#I really wanted to draw this scene but good lord was it difficult

[3584-tropical-fish]

Day two of @podcastgirlsweek !

This too is yuri... Spotlight a F/F ship (or platonic or familial relationship between women if that's your preference).

I really wanted to draw this scene, top ten romantic moments of all time let’s be real

Based on “Winding Up” (1836), by William Sidney Mount!

[newtonsheffield]

Molly, I think they absolutely redecorate, based on this picture. The woodwork, fluted column, and drapes make me think this is the Bridgerton House Drawing Room, but the leather chair and the red rug were not there before, and definitely feel much more like Anthony and Kate’s style.

And if we’re engaging in WILD speculation: looking at the Season 3 episode list, I might assume that this scene takes place in the episode “Joining of Hands” which is episode 7 of 8, so this makes me think that the the redecorating may be a part of a wider story arc involving Kate stepping into the role of Viscountess and Violet stepping back. (I don’t think it’ll be contentious or anything—quite the opposite actually! I think both women will be loving and supportive throughout one another’s journeys)

And if we want to engage in even WILDER speculation: we could assume that this will culminate in Violet moving out of BH at the end of the season, meaning we might just see her famous Farewell Masquerade, and Benedict’s meeting with his Lady in Silver!!

What I need is Anthony walking into the room one day to find Kate and Violet entertaining a man who has wallpaper samples strewn about and several heavy rugs.

“Are we…? Redecorating?” Anthony asked a little hesitantly, bending to kiss his wife’s cheek.

“I’m considering it, Darling.” Kate hummed.

“Yes.” Violet said firmly at exactly the same time.

Kate’s lips quirked in a smile as Anthony made his way over to the biscuits set out.

“This is Mr Abbott, Darling. He was just trying to help us choose a rug that might match the wallpaper in your Chambers and something for in here.”

Anthony inclined his head to the man who said “Lord Bridgerton, Good day.”

Anthony looked quickly at the rugs, before he settled beside his wife. Squeezing himself in where there wasn’t room. “Well none of those match the wallpaper.”

Mr Abbott cleared his throat, “Lady Bridgerton had thought, perhaps, to change the wallpaper to something a little brighter. Gold perhaps.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows and the man seemed to shrink back. “Gold?”

“Gold.” Kate confirmed, “Your chambers are a little… dreary, Darling.”

Anthony could feel Kate watching him, waiting for his reaction to the very thing she’d tried to do in their home. He could feel his mother waiting to drag him from the room and likely give him a tongue lashing about how difficult it was for ladies to leave their family homes and try and settle somewhere else. He’d probably get an encore from Daphne at dinner tonight as well. But she really needn’t bother. Truth be told he was only curious. And perhaps it was a little funny to see Kate scoff at his attempt to be stern.

“If your Lordship agrees of course.” Mr Abbott said quickly. “I have, of course, a number of other samples for your perusal. Ladies often require approval from their husbands before we proceed and I had thought-”

Anthony scoffed, kissing Kate’s cheek again quickly before he stood. “Nonsense, whatever Lady Bridgerton selects will be lovely I’m sure. It’s high time the lord’s chambers were redecorated. I’m sure it’s very dated.” He turned to Kate, tapping his foot against the blue and gold rug, “If I might put in a little bid for this one though, love. And ah… I’ve always wanted one of those… big sort of… leather armchairs for in here.” He turned back to the other man. “Do you think you could help Lady Bridgerton procure me one of those?”

The man’s mouth fell open in surprise, floundering. “I… yes, Lord Bridgerton. Of course, sir.”

“Excellent! If you can make this job your first priority I’ll add a bonus to your invoice.” He turned back to Kate who was smiling at him still, “Will you be joining me for tea in the study later?”

“I will, yes.”

“Lovely. I’ll see you later then, darling.”

And when he left the room he heard Kate sigh, “I’m a little annoyed that he did pick the nicest rug. Now I won’t get to argue with him.”

[quietwingsinthesky]

Oooh religion! I think for a Buddhist companion, the idea that time lords can regenerate pretty much regardless of what they did while they were alive would be difficult for them to really understand.

Like the Master committing war crime after war crime and still coming back?? Or even the Doctor in certain instances

Would the Doctor understand and respect their religion and the significance it has to the companion?

exactly exactly! it would be fascinating for doctor/companion conversations. new perspective on regeneration!

i think the ideal scenario for the doctor having a religious companion would be like. we’re past the point, i think, of the doctor as a character being judgmental about beliefs that don’t cause people harm, you know? they regularly reference meeting historical religious figures, they know a baseline in human religions, so i think the vibes would really be “curious, if occasionally clumsy.” which would also be good as a storytelling tool as an invitation for the audience to learn about the companion’s religion as well.

i think it would be unfortunately extremely easy for the doctor to be written as like. An Atheist Asshole, even if that was well-intentioned to carry a message of them learning respect or something. It’d be a lot better and more meaningful to give them the same energy that they had in Demons of the Punjab. she wanted to participate, and there's even the fun detail that, while the Doctor herself didn't really get why her current presentation precluded her to being a part of one ritual instead of another, she rolled with it, she was delighted to get to take part in something in a new way. that's how i think the doctor is best written in relation to religion: clearly apart from it, as they are with everything else, genuinely interested, liable to say something they shouldn't because they're overeager and misreading the situation, but respectful.

(there's actually another moment too in that episode i'd call attention to in order to illustrate the doctor's relationship to spiritual beliefs. this time, with something alien, when she confronts the Thijarians, she goes in guns blazing and accusatory, and then. god it's such a good scene, it really is. the minute they are allowed to explain their actions, to explain their loss, she's immediately able to relate to it and adopts the same hand gesture they're making to honor their planet. and like, it's such a small detail, they could have easily just written her relaxing, but she specifically mirrors what they're doing back to them. and she does it so fast. it's the little moment of apology and also understanding.

sorry i'm getting off topic, but i also think this was very clever just in general. the doctor is in the middle of a historical tragedy, and it would have been easy to have her directly draw a comparison between that tragedy and her own losses. it also would have been a mistake, would have done a disservice to real history. it was much better to give the doctor the Thijarians as a fictional mirror to remind the audience that she has personal experience with losing her home, her everything, and that her perspective is affected by that without directly comparing it to real world tragedy. i feel like that was a very good episode actually for a lot of reasons akdsjaldjs)

but yeah, that's my thoughts on the doctor interacting with a religious companion. someone a hell of a lot smarter than me would have to write deeper about it for specific religions. but i would love to see it just being like. a factor that the doctor and their companion have to take into account while traveling together. both the philosophical, something to incorporate into the larger sci-fi morality tales of the show, but also the practical. it'd be neat!!!

[ishido-enjoyer]

Another new interview with Takehiro Hira (this must be my lucky month ^^); he talks about working with Tadanobu Asano & Anna Sawai, Ishido's character and what it was like having to play a more introspective character, and the Toranaga/Ishido rivalry. Full audio at the link.

Excerpts:

Takehiro: I guess he [Ishido] was really lonely among the lords, who were actually born in that ruling class and they had their, you know, career path, life path, already determined when they were born, but Ishido was the opposite of that, so he didn’t have anyone to talk to, back then you don’t make friends with other lords, I guess there’s a lot of backstabbing and betrayals and stuff like that, but Ishido was really loyal to his former boss, Taiko, and that’s why during the show there were a few moments where he stares at the armor of his former boss, Taiko, as if he was looking at himself in the mirror, asking questions like “Am I doing alright, father?” kind of moments.

Q: How do you approach a character who’s not a textbook villain? We know he has reasons for being who he is but he’s not necessarily a full-on antagonist like we see in most blockbusters now. 

Takehiro: He has his personal ambitions but on top of that, I guess Ishido can’t really stand Toranaga or people who were born into the privileged families, because you know he had to go through so much to be where he is and Toranaga is like “Oh I don’t want to be Shogun,” but you know, I know you want to be Shogun, so I guess it’s more of a personal grudge against him, not so much political I guess. 

[On working with Tadanobdu Asano]

Takehiro: He's really an interesting guy, and did you know he’s a musician too? He’s a good painter, a great graphic artist, he just had a little gallery thing in Japan, and his drawings are really comical and really nuanced, and it’s really great. And he’s a really humble guy, funny, he’s a renaissance man. You can’t put a finger on who he really is, and that’s almost like Yabushige himself. So it was really great working with him and just playing off of what he does, was a great experience. 

[On working with Anna Sawai on Shogun and other shows]

She was really focused on the show, so I only had a handful of scenes with her but I didn’t really talk to her off camera at all, she was focused in a little corner, so I just let her be and let her focus, but you know when we do traditional Japanese samurai shows, in order to move or act in that costume is really difficult, especially for women and for men as well, it takes a lot of years of practice to be able to move freely,  but it was her first samurai show, for Anna, but she did it so effortlessly and it was just so amazing how she could do that, I’ve never seen any actresses do it so easily [....] I think we have developed more confidence with each other now, we did work in Giri/Haji, Shogun, and Monarch season 1 but we didn’t have many scenes together, but we talk about the shows, and how we approach the characters and stuff like that, and now we’re shooting season 2 of Monarch and it seems like we have more confidence with each other and we’re more comfortable with each other. 

[zarvasace]

PROGRESS POST

(10/4/23)

This is partly for accountability and partly just to get all this out of my head! This last month or two have felt so hectic, getting used to a new work and sleep schedule and all. I'm still not quite there.

If you're curious about what I've been working on and what my plans are in terms of writing and art for the rest of the year, read on. :)

I will say, though, that if you want more of a specific AU or story, the way to get it is by asking questions and leaving comments! Asks and comments remind me about things I'm doing and get me excited about them again! I have these plans, but I also am very good at chasing inspiration to unknown (and sometimes unimportant) corners!

By Fandom

Linked Universe Projects

I've been feeling less motivated to work on LU stuff, but I still plan on at least finishing what I have open, so you can look forward to some of that!

Writing

Disability AU—one small mobility trio fic in the works. A few vague ideas for doing backstory fics.

Council (1931 vampire AU)—this is still the "backburner to backburner" fic, but I do have some fun ideas. I just have been distracted with other things! I think this AU is a lot of fun and I'd love to do more with it. We'll have to see.

The Marvelous Misadventures of Wind and His Merry Band of Maybe-Human Misfits—chapter 7 (out of 9 or so) is in progress. I have it all outlined out, and it's fun to work on, but I have (again) been distracted! This is, I hope, going to be my main December project. It'd be nice to finish before it turns 2 years old next summer. Oops.

I have several other WIPs that aren't very exciting and probably won't see daylight, but they're there if I feel like them

Art

Coloring book—I'm part of the coloring book project! :) I have already finished 1/2 drawings, and they went so well, I'm considering doing more.

Shatterproof manga page—still on my radar! I'm doing the end scene from dazzling diamond danger, and my ambition keeps outgrowing my time.

Four Swords Projects

Writing

Fairytale AU—man I've started this Vidow BatB fic literally five times. I have an almost-complete draft sitting at like... 20k?? iirc, but I kind of hate a lot of it. I also like a lot of it. It's a bit difficult for me to work on rewriting something in that situation. Anyway. Another December thing probably.

Fright Fight—I have ideas for every week, but am currently unsure if I want to draw or write for them. Most of my October will be focused on filling these prompts!

Vampire Lords AU—I have strange as severe is this my fate open right now, with a fair amount of material... it just needs to be edited a bit. I do want to keep working on that, I've just... well. Distraction. A common theme. XD I might be feeling another little bite fic coming on, too.

Art

Fright Fight—see above

Fright Fight part 2—I have a few side things to do for this, like making graphics that I haven't quite finished yet. They shouldn't take long, I just gotta do em!

Non-Fandom

Stickers—I am in the process of drawing some stickers! Yay! These are for my work, but also just for me. I want some Halloween stickers. This is a backburner project.

Nanowrimo project—I need to spend some time figuring out a few things to really get going on my princess-verse. I'm going to be doing Nanolympics this year, so hopefully some of their preptober stuff will help!

Hearts Linked Together—my super-cool Linkverse. XD I love my dumb timeline, and all the characters, they're just filler drawings that I haven't had time to continue.

Secret Zelda project—I really really need to do this! I can't say much right now, but it involves a fair amount of work, both writing and art. I think I haven't gotten very far on it yet because I'm intimidated. Stop that.

Zine edits—I worked really really hard on an art piece for a LoZ zine coming up! This week is critique, and I anticipate a few edits later.

By Month

Facebook posts—a lady I know wants to commission pretty quote images to post on her Facebook. I need to reply to her text. And do them.

September

I primarily worked on the fic Blood-Sucker's Guide to High School. I also worked on and submitted one fic and one piece of art to two different zines, which I hope you'll see soon.

October

If you care, you may have noticed I'm not doing Whumptober this year! Part of this is because I'm a bit burned out from the above, and part of it is that the prompts just didn't seem very inspiring to me this year. Maybe that's just my mindset. I haven't been in a very whumpy mood.

I'm planning on filling weekly prompts for @fsfrightfight this month and maybe chipping away at some other fics, in addition to one more zine contribution. I'm also going to be planning for November and doing some scattered art work here and there.

November

NaNoWriMo! I considered skipping this... but I'm feeling really inspired and motivated to do it, especially with October as a break. I'm going to write some original work, and that will be the focus of my November. I'll likely get some other art done, too.

December

I hope to dedicate this month to finishing things up from this year! That means working on "backburner" projects.

[lizardinkart]

Lizard Reads Ward

Arc 1: Daybreak

Lizard’s Cry Counter: 2

TL;DR: A Victoria-focused arc that dragged a bit in places but ultimately felt like everything we needed to know about her (and more). I wished it’d started closer to the fight but having the fight, the trauma, and the family drama laid out felt like the groundwork that was missing from the prologue, especially with the shifted role of Amy. Wish that we had a little more about the other characters introduced in the prologue tho. 8/10 Aight! Let’s get wormin’!

So in my brain I’ve split the arc in to 3 parts, pre-fight, fight, and post-fight, so I’ll talk about the arc in terms of those mini-arcs. Mini-Arc 1: Pre-Fight (Victoria, not Glory Girl)

Ok the fact that the city is Gold colored is hilarious to me. This is Children’s Hospital Red™ levels of awful design choices, somebody really just said color theory in context is fake. I also appreciate the later indications that most of The City is in fact shittily built but hey shitty shelter is better than no shelter I guess (also relatable as someone looking at apartments). Other worldbuilding things I was thinking about since Wildbow really wants us to see the cool world he built (but it’s not really about the world tbh)- the technology of post-GM is so weird. Like you have dial-up internet but it also works perfectly fine and technology works when you need it to. Like I’m sorry but Reddit-AOL would be so much buggier. But all that being said, it’s really funny to see the irl jump in technology from when WB was writing Worm to when he was writing Ward, because Taylor’s flip phone vs smartphone drama was so real and relatable, and now dial-up internet just works on smartphones...I’m baffled. anywho! Onto Victoria lol. So Victoria is working with the new kiddie PRT- awesome, very cool. I appreciate the focus on her wanting to still feel heroic even if she gets that massive body dysmorphic/dysphoric (yes, both) feeling from actually using her powers. Though I also appreciate the small touches we see when she’s on her way to work with a much better mirror scene than the opening of Worm, her interactions with the one hero during the obelisk incident show that she still gets heroes and feels bad for the shit being thrown their way (idk, it gave me big closeted queer energy, queer-to-queer communication in a queerphobic environment one might say). “Nice response time” really is the dorkiest shit to say tho and I appreciate it. Victoria is a dork.  I also appreciate the setup with her parents, laying the groundwork for what’s to come later. Also that she enjoys working with the disillusioned and directionless kids/teens, cause that really is a thing that is the kind of selfless-selfish pull that I think Victoria is shown to be struggling with (finding the balance in the healing process is difficult!). While I felt like this part really did drag the most in the arc, I think there were some really good parts that make it worth it. And it leads into the first Wildbow fight of the story! Woohoo!  Mini Arc 2: The Fight (The Trauma Hammer)

Oh boy I do love me some Wildbow fights. I felt my little storyboarder brain light up because there were some God-tier moments in here that I wanted to draw sooooo bad. But alas, too many, not enough time. 

Crystalclear is cool as hell and I think he may be one of my faves of the new powers so far, he’s a very Wildbow-concept hero and I do really appreciate the man’s flare for the complex and flashy. Tempera is also cool, and Fume Hood is a snarky bitch and I love her. What a queen. She did not deserve to get shot (maybe a little tho).  

But overall there was some great tension in the ticking clock leading up to the fight, and seeing how shit played out was super fun as always, I was not expecting the 18-wheeler to come out of nowhere but it was a very fun time. I gotta say tho, I know Lord of Loss and Snag are important, but I for the life of me could not keep them straight in my brain since Snag made Victoria feel Loss, but like, that’s LoL’s name lmao. 

And on the topic of loss: oof. I did not call this the Trauma Hammer for nothing lol. This is where things went from meh to great for me in this arc, because since Victoria’s story was so ancillary to Worm, I had 1) forgotten how she triggered, and 2) didn’t really remember too much about the specifics of her story outside of the hospital interlude. But god, just sitting in her shoes through falling in love with Dean, losing him, losing her family, feeling inadequate to the rest of her family, and the ever-present looming threat of Her (that we will get to, don’t worry lol), it was just so helpful in really honing in on Victoria’s entire ish that is rattling around in the background. As someone who does characters like this, esp in TTRPGs, having that context of someone’s thought process really is helpful to have in understanding how you’re supposed to interpret the character, even if you’re already in their head (since characters and people lie to themselves, see: Taylor). But yeah, since Victoria avoids those thoughts anyway, it was clever to give them to us up front. And the fact that it happened while she was being a hero again? Kickass. Loved it. 

Mini Arc 3: Post- Fight (Her)

Oh my god this family is messy. I have essays I could write on Carol Dallon and just the Dallons in general but I think I’ll get the chance to eventually cause this is already too long lol. But oh my GOD I truly was thinking “yeah this is gonna go poorly, maybe some passive-aggressive family stuff, getting overwhelmed, getting pie and then leaving”, but holy SHIT the fact that Carol really just ambushed Victoria with lawyer speak and finessed the entire narrative of what was going on- jesus. Manipulative ass snake, but in such a relatable way. 

Once again, have been in that situation before and the way that Victoria goes from like a 2 to 1000 in 0.2 seconds when all the pieces come together- holy shit if that is not the exact feeling of trauma. I know the “#triggered” discourse is old hat at this point, but man I could feel myself get short of breath and panicky when Vicky got trauma triggered in this chapter (this is the spiritual Cry Point). It was so convincingly written that I wanna hold Wildbow in my hands to make sure he’s good.

But I’m proud of how Victoria handled herself, definitely snaps for that therapy working its magic, but man. The Amy Ambush (an Am(y)bush if you will, yes haha joke away), was so something I did not see coming this early, but I’m glad that it did because holy fuck. Victoria talking about moving on and then her family (mom) “moving on” but in a “forgive with an emphasis on forget” kinda way really does leave Victoria in a place that proves all that feeling of inadequacy right, and it’s crushing. But it provides that big stumbling block for her to overcome esp when she finds her new group. 

And seeing how many times she was forced to confront her worst moments and she still actively avoided Amy... oh baby. As an Amy Enjoyer (less “condoning her actions” more “study her like a bug”) I am highly intrigued in how this is gonna go. This is 7 levels of Fucked Up. 

I screamed with joy when Dr. Yamada showed up, I am in love with her and think she is wonderful, and also a great addition to the central cast of this story (esp in a story about healing from trauma? YES get the therapist in there). Also Crystal is wonderful and a good ally for Victoria, and I appreciate Victoria’s need to scrutinize both public and private Aesthetic (shoutout to me and Crystal vibing as 2 fun ADHD individuals). 

Also a shoutout for Gilpatrick because he’s cool and funky and a good boss. Get u someone like Gilpatrick. 

Bonus: The Interlude!

I would give my left kidney for Moose. I’m kicking Prancer’s ass, and I hope Velvet keeps her truck forever and ever. A better love story than her and Prancer tbfh. Also Nursery is so cool guys, she’s so neat. I love the weird shit being done with powers so far in Ward. 

AND A MARQUIS CAMEO HELLO???? HUSBAND?????? Sorry I really like Marquis lol. 

Final Thoughts

The only things I would criticize this arc for that lowered it a bit in my eyes is that the prologue really didn’t do a fantastic job of prepping us to only focus on Victoria. I wished we had sped things along a bit with getting to the others from PHO, even with little PHO interludes interspersed in to let us know what these guys were up to. Bc like, this really did feel like 3 arcs so I feel like we could have used another interlude or 2, just for spice and to break things up a little. Like a commercial break!

The other thing is Wildbow’s uh... underlying ish breaking through. I know Ward was written in the shadow of Worm for him, but there are some parts of these chapters that just feel very mean-spirited and pointed towards people who enjoyed certain parts of Worm. Mainly stuff that could be construed as “fandom” things, or things that fandom would like, that Wildbow seems to be very overt in saying “hey, fuck you for liking/engaging with this.” I dunno, it may just be me, but that kinda attitude cropping up often enough for me to notice the pissed-off hand of the author was off-putting and distracting from I think the greatest parts of this arc. Because it is a good story, it just feels like the occasional potshots WB takes are more coming from his own bitterness than Victoria’s, and are ultimately detrimental to the story as a whole. Idk, I will try not to bring it up so often, but it’s definitely something that’s running in the back of my head and I hope that it subsides soon-ish. 

But all of that to say, I enjoyed the arc! It was a solid opening that’s got me really excited to read more (which by this point, I have, and I will be writing up my arc 2 thoughts shortly lol), and the Trauma Hammer really hit home in a way that felt earnest and really earned. 

That’s all for now tho! As always, I’m happy to discuss stuff wherever, so let me know what you thought of the arc if you’ve read Ward! 

Until next time: Ward out ✨

[proxylynn]

And the winning vote was...

[...It’s because I said I’d write a test demo script isn’t it?]

[For transparency’s sake...There’s only three fakes on here and y’all voted for two of them. Sex was the obvious one because I had announced it as the bookmark chapter before writing out the movie as the end story. Well...You asked for it. But...heheh...I never said I’d give you the juicy stuff. I am a tease after all.]

{Scene likely to change once I write the proper lead up}

Jack couldn’t seem to find sleep. The evening was such a drain on him, which is a shame as it started so well too. Maybe this is why he preferred to not attend social events. Between the suck-ups trying to get on his good side and that one jackass that got under his skin, he wasn’t sure what was weighing more on his mind. At least the spread was decent. The wine wasn’t bad either.

“If ANY of you dare think he did this to me, you know nothing!”

She was so quick to come out and say it. There was no hesitation. How often was that something she had to deal with? Did others really think he was capable of scarring someone like that? Sure, he’s a ruthless manipulative guy that’ll shove you off a bridge if you’re looming over the edge because you’re in the way of his walk. But that? Disgusting. He can be cruel, yes. But nowhere near as monstrous as that hag Lynsie once called a mother. Enjoy hell you soulless she-devil.

Ah, it was such a change of pace these last few days. He had learned more and began to understand things, at least, as best he could. Empathy isn’t his strong suite but you don’t need it to get the gist of things. She’s always there when he needs her. Always has his best interests at heart. And always there to uphold his honor when someone tries to spit on his name. Oh, hearing her threaten lives in his defense made him feel warm. And seeing her out of her element tonight, all dolled up like a proper woman, it was as bizarre as it was a breath of fresh air.

“Damn it...”

Maybe it was all the wine still stewing in his head, but his thoughts were having a hard time deviating from her. The way she looked elegant while dancing, graceful yet still so deadly. The gentle warmth in her voice when she laughed. The sweet floral perfume she wore that clung to him from being so close. Even now, he can still feel the soft touches of her hands from when they shared a dance...Or the feeling of those hungry eyes as others gawked at her. Pigs. Foul undeserving swine. Leering at what’s his like they were worthy. Like they could take her from him. Pathetic. So then why...Why did this piss him off so much?!

“Damn it!”

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like thinking this way. It’s irrational. She’s the emotional one, not him. When? When did this start to happen to him? When did he start to see her differently? Part of him wanted to blame his parents and their constant fondness over her. His father just loved to egg him on about settling down with her because “Lord knows no other woman will put up with you.”. He’d easily dismiss these kind of remarks but now...now it was harder to do that. Not when his body reacted in ways he couldn’t handle.

Maybe...Maybe just this once...

With a heavy sigh, he gets out of bed and puts on his robe before leaving his room. Her room isn’t far, just a few doors away. He tries the knob, praying it’s locked so he has a reason to turn back and forget this crazy whim that dares grip him, yet...it’s unlocked and opens with ease.

There, in the light of the fireplace that is slowly dwindling away, she lays sleeping in bed. Never was entering her room this difficult. But he was already this far and Jack Horner doesn’t leave anything half-finished. Slowly he draws near. Taking in how the sheets clung and highlighted her figure as she laid on her side. Hesitation hits him for a moment as his hand reaches out, yet he nudges her enough to rouse her from slumber. She gives a yawn and he shushes her before she can speak a word.

“I need you.”

She’s understandably confused but nods while rubbing her eyes, her natural instinct is to just do as he says. Throwing caution to the wind, he steadies his resolve and scoops her out of bed, taking her back to his room.

[casspurrjoybell-33]

Unlikely Places - Chapter 19 - Part 2

*Warning - Adult Content*

Chapter: 19 - Bumbling Circus Bears

"So," Branson dragged out, eyeing me closely for my reaction.

"We had a quick chat with Archer this morning."

I knew it.

I knew it was going to be about Pierce.

I wondered fleetingly how Archer had had time to tell the guys anything.

I had been by his side for most of the morning.

I also knew Archer wouldn't have told them everything we talked about.

Not only because he hadn't had the time but because I trusted Archer but I was curious as to what had been said considering the guy's reaction.

This brought forth chuckles from all three of them.

I gave a toothy grin back because I knew I had come across way too obvious and must have looked ridiculous.

"Oh my God," Mick said.

"Fuck," Branson exclaimed.

"Well I'll be," Noah gasped.

I stood gaping at the three of them as the sentences exploded from their mouths drawing the eyes of several guests.

I sunk a little lower in my chair.

They were embarrassing.

They continued to stare at me and as they did so two other people appeared at the table.

They slipped into the remaining empty chairs. Archer and Percy, still holding tightly to each other's hands joined our small group with raised brows.

The three giants mumbled their apologies but Archer just waved them off.

"Didn't come over for that, we came to back up Jackson. You three seemed to have cornered him."

"Oh hell, Archer. We didn't corner him. We just sat down at the table with him," Branson retorted.

Archer and Percy chuckled.

"Want us to get the video camera over there and play the scene back for you?" Percy quipped.

"Archer weren't you the very one telling us this morning we needed to start treating Jackson like the adult he is?" Noah asked.

"I did and I meant it but that also included you three acting like grownups yourselves. Not like three bumbling circus bears on tricycles."

I chuckled.

I loved it when Archer messed with them.

"Geez," Mick exclaimed.

"Damn," Noah said.

"Good Lord Almighty," Branson half shouted.

Even Percy couldn't hold back a response.

"Oh my."

I covered my mouth with my fingers as everyone at the table stared at me with various expressions of amazement.

Except for Archer.

Archer just had the same huge grin on his face he had had for the most of last night.

When I had smiled.

When I had laughed.

I suddenly understood the over the top reactions I was receiving.

Had I really been that much of an oddball?

"You told me but it's definitely something you have to witness to really understand," Percy finally said.

I turned to Percy who was smiling back at me with a similar expression to Archer.

They all were now.

"I think you're all over exaggerating as usual. You wouldn't have even noticed anything if Archer hadn't said something," I grumbled feeling nonplussed by all the attention.

"I will be damned," Branson exclaimed in a rough whisper, ignoring my comments as if I hadn't even spoken.

He looked around at all the men at the table and then back at me.

"I never realized until now how much he never really laughed. I mean he laughed... but he didn't," Branson tried to explain.

Noah and Mick nodded.

"He laughed. He smiled," Archer corrected, giving me a knowing look.

"It's just different now."

"Because?" Noah prompted, looking at Jackson for an answer.

I swallowed.

I knew he already knew.

I had a feeling Archer had given them a heads up this morning for this very reason.

He didn't want them pestering me about Pierce.

"I've just been feeling a bit different lately," I tried to explain.

"Because?" Mick asked this time.

"Things seem more, I guess but not in a bad way. Things seem a little easier for me," I tried to articulate finding it difficult to find the right words to describe where I was right now.

"Because? Damnit Jackson, because?" Branson in his typical overbearing way demanded.

I blew out a breath of frustrated air.

These blockheads.

I loved them dearly but they could be so pushy sometimes.

I knew what they were asking.

I wasn't stupid.

Why couldn't they take the hint that maybe I just wasn't ready to talk about it?

"Because..." I groused out, trying to delay but delay what really?

They already knew.

They just wanted me to admit to it and maybe they were right.

I couldn't grow and yet continue to hide my head in the sand no matter how much I may want to right now and I did.

They weren't fans of Pierce and I got why.

They were also very overprotective of me and I understood that, too.

Admitting to them that these so-called changes had anything to do with Pierce wasn't easy.

I didn't want to be teased and better yet, I didn't want to be lectured.

I didn't want to argue with any of them about this new unknown.

Until I understood it better.

Until I could even articulate how I felt with more than the usual three words, I would have preferred to keep them out of it totally but that ship had done sailed.

Archer had stepped in with his good intentions and given the hounds a scent.

One they were fiercely tracking and I knew I wouldn't be getting up from this table until I spilled the tea.

With a sigh I mumbled in to the expectant silence.

"Because of Pierce Luciano, I think."

[lewmagoo]

Is it because you're upset about his new job? Fuck, what if he's gone so often that you and Rhett have grown apart from him? Do you just not want him to touch you anymore? Is it because he missed that Spring festival back in March? Why can't he— why can't he touch either of you? What did he do? 

him starting to spiral into thoughts of anxiety and self-doubt? he's just like me fr. even in the midst of a really sexy smut scene i found myself tearing up over this moment. sweet boy :( but then rhett swooping right in and silencing those thoughts before he can spiral too far? ughhhh my heart.

"Good boy," he's coaxing, hips growing twitchy, difficult to control. Bob's still fighting him as he draws back a few inches, back into the safety of his mouth, where he can't accidentally jolt further down that hot little throat, "you gonna let me cum on your pretty face?" 

GOOD LORD. i...i think i also went a bit cross-eyed during this moment.

And he regrets asking because Bob starts saying something about tapioca pearls, and he's got no idea what the hell a tapioca is, either. 

this made me laugh because this is so accurate and rhett definitely would have absolutely no idea what bubble tea or tapioca even is.

Rhett's eyes are the color of the ocean.  Or maybe...the ocean is the color of Rhett's eyes.

this fucking line obliterated me. i had to set my phone down and stare at the wall for a few minutes just to process it because it just took my breath away. the way bob is able to actually stomach his food after that, and rhett giving him that quiet encouragement when he gives him the fry? i can't even describe how beautiful this scene is.

"You ready?" Rhett's got one foot in the door, holding it open. You've already disappeared into the hallway, but the expression lacing your features suggests you're anything but annoyed with his antics. Just like that, the ringing has stopped. "Me?" Grinning dumbly, he ventures for the door, "Always."

and finally, this ending? it started the waterworks all over again (they never stopped actually). i could picture it so clearly in my head. i'm so proud of bobby for realizing what truly mattered and deciding to pursue a life with his two greatest loves. and him sneaking that ring box out? gosh i sure do hope we get a proposal scene in the future because i just know it will ruin me forever and ever. beautiful work as always, i will be thinking about this for a long time.

The Dreaming | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 15,300 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, food, bodily injury, nightmares, Bob working through trauma in his own way, crying, relationship insecurities, I love you's, overstimulation, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, anal sex (Rhett fucks Bob in this one!) an unrealistic depiction of a Navy accident, mentions of drowning, and a creative decision to put Bob's apartment by the ocean 💕

Without further ado, may I introduce you to the story of what caused Robert “Bob” Floyd to ask Reader and Rhett to live with him 💙 I pray you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

These blazing white fluorescent lights only seem to make the ringing in his ears grow louder. A persistent, high-pitched tone, wailing in his ears for days on end. Renders the jerky, sporadic clicks of his crutches into near silence. 

If only the lady in front of him would walk a smidge quicker. He knows she means well, isn't quite sure how such a small woman thinks she'll catch him in the event he falls, but alas, she tries. Walking with her arm cautiously held out, pausing every time he reaches forward with his crutches, the rubber tips narrowly missing her polished black heels. He'd hate to hit them and leave a mark that she'll have to clean off later, or worse, trip her, but it's so difficult.

This hallway never seems to end. 

Even as he hobbles out into this little glass room and stops just shy of her pristine mahogany desk, those hallway walls echo through his peripheral. Like he's floating back to the front doors again, has to make that long trek one more time. 

Something's moving in the corner of his eye. One, no, two figures. Blurry, so out of focus that they look like a pair of smudges. 

But those aren't just smudges.

He knows those smudges. From the man who reaches up to tangle his fingers in semi-long, dark brown curls to the wide-eyed, rigid figure that's getting up from a cheap, plastic chair. 

"Sir, you need to wait a minute," that ringing grows louder with every hobbled step toward the door. 

But he's not listening. 

"Sir, please— Mr. Floyd!" 

Crutches squeak against the tile floor. Shoulder weakly slamming into that glass door. Feet scuttling beneath him. Searching for purchase. Forcing it open. His eyes burn. Already blurred vision growing foggier. His right foot catches on the leg of his crutch. Left one can't catch the ground fast enough. 

He's falling.

But you're there to catch him. 

Your lovely arms open, wrapping around his trembling shoulders as he all but slams into you. Has you stumbling backward until your back hits Rhett's broad chest, and then Rhett's arms are wrapping around him too. Only serves to draw him further into your neck. The final straw before the stinging in his eye soothes, replaced by a wetness that rolls down his cheek and seeps onto your shirt.

"Bobby," your voice is the first clear thing he's heard since it happened. 

And just like that, the ringing has stopped. 

Replaced by the yammering of the poor woman trying to do her job, your hushed, shaky words, and Rhett's gruff hum as he steps closer and nuzzles his nose into the side of Bob's head. Breath warm against the side of his head, where his hair is at its shortest. 

Your fingers trace up the back of his neck, loosely following along his spine, until they're stopped by a haphazardly placed bandage. "Bobby," you're repeating yourself, but it sounds like the first time all over again, "Are you crying?" 

Through a shuddering sniffle, Bob shakes his head no. Lips parting, but not a sound coming out. Even as he's forced to take a reluctant step back, fill out and gather the paperwork he needs to walk out of here, he can't get a word out.

"They say he'll get over it in a few days," and he hates how she says it, words laced around an ingenuine laugh as he digs her fingers into his bicep and pulls him away, back to her office. This situation is anything but juvenile, and yet she treats it so. Like he's struggling to walk because he tripped on the playground, and he's chosen not to speak because he didn't get the toy he wanted. 

But soon, soon, he finds himself sitting in the backseat of an unfamiliar rental car. Head resting in your lap as your fingers card through his hair, the nondescript tune on the radio overridden by Rhett grumbling about how the clutch needs replacing. Truly, he should be a touch concerned that the rancher who grew up with a stick shift is having trouble shifting gears, but all he can focus on are the veins that bulge under the effort.

Those lovely arms that catch him by the waist when he trips on the rain-slicked sidewalk that leads to his apartment complex. Drawing him back up as if he weighs nothing. "Y' alright?" 

Still, those words still won't come to his tongue, leaving him mouthing a silent "I think so" that only you catch. 

When Bob applied for this apartment nearly six years ago, he'd been so thrilled by the picturesque ocean views and spacious bedroom that the never-ending stairs and always-broken elevator were mere minor inconveniences. A sacrifice that could be made. But now, as he hobbles up each and every stair, he's found himself muttering under his breath about how this apartment was a mistake. 

But in the blink of an eye, he's watching you fumble with his keys and opening his front door, and it's so...strange. This is the first time you and Rhett have ever been to his apartment, and yet it feels familiar. Like this is something that's happened every day for his entire life; you're always the one to unlock the door; Rhett always stops just past the door to toe his boots off. 

"This place is bigger than it looks over the phone," you chirp, and he wants to look at your face, see if you notice his severe lack of a dinner table, but all he can do is stare out the sliding glass doors behind you. The ones that lead out onto the balcony, complete with a view of the haunting, bottomless blue sea. 

That ringing is back. 

Loud enough to mask the hard thumping of his heart. Hammering against his chest. Threatening to break out at any moment. Even in the rain. Even in the rain, that ocean is so fucking deceptive. A siren ready to lure one out under the guise of—

"Bob!" 

"Huh?" 

It doesn't sound like him at all, raspy and breaking at the end, but it's there. The first noise he's made since he woke in the infirmary. 

You're walking up to him, hands reaching to cradle his cold cheeks and bringing him to meet your lips. A fleeting peck that he finds himself wanting more of, fighting the urge to lean in and steal another one. 

"We asked if you wanted to order something for dinner," you chirp, in that honey-sweet, warm tone of yours, "I doubt you want to go back down those stairs." 

The mere mention of food has his stomach churning so sourly that he wonders if his face is turning green. Behind you, he catches a glimpse of Rhett toying with the edge of a brochure he must have found at the airport, folded open to an advertisement for a pizza joint down the road. It's that thing he always does when he wants something. Holds his tongue until everyone has spoken before him. 

Right now, the last thing Bob wants is a greasy pizza with obnoxiously-stretchy cheese and too much pepperoni. Yet, he finds himself opening his mouth, wavering voice barely getting out of his mouth.

"Do you wanna try the pizza joint down the road?" All to see that out-of-place cowboy light up like an evening star.

That pizza tries to come back up while he's laying in bed. 

Stomach still twisting knots in his belly, gurgling louder than the ringing in his ears as he stares up at the ceiling. Even from here, he can tell that you and Rhett are getting ready to leave. Off to a hotel because his apartment isn't big enough for the three of you. It's not a big, expansive house like everyone else in his field seems to own, the kind meant for a family. 

This lonely place only has enough room for an equally lonely man, never home longer than a week at a time. 

Your frame appears in the doorway, hesitating, and he can already see your suitcase lingering by your knee. "Is it okay if I put my suitcase in here?" 

Blink.

Blink again.

"Huh?" He's tilting his head to get a better look at you. 

"I figured it would be better than leaving it in the corner of your living room," you clarify, pulling the suitcase a little closer to yourself. That doesn't follow in the slightest. Why would you leave your things here if you're going to a hotel for the night? 

Despite his confusion, Bob's found himself nodding, "The space next to the bedside table is a good spot to leave it." He should know; he always leaves his travel bags piled up there. Out of the way, where he can't trip over it. 

As soon as you've got your suitcase placed where you want it, you start heading for the bed, feet pattering across the hardwood floor. Stopping short of the bed and bending down to press a warm, lingering kiss to his forehead.

This is it. This is when you mutter your goodbye for the night, leaving him with a kiss and a promise to be back in the morning. Your mouth is opening, ready to deliver the words he's already heard.

But you're silenced by a loud thump and a gruff swear. 

Rhett stumbles through the threshold, minding his left foot, "What are doorframes in California so fuckin' narrow for?" 

The bed dips as he all but tosses himself into the space behind Bob's back, wastes no time in rolling over and wrapping a big, muscled arm around his waist. Practically drags him across the mattress until his back is flush with Rhett's chest. 

"You're cold," he mutters, that calloused hand of his wandering beneath Bob's shirt, splaying out against his belly. 

This doesn't make any sense at all. It's late; you and Rhett should be leaving soon, especially if you want to go to bed before midnight. But you're crawling into bed, too, letting Bob wrap his arm around you as you settle in. His head resting against your chest, close enough to feel your heart pitter-pattering against him. 

"You are cold," you parrot, fingers stroking the back of his head in such a way that it sends a shiver down his spine. 

Rhett's chapped lips press against the back of his neck, a little, fleeting sensation that has something rumbling to life in Bob's lower belly. God, if only he didn't have this basketball-sized bruise on his hip right now. If only he didn't have an ache that reaches right into his bones. It's been a while since he's seen you two in person, nevermind yielding and letting Rhett have his way with him for once—

"Do you want to take about what happened?" You murmur, voice vibrating against Bob's forehead.

Images flicker through the forefront of his mind. Still shots, fleeting memories of an experience that doesn't feel real. Yet it's sunk in enough to send snowflakes flittering through his veins, goosebumps bubbling across pale skin. 

His head feels too big for his own body as he shakes out a 'no.' 

But unlike his superiors, you and Rhett don't demand a detailed recount of what happened. A play by play that tears into his every thought and feeling, strangled out of him all for the sake of getting all the facts straight. 

No, Rhett just squeezes him a little tighter, and you press another kiss into his forehead with a muttered, "That's okay." And as he steals a kiss from your lips, the little voice in the back of his head echoes your words.

Maybe it is okay. 

Everything is spinning.

He is spinning. 

Round and round. A million miles a second. Spiraling down, down, down, Faster by the second, And they're not supposed to be spinning. 

But the controls are fine. 

Not a single light is on. Every switch. Every Knob. Every dial. Every screen. It's all where it should be. Nothing is wrong. 

But they're spinning.

He's yelling at the man in the front. Squeezing his hands past the headrest. Fingers knocking against a cold helmet shell.  His throat burns as he screams. Falling. We're falling. 

But the man isn't listening. "No, we're not." 

Yes, we are. 

Yes, we are. 

Don't you see? Everything outside is a blur. Spinning round and round. That sour churn in our chests means we're falling. Don't you see the ground getting closer? We're falling! Why are we fucking falling?

And yet the man's still not listening. Doesn't lift his head to look at the blurry world around them. The blue ground is getting closer. And closer. And closer. He's screaming at the top of his lungs. And nobody is listening. 

His hands find the rope between his legs. Pull. 

It doesn't budge. 

He's pulling again. Harder now. Yanking. Come on, now. The ground is getting closer. He's running out of time. 

The rope detaches. 

The man in front of him isn't listening. 

And he's still falling. 

You almost thought Bobby would never wake up.

You'd known he was tired, exhaustion emanating from his weary bones, heavy, dark circles looming beneath those pale blue eyes. But you've never known him to sleep past eleven, undisturbed by Rhett's second incident with the door frame when he got up. Even the thick aroma of breakfast, ordered from a small shop down the road, couldn't draw him out of his slumber. 

"Good morning, sleepy head," a lazy smile sprawling across your face as you speak, "sleep well?" 

Bob hums, the best he can do, as he lifts his arms above his head and stretches like a cat. All to roll over to the edge of his bed, arm dangling from the side. "Watcha doing down there?"

"Refolding your shirts," you say it without needing to look at what your hands are doing. So into the rhythm of things that you've found yourself on autopilot, the pile of shirts in your lap gradually growing. "It was the only way we could get your dresser drawer to shut again."

He's yet to find out that Rhett's fumbling around the kitchen, replacing the blown light in the stove. 

"'m sorry about that," he's reaching up, tangling his hand through unruly hair that now stands straight up, remnants of his favorite gel working to create a new hairstyle of its own. "I should've cleaned before I left."

"Not like you had time, with that new job of yours," and you hope he doesn't catch the disappointment brewing in the belly of your tone. You'd really thought he'd turn down that offer. "What is it again? You're home a month and a half out of the full year now?" 

Bob's first attempt at speaking is interrupted by a yawn, the final remnants of sleep beginning to dissipate, "If I'm lucky, I get two months."

"At this rate, you'll always be home," Rhett's voice echoes down the hallway, heavy feet audibly thumping across the floor, "Six months into the job, and they already got you in bandages."

"I'll heal," and you hate how Bob says it as if it's not a big deal. Like he's simply home because of a paper cut and not an accident that he can't bring himself to speak of. An accident that's got him wrapped in bandages and hobbling around in crutches because his left foot can't bear his full weight.

"T's what we said 'bout my shoulder, ain't it?" Rhett's rounding the corner, rotating that perpetually sore left shoulder of his. Two years later, and he still can't extend it as well as his right one. 

Your hand meets the cold floor, clean out of shirts to fold. None left on the other side of you, either. Careful, you scoop up your neatly folded stack, placing the shirts back into their drawer, knuckles brushing into something absurdly...solid. 

"You keep a wooden box in your t-shirt drawer?" Whatever it is, it's light in your hand. Easily fits amongst the shirts when you put it back. But as you turn your attention back to Bob, his face has fallen. Paler. Eyes a touch wider than they were before. 

"Sentimental junk," he supplies, after a moment, "made 'em in that woodworking class Mickey drug me out to last summer." 

If you remember correctly, he built that nightstand of his and then never returned to the class again. Still have the pictures he'd excitedly sent when he finished his chosen project, and the video of it buckled into the backseat of his pickup. 

But he's starting to sit up, wincing as he upsets something near his rib cage, and you find yourself leaving your thoughts behind in favor of helping him before he tears a stitch. 

This comforter set was a mistake. 

It's so fucking blue. The color of the open, roaring seas he's flown over more times than he can count, ready to swallow him up without remorse. The very sight of it is enough to have his nausea spiking; how could this have ever been his favorite color? And why did he decide to make the curtains the same shade of sea-sick blue, too?

Bob's yet to get full dexterity back in his fingers, some pinched nerve that's still bugging him days after the incident, but he's yanking at the edges of his comforter all the same. Tugging until it's laying in a messy heap on the floor. 

The spare comforter he's had shoved in the hallway closet is a much better color. A dark, muted gray. Plain, but it's nowhere near as much of an eyesore as this blue one. 

Getting it out of the closet was one thing; all he had to do was slide it across the floor with one of his crutches but bending down to get it is something else entirely. Those stitches occupying the space beneath his left knee, running down the side, feel like they'll burst as he tries to crouch. Angrily tugging on tender skin, daring him to push them further and see what happens. 

But the bag is right...there...the tips of his fingers brushing against it. Just out of reach. If he leans a little further forward...

His crutch slips out from beneath his arm. 

And this time, you're not there to catch him when he falls. Landing with a thud that he's sure the downstairs neighbors heard, already-bruised hip aching with the impact. 

"The fuck 're you doin', space boy?" Rhett's appeared in the doorway, towel ruffling through long, damp locks in all of his post-shower glory. 

"Changing the comforter," Bob mutters like it's some shameful thing to admit. 

If his thoughts weren't consumed by the primal, internal shriek of that fucking hurts, Bob's sure he would be salivating over those thick muscles. The ones that bulge as Rhett bends down, on his way to steal a kiss, before helping him back up with this wondrous ease that only he can carry.

"You could've asked one of us for help," his voice rumbling right in Bob's ear as he helps get those crutches beneath his arms again. Distantly, Rhett catches himself wondering if Bob can feel how his hands tremble, nerves rattling through the muscles there. 

But he doesn't seem to notice. Too busy fumbling with his crutches, getting them back beneath his arms, to notice that barely-there shake. "I wanted to do it by myself." 

Funny, Rhett saw that comment coming a mile away.

"I know, dummy," rolling his eyes as dramatically as he can manage. "But it ain't worth it hurtin' yourself over."  

Rhett's not the most observant man; out of the three of you, he's the last to notice fine details. Little intricacies that tell a story of their own, so easily missed, but even he finds himself catching onto the way Bob's eyes shine just a little bit less. Recognizes that look, too, has seen it many a time in the mirror. 

It's hard giving up your independence, even if you're too hurt to have it. 

Maybe that's why he's bending down, tugging a soft, gray comforter from its bag and unfolding it, with a mutter of, "Now get over yonder 'n help me with that side." 

Crutches click across the ground as Bob hobbles over, catching his end of the comforter when Rhett tosses it over. A team effort, even if it's just a big, fluffy sheet. Such a simple thing, and yet it's got something stirring in the back of Rhett's head. 

Why's Bob changing the color of his comforter, anyway? Now, of all times? 

Blue's always been his favorite color.

Oh, how deceptive she is.

Peaceful, tranquil from above. A blanket of warm blue that promises a moment of calm after the storm. And for a moment, she's just that. A soft landing for tired wings.

As quickly as she arrived, she's gone.

Cold fingers reach up from the abyss below. Dragging him down by the collar, head first. Darkness engulfs him like an old friend, her cold tendrils coiling tight around his chest as she pulls him deeper. 

He's kicking against the current. Clawing for the surface. Trashing in her grip. Fighting her as she swallows him whole anyway. She's bigger, stronger, unphased by his struggle to escape her whispered promise of a liquid grave. He's the strongest swimmer of his class, and yet the coldness seeps into his bones as if he's the weakest of them all. 

She's blue from beneath, too. 

A blanket of cold blue that promises a moment of terror as she drags him far below the surface. His vision blurring, the weight of the water crushing his chest, strangling bubble after bubble from his lungs. Inky shadows dance behind his eyes, mocking, cackling. 

His head seems to have floated off of his shoulders, rolled right up to the surface. Daring him to take a breath of this ice-cold air that his lungs burn for. To stop the darkness twinging at the corners of his eyes.

But she hasn't caught on to the hand disappearing into his pocket, seeking a sharp blade for one last fight. 

Robby's such a peaceful sleeper. 

Even on his worst of days, the moment his back hits the mattress, his bones melt into jelly, and he's bound to stay like that till morning comes. Thin eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, an arm cast out in front of him, cradling someone, something, anything to his chest. It's that time of year when he snores, too. Soft sounds brought on by the temperature shift that comes with Autumn, about as loud as a cat's purr.

You have to be careful as you reach up to stroke an eyelash off of his cheek; a pin drop from the kitchen is enough to wake him on most mornings. But today must be one of those rare instances of heavy sleep because he doesn't stir. 

Behind his head rests another. His face covered by long, dark hair that cascades across his unkempt face. Long stubble drags against your palm as you reach out to brush his hair behind his ear. 

But unlike Bob, Rhett's eyes flicker open. Dark blue, almost black, in this unlit room, peering back at you with a familiar, sleepy wonder. 

"'ve missed wakin' up t'this," he drawls, a lazy smile drawing across his lips as your fingers delve into his hair. He said that yesterday morning, too, and the day before that, and the day before that one, too. 

You wonder if you'll get to hear it tomorrow and the next. If Royal lets him get away with not coming home for the sake of the ranch, that is. It's a wonder you've gotten to have three days together, to begin with. 

"We need to get you some hair ties," you find yourself murmuring, lazily twisting his hair around in your fingers. 

"What?" His smile seems to reach his eyes as he needily leans up into your touch. "Don't want me gettin' a matchin' cut with Robby?" 

Between you, Bob stirs, shifting backward; Rhett's nearly closed eyes burst open, sucking in a gasp. 

Your eyebrows furrow, blinking away what little sleep remains in your eyes as the gears in your head begin to turn. "Rhett?"

"Space boy is awake," he groans in that deep, guttural way that only he can do. 

The arm curled around your waist begins to move, sliding up and down against your back, and slowly, pale blue eyes open. Just enough to get a look at you before shutting once more, closed by the lopsided grin sprawling across his face. His hips continue to wriggle backward, and with the sheets in the way, it's so hard to tell what he's doing. 

Rhett's arm is sliding between you and Bob, dragging your sleepy-eyed WSO back until he's flush against Rhett's chest, with no more room for him to squirm. "Y'intentionally tryin' t'get a rise outta me?" 

"Maybe I am," Bob's still trying to move, albeit not very much, but it's enough to have Rhett's eyes rolling in the slightest of ways. You still don't get what—

Oh. 

"Bobby, how are you awake enough to be in the mood already?" a yawn overtaking you as you speak, powerless to stop him from pressing a big, sloppy kiss to your nose. 

But Bob doesn't pull back like you expect him to. Only nuzzles your noses together, his big hand sliding out from beneath the covers to curl around your cheek. "You try waking up with Rhett's morning wood pressed against your thigh." 

Rhett's reaching between your bodies, grazing past your thigh on his way down to cup Bobby through his shorts. Such a simple contact that's enough to have Bob's lips parting with a breathy noise, too shy to give you anything more without some encouragement. With the covers in the way, it's hard to tell what Rhett's doing to him, but whatever it is, it drives Bob to close the gap between your mouths. 

Lazy is the only way you can describe it. 

Neither of you has the energy to lift your heads, settling for loose lip locks that you can only hold for a few seconds at a time. Open-mouthed, Bob's breath heavy against your skin as he tries to keep himself quiet.

But it's impossible.

Now that he thinks about it, Bob can't remember the last time he's even touched himself, never mind having someone else touch him. And God, that hand of Rhett's is the very definition of talented. Already working its way through the front of his boxers, calloused fingers wrapping around his rapidly hardening cock. 

"Where d'you keep the lube, Bobby?" Rhett's voice vibrates along the back of his neck, rattles all the way down to the bottom of his feet.

Bob's voice refuses to come to him; keeps catching in his throat because Rhett's thumb is toying with his slit, "Second drawer."

You're twisting in the sheets, turning away from him to reach into the bedside table. Only gone for a few seconds, but by the time you roll back over, passing the half-empty bottle off to Rhett, he's found himself whining. Desperate to feel you against him again, like you'll disappear if you're not touching him.

"So needy," you murmur in that careful tone you always use with him, your hand smoothing over his cheek enough to distract him from the loss of contact as Rhett busies himself with drizzling lube into his palm. 

But then his hand is back on him, and God, it's so, so—

"'S that feel good?" Rhett's voice loud in his ear, mouth so close that his lips brush against the shell of Bob's reddened ear. His hand drops lower, gently rolling Bob's balls in his palm, lulling a garbled noise right out of Bob's throat. "Talk to us, Bobby."

"Uhuh," humming dumbly, Bob licks his lips, leans forward, seeking your lips again. Whines so prettily that you smile into it. 

Despite the covers blocking a majority of the sound, that sickly wet squelch rings loud in his ears, Rhett's hand audibly stroking his cock. Slow up and downs that pause to run his palm overtop of a sensitive, pink tip. So much so that he's tempted to buck up into it, the dull ache in his hip bursting into a sharp bite as he does so. 

"Faster," he breathes, eyes screwing shut, "please—hah, Rhett, faster, please." 

Rhett's kicking the sheets off, exposing the messy work he's making of Bob's cock for all of you to view, hand moving a little faster than before. "You likin' that?" His teeth graze the shell of Bob's ear, nipping at the edges just to make him jolt. "You like when I jerk you off nice 'n quick like this?"

You're reaching down, following Rhett's nonverbal instruction, curling your palm around his balls, rolling them in your grasp, much like Rhett did. And it's so much. So, so much. From the gentleness of your touch to Rhett's rough strokes. He doesn't remember when his mouth opened or if those whiny noises are really coming from him. 

All he knows is that he can't keep still. Squirming against the mattress, writhing back against Rhett, as if he can escape those quickening touches. Touches that have his toes curling and his breath catching in his throat, something warm brewing in his lower belly. 

"Gonna cum for me, Bobby?" Rhett's voice sends a shiver down his spine. 

"No, no, no, not—" gulping, "don't wanna cum like this."

Your head raises, attention now back on his face. "How do you want it, then?"

"Want one of you to..." God, it's so difficult to get the words out of his mouth, tongue limp in his mouth, "Ride me, fuck me, god, anything," 

But Rhett's hand isn't stopping. No, it's quickening. "Baby, you're too torn up for that right now," he coes, sounds just as disappointed as Bob's whimper, "Your hips are so bruised that we're going to wind up hurting you." 

And it doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter because Rhett's firm hand pumps him one, two, three more times and he's downright ripping that orgasm out of him. Eyes rolling back, cumming all over Rhett's hand with a strangled cry. Your hand retreats quite quickly, but Rhett's remains, slowing as he works him down from his high, doesn't leave him alone until the oversensitivity has him jolting. 

Bob's lungs burn, panting for a breath that he can't catch, "But what about you two?"

"Rhett and I can take care of each other," but your offer isn't what he wants. No, no, no, this isn't what he wanted at all. 

"That's not—that's not fair," his eyes a little glassier than before, voice wavering, "Why won't...why won't you let me?" And that bottom lip starts to wobble in tune with his racing heart. 

Why can't he? You wouldn't let him last night when he hobbled up behind you and kissed your neck all nice and sweet, in that lingering fashion that you always loved in the past. Rhett's shut him down every time they shower. Says something about not wanting Bob to strain his already injured neck by sucking him off. 

Is it because you're upset about his new job? Fuck, what if he's gone so often that you and Rhett have grown apart from him? Do you just not want him to touch you anymore? Is it because he missed that Spring festival back in March? Why can't he— why can't he touch either of you? What did he do? 

"No, hey, hey, shh," Rhett's hand curls around his trembling jaw, tilting him to meet his eye, "there's no need to get yourself so worked up, now."

"But I want—"

Lips press against his. Firm but giving, in the same manner that Rhett has always kissed him in. "We'll make something work," he says, and for a moment, those dark blue eyes seem to swallow Bob up entirely.

But they don't drown him. 

A beat passes, and then you're coming in to kiss him, too, as if to ward off the sniffles that have begun wracking through him. You don't know when the tears started or what could have possibly brought them on so quickly, but Bob leans into your touch as you wipe them from his pink cheeks. 

You're still afraid to hurt him. Maybe Bob's suffered some sort of head trauma because he doesn't seem to realize how many bruises and bandages cover his battered body. Every limb has at least a few stitches; repairing lacerations, you still don't know the origin of. 

But he's so desperate, insistent, that you find yourself cautiously perched at the top of the bed, kneeling, your thighs caging his face. Rhett's laying next to him, head propped up on one hand, the other running up and down the swell of your ass. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" You repeat, for what's probably the fifth time. 

Involuntarily, your body jolts as Bob's tongue parts your folds, licking a slow, fat stripe up your heat; his reply comes in the form of a grumbled, "uhuh," vibrating where you're most sensitive. 

You've never been so thankful for his remarkably short headboard because that first lick is already enough to have you bracing yourself against it. Your hands squeeze the wood as he circles around your clit, not quite giving it the direct contact it's already aching for. 

"Bobby," fuck, he's something else.

Rhett's greedy gaze soaks it all up, hyper-fixated on the way Bob's pulling you down onto his face, wet tongue lapping at you like he needs you to live. Sloppy, a thin trail of saliva follows him everywhere he goes. 

His lips wrap around your clit, sucks on it just long enough to hear you gasp. Then he's leaving it alone once more, retreating back to those slow licks that have the tip of his tongue brushing against your neglected entrance and not letting up until his broad stroke has massaged past your clit. 

One of your hands drops, fingers card their way through his hair; out of every moment you've spent with him this week, this is the most relaxed you've seen him. Features soft as he laps at your pussy, like it's all he's needed. Doesn't even seem strained when he pushes his tongue past your entrance, spreading you open on the hot little muscle. 

The top of his nose bumps against your clit so effortlessly that it isn't even fair. 

"That's it," you whine; his tongue isn't very long, but there's something so dizzyingly delicious about feeling him downright fuck you on his tongue. 

In the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Rhett's cock, shining in the light as he strokes it. Fuck, is he really getting off to the sight of Bobby with his head between your legs? 

Whatever it is, it's got a heat bubbling to the surface. Familiar, as it spreads throughout your body. Bob's drawing back up, swirling around that swollen bud once more, the tip of his tongue flickering over it. 

"Getting close," you gasp, tugging on those short locks, "Robby—"

Something about your words has him quickening. Languid pace dissolving into something hungry, borderline frantic as he digs his fingertips into your hips and works you over with his mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's a hell of a lot. 

"Cum," his voice muffled by your dripping sex, "please." 

There's a shake in your hands as it washes over you. Trembling like a leaf as you cum on his frantic, talented tongue, the sound of his name tumbling off your own tongue like an incantation. Fuck, your whole body is shaking. But Bob licks you through it, whines into your core like he can feel your orgasm too. 

"Ain't you two jus' a sight," Rhett's sitting up, leaning up to steal a peck from your parted lips, uncaring of how you shamelessly pant against his lips. 

As soon as he's there, he's gone again, laying back against the bed once more. His hand lazily returns to his cock, not in any sort of rush, as he flicks his wrist on that upward stroke. A nice feeling, but nothing strong enough to yank a noise out of his throat. 

Bobby huffs. 

Doesn't say anything. Just...huffs. Like he's jealous of Rhett's hand. 

"He's not gonna be happy unless you let him suck your cock," you say so matter-of-factly that it makes Rhett's head spin. 

"'s that what you're wantin'?" Bob's nodding his head before Rhett's even finished his sentence.

And so up he goes, swinging his knee over Bob's chest and settling into the space there as lightly as he can manage. On its own, his cock smacks against Bob's chin, the angry red of his tip such a stark contrast to Bob's pale pink cheeks. The same shade that colors his thin lips, wrapping around Rhett's dripping tip with an unfathomable eagerness. 

"You want control, or d'you want me to fuck your pretty lil' mouth?" He offers, though he feels like he already knows the answer. Mouth too full to speak, Bob's hands settle on either side of Rhett's narrow hips, almost forcing him to thrust into his mouth. "Guess that's my answer."

Next to him, you giggle. Sleepy-eyed and glowing in your post-orgasmic haze. He knows the clock reads somewhere around eleven AM, but in the back of his head, Rhett really hopes the three of you go back to bed after this. 

Bob's hair is still a mess from when your hands tangled through it, makes it all the more inviting for Rhett's fingers to delve into, his hips twitching forward. A shallow thrust, at first, gives Bobby nothing more than his tip to suckle on, but it's easy to gain confidence when Bob contentedly moans around him. 

"Fuck, your lil' mouth is good," he groans, head momentarily tilting back. He's never felt someone take his cock so damn easily, sucking hard enough to have his toes curling and his jaw falling slack. Thrusting in and out of those swollen lips, mesmerized by the sight of them struggling to stay around his thick length. 

But then his cockhead is bumping against the back of Bob's plush throat, those muscles flexing around him, and he's moaning into the open air like it's his job. 

He's too far into Bob's throat for it to be comfortable, but those shaky hands won't let him pull back, drawing him back into that velvety throat of his over and over and over. Tears roll down his cheeks, and Rhett's thumb is trying to wipe them away the best that it can. 

"Good boy," he's coaxing, hips growing twitchy, difficult to control. Bob's still fighting him as he draws back a few inches, back into the safety of his mouth, where he can't accidentally jolt further down that hot little throat, "you gonna let me cum on your pretty face?" 

He actually thinks Bob is going a little bit cross-eyed. 

"Or would you rather me cum in your mouth, hm?" It's been so long since he's seen those features wrinkle as his salty cum hits that short tongue. 

Bob just hums, and it's hard for Rhett to make a decision when there's a twisting in his gut that has his head feeling like it'll fall off his shoulders. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that soft tongue is swiping back and forth at the underside of him with a talent Rhett forgot he had. 

His hips jerk back on their own accord, Bob's tongue rolling out to cushion his throbbing tip like a welcome mat, mouth open, and that is it. 

With a silent noise, Rhett's eyes flutter shut, and he cums on Bob's pink tongue. Thick ropes of white painting his drooling mouth, a stray spurt of cum splashing against a flushed cheek. And Bob just swallows him up, sucking his sensitive head clean, even through the sniffles once again racking their way through his body. 

"Such a good boy," you're cooing; Rhett's unsure of where you found tissues, but you're wiping his cum off Bob's face with them. 

There's an ache in Rhett's thighs as he settles down into the mattress again, shamelessly curling into Bob's panting side, "You feeling better now, sweetheart?"

Maybe it's something he did.

Maybe he's hurt him because the moment his hand curls around Bob's squishy cheek, he breaks. Tears overflowing. Makes the quietest, strangled noise that Rhett's ever heard, as he just starts...crying. 

But maybe he hasn't hurt him, because he's the one Bob curls toward, hiding his face in the crook of Rhett's neck to muffle the downright wail that ripples out of him. Rhett doesn't know what to do, but he's wrapping his arms around him, gaze flickering up to your scrunched features, laced with every bit of concern flowing through your pretty head. 

"Bobby?" You're nuzzling closer, helping Rhett to create some sort of makeshift cocoon around your trembling WSO. "What's wrong?" 

But Bob doesn't say. 

He just cries.

The worst part about Bobby being hurt, Rhett thinks, is the complete, utter loss of his appetite.

It's not seeing Bob turn down a round of his favorite video game or the lack of a smile when you turn on that television series the three of you enjoy; no, it's seeing Bob poke at his dinner that hurts him the most.

Rhett doesn't have much room to complain; he's the same way with breakfast and lunch, unable to stomach more than a nibble until dinner time comes 'round. But it's almost horrifying to see come from Robert Floyd.

The Robert Floyd who can eat three servings of dinner and still, somehow, have room in his belly for a slice of cake. Who is currently the only person to ever finish the seventy-ounce steak challenge at Odessa's diner; his small hometown of Wabang will probably never find someone to join him on that list of champions.

Now, Rhett's found himself thrilled that Bob's eaten a third of his meal. It's a simple snack wrap you made last minute and went out of your way to use the lunchmeat Bob usually salivates over, but he goes green after four or five small bites. Rhett's never seen him eat in such small nibbles.

But he's got an idea.

If Bob's food aversion acts similarly to Rhett's, then exposure to food is going to get him itching to reach for something. So he does the one thing his momma used to do when she couldn't get him to eat.

He turns on the food channel.

 "Are you doing what I think you're doing?" Your voice comes as a surprise; sends him jumping. How long have you been behind him?

"That depends on what you think I'm doing," but he already knows you're both on the same page. 

For a while, he doesn't think it's going to work. 

The three of you wind up curled into the couches, laptops precariously balanced on your laps, fully encased in some multi-player game Bobby loves. You had to be the one to suggest it, and Rhett's pretty sure that if he hadn't agreed to play, Bob wouldn't have joined. 

And then he hears it. The dull rumblings of an empty stomach.

"Was that you?" Feigning surprise in his tone, fighting against the proud, upward turn of his lips. 

But Bob doesn't catch onto his crime, distracted by a second, gurgling noise that seems to echo through the room. His nose wrinkles, glancing down at his stomach as if it can give him an explanation for its fussings, "I guess it was."

"Are you hungry?" You're not so great at masking the upbeat twinge to your words, something bordering excitement as you look up from your screen. 

It takes him a moment to respond, but eventually, "I don't know," pausing to think again, only for a moment,  "I feel hungry, but I don't...nothing sounds good."

And so that's how Rhett finds himself behind the wheel of a truck eighteen years newer than his, foot feather-light on the gas pedal as he drives down unfamiliar streets. Past shops, fast food, and niche restaurants he's never even considered could exist until now. He doesn't remember the name of this city, but it makes Wabang look like a damn joke. 

"What the hell is a bubble tea?" Because...bubbles? Like...foam, bubbles? 

And he regrets asking because Bob starts saying something about tapioca pearls, and he's got no idea what the hell a tapioca is, either. 

There are so many options, combinations, and possibilities, and yet, to Rhett's surprise, the three of you wind up falling into old habits. Eating fast food in the bed of the truck because none of you can wait the ten minutes it'll take to get Bobby back up the stairs. 

"I'm surprised you got up here," He hums, leaning in to steal a kiss from Bob's bitten lips. "You had yourself a bit of a climb."

"I told you I could do it," though Bob's surprised himself. In his head, this truck was a lot lower to the ground. 

Quietly, his stomach rumbles once more, a wayward growl that seems to vibrate all the way up his throat. Yet, his hands seem to have frozen. Fingers numb, unable to unwrap this simple little cheeseburger. 

It shouldn't be this difficult.

Rhett's eating just fine, so nonchalant about it that he's not even looking as he bites into his fish sandwich, and you're so preoccupied with your chosen meal that you've fallen into your own little world, eyes trained on the sight behind Rhett's head. 

That neverending shore. 

Where the ocean kisses the sand, her all-encompassing blue fading to a white froth. Maybe it's the salt blowing in from those heavy waves that's making his stomach wring itself into knots. Or maybe it's the group of teenagers scurrying toward the water with their surfboards and swimsuits, fearless and full of life. 

The ones who haven't been reminded of their own mortality by the sea herself. 

They haven't learned how easily that blue can swallow you up. Invisible tendrils squeezing your chest, strangling every last breath from your lungs as that haunting blue drags you down. Won't let you go until she's strangled you of everything you have to offer and discards you with less respect than gum spat on the floor. 

That same shade of blue follows him everywhere. In his dreams, in his every waking moment, he can't fucking stand—

"D'ya wanna french fry?" But there's Rhett. Innocent as can be, arm outstretched, offering a single fry, what looks like the biggest one he could find. He doesn't want it, but his arm is moving on its own accord because he doesn't have the heart to tell him no.

It's not so bad. Because Rhett smiles all big and dopey when he takes a bite out of it, and for once, it doesn't feel like he's swallowing sand. 

But Rhett's eyes are blue. 

Almost black if he's in the wrong lighting but easily transforms into a brilliant, deep shade once they catch the light just right. Two perfect pools of ocean blue, the kind that swallows Bob up when he looks into them, nothing but gentle waves that make his head spin. 

Rhett's eyes are the color of the ocean. 

Or maybe...the ocean is the color of Rhett's eyes.

His stomach gurgles once more, and this time, it's a little easier to get his fingers moving. Peeling back the paper wrapping and biting into it just like he did the french fry. And for once, it doesn't taste like a mouthful of salt water.

"Watcha smiling at, ocean eyes?" He catches himself asking, words wrapped around a smile of his own.

"Nothin'," there's that sheepish tone in Rhett's tone, caught red-handed. The crimson tips of his ears are all the confirmation Bob needs. 

By the time he's tossing the empty wrapper back into the paper bag, his stomach is still fussing, but he can't say he's surprised. 

He's leaning over, ready to bump his chin against your shoulder, and meekly ask why you let him order one singular item off the menu, but he doesn't get the chance to. Because he's falling sideways. Nothing to catch him as he all but falls over.

"Bobby?" Comes your voice, a few octaves higher than your usual. 

"I didn't realize you moved," tilting his head to catch a glance at you. When did you move to sit against the rear window, anyway? 

And he knows that the eruption of laughter that follows is fueled primarily by the flaming red that's spreading across his cheeks, but he really can't bring himself to feel embarrassed. 

He's missed hearing you two laugh like this.

It's colder in the infirmary than it was in the sea.

Even those deceptive waves were kind enough to offer a shred of warmth. It was easier to breathe with his head underwater than it is to breathe in this tiny, suffocating room. Those invisible tendrils that drug him under promised a swift end to his misery. 

The man in front of him promises a long, slow torment till his last breath.

His leg hurts.

"I'm not going to ask you again," his heavy palm slams upon the table, booming, "What happened out there?" 

They're asking the wrong guy. He wasn't the one flying. 

It wasn't his fault. 

"If one of you made a mistake, I need to know about it!"

It wasn't his fault, but he can't stand the images that flicker through his head. Invisible blades cutting into his eyes with every image. 

"Talk to me, Robert."

It wasn't his fault. 

It wasn't his fault. 

It wasn't his fault. 

It was his fault, wasn't it?

It has to be his fault. Because why else would he be floundering for his voice? Why is it that he's opening his mouth, and nothing is coming out?

Voices erupt. 

But they're not his. 

An unharmonious collision of accusations and questions, two interrogating officers tearing into each other. Both desperate to reach into his chest and cut the answers out of his soul. Neither agree on how.

 His leg hurts. 

Why does his leg hurt?

They're asking him again. "What happened?" "What went wrong?" And he's not sure why he's drawing his knees to his chest. Doesn't know why his hand feels wet when he touches his leg. Its been hours. 

So why is his hand wet?

Why is the room getting smaller? And why is one of the officers getting in his face? 

Why? Why can't he leave? Don't they see he can't speak?

They're shoving a clipboard into his chest with all the force they can muster. Forcing his hand open and shoving a pen into it. 

"Get to writing." 

His leg still hurts.

"Are you okay back there?" 

Bob's not sure if he heard your voice before or after he opened his eyes. Blinking dumbly, he tilts his head to look at you from where you sit, perched in the passenger seat, twisted around to face him.

How long was he asleep?

"Weird dream," is all he can supply. Doesn't exactly answer your question, but it's better than not answering at all.

There's a dull ache in his leg as he moves to sit up, stitches freshly removed after a full two weeks. It's been an hour since the appointment, but he can still feel the tugging as the doctor removed the material from his skin, bit by bit. 

"This isn't the route we took on our way there," observing aloud, twisting his head to get a glimpse out the back window. 

"Was a wreck on the highway," Rhett's eyes lift from the road, looking back at Bob through the rearview mirror, "the GPS thinks it's got a detour" 

Evidently, the detour involves driving through residential areas until they can get back on the highway. Past two-story homes that all look the same. Serve as residences for families of all shapes and sizes. Packed too close together for his liking, but in the back of his head, there's an image floating. Walking in through a front door to find two familiar faces welcoming him home. 

"Think we should go to that open house?" You joke, as the truck rumbles past, "It's got a white picket fence and everything."

"With my new job, y'might regret moving out here," Bob croaks, but he's twisting his head to keep sight of that big, red open house sign, "they could make me move to the other side of the country at any given moment."

"You can fit us in your suitcase," and based by the way Rhett puts it, Bob's got a feeling he'd actually try fitting into one.

If only it were that simple. 

He's yet to tell you and Rhett that he's got to go back to work soon. Two weeks off is two weeks too many, in their eyes. Even if the circumstances for his leave are among the worst of reasons, one step away from being brought home in a nondescript casket. He's only got three or four days before he has to report back, ready to work again, like nothing ever happened. Send you and Rhett home and go back to missing every event you two plan because work always has something for him to be doing.

Listening to you and Rhett bicker, words sputtered through wobbly, wide smiles that take up your entire faces, he can't imagine you'll miss him too much.

That thought is still flittering through his head when the three of you stumble out onto the beach a few hours later, joining some familiar faces that have already taken up residence in the sand. 

"Only six months, and they've already got you on medical leave," Natasha has to shout to be heard over the crashing waves, and even then, the breeze almost carries her words away.

"They haven't killed me yet," forcing a smile as he says it, feigning invincibility.

"Yet," Rhett echoes. It's hard to tell if the saltiness to his tone is really there or if Bob's just tasting the ocean air. 

Doesn't get the chance to find out, either, because Mickey's running up and crushing him in a bear hug that has him reconsidering his choice to go without his crutches. "Man, I haven't seen you since New Year's!" 

He's thankful that Natasha is more of a side hugger and that Reuben and Jake are content to simply wave their hellos. If Jake's half-assed wave can even be considered as one, that is. Too busy sparking a conversation with Rhett because he's got some fancy new lasso, and he's been dying to share the excitement with someone who, quote, "gets it."

How that goes from enthusiastic conversation to Rhett and Jake trying to teach Mickey to throw a lasso, using you as the target, is anyone's guess. 

"I'm still surprised you accepted the offer," Nat muses; her sunglasses are dark enough to hide her eyes, but Bob can feel her gaze burning into his skin. 

If only the golden tint to his outdoor glasses was strong enough to hide his eyes, too. "I've been working toward it since I was fifteen."

"When you were fifteen, you also thought you could make a living by surfing on weekdays and riding broncs on the weekends," there's a pause, not because she's thinking, but because she's tipping back her drink. Some nameless lemonade seltzer that she always brings to the beach. "You're really sure that you want a career to take you further away from them?"

"I think they'll be alright," Bob's careful eyes watch as Mickey casts the rope out once more, narrowly missing your frame. Can't get the rest of his words out until after he's sure it hasn't looped around your neck. "They've got each other if they get tired of me not being there."

"How are you so sure that's what they want?" 

And that...he doesn't have an answer for that. 

"Man, I don't know how you do it," he'd almost forgotten Reuben was on the other side of him, lounging against a beach towel. "If I had two people loving me the way they love you, I would've turned down that offer in a heartbeat."

Natasha sighs loud, dramatic, and though Bob can't see her eyes, he can feel her eyes briefly roll into the back of her head. "Don't listen to him," she groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He's jealous."

"Have you seen the way they look at him?" Reuben's words damn near burst out of his mouth. Sits up fully, like it'll help him get his point across. "I can't even get one woman to look at me like that, never mind two!"

"Two what?" Your voice comes as a surprise to all three of them, heads snapping up to look at you as you walk over, leaning down to press a kiss to Bob's temple. 

Looking up at you, he can't help but wonder.

Do you two still want him in your relationship, or has he gone and blown it?

Sleep doesn't come to him that night.

Not even a nightmare, coming to present a foggy recollection of his memories on a silver platter. But he can't say he's surprised. Or upset, for that matter.

He doesn't deserve sleep. He doesn't deserve to lay here in this bed; two warm bodies snuggled up to him on either side. Two soft, lovely people who don't realize he's bit off more than he can chew at their expense. 

Because he just assumed that things would work out. 

Assumed that the two of you would adjust to the change since you hardly saw him to begin with. But at least back then, he had the luxury of answering text messages and joining those late-night phone calls. Now, he's lucky if he can even have his phone on him. 

You two are only here, away from your careers and your lives, because he's deceived you two into thinking you have a future with him in it. And it's all because a couple of months ago, he thought he could make it work. He thought you and Rhett would be okay without him if things didn't work out. 

But he doesn't know if that will be the case. There's no guarantee that you and Rhett will be just fine without him.

If he hadn't taken that job, he could be looking at houses with the two of you. Laughing and daydreaming about a future together, one with the promise of rings and a not-so-legal marriage that he so desperately wishes he could have. A white picket fence and a too-big house, hell, maybe a dog, too. 

His eyes burn with tears he doesn't deserve to shed. Spilling over onto his cheeks and rolling down onto the pillow. Until they're stopped by the sudden appearance of a calloused thumb stroking across his skin, wiping them away. 

Rhett.

There are a million and one questions flickering through those sleepy ocean blues, but he doesn't speak. He never speaks at times like these. Instead, forces the corner of his lip up into a halfway smile, his hand rising to curl around the back of Bob's head. Guiding him over until he's properly snuggled beneath that scruffy, unshaven chin, where he listens to a heartbeat that he doesn't deserve to hear. 

He needs to tell you two what happened.

Bob doesn't know when he fell asleep. 

He thinks it was around the time when Rhett began tapping against his spine, fingertips drumming against the bones that press against thin, lightly freckled skin. Or maybe it was when you got up to get a glass of water, snuggling up to his backside when you clambered back into bed. 

And maybe it would be easier to think if he didn't wake up to this.

At some point in the night, Rhett's leg has slid between his, that thick thigh pressed against his groin so perfectly. Behind him, your soft breath is fanning out against his sensitive neck, sending shivers down his spine with every exhale. All this attention so early in the morning, and he can't do a damn thing about it. Not without waking you two up in the process.

Come on, come on, just think about anything else. Sad puppies, horror films, driving without insurance, the taste of Fireball whisky, that argument Rhett and Perry had last summer. Come on, something, anything. 

Rhett stirs, eyelashes fluttering like tiny butterflies as he shifts against the mattress, knee raising higher and—

Bob's teeth sink into his bottom lip, threatening to draw blood as he stifles a noise he didn't know he could make. Really, really hopes that Rhett can't feel his cock throbbing against his thigh. 

"Was that you, Robby?" Rhett's speaking with his eyes closed, and that groggy voice is almost enough to have Bob fighting back a second noise. 

"That was you?" Fuck, you're awake, too?

Rhett's thigh shifts once more, this time intentionally rubbing up against Bob's half-hard cock, so rough and sudden that it rips another whimper out of his throat. Loud, pitchy, unmistakable in the quiet morning air.

His cheeks aren't just warm; they're boiling. 

"Someone's sensitive," Rhett coos, and Bob's genuinely considering crawling under the bed and never coming back out because Rhett's doing it more. Rolling his thigh up in loose, slow circles that rub him just right. 

You're shifting behind him, ticklish breath disappearing, quickly replaced by soft lips against his neck. Teeth graze against his skin as you mouth over an exposed vein, lazy little ministrations that work up into the sensitive space behind his ear. Rhett's still rubbing against him, and you're doing that breathy little sigh, and it's so, so much.

"I hope you two have plans to—ah! Plans to finish what you started because this is..." his teeth sink back into his lip, breathing hard through his nose.

"You're still healing, Bobby," comes your voice, your hand sliding down to his still bruised hip, mottled with vague greens and deep yellows. Sore to the touch, but God, some things are worth a little pain.

"Please, for the love of god," his words distort as an involuntary whimper bubbles up from his chest, "quit worrying and just fuck me already." 

He can't see your expression in the slightest, but he can absolutely see the simmerings of something predatory in the deep blue of Rhett's eyes. "Yeah?" Lord, it's even audible in that rumbling voice of his. "You been wantin' us that bad, Robby?" 

Maybe Bob should have put that a little more delicately. Because now, as Rhett rolls him onto his back, he's wondering if this cowboy is about to eat him alive. Looking over, you don't appear to be much better, burning gaze raking up and down his frame.

Shallow, Bob nods his head with the faintest "uhuh," he can muster. All it takes to have both you and Rhett are moving, silently falling into place, as if you've discussed this a million and one times. 

You're curling your hand around Bob's cheek, tilting his head to catch his open mouth in your own. Rhett's dropping down between his open legs, calloused hands tickling Bob's skin as they venture beneath his shirt, pushing it up. Lazy kisses press against the exposed skin of his belly, and that's all it takes to have Bob gasping, a wonderous sound to your ears. 

"Robby," you whisper against him, teasing; he's cutting you off before you can say anything more. 

Something fiery blossoms between your bodies as the bitten skin of his lips presses against your own, dizzying, fuels your loose liplocks into more. His breath is going ragged, a curious hand delving beneath your night shirt doesn't stop until it curls around one of your breasts, squeezing just to feel you jump. 

His soft thumb toys with your nipple, rolling gentle circles over the sensitive skin as your hand delves into his hair, fingers tangling where it's the longest. It's been so, so long since the last time you tugged on it and felt him shiver. You are the crisp Autumn wind, and he is nothing but a darkened leaf shuddering under your very presence. 

All of a sudden, fingers are curling in the waistband of your underwear, and they're being yanked down your legs. 

"What?" Rhett blinks back at you, doe-eyed. "Did you forget I was down here?" 

"Only briefly," your response can't come at a worse time; it's hard telling when Rhett reached across the bed and got the lube, but he's already covering three fingers with a generous amount of it. Knocking your legs apart with the other hand. 

The first cold drag of his fingers between your folds has you jolting, bumping into Bob's side. As if the frigid lube wasn't enough, they rudely pass right over your clit, completely ignoring it as two of them opt to slide against the thin ring of your entrance. Toying with it before gently slipping inside. 

Rhett's head drops, tongue poking out and—

"Oh." Is all you can muster, head falling back against the pillow, Rhett's dripping tongue licking a fat stripe up your cunt. His hair tickles your thighs as he settles between them, working himself into a routine. Shallowly thrusting those thick fingers into you, licking lazily at that slowly swelling button.

Bob's reaching between your legs, tangling his hand through Rhett's messy hair, unblocking the sight of the cowboy working you over. "Jesus, Rhett." 

The fucker curls his fingers, rubbing against a certain spot within your walls. Knows exactly what he's doing, too; that dumb grin gives it all away. You almost hate that your involuntary gasp feeds directly into that cockiness of his.

It's been a while since you've had either of them in you, and yet, you can feel yourself opening so easily. Muscles still lax from sleep, giving to Rhett's demanding fingers, taking a third so smoothly that you wonder why he's working you open in the first place.

All the while, Bob loses interest in holding Rhett's hair back, instead tugging at the material of your nightshirt, rucking it up high enough to expose your chest to the cool bedroom air. Only for a moment, though. Because he's already leaning down, sloppily enveloping a nipple with his wet, hot mouth.

The sight of both men, peering up at you, their mouths carefully toying with where you're most sensitive, is something.

Both of their tongues are spiraling, Bob's twirling around your hardening nipple, and Rhett's downright abusing your clit, sucking on it and humming when your body jolts. A flicker of lightning rattling up your spine, the sparks of it flashing behind your eyes. Fuck, you don't know what to focus on. So many sensations; two mouths working you over, three fingers fucking into your pussy, Bob's humming and, and...

"Unless you want me to cum," your chest heaving, breathless, "stop."

Obedient, they fall back. 

You're pretty sure they'd bark if you asked them to.

But Rhett's not done terrorizing just yet. His fingers are careful on their final slide out of you, so wet that you think they're dripping, but the moment they're free, he's downright pouncing on Bobby. Hooking his fingers beneath those plain, white boxers and yanking them down as forcefully as he did with you. 

Bob's cock audibly smacks against his belly; his tip flushed a beautiful shade of red, usual dusky pink long forgotten. A tiny pearl of precum beads at his slit, enough to wet the pad of your index finger when you reach out. Wrapping your hand around him whilst your finger spirals against him, spreading that little bit of wetness.

He's trying to speak, mouth moving, but the only thing coming out is a breathy moan. 

"Stunned 'em into silence," Rhett muses, uncapping the lube once more. Your hand disappears, and Rhett's lubed one takes over; all it takes is one slow upward stroke for Bob's bruised hips to rise, chasing the feeling. 

"You...say that as if you'd be doing much better," Bob's words are strangled, barely forced off his tongue. 

Idly, you're reaching out to run your fingers across the mottling of color along the side of his body, chasing it from where it starts at his thigh and ends near the middle of his ribcage. You still don't know what gave these marks to him, but as you lean down to press feather-soft kisses to them, you can make an educated guess. 

As quickly as he took hold of him, Rhett's letting go, letting Bob's cock smack against his belly once more, "'s all yours, doll."

"What 'bout you?" Bob's hands hold themselves out as you move to carefully straddle his hips like he's planning to catch you in the event you fall over. 

 Rhett's tongue clicks, and you're pretty sure you catch him winking in your peripheral, "You'll find out."

Based on the way he lingers behind you, greedily taking in the sight of you taking hold of Bob's cock and experimentally rubbing him between your folds, you get the feeling that you're about to find out. It's hard to focus; Bobby's soft tip grazing past your clit and catching on your entrance, like he's made just for you. 

...made for you in a size extra large, that is.

God, you forgot how that initial stretch burns. A hair too big, the kind that has you sucking in a breath as you gradually sink down on him, but not the kind that makes your eyes water from the painful bite of the stretch. 

Rhett's lips appear on your neck, the scruff of his chin bumping against your skin with every sloppy kiss he presses. A meager distraction from the tightness growing in your chest and the tremble in your thighs as you gradually lower yourself. Bob's hands smooth up your sides, nails dragging lightly. 

"This damn thing's in the way," Rhett's teeth nip at the collar of your shirt, and distantly, you suppose that's his subtle attempt at getting you to remove it. But as you reach to take hold of the material, he takes over, pulling it up and over your head without another word.

You'd feel strange, being the only fully naked person in this room, if Bobby weren't tugging his shirt off too, always one to keep you from feeling like the odd one out. Unintentionally jostles you in the process, shallowly thrusting up into you.

"Jesus," you're falling forward, bracing your palms on his pale chest. It was such a slight movement, and yet you can feel yourself clenching around him, needy for more. 

One of Rhett's hand's drop between your legs, two wandering fingers rubbing where Bob splits you wide, feeling the stretch for himself. "Y'only got two inches of 'em left, doll."

A little more. Just a little more. 

Breathing hard through your nose, you drop down the rest of the way, savoring the relief of your skin coming together, flush, not another inch of space between your shuddering bodies. All the while, Rhett's teeth nip at your shoulder, worrying the flesh there, only to soothe over it with his tongue. 

"Bobby," your words interrupted by your own breathing, "are you alright?" 

Those pale eyes of his are screwed completely shut, but he nods, "More than okay." 

You have to wait for Rhett to squirm out from behind you before you can so much as think about moving, but once he does, you're lifting your hips. Still recall the rhythm you worked up the last time you rode this doe-eyed WSO, cautiously keeping your movements shallow, taking in the wonderful drag of his cockhead against your walls.

Rhett slips off the bed at some point, rustling around in a bag he's discarded in the corner of the room. You'd pay him attention if it weren't for the dull squeaking of Bob's mattress, and you just know that it's going to grow louder; the neighbors may hear, but you just can't bring yourself to care.

"Look so perfect on top of me, sunshine," Bob whines, high in his throat, and you think his back may be arching off the bed, hands glued to your hips, "fuck, you're tight."

Something appears on your head, with a familiar brown brim and a faint lingering of cologne that belongs to only one man.

"There y'go," Rhett's smiling way too big for a man whose cock is actively slapping against his hip, too heavy to stand upright.

His cowboy hat bounces as your movements grow a little daring, hips rising higher, whimpering as Bobby's thick head drives directly into a neglected bundle of nerves. Has you involuntarily spasming around him, repeating the motion once, twice, gradually falling into a needy rhythm. Fuck, you're gonna have a hard time walking through the airport tomorrow.

One of Bob's hands falls off your hip, reaching out to wrap around Rhett's forgotten cock, his facial features scrunching as he's swatted away. Doesn't say a word, but that frustrated grumble says it all for him. 

"I know, I know," the bed dips as Rhett slips behind you once more, close enough to where you can feel his breath against your skin, "you'll get me soon enough." 

You're leaning down, catching those pouting lips in your own, and it's not what Bob was after, but he's leaning into it anyway. Nails raking up your back as he all but melts underneath of you. Boneless, barely able to muster the strength to twitch up into you, meeting you halfway. The cry it elicits out of you makes him dizzy.

"'s there?" His words jumble together, tongue loose in his mouth. 

A wet pressure appears against his hole. 

Takes him a second to realize it's one of Rhett's fingers, dripping with lube as it tentatively presses against him until that ring of muscle yields. Such an intrusive feeling at first, borderline uncomfortable, and it's not what he had in mind, but God, is he not complaining. Especially not when that finger crooks and starts seeking—

"Aah!" 

...did he make that noise?

He doesn't even know if he's still kissing you or if it's dismantled into a messy synchrony of futile attempts to swallow up each other's noises. You're whimpering, and he can feel you fluttering around him, muscles squeezing his sensitive length and pulling a pitchy sound out of him, too. 

A second finger slides in to join the first, already starting to thrust into him, spreading, stretching him for something much, much bigger. And he doesn't know which feeling to focus on. So much all at once that he can't keep his eyes open anymore. Heat pooling deep in his thighs as he surges up and tries to kiss you once more.

 Your teeth knock together, sloppy and uncoordinated, but it's something.

Leaning back once more, your dominant hand disappears between your legs, the pads of your fingers finding your clit. Can't quite tell if you're just dripping or if it's the lube, but regardless, you're soaked.

"Feels good," Bobby babbles, head falling side to side, "fuck, feels...feels..."

"Robby," is all you can say, voice carried on your breath. Fighting the urge to squeeze his bruised hips between your legs as a familiar sensation blooms in your lower belly. Hips stuttering, growing hard to keep your rhythm, but you're so desperate to feel him massage against that sensitive bundle again and again and again.

"Ain't you two just a fuckin' sight for sore eyes," Rhett's doing something to Bobby back there, but you can't tell what. "You both gon' cum, hm?"

Bob's eyes flash open for the briefest of seconds, rolling back, a whimper of your name on his lips. 

That's all it takes.

One, two, three more motions, and you're sinking your teeth into your lower lip, stifling the strangled sob that rattles out of your throat. Head so far up in the clouds that you can't tell if that's his cock throbbing inside of your pussy or if it's your body's involuntary spasm as you cum around him. 

You've no memory of falling forward, but you've found yourself with your cheek against Bob's heaving chest, his heartbeat hammering in your ear. "Robby?" 

"'m here," his sweaty hands soothe up your back. 

There's just barely enough strength left in you to pull off him, settling into the open space by his side, your back resting against the charcoal gray comforter. Now, you see what Rhett's been up to. 

"Think you can roll over, Bobby?" He hums, a sparkle in his eye as he looks up at you. 

It takes a moment for Bob to move, and when he does, he practically rolls into your lap, forehead resting against your chest, bracing his weight on his forearms. That seems to be close to what Rhett's after because he's got no further orders aside from raising Bob's hips a smidge higher.

"Were you planning this?" Your hands run through Bob's sweaty hair, feeling him lean into it like a cat.

"Do shower thoughts count as plannin'?" And that...why are you not surprised about that answer?

Bob's head tilts, straining to look up at you, "Now I see how you feel on nights when both Rhett 'n I have our way with you. " 

Your eyes roll on their own accord. "That's rich, coming from the one with the short refractory period." 

"You said y'wanted us to jus' fuck you already," Rhett's chuckle is music to your ears, "'m just followin' orders."

His big hand almost makes his cock look thinner than it actually is, deceptively disguising his size as he strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. He's probably used a quarter of the bottle within the past couple of minutes, and you have no doubt that the sheets will need washing after this.

But for now, you're content to watch him smack his wet cock against Bob's pale ass and feel your favorite WSO jolt with surprise. 

"Would you quit teas—" Bob's words are cut short, and you can only guess that Rhett's finally started pushing into him. 

"What was that?" Rhett's grin is contagious, an identical one washing over your face. 

You wonder if this is what they see when you lean against one of them while the other has their fill of you. A perfect view of Rhett's jaw as it slackens, able to feel Bob's breathing deepen, panting into your chest as Rhett's thick cock pushes into him. 

"Rhett..." The next name to tumble off Bob's thin lips is your own. "I love you."

Rhett's eyes meet with yours as both of your mouths move in perfect synchrony, "we love you, too."

All that follows are the whimpery gasps pistoned out of him by Rhett's length, gradually disappearing into him inch by thick inch. You know that stretch by heart, your nails raking lightly against his spine, up and down, urging him to relax. 

And then Rhett's sighing into the open air, hips flush with Bob's, so close that you can see the slight difference in their skin tones. So similar, but Rhett's just a shade or two darker from those rare occasions when it's too hot for a shirt.

... or when he's trying to show off in front of you and Bob. Both options are viable.

"You alright?" He croaks, fingers rubbing idle spirals into trembling hip bones. 

Bob's head nods, hair tickling your breasts, "uhuh."

Sucking in a breath, Rhett draws back, maybe by an inch or two, then pushes back in. It's the same thing he always does, but Bob's grunt is bordering surprised. His pale blues peering up at you from beneath thick lashes, body rocking as Rhett gently fucks him. 

"You're awfully quiet, Bobby," you murmur, stroking your hand through his hair once more. 

"Big." Is all he can say.

That one word is all Rhett needs; properly drawing himself back now, snaps his hips forward, and Bobby yowls. Body jolting like a live wire. Doesn't know what to do as Rhett's cockhead drives against his prostate so directly, open-mouthed, crumbling into your chest. 

"There," he babbles, "there, there—Rhett, there."

You don't know where this level of volume is coming from, but it's music to your ears. You hate to silence Bobby with a kiss, but you'd hate it even more if the police came knocking at the door. 

Bob's struggling to keep his lips on yours, craves your touch, but Rhett's got his hands on his hips, pulling him back into every heavy thrust. Heavy balls smacking against the softness of Bob's ass, thick cock fucking into him, dragging against his oversensitive prostate, and its, its...

It's so much.

He doesn't know when it happened, but his weeping cock is already hard again, desperate for attention, but it's borderline too much when you take hold of him. Stroking lightly, letting Rhett's heavy thrusts rock his body into your soft hand. 

"Atta boy," Rhett's hand presses between his shoulder blades, pinning him against your chest, "takin' my cock so well for me."

Bob doesn't feel it coming. 

His vision whites. Head filling with static as he cums for a second time. Painting your hand with what little he has left. Body jerking, spasming around Rhett's length. 

And Rhett just keeps fucking him.

A calloused hand wraps around his shoulder, draws his exhausted body into every heavy thrust, and he's unable to do anything but take it. Throbbing around Rhett's pistoning cock, tears welling in his eyes, drooling into your chest. And maybe that's Rhett's name that he's babbling. Or maybe it's yours. He doesn't know.

"Stay with me, Bobby," Rhett grunts, words shaking with every stuttered thrust. Close. Bob thinks dumbly. He's close. "Y'gonna let me cum in this cute lil' ass of yours?" 

He's hardly got a clue what Rhett is saying, but he's nodding his head. All he can focus on is this. The softness of your breast against his cheek. The hands in his hair. The distant understanding that he'll be limping to work tomorrow. 

Finally, finally, Rhett's hips still, cumming with a deep, guttural noise that rattles up Bob's spine. 

Bob's pretty sure he falls asleep. Or at least blacks out for a minute or two. Because the next time he opens his eyes, he's sandwiched between your bodies once more, snuggled against the mattress, faintly aware of a Hot Wheels car driving across his skin. The tiny wheels fitting into the grooves of his rib cage.

You're fumbling with the tiny Matchbox plane that usually sits on his bedside table. An old SB-20 helicopter with rotor blades that spin as you propel them with your fingertip.

Planes. 

Images flicker through his head. For once, though, they don't surprise him. Whether he likes it or not, he knows these images oh so well. Memories burned into him for what might be forever. Likely to never fade, but...

"My pilot went into g-LOC."

Your eyes lift to meet his face. Rhett's chin hooks over his shoulder. Both listening.

"We were doing training over the ocean, and he just...slipped into it," he knows you're both there, but he can't bring himself to look at either of you. Eyes transfixed on the ceiling. "I did everything I was supposed to, but he...he wouldn't come out of it."

Rhett's lips press to his skin, and Bob can almost hear it. The tiny, nonexistent rumbling of a "go on when you're ready."

"He didn't pull his chute until the last second, 'n the damn wing of the plane about hit him," he's fighting to keep his voice from wavering, but he's not strong enough, "I swam after him to help and..."

Your hand strokes his cheek, thumb wiping away the tear that wells over. So careful, treating him like glass, like you always do. 

For once, he feels like glass, too.

"I don't know what I got caught on," even saying it out loud, none of it feels real. Like it's just a nightmare that he's been told was real. "But I got hung up on part of the plane, and it drug me under with it." 

"Your pilot went down to help you, didn't he?" Your tone is so innocent that it hurts him to hear. No. His pilot couldn't come down to help him, but he doesn't have the strength to tell you that.

Not right now, at least. "The only reason I didn't drown was because I had some little knife to cut myself loose with."

And that's it. That's all the story he can tell because his voice has left him. Leaving him unable to spare any more details and elaborate on every detail that went wrong. All he can do is open and close his mouth like a damn fish. 

"Are you okay?" Rhett's voice comes after a moment. 

He doesn't have a definitive answer for that. His body still aches, and the last thing he wants to do is climb into the back of another plane tomorrow, but...with you two here...

"I don't know," he concludes after a moment, "but I think I'm getting there."

The rental car is due back before 11 AM. 

You're not ready to leave. Lingering in the kitchen after breakfast, then again in the hallway, none of you willing to press the button to the newly repaired elevator. The three of you make it all the way down to the parking lot and get your bags shoved into the rental before it all comes crashing to a halt again.

Starts with a simple hug goodbye, but Bob can't let go of you, and Rhett's coming in to join it, and it's as if your bodies have been glued to each other. All one, big unit. Even if it's only temporary.

"I'm gonna miss you two," Bob murmurs, his voice vibrating against your neck. "I wish I could keep you all to myself."

"If you make me start cryin', you're payin' for my tissues," but based on the way Rhett croaks, you think those tears arrived a long time ago.

But your eyes aren't dry, either. "That festival is coming up again," a portion of you already knows Bob won't be able to make it, not with this new job of his. "Maybe we can all make it."

Bob's forced "maybe" is as poor of a lie as it gets.

Tearing yourselves away from each other is almost painful; you're yearning to lean in and steal one more kiss, just one tiny extra for the road, but your lips are like velcro. One more, and you may never leave. 

Bob stands in the parking lot and waves goodbye as the car starts. He doesn't stop. Waving until he completely disappears in the rearview mirror.

"Is it bad that I keep expecting to find him in the backseat?" Rhett asks after a long while. He's yet to turn the radio on, but you don't have the energy to ask him to. 

But you're having a similar thought. "Is it bad that I'm hoping he'll be there to pick us up when our flight lands in Wyoming?" And then you'll have to say goodbye to Rhett and board your connecting flight. Spend the whole trip fighting thoughts about them being there when you walk out into that big, lonely airport. 

But this airport in California is downright packed. So many cars, creating a maze that Rhett has to weave in and out of, fighting to find the rental return in the parking garage. Why the return is on the farthest side of the garage is anyone's guess. But now you're climbing out, dragging your suitcase behind you, as the pair of you cross the garage.

"Do you ever worry that he'll grow apart from us?" Rhett asks, his boots scuffing the ground, too lazy to pick his feet up all the way. "With this new job 'n all?"

You hate to say it, but... "sometimes." It's crossed your mind a lot lately. 

It's loud in this garage. 

Cars idling, voices chattering, and suitcases strolling across the concrete, all clattering together to echo through the big, open area. Doors slam, there's a baby crying, and someone's running. Their shoes slam against the ground, booming, racing against time to make their flight or return an item their passenger forgot in their car. 

"Wait!" 

Huh. That sounds like—

"Bob?" 

You don't even see his face. His body slamming into yours and Rhett's at what feels like full speed. Arms wrapping around both your waists. Yanking you against him. His glasses hit the ground. Doesn't try to pick them up.

He says something, but his voice is too muffled.

"What?" Rhett's eyes are as big as saucers. 

"Don't leave."

You don't...what? How did he get here so fast? "Bobby...you have—"

"I gave up the job," he's panting, minding his leg like it hurts him, but not a damn thing can get in between him and what he's trying to say. "They called after you left and gave me the option to leave if I wanted to."

"And you took it?" Rhett blubbers and he's got something more to say, but he falls silent.

Because Bob grins. Something wild, free, flashing through those pale blue eyes. You've never seen that before. "I'm tired of always saying goodbye because of some dumb fuckin' job."

A few more days away from work can't hurt.

This comforter set was a mistake.

It's so fucking gray. The color of ash, remnants of things broken down and destroyed beyond recognition, with no hope of ever being restored to its former glory. The very sight of it is enough to have him rolling his eyes; why did he buy this spare comforter set again? And why did he decide to put it on the damn bed?

The ocean blue comforter he's had shoved in the hallway closet is a much better color.

Bob's yet to get full dexterity back in his fingers, some pinched nerve that's still bugging him days after the incident, but he's yanking at the edges of his comforter all the same. Tugging until it's laying in a messy heap on the floor.

The spare comforter he's had shoved in his hallway closet is a much better color. A wonderful ocean blue. Plain, but it's the color of Rhett's eyes and matches the Navy shirt you keep stealing out of his closet. 

"Bobby, you ready?" Your voice echoes throughout the apartment like it has so many times before. A smile fights its way across his face, knows you're standing by the refrigerator, practically swaddled in that shirt of his. 

There's a thump at the door. "Hurry up, space boy; we're already late." Rhett's gone by the time Bob turns around, but that's alright. He'll see him by the door in a moment. 

"Just a second!" He calls out, stumbling on his own shoes as he heads toward the door. There's a dresser drawer ajar, the t-shirts inside jostled and displaced, in desperate need of refolding. His hand slips past them, reaching toward the bottom, producing a tiny wooden box. Easy to open, the two rings inside shimmering in the light. 

"Bobby, if you don't hurt up, the realtor is gonna think we bailed!" Comes your voice again. 

His hands tremble as he places them into his pocket. Hopes there isn't an outline of them as he all but trips into the hallway. These blazing lights overhead only seem to make the heartbeat in his ears grow louder. A persistent, thumping tone that nearly drowns out what you have to say when he finally steps into the kitchen.

"You ready?" Rhett's got one foot in the door, holding it open. You've already disappeared into the hallway, but the expression lacing your features suggests you're anything but annoyed with his antics.

Just like that, the ringing has stopped.

"Me?" Grinning dumbly, he ventures for the door, "Always."

[seeingteacupsindragons]

William James Moriarty: The Man Who Set Himself on Fire to Keep Others Warm

William James Moriarty has been followed by fire since chapter one. It is one of his most recurring motifs, it’s used in a ridiculous number of ways, and, Theatre Kid to Rule All Theatre Kids that he is, even he knows it.

This makes him a very good study to see what a motif can do in a story.

When I was making notes for this meta, I made a list of common things fire symbolizes in fiction. It started at 18 items, ended at 22, and I see William in all of them, so this will be a long, hopefully fun adventure!

Hit “J” if you don’t want to read about how William is the fictional human personification of the very concept of fire. We’re getting very obnoxiously figurative with language today.

The first image we get of William—the first image we get of anything in the series—is actually him hanging off a waterfall. But Sherlock is there, and we know water is connected to Sherlock much like William is to fire—and besides, that entire panel is functionally a trick and has him surrounded by water, desperate and losing a fight. When we see that scene again later, the mist rising around them is actually flame and ash, though there is nonetheless water below waiting for them.

But the first time we see fire in the series is the candles William and Louis use to set the entire manor alight. The first time William is wreathed in fire is as he’s reborn like a phoenix from the ashes of his former self and his former identity, by his hatred of abuse finally bursting into flame. The first time he comes alongside fire is when he is reborn as William James Moriarty, Lord of Crime.

Fire, then, is not who William always was. It’s who he becomes.

We don’t see fire in the series for a while after that. It doesn’t feature heavily in any of the Pre-Sherlock stories, and it doesn’t really feature heavily in The Noahtic, either. And I wonder if that’s just convenience for the narrative, or, because as we see several times later, that when William met Sherlock, Sherlock ignited a cold fireplace in his heart and brought him back to life.

William was reborn in fire, but he stayed cold ash, removed from himself and anything but his plan for many years after that. But Sherlock brought excitement back, life, passion, inspiration. All things strongly associated with…well, fire.

Okay, perhaps William wasn’t ash. But a banked hearth with hot coals waiting to be sparked back into life. Coals are dangerous as fuck. You can’t leave them unattended because they might grow uncontrollable at any time. But they also provide really very little of the same comfort and utility of a properly lit hearth. Coals are dangerous, they’re hot, but they seem quite unassuming and don’t warm a room the same way. You can’t navigate by their light. Really, I think a lot about that layers over William before Sherlock and after The Fire quite well.

I think it’s also interesting to note that William’s first play when beginning his “Plan” and drawing back the curtains was when Sherlock arrived and reignited his fire. Of course, he’d made that decision before he’d met Sherlock, but those two things lay over each almost so fully it becomes difficult to distinguish how he proceeds with his plan from how he reacts to Sherlock.

So. Along with Sherlock and the beginning of his plan, William’s fire was restoked, and with it his passion, his hope, his life, his determination were all reborn. But William doesn’t see these things as positives. He sees the flame Sherlock lit in him like the hellfire he feels he was destined for. That he felt like he might as well already be one with. Even hope makes him hurt even more.

Most of the revelation of fire doesn’t actually happen on the Noahtic. It does to William, but it’s not seen with the reader. The reader sees fire again when the Moriartys (will I ever consistently pluralize their name? Look, no one’s paying me for this) are alone without Sherlock on the case, in Baskervilles.

Interestingly, in this case, William didn’t cover the evidence with fire like he so often does. He left the evidence out in the open for the nobles to find. Because he knew the horrors left behind were so extreme that it did not matter if those who committed it were obviously murdered: those involved would cover up their own sins and know that someone knew what they were doing. Someone that didn’t like it. There was no purification to be had there. No putting to rest the innocent.

In fact, William didn’t use fire at all: Louis did.

Now, Louis’s motif is not fire. Louis is more like steel: refined and molded with the heat of fire, strengthened by its heat, but really much stronger, colder, more unyielding in some ways. Predictable, tamable, controlled in a way that fire is not and cannot be. Calmer. Still with that same underlying hint of danger, somewhere, still flexible when absolutely needed—but, well, we’re not here to talk Louis because this post is long enough when it’s just about William.

Louis isn’t fire, and when it relates to him, it’s mostly splash from his brother, but I think that makes his relationship to fire so reflective of his relationship to his brother. Louis uses fire to kill a monstrous noble, to destroy, to burn rot from the world…and as he does so, he gushes over how much he loves his brother and would do anything for him. When he was just a kid, he burned himself not for himself, but for his brother’s plan and their safety. He has a permanent reminder of what his brother means to him branded into his face, and he did it with fire.

And you know what I mentioned up there about steel becoming stronger, more flexible, purer, shaped by fire? Fire has a long history of being associated with change and rebirth. Not just because of its use in forging, but because it is so inherently a catalyst for change. A forest fire will be raze through trees, and in its wake new ones will find room to grow. Food is cooked and becomes more palatable, easier to eat. New materials will be made, things will be reshaped, strengthened, born from fire.

I think on some level, William knows this: he is turning himself into a catalyst for change for the entire British Empire, after all, burning through the monstrous nobles to make room for new lives to flourish better than they could have with toxic, towering trees poisoning the ground on which they were planted.

But I think he sometimes forgets that it’s not only potential that his flames leave behind. Things around him are changed for the better. People around him. Because of who he is, not just what he does.

Baskervilles is at its core about the Moriartys and their relationship. Yes, it’s one of the goriest acts of the series, but it’s about brotherly love. It’s Louis using fire against people torturing street kids they way he did all those years back when those street kids were himself and William. It’s about Fred coming to terms with William and being newly inspired and devoted to him. There’s a hilarious line in there from Moran about how the Hound of Baskervilles must have run off in to the woods now that his master is gone that is entirely possibly foreshadowing for The Adventure of the Empty Hearts.

All of that is because of the warm heart that William’s fiery soul brings. It brings into light that his goal is not just destruction but salvation and healing.

William’s fiery motif returns in The Man with the Golden Army. William’s not incredibly present in that arc, but when Moran is actually fulfilling William’s part of the plan, he returns to fire. His own revenge is taken with a gun, just as he thinks of himself but the plan? No, that goes to fire and covering evidence, just the way he always faithfully follows William and rededicates himself to William with that act.

And then there is that incredible panel right at the end with William, receiving the information about how Moran’s mission went and burning it while claiming ownership of Moran just as Moran wanted. This is typical for William burning evidence, but it’s also a sign of the renewal of their bond, and the dangerous, devoted hellfire they’re both spiraling toward.

We’re going to skip a bit here, because frankly most of A Scandal in the British Empire isn’t super relevant to this post. But I would like to note that when Adler first lays eyes on William, he’s illuminated in a dark tunnel waiting for her, and she can recognize him for who he is…immediately. William is often haloed in light, which is both religious imagery and fire imagery, and turns him into a light that moths flock to. He is the light in the darkness to her. She is his inspiration for a new life, and her rebirth as Bond and the catalyst for it to happen. He is safety and home.

No matter what he thinks.

In Phantom of Whitechapel, William is back to using fire to kill and destroy with his explosion he carefully set up—the same way he carefully set up the fire that would engulf the Moriarty manor all those years before. But he’s not actually using it to hide evidence of his crimes. If anything, he uses it as a calling card he knows Sherlock will recognize. And there’s probably even something to say about the way the murderers fled for water, for the river, for safety from the raging fire, but the water (and Sherlock) held no safe harbor for them.

He tends not to favor fire much for the next few arcs—perhaps he feels as though his flame is dimming, at least in all the good ways. Perhaps it’s just that the motif has really been well established. And perhaps it’s also because several of the next arcs focus more on other characters than him.

But Sherlock, ever Sherlock, brings him back to an inferno with The Two Criminals, just in time to twist and change everything William ever predicted and expected. A fire that sets William back in motion, with more determination than ever and new inspiration with a change of plans. The doubtful, uncertain William is gone and back is the raging fire.

As ever, Sherlock stoked his fire.

In The Final Problem, the loss of William comes the loss of the Moriarty manor: their home, their safe place. The family bonds that held them together. They all go to ash when William “dies” and leaves their side, and they plan to be rid of it all with him. Because in so many ways, he is those things.

And then William sets everything on fire with him, to change and blaze a new course, knowing that Sherlock will put it all out and save what needs to be saved.

In The Valley of Fellows, William finally acknowledges this symbol that’s followed him the entire time. He’s been aware of it and thought of himself that way even if the reader wasn’t aware, although I don’t think in all the ways it truly manifested. He didn’t see fire as something adaptable, changeable. As something with a thousand forms and meanings.

But Sherlock knew. And while they’re separated in that arc, the transition between their two stories comes wreathed in fire—homey, warm fires that they both look at fondly. A campfire to keep Sherlock warm and safe. A fireplace in a cozy apartment where William finds his footing once again.

And I think that fire is not just a symbol of William at that point, but their relationship. Their relationship is safe comfort and warm affection. It’s love and excitement without the edge of danger it used to have. It’s light and guidance for both of them. It is the destruction of both their roles and their renewal and rebirth as better, healthier, stronger people. It is unpredictable, uncontrollable, unmanageable, but so incredibly inspiring for them both to reach their fullest potential. So full of determination, frustration.

And when William finally runs to save Sherlock, what else is there to be seen but himself dousing his flame in Sherlock’s water to calm and temper himself?

So it’s fitting, then, that Sherlock will keep the fire, life, passion, inspiration, and every other thing fire could ever represent stoked in William. He will keep William as his best self. And in exchange, he benefits from that fire in all the ways fire can heal and help.

And so does everyone else.

[movedtodykedvonte]

How would the Lords feel if Ethan gave them his drawings of them? :D

this has been sitting here too long and I've been wanting to answer after seeing the pictures.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Very shocked and impressed by how accurate and attentive to detail Ethan is. Even more surprised how skilled he is

Feels bad as it is when they essentially crucified him and tries to gloss over that when complementing the perspective

Would show the girls and they'd all ask for him to do portraits of them. Alcina may offer to commission him for a mural of her and her daughters

Asks where he learned this skill as she understands his former occupations were not necessarily that of the arts. Kinda hints she wants him to teach her

She'd like to be able to draw her daughters

Donna + Angie

So I don't think than drew anything for the dollhouse section (which is a shame, but makes sense as Donna drugged/robbed him)

But if he had I think it is of the hide n seek section/ the baby.

Donna is intrigued at how accurately Ethan can recall her hallucinations and asks if he'd be willing to sketch another. He declines on the grounds that he doesn't wanna take hallucinogenics

Angie wants him to draw the other dolls during their tea parties like a storybook. Will give Ethan a paper and pencil and pose randomly

Donna asks if he'd be willing to sketch doll/outfit concepts for her if he has the time. (he'd make time for her)

Salvatore Moreau

goes nuts over the fact that Ethan took the time to draw him in such great detail. Like that takes a lot of looking at him that most people wouldn't be able to stomach

Hangs it on his wall like a little trophy and is super careful not to get algae or water on it. Father Ethan took his time to make that, he's not gonna make it all gross

I head-canon he (Moreau) had really pretty handwriting before , like calligraphy/script, so he pulls that out to show Ethan like "hey I use to make intricate things on paper too" Ethan is impressed as he never learned to write script or calligraphy

You can't look me in the eyes and tell me that Sal wouldn't ask Ethan to draw fanart of his favorite movie scenes, like a poster.

Ethan starts helping him with his hand motor functions by drawing! I picture the webbing makes it difficult and Moreau gets too sad to try on his own, but Ethan's encouragement helps!

Kar Heisenberg

Impressed that Ethan is good at something other than getting his hand lobed off. Jokes about how Ethan got his good side

The only one of the lords to figure he could draw as he probably did schematics or prototype designs (look i have very basic understanding of whatever Ethan’s job was, I just know engineers draw sometimes)

Karl draws a little too, mostly just sketches of the soldats or lycans but they are pretty good.

Ethan’s are clearly better though and Karl is huffy about that cause Ethan was accidently patronizing. “Wow, this is really good, is this your first one? Here’s my first. *shows like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel*”

Shows Ethan his prototypes sketches and they work on the not saw trap ones together, sometimes he’ll catch Ethan sketching the factory as it is super intricate and there's a lot to draw.

I imagine that Ethan just cuts whatever he wrote on top out so they can’t read it.

[ikeromantic]

In the Spotlight

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfiction, approx. 1700 words. This scene occurs after the events of the romantic epilogue and includes some of what happens in the part 2 introduction. Mostly fluff!

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Uncomfortable Questions

Kyubei bowed low and held the position. It wasn’t his first time to report to Nobunaga, but it was his first time to do so without explicit instructions from his lord. He was nervous, but it didn’t show. Kyubei could hold an icy composure as well as Akechi.

“Report.” Nobunaga’s tone was flat, hiding his own frustration.

Hideyoshi and Masamune weren’t trying to hide theirs. The one-eyed dragon was pacing and Toyotomi’s scowl could have peeled paint.

“There is no evidence,” Kyubei cleared his throat, “that the forces at Kasugayama are involved in the attacks on Azuchi. However -” he paused. This was the part that made him sweat. “The disappearance of Lord Akechi and the lady chatelaine coincide with the vanishing of their ninja, Sarutobi Sasuke.”

“I don’t believe it.” Masamune stopped, one hand dropping to his sword hilt. “There’s no way that ninja got the drop on Mitsuhide.”

Hideyoshi nodded. “Agreed. My guess is that they are working together.”

Kyubei interrupted. “I find that unlikely, my lord. At least, in the manner you suggest. If I may?”

Nobunaga indicated he should continue.

“My sources tell me Shingen Takeda is ill, and between the loss of his ally and his ninja, Kenshin is unstable. Seeking conflict within his own forces as well as outside. It is unlikely he is aiding Kasugayama. Though he must have known Sarutobi's absence might . . .” He frowned, wondering how much he should imply, what he could suggest.

Ieyasu saved him the need. “Mitsuhide was making plans for an extended absence. I think we should consider that he has left, with Sasuke, to visit the chatelaine’s homeland.”

Mitsunari nodded. “This would make sense. There could be something about the events of the night he disappeared that forced them to leave sooner than he expected.”

“There’s more to it, and if I know that snake -” Hideyoshi’s rant was cut short by Nobunaga’s raised hand.

“Enough. I did not wish to bare Akechi’s secrets, but Ieyasu is correct. Mitsuhide sought my permission to take the chatelaine to her home. He was uncertain how long they would be gone.”

The room exploded with sound, warlords talking over one another. Hideyoshi was ranting about safety and plots; Masamune demanded permission to seek them out. Keiji was laughing. Ieyasu and Mitsunari were relatively silent, waiting for the excitement to die down.

Nobunaga’s carnelian eyes quieted each man in turn.

When he could be heard again, Kyubei continued. “I made contact with Ranmaru. He is seeking out the forces responsible for the attack on Azuchi, along with other spies in our network.”

“Ranmaru? That boy is afraid of his own shadow. Completely unreliable,” Hideyoshi muttered, not unkindly. “He should be here.”

Kyubei couldn’t help the slight smile at that. He didn’t approve of Ranmaru’s tangled loyalties, but one could not argue with his ability to act a part. “Of course, my lord. But Ranmaru insisted. And he does have many friends to rely on for information.”

Ieyasu stood. “This doesn’t answer my questions though. Where is the chatelaine? Is she safe? When will she return? We all know Akechi has his . . . plans. I’m not worried about him. He’ll turn up when and where he wants to. But she’s -”

“You’re worried about her!” Mitsunari beamed. “I knew you were just trying to hide it when you told me-”

“Shut up.” Ieyasu glared. “I’m just . . . the enemy could use her against us. We need to know where she is.”

“Agreed,” Masamune spoke up. “I will put together a team. We’ll find her.”

“My lords, I am afraid she and Mitsuhide are beyond any team.” Kyubei sighed. “The greater concern is what this impacts and how it will be used against us. The Ikko Ikki are moving. The Mouri clan have resumed pirating, and we know it was Kichou that executed the attack on Azuchi. In addition, we have rumors the shogun in exile is drawing a new following.”

Mitsunari frowned. “Yes, I reviewed several shipment records and troop movements from old loyalist daimyo. It appears we are not done with the shogun as of yet.”

Kyubei bit his lip. The scribe they’d installed should have been satisfied to live in luxurious exile, but it seemed the old shogun’s loyalist stirred his greed. Or maybe they were using him as a puppet. He had no way to know, as the spies in Ashitaka’s court had all fallen silent.

Nounaga spoke again. “Hideyoshi, you and Keiji will pursue the Mouri. Masamune, I want you to make contact with Kasugayama. Offer a truce. See what they can offer up about their missing ninja. They may be willing to hunt down our enemies with us, as it does them no benefit to see this land descend into chaos.” His gaze fell on Ieyasu. “You will join Kyubei’s efforts to track down Mitsuhide and the chatelaine. Your research and his current knowledge will yield results.”

“May I assist Lord Tokugawa?” Mitsunari’s innocent smile could have been worn by an angel. He was completely oblivious to the sudden grimace on his friend’s face.

“You may, in your spare time. I need your mind fixed on calculating provisions, troop movements, bridges, and roads. There will be fighting soon.”

Mitsunari acquiesced with a bow.

Kyubei delivered the rest of his report, and then was dismissed. He went straight to the Akechi mansion and opened a bottle of sake. Alcohol was a vice he rarely indulged in, but today he felt like he needed it. He’d exposed some of his lord’s business without permission. He had no idea how or if this would impact Akechi’s plans. And now . . . he’d be working with Ieyasu. It would be difficult to keep the secrets he needed to keep.

He kept drinking until the room spun and the lights all wore halos. Kyubei might have kept it up, but he ran out of bottles and couldn’t make the walk to fetch more. Instead, he fell asleep, sprawled out on the floor of his lord’s office.

***

Mitsuhide felt a mix of relief and distress when his little one explained the plastic stick on the bathroom counter. It meant they were not having a child together. Not yet, at any rate. And this was good. He was in no position here to father a child. But . . .

The image of himself holding a child. His. Hers. His heart felt too big for his chest, thinking of what such a child would be like. His very own son or daughter. One with his love’s sweetness. His eyes. Her nose. His perception. It made him ache, as if he had an old bruise, a wound that hadn’t healed. Which was completely irrational.

He looked out the train window at the rapidly passing countryside. Trees. Hills. Houses. Different and not so different from the world he knew. He should be spending this time planning the next few days, not moping. Kitsunes did not mope.

“Are you ok? Are you nervous?” His little mouse put her hand on his leg, comforting.

“Yes and yes.” Mitsuhide turned his head to give her a sideways smile. “I have never had to meet the parents of my betrothed.” He had expected Nobunaga to marry a woman to him for political purpose. Some well-bred woman who knew how to run a house and had courtly manners. A woman he would never love, but could put up with, at a distance. Yet here he was.

She laughed. “It will be ok, really. I talked to okaasan and she is excited to meet you. She’s happy for us.”

“And you father?” Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure he’ll get used to the idea. He’s just . . . to him, I’m still a little kid. But I’m sure once he sees us together, he’ll come around.”

Mitsuhide was less certain about that. He’d known several fathers and they fell into two categories, most of the time. There were the men who could care less about their children beyond their use to the clan. And there were the men that treated their children as things of wonder. Not that they coddled them - but they cared. About their education, their work, their friends. He was sure his lover’s otousan fell into that second group.

The train stop came sooner than he might have liked. The two of them disembarked. There were only a handful of people getting off the train here, so it was easy to spot her parents.

They were dressed conservatively. Her father was a little shorter than Mitsuhide, and a little thicker around the middle. His greying hair was thin on top, and he wore glasses. Her mother was small and wore a smile he would have known anywhere.

The parents caught sight of them at about the same time Mitsuhide’s study of them finished.

“Otou-chan! Okaasan!” His little mouse flung herself across the platform, and was swept up in a hug from both sides. Tears ran down her face, and her cheeks were stretched in a wide smile.

Mitsuhide felt out of place in this moment of familial warmth. He had no such experience himself, and did not want to intrude either way. He stood quietly, holding their bags. Waiting as they exchanged hugs, kisses, and stammered apologies and explanations. As if they could make up for half a year apart in a few minutes.

Her father finally looked up and met Mitsuhide’s eyes. His were dark and suspicious. Protective. “You.”

His little one smacked his arm. “Be nice, papa. This is my fiancé, Mitsuhide. Mitsuhide, this is my father, Minoru, and my mother, Youko.”

Mitsuhide bowed low. “I am pleased to meet you both.”

Her father didn’t reply, but her mother did. “We are so glad to meet you too! It was such a surprise . . . our little girl . . . disappearing and then -”

“And then coming back with a weird boyfriend,” her father interrupted.

Oh yes. This was already going very well. Just as expected. Mitsuhide straightened and put on his best ‘trust me’ smile. “If there were any way we could have done it differently, I promise we would have. I hope we’ll be able to lay any worries you have to rest.”

She stepped over to his side and took his arm. “Yes, I plan on explaining everything.” His little mouse was the one to look nervous now. And no wonder. After much discussion, they’d decided on telling her family a version of the truth.

In fact, Sasuke and Miyake were supposed to come out the following day to provide backup evidence for their story. But even with that, they were asking her parents to accept a lot all at once. Mitsuhide did not see their chances of success as being very high, but for her, he would try anything.

Next: Bonding

[the-slasher-files]

hewwo :3 can I have michael (og), the ghostface duo, and bo with a shy chubby s/o pls? if u wanna write for it ofc

this is adorable... now I am the complete opposite of shy so if I missed the mark I’m sorry. Also added a few more slashers :) hope you enjoy🔪💕

MASTERLIST 

SLASHERS WITH A SHY, CHUBBY S/O

INCLUDES, JASON, MICHAEL, BO, VINCENT, BILLY & STU

JASON VOORHEES

When I say he adores you.. he FUCKING ADORES YOU

Honestly this is probably Jason’s perfect s/o ngl

You are so soft in your nature and your body so he just wants to hold you constantly, you have now become his backpack

Jason literally doesn’t care what you look like so your curves and little belly isn’t something he thinks about being insecurities

If you are insecure about parts of your body he will kiss and hold that part all the time, making sure you know he loves you and your body

Doesn’t matter what your weight is the man will pick you up with ease everyday

Jason loves LOVES your hips and that’s where his hands are always going to be

Your shy nature he finds very cute, it reminds him of himself especially when he was young and he wants to protect you at all costs

You never need to talk if you don’t want to, it’s all in the body language, Jason is mute so it doesn’t matter to him

Once when people rolled into camp you had been on a walk and ran into them. They tried to ask you questions about why you were there but you got too shy and just kind of ran away, you had been so used to not ever seeing people out here that it was extremely difficult to talk to anyone else but Jason. As you ran away you heard the teenage boys laugh and call you names

ooooh boy Jason heard that from the bushes and now you’ve made his s/o cry... Let’s just say he didn’t wait until it was dark and the scene was one of most gruesome he had ever produced

MICHAEL MYERS

Much like Jason, Mikey doesn’t care about what you look like or what your nature is, he is just obsessed

This is a giant man with inhuman strength so lifting you is literally like picking up a toy

Your shy nature soothes him from his rage and you might even be able to tame the man a little, not a lot but a little

He is quiet so your quietness will never bug him, honestly Michael will probably prefer someone quiet over someone louder... as long as you scream in terror every once and while when he is chasing you or having sex then that’s fine by him

When you are out and about with Michael stalking you, if he hears anyone talking about your curves or shy character, welp they’re gonna die.. that’s it

Even if you’re at work and your boss gets mad when you don’t speak up or lead on a project, they're dead

You are perfect to him and anyone that doesn’t see that is in for a life ending experience

Michael is a leg man all the way and loves your butt and thighs specifically. Sorry but he will mark the soft skin of our inner thigh either by his mouth, hands or with his knife, you are his and that much is clear

*slaps your thighs* *thighs giggle* *Michael smirks* he likes the giggle

When you’re falling asleep he loves to trace your stretch marks with his fingers

BO SINCLAIR  

Now now now, we all know Bo is the most cocky and superficial man ever, so when you walk into Ambrose he is floored at your different demeanour and your curvy body

Fuck he loves it... you’re so different from all the girls before

Honestly you relax him and when Bo rages things can get very ugly but once he sees you, your gentle smile and worry in your soft eyes, he melts

If you thought he was handsy with other women, boy you better sit down for this one... CONSTANTLY wandering hands from your thighs to hips to boobs to arms, man is everywhere

Bo just wants to always explore your body like a wonder because he has only had stick-thin women before. Your body is his playground

Finding your shy nature adorable he is also going to tease you about it, since he is your exact opposite

If it really bothers you, you are going to have to tell him and probably break down crying before he stops mentioning your shyness... Bo is just a chronic asshole

Trophy wall photos and belts are gone immediately if he notices you’re insecure about the women he has kept before

When people come into Ambrose and the one time you try to help lure people in, you got too nervous to speak and almost made a fool of yourself until Bo jumped in, talking about various things in the town and snaking his arm around your waist allowing you to snuggle into his clothes, hiding from the “tourists”  

Bo more often than not will have you just stay in the house while he lures people in

VINCENT SINCLAIR

When you stroll into Ambrose man goes wild when he first sees you *whispers to Bo* they’re mine

Like a lot of the other slashers, Vincent doesn’t care what you look like he just adores you in every way

We all know from the movie this boy has power, so don’t ever worry about him not being able to lift you, he just does it with ease, and all the time

Vincent has seen and “worked” with many different body shapes but there is just something about yours he cannot stop thinking about

He will make sculptures, candles and paintings of your body shape, every curve and stretch mark is art to him

Like Jason, if you’re insecure about a certain thing in your body the man will make it his favourite, could be by always holding it or drawing it. You are his most brilliant piece of art and Vincent is going to show you

Since the guy can’t or doesn’t talk you guys are going to have your own little language, from body language to signing

He will pick up on your subtleties. If you’re nervous and rubbing your palms man is going to notice. If you are feeling very shy and hanging your head Vincent is going to pick you up and bring you downstairs to the place where it is just the two of you

Your shy nature resembles his in a lot of ways, so you two just get each other

Bo might push you to be out and about when he is luring people in to make it seem more realistic, but if you don’t want to or are just to shy, Vinny is going to fight Bo on that, and fight him hard... never mess with his s/o

BILLY AND STU

They literally cannot get enough of you... talk about handsy my lord

They’re both so outgoing that sometimes it is hard for them to understand you, Billy is defiantly better at getting you but you might have to speak up to get them to notice you

With that being said, they will bring out your wild/louder side

Honestly their favourite thing is at the end of the night, watching a horror movie with you and cuddling.. you’re just so soft

Stu loves your thighs with a passion, he always has to have a hand on them, and be grabbing them and pulling them apart

Billy adores your ass and boobs, be careful of him smacking your ass all the time lol  

Good thing they’re both so outgoing because you don’t even need to speak they will happily do it for you

Since these two are very social creatures you will bring them down a notch with that, they will be just happy to chill at home with you instead of partying

If they do manage to get you out with friends, Billy will be the one to notice if you’re getting shy or nervous and he will just wrap an arm around your waist, hold you and let his scent calm you down.. sorry but Stu is sort of oblivious  

[mxvladdy]

True Form- Belphegor

*collapses dramatically* Oh Gods its done! Sorry for the break! I hope my edits are good! 

More to come in this series soon :) 

Hope y’all enjoy!

True Form- Belphegor

Keeping a defined for is hard. Too hard for him anyway.

His true form is inconspicuous. He just naturally doesn’t take up much space in the physical realm. He likes it this way though.

An overlooked predator is a dangerous one.

If he is ever seen in this form it looks like a thin film. He drapes over everything, like dust in an unopened room, or the cling of fresh dew in the morning in the rose garden.

He never uses it when awake. His human form is more palatable and functional in all honesty. Don’t get me wrong though, he doesn’t hate it. It used to be really useful when he wanted to nap and Lucifer was on the prowl. But, such good things can only last for so long. Now Lucifer can sniff him out from a mile away incorporeal or no after centuries of practice.

His real form is best implemented in the minds of his slumbering victims. He can cultivate himself there, using his form to feel out the needs and desires of his unsuspecting host.

He is a manipulator, tried and true. His cunning and wile gets him pacts more than a promise of power or wealth.

Belphegor draws them in with promises of grandeur and unexplored inventions. Limitless discoveries all at the very tips of their fingers, if only they take one more step further. One more little slip deeper into the abyss. Then they can stay sleeping forever with him.

Even as an angel he was known as a dreamer. More often then not he could be found in the inner sanctums sleeping with Beel and Lilith during lessons or being carried around by Lucifer. Back then he always had pleasant dreams or innovative ideas that the other angels made use of. The little inventor.

Now that he has fallen, nightmares come to him more often than not, uncontrollable flashes of The War, his sister’s death, and the pain of betrayal. Perhaps that was his punishment, always drowsy with no control over when he sleeps, with nothing but nightmares to accompany him.

When he has control over himself in his slumber he likes to flit around into other’s dreams. Most of the time he goes to Beel’s as they are very pleasant and help distract him from the night terrors he had just escaped from.

Sometimes when bored or pissy he jumps to Lucifer’s dreams. It’s a rare occurrence when they are asleep at the same time, but he takes absolute delight in fucking with his oldest brother’s dreams or looking for secrets to lord over him.

He doesn’t come into your dreams uninvited though. Not after you freed him. You have given him permission to. But he uses it sparingly. When he needs a break from his own head he might control when you are tired. Just so he can have some time out of his head.

He is very controlling in that retrospect. He will form the shape of your dreams at first. But, you ween him out of it. Now he trains you to lucid dream. He lets you shape your reality around you both. You don’t know it, but he is allowing you to shape him as well.  

Mini Fic

He watches you from a distance. The grassy knoll you built was bright and airy. Pink and purple flowers sway in the light breeze you created, winking at him as they move. The large willow draping over you pulls a happy little hum from your chest. The swinging branches tickling your sun kissed cheeks. You lounge sprawled out on the ground staring up at the false sun with the largest grin on your face. The rays of sunshine illuminate your prone form, casting stark shadows in its wake. They travel down the hill searching and coiling for shelter from the strong lighting. They find him, latching on to his bare feet and merge with his own disjointed outline. How apropos.

"You can come up here Belphie. Promise I won't bite." You call out into the sky. Your eyes were still closed, but you tilt your head in his direction none the less. The smile you throw down at him is more blinding than the sun you dreamt up.

“I don’t want to intrude.” He steps out from the tree line blinking owlishly. Being welcomed in a dream had been unheard of before you. The mindscape was an intimate and private space. He was meant to be an invader, a taint. Before this he had been nothing but a rogue clinging to the edges. A whisper of temptation carried on the wind, or the hollow thud of a heel echoing down an empty street. It’s different here, with you. You expected to see him or sense him in whatever form he chooses. It was-nice.

“You're never an intrusion.” Your raw honesty floors him still, even after all this time together. “Had a rough night?” You ask patting the space beside you.

“Something like that.” He murmurs dropping down next to you. He is distracted momentarily by the heat radiating off your body. “You’ve been practicing.” You beam, proud that he noticed so quickly. His lessons on dream walking and lucid dreaming were hard, but looks like they were finally paying off.

It had been difficult at first, keeping a solid detailed form while knowing you were asleep. Then trying to stay asleep while doing it. You had to fight against the instinct to wake up constantly. It was like somewhere deep inside your psyche was trying to protect you, like it knew what happened when a human ventures too far into this place. Almost like it knew that a cunning little demon was lurking somewhere down here.  

“How’d you guess?” You ask rolling onto your side. He answers by reaching out to you and dragging a soft finger down your bare arm. You shiver at the cool touch, little goosebumps awakening under his touch. Your picturesque scene wavers at the corners from his touch. The caress breaking your concentration for a moment. Belphegor smirks. “I’m still working on it!” You blush.

“I don’t mind, as long as I’m the only one that that can shake you so.” He pulls away to summon a large pillow for himself. You watch him try to get comfortable. He punches and rolls around the poof for a moment trying to get comfortable. You could tell something was troubling him. The energy in his gaze was borderline manic. His usually relaxed stature was strung taut, right on the border of snapping. He would murder you again if you said it; but he looked so much like Lucifer right now. Tight, cold, and rigid. A clear signal of distress.

“You want to take the helm?” You wave around the small scene offering him a distraction. He could expand the scene far further than you could, probably ever could. “Or do you want to let your hair down?” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. You smile at his little snort, that human saying always got him to laugh.

“Sure you don’t mind?” You shake your head and sit up. Truth be told, you liked his weird demon form. You could never entirely place where he was when he was in it, but you just knew he was there and close. It was reassuring.

He breathes a sigh of relief before flopping backward. He disappears on impact with the soft ground. The grass and flowers coming up to engulf him as he takes over.  He flows around you into every corner of your mind, stretching himself to the furthest corners of your dream. He weaves himself in your fantasy. You get swept up in it for a moment. The raw force of him pulling at your center. It is suffocating for a moment, the oppressive weight of his magic. It brings out a bone-deep weariness in you without meaning to. You feel the growing need to just rest. Just a moment.

“Back with me?” You open your eyes. When had you closed them?

“Ye, sorry.” You lean up onto your elbow and shake your head to clear the fog that still clung to it. It was always a head rush when he did that. Blinking the rest of his magic away you take in your now joint dream. The sun was gone, replaced with twin moons and awash with multicolored stars. His sky bled colors, dripping purples and blues onto the green grass around the edges of your vision. The more you focus the more the field grows and stretches. Off in the distances, tiny tents emerge, sprouting up like shoots from the blackness. “Really?” You eye the tents with a wry smile. If you strained your ear you could hear faint carnival music.

A low rumble bounces around you. “You suddenly have an issue with the circus?”

“Absolutely not!” You raise, calling out into the vastness around you. “You better make a carousel!” You could feel him chuckle around you as you began your trek down the hill.

Belphegor is quiet while you navigate the forest. He’s whole being hyper focused on building the world around your quick steps. His was divided and working overtime in an attempt to distract himself. Part of him was busy building the carnival, another working on making sure you don’t stir from your slumber, and the other awake and aware. He hasn’t done this in a while, splitting his consciousness so thin like this. His human body lumbering along in the physical world while his mind was busy in the subconscious one. Hopefully, none of his brothers were awake and would try to intervene. He wanted to be close to you, in both body and mind tonight. You reach the edge of the woods and he turns his full attention back to you.

He had gone all out for you. Bright lights and the echoing laughter of imaginary guests assault your senses. You could even taste buttered popcorn and caramel on the tip of your tongue. A warm hand takes yours causing you to jump. Belphie gives you an apologetic grin for startling you before dragging you off into the park without a word. Who knows how long the two of you spent. Time, as you understood it, worked differently here. Faster or slower you had no idea. But, right now you didn’t care. He needs you here in the present.

“So-” You start hesitantly much later in the evening. You lick at some cotton candy that had gotten stuck on your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” Belphegor shoots you a look from where he perched. His feet dangling from a study steel fence. He watches you ride the slow-moving carousel as it goes round and round in lazy circles. He mulls over what to say as you make a rotation.  

“I dreamt of Lilith again.” He admits. He comes to sit on the metal animal beside you, disappearing and reappearing in a puff of smoke at your side.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ye. Me too.” He pats the kelpie he sits on. Its listless eyes bore into his. His old nightmares reflecting in their ruby gaze. He wanted to be over this. Why wasn’t he over this? The longer he stares into the horses dead eyes the more his nightmares creep back onto him.The dream shifts around you. The air dropping in temperature drastically. The merry background noises choked off and replace with a buzzing that made your head hurt. The sound of metal striking metal and shouts start to grow at the base of your neck.  

“Belphie-” You reach out for him, cupping his face. He doesn’t notice you anymore. His mind going somewhere you shouldn’t venture. His expression turns stormy, closing off to you completely. Fear begins to build up inside of you. Something uncontrollable riding in on the fast building winds. The night sky he built changes. Stars blinking out one after another like blown bulbs. The moons swelling in size, crashing into each other as your dream begins to crumble. “Shit.” You had to wake up, and fast.

You awake with a start back in your bed. Eyes snapping open while your body lays motionless. An odd sensation of sleep paralysis locking your joints. Something radiates behind you, a lanky body drawn close to yours. Sweet breath tickles the nape of your neck. Fighting the paralysis that held you, you turn to greet your bed guest.

Belphie’s half-lidded eyes seem to look through you. His body was icy, a ghostly vapor wafted over of his pale skin. You tried to wake him but your tongue was stuck. All you could do was stare wide-eyed as he dreamt. He comes back to you slowly. His eyes twitch and roll sporadically until he blinks, drawing in a ragged breath as he comes to. His skin warms with each passing tick of your alarm clock. As your drowsy demon stirs the stiffness in your body begins to ebbs. His chokehold on your mind weakening. After what seemed like an eternity he awakens. He takes you in for a moment and then he’s on you, lurches forward to drag your pliant body to his. “Scared me for a second there Belphie.” You mutter into his soft hair.

He sighs, breathing in your scent and focusing on your strong pulse. It had been a while since he had lost control of himself like that. Building up a world was easy. Tearing it down was even easier. The thread that kept people under was thin, like a single strand of silk. To lose himself to a nightmare in another being’s head? It was unheard of. It terrified him. “Did I hurt you?” He rasps.

“No,” You reassure him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow. “I woke up in time.” He goes quiet again trying to keep his breathing steady. “Hey.” You stroke a few strands of hair from his face. “You’re thinking pretty hard there, can I help?”

Could you help? If he was losing control of his dreamscape again… He would have to tell Lucifer. A shudder runs up his spine at the thought of retraining. No, he was still strong enough to keep it under control “Just keep stroking my hair, please?” He yawns widely, lethargy hitting him hard. He drifts off to the feel of your fingers flowing smoothly through his hair. The lingering fears slip further and further from his mind with each soft caress.  

[marjansmarwani]

beyond the terror of the nightfall

4.5k || ao3

After everything, there is much healing to be done. But comfort can always be found in the ones you love. --- A (very late) 2x13 coda

Did this take me forever? Yes. But I got it done before the new episode and that's what matters. Shoutout to @justaswampdemon for helping me make sense of my own timeline, you’re the best! 

(And am I insane posting this 6 minutes before the 911 episode airs? Probably.)

----------

Things looked brighter in the morning. 

Not only because they had fallen into bed without drawing the curtains when they had finally gotten to a bed in the early hours of the morning, but because of the man laying beside Carlos; face still peaceful in sleep. He couldn’t help but stare; taking in the miracle that was TK’s rhythmic breathing. It was irrefutable proof that he was still there, that Carlos had not lost him in the chaos and fear of the night before.

He lay on his pillow, silently observing and resisting the urge to reach out and touch him for that extra layer of proof. He wanted to feel the warmth of his familiar skin beneath his fingers but he did not want to pull him from this blissful state where maybe he could forget everything that had happened, for a little while. He turned away to avoid the temptation and look around the room, taking in the details that had escaped him the night before. 

Owen Strand’s guest room was sparsely but tastefully decorated and the warm browns of the room were as comforting as any place could be. The bright sunlight streaming in told Carlos that it was well past the time he usually woke up and for a brief frantic moment he thought he must be late for work. But then he remembered that at some point during the seemingly never-ending night one of his coworkers on scene informed him that their captain had ordered Carlos to take at least a few days off and that more leave would be ready for him should he need it. 

He let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes as he tried not to think about all of the things that needed to be done. He and TK had nothing now: no home, no clothes, no wallets. Every bit of their life, no matter how important or trivial had been reduced to ash right along with their home. Carlos knew they were lucky to have even escaped with their lives; the very real fact that they almost hadn’t had haunted him since the moment the flames erupted. But now, after, he was able to see around that and consider their way forward; and he knew it wouldn’t be easy. 

The sound of TK stirring beside him pulled Carlos from his thoughts and he rolled over to see his boyfriend slowly blinking open his eyes. He tried for a smile when those eyes landed on him and received an equally unsteady one in return. 

“Good morning,” TK said softly, his voice almost a whisper as if he didn’t want the world to know they were awake yet. 

“Good morning,” Carlos replied, matching the other man’s volume even as he moved closer and pressed a light kiss onto his lips. TK smiled into it, but once they pulled apart and he took a look around at their surroundings his smile faded. 

“I remember it happening,” he said after a moment, his eyes on the sparse furnishings of his dad’s house, “I was just hoping that maybe it was a dream.” 

Carlos hummed his agreement but he slid his hand across the bed to find TK’s. He squeezed it as soon as he found it and TK wound their fingers together in response before he pulled his mind back to the present and turned so he was facing Carlos again. They lay in silence, simply soaking in the presence of each other for a long time before Carlos finally sighed and ran a weary hand over his face. 

“We have so much to take care of,” he lamented, “I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Me neither,” TK agreed, “but we can divide and conquer, I suppose. You’re not alone in this Carlos,” he reminded him earnestly, “We are in this together, 100%.”

Carlos smiled at him as warmth spread through his chest. Their home might be gone but he can’t help but feel lucky that they didn’t lose this, that he didn’t lose him. The tasks before them were daunting and he was already dreading the hours spent on the phone with the insurance company, but knowing that he has TK at his side makes it all just that much more bearable. 

“We do make a good team,” he agreed, watching as TK’s smile grew. 

They lay there for a few more minutes, soaking in the calm silence of the late morning sun and the soothing presence of each other. It’s eventually TK that moves, a groan coming from his lips as he pulls himself up. 

“I suppose we need to actually face this,” he said wryly, “but I’m going to take a shower first. Care to join me?” 

Carlos laughed at his suggestive eyebrows but shook his head, “As tempting as it is,” he told TK, “I don’t think I could knowing that your dad and Mateo are right down the hall.” 

TK gave a light chuckle and leaned down to give him a lingering kiss. When he pulled away he took Carlos’s air with him as he stood from the bed.  

“Your loss,” he told him as he disappeared out the bedroom door with one last suggestive grin. 

Carlos watched him go, still trying to find his breath. Sometimes he was just struck by how much he loved the other man. It was a thought he had often, and a thought he had had last night as the flames had raged around them. 

As he pulled himself out of the familiar bed and began to get ready for the first day in their uncertain future he knew without a doubt that no matter what came and no matter how difficult, it would be worth it. Because he still had TK and they still had each other and after that, nothing else really mattered. 

-----

It doesn’t hit him until he is in the shower, of all places. 

He and Carlos had both spent an extremely long time under the running water the night before, plying the soot and smell of smoke off of their skin with Owen’s myriad soaps and skincare products but somehow now this regular, everyday act of showering before he got ready was his undoing. 

It was inevitable, he supposed. He hadn’t really processed it after all. There had just always been another thing to focus on: getting them out safely, answering questions about what had happened, supporting Carlos. TK had been a firefighter for the majority of his adult life; fire was nothing new to him. The sights and smells and sensation of being trapped among the hungry flames hadn’t affected him like it had the other man, for which TK was grateful. Carlos was the consummate pillar; always there to lend his support, always ready for TK to lean on and he was happy to be able to return the favor. 

But eventually, he ran out the timer he didn’t even know was running. 

It’s the smallest thing that acts as the catalyst. He’s just reaching for a shampoo when an idle thought drifts through his mind: he can’t remember the name of the shampoo Carlos used. 

It had been a bit of a running joke between them that Carlos had been struggling to find a shampoo that worked with his curls. He finally had settled on one just last week, but TK couldn’t remember what it was. He needed to replace it for him, he needed to make sure Carlos had everything he needed but he couldn’t remember the name of his shampoo. 

And it’s that thought that somehow brings the reality into focus. Everything they had is gone. They needed to move forward and they needed to do it completely from scratch. Everything they had built together was gone, and there was no bringing it back. The past month of living with Carlos and building a home together had all been erased; all proof of its existence reduced to ashes.

All their memories seeped into every square inch of the house were gone and there was no getting them back. 

It’s just one tear at first, but the rest quickly follow. Before he knew it he was sliding down the wall of the shower; chest heaving and shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. He landed on the shower floor as the tears kept coming, mixing with the warm water falling around him as he put his face in his hands. 

He hadn’t let himself feel this because Carlos had needed him but now, in the privacy of the shower with the sound of the water concealing his sobs, he let it come. He cried until he didn’t have anything left in him, until all the fear and pain was gone and he only felt numb. 

Then he stood up, shut off the water, and stepped out of the shower; drying himself off and getting ready to face a new day. 

----------

Carlos stepped into the kitchen to find Owen, fully dressed and bent over the counter writing something on a notepad. He cleared his throat awkwardly as he stepped into the kitchen, not wanting to startle the older man. 

“Carlos!” he greeted cheerfully, Good morning! I was just leaving a note for you boys, I have to head out for an appointment in a bit. How’d you sleep?” 

“The room was very comfortable,” he replied, carefully skirting around all mentions of sleep and dreams. The look Owen gave him told Carlos that he wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t press. 

“I expected you both to sleep longer,” he said instead. “It was a late night and lord knows TK’s never really been a morning person. Is he up too?” 

“He’s in the shower,” Carlos answered, taking a seat on one of the stools at the counter. “We both figured we have a lot to get done so it would be best to get moving.” 

“That actually brings up something I wanted to talk to you about - well, a few things actually,” Owen amended. “The first is simple.” 

He followed his words by picking up something resting on the counter beside the paper he had been writing on. It was his credit card and when Carlos went to protest he shook his head, “Don’t even think about it. Unless one of you went to bed with your wallet last night and failed to mention that, neither of you has access to any of your accounts at the moment. We’ll get that all sorted out in time but for now I’m sure you’d appreciate having some clothes that actually fit. And don’t even think about trying to pay me back,” he added as he slid the card across to Carlos, “I can cover it, and it’s the least I can do.” 

Carlos carefully picked up the card in front of him and looked from it back to his boyfriend’s father, “Thank you, Owen.” 

Owen waved off his thanks. “It truly is the least I could do, given everything. But I’m not the only one who wants to help you two.” 

Carlos opened his mouth, ready to assure him that the 126 didn’t need to do anything, that simply being there was enough (though knowing them he was sure his assurances wouldn’t stop them) but what Owen said next was not what Carlos had been expecting. 

“I know TK talked to his mother last night and told her it was fine that she couldn’t fly down here, but if I know her she is kicking herself for that. Now, this is all up to you and TK. It’s your house and your insurance and it’s up to you how you want to handle it but don’t forget that you have a powerhouse of a Manhattan lawyer on speed dial,” Owen reminded Carlos, “don’t be afraid to call Gwyn if you think it’ll help.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to…” Carlos began but Owen shook his head. 

“None of that,” he told him firmly before his expression softened. “She hates that she can’t be here for you two and if you would like to pass on some of the legal and insurance stuff to her I know she would be happy to do it. She would probably feel better about it, knowing that she was able to help you both even if it’s just a little.” 

Carlos nodded, feeling the smallest amount of weight lift off his shoulders. There was still plenty left behind, but the knowledge that someone with a better understanding of the system could help them made it just that much easier to breathe in the face of it all. 

“Thank you, Owen. I will.” 

“Good,” Owen said with a nod. “It’ll mean a lot to her and I’m sure you won’t mind a few fewer things to deal with.” 

Carlos nodded emphatically at that and Owen grinned. His expression shifted though as he caught sight of the clock about the stove. 

“I need to go,” he said hurriedly, “I have an appointment at the hospital. Will you tell TK...I don’t want to leave before he comes down but…”

Carlos shook his head, “It’s fine, I’ll tell him. We’ll see you later.” 

Owen gave him a grateful smile, “Count on it. If you need anything while I’m gone just call me, and don’t worry about buying whatever you need because I’m not letting either of you pay me back, I mean it.” 

Then he was gone, out the door with a wave before Carlos could even open his mouth to argue. He picked up the card idly and was tapping it against the counter while his mind wandered when he heard footsteps behind him. He looked around and felt a smile spread across his face at the sight of TK entering the kitchen. It abruptly faded though when his boyfriend grew closer and he could see the telltale signs of recent tears all over his face. They were well concealed, but Carlos knew TK’s face better than his own. TK had been crying, there was no doubt.  

“Babe?” he asked gently, rising from his seat at the counter.

“I’m fine,” TK assured him in a hearty voice that did not have Carlos fooled for a second. 

“TK you are not fine,” he retorted adamantly, “talk to me.” 

“I am Carlos, really,” TK repeated firmly and Carlos went to argue again but TK kept talking. “It just all finally hit me, I think,” he told him, “that’s all.” 

Carlos could feel the panic that had sprung up at the sight of TK’s upset start to fade in the absence of any immediate threat or injury. “I’m not surprised,” he admitted softly, stepping forward to wrap his arms around the other man. “You’ve been a rock the entire time and while I appreciate it - really, I do - it was your home too.” 

TK heaved a weary sigh and wrapped his own arms around Carlos, returning the embrace. “I know that,” he said softly into Carlos’s shoulder, “but I’m okay, I swear.” 

Carlos pulled away enough to study TK’s face, to look for any sign that he was lying. When he didn’t see any he relaxed and took a breath. He knew that it would take some time for them to both move past this and that they were each going to deal with this in their own way. He also knew that this would be far from the last time they talked about this, or the last time one of them struggled. But if TK said he was fine, he was fine and Carlos would let it go - for now. 

“Your dad just left,” he said instead, stepping away from his boyfriend so he could enter the kitchen. “He had an appointment but he said he would see us later.” 

TK nodded as he crossed to the counter and pulled out two mugs before filling them both with coffee and handing one to Carlos. Carlos took it with a grateful smile and continued, “He also left his credit card and told us to buy whatever we need and was very clear that we were not paying him back. He mentioned that part twice.” 

TK shook his head fondly and Carlos grinned before he moved onto the next part of their conversation. “He also suggested we call your mom to see if she can help us with any of the insurance stuff.” 

TK looked up, surprised for a moment before his expression evened. “That makes sense,” he admitted. “If anyone knows their way around the system, it’s her.” 

Carlos grinned at that, allowing himself a quick moment of enjoyment at the thought of an unsuspecting insurance agent trying to pull one over on Gwyneth Morgan. “I think we should,” he said a beat later, “I think it could make a difference because frankly, I have no idea where to even start with all of this.” 

TK chuckled and shook his head, “Honesty, me either. I’ll call her in a little bit, see what she says.” 

Carlos nodded but secretly he was sure the answer would be yes. He was fairly certain that Owen was right, that she would do anything that felt like she could help them, especially in a way that only she could.

“We should make some time to go out for a bit,” he says instead, “get some clothes to get us through the week, get you a new phone.” 

TK grimaced at the reminder. “You’re lucky you still had yours in your pocket,” he told Carlos. “It feels so weird not having it. I feel so out of the loop.” 

Carlos chuckled and reached across the table to place his hand on top of TK’s, “That’s okay,” he assured him sweetly, “I’ll make sure you stay in the loop.” 

“My hero,” TK deadpanned, but he was grinning. 

Any further conversation was halted by the dinging of the phone in question and Carlos fished it out of his pocket, swiping it open to reveal a new message in the group chat. He put the phone down on the counter so he could see the message from Paul: Status update: everyone make it through the night? 

TK rolled his eyes fondly as messages from the others appeared, all confirming their continued existence. Carlos grinned at him before he pulled the phone closer to type out a message informing them all that yes, he and TK had in fact survived the night. The conversation quickly shifted from there and, TK reading over his shoulder as he sipped his coffee, slowly a plan began to form. 

Paul reminded them all that they had scheduled a game night for tonight and that if there was ever a time they all needed it, it was now. Marjan was quick to agree and Mateo to wonder where they were going to meet. It was Nancy who suggested the 126, reminding them that it would be abandoned for the foreseeable future and that the building had been deemed structurally sound. It was at this point Carlos felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to meet TK’s concerned eyes. 

“Would you be okay with that?” he asked softly. 

“Yeah,” Carlos responded, baffled at the other man’s concern, “why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because we barely escaped from a burning building with our lives last night.” TK reminded him gently, “I’m just making sure you’d be fine hanging out in another one.”

Carlos considered, looking back down at his phone. The messages had paused and it seemed as if everyone was waiting on him. The idea of being surrounded by the work of the arsonist who had taken their home did seem daunting, but doing it with their friends and TK at his side made it seem far less so. 

So he smiled at TK and gave him a nod before he typed his agreement into the chat. The others were clear in their enthusiasm and despite everything that lay behind them and what was still waiting, Carlos found another smile. 

He had a feeling they’d be okay after all. 

-----

Walking into his destroyed firehouse is like walking into a grave, again. 

When he first started out as a firefighter he never thought he would be forced to stand in the ruins of the place that had come to be a second home (or even a first home, at times) and contemplate the loss and tragedy of the sight before him. But he had, twice. The first time it had been silence: the emptiness of the formerly bustling kitchen, the hastily made beds in the bunk room. The knowledge that the rooms would never be filled again. 

This time it was charred walls and shattered windows; physical destruction scattered with the debris and clutter of their day-to-day lives. They were still there - still standing - but there was an illusion of safety that had been washed away, never to be fully regained again. A safe place had been violated and for that Owen was sure he would never forgive himself for being the cause. 

His flashlight caught a glint of something in the debris of his office and he reached down to pull out the lump of melted steel. He turned it over in his hand as he sank into his chair, his mind fractured between a time nearly 20 years ago and this moment. He had once walked out of hell alone; filled with the grief of losing his brothers and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again. But he had moved on and he had built new families and he had vowed to look out for them so he would never have to feel that loss ever again. In the minutes between his frantic call to Judd and the call confirming they were all safe he had nearly been toppled by the fear of that thought. He had thought that he might lose a family again, and that this time it would be his fault. 

But he hadn’t; his luck had held again. It had even carried on late into the night, saving him from losing the one thing that meant most to him in the entire world. The pure, unrestrained fear he had felt upon making the connection between Raymond’s threat and the fact that TK and Carlos - the two people both he and Gabriel Reyes cared for most - lived together, making them a perfect target, was unlike anything else he had ever felt in his life. The helplessness had almost overwhelmed him as he and Billy had raced to the scene, the guilt still did even now. 

But his luck had held once more and while he was beyond grateful - the thought of losing either of the boys was too awful for him to even comprehend - he was left now to once again wonder why. What had he ever done to make him deserve a happy outcome when Tommy didn’t get one. What made him better, more worthy of a long life, than Charles Vega? He may not have known the man for long, but he had come to know him well and he knew without a doubt that Charles had been a better man than him. Not just a better man: a better person, a better friend, a better husband, a better father. Charles Vega was better than Owen in every single aspect of life that mattered. 

Yet for some reason fate had decided that Charles’s time in this life was over; that Tommy needed to face life without her partner, their girls without their father.  

And Owen was still here, left standing once again in the ruins; wondering how to move on. 

He turned the lump of steel - a reminder and a relic - over again in his hand. There were so many skeletons in his past and sometimes he was afraid that his present was trying to match that. It was a fear that he lived with day in and day out, it was one of the things that kept him up at night and kept him turning to the tequila. He didn’t know how to shake this feeling of dread that had become his constant companion and sometimes he was afraid it would drown him. 

Sometimes he wished it would. 

There was a list of people in his head; people he couldn’t save, people who should have lived instead. He was running through the list of names (Pullman, Rollins, Rosewater, Santiago…) when the sound of loud music erupted through the silent shell of a firehouse. He frowned, glancing around as if the source would reveal itself before standing and heading down to the first floor. 

The sound of voices soon mingled with the sound of the music as he followed it to its source. He turned the corner from what had formerly been the kitchen into the skeletal remains of the lounge to see a small crowd. It was his team, and Carlos. He watched in awe as they took it in stride, as they made the most of it. He lingered off the side, beer in hand and more than content to watch and observe as they bantered and argued about foosball teams. They had all been deeply affected by everything that had happened; he had seen it in them in the immediate aftermath. He knew it had affected them each deeply in their own personal way.

But somehow, they keep moving forwards. 

He wonders vaguely when he lost that ability as he stands off to the side, watching them jostle and tease each other by the foosball table as Carlos and TK watch fondly from the sidelines, quietly seeking comfort in each other. He is amazed at their fortitude, at their propensity for healing. They have all faced so much and yet they keep coming out on the other side just as good, just as strong. Just as whole. 

He felt a smile find its way to his face as he saw TK gently rub at Carlos’s back; an almost unconscious act of comfort and support. They were fine because they had each other and as long as that was true he knew they’d be okay. 

His new team had become a family somewhere along the way and he knew that together, they could make it through anything. It’s in that moment that he decides two things: first, that the news of Charles Vega’s death could wait. These people deserved one night unmarred by tragedy and he had the power to give it to them so he would. 

The second, he decided as he watched them laughing with abandon and leaning into each others’ space - finding happiness in the literal midst of destruction - was that the best thing he could do for them is to make sure that they always had each other. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would do anything and everything in his power to make sure that stayed true, for as long as he possibly could. 

[rein-ette]

If you still fancy a drabble prompt, I've always seen Canada and England having a very warm and comfortable relationship- if it interests you, maybe a prompt could be one going to the other for advice about something?

It does indeed interest me, thank you for the prompt! I've had a bunch of Mattie-Arthur scenarios swimming around in my mind for a long time, so I'm glad to have a chance to put one of them down on paper. As always, this was supposed to be a "drabble" but magically lengthened itself the more I thought about it -- I don't think drabbles are supposed to have historical notes.

"Come in."

Matthew shifted his pile of papers to his other arm and pushed through the door of Arthur's office. Inside, the fading afternoon light illuminated the rich mahogony floor and danced on the spines of the hundreds of books that lined each wall. Remembering the excitement he felt when he was first allowed to peruse these shelves, Matthew couldn't help but smile softly to himself.

Arthur himself sat at his desk, one ankle propped up on his knee as he stared idly out the window. Matthew could just barely see a white trim of bandages that peeked out from underneath his collar. That dimmed his smile. It had been more than two years now since the war had ended in Europe, but Arthur still looked as gaunt as he did during the days when engines still roared over London and — though Matthew had not thought it possible — even more exhausted. The worn smile Arthur offered him said as much, and Matthew pushed away a twinge of guilt.

Arthur jerked his chin at the seat in front of his desk and Matthew sat, stacking his documents in a neat pile in front of him. Instead of immediately going through them, however, he gazed worriedly at his old guardian.

"How are you feeling?"

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat, dropping his leg and turning to face Matthew. He stared at the ancient, ink-stained wood of his desk for a while, and Matthew could almost see the warring emotions on Arthur's face as his desire to be honest fought with his lingering instinct to conceal and protect Matthew from the worries that plagued him. But because they were past such pretenses, he finally murmured, "Tired."

Matthew hummed sympathetically in response. There wasn't much he could do or say to change that, and he expected the reports he brought would only exhaust Arthur further. So he merely asked, "Are you remembering to apply the salve twice a day?"

Matthew flushed a little when Arthur rolled his eyes at him good-naturedly, realizing he was fussing like Arthur was his child, instead of the other way around. Thankfully, Arthur spared him further embarrasment by only answering a tad dryly that yes, he was actually capable of following simple instructions. Matthew mumbled out a reply before deciding that he might as well get on with what he was actually here for, knowing Arthur had never been one for small talk. Clearing his throat, he slid the top half of his stack of papers across the desk.

"They sent you a copy of Lord Mountbatten's plan, I think with annotations, though I haven't gone through the whole thing. And this part is the proposal for the national flag. Also," he pulled a cream letter from the pile and passed that over as well, "India asked that you be there personally, in August," he finished.

Arthur hummed and rifled through the papers. Matthew couldn't quite read his expression. After a few moments, he stacked them again and placed them to the side, with the letter on top. "Thanks. I'll go through them later."

Matthew nodded. "And here I just summarized the letters and stuff from the others. I've left them back in the box, in case you wanted to read them yourself. There's not too much going on really. That you don't already know."

"Yes. Thank you. This is a great help, Matthew, truly."

"You're welcome," Matthew murmured, and watched Arthur scan the notes before setting them aside as well. His eyes traced the shadows underneath the other nation's eyes, before dropping back down to the cotton bandages around his neck. He wondered if Arthur was sleeping at all.

"Is there anything else I can do? I'm heading back to Ottawa next week, but if you need me to take over some stuff for a bit, I can stay longer —"

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur cut him off. "Like I said, I'm just a little tired, that's all. But all this," he waved a hand at the documents , "isn't anything new."

Matthew frowned. "Isn't it?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean, I know the paperwork isn't new, but, these," he drew a breath, "reforms, and the war, of course. That's — I mean. No one's, you know, had to deal with that, before."

Arthur frowned, and traced a finger along the edge of his desk, before sighing, "No, I guess not." He turned again to look out the window behind him. After several long moments, he said, quietly, "But it's not entirely unexpected, either. I just—" The corner of his lips jerked down, and for a moment it seemed as if he was almost in pain. He drew in a breath, and said, "It's just. Difficult. That's all. To—but." He stopped again, grimaced, as if at his own ineloquence. Finally, he said, slowly, as carefully as if he was embroidering the words onto the air between them, "The world is changing. Let us not stand in the way, lest they make us out to be fools."

Watching him struggle, Matthew found himself at a loss as well. Never had he imagined that Arthur — sharp-tongued, quick-witted Arthur, who could neither be bullied nor silenced, who could quote from more books than Matthew had ever read — would be scrambling for words. But then, as he watched Arthur's shoulders curve in towards himself like Matthew had seen a thousand times before in another stubborn, sandy-haired nation who also seemed to have endless words but never quite the right ones, he knew what he needed to do.

Smiling again, Matthew stood, drawing on Arthur's arm so he would turn to face him and said, "I think you need a hug."

Unnecessarily Long Notes are Unnecessarily Long

I didn't state the specific setting of this scene, but the timing of the historical events mentioned means it has to have been sometime between June and August of 1947. Despite the fact that Mattie says "not much is going on", my lord, a lot was going on in 1947; hence why Artie is doing his best impression of the walking dead. Besides the Indian and Pakistan independence movement, officially achieved in August 1947 which is alluded to (Mountbatten, or 3 June Plan, was the precursor to the Indian Independence Act of 1947), Europe was also going through complete social upheaval. To mention just a couple highlights: Germany was in such ruin it was said to have returned to the Roman ages, Britain was rationing harder than ever despite the war having ended, and of course Mr. Truman and Mr. Stalin were gearing up for the Great Showdown. A quote I like which captures the feeling of the time is from H.G. Wells: "[where] other civilizations rolled and crumbled down, the European civilization was, as it were, blown up." [quoted by Tony Judt, Postwar]. Also directly concerning Arthur was the issue of Palestine, which as we all know was and is contentious, to say the very least.

Arthur's attitude to decolonisation is...complicated. Clearly I went with a softer view here, but certainly not all (or even many) British held the view in 1947 that the Empire should be decolonized at all. Hence Arthur during this time was probably a raging hypocrite and, if he wasn't already, at least 50% psychologically unstable. However, I allowed Arthur a little dignity here, in part because he's 2000 years old and as such should have a tiny more perspective than us humans, and also because the weakness of the Empire was much more evident to those in government and the army. Even if it wasn't popular opinion yet, anyone with half a braincell could see that every day Britian didn't decolonize was costing them more than they could afford. Additionally, Britain did decolonise much, much faster than all the other powers and in a relatively peaceful and orderly manner, though what ensued in the countries they left behind was neither. I should also add that Matthew is not the most objective of narrators either -- Canada, despite being a former colony, was still strongly Anglophilic, especially right after WWII. Still, I hope ya'll won't begrudge Arthur a hug.