as best we can. Draft 1 was very different from Draft 4. Next time we have to do a skeleton submission, we can skip directly to Draft 5. That is learning, right there. There is no need to feel ashamed, and there is no need to feel guilty for not being faster. Your mind is about to crack. You need a break, and you are going to get one.

It just...feels like there are so many things piled up on my plate, that it's unconscionable to not use any part of my long weekend to clear up some of the backlog, particularly when a lot of the backlog was due yesterday. And I should not have made the mistakes I made - I know better. I owe it to my bosses to put in the extra work when I've not been helpful. But if that's the logic, then you'll literally never get a break. Work will always be this urgent. Always. And you're still learning, so you'll just be doing trial and error for like a decent chunk of your time. Your inability to do all the work on time is not a failing on your part - you always just do your best, after all. The fact that the work can't be done on the spot is about lack of manpower. No matter how hardworking you are, your efforts will just keep crashing against the towering demand. So you have to take the time to take care of yourself, to keep yourself from crashing and burning out. You are already in the right place - you are learning and working as hard as you can. Take a deep breath and feel proud of how far you've come. Take a good long rest. Look at the sunshine and the trees and all the beauty and love in this world beyond the narrow scope of your career. Life is long. You are smart and hardworking, yes, but you are also bright and happy and curious about the world. Estella alone cannot make progress on the part of the entire Elsandria - everyone needs to grow in order for Elsandria to become stronger.

It's been a long while, but how is everyone else doing? Joey was depressed and starved for a while back there, but now that we're re-reading the Belgariad and playing Stardew Valley, things are not so bad. But it would not hurt to find new things to get into. Maybe we can re-learn Spirit Island, or Root, or another digital board game. But it's hard to magic a new interest - these things are supposed to just happen, after all. We can create a list of shows and books that we can get into?

Yumi has been completely thrown to the side in Estella's mad rush, but we can restart the skincare and the teeth brushing. With Admira, I've discovered that waking up on time comes a lot easier when I've had sufficient rest. Work permitting, I do want to be in bed, listening to a bedtime story by 11:30pm on Monday and Thursday nights, and I want at least half a weekend day actually doing something fun. These are structures we need to enforce. As for journaling? It really should be a lot more regular, but it's hard to make time for that when life is just go, go, go. I guess it's just going to have to be whenever I feel the need to journal.

And Kalyra? It's hard for Kalyra to do much of anything when I can't put together the time to go explore the city. But she's an integral part of our personality - she brings the wonder and the magic. God forbid the day when her light dims. It's a long weekend. If you don't let her out now, when will you? This is about your dedication to yourself and Kalyra - take care of her now.

We have to go explore the city this long weekend.

And play Stardew Valley, of course. Maybe try the Avatar books.

The world is a vast place. There is beauty hidden in every nook and cranny. Go find it.

[gjenevarants]

Insomnia/Tears

2/26/24

Insomnia has been a bitch for the past few weeks. It's been at its worst this past week though. The least I've slept is probably four hours. The most I've slept is probably seven, but with that, I'm not falling asleep until four or five in the morning, meaning I'm waking up sometime between ten and eleven right before lunch. And that means I'm only eating twice a day.

Mostly I've been keeping myself distracted by reading when sleep escapes me, but I'm almost out of books. I think I have maybe two left now? Other times I've been writing, but as that is something I do during the day to pass the time, it doesn't do as much for me.

Tonight or today I guess it's three in the morning as I write this, I got in my head again. Mostly anger and loneliness rearing their heads. Maybe a bit of despair as well. I'm honestly tempted to take my meds again. They were only for anxiety and they didn't work all that well when it came to that, but at least while I was taking them I wasn't crying every other night.

Truthfully I'm writing this to try and keep myself distracted from the endless cycle of internalized self deprivation. At least with this, I can occupy myself with trying to keep track of typing and hitting the wright keys in the dark.

I have a to do list that I made in January. I started on it then when I came back from dad's and I haven't touched it since. I don't even know what's on it anymore. So I need to take care of all of that. I know doing my laundry is on there. I also need to talk to my parents and schedule my wisdom teeth removal. I should have had them taken care of years ago. Its at the point now where if their in for maybe... four more months I might have serious damage. I'm starting to feel weird jaw shit now too, so it definitely needs to happen as soon as possible, probably next month.

Another thing that needs to happen is my acquisition of a job. I don't know when my taxes are due for my car but I now it's some time within the next two-three months. I'm starting to stress about it. I need to set up an eBay account so I can sell some of my old action figures. Some of them are actually worth money even out of the box. I also need to finish up my mushroom hat project so that I can finish my earring project. I never should have started the mushroom hat without finishing the earrings but I got excited. The mushroom hat is a personal thing, but at least with the earrings I can make money.

I want to look into trying to get a savings account that my mom can't see. Both her and my dad have access to my bank account because they have passed money to each other through it before. I really want to remove mom's access but I have no idea how. She looks at it some times and asks me questions about it all nosy and judgmental like: "Did you get Starbucks again?" No. That shouldn't even be listed I literally bought that with a gift card. I think I'm scared she's going to seal from me? I've said it before but she is shit at managing money. I'm worried that once I get a job, she'll start skimming from my funds.

I already owe her money for the college classes I dropped out of. Who knows how much I'll have to contribute to rent. To taxes. I've been measuring my money in how much a week worth of personal groceries costs me. I've been forgetting about personal necessities because of that. Really, all of this scares me. At this rate everything scares me. So much for stopping tears. I'm crying again. I just woke up the cat from blowing my nose.

Speaking of the cat, I definitely have PTSD after Sabi. At the end of his life he had a mass in his gut as well as/caused by organ/intestine deterioration. His stomach would gurgle almost constantly. Hearing that with him was comforting because I knew it meant he was still alive. Nibi's stomach has been making gurgling noises too now. I think it only happens after she uses the litter box or eats. It freaks me the fuck out though because every time I hear it, I think there's something wrong and that she's going to end up in the same spot Sabi was in. My mom's cat is a whole other thing/mess. Ari's at the point where I think it's kinder to let her go, but mom doesn't listen. When she does it goes back to money.

Why does everything circle back to money? What dumbass came up with the brilliant idea of everything revolving around money. Who the fuck needs to revolve around the sun? We can use paper bills and tiny little coins that some random people somewhere will collect.

Nibi just came back from wherever she went. I'm going to keep an ear out for her tummy and hope for the best. Maybe I'll be able to get four to seven shitty hours of sleep now.

[unknownjpegs]

tears

The night air is cool and stings his warm cheeks, which he would usually fucking hate. But it’s nice after a long night of awkward pauses and unreadable facial expressions. Stuffy. That’s what parties are. Always, always fucking stuffy; crammed full of bodies, of sound, too. many people and voices for him to get a word in edgewise, much less have thoughts of his own amongst the noise.

But Maran’s hadn’t yet been to leave. Busy chatting up some girl he’s had a crush on the last month or so, dark hair and torn tights and platforms that put her nearly at his height. So Benji waits, patience fraying until he knows from the glances other people send his way that a nasty scowl paints his face. That’s when he knows it’s best to retreat, collect himself before Maran gets any more gossip aimed his way about his mean, unapproachable friend that made everything awkward.

Fortunately, parties like these — in nice, big houses like these — always have an empty room to spare. When he finds it he’s unapologetically nosy, peering at polaroids and post-it notes pinned carefully in place on a cork board. He’s noting a shopping list, an exam next Wednesday, a reminder to call ROXANNE W. IN BILLING.

It’s a nice little oasis — silent, the important part — until the creaky bedroom door is kicked open. Benji jolts, nearly falls off the windowsill’s ledge, where he’s propped himself. The cigarette he’d lit for himself goes flying off into the night, a little red ember spinning against blue until it’s snuffed out by wind.

The person that stomps into the room doesn’t know this. Doesn’t even see Benji right away, not as the window’s angled towards the door. They pace in a quick circle, hunched shoulders doing nothing to hide how tall they are. When the intruder turns, Benji’s realizes it’s a partygoer, maybe several years younger. Handsome — fit, actually, with big sad eyes and red hair to match his cheeks.

He yelps when he notices Benji at the window, jumping backwards to flatten his shoulders against the door. Which slams loudly shut. Although he finds his reaction amusing and face compelling, Benji scowls and waves his now-empty fingers.

“Owe me one, mate. Fuckin’ hell.”

“I’m just — oh my God, I can’t — I can’t believe they’re here and he—fuck! Sorry. I’m so sorry.” The stranger stutters it out quick. Nearly incomprehensible around an accent Benji can’t place. Not local; the vowels aren’t as soft, cadence too fast. He has a hell of a time with placing American accents sometimes, especially when they’re messy and jumbled like this one.

“No place is private, s’pose.” Benji mumbles. He ignores the stranger’s fidgeting, the frantic movements of his hands as he talks to himself under his breath. “Well, since you’re in no state — I’ll go, then. Leave you to it.”

Frankly, he can’t imagine wanting to be someplace less than next to a stranger with tears streaking their cheeks. Benji kicks his feet to the side, hopping down from the window and reaching for his jacket. He’d stuffed it into the corner as a cushion, and now he shakes the crispy falls from its lapels.

Or tries to, anyway. A big pale hand encloses over his forearm. Benji’s lip curls angry and he wrenches himself away, other hand between their bodies palm-first.

“Oi, man. Hands off! Y’wanker. Whatever the fuck your issue is, how about you deal with it in your own space?”

“Do you have another?” The man asks. He leans towards Benji, bent at a waist that looks trim beneath the loose material of his shirt. His eyes snap up, cheeks flushing, unaware they’d even fallen there in the first place.

“Huh?

The other man gestures out the window towards Benji’s lost soldier. “Do you have another? Cigarette, I mean — or like, fuck. Sorry, was that your vape? Those things are expensive. I’ll pay you back. Although probably, uh, cash? I don’t have any of those apps.”

Benji blinks twice at him, jaw slack at the barrage of chatter. “You’re crying.” He points out flatly.

“H-huh?” The man touches fingers to his cheek. “Oh.”

“Related to the cigarette, at all? Might mean it’s a problem, you get that kinda reaction —“

He laughs, the sound choppy and pitched high. “Oh, no. I just saw — well. Okay, it doesn’t matter. What matters is if you have another or not.”

Benji holds his gaze as he reaches for the assigned pocket of his jacket, flipping the box top-side facing him to pull one out. He comes a step closer, more of the moonlight gathering at the high planes of his face, and Benji feels — nervous. He’s pretty. Pretty pretty, the way most people work and pay to look. Even (or especially) tear-stained as he is.

“Don’t touch me again.” Benji warns as the stranger tucks the cigarette to his mouth. He holds up a lighter on instinct, hand cupping around the edge against the open window’s draft, and watches the end catch. Watches and watches and stares at that little wick of flame as it licks and burns the tube’s contents. When he glances up, he finds a pair of severely green eyes glued to his. With a rough clearing of his throat, Benji retreats back to his spot.

His own replacement cigarette is halfway to his mouth when he’s jostled by the ankles. The stranger climbs up with him, knees tucking up towards his torso to make room and leave Benji his requested space.

“Uh.” He says. “I wasn’t really plannin’ on company.”

“I hate parties like this.”

Benji blinks at being so blatantly ignored.

“Sorry. I won’t rant about this. Dude, I’m drunk, sorry. I won’t rant. Swear.” He’s silent for a moment. “But fuck, I hate parties like this, you know? You just run into anybody.”

“Nobody you ever want to run into, either.”

“Exactly!” The other man shouts, reaching out to nudge Benji with his free hand.

Benji feels awful for what happens next, he really does. It’s instinct: rough-housing with Maran, going heels over shoulders in a mess of limbs and bony elbows; a fight with messy punches and his weight thrown haphazardly.

His leg snaps out, heel of his boot connecting with a thigh, and the stranger’s eyes widen. It happens practically in slow motion, his pinwheeling arms and Benji’s hand shot out to just graze the material of his brown jacket.He loses balance, legs kicking for purchase on something, but it’s no use — he falls from the ledge with a little cry, rolling along the shingles of the roof.

He careens over the edge and Benji scrambles after, carefully maintaining balance as he peers down to the ground below.

Fortunately, they’re only on the second story. Even more fortunately, the side of the house is bracketed with massive bushes. In the grass not several paces away from where Benji’s victim had been flung smolders the cigarette, a plume of light smoke winding into the air as it begins to burn dry grass.

One of those massive pale hands shoots out from the mess of branches and leaves, smacking over the cigarette before it catches anything but itself alight.

“Holy shit.” He’s thankfully laughing as he scrambles out of the shrubbery, long legs comical in the stumbling that ensues once he’s free. Benji watches him wipe both grassy palms over his face, leave little green smears that compliment his eyes instead of the glistening trail of salty tears.

He turns round several times, clearly out of sorts. When he finally tips his chin up to find Benji, hands braced above to push himself half out of the window, the resulting smile — well. Benji rolls his eyes to give himself an excuse to look away from its toothy stretch.

“I didn’t —“

“I have sticks in places sticks shouldn’t be!” The stranger snorts, folding forward to rest hands on his knees. Benji finds his laughter contagious, lifts a sleeve over his mouth to cover the blooming smile.

“What’s your—”

Benji’s intruder falls backwards with a dramatic stumble, both hands clutched over his chest. “I’ll sue.”

“Wrong side.” Benji points out, carefully slipping from the edge of the window to the overhang, boots dangling off the side of the roof. “Heart’s on the left, if it’s a cardiac something-or-other you’re after.”

“Ah, thanks.” He switches to the left. He stands up finally — when he lifts a hand to tug at Benji’s shoestring, that’s when Benji realizes exactly how tall the prick is

“Sound, though?”

“Huh?”

“Sound?”

The redhead tosses his head back and laughs, all his confusion and the adrenaline from the moment compounding into a fantastic bout of hysteria. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, dude.”

“I dunno what the fuck you’re sayin’!” Benji cackles back, suddenly feeling every ounce of alcohol he’d ingested that night. His hair falls around his face as he leans further over the edge. “You know you are pretty fuckin’ impossible to understand?”

“No you.” The stranger fires back. Then his own drunk, glazed eyes light up. Like he’s just thought up something groundbreaking: “No, your mom.”

*

He doesn’t tell anyone that story: how they met. Not really.

He tells people he found out who Xavier was the following week, at an adorably well-organized party Matilda throws to celebrate her birthday. Some new guy she’s been hooking up with is there, along with his roommate. Ends up being Benji’s stranger from the party, the catastrophe where two cigarettes failed to be shared. After he’d gotten himself back up to their window seat, they had talked until everyone had begun to clear out. Had talked so long and so enthusiastically, without care for topic or setting. And they’d been so engrossed in it that finally when it came time to part, Benji had entirely forgotten to ask after the bastard’s name.

Benji keeps the real story for himself. Because he’d been vulnerable, sitting there in a stranger’s home and ready to be free of the social nightmare. Vulnerable and alone until suddenly he wasn’t — and that felt like something, in a way. That Xavier had just sort of fallen into his lap the way he had. That their friendship started on a chance meeting, despite the layered web of mutual friends that would end up connecting them anyway. He tries to realistic, but that feels purposeful and less like a simple coincidence.

“I hated your fuckin’ guts at first.” Benji admits to him once. They’re laying in Xavier’s bed, not tangled up together like they will be in just a few months but close. Shoulders, elbows, hips brushing. Sharing a blanket, heads tilted together to gossip, to comment on the shit movie Xavier had put on, a near-empty bag of chips between them.

“Did you really?” Xavier asks, his eyes wide and brows. “I figured you were like…going through something, but —“

“Me?” He snorts, sitting up a little. The blanket falls away, puts the cold air to his arms and makes them ripple with goosebumps. He’s in a borrowed t-shirt, some dog cartoon character he doesn’t recognize twisted around itself by the elastic knots of yellow limbs.

“Yeah you.”

“You were the one crying.”

Xavier scoffs, reaching for the remote to pause the movie. Neither are interest in it — but he’s going to make a point, needs it to be quiet so he’s sure Benji hears.

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Yes you were.”

“You were drunk.” He argues. “You aren’t remembering things accurately.”

Benji makes an outraged noise, a wild bark of a laugh, before rolling to his knees to shove at Xavier’s heaving shoulders.

“No fuckin’ way in hell you’re gaslighting me, dickhead. If anything, you were drunk.”

“No you.”

One final good push brings them both over the edge of the bed, falling in a tangle of limbs with a loud thump that no doubt carries downstairs to the neighbor who undoubtedly hates the ever-growing number of young men living above them.

“Your. Mum.”

After a quick battle — Benji ends it quick with a nasty grapple, anyway — he keeps Xavier’s squirming body and desperately kicking legs pinned to the ground. Arm over his sternum, the blankets tossed in a mess around them. He’s panting with exertion, cheeks hurting from smiling so fucking hard.

By no means is it the first time Benji has looked at him and wondered what it would be like to kiss Xavier. The fear of him rebuffing that is strong, but his desire to maintain one of the best friendships he’s ever had, aside Maran, is stronger. It pains him to imagine Xavier shocked or disgusted or ambivalent — but it hurts less than imagining the things Xavier might think about the time they’ve spent together. Benji would rather never know what he tastes like than have Xavier assume all the movies, the late night chats, and gentle ribbing were done with some nefarious purpose — the only reason Benji had ever participated in any of those things was to get that big, toothy grin.

I’d never fucking lie to you, he thinks as he stares down at Xavier’s flushed face. He’s got a sheen of sweat, a bit of moisture that pools at the hallow of his throat. Benji imagines kissing him then. Imagines dropping his mouth to that spot, tasting skin with a sweep of his tongue.

He swallows and pushes away perhaps harder than he needs to, because Xavier whines and complains about a bruise on his collarbone for a week after.

*

After they’re together, Xavier doesn’t complain about bruises. At least —- not the ones Benji tends to tuck gently, sweetly into his skin. Every color looks fantastic on Xavier; the red blossom of a fresh hickey, fading purple of finger prints on his waist. Even the barely-there yellow green of imprinted teeth on his stomach look good. Compliment.

Benji’s tracing them thoughtlessly. Admiring the soft skin, where it’d broken just beneath the surface to leave evidence of his mouth.

“Benji,” Xavier whines. It’s a lovely, breathless sort of gasp that leaves him like it’s got nowhere else to go, like Xavier can’t hold onto it for a moment longer.

“Sorry,” he hums, mouth pressed to one of those marks. The vibration yanks another noise from Xavier — one that sounds as if he hadn’t meant to let go of it, either. “Too much?”

He barely cracks his eyes open, but gets a flash of gorgeous red hair messes across the pillowcase. Xavier’s chin thrashes left and right, his eyes squeezed shut. Chest heaving, he pets Benji’s hair back from his face with trembling hands and arches off the mattress.

“You’re so —“ he says hoarsely, his hips never pausing in their twitching, the gentle roll upwards only to dig back down into the bed. Press backwards into the seat of Benji’s palm, chase after his fingers. Greedy, he thinks fondly, and then angles his wrist so Xavier can take the more he’s so desperate for. The deeper penetration has him shaking all over; a vibration of his muscles that makes him squirm, makes his legs kick helplessly.

“So?” Benji prompts.

Xavier goes to answer — he tries to. It looks as though he really, really tries. But Benji chooses that exact moment (when his pink, shiny, bitten lips part, when that little wrinkle shows between his brows as he fights words to the surface) to return to the task he’d been interrupted from completing.

He holds Xavier still by the hips and swallows him down, eyes fluttering shut at the weight and taste and warmth on his tongue. He bobs back and forth only a few times in an uninterrupted rhythm; it’s not long before Xavier’s desperate, excitable strength starts to show.

Benji hum a laugh around cock in his mouth, for a moment cursed with the horrible mental image of choking and dying this way. He’d hate for that one to make it back to Saha — worse, make it back to Maran, who he imagines would stand over his grave and piss himself laughing about the fact. He pulls off to speak, a thick strand of spit connecting him to Xavier’s flushed tip. The rhythm of his hand remains constant.

“Finally let me get my mouth on this thing, and you’re trying to kick me off?” Benji teases, the words a gentle murmur to his bare hip bone. His jaw opens momentarily, offering a scrape of teeth to the spot.

“I’m— Benji, I can’t…I’m so fucking close, you have to —“

Benji sits upright with a little scowl, glaring down at Xavier when the movements of his body intensify.

“Bastard.” He laughs fondly, hands becoming steel as they manage to hold Xavier still. “Fuckin’ hell. Behave, Xavier.”

For a moment, Benji thinks he’s found the hidden passcode. Xavier does behave — he does stop. He goes absolutely motionless, his clawing hands paused on Benji’s shoulders.

And then Xavier chokes on a sudden ragged moan, chin jutting back to the ceiling as his shaking begins once more. This time, Benji feels the pulse of his orgasm in his hands. Watches, enraptured, as his cock gives a brief jerk and then spills a previously unwitnessed amount of cum over Benji’s paused hand.

The ego trip, bolstered by the wild noises coming from his boyfriend’s mouth, is short-lived. Tears spring to Xavier’s eyes immediately; fat, shiny diamonds stuck to the corners of his eyes. It reminds Benji of the little crystal stickers Matilda had used for Halloween, the night they’d gotten together. Night before, really. It hadn’t been official. Now here they are — tucked into the warm refuge of Benji’s messy fucking bedroom, a half-empty bottle of lube tossed to the ground. They’d pressed close and together like this after a nerve-leaden discussion that had eventually settled on a clear conclusion: yes, we waited long enough, now, right now.

Benji has never really ruminated on (or made a big deal about) his first time with a partner. Not until now, not until Xavier —

Whose tears turn, inexplicably, into bitter streams that course down his cheeks. Benji’s brow knits, confusion settling cold over him instead of admiration for Xavier’s post coital glow. He doesn’t really have one, so to speak. Instead he’s still shaking, his arms tucked around his waist instead of Benji’s shoulders.

Benji sits up immediately, both hands soothing a dance up and down bare freckled thighs.

“Xavier? Hey. A’right there, gorgeous?” The panic settles firmly, a heavy-handed punch, in his chest. Xavier is murmuring to himself. Most of it is a soft babble, but his concerned ear picks up one repeated word.

“Sorry,” Xavier mumbles several times, his shaking hands rising to settle over his eyes. His beautiful mouth is twisted into a frown that makes Benji’s heart ache, no panic required. “Sorry, I know that was quick — I didn’t ask, I just— it was too…sorry.”

“Oh fuck.” Benji hisses. He wipes his lube-tacky hand against the sheet and then darts forward, pulling Xavier onto his side so they face one another. Gingerly, wary of any sort of tension or movement to pull away, he wraps arms around Xavier, slide him and bring them chest to chest.

“Shh, fuckin’ hell. What ‘ave you got to apologize for, you loon? Nothing.”

Xavier continues to shiver, but the sobbing, hitching breaths eventually settle the long Benji rubs over his spine, squeezes his sides in gentle encouragement. He talks, talks, talks: shh, Xavier. S’fine, I’m not pissed or nothin’. It was hot, alright? s’what I wanted to happen. You’re allowed to— mate, the point is that you make a mess, yeah? That’s the fun. You’re allowed to feel good.

It’s a conversation they save for another time. Benji’s okay with that. He’s worried, but there’s a bubble of rage deep within him; it’s not a reaction without context. Without something to set him off. And he has an inkling to what that might be. What the story is, there. It’s just not one that Xavier has offered to tell just yet. And that’s fine — Benji is fine with that. He can manage the bubbling feeling in his chest, the hotter-than-anger catch of fire on a wick.

*

Benji’s swimming head allows him to notice the sensation of a mouth touching to his shoulder blade. The delicious hint of pain in that bite is fleeting compared to everything else. Xavier’s weight is a warm, encompassing blanket against his back. Sticky with sweat and pressed to him, keeping him down and still and prone. Strong hands tight against his biceps, and the filthy-feeling desire to give in to that display makes Benji arch his back into the next thrust, a moan bitten out into the pillow.

It’s only the second time they’ve — well, done it this way. The second time Benji has let himself be coaxed onto his back, knees parted; let himself be taken care of, stretched and loved.

And he is loved. It makes him blush to think about. It’s funny, makes him huff out a laugh, that the embarrassment comes to him then. Not at the obscene slap of skin or Xavier’s unapologetically noisy enjoyment of his body, not at the feeling of being filled and empty and filled, how he is. No, it’s the gentle I love you, I can feel you loving me that courses through him. Brings red to his cheeks.

“Xavier,” he tries to warn, knees pulling up as the orgasm touches beneath his belly button. His cock gives an almost painful jerk against the sheets and Benji ruts into that sharp fizzle of discomfort. When it hurts a little, it’s —

“Good?” Xavier responds, mouthing a line up the back of Benji’s neck. He tilts his head for a sloppy, off-centered kiss. Xavier keeps up the deep thrusts, purposefully slow and hard; doing his best to drive Benji through the center of the earth, he thinks.

“Yes,” he gasps back, head tilted for another kiss. “Good fuckin’ boy.” Benji gets so much as another I’m— out before it slips over him, the warm blanket of oblivion. Of white-hot arousal in his stomach, spilling into the interior of his chest and overflowing. Xavier’s pace falters, the rhythm off entirely as he groans and buries his face into the back of Benji’s head.

When he finally comes back to himself enough to move, Benji flips onto his side. Feels quite, in that moment, like an overfed dog barely a let o roll over. His limbs are heavy, stuck to him as alien weights instead of parts of himself. He feels satiated and sleepy, eyes fluttering as he stares across the bed at Xavier.

Fingers touch to his cheek and come back wet as Xavier holds them up for Benji to examine.

“Got you crying.” He whispers conspiratorially, sneaky and satisfied and humored by Benji’s lazy scowl.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Only thing gone to my head is — uh, blood. I mean, because I’m hard. Get it, Benji? Blood gone to the head?”

He wipes Benji’s cheeks as he talks. Yammers. Fucking goes and goes, this one. Reminds Benji of the first night they met, when Xavier’s charming nerves had often the best of him.

And now he can’t imagine a world without that constant chatter beside him. All the noise is good, even when he cries.

“Crying just means we have something else to figure out,” Xavier had once said, both of them angry and pouring tears after a nasty spat. “You should probably like, put your face really close to mine. We’ll think better that way.”

It had made him laugh, even through the misery of the subject and their shared annoyance. He thinks its fitting Xavier had come to him crying, all that time ago. It meant Benji had something to figure out, or it meant Benji had done something right. Deserved Xavier, just not an entitled observing, a desire to add him to some collection. But a deserved as in: yes, you’ve done good. Here is more good coming your way. Here is the greatest good you’ll ever know. And don’t forget to cry. Let him let you cry.

“I love you,” Benji says simply when Xavier pulls away from the kiss. When they face each other, eyes meeting and melting together, Benji thinks of how lovely his eyes look, a certain shine to them as well.

“You would say it after gettin’ —“

Xavier is rocketed to the ground with arms full of naked, faux-punching drummer. They dissolve into that how they always do; a fake fight, soft-swinging jabs, a shoulder check or elbow around the neck.

“Awful,” Benji accuses, not meaning a single word as he settles his cheek against Xavier’s bare torso. One of his hands coasts up his waist to paw filthy at the soft give of fat at his hip.

“It works for you.” Xavier points out. His thumbs, as they touch Benji’s jaw, are still wet from brushing tears away.

Benji hums and takes his face in his hands, too. He presses their mouths together in a kiss that starts (as it often does) relatively chaste. Just one, becomes two, becomes three that linger, that make him feel tight in the calves and abdomen; round two just on the horizon. His arms wrap tight around Xavier’s biceps to pull him in for another devouring, sucking mesh of their mouths.

“Yeah, whatever. Every time.” Benji admits, grumbling.

[mashmouths]

SAW BENDIGO FLETCHER LIVE 500 THOUSAND DEAD ALL OF SF INJURED

[starsscribble]

Stick Shift

Summary: Rick thinks he freeing Y/n. Y/n thinks she's the problem.

Tags: Angst, No comfort, Age Difference, Reader is 25 Rick is in in 40.

A/n: This was when I was on my Walking Dead kick. Finally got it edited.

But today I drove through the suburbs

Crying 'cause you weren't around

  You pulled into the post-apocalyptic suburbs; in a separate car than what Glenn and you left in. Your earlier pride of find and driving said care was gone. Now in it place was a numb type of sadness. It was stupid. You know that. Getting worked up over the fact you were driving a stick shift. All on your own. But Rick. Your boyfriend; ex-boyfriend now. He had been the one to teach you how to drive a stick shift. Before Virginia. When the group was still in the prison. When you were both still happy.

  “Come on,” his southern drawl was clear as day. You let out a puff of air. Head pushing against the headrest. “This was your idea. You gotta confess something.” You started to hate that you suggested this game, but the drive was so damn long. You didn’t have the radio to help distract you. No, it was just you, Rick, and a long stretch of Georgia backroad. The former sheriff’s right hand shifted off the steering wheel. Moving carefully as not to catch your attention. You were still racking your brain for a secret to tell. Then a yelp left your mouth. You jumped in your seat making the older man laugh. Hand retreated to the wheel.

“That’s what you get for taking so long pumpkin.” He grinned; eyes shifted from the road onto you. A hint of playfulness in those ocean blue eyes. 

“I was thinking of something!” You shot back making him chuckle before looking back to the road. 

“There’s gotta be something you have never told anyone.”

“Well,” you hummed. Readjusting in your seat. “I don’t know if this would count because I’ve never told this to anyone in the group.”

“I’ll count it.” He glances at you quickly, still smiling. Which makes you smile.

“Alright. I don’t know how to drive a stick shift.” You feel the jerk was the car spot. Rick looked at you as if you just told him the undead are all gone. Eye full of disbelief. 

“You’re joking.” He speaks after a beat and you shake your head. Nope, you couldn’t drive a stick to save your life. And with how the world was it just might. Rick took off his seatbelt as you questioned just what he was doing. “I’m gonna teach you how to drive stick. You might need it.”

“We are on a run.”

“Yep and this is the perfect time. Now get into the driver’s seat.”

  Slowly you parked next to Glenn. Killing the engine you got out as Glenn moved over to your vehicle. He smiled at you. Today was a good day. Got more food, medicine, and another car. The possibilities for cars were endless. Used for parts. Set up at protection. Used as traps. Daryl Dixon the town resident mechanic would have a field day with this car.

“I’m gonna check in with Rick,” Glenn says. You see him playing with his wedding band. Maggie’s baby bump had started to show and Glenn didn’t like being away for too long. Patting his shoulder you speak.

“Go see Maggie and your baby.” You slammed the driver’s side door shut. The dark-haired man stares at you. Willing to argue with you on this.

“Really it’s-” You raised your hand stopping him.

“If you don’t go check up on Maggie. I will and I’ll tell her how you screamed like a girl.” His eyes widen at the threat. 

“I didn’t know a group of bats would be in there!” He defended himself only making you grin at him. You both head away from the parking area. Back towards the stretch of cookie-cutter homes. You nudge his shoulder with yours.

“First it’s a colony of bats. Second, not only was the scream funny, so was your face.” You teased him. Glenn shoved your shoulder playfully. Before mumbling that he was going to check in with his wife. Leaving you with the task of checking in with the community’s newly appointed leader Rick. 

  Jogging onto his porch you knocked on the door. Eyes looking everywhere but the door until it opened. Sadly it wasn’t the male you were looking for. Carl greeted you with a soft smile. The bandages that once covered his right eye socket had been replaced with a custom-made eyepatch.

“Ahoy captain.” You tease the teenager who rolled his remaining eye. “Your dad here? Just checking in since Glenn and I got back.”

“Nope. Haven’t seen him since this morning.” Carl tells you, making you nodded. “When I see him…” He trails off because he knows you will just hunt his dad down. “I don’t know where he is.” He's lying. You know it. He knows that you know. But you just nod and quickly thank him. Tell him to kiss his sister for you before turning off the porch.

  And you're probably with that blonde girl

Who always made me doubt

She's so much older than me

She's everything I'm insecure about

  You know where Rick Grimes is. Feet carrying you down the still blood-stained street. Streets that just weeks ago were covered with the undead. You wave kindly to the people passing by. It is a mix of your group, older residents, and new people. You still feel out of place. Maybe you always will. Maybe you won't. You wonder quietly to yourself. A nice distraction. Because if you thought about where you were going. Where you had to go. You might just break. So you let your mind wander. Let your feet carry you to the destination. Everything seemed to be on autopilot. Until your using the knocker of the baby blue house. Her house.

“We should end this,” Rick says matter-of-factly. You stopped brushing your hair to look at him. He’s not facing you. Back facing you as he pulled his jeans on. 

“What?” Maybe you misheard him. Maybe it was your ear playing a trick on you. Because Rick couldn’t be breaking up with you right now.

“We should break up.” He rephrases. The words take the air from your lungs. Your mouth opened to say words that your mind can’t even come up with. The silence in the room grew by the seconds. It finally became too much for the man as he turned to face you. Jeans zipped up but not buttoned. Belt lay next to his shirt on the bed but his eyes fell on you instead. 

“Say something.” He requested of you softly. That same soft voice that he used when he said he loved you. Tears that formed in your eyes finally fell as you blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Before you looked him in the eyes.

“Is it me? Did I do something wrong?” Getting shot was nothing compared to your question to him. Because he knew you honestly thought you did something wrong. You always doubted yourself. But you were perfect. So goddamn perfect. And amazing. And young. 

“No sweetheart. It’s just…” He stops himself from going over to embrace you. Tell you to forget about it. Because this has to happen. You're 24. His 39. Even if the group. His and your family were ok with it. He heard the whispers around town. The other weren’t as supportive. 

“I think we should end this. We had an amazing run. And you're young. You’re gonna find someone else that will love you more than I ever could.” He breaks his own heart with his words. Because he doesn’t want you to find someone else. He wants to be with you until the end. When and where ever the end was. But you deserve better. You deserve someone around your age. Not an old man with two children like him. 

“I…” you stare at him. Cheeks strained with tears he caused. “I don’t want someone else.” You grab the comforter. It gets balled up as you tighten your grip on the fabric. Your mind running over everything you had done in the last weeks to get to the point. You had snapped at him a few days back because of Jessie Anderson. The blonde woman in her thirties that lived up the street. You didn’t hear what they were talking but her body language told you everything. She was flirting with Rick. And either he didn’t notice or didn’t care. Doubt played in your mind the whole day after seeing the interaction. Because Jessie was around Rick’s age. And you weren’t. You didn’t really have any life experience before the world ended. So it made sense if Rick preferred a woman his own age. As opposed to you, a 24-year-old kid in his eyes.

“I can get you a brownstone to stay in.” He said. Brushing off your comment. Which broke your heart even more.

  The door opened showing the blonde that lived there. A smile and questioning look on her face. 

“Is Rick here?” You asked, watching as she turned her head and yelling the man’s name into the home. He comes out from the kitchen; questioning who it was. The question dying in his throat when he saw it was you. Jessie excused herself leaving you and Rick alone. The former sheriff stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

“Hey,” he gives you a tight-lipped smile. Which you return.

“Just came to tell you Glenn and I are back.”

“Right,” he nods. “You guys went on a run. Get anything good?” You nodded before listing off some of the supplies you got. Including the stick shift car. You heard him chuckle. Looking into his eyes you saw that same playfulness as the day he first forced you to drive a stick. 

“You didn’t flood the engine this time right?” He teased and you scoffed, punching him in the shoulder. 

“I was amazing.” You boasted. The older man stared at you and you swear you heard a quiet. ‘Ya, you are.’ 

“You don’t mind if I asked Glenn?” You roll your eyes but smile.

“Go ahead. He's gonna tell you the same thing.” He nodded. Hand going on his hips. You watch as he licks his lips. Your breath hitching as you feel your stomach twisting in knots. “I should go. Need a shower desperately.” You don’t wait for him to say goodbye or stop you. You're off the porch and down the road heading home in a few steps. 

  And all my friends are tired

Of hearing how much I miss you, but

I kinda feel sorry for them

'Cause they'll never know you the way that I do

  Maggie can’t drink. But that doesn’t mean you and Sasha can’t. Sasha, Abraham, and Rosita had come back later in the day from another run. They had been the unlucky ones not finding much of anything. But Sasha apparently found some top-tier booze in a rundown bar. The trio split it up between them. So here you were. Snacking on fresh strawberries drinking booze that would have been at least $100 for a bottle; straight out of the bottle. The three of you resting against the metal wall that protected the town from the nasty world outside.

“So,” Maggie started as she threw a strawberry stem into a bowl filled with them. “Heard someone talk with Rick.” Sasha and her eyes went to you as you grabbed the glass bottle of auburn liquid. Taking a healthy swig you felt the burn as it went down. You were far too sober to be talking about this. Talking about him. Because no one in the group knew why you guys ended it. Just one day you were a happy couple and the next you were packing up and moving into your own brownstone. Sasha took the bottle from you, making you whine. As you tried to reach for it but the former firefighter held it out of reach. Her hand on your chest also keeping you away from it.

“You can get some when you tell us what happened.” She landed down the rule and it makes you groan as you move to lay against the wall. You don't want to talk about it. You just want to wallow and let the scar form on your heart in peace.

A crack of thunder sends the trio onto the back porch of Maggie’s home. Lucky for you guys because moments after; the dark clouds opened up letting down heavy droplets that ping off the porch’s roof. Sasha is distracted by the rain. Asking Maggie if the crops will be ok. Allowing you to snatch the bottle from her hand and take another big glug. The bottle is half gone now. And honestly so are you. The alcohol works fast as your brain starts to go fuzzy. Sasha takes the bottle back slightly annoyed. But it clear the break-up has been hard. So she lets it go.

“You got your drink.” She says putting the cap back on and sitting it to the side out of your reach. “Now tell us what happened.”

“I don’t know.” You sob. You weren’t normally an emotional drunk. But with everything going on with Rick. Tonight you were. 

  And I know we weren't perfect

But I've never felt this way for no one, oh

And I just can't imagine how you could be so okay, now that I'm gone

  Maggie held you as you drunkenly cried. Sasha joined you on the other side, rubbing your back. You finally opened up about your breakup with Rick a month ago. You weren’t sure how much they understood because of the loud rain and your blubbering. But either way, they consoled you. Trying to help the only way they could. And the only way they knew how. Simply being there. Because for a month you kept this end. Kept this to yourself. So those outside of the group saw you were fine. The break-up didn’t seem to affect you. You carried on with work. Talked with Rick when it was needed. You acted fine. 

But the group knew it. Of course, they knew. It was an act. Because they saw how you were breaking. How you had a longing in your eyes when the cowboy boots-wearing man walked by. The smile that rarely reached your lips. You were faking so much of your joy because your heart was broken. 

“I just don’t get how he is so ok. Did I mean nothing?” The two women share a look at your question. Because they also know that Rick isn’t ok. Like you, he is acting. Because he is the leader and can’t break down. But the man isn’t ok. They don’t say that. Rick was the one that ended it. That was on him.

“I don’t know,” Maggie says softly as you rest your head onto her shoulder. “I wish I had the answer for you. But only Rick does.”

  Red lights, stop signs

I still see your face in the white cars, front yards

Can't drive past the places we used to go to

'Cause I still fuckin' love you, babe

  The street lights are now on. It’s still raining when you tell Maggie you were going home. Sasha and her try to get you to stay the night. Or at least until the rain lets up. But the rain isn't letting up. It was so heavy you could barely see a few steps in front of you. But you step off the back porch and disappear down the alleyway of the lined-up homes. You walk. Just walk because you don’t want to go home just yet. If you go home you’ll be lonely. And you don’t want that. Because for a month you have been lonely in that damn brownstone. Rick wasn’t lonely. He was with Jessie. His arms wrapped around her body. Damn your brain. Just because you didn’t want to be lonely didn’t mean you wanted to think about them together. 

  The rain started to ease up as you found yourself passing Rick’s house. The lights upstairs were on. As you quickly looked away from the cookie-cutter home. A shiver ran through you and shoved your hands into your soaked jean pockets. Maybe now was a good time to head home. You haven’t even turned when you heard your name being shouted over the rain. Looking back at Rick’s home you see him rushing off the porch and over to you. His dark brown jacket acting as an umbrella. He puts it mostly over you shielding you from the rain.

“What are you doing out here? You're going to get sick.” He frets because he knows how likely that is. Because after the rainstorm when the group was on the trek through Virginia you had gotten sick. “Come on.” He orders and you walk with him toward his house. 

  Sidewalks we crossed

I still hear your voice in the traffic, we're laughing

Over all the noise

  You smile at him lightly as he places a cup of peppermint tea in your hand; you're favorite. You're in one of his white t-shirt and pajama pants. Your hair, no longer wet from the rain but a hot shower. The alcohol is still in your system. How much you don’t know. 

“What were you doing walking in the rain?” He questioned taking the seat next to you. His own cup of tea in his hand.

“Was drinking with Sasha and Maggie.” You look towards him as his eyebrows knit together as the mention of Maggie and drinking. “Maggie was moderating us. She wasn’t drinking, come on. She knows better.” Rick nods bowing his head because he does know better to think that about Maggie. But his time as a cop taught him that some people just don’t care. Not about themselves. Not about others. And sure as hell not about kids. 

“Where did you get the booze from? Daryl?” You snort at him before blowing on your tea taking a careful sip. Sitting the cup down you look back towards him.

“I ain’t no rat officer.” He chuckles. You both do. A little inside joke between you both. And then the silence fell. The awkward uncertain silence of two people who didn’t know what to say next. You chew on the inside of your cheek as you stare into the tea. Rain still going strong outside, trapping on the roof of your former home.  Rick shifts beside you clearing his throat.

“Judy trying to walk.” It makes you smile a bit. 

“That’s good. Soon she’ll be running over you and Carl.” The older man chuckles nodding in agreement but you don’t see it. Head still bowed. Turning your mug as you watch the tea shift with each motion. 

“Seeing anyone?” He was trying to keep the conversation going. But there had to be another question to ask that wasn’t this. You still answer it by shaking your head.

“No. But you seemed to have moved on.” It has some bite to you. You're bitter. Of course, you are. The man you were in love with. Seemed to easily move on after he ended it. You lift the ceramic mug and take a huge glug of your tea. The warmth fills you but it’s not enough.

“Ya. Jessie, she’s…” He doesn’t know what to say. Jessie is ok. Good to have around. Doesn’t make him feel as empty. But she is just not you. All her touches. All her kisses. They feel off and he knows why. Because the hands touching him aren’t yours. Neither are the lips that kiss him. But Rick is stubborn. Even if it hurts you both, he knows you need better. You deserve the world and he just can’t give it to you.

“She’s perfect.” You looked at him. Sadness, rooted so deeply in your eyes. He wants to pull you into him. Tell you that he is sorry. That he will end it with Jessie. Come back to you. And try to make all of this right. But he already drew his line in the sand and he won’t cross it. Because the moment he touches you he knows it will be his undoing.

“She has her flaws. No one is perfect.” Except for you. He wants to add. He hears a quiet 'ya' then it silence once again.

  God, I'm so blue, know we're through

But I still fuckin' love you, babe

  You were gone when Rick woke up. His clothes lay on the guest bed since you were dried. He wondered just when you left. He wondered if you slept at all. Because he didn’t. Knowing you were in the house but not in his arms. He was restless the whole night. He sighs. Picking clothes up. It was sad that he hoped this wouldn’t be the last time. But it most likely was going to be the only time. Because how often are you going to walk in the rain drunk? He takes the clothes to the laundry room. Before he throws the shirt in the basket he lifts it to his nose. Inhaling the flowery body wash scent from when you shower last night. You must found where he hid the body wash you left behind. 

“Hey, dad!” Carl called out from the kitchen forcing Rick to dump the clothes in the basket. Entering the kitchen he smiled at his son. Judith was already in her high chair waiting for breakfast. Carl stood at the counter. The box of peppermint tea in his hands. Shit. He meant to put that up. Carl’s eye shifts from the box towards the sink. Where the mugs from last night sat unwashed. Then the young man turns to his father.

“Y/n was here wasn’t she?” He questioned but it was really a statement. It is the only reason for this tea to be out with two mugs in the sink.

“Ya,” He replied, moving towards his son and taking the box of tea from his hand. The young man sighed watching his father place the tea on a high shelf so only he could get to it.

“Why?” Carl asked.

“It was raining-”

“No,” he cut his father off. “Why did you break up with her?”

“Carl,” Rick sighed. As he pinched the bridge of his nose. If he didn’t want to have this conversation with Daryl or Michonne. He sure as hell didn’t want it with his son. But like Rick the young survivor was stubborn. He stepped into his father's past every time he tried to move around him.

“Carl,” Rick warns but the boy isn’t back down.

“No. You were happy with Y/n. Happier than I have ever seen you. Even with mom. Even before all of this.” The boy gestures at nothing but Rick knows what he means by that. Because he didn’t want to admit it. But his and Lori’s relationship was at rock bottom before the world ended. 

“So why? What happened?” Carl pressed, making Rick sigh. He wondered. Only for a second. If Michonne had put Carl up to his. But he shook that from his head. Michonne won’t do that. This is purely Carl. Because Carl loves you so much. The both of you had apparently clicked before Rick had gotten to the quarry. And that bond only grew over time. 

“It’s complicated, Carl. Now please,” Rick needed him to down the subject. And the young boy seemed to understand but is still pissed. He turns from his father. Feet carrying the young boy towards the door. “Where are you going?” He called out.

“Out!” And the slamming door let Rick know that Carl was gone. He sighed. 

  He knew everyone would move on. You would. Carl would. He would. In the far future, all of this will be just a bad memory. But right now. In the present, it hurt so fucking bad. Tears leaked from his eyes as he sucked in air. He did it to himself. He deserved this pain. And if he could he would take your pain. Allow you to be happy. To find love in someone else better than him. Because you're one of the good things in this ugly world. 

  I know we weren't perfect but I've never felt this way for no one