#I'll be really frustrated if they fail to handle this well

[yuseirra]

trying to get back to hikaai feels and so I listened to Fatal 5am in the morning right,

it's just.. I don't get what the story wants to do with this guy,

I don't think there will ever be another being who'd love Ai as much as Hikaru does, he's in pain!! That song's just literally HIM screaming he can't live without Ai and that he misses her so badly.

In the end, Aqua's feelings towards Ai is a mixture of many feelings but what I feel.. is that it started out as an extension of his regret and caring feelings towards Sarina, he wanted to protect her (after feeling guilt-ridden for being the cause of his mother's death from having given birth to him and having chosen to walk the path of being a doc) but he couldn't, and so it led to him wanting to protect his SECOND mother and the one Sarina really cared for, he fails again, and that event led him to depression and desperation to do whatever he could for her sake,

the fact that he felt a sense of salvation after he realized Sarina was reborn as Ruby, and that his drive shifts from fulfilling Ai's wish/avenging her death into saving Ruby indicates that, Ruby is the most important precious person for Aqua (it doesn't mean that Ai is not important to him, but Ruby holds that much significance for him) If Ruby is happy, Aqua can be saved. That's how he just.. gave up on saving his dad even if that's what's Ai's wanted. Because his priorities are more about protecting Ruby, it's understandable (a bit annoying, but I get how he's like this)

For Hikaru, that very person he longs for is Ai. He's the one who has Ai as his utmost priority. He's the one who wishes to bring the dead back, the one who struggles to go on without her and has lost all the will to live without her existing, of course it has to be HIM, not Aqua, that's singing the song Mephisto and Fatal. He really can't live, he's suffering, so who did this to him? If the story just wraps up in a way that makes it seem like he's the one that's asked for it to happen and it's his fault, I wouldn't understand the heck this whole manga's trying to indicate because it CAN'T be that way. As I always say, if they were just normal students, just normal people who weren't celebrities, none of this would have happened!! He started breaking down afflicted by the harsh conditions he faced from the industry, he started as a really kind person who helped Ai. She came to love him so much that she felt he was the one she wanted to live forever with but she couldn't because she was an idol... my head hurts, they better wrap this story up in a meaningful way. I SEE AN EASY WAY TO DO IT, I SEE IT HAPPENING, What I care about is the message of this thing. The writers better send out something that at least won't be harmful to the people who are affected by that industry, I know they can do it!!

This is really sad because I do think he REALLY loved Ai. He wouldn't have broken down this bad if he didn't care about her. And.. I really can't picture Ai having chosen the wrong guy to love. Those two could have been really happy together. The writers decided to split them apart and have one murdered and another go insane, they better do something about this before the story ends lol

[tinylilacbun]

hii first i wanna say i love love love your writings and could read them for days!! im wondering if you could write a fic where rafe upsets toddler!reader so she turns to ward or rose for comfort, please?

You giggle as you toddle your way to Rafe's room, holding two drawings in your hand that you just can't wait to show him, you spent all morning to make them perfect.

As you reach his bedroom door you can hear his muffled voice through it and strain your arm for the handle, almost stumbling when it opens.

Rafe is pacing in front of his bed, phone held up to his ear and nibbling on the nail of his thumb. "I swear, I'll get you your money, you just-"

Not realizing that he's stressed you rush over to him, tugging on his shirt. "Rafey! Rafey, look!"

"I- hold on..." He sighs into the phone, holding it away from his ear for a moment. "Not now, kid."

You pout, determined to show him what you made for him, not taking no as an answer and hold the drawings up. "But look! I mades this!"

He ignores you, continuing his conversation with the person on the other line.

The frown on your face grows and you whine, stomping your foot on the ground you tug once more on his shirt, wanting your brother's attention. "Rafey-"

Suddenly he grabs your wrist and detangles your hand from the fabric. "I said not now!" He snaps at you, glaring at you momentarily until his eyes widen in realization at what he just did, his mouth opening and closing again.

Without thinking twice he ends the call, letting go of you he crouches down to console you but before he could say anything you dash out of his room again with tears tears welling up in your eyes.

Rafe curses at himself, he promised that he would never let his frustrations out on you, doesn't matter in what situation, you're his baby sister and the only person in this house to love him unconditionally and to see him as a role model.

After quickly gathering his thoughts he goes after you. As he goes down the stairs he stops in his tracks when he finds the two drawings you made specifically for him, picking them up his heart aches at the sight.

Descending the stairs he can hear your sobs coming from the living room, peering inside he sees you in his father's arms who's sitting on an arm chair and rubbing a hand up and down your back while shushing you.

Rafe's face falls at that, usually you go to him anytime you're upset but now he's the reason you are and is mad at himself for letting his temper get the better of him, again.

Since you were born he wanted and tried to do better, to make up for everything he did wrong in the past and taking you as his last chance to be a better person and he failed.

Ward locks eyes with him and Rafe gulps when he beckons him closer, not being able to read his expression.

As you hear his footsteps approach you open your eyes but turn your head away, not wanting to look at him right now and Rafe feels even worse than he already does.

He sits down on the sofa near you both, the drawings still held in his hands as he looks at them with a small yet sad smile he speaks up. "I'm- um...those drawings you made, they are really good."

You don't answer, still sniffling and fidgeting with one loose seam of your father's shirt.

Rafe sighs but continues talking, not giving up on getting on your good side again. "They're gonna look amazing next to all the others I have on my wall."

Finally you turn your head back to face him, still upset but giving him a glimpse of hope. "You keepin' 'em?"

"What, of course I am. I keep everything you make for me." He says honestly, glancing at you before back down at the paper sheets. "I think those are the best ones yet."

You lift your head a little and let Ward wipe away the remaining tears from your face, handing you over to Rafe when you reach your arms out for him.

The boy doesn't even hesitate to envelope you in his embrace, rocking you in his arms as you wrap your short arms around his neck.

Ward watches the scenes unfold before deciding to get up to leave you both alone, exiting the room with one last nod at Rafe.

When he's sure that his father is gone he kisses your head, whispering softly. "I'm sorry, for snapping at you...I really am."

You tighten your arms around him slightly. "Lub you Rafey."

He smiles at that, his hold on you not relenting. "I love you more, kid."

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu

For Rafe:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity @erikasurfer

[crispin-kreme]

the fear of loosing you ; zayne (love and deep space)

synopsis: you are rushed to the emergency room after suffering from a fatal injury from your mission, and this is not how zayne wanted to see you– not in the emergency room.

genre: angst, fluff at the end

pairings: zayne x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of blood and hospital setting, cursing (not so sure), grammatical errors

note: this is so rushed-LOL AHSHHAHA ok enjoy this is so ass but i love zayne sm THIS IS LONGER THAN I EXPECTED SO I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE WILLING TO READ THIS 🥹

tagging : @shikamiru <3

"clear!"

"page dr. zayne!"

"should we really- he'll not be able to handle this professionally seeing that his partner is the patient here"

"he's a professional! what do you mean?!"

the nurses whispered around, contemplating if they'd page dr. zayne. they weren't sure if he was going to lose it if he saw you in this emergency room. the room was filled with tension and stress. dr. greyson now raises his voice "just page him now! y/n's heart will fail at any moment now. they're losing a large amount of blood." he commanded.

dr. greyson needs to stop the bleeding as well but he needs zayne to take over with compressions.

"what seems to be the–"

his eyes, filled with shock. his breath hitches. zayne, for the first time, maybe in his life, he goes blank. he feels faint. he sees you on that hospital bed bleeding out. he sees dr greyson doing the compressions and other nurses helping him.

"zayne, get in here now!" dr. greyson grunts out. "i'll stop the bleeding. take over first with compressions" he adds. zayne rushes to take over "she needs a blood transfusion." zayne says, trying to keep calm. he grunts as he presses on your chest harder, trying to resuscitate you. zayne watches how your pressure is going down through the monitor.

he tries to keep his tears in "c-come on now." he grunts. zayne does his compressions harder until he feels your ribcage breaking from it. this was normal- he felt this most of the time but it was disturbing for him to feel it when it came to your body. that's when his tears fell. "hold on please" he whispers.

dr. greyson is able to prepare you for surgery. "zayne, can you do this operation?" dr greyson asks. but zayne kept going with compressions. "zayne, you'll break her ribcage even more." dr greyson says.

"zayne, snap out of it!"

he stops the compressions as they hook you to some life support. zayne looks at dr greyson, teary eyed. this was the first time someone has seen him like this. he was stressed, he was scared to lose you. dr greyson sighs "you're stressed. you won't do this srugery." he tells zayne. zayne feels his stomach churning as he sees you almost covered in blood.

zayne stays silent and there was no time to lose. dr greyson goes to the bed you lie at and readies you to go to the operating room. "let's go!" dr greyson commands. zayne watches them bring you to the operating room. he stays silent as he stood in place. he felt tears coming out of his eyes. he was deeply frustrated, he couldn't lose you.

zayne was pacing around his office. as it was already in the middle of the night, he wonders why the operation is taking long. suddenly, the door of his office opens and he stops at his tracks. it was dr greyson. he looks at the dr greyson, hoping for good news.

"how did the surgery go? are they well?" zayne asks hastily. dr. greyson sighs "it was complicated- they lost a lot of blood but they're alright now." he explains. zayne's eyes were filled with worry when he heard that it was complicated.

"what about their heart? their lungs?" he asks again, voice filled with worry. he remembers your injury from fourteen years ago, where you suffered a fatal injury as well. it affected your evol and your lungs (and so as your heart). dr. greyson sighs "zayne, they're alright. y/n's alright, okay?" he says.

dr. greyson speaks once more "i was hoping that you would do their post operation check." he says. zayne nods with no hesitation. "but may i see them already?" zayne asks. dr. greyson nodded "yes but- you have to rest. you've been up all night." he tells him. zayne shook his head "i'm used to it." he says and hurriedly leaves his office.

zayne walks to your room where you're confined. he feels his stomach dropped when he sees you. you were still unconscious, under the influence of the anesthesia and your body recovering. he rushes to the seat next to the hospital bed and he sits down.

he only stares. until tears fell from his eyes.

"i told you not to attend that mission. it would be bad for your health." he mutters under his breath. he wipes his tears. zayne stands up and leans in to give you a kiss on your forehead. "i shall be here when you wake up. get some rest, my love." he whispers, trying not to cry again.

did he go home? no. he stayed at his office, waiting for a page from the nurses that you've woke up or waiting for the sun to rise so he can check up on you.

his morning rounds came and he didn't get the slightest blink of sleep. zayne enters your room and you were still unconscious. he does his usual work. he checks the iv drip, he checks the heart monitor, and he checks your vitals.

zayne only sighs and sits on the chair that was beside your bed. he strokes your hair slowly, "you seem to be having a good sleep." zayne remarks. he couldn't help but tear up again. he sighs and takes his glasses off as his tears fell down again. he gently grabs your hand and holds it to his cheek.

he sinks into the warmth of your palm. his tears were still cascading down his face. "please wake up." he says, almost pleading. he stays in silent sobs. "i don't think i can handle a day with you like this." he says in between sniffles.

you feel his tears on your palm. you stirr in your sleep like state. zayne notices this and puts your hand down but still holding onto it. he watches your eyes flutter.

everything was a blur to you but you see zayne beside you. you squint your eyes for a bit "z-zayne?" you called out. zayne is overjoyed, he really is.

and he shows it- this was rare of him. he wanted to burst out in tears again. "oh god- y/n? you're awake" he says. you nod at him. zayne comes closer to observe you. "i-it hurts." you stuttered out. he nods at you "i know, i know. but you're okay now. everything's alright." he says in a hush tone.

you noticed how puffy his eyes were and how tired looking he was. "zayne, i'm alright." you said to him with a smile. your hand went to zayne's cheek once more. your thumb brushes his face. he feels this again "i thought i would loose you." zayne says as he closes his eyes, feeling your warmth again.

"i'm not going anywhere." you tell him "i love you." you blurted out.

he opens his eyes and looks at you lovingly, "i love you too."

[leggerefiore]

cw: jealousy, drabble

pairing: Colress/Reader

You gazed at the scientist. His focus was entirely on the battle playing out before him, typing away on his keyboard. The battle was intense, and his focus was truly unwavering. The Alolan sun burned above you, casting the island in a warm glow. You felt oddly desperate. The Aether Foundation kept him busy. His personal research kept him busy. You had been invited along under the promise that he would make some time in between his work for you.

Yet, here he was, still busy. Endlessly busy. Mockingly busy. Frustration ate at your heart like a Caterpie did a leaf. Why? There was so much you had to put up with to be with Colress. First of all being his involvement in Team Plasma. Your stomach still twisted at how he failed to express recourse for his actions. In his mind, it was furthering his research goals, so that was all he cared for. The only upside to it all was how much he despised Ghetsis in the end. Did you doubt his affection for you? Absolutely not. Really, the fact you had him obsessively typing away minor notes on your mood changes showed that he was much in love with you.

Still…

Your attention shifted away from the battle as you wandered off. Alola was often a honeymoon location… There was definitely no marriage between you and Colress – You frequently wondered if he cared for that even in just name. His brain functioned quite different from your own, that much was easy to ascertain. The ocean waves lapped at the shore as you stopped on the beach. Endlessly, the sea spread out. It was a beautiful sight. Closing your eyes, you wondered about various things.

“You look lonely,” a voice cut in as a man approached you. He was in swimwear and had a charming smile. “Something happen?” Perhaps it was a momentary flash of loneliness rearing its head or desperation to vent your feelings to anyone. So, you unconsciously poured out your heart, barring certain details. The man nodded as you both shifted to sitting in the sand. A gentle breeze lapsed through the air. The scent of the sea stung your nose. For a fleeting moment, you felt at ease.

“Sounds like he's a difficult guy,” he glanced at you, “… Actually, oddly, he sounds familiar.” The man tapped his lips, icy eyes glancing at the sea. You did almost feel the same about the stranger, but you could not really place him either. “Want to forget him for a while?” he offered. You glanced at him strangely and shook your head. He chuckled dryly. “Worth a shot. I could tell you'd say no, though,” he reached towards you and patted your back. It might have appeared as a hug to an outsider.

In fact – it did.

Your name was called out. Turning around, you saw a familiar face. The guy beside you seemed shocked for a moment. He moved away as Colress stepped towards you both. The expression on his face… You do not think you could recall the last time you had seen such an intense expression from him. He grasped your arm and pulled you into him. The scent of something like a chemical stung your nose.

“… Well, isn't this a surprise,” the surfer cleared his throat, “I'll be off.” He strode away with a causal ease. You felt Colress's gaze intensely locked onto him.

Then… he released you and blinked a few times.

And began typing quickly into his keyboard. You wanted to sigh.

“… what an intense feeling,” Colress remarked to himself, “Seeing him so close to you – I felt angrier than when…” He trailed off. Yellow eyes stared through you suddenly. “… Have I been neglecting your needs? I apologise.” His polite smile returned to his lips. Your hand was grasped. “How foolish of me. I should know by now how important our bond is.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Suddenly, you were embraced again.

“... I do not think I can handle the thought of you with another man…” He mumbled quietly, “I feel so panicked… this is odd.”

Well, it seemed your boyfriend was at least going to give you his full attention for now.

[1d1195]

Dolcezza VIII

Read Dolcezza here.

Here's the last part. (I actually have more but not sure if it's enough for a full part.) Maybe I'll save it for an extra, please send feedback if you think it needs more. I hope you've enjoyed 💕

Warnings: angst. more stalking. more crying. some fluff. If it helps at all, I wanted THIS part to be a cliffhanger as well (you can make your own guesses where I would have ended it, mwahahaha), and I imagine if that were the case I would have received a lot of hate messages. Hence why the last three parts were so terrifying hehehe

~8.7k words

Harry thought about the first time he met her, when he physically bumped into her. The first expression he ever saw on her face was one of pain from how she fell so hard to the ground. Then there was the night she was sick, and she looked so physically broken, Harry wanted nothing more than to take that away from her with nothing more than minestrone soup. Their argument from a few days ago also induced a sad and broken expression on her pretty face.

On Friday she worked a half-day at home, which allowed her to get her car fixed—they gave her a rental to assure her the problem wouldn’t continue since it seemed that would be the case after the last bout of car trouble. Her apartment was clean, thanks to Harry. So, all while working quietly at her desk, she had to sit with the fact that even though they were in an argument, he still took care of her. She had to find a way to apologize to him. But unfortunately, Eleanor was right: she was extremely stubborn and hurt that he went through her stuff. It was obvious that going through her stuff wasn’t the problem. She was certain Harry could move in after a month and it wouldn’t feel weird. It was very much that Harry was worried that bothered her. She wished she had hidden the picture better.

After a lot of arguing with Eleanor, they finally came to an agreement. There were a lot of tears from both parties, but Eleanor made her promise that she was the line. She apologized for not telling her and Eleanor apologized for shouting the stuff about her inability to accept help in front of Harry. The irrational part of her brain could only handle one person worrying about her. Eleanor had known her longer and understood her craziness. Harry was wonderful. He probably understood it just as well and yet she couldn’t bring herself to let him in as fully as Eleanor.

On Friday night, she laid on her sofa and watched a lineup of movies that never failed to evoke rivers of tears from her to get them out of her system. All of Saturday was spent agonizing over her frustration with not speaking to Harry, trying, and failing to read her book and mindlessly helping James and Emma with their various requests. She read Emma’s beautiful essays making her feel more overwhelmed with how much her baby sister had grown. Around noon she met James halfway to get him groceries and told him repeatedly that she was fine, just tired each time he asked her what was wrong. Returning to her apartment made her feel exhausted as if it was already midnight. But her mind wouldn’t let her sleep, which would have been preferable.

That antsy feeling she had brought her to the gym. Using the stair climber felt like hell. It was supposed to help but it made her feel worse. Sweaty and more exhausted than ever, she returned to her apartment hoping she would just fall asleep after a while. Instead of helping in the kitchen on a busy Saturday night as she often did, she stayed in, staring at the ceiling above where she was lying on the sofa.

Fortunately, Eleanor FaceTimed her. She explained all her frustration with her family. How she felt so busy and overwhelmed. Her voice cracked and her eyes welled with tears. “I’m really worried about you, babe,” Eleanor frowned. “It’s like senior year all over again,” she reminded her. She knew what she meant—an overwhelming amount of anxiety plagued her as she applied for jobs and completed her final capstone project. All while managing to help James and Ethan with their own applications for college and scholarships. She nodded unable to deny how she felt any longer.

“I know,” she whispered sadly.

“If your car is still broken, why don’t you have Harry pick me up from the airport next week? I’m sure he won’t mind,” she said it so casually and easily.

It seemed they didn’t get to that part of the conversation the other day as Harry probably intended. Sighing heavily, she put her arm across her eyes. “You can’t get mad,” she mumbled.

“Babe,” she whined with a frown and looked at her, already hurt it seemed. “Are you serious?!”

She explained everything. A month ago, about the picture and note—Eleanor was very unhappy to say the least. How she didn’t tell anyone. Then she told her how Harry cleaned her apartment for her even though they were arguing about him telling on her to Eleanor. Then he found the picture. Her ridiculous reaction and why she felt so uncomfortable with people worrying about her.

“I think I’m in love with him.” She whispered, teary and sad with her own actions.

“Obviously,” Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Maybe...I need to go down to the kitchen,” she sounded like she was suggesting a plan as she spoke to Eleanor. “I have to apologize,” she nodded decidedly. “I have to let him in and let him worry, don’t I?”

“Yes, you idiot,” her voice was devoid of emotion. “I know, really know how hard this is for you, but it’s Harry. He adores you. You can see it on his utterly expressive face. Someone like Harry can’t pretend what he’s feeling—and he wouldn’t either.”

“What if I’m bad at it? What if he doesn’t want to be with someone that’s crazy like me?”

“I’ve never seen you be bad at anything you set your mind too. Harry will forgive you. He’ll help you get better. Knowing him he’ll probably come up with a reward system of garlic bread for you if you want or kisses, if that’s your new thing with him.” She felt woozy listening to her best friend but couldn’t help but smile at the garlic bread idea. “As for not wanting you? You are crazy. Someone who isn’t in love wouldn’t worry about you the way Harry is.”

She listened as her best friend continued speaking but she couldn’t really focus on it suddenly because there was a distinct thud through the wall. A thud that she thought it had to be an actual elephant in the office because she was so sure that Antonio had the apartment sound proofed so thoroughly, that an earthquake could happen in the room next to her and she wouldn’t hear it. She tiptoed to her door, peering sideways through the peephole catching the door to the office was just barely opened.

Antonio was sick. She only knew that because she saw a picture of his sick little family on her Instagram feed earlier in the day. It was why she felt even guiltier about not going down to help in the restaurant because she knew that they would be short-staffed on a busy night without Antonio there.

So why was the door open?

She was trying to process why the door was open. She quietly stepped back from her own door, but she wasn’t in control of her own body. Her heart was beating a little faster than normal. Her brain tried to reason with her muscles that there had to be a reasonable explanation. Instead, her muscles continued moving; she pressed the volume button on her phone to turn Eleanor’s voice down even though she continued rambling about how Harry adored her and she was pretty sure he was in love with her too.

Not even the idea of Harry loving her could shake the nerves away.

“El... Eleanor,” she whispered listening intently to Antonio’s office door distinctly closing and three foreboding footsteps reaching her door. The clinking metallic sound of someone fiddling with the lock on her door came next. She had the phone pressed to her lips trying to soundlessly alert Eleanor as best she could as she scurried backwards as if the door was on fire. “El! STOP!” She hissed listening for more sound.

“What?” She could hear the eye roll in her friend’s voice. “You have to confront these emotions Harry is—” There was a low voice cursing outside her door as the lock was fiddled with more. She hurried to her bedroom with light footsteps praying it looked like she wasn’t home, closing the door as quietly as possible and then doing the same as she hid in her closet. Her heart hammered as Eleanor continued to give her all the reasons why she should just let herself love Harry. Just because she had dealt with people who didn’t appreciate her didn’t mean that Harry would be that way. In fact—

“Eleanor,” she whispered once more. But she heard the deadbolt creak open. Eleanor wasn’t listening to her. She had no choice but to end the call. Ignoring her immediate call back, she furiously texted Eleanor the scariest thing she had ever texted. She heard him creep across her living room floor. Her heart was in her throat, and she was lucky she peed right before Eleanor called when she got home from the gym, or she would have had a serious problem right then.

ANSWER THE PHONE Eleanor texted back.

She silently gulped and pressed the phone to her ear. She listened to Eleanor’s soothing voice. Her calmness despite the fact this was everything she knew Eleanor feared the first time she realized her best friend was being followed. The sound of him going through her stuff made her skin crawl. She should have listened to them; to El, to Louis, to Harry. Oh, she wished she called Harry.

Her body felt frozen with the phone against her ear. She couldn’t move. For everything she did for everyone else, she had never felt like this before. Not once had she ever been frozen in place. She never froze when she was scared—not when ten-year-old Emma broke her arm while she was bike riding and her eighteen-year-old babysitting self needed to hold it in place while James drove them to the hospital. When Ethan called saying James got in a car accident his freshmen year of college and he wrecked his car. When Dad told her that grandma wasn’t going to make it to her twenty-fifth birthday, and she should say goodbye. When Mom was worried about a strange lump she felt on her body, and she imagined life caring for her family without her mom anymore. When she promised to be the designated driver for Ethan and James and ended up standing between Ethan and another guy who had too much to drink arguing over something so ridiculous, she didn’t even remember it now.

Not once had she frozen in place like the way she was then. It was mortifying, all the fight and help she gave to everyone...it wasn’t there for herself.

“I know you can’t talk,” Eleanor whispered. She couldn’t do anything. She was frozen. If he made it to her bedroom, she wasn’t sure she would even be able to fight. That was the scariest realization of all. “I’m going to put you on hold and call Harry. I will be right back. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, hang up and dial 911.” She hoped to GOD she could manage that if came to it. Hope the frozenness would dissipate long enough to dial 911.

*

It was one of those nights where everything was going wrong, and everything was too busy. Antonio was caring for Leo, the baby, and the missus—all sick with something Leo brought home from preschool, so Harry and Niall were left in charge. Normally, the sweet girl found her way down and situate herself at a station doing the takeout orders but given the little... spat (what else could he call it?) she seemed to be avoiding him.

His phone began vibrating in his pocket without pause for three full minutes, but he literally hadn’t a second to look at it. All he wanted was for the pretty girl to appear. He wanted to apologize profusely for overstepping. He just cared for her so much. Even if she wasn’t comfortable with how he handled things, he wanted to make it better. He cared so deeply for her it hurt to be apart from her without so much as a text message between them over the last two days. He managed to see her exit a car that wasn’t hers parked in her spot. At least her car was getting fixed. But he imagined she had another busy Friday and Saturday. He wished he could have helped more. Wished he didn’t mess up and revealed that he messed it up in a way he couldn’t fix it.

The moment the orders slowed, Harry was planning to race up her steps and beg for forgiveness.

“Dolcezza Ristorante. How can—whoa. Okay, okay!" Niall pulled the restaurant phone from his ear and shoved it at Harry. He could hear the shouting before he even brought the phone near his ear.

“Hel—”

“Harry! For the love of GOD! Do you never look at your phone!?”

“I’ve been—” He barely got a syllable out before Eleanor was spewing a stream of words that were somehow one sentence. Or maybe it was five sentences. Harry lost track of nearly everything, only understanding the gravity that came from the sound of her shrieking. She only made out a scattering of the important words. His eyes widened as he processed her speech.

Harry dropped the empty dishes of finished food he was holding creating a massive mess. Everyone stopped and looked at him. “Harry?” Niall asked.

There was a breath of silence and frozenness. It was like the sizzle of the food in frying pans, the simmering of sauces in pots had all stopped making noise as well. Then he moved, running the few short steps to the kitchen door to the alleyway. “Call the police!” he shouted over his shoulder. He dropped the phone in the debris as well leaving Niall to fish it away from the broken glass and listen to Eleanor repeat the words she just said to Harry.

*

Harry was outside the back door and taking the steps upstairs two and three at a time. The door to her apartment was already open which made his stomach churn. Quickly and quietly, Harry hurried inside. The place was a mess. It was not her. If Harry hadn’t a more pressing purpose, he would have considered cleaning it up for her again, just to make her happy. All the pretty decorations and all her belongings that made it feel so homey, were overturned, or tipped over. Papers and pictures were across the floor. Like a student on their last day of school, throwing out all the papers from the year in the air like confetti. Harry felt his stomach twist again.

“Who are you?” A voice asked.

Harry turned slowly to the sound of the stranger. The one that had quietly wreaked havoc on her life for so long. Harry’s eyes dropped to the long strap of fabric in his hands. It almost looked like a tie, but it was thicker. Something that was intended to go over her eyes or wrap around her hands, he was sure. His eyes traveled back to the stranger’s face. There was something off about him. His eyes felt hollow. Like there was a misconnection between his brain and the rest of his body.

Harry hadn’t a clue what to do. But this had to be better than her trapped in the apartment with a lunatic.

“I work downstairs. We heard a commotion,” he lied, knowing Antonio added extra insulation and sound proofing to keep the sound of the restaurant out of the apartment. “Where is she?” He asked.

His answering smile was creepy—like he only learned how to smile recently. It was so discomforting Harry felt his stomach flip again with worry. His creepy smile paired with the emptiness of his eyes filling with a look of sick sense of delight made Harry’s skin crawl. It took everything in him to not have a physical reaction to his words. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Don’t know how someone can hide in a small place like this.”

“You need t’leave,” Harry ignoring the words he said. If he didn’t process them, they wouldn’t mean anything. “Now.”

“I thought I lost her,” he ignored Harry. “Then Eleanor... she came to visit and posted that picture of her. You could see the takeout bag in the background. It was a matter of time. I don’t want to lose her again.”

The man was delusional. Harry could see that. But his heart quietly broke for Eleanor, knowing she would lose her mind if she found out she was the reason her best friend was found by this guy. He silently vowed he would keep that to himself for as long as humanly possible.

“Listen. If y’don’t leave. Y’lose her. For good. If y’leave,” he swallowed. It felt like a gulp of vinegar. “Y’might get t’see her again.”

“She likes games,” he remarked rewrapping the strip of fabric around his hand. “It was like a scavenger hunt trying to find her,” he explained. “This is just another game.”

Harry tried to discreetly look for her around the open space. There was no way she was in this open room. There was nowhere to hide. Not unless she was somehow inside her sofa or under the kitchen sink. But... she had to be somewhere. There was only one real way out of the apartment and there was no way she would get through the door and down the creaky steps without him knowing after he saw her exit the rental car.

The wrought iron fire escape wouldn’t fare her much better. He would be down in the alleyway before she reached the bottom. Escaping wasn’t an option. Harry cleared his throat trying to feign innocence and help. “Can I help y’look?”

He nodded easily. Having no clue that Harry wasn’t there for anything other than making sure there wasn’t a commotion because he worked downstairs. It was very clear that he was ill. It made him sick to think she had brushed him off for so long. Played that it wasn’t a big deal. It felt horrible. All of it. Harry’s bones felt like mush.

“I need to check the bedroom and the bathroom.” That much was obvious. He had ransacked her entire apartment.

A fifty percent chance of rain was strong enough for Harry to walk around with an umbrella. When he took tests in his algebra class almost fifteen years ago, narrowing his multiple-choice questions to two choices was the best thing he could manage when he struggled with a question. The coin-flip wins he had with Niall each time they had to vacuum the main room at Dolcezza had left him with an impressive 38-102 record that he was certain the coin was always favored on his behalf.

Right now, a fifty-fifty chance may as well have been the chance of getting struck by lightning or winning the lottery.

Harry had to pick correctly.

He did a quick mental inventory of the bathroom and bedroom. Hiding in the bathroom almost made more sense. The door could lock. But if it was locked, it might make him angry—it seemed almost too obvious of a choice. He would break the door down knowing she was in there. It would be bad. The small linen closet maybe could hide her, but he wasn’t certain. His mind sprinted through the furniture in the bedroom.

“I’ll check the bedroom,” he tried not to run in there suspiciously. He checked under the bed, relieved she wasn’t in there. The tall wardrobe he had helped anchor to the wall after she decided the bookshelf was firmly in place and she had visions of the wardrobe falling on her was also empty. The only real place left that could hide a person was the closet. If she wasn’t in there, Harry would cry.

There was nothing else he could do but open it and see if he was right. It was like he was ripping a band-aid off. He yanked the door out of the way.

Harry thought about the first time he met her, when he physically bumped into her. The first expression he ever saw on her face was one of pain from how she had fallen so hard on the ground. Then there was the night she was sick, and she looked physically broken, Harry wanted nothing more than to take that away from her with nothing more than minestrone soup. Their argument from a few days ago also induced a sad and broken expression on the beautiful face he was so in love with.

Nothing compared to the look of anguish in her eyes and her shaky lower lip right at that moment he found her frozen still in her closet. Her phone was clutched to her ear in both shaky hands. Eleanor undoubtedly at the other end whispering to her to keep calm. Harry had never felt anything like the warmth spreading through his whole body seeing her pretty being there, perfectly whole, and beautiful. Whether she was terrified or not.

The relief Harry felt seeing her before him almost knocked him to his knees before her. There was nothing he wanted more than to hold her, whisk her down the steps, bring her to the kitchen, and feed her as much garlic bread, eggplant parmigiana, and minestrone soup as her heart desired.

He had to get him out of here. He gazed at her for a moment longer, his mouth pursing into a frown and he closed his eyes. “She’s not here,” he said evenly and closed the closet just as quickly as he opened it. He headed back to the main room where he noted that he had in fact, torn apart her bathroom as well. He frowned dejectedly.

“She has to be here. It’s seven-thirty. She’s always home at seven-thirty. That’s when she watches Jeopardy.”

Harry thought he was going to throw up. Knowing her schedule wasn’t something he had fully processed. “Maybe she’s not here,” he suggested.

“No, her car is in her spot. She had to get a rental while her car is in the shop.”

Harry was certain he was going to throw up.

“Maybe she hit traffic,” he tried instead.

“She always leaves time for traffic.” Harry strongly considered just slamming his head into the wall. “You’re lying,” his voice wasn’t accusatory. It was factual. Somehow that was worse. His hands tightened on the length of fabric once more.

“What?” Harry shook his head trying to feign calmness. But his heart started to speed. His fingers started to feel numb.

“She’s in there,” he sounded... excited. Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest. “Honey,” he called almost gleefully and started for the bedroom.

*

She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Or vomiting. If she made a sound she was done for. Harry knew she was here. She knew Harry was there to protect her. Even after she pushed him away because he was the first person to show her what it was like to be cared for by someone else. Someone who didn’t take advantage of her kindness. Someone who wanted nothing more than to make her feel better when she was down.

She thought she was going to collapse on the floor of her closet when Harry yanked the door out of the way. She didn’t know if it was her stalker at the time. The weight that lifted seeing someone she knew... and someone she knew would help her, crushed her. Harry looked about as pained as she felt, and she didn’t know what to do or say so she simply stood there in shock and let Harry take care of her.

She’s not here. He said closing her back in the closet.

“Oh, thank God,” Eleanor whispered to her ear.

Eleanor had called Harry who knew how many times before she called the restaurant. Within seconds of switching back to her while she hid in the closet, listening to him ransack her living room. “He’s coming,” she promised. “Niall called the police,” her voice was so quiet. “I wanted to get back to you,” she explained. “I... I don’t want him to get away,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, babe,” she could hear Eleanor’s tears and she wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but she was still frozen like a block of ice.

Hearing Harry’s warm voice feign calmness made her melt. Watching the shadowy figure in her room made her want to scream but she was still stuck in place. Eleanor was whispering comforting things. Quietly begging to no one that Harry get to her first.

Her heart was beating so fast and there was sweat on her hairline. Her phone slid in her grip with the anxiety she felt causing her hands to sweat as well. She clutched the phone to her face even harder. Listening to his exchange with Harry and Eleanor’s quiet reassurances did nothing. She was so scared. She closed her eyes as if not seeing the inside of her dark closet would make it go away. Her body was thrumming with a heartbeat that seemed to appear in every inch of muscle. It made everything ache.

“She’s in there,” his voice was excited, and the tears found their way around her hand cupped over her mouth. With her eyes still closed, she could hear Eleanor whispering something, but she was too scared to process the meaning. “Honey!” He called. Like he was home from work, and this was normal. She heard him twist the doorknob to her bedroom.

She was going to be sick.

She inhaled to scream but instead, there was a commotion then. She imagined the soundproofing failed. It surely sounded like two adult men landed hard on the floor, the thud had to have transferred through and down to the restaurant. She was shaking. Every inch of her body. She could hear more of her belongings breaking and toppling hard on the ground. It felt like her lungs were shaking inside her ribcage with each quiet breath she had to take silently. She listened to the grunting and sound of punches landing.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes, but it felt like hours.

The swears and grunting stopped. There wasn’t a sound. Then a door slammed shut. It sounded like the door to the little laundry room. “El,” she whispered soundlessly, her voice hardly loud enough to get the syllable out.

“I’m calling the police again,” she switched the line leaving her in silence. She knew it was the right thing to do, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be left alone with someone entering the room.

“Principessa?” Harry’s voice was in the room.

She was frozen, terrified. What if it was a trap? He had gotten hold of Harry, had a knife to his throat or something equally disastrous. Her hand shook against her ear wishing Eleanor was back already. She couldn’t make sense of it.

“Kitten?” He tried again, his voice was gentle.

Her knees buckled.

“M’gonna open the door, my love,” he whispered softly.

The doorknob turned.

Finally, she had strength again. Her fight, flight, and frozen abilities finally shifted from frozen to fighting. She threw herself at him hoping to knock him off his feet and out of balance. She was so worried that it was still a trick. She was going to run downstairs and into the kitchen ruining the dinner rush, but it would well be worth it.  She was too scared to process anything that was happening and she threw her bodyweight at him and threw her fists at him as best she could.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Harry gently cooed, grabbing her wrists as she tried to wrangle herself away from him now that she had thrown him off balance. “Hey, hey, Principessa,” she continued squirming and throwing weak punches at him while still terrified. She was grateful she wasn’t so scared that she couldn’t fight back after all.

Despite everything, he was so proud of her for not giving up. Even if the danger was completely gone just yet. “Hey, s’okay, now, Principessa, m’here,” he promised and gave her wrists a soft squeeze. She finally stopped, going limp in his arms as she realized she was attacking Harry and not her stalker. Harry gave her a forced smile. Mixed with a grimace. “You’re okay, kitten. M’here,” he repeated cupping the side of her face so he could lock his gaze with hers. See that it was alright, that she was safe now.

She broke.

It was a miracle she could still stand but she probably had Harry to thank for that. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered her eyes flooding with tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” she sniveled covering her face now that Harry had released her. “I thought I could... I thought I could handle it. Handle it all...” she hiccupped. “But I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I was so scared, Harry,” she whimpered. Harry knew his face wasn’t holding neutral or positive. He felt as broken as she sounded. “I’ve been tired and scared for so long and there’s been no one—” her sob choked her words.

Harry thought his heart was going to split right in the middle. If it did, he wanted to give her half of it just to make her whole again. Just to make the pain stop. He tucked her head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Oh, Principessa,” he cooed. “M’here,” he promised kissing the top of her head and soothingly rubbing his hand up and down her spine. “M’here.”

“I—” She tried to speak but the tears and emotions coursing through her stopped her vocal cords again.

“Shh, my love, shh,” he cupped the side of her face against her chest. His thumb stroked her damp cheek, and he kissed her hairline again. “M’here,” he repeated the promise. She was overwhelmed by how warm Harry was. His arm wrapped around her waist holding her tight against him. It was the first time she felt safe in hours... weeks if she was honest with herself. Harry held her silently, letting the tears and shaky sobs subside as her body shook against him. It made his chest tight with anxiety. To think she had been holding in all those emotions for so long just so others wouldn’t worry about her. “M’always going t’worry ‘bout you, kitten. Danger or no danger,” he promised.

She sniffled and pulled away from his embrace so she could wipe her hand on her cheek and Harry smudged his thumb across her other cheek brushing the tears away. Harry was scanning her face making sure he got each salty drop and every tear track off her face. As he did, she couldn’t stop staring at his concentrated expression. “I think I love you,” she whispered.

It was as if someone had put a defibrillator on his chest and shocked him. It felt like his heart was beating twice as much and he could hardly breathe as she whispered those perfect, beautiful, sweet words. His thumb stopped smoothing over her skin. His gaze dropped to her eyes again, as she looked at him, her breath shaky and she sniffled again shaking her whole body again. He started to laugh. Despite the situation, despite the worry, despite everything that was going to happen as the impending sirens got closer and closer to them. “I know I love you, Principessa,” he tilted her head up beneath her chin.

He did know. He loved her so much. It was overwhelming. The moment he laid eyes on her. The moment he touched her arms and helped her to her feet. When he had carried her things to her apartment. When she played with Leo. When she was sick. Each time she helped in the kitchen. Or when she bought him the book that he looked at for thirty seconds longer than all the rest. Every single second of knowing her, he fell more and more in love with her.

“Even though—”

He shook his head, rubbed his thumb on her lip to silence her. “I love you,” he said simply. The red and blue lights illuminated her apartment, and she heard more scary thuds ascending the staircase. “Nothing else.” She sank into his embrace and allowed herself to let go. Let someone else take care of things for a few moments.

*

The police were thorough. They stationed someone outside the building. Harry didn’t let go of her hand and wouldn’t let her leave his side. He was insistent she stay in the bedroom as they entered. They took pictures of everything in her place and Harry stood conveniently in front of the bedroom entryway while they brought her stalker outside. Harry assured Eleanor that she was okay while she cried against him. She would call back in a bit, but they had stuff to deal with.

“Thank you,” he croaked gratefully. The thankfulness he felt for Eleanor was so immense.

“Yeah, same to you,” she sniffled. “Don’t forget to call me,” she said seriously despite the sadness in her voice.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised. The police asked about a thousand questions which was exhausting in its own right. Niall finally rushed up, seeing the police bringing the guy down and he nearly got himself arrested for being so swift.

“He’s okay,” she promised with a shaky voice. They let Niall enter, who immediately gave her a huge, awkward hug because Harry wouldn’t let go of one of her hands.

“The whole restaurant is in limbo worried about you. All the regulars are worried about you,” he sighed. “I had to come up,” he explained sheepishly.

“I’m sorry—”

“Oh my God,” Harry shook his head and Niall kissed the side of her head.

“Tesorino,” he chuckled. “It’s so okay.”

“But Harry’s not—”

“Harry needs to be up here with you,” he promised. “The restaurant is very understanding,” he explained. “This isn’t something to worry about, Tesorino,” his tone was so reassuring. “M’gonna go back down and spread the good news,” he smiled. “In the morning, we’ll have breakfast, yeah?” He asked glancing at Harry briefly. He nodded quickly. She wasn’t leaving his side and she certainly wasn’t spending the night without him

She nodded with another smile. “Please.”

“I’ll cook this time,” he winked and squeezed her one more time before heading back down.

With the open door to her place, she couldn’t mistake the thundering applause the erupted from the restaurant below her. It made her tears begin to flow again. After several more questions, an EMT scanning her for any sort of damage and repeating her statement at least two more times with the help of Harry, she thought they were finally done.

“Hey!” One of the officers shouted. Harry looked the most alarmed and shoved her protectively behind him as the sound of thundering footsteps echoing up the stairs once more.

“Where is she?!” He sounded like he was going to cry.

“James?” She whispered, pushing herself from behind Harry.

“Oh, thank God,” he strode across the room, stepping on overturned debris and even though she was older than him, he lifted her off the ground. But that’s when the tears started. “Jesus Christ, Sis, why didn’t you tell me?!” He croaked. She blinked in surprise holding onto him as he crushed her to his body. Her lips parted in shock. She glanced at Harry who smirked at her with a touch of sadness in his eyes.

However, there was more commotion downstairs. “I’m her mother!” She could hear the anguish and felt it in every inch of her body.

“Oh my God,” she whispered beside James’ ear and looked up at Harry once more.

“I got it,” Harry pressed his hand on her back. Her feet were back on the floor, but James still didn’t let go. Harry quickly looked down the steps to assess the new guests. “Y’can let them up. S’her family.”

Emma looked practically animalistic, flying up the stairs, almost on all fours with the speed she took the steps.  She made it to the doorway—nearly shoving Harry out of the way and all but crawling across the floor with the momentum she had built up making her way up the steps. She flung herself at her siblings wiggling herself between James who still had not let go of his older sister for a moment. “How could you?!” Emma sobbed, muffled, and squished between her brother and sister.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “Em, I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re okay,” she hissed but remained clinging to her.

Her parents soon joined their hug asking a thousand questions that she was simply too exhausted to answer. “You don’t want to get in on this?” She asked with a watery voice. Her words floated over Emma and James who refused to let go of each side of her after a kiss on the top of her head from both her parents. Ethan was last in the room, he stood idly near them. He smirked at her question.

“Want my own hug, beautiful,” he winked. Harry snorted, ignoring the jealousy running through him because he believed Ethan was probably way more worked up than he was letting on for the sake of looking like a normal person. She felt her face warm and glanced at Harry who was smirking. “You gave us all the scare of a lifetime.”

Harry was asked to relay the story to her parents, which he did so gratefully. The shock and hurt they had on their faces realizing this was the first they knew of someone stalking their baby.

“Ethan had to drive,” Emma sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve as she finally pulled away from the embrace. James didn’t want to let go, it seemed. He stood so close to her, his arm touching her. Like he was pressing into her side.

“Sounds like you all had scarier things to deal with,” she looked at Ethan who scooped her up again lifting her off the ground the same way James had. He kissed the side of her head, and she squeezed him back. Ethan wrapped her in his embrace when he whispered something in her ear with a smile. Almost immediately, she pulled from him and punched his arm. “You always ruin something nice.”

“Sweetie, that is not funny,” her mom said tearfully turning her attention to Harry. “Thank you,” she said seriously.

She giggled, making Harry’s heart sing now that he wasn’t as worried. “It’s kind of funny.”

James hadn’t moved from her side, looking at her in awe. His oldest sister was his hero. This hurt him so much. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.

“James,” she sighed.

“No! Why didn’t you tell me? I would have—”

“There was nothing you could do, James,” she whispered. His lower lip wobbled, and his eyes filled with tears. He looked at the floor. She knew he was upset, obviously.

“One of the people at my internship, said your name out loud. I read the transcript it was Eleanor... I... I didn’t know this address. I had to look up the restaurant. I...”

“Jamie,” she hadn’t used that name since they were young. James had been James since he started kindergarten. She reached out for him again, tugged him toward her. “I’m okay,” she promised. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly, rubbing her hand up and down his back and tucked him into her embrace, holding the back of his neck as he shook with sobs.

It broke Harry’s heart knowing she was comforting her family over something that happened to her. But maybe it helped. Distracted her for the moment until she was able to deal with this. Harry wasn’t letting her go the second they left. He would comfort her the way she deserved as soon as they were gone.

Harry’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Eleanor. He said hello, flipped the camera around, and showed off the room. “Jeez, you let Ethan and James throw a party?” Her voice cut through all the comfort and tears.

“I resent that, Eleanor,” Ethan rolled his eyes.

“How are you doing, babe?” She asked with a smirk, seeing her holding James like he was her little brother again and not a foot and some taller than her.

She was still holding James who refused to remove his face from her neck. “I’m good,” she promised. “Thank you.”

“It was a team effort,” Eleanor smiled. “Think Harry deserves the biggest of thanks,” she said knowingly.

She nodded against James’ hold and looked over to Harry. “Mmm,” she hummed. “I think so too.”

*

Her family stayed in her apartment. They were insistent. Now that the pictures were taken, they were going to clean it up. All five of them. “Dibs on the underwear drawer!” Ethan said excitedly.

“You’re disgusting,” her dad grumbled.

“Can you arrest him too?” She turned to the police officer with an eye roll.

He pouted and the officer chuckled. “A guy can hope,” he shrugged helping James with the kitchen. Her mom helped her pack a bag for Harry’s, telling her how nice her place was. Even ransacked. It smelled delicious. Her dad was impressed with how the furniture was anchored to the wall and when told it was Harry’s doing, he thanked him once more for caring about his eldest.

Niall made a second trip up with a box of food for everyone to eat. Everyone sat and ate, moaning about how good everything tasted amidst the messy overturned furniture, broken glass from picture frames, and other decorative things. No one minded. Emma sat next to her as well as James who refused to let his gaze move from her.

“I’m okay,” she murmured to both. She kissed the top of Emma’s head and patted James’ knee. He shook his head holding his phone up to show him all the texts from his girlfriend.

I know you’re busy, but please keep me updated. I’ve never met her but I’m also super worried.

She frowned look at James with watery eyes. “I love her already,” she promised.

There was a lot of logistics to figure out. Her mom said they planned on leaving early in the morning to get belongings back home before returning to a hotel nearby so they could help with whatever she needed for the next couple days. “You’ll stay at Harry’s for a few days?” She asked, glancing at Harry.

“Yes,” he said before she could brush it off. “M’not...” he smirked and looked at his lap. “Don’t want her out of m’sight,” he admitted.

“Good,” everyone nodded in agreement.

“You don’t need to stay,” she assured them. “It’s really okay now.”

“Forgive me, but I have a hard time believing you now,” her mom made the same angry face that she always made. A crease between her eyebrows, a frown on the corners of her mouth.

“I know that you just went through something scary,” Emma began. “But do you think—”

“Jesus Christ, Emma!” James nearly shouted.

“Let me finish!”

“You’re such a selfish brat! You’re probably the reason she didn’t tell us with all your essays and—”

“Children—” her mother started.

“ME? You’re the one she’s been buying groceries for because you spend your money before it reaches your bank account—"

“You two knock it off!” Her dad shouted. Ethan snickered and shook his head chomping on the garlic bread that Harry honestly wanted to yank out of his hand so there was more for her to eat. She smirked and turned to Emma, her back to James, which Harry was sure felt like a slap in the face to him.

“What do you need, Em?” Harry kind of wanted to yell at Emma too for asking for something. But he waited because obviously the sweet girl knew her sister better and clearly sensed something kind at the end of her request.

“Could we make cookies together, tomorrow?” She asked, looking like the little girl that broke her arm and she had to comfort for a whole car ride.

“Yeah,” she smiled. “I’d like that,” she promised. “You two will have to help too,” she said looking at James and Ethan. James was scowling at Emma’s satisfied smile of being right.

Ethan smirked. “Would love to see you in an apron, beautiful.”

*

Harry drove her back to his place before the restaurant closed. Niall said he would hang back for longer to give them time to get settled peacefully. Harry refused to let go of her hand. It was almost eleven thirty when they parked in his driveway. The exhaustion was so heavy it was a miracle she could stand. But Harry was probably to thank for that.

There wasn’t much talking in the car, but she was glad to hold his hand. She knew they had lots to discuss but she was tired. Harry was surely tired too. He grabbed her bag. “Do you think Ethan and James should sleep in the living room?” She asked suddenly as Harry unlocked the front door. Harry could see her mind spinning rapidly. It was like she was awake again, caught a second wind from the spiral in her own mind. “Just in case? I don’t want something to happen to Emma or my mom. Oh, I’ll have to fix Antonio’s office tomorrow. Oh... oh we didn’t tell Antonio—”

“Principessa,” Harry ushered her inside and dropped her bag on the living room floor. In the same movement, he cupped her face, and looked her squarely in the eyes. He pressed his thumb on her lips, silencing her. At once, her eyes softened. The forehead crease disappeared. Harry thought this was better than winning an award just to see her relief coat her face thanks to his gentle encouragment. “S’okay,” he promised and kissed the tip of her nose. “We’re not worrying about anything else for tonight.”

“But... I feel really bad!” she pouted below his thumb making a rush of electricity throw through him where his thumb touched her lips. “I know I hurt your feelings and I wanted to talk—”

“Kitten,” he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he promised. “Y’went through something really scary—”

“So did you!”

“—and s’far as m’concerned, you are a hundred percent forgiven. M’glad you’re alright. We can discuss anything y’want in the morning,” he promised. “But we’re not worrying ‘bout anything but kissing and sleeping tonight,” his voice was so serious, and it made her flush that pink color Harry worried she wouldn’t show him after their argument. It felt like ages since he had seen it when realistically it hadn’t been more than two days.

“Well, can we worry about the shower or something? I feel like I smell terrible, and I need to get this night off me,” she wrinkled her nose cutely.

“I think y’smell good,” he chuckled tucking his face into her neck and pecking at her skin. “Can y’even stand long enough for a shower?”

“I’m not getting in your bed all sweaty and gross,” she yawned. “I’ll sleep in the shower if that’s the case.”

He smiled. “Whatever y’say, my love.”

Harry gave her a head start on the shower and texted Antonio a brief update just in case he felt better tomorrow and made it in. After a few questions and a couple more reassurances that everything was okay, Harry finally told him about the most annoying part. I’ll clean up the office... he sent a row of eye-rolling emojis as well. Followed by the vexing part. She’s worried that it’s her fault and wants to assure you it will be clean.

Harry was surprised he was awake, but maybe the kids were keeping him up with whatever illness they were feeling. Tell her to shut up and she better not or I’ll never let her have garlic bread from the kitchen ever again.

Harry smiled, stripped his clothes off, and stepped into the warm steam along with her to get the grime from the day off. “I love you,” he reminded her.

She smiled. “I love you too,” she said sweetly. He cupped her damp face, brushing the suds from her shampoo away from her eyes and he kissed her so deeply and warmly, it felt like he was putting her back together with just a kiss.

*

Harry slipped on a pair of boxers and grabbed her bag to put in his room. She sat in just a large T-shirt she had left behind and a pair of his boxers as well on the edge of his bed. Harry brushed her hair for her and put lotion all over her body massaging the back of her legs and kissing her softly once he finished. As soon as her hair was brushed and toweled dried enough that she felt comfortable laying on his bed with damp hair, she slunk into his mattress and pillows with a long, heavy sigh. Harry immediately followed suit and wrapped his body around her. He kissed the back of her head and sighed in complete happiness.

His phone pinged with a text from Niall, stretching away from her long enough to find out he was pulling down the road. He knew that Niall did so that Harry wasn’t alarmed when the light from his headlights slid over the room and made him worried when someone entered the home. He still clutched her closer as he heard Niall shuffle right by his door, still nervous. But, somehow, she was nearly snoring already.

“Principessa,” he hummed.

“Hmm?” He wasn’t sure she was even a quarter awake. Maybe it was reflex to answer.

“I love you,” he kissed the back of her head. “So much,” he murmured.

She twisted awkwardly, exhaustedly, to face him. Harry draped his arm around the front of her pulling her closer to him despite the fact she could kiss the space between his collarbone if she wanted to. Beneath the covers she curled the arm closest to the mattress against his chest and the other held onto his hard hip. Harry pressed his lips to her forehead. Holding her in place and enjoying the feel of her soft skin below his lips. “I love you too,” she answered.

“Principessa,” he whispered. “I know y��need t’sleep. M’sorry. I really need t’say this,” he brought his hand back to her face and stroked his thumb against her cheek. She almost perked up completely, like she was fully awake. Harry felt a pang of worry course through him. She was so ready to give anything and everything of herself just for him. Probably for anyone. He imagined if James or Emma called right then asking for her to come back, she would. “You don’t bother me,” his voice was quiet, but deep. It made her whole body ache to hear him say it. “Ever. I was going to come up and apologize during dinner,” he admitted.

“Oh,” she giggled every so lightly. “I was going to go down and do the same,” she responded.

He chuckled and felt relief flow through him. “Really?” She nodded against his body.

“I won’t push you away... or I won’t like that. It’s going to take some time but... I really want to be better about accepting you being there for me. I really want that. I promise. I’m so sorry, I yelled at you,” she whispered.

“S’okay, kitten. I know... I know s’not easy,” he kissed between her eyebrows and rid herself of the pinch. “You’re forgiven. M’gonna help y’no matter what. No matter how much y’might not want me to,” he chuckled softly again.

“That’s...the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said or done for me,” she nosed at his chest sighing contentedly getting ready to fall asleep wrapped in Harry’s warm embrace.

It was perfect. She was so grateful for that little apartment. That perfect restaurant. Everything. “Sweetest, Principessa?” he repeated tiredness coating his voice, but he could talk to her for hours and hours tomorrow. But for now, he wanted her to know before she fell asleep. “For you, la mia dolcezza, y’deserve all the sweetness and more.”

--

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if I put you on the wrong list, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist for more of my writing.

[prettyboypistol]

TF2 Mercs x M!Shy!Reader

Scout

Honestly likes how shy and quiet you are because it makes him seem more macho (not just for that reason ofc but still)

Likes teasing you in public with whispers in your ear or sneaky PDA that makes you jump and squeak

Jeremy is very protective and possessive. Very "Is this guy bothering you? Nah, nah, I'll kill him for fucking with my boo!"

He shows off a lot to impress you, but also is fine with failing because you either laugh at the stupidity or fuss over him after.

Soldier

Jane is a little hard headed sometimes and sometimes gets frustrated about things he doesn't understand. Like at a restaurant, he has trouble really understanding why you have issues telling the waiter your order was wrong.

Talks for you a lot (/lovingly but ohhhh my goddd)

Soldier means well and loves your more reserved nature, but he also wants to show you the world! This causes some communication issues.

Pyro

Kind of babies you a little and loves being the leader and guiding you around places

Overprotective like Scout, but a lot more supporting rather than confronting.

Shares their balloonicorn with you 🥺🥺🥺

Pyro is fine with being an introvert lover, so absolutely is fine with cuddle dates and movie nights

Demoman

This man TEASES. Like, NEVER STOPS. Scout on steroids.

Whispers dirty things in your ear in public and adds a little "Aww, why are you so flustered? Only you heard the nasty things I wanna do to you."

His favorite thing to do to you in public is put his arm over your shoulders and pull you in close- maybe just a little too close for friendly PDA- but most people brush it off as "drunken balance issues"

Loves when you squeak and squirm behind closed doors, the way you shy away from even kisses.

Engineer

Doesn't push it in public and usually gives you your space. If people give you a hard time in public, he gets rather protective in that kind southern sternness.

In private, he's a lot more lovey and sweet on you. Pet names. Kisses. Teasing.

He's not too dirty minded about the teasings since he's a little worried about making you uncomfortable. Usually he lets you make the signals before he takes initiative.

Dell loves giving you knowing looks in public to make you blush, but that's the most he'll ever do in public.

Heavy

This man keeps you safe like a baby bunny in a big bear's arms. Any attempt to even look at you is met with a glare and an escort out of the room.

Scary dog privilege energy fr. As long as you're around you don't have to worry about your orders at restaurants being wrong or people looking at you! They're all busy staring at your man!

Heavy loves picking you up and carrying you around to keep you safe- but even that is embarrassing! As you cover your face, Heavy mumbles in your ear :

"Why so nervous? You like my strength when we're alone."

Medic

RIP man, this mf is ruthless. He loves to fluster you any and everywhere he can. Your shyness is a game to him and Medic is top of the leaderboard.

Somehow he's even able to sweettalk you when under the knife! You're not sure if it was out of genuine opportunity to flirt or to see your physical heart accelerate.

Has probably pavlov'd you into blushing whenever he speaks German let's be honest

The most out and proud about your relationship. What are they going to do, fire their only good Medic?

Sniper

Since he's rather introverted himself, he's not one for PDA or flustering you in public. In private he's a little more lovey-dovey.

Mans likes smacking your ass when you walk by or when you're turned away from him. He thinks it's funny when you cover your butt when you walk by him.

Mundy likes murmuring sweet nothings only occasionally, believing that sweet words matter most when the moment is right.

He is the resident "fine, I'll be the group extrovert" between you two and usually handles social situations and talking.

Spy

Oh he thinks your shyness is absolutely adorable. You know what you want, but just can't muster up the words out of mortification? It totally gets him going to give you exactly what you want.

Flowery words, actual flowers, and frequent date nights as "business partners". Of course business partners give brief kisses before a meal- it's a French thing! (jk jk)

Has an entire mental file on what flusters you the most in each situation. His favorite way is to sneak up behind you, put his hand on your shoulder, and whispering in your ear.

He has worried about you choking in his smoking area due to all your hyperventilation, so he makes a habit of airing out the smell of cigarettes and marijuana.

[cassatelle]

Day 2 of @bucktommypositivityweek! (i don't know what to title it so i'll leave it as it is now lol. also i made this really intrusively so i hope it's decent!) 

855 words rating: general audiences tags: fluff, humor, argument, making up

“It’s a promise, Tommy. It’s important to me.” Evan said, his voice firm.

“Why can’t you just listen for once?" Tommy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. His breath heavy.

“I know what I’m doing and I’m keeping my promise. You can’t control everything I do.” Evan shot back, his eyes narrowing.

The hurt in Tommy’s eyes was palpable, but he fought to keep his voice calm. “I’m trying to look out for you, Evan, not control you.”

Evan’s jaw tensed. “Well, I can handle myself. Thanks.” He retorted. The last thing he wanted was for Tommy to feel like he was being dismissed.

Tommy bit back a retort, the tension in the room thick. Then, in the heat of the moment, he blurted out, “God, you’re acting like that stubborn old man from Up!”

For a second, Evan’s eyes widened in shock. Tommy held his breath, wondering if he’d gone too far. “Ev I’m so–”

But then, the stern look melted into laughter, his shoulders shaking as he clutched his sides. Tommy just blinked at him, confused.

“Seriously?” He said, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. “Stubborn old man from Up?”

Tommy’s frustration began to melt as he saw Evan’s amusement. His laugh cracked too as he realized how silly everything was. “In my defense, you were acting like him,” he admitted with a grin.

Evan, still chuckling, moved to sit beside Tommy and wrapped him in a hug. His laughter softened into a sincere tone. “I’m sorry for being so stubborn. I know you care about me.”

As Evan’s arms encircled him, Tommy felt the tension draining away. He couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was with Evan—how they could go from heated words to heartfelt apologies in a matter of moments. It was one of the things he loved most about their relationship. No matter how intense things got, they always found their way back to each other.

“Me too,” Tommy murmured, relaxing into the embrace. “I didn’t mean to get so worked up,” he added, his voice softer now.

Evan pulled back slightly, still smiling as he looked into Tommy’s eyes. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Tommy replied. “But you’re still not cooking with that finger, that’s final. And after all this, we deserve something better than my awful cooking. So, takeout?”

“First of all, your cooking is not awful. Second of all, from that Italian place we like?”

“From that Italian place we like,” Tommy confirmed.

Evan’s smile widened. “Sounds amazing.”

Evan did promise to make homemade pasta when Tommy told a story about his Nonna, and how he liked her homemade pasta. Evan had promised to cook it once their schedules aligned, which happened to be just 12 hours before Tommy’s next 48. Which also happened on the same day when his finger got hurt on a call an hour before. Tommy even picked him up from the hospital, all worried, doubled his guilt. And knowing his big ego (Evan would prefer ‘determined’, if you will), it was actually not surprising that it would lead to an argument. Evan chuckled as he recalled Tommy’s new nickname for him; That Stubborn Old Man from Up . Yeah, maybe he was That Stubborn Old Man from Up.

As Tommy began typing on his phone, Evan rested his head on his shoulder. He scolded himself for taking the hard route when this was all he needed in the first place. “Thank you, for picking me up earlier, and for understanding.”

Tommy sighed. He put his phone down to gently threaded their fingers together. “You know I tell you about Nonna not because I ask you to cook for me, right?”

“I know, but I still want to. I promised.”

“Of course you do. But that’ll have to wait until this heals.” Tommy’s thumb gently caresses Evan’s bandaged index, before kissing his temple, whispering an ‘I love you’.

Evan smiled softly, knowing it must be so scary for Tommy when he received the news. He looked up, shifting his gaze to Tommy. “I love you too, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just be careful next time, okay?"

They sat in silence for a moment, before Evan said, "I still can’t believe you called me an old man when you’re seven years older than me. I’m the one who should call you old man.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, “You can, in thirty years.”

Grinning, Evan teased, “Is that an invitation? Am I set to spend the next thirty years with you?”

“That depends on how well you behave,” Tommy quipped, though his lips curved.

“Hey, you made the offer, I’ve got it on record. I’ll be a very infuriating old man and there’s nothing you can do about it.” They both will be, but at least they will be infuriating old men together, Evan thought.

“Oh, I’ll manage,” Tommy said with a chuckle. “I deal with infuriating you all the time.”

Evan laughed and nudged Tommy’s shin. “Old man.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Then make me shut up.” He challenged.

And, of course, Tommy was more than happy to oblige.

[qoldenskies]

Okay okay I'll yammer about Rise!Splinter in your ask box because oh my god I cannot STAND people who legitimately villainize him on main. Like, alright, you can call him an emotionally unavailable or even slightly neglectful parent all you want, because even the show itself makes it clear that his parenting style wasn't exactly PERFECT and probably left the boys with at least a SMALL myriad of issues (Raph's parentification and Donnie's constant need for approval come to mind, though I can't say for sure whether those are entirely borne of Splinter's parenting style lmao). But I feel like so many people through trying to villainize his actions deliberately gloss over the fact that he was probably struggling with hardcore PTSD after spending a decade or more basically being forced to fight in a DEATH ARENA, not to mention probably having a good deal of body dysmorphia because he's suddenly been kind of forcefully shoved into a body that he can't even recognize as his own anymore. PTSD is a genuinely crippling condition to struggle with at times. On top of the depression he more than likely had, it'll make you not even want to get out of bed some days, and to struggle with that AND take care of four INFANTS that you've basically suddenly found yourself the sole caretaker of HAD to require a great deal of both mental and physical strength from Splinter. I'm sure he had his hard days, and the show points that out, but he was still trying his damn hardest to be there and be present for these kids, even if he fucked it up at every turn, even if he was far from the BEST parental figure that they could have had.

People can critique his parenting style as they wish (hell, even I do it), but so many depictions of him as an awful parent feel like they're glossing over the legitimate mental issues that he more than likely has, and idk sometimes I just feel like yammering about it on main

yeah like, a parent can seriously fuck you up completely unintentionally and have understandable, sympathetic reasons for it (while still not being in the right! a kid is never in the wrong for being hurt by an adult who failed them! but they're also well within their right to understand and empathize with a complicated parent who loves and changes for them!). generally im sure a lot of people who write abusive parent splinter genuinely had horrendous and abusive parents and are venting, which is why i tend not to be judgemental to people who do. characters are ultimately devices to drive a plot and if they're writing a story where they want to put them through some shit, that's one way to do it. aus are aus and allat

HOWEVER. lord does it frustrate me when people act like his behavior in the show itself is actually like that. i think its really uncharitable and unsympathetic. like if you want to see some of the things he did to them as potentially unforgivable thats fine, because if they're upset with him they dont have to forgive him, but him dealing with crippling ptsd and depression while being someone who goes out of his way to parent and change and grow while handling it just makes it idk nasty to me ,,,,

and also maybe this is just a hot take but esp. when it comes to raph and donnie i think them having more complex feelings about him makes for more compelling angst. its juicier, and i love to read stories that are empathetic towards everyone involved.

i am not a splinter defender but i will still fight splinter haters (not actually. dont fight me i will cry, i dont main tag most things anymore for a reason lmao)

[jerzwriter]

Thank you to @alj4890 for this ask from this list! I've done all three of yours, and I'll be working on the others. Thanks to all who sent in requests!

Story: Crimes of Passion (Book 1 Timeline) Trope: There's only one bed... Characters: Trystan Thorne x Carolina Rose (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,000 Summary: A rainy night, a brokedown car, and a cheap motel lead to amusement and some discoveries.

Participating in @choicesjunechallenge2024 - Car and MHotel Original prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting's "There's one bed" prompts is highlighted below

Trystan x Carolina Masterlist Complete Masterlist

If Murphy himself had created a day, it would have gone something like this. Everything that could go wrong did, and as Trystan stood in the pouring rain, intently looking for… something… under the hood of Carolina’s car, he didn't foresee it getting better.

Carolina was seated in the driver’s seat, her frustration mounting by the minute. The thought of honking the horn and making the Drakovian know-it-all jump into the stratosphere crossed her mind, which brought a smile to her face.

She looked at her watch – it was getting late. While her little fantasy may have brightened her mood, it wasn’t going to get them out of this jam. Still soaking wet from before, she stepped into the drenching rain with her jacket lifted over her head and settled at her partner’s side. 

“Trystan,” she groaned. “It’s time to give up. You can’t fix this.”

He looked at her with vexation; his desire to save the day greater than he cared to admit. 

“I just need five more minutes…”

“What will five more minutes do?” She exasperated. “I looked at it for a half hour. Now you’ve been staring at it for 20 minutes without so much as touching anything. Besides, if I couldn't get it started, you're not going to get it started."

Trystan gasped audibly, clutching his chest as if her words had delivered a mortal wound.  

“Et tu, Carolina?”

“Et tu, nothing,” she said, trying - and failing - to contain a grin. “Let’s just be real. Who is more likely to know how to fix a car? A sassy but usually broke boricua from the Bronx with a string of shitty cars and hundreds of hours of her father’s mechanical tutelage….or the spoiled little prince who was chauffeured everywhere in his personal Rolls Royce?.” 

“Hey!” He snapped back. “That’s not fair! Sometimes, I was driven in horse-drawn carriages.” 

“I rest my case!” 

In truth, Trystan was tired of being wet and cold, so Carolina quickly convinced him that the car needed an expert and probably a tow truck. After leaving a note on the dashboard, the two of them made their soggy way to a roadside motel they had passed before. 

“Are you sure there is no place more… suitable?” Trystan groused.

“We're in West Bubbafuck, Your Highness. I am sorry, no Four Seasons or Ritz-Carlton’s here.”

“I don’t require a five-star property, but I would rather not stay at the Bates Motel.”

“Well, it’s that or sleeping in the car, big boy! Personally, I’d rather not have a tractor-trailer driver careening into us at 2:00 AM. But I’ll let you make your own decisions.”

“You make entirely too much sense,” he sighed as they reached the front door of the motel’s front office.  

Carolina grabbed the door handle with a satisfied grin. “And don’t you forget that!” 

After securing a room, they walked down the outdoor corridor toward their room. 

“I can’t believe this place has only one vacancy tonight.” 

“Believe it or not, this area is pretty popular this time of year, and those who prefer not to camp, stay here. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be.” 

“Really?” 

“Look,” she said, slipping the key into the door. “As long as it’s clean, has warm beds, and functional plumbing. We’re golden!.” 

She pushed the door open, and when the room came into view, Carolina lost that edge of positivity, but Trystan laughed with delight.

It was minuscule, so small they'd have to take turns walking in some places, as side by side would be impossible. But that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was the one bed. The one twin-sized bed. 

“But look,” Trystan smirked. “The place is clean, I'll give it that.”

“Are you freaking kidding me!” She spat.

“Should I check if it’s warm,” he continued to instigate.

“I mean, one bed is one thing, but one twin-sized bed?”

“What’s the matter, Carolina?" he winked. "This is a great way for us to... bond.”

“That’s it!” She said, her hand already on the doorknob. “Being careened into by a tractor-trailer doesn’t sound that bad anymore.”

But Trystan reached over her and pushed the door shut. “Carolina, stop it. You were right; the car isn’t safe to sleep in overnight. This may be awkward, but at least we’ll be safe.”

“Awkward? I’m not concerned about awkward. Try impossible! How can the two of us fit on that thing? And this place is so small the floor isn’t even an option.”

“There’s always the bathtub,” he said, flicking the bathroom light on. “Or the shower stall?” he corrected with a sigh. “I could attempt to sleep atop that old console TV; it’s certainly big enough.”

The vision alone made Carolina laugh despite herself. “You’re not sleeping on the TV, Trystan. We’ll figure out a way to make this work.”

They took turns taking warm showers, which both had to admit felt heavenly. They also took turns using the small hair dryer to dry their underwear and shirts, their only options for sleeping that night. Trystan was sitting in the small sleeping area, holding a pair of boxers in one hand and the dryer in the other, when Carolina barged into the room, vigorously drying her hair with a towel and wearing another tied around her. They looked at each other with very distinct reactions: Carolina’s was one of amusement, but Trystan’s was... something else.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Carolina chuckled. “I bet you never thought you’d be drying your underwear by hand in a dinky little motel one day."

If she expected a reaction, she was about to be disappointed. The man sat on the edge of the bed, mouth agape, trying and failing to string a logical sentence together.

“Trystan,” she said, waving a hand in front of his face, when she finally caught on. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she laughed. “Come back to Earth. I'm sure you've seen a woman in a towel before.”

“Not this woman,” he affirmed.

Carolina looked at him with amusement. “This woman isn’t all that special.”

“I think I can draw my own conclusions on that,” he assured as a blush settled on Carolina’s cheeks.

“Fine,” she sighed. “My shirt is dry enough. I’ll put it on if it makes you feel better.”

She marched into the bathroom, shirt in hand, as Trystan contemplated how he could be so stupid.

“I don’t know if that will make me feel better... or worse... if we're being honest.”  

Carolina emerged from the bathroom in her long, white, button-front shirt, damp locks falling down her shoulders.

“You know, you were wearing no more than a towel when I met you, but I was able to keep my composure.”

Now, it was Trystan's turn to blush.

“In fairness, we were too battling one another for you to give it much thought."

“Says you,” she winked, leaving him unsure of what to think.

“Are you flirting with me, Detective Rose?”

“Me,” she chortled. “No. I’m teasing you. There is a difference. Flirting is your domain.”

“Ah, but flirting and teasing are very close cousins.”

“Then you should know I don’t speak to most of my cousins,” she yawned, pointing to the bed. “So, how are we doing this? I really need to get to sleep.”

“Here’s what we'll do. I'll lay flat on my side, against the wall, and you figure out what you can do with the rest of the bed.”

"We’re obviously going to be touching," Carolina pointed out. "There’s no way to avoid that.”

“I know," he grinned lasciviously, playfully wiggling his brows.

"OK, Casanova," she smiled while tossing a pillow at him. "That touching means nothing. Do you understand?"

“Casanova was Italian, not Drakovian," he said with mock disdain. "Do you learn anything in America?”

“I know he was Italian! That’s not the point, you know... never mind.”

Trystan jumped onto the small bed, his back uncomfortably plastered against the wall as Carolina struggled to decide how she would sleep. Facing him would be just plain awkward, but facing away was bound to lead to unintentional spooning. She finally decided to face away; at least she wouldn't have to look at him if spooning occurred.

Despite the various forms of discomfort, Carolina managed to fall asleep quickly, but Trystan had no such luck. As the hours ticked away, he had given up any hope of quality sleep, so he lay awake with a million thoughts running through his mind. He chuckled as he recalled the first time he and Carolina met and marveled over how much they had been through together in such a short time. He wondered if she thought his voracious flirtation was all a joke, just a part of his persona - because, in reality, it was in his nature. But the more time he spent with this rare and astonishing Rose, the more he knew he'd love for them to become so much more.

But, as far as he could tell, she didn’t return those feelings, and setting himself up for another heartbreak was the last thing he wished to do. It would be best to push those feelings aside and take nights like this for what they were - rare and precious gifts from the universe that he would always, always treasure.

He had just begun to doze off when Carolina's voice awakened him.

“Huh, what?” he blurted, but she didn't stir.

Incomprehensible words fell from her lips, with the rare mention of ice cream sundaes thrown in for good measure.

“Dear God," Trystan lauged. "She talks in her sleep!”

Now that free entertainment was being provided, he lost all inclination to return to sleep. He wanted to hear every unintelligible word she said, finding it equal parts amusing and adorable. It was all great fun until his heart nearly stopped... did she just say?

“Trystan,” she mumbled. “Yeah, he’s cute.”

A pompous grin appeared on his face as he validated his sleeping partner's nocturnal confession. "Naturally!"

“I don’t know,” she sleepily giggled. “Maybe one day.”

Now, he had no idea of the context. Perhaps she wanted to get an ice cream sundae with him one day? Or perhaps the topic in her head changed completely and had nothing to do with him. But Trystan was going to take the "Maybe one day" the very way he wanted. Perhaps he didn't need to give up. With hope restored in his heart, he easily drifted off to sleep.

When the morning light broke through the tiny space where the drapes didn't meet, Carolina was quick to wake. She was fully dressed and scrolling through her phone when the exiled prince began to stir.

"Good morning," she smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

He wriggled around in bed, rubbing his eyes before responding with a groggy voice.

“How do you say I slept like shit in English?”

“I slept like shit," Carolina laughed.

“Well," he said, rising on an elbow. "There's your answer.”

“I’ve already called for a tow truck, and I’m arranging a rental car. I’ll drive back to the City so you can sleep." She stood up and grabbed her purse. "I saw a little coffee shop just down the road. I'll go get us some breakfast while and give you some privacy to get dressed."

“Thank you,” he muttered, then he recalled the detective talking in her sleep. She was at the door when he called out. “Oh, Carolina?”

"Yes," she replied without turning.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?”

He watched with amusement as her shoulders slumped, and he heard her breath escape her. Carolina had forgotten about that little habit. She turned to him in horror.

“All right, what. What did I say?" She ordered. "Just get it out, how much did I embarrass myself?”

But Trystan's warm smile was quite reassuring. “Not at all,” he insisted. “Though you were talking about ice cream sundaes quite a bit. How about I get you one when we’re back in the City. I know of a great place on the Lower East Side.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that," she smiled in relief. "But I'm getting the biggest sundae they have. I don't come cheap."

"I never expected you would," he smiled, and she was gone.

He fell back into the pillows with a look of wonderment.

"Maybe one day," he smiled. "Maybe one day."

@choicesficwriterscreations

Tagging others separately.

[ironbabey]

July

Peter Parker x Reader

angst, maybe fluff?

Word Count: 1k

Inspired by the song July by Noah Cyrus

~~~~~~~~

I've been holding my breath, I've been counting to ten, over something you said

“So uh, what do ya say? Wanna give it a shot?” Please say yes please say yes please say yes-

“I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m gonna have to say no.”

No. He said no.

It took you months to work up the courage to finally tell him how you felt, ironically you told yourself the worst he could say was no. Fuck, it hurt.

You were crushed. “Oh uh, that's okay. We can just stay friends.” It’s not okay, you don’t want to be friends. Well, you do. You also wanted-no, hoped- for something more.

He smiled, god you loved that smile. It never failed to make your heart skip a beat, even breaking it at the same time.  “Glad this won’t change our friendship. I care about you a lot.” He says, you can hear the pity in his voice.

He cared, just not in the way you wanted.

I've been holding back tears, while you're throwing back beers, I'm alone in bed

You were always told rejection hurt but you didn’t think it’d be this painful. Peter went out while you were sulking in your bed. There’s more fish in the sea, right? You shouldn’t have fallen for him, everyone told you not to, and yet here you are.

How could you be so stupid?

Of course he didn’t like you.

You were nothing compared to her.

You didn't have the perfect teeth, the perfect hair, the perfect skin, the perfect...anything. You were just you.

You stupidly thought that it would be enough for him, she didn't even remember him, but you made new memories with him.

You know I, I'm afraid of change. Guess that's why we stay the same

You two were fighting now. It's your fault anyways. You lashed out on him just because he hadn’t reached out to you since that day. He's ignored your texts, calls, hell you even tried an email for the fun of it. He stilled ignored you.

The day you confessed really fucked things up.

You decided to be the bigger person and show up at his door. He would've known you were going over if he read your messages.

“I thought we agreed that wouldn’t change us. You said you wanted to be friends so why are you being such a dick?”

 “I’m being a dick? Oh, that’s real funny coming from you. I have a life full of other people, not just you. I don’t see why I have to be the one to do everything.”

You bit your lip and looked at the ground, embarrassed that you were acting childish, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

So, tell me to leave, I'll pack my bags, get on the road

Peter let out a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, the soft hair you used to play with during the times you'd study together. “I think you should go. I can’t handle this—you—right now.”

You refused to cry in front of him. “Yeah, okay.” You grabbed your bag and slammed the door shut on your way out. You fucked everything up, didn’t you?

Find someone that loves you better than I do, darling, I know

A week went by, and he finally texted you, asking you to go over and talk it out. In the end you were still his best friend, and he didn't want to lose you.

You picked up a photo that was in a beautiful golden frame on the coffee table, you knew who the woman was, Peter talked about her all the time, and it killed you. You thought he was over her.

 “What are you doing with that?” He grabbed the framed photo from your hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

You blinked back the tears that were threatening to come out, “It was just sitting here, she’s pretty. Really pretty.”

Peter smiled, “Yeah, she was. The greatest too.”

‘Cause you remind me everyday, I’m not enough but I still stay

You two sat in uncomfortable silence. He wanted to make up, wanted things to be normal again, but you had other plans. You wanted answers. “What does she have that I don’t? What’s so different?”

He groaned. “Please, don’t start this right now.”

You stood up from the couch, “No! I want to know why you’re after someone who moved on. Someone who doesn't even rem-“

“She was the only one there for me through all of it! She helped me from beginning to end! I ruined everything just to make sure she got into the school she worked so hard for!" His voice went soft, he couldn't hold back the tears that went streaming down his face. His brown eyes were hardly visible through them, "She was all I had. She was the only girl that ever looked my way and actually liked me.”

Then what am I?

I've done a lot of things wrong, Loving you being one. But I can't move on

“What?”

“Then what am I?��, you repeated deep down you knew you were being a little selfish, but he had no right to say you didn't care, “I’ve been there for you. I’ve laughed with you, cried with you, I even fought with you and you’re still tossing me aside?”

“Listen-“

“No! You listen to me! I’ve done nothing but love and care about you but clearly that’s not enough! Nothing is ever enough for you! I-I’m not enough.”

Peter stood to hug you. To tell you that you was more than enough. To tell you he was just afraid of being more than what you were now.

If you want me to leave, then tell me to leave, and baby, I'll go

You moved away from his attempted hug. How dare he cry when it was him who was hurting you? “N-No, you don’t get-get to cry.” you choked out through your own tears.

“I’m sorry please just understand.” He begged.

“Tell me to leave. Tell me you don't want to see me again and I’ll stop. I’ll leave you alone just like you want.” That’s not what he wanted, not at all. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if you left him too.

“That’s not-I want you to stay.”

You remind me every day, I'm not enough, but I still stay

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part 5 - Preparations and impressive second impressions

Since I've accepted this train isn't apparently stopping, I promise at some point this week I'll try to learn how to format things so everything looks better~

Kyle attempted to pry the specifics of what happened in the prison from you on your way back to the estate, badgering you incessantly until you waved him off with the excuse that you needed a chance to sit down for a minute with a hot cup of tea and just breathe. Today had been filled with far more excitement for you than normal and you needed a break from it all to decompress after committing an act of thievery and lying through your teeth to break a man out of jail.

You slipped inside your father's old study upon your return and remained there for some minutes, scrawling out words only to crumple them up in frustration when they wouldn't come out right. Eventually you were satisfied with your task, handing off a few marked envelopes once finished to a passing servant to have them sent out through the post. With any luck the contents inside would assure that you wouldn't eventually end up in the same place you'd just come from for your deception.

Surprisingly Kyle did not bother you for the rest of the day, having parted ways at the bottom of the stairs to 'begin preparations' for this wild endeavor. You also suspected by how quickly he skittered away from you that part of it had something to do with the fact that it was a convenient way for your cousin to avoid bodily harm for failing to mention not only knowing the man you'd just met but also the explicit details of his 'extenuating circumstances' as well. He knew you most likely wouldn't have agreed to it just based off the latter, but after all was said and done it at least gave you some slight comfort to know the ruffian in question wasn't a complete unknown.

That being said, you weren't quite ready to acknowledge the idea that part of you was bitter at the fact Kyle hadn't felt like he could be honest with you either.

It took your cousin a few days to get everything in place for your departure, certain arrangements needing to be made regarding the procurement of supplies, travel tickets, and the handling of affairs here while you were gone. It hadn't really occurred to you just how much needed to be arranged for a plan like this - though to be fair this wasn't exactly your idea in the first place. You may have been the one to bring the artifact up in casual conversation, but he was the one dragging you along as always on this little adventure. Let him fuss over the details. Your area of expertise was within the city itself.

You also knew he would never say anything to you outloud, but you'd be surprised if he hadn't also left instructions for what to do should the worst happen and neither one of you returned. You might have lived a comfortably sheltered life up until this point, but that didn't mean you were naive enough to not realize the foolish dangers you were putting yourselves in either.

Kyle was a decorated war veteran and a man you could implicitly trust with your protection, his comrade just as fearsome if the stories weren't grossly overembellished. That didn't mean the three of you were invincible...

Still, what were the odds that the one person who could lead you to the lost City of the Dead just so happened to be him?

There were a handful of men that your cousin talked about often in years past, but MacTavish's name had come up in conversation far more frequently than the rest. Sure it was obvious that the two of them induced troublemaking tendencies within each other, but it wasn't all mischief and hijinks that he spoke of. There was an honest account of bravery in Kyle's recollections. For as uncouth as he made the man out to be at times, you couldn't deny having previously felt a sense of comfort when letters arrived home from distant battlefields of hard fought victories with John at his side. You'd trusted him enough to to look after your cousin back then.

But how well did Kyle really know this man now? It had been some years since the two of them would've served together, an awful long time for a person to change. How did he know that John was going to be the same soldier that once pushed him out of the way of enemy fire and took a bullet in the side meant for your cousin's heart? He obviously wasn't employed in his His Majesty's service anymore. Did he leave with a medal on his chest or was he dishonorably discharged? His previous incarceration suggested towards the latter, certainly not doing him any favors to earn your confidence in any case.

You were putting an awful lot of faith in this man. Let's just hope by the end of this that you wouldn't be proven wrong.

The servants helped you gather up your belongings the morning of your departure while your lady's maid got you situated, meeting your cousin at the car with a look that said he wasn't quite out of the dog house yet but that there were more pressing thoughts on your mind.

There was a nervous excitement bubbling in the pit of your stomach; you'd never done anything like this before. All travels with your family in the past tended to only go between Cairo and London and only for special occasions. This would be the first place you've gone to that was wholly and completely unfamiliar. Uncharted territory in every sense of the word.

The pier was crowded but not overly so, full of bustling tourists and merchants hauling in their wares. You stuck close to Kyle, your arm looped through his as he guided you down the docks towards the boat he chartered for you upriver. You'd kept your eye out for your third companion, the pessimist in you doubting he would even show. Why risk his life on a foolhardy endeavor when he'd just been granted his freedom?

"You trust my judgement so little you think I'd employ a man to help us who I thought wasn't up to it?" Kyle grinned down at you, amusement clear in his tone as he guided you out of the way of a fisherman passing by.

"Well I don't know," you replied in gentle exasperation, sidestepping a shipment of barrels smelling pungently of oil. "You obviously have more experience with him than I do, but I'm just saying: have you even minutely considered the possibility that we're about to board a vessel headed to a place neither of us knows the destination of and the one man who does isn't on it?"

"Relax, dolly. MacTavish is good for his word. No need to go gettin' hysterical on me now."

How could he be so at ease about this when you're just trying not to jump out of your skin in anxiousness?

"I hardly think expressing concern for the well-being of our expedition warrants the term hysterical. Or have you forgotten the part where your blessed happy reunion took place with one of you two wearing shackles? He's a criminal, Kyle."

The look your cousin gave you at the implication was one of mild disappointment at your faithlessness. "He's no crook, dolly. And frankly you best be gettin' past that part if we're to spend the next few days with him. Can't go on this voyage without him whether you object to the man or not."

You resisted the urge to pout at the reminder in his words that you did in fact need John for this entire undertaking. It still wasn't fair how Kyle could make you feel like a petulant child even if you thought you were being perfectly reasonable. Didn't mean you weren't going to grumble about it though.

"Can he at least stay in the cargo hold with the horses? Would certainly fit right in with them considering his lack of personal hygiene and barbaric nature."

"Ya wouldn't happen ta be talkin' 'bout me there, would ya lass?"

A surprised squeak left your mouth at the sudden interruption of a voice chiming in behind you, spinning on your heel and almost losing your balance if not for a steadying hand belonging to your cousin on your shoulder. Your face burned from being caught off guard so gracelessly, raising your eyes to view the owner of such a familiar accent and–

Oh.

Oh my.

This was not the same man you met not two days past. This man was... was....

Good lord.

Gone was the ruffian you first spotted behind the bars of the prison courtyard. The sweat and grime had been washed away to reveal fresh tanned skin dressed in fitted khaki; the subtle spice of cologne a welcome change to your senses that had the peculiar effect of blanketing the edges of your mind with a thin layer of warm fuzzy haze. His once fluffy beard was shaved down to a dark layer of stubble showcasing an attractive jawline and expectant smirk.

His hair... you could safely say in all your years you'd never seen a man with hair shorn on the sides leaving a thick stripe down the middle. You hadn't spent much time back in the UK, but perhaps it was a style more common the further you went up north?

And why on god's green earth did such a style have to look so unusually pleasing on him? Bizarre to be sure, but oddly appropriate.

If it wasn't for the familiar sparkle in those vibrant ocean blue eyes of his you'd have been sure you were looking at a different man entirely. This was the MacTavish your cousin spoke so reverently of in days of yore?

"Dolly here was just saying she thinks you'd fit in better company with the livestock rather than up on deck with the rest of polite society."

If you had the ability to speak you would have admonished your cousin for throwing you under the carriage like that. Alas your brain was still trying to comprehend the vision in front of you so at odds with your previous perceptions.

"Was she now?" The sleeves of his jacket strained against his arms as he crossed them over his chest, raising his eyebrows in a manner that suggested interest rather than insult. "Ye think me a brute there, hen?"

Your clever mind could not devise a way to talk itself out of this scenario, having the decency to at least look embarrassed at being caught while averting your gaze to one of the buttons on his white dress shirt instead.

"I apologize for my discourteous assessment of you, Mr. MacTavish. You did not exactly garner the best of first impressions."

"Hmmm. Ah might be a bit of an animal, lass, but one who's been well trained at least."

His gaze flicked down below your waist, shaking his head at what he discovered.

"Garrick, mate. Lettin' a lady carry 'er own bags?" He clicked his tongue in playful chastisement, reaching down to relieve you of the heavy burden with his own rucksack tossed over his shoulder, warm calloused fingers brushing against yours as he transferred your luggage to his hold instead. You refused to acknowledge the way your heart flutters at the gesture.

You stood there in mild shock as John skirted past you and climbed the ramp leading up to the vessel, flashing his ticket at one of the crew members onboard before disappearing inside with a confident swagger.

Kyle delighted in your stunned silence, leaning down into your space to gloat over your being caught so impossibly off guard. "Positively barbarous, isn't he dolly?"

The accompanying thwack on his chest and subsequent grunt of pain relieved some of the pent up tension you had as you followed along after your third companion, adding an unexpected variable to what should have been for all intents and purposes a relaxing boat ride up the Nile. The hard part would come once you reached the desired port and began the true struggle through the desert. For now, you just had to survive being in present company for a few days until you could turn your focus on the real challenge and prove yourself useful.

So why did you feel like you were in even more trouble now than when you began?

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[Edited 5/8/24: changed formatting, title, tags, and numbering system]

[molsno]

whats the most obscure game youve ever played and what did you think of it

it was a zero escape wannabe called birth ME code, and it was so infuriatingly bad it was one of the only games I've ever left a review of on steam. I'll copy that here, but I'll preface it by saying that I talk about the game's very blatant transmisogny and poor handling of sexual assault

I really wanted to like Birth ME Code after how much I enjoyed its prequel, Head AS Code. But I can literally never recommend this game or any of the other games in this series to anyone because of the violently transphobic trope which is an unskippable part of the story. Spoilers below:

The character Luxuria, the embodiment of the deadly sin Lust, is presumed to be a girl at first. However, later in the story, Lux is revealed to actually be a boy, and then proceeds to attempt to sexually assault the protagonist with a POV CG. The developer doesn't seem to understand that, even though this character is not transgender, he still embodies a transphobic stereotype. Trans women are often presumed to be men tricking people into believing that they're women with the intention of sexually assaulting them, and this utterly false stereotype is not only the root cause of a lot of discriminatory legislation, but quite literally gets trans women killed. I find it really hard to believe that the developer didn't think about how Luxuria might be interpreted, given the current political climate surrounding trans people.

Besides that, I have a lot of other gripes with this game. I was really intrigued by the premise, in which you play as the mastermind of the game - a female character, no less. However, Ancora is extremely bland. She feels oddly uninterested and clueless about the game that she's supposedly masterminding. She has the highest stakes here! Why doesn't she seem to care that much? I found Simon from HAC to be a somewhat enjoyable protagonist, so why did I find Ancora uninteresting? Honestly, I believe it's because Miracle Moon is somewhat inept at writing women. When Ancora isn't making pointless jokes about how big her boobs are, she has very little personality to speak of.

The writing in this game in general is bad. BMC tries very hard to be Zero Escape, and it fails to come even close to the heights of the ZE franchise while carrying over all of its most frustrating flaws and amplifying them. You'll find plenty of poorly explained pseudoscience topics here, seemingly chosen at random, with no real significance or integration into the larger plot. On top of that, the characters are unlikable. This is somewhat intentional, as they're all designed to embody the Seven Deadly Sins, but just because a character is a bad person doesn't mean they can't be enjoyable. All of the characters are shallow, and even those who deal with topics that are intended to be "deep", such as sexual assault, are handled with a total lack of care and serve no purpose other than to shock the player. This game says nothing meaningful about sexual assault or any other kind of crime, even though it really should, given its plot.

Did I enjoy anything about Birth ME Code? Well, sort of. I enjoyed a few of the puzzles, although most of them left me scratching my head - the solutions often felt arbitrary, and it left me wondering how I was supposed to figure that out. The art was... okay, even if I found the character designs kind of ugly. The best thing I have to say is that BMC has an awesome soundtrack. It's disappointing that the OST isn't for sale.

In conclusion, don't play this game. It's not worth your time. I was extremely disappointed with it, and its flaws are so egregious that I can't recommend any games in this series to anyone. Miracle Moon has potential to improve as a writer and developer, but the Abime series is a hard pass after playing this game.

[lunion]

I had a friend defend to me that the fourth season os Star vs the forces of evil was good and that the ending was actually good.

This triggered a bunch of memories that are hard to explain, so I'll just paste my messages to him on the topic:

"Star vs the forces of evil is essentially two different shows taped together and unfortunately, the second show it tries to be is not nearly as compelling as the first one.

The first half of the show (Seasons 1 and 2) are mostly centered around quirky, yet good hitting slice of life comedic stories that revolve around growing and maturing as a person, mostly Star learning how to handle her impulses and Marco learning how to go with the flow a little more.

They had good chemistry, but it felt a lot more organic and even if they didn't end together as a couple, their relationship was nice and enjoyable to see it through.

It was very nice well balanced with action segments either for light fun or some higher stakes as they built up Ludo and Toffee to be these forces to be dealt with.

The second half of the show devolves into political drama, history revisionism and full ship indulgence/relationship drama. Almost every tool used in season 3 and 4 has been underutilized at best and squandered at worst. Starting off simple, Mewni is just not as interesting to visit as it was to especulate based on the little information we had.

Moving to mewni lifted the veil and the authors couldn't fill it with anything interesting. Another thing is that the political drama followed all of its beats, but honestly never quite landed when it came to actually making the historical parts interesting. It was either very formulaic or very cut and dry to the point it felt like they really were just going off hitting the "history revivsionism" tangent by accident and seeing where they landed.

And of course, while relationship conflicts are still part of a teenager's life, at this point I feel it was just being stretched to its limit to make for the most drama. Who the characters dated/broke up with felt more in line with "what's going to generate more hype/drama" than "what makes for good character growth/compeling storytellling".

Marco breaking up with Kelly offscreen after having a whole dedicated episode to trying to branch off from Star really feels like "Okay, what the fuck was that supposed to be the point, then?"

And then we have things like Star obsessing over Marco's stinky hoodie as if that wasn't creepy as fuck, the show failing to acknowledge the massive problem they caused with Marco aging to 30 and dating Star and how they just felt not like evolutions or continuations of their previous arcs, but rather revised versions of themselves in the hands of different authors, it really makes them not feel like the characters I loved, but a Ruin version of them.

The final episodes were just the nail in the coffin because any organic chemistry between star and marco was pretty much dead at that point and I was almost rooting against them and then they go to the magic dimension and destroy it on a whim despite all they did to save it, because apparently Toffee was right all along. The death of all magical creatures and the joining of dimensions is completely shrugged off and, if anything, that ending undermines Star's road to learning about responsibility of not indulging your whims just because you want to as Star and Marco forcibly unleash chaos on the now united dimension just so they can be together.

I don't know what makes an ending "objectively good or bad", but I know that watching the final episode of Star vs the forces of evil made me feel absolutely robbed from everything I ever loved about the show. Not for the episode on its own, but what it has built up over the last two seasons slowly tearing down the things I loved about the first two seasons culminated in the greatest disappointment I ever felt in media ever since I watched that episode and that frustration is worse than any frustration I ever felt for every bad sonic game, every bad RWBY decision, every bad Homestuck page, every bad fanfiction I ever wrote COMBINED if you didn't feel like everything you cared about was stripped from you from those two final seasons, then I can only be happy for you, but I also realize (the rather obvious observation) that you never had the same engagement that I had with the show, so it makes sense that the ending wouldn't cast "testicular torsion" on you like it did to me"

[lionscion]

Post-Epiphany Epilogue Thoughts & Info

How He Felt About the Outcome

Ares, as part of the Academy 1F raid squad, cleared out his assigned portion of Garreg Mach quite early and had ample time to watch the showdown between Projectionist and Melanthios play out. It was above the bridge so Ares had a pretty clear view of it.

Naturally when Projectionist fell first he was not happy, and he was ready to fight Melanthios himself next, but then the portal opened up and sucked Melanthios away. I doubt he was close enough to hear their convo, but if Mel was struggling visibly, then Ares could at least tell something was fucky. Thing is tho, since Mel just disappeared rather than died, he can't consider this over exactly. He will have found a Shard of Melanthios to maybe give him a hint that the guy is dead but, again, Ares isn't gonna fully feel satisfied without more confirmation. (I'll go back and update this if the asks give us more info).

As is, the way the fight played out has left a real sour taste in his mouth, and just this past month as a whole. He's no stranger to war of course, it was his job, so war itself is Tuesday to him and not the root issue. The difference is his new job is being a king and learning how to rule and reconstruct a country, and not just reconstruct it but make sure it doesn't fall into that severe state of ruin again. He went to Fodlan to learn how to do this because Belhalla's Academy was blown up... He came here looking to learn how to end cycles and create new ones, only to just walk into them again this month with failing to stop another Leonster-esque raid, fail to get the guy responsible, etc. ...and now this school is blown up too so...like...🧍he traveled this far to see square 1 again but Fodlan-flavored.

Of course he counts himself grateful that they at least could retake the Monastery and all, and that his friends were there to help again and they're all ok. Again, square one just like Epilogue in FE4 yknow? Once again there is an air of hope going forward for rebuilding (all that vegetation suddenly eliminating the scars war brings to land was really something to him) and that's great but it's just. He'd rather not just keep repeating the same damn stage yknow? Like there was this greater sense of awareness this time around since he's already been thinking about how to handle this stuff, only for his efforts to fall flat in the face of the latest stress test. Essentially the dude's rigid expectations combined with a sense of lack of progress means he's still displeased. He's fine fighting or doing whatever for his goals, as long as he feels progress is being made towards them, but this has felt like spinning his wheels.

But what happens when he gets dissatisfied and frustrated?

Say it with me: HE 👏 DOUBLES 👏 DOWN 👏

He still isn't going back to Agustria (short of catastrophe) without Mystletainn regardless of the school situation, and Fodlan at least still HAS professors that are alive and willing to come back once everything is fixed vs... whatever the fuck is going on with Belhalla Academy (which for the sake of simplicity I'm assuming to be way more fucked). And no way in hell is he letting go of his goals either so those are still unchanged too.

So fine. Fuck it. We're doing this then. What's one more obstacle on the road to reconstruction?

What Is He Doing Now?

Despite his frustrating lack of progress, he's not letting this stop him as usual, and he is stubbornly gonna just work harder towards his goals of restoring Agustria and securing longstanding peace.

To these ends, Ares is not only gonna help fix the Monastery so he can resume his education, but he's also gonna treat this mess as a microcosm of Jugdral's issues to get some of the most hands-on learning about rebuilding he's ever had the chance to get up to now. He'd already been stewing on general ideas this whole time regarding rebuilding so he's gonna use this to test em out.

As a Lion this works out well for him because he gets to start immediately on reconstruction, so that's what he's doing. Anything and everything needed, he's doing it. Also, if you're his friend, or somebody important to one of his friends, you can even stay here at the Monastery and 'room' with him. Cause he's good at setting up camp of course, and he's set up in ruins plenty, so if you wanna stick around he can help with that. Would just be more survival flavored cause, you're in a rathole rn it's not gonna be pretty lol.

Basically due to the circumstances of this and how it overlaps with Jugdral's stuff, this has got him really thinking about Jugdral's situation, and exploring his thoughts about it more directly. He canonically does restore Agustria tho, and damn well at that so, I'm excited to use this to potentially touch on the early makings that eventually lead to that outcome.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

I've seen a few people saying that the people who don't like how Lila is written are just impatient or lack imagination, can we be certain beyond all reasonable doubt that that's not true?

Alright, I'll play devil's advocate for you and show you how, even if we view Lila's writing in the most favorable light possible, it's still perfectly reasonable to have no faith in her as the main villain. In fact, to my line of thinking, it's a little insane to have any faith that she'll be good moving forward. For the sake of your own mental well being, expect her to be terrible otherwise you will likely be terribly disappointed.

The main argument against Lila is that she tells really stupid obvious lies that no one would be fooled by, so how can she possible be seen as a master manipulator by the audience? Well, if we accept that Lila's lies were just exaggerated for the sake of humor the same way that Marinette's crush is played up for humor, then we can hope that that humor will go away and that she'll be played serious now that she's our main antagonist.

This is actually a fair argument. I truly think that this might have been the intent, it just failed to land because the lies are a serious plot point while Marinette's crush antics are not. People wanted Lila outed and every lie was used to hurt Marinette, so the quality of Lila's lies mattered because that's the way that the way that you out a liar. Marinette's crush was never going to be outed by her antics. They were the main way that the writers kept the crush going for five seasons without outing it!

So while you might find the antics just as frustrating as the lies, the expectations built around the antics were met. They never lead to anything. Meanwhile, the expectations built around the lies were never met. Lila was outed by a forced confession, not by her lies even though, when you introduce a liar, audiences will expect the lies to be their undoing. So the lies are bad writing in and of themselves, which is strike one, but we can hope they change so let's move on to strike two: the lie's effect on the cast.

Marinette's antics only made her look bad while Lila's lies made everyone look bad. This is a big, concerning issue since we know that Lila will be a student at Marinette's school again, meaning that it's perfectly reasonable to assume that she'll keep on lying. It's also reasonable to assume that she'll be in every episode.

Even if you take Lila in the kindest light possible and assume that she told decent lies, the writers appear to only know how to write her by dumbing everyone else down and that's concerning. Characters like Max and Alya are supposed to be smart. Max looks into everything and quotes random statistics. Yet he never questioned Lila even though a smart kid like him would be inclined to look into some of the stuff she says just out of pure curiosity and a desire to learn.

We could pretend that Lila told a believable lie about Ladybug like "Ladybug saved me" instead of "Ladybug is my best friend," but even then, Alya learning Marinette's identity still should have been the end of Lila's power over Alya. But the writers didn't know how to handle Alya knowing since Alya would confront Lila, so Alya stayed on team Lila even though it makes no sense and makes her look terrible.

We could pretend that Lila planted better evidence than doilies that Marinette could have taken for free from her parent's shop. That still doesn't excuse Tom and Sabine from immediately believing that their daughter was a thief. They're supposed to be good parents who trust their kid, but the writers don't know how to write that around Lila.

And giving Lila all of that grace makes no sense because it relies on you giving the writers faith that they haven't earned. They had full control over Lila! They knew that she was going to be the next big bad! And yet they wrote her in a way that is totally unbelievable.

Even if Lila's upgrade was decided late in the game, they still could have spent seasons five changing her character to be smarter, but they didn't. Most of the above examples come from season five! It's perfectly reasonable to look at that and say, "I have no faith that you're going to completely reimagine this character into something interesting instead of something frustrating because you have spent five seasons writing her poorly."

And if that's still not enough for you, then here's strike three: The writers have proven time and time again that they cannot write a truly clever character. Lila's most convincing episodes are petty BS that she makes up on the fly. When it comes to complex plots? Lila, Gabriel, and Marinette never come across as particularly impressive.

Others have talked about this, but pretty much every big dramatic plan relies on the writers being able to control the characters' actions. They're not plans that would actually work. Here are just a few examples:

Lila's plan to go to the mansion and get the butterfly only works because the writers know that the butterfly will be unguarded. No reasonable person would assume that would happen because why would it? So why did she go to the mansion? What was her original plan? How does she even know that the butterfly is up for grabs? In a good story, she would have had a plan that lead her to the mansion, but that plan gets scrapped based on what she sees. We don't get that good quality writing because the writers already know that the butterfly will be open season so they never bothered to make Lila's actions logical to any other scenario. They didn't even bother to have her watching the final fight.

Along similar lines, Gabriel only gets all of the miraculouses because Adrien has an evil twin who shows up when the plot demands it. Without Felix, Gabriel would have once again failed and Felix's betrayal makes no sense, especially after his season five characterization. Felix fears his uncle, why offer all of the miraculous AND Adrien's ring? Why not only offer a few? And why is Gabriel able to open the yo-yo and get the miraculouses? The yo-yo opens to a phone, the miraculouses, and a purse. Why would Gabriel be able to control which one it opens to or even open it at all? Especially since access to the miraculouses was implied to be a Guardian power. And why does Felix not immediately betray Gabriel? He's got no reason to stay loyal and he supposedly wants his uncle stopped. Answer: because then the plot would fall apart.

Marinette's plan to hide her identity via the kwamis was asinine and clearly made up last minute by the writers. It would have been very easy to foreshadow this plan by having her hide something in Chat Noir's bell back in season four, but they didn't because the writers didn't actually plan out this plan. There's also the fact that we're apparently supposed to think that the Tom and Sabines is the only bakery in Paris? "Follow the smell of croissants" would not get you to a specific bakery nor would it get you to Marinette's room. It would get you to the bakery. Yet Gabriel goes to the right bakery and to Marinette's room because that's what the writers needed him to do.

I just... how can anyone look at the last five seasons and think, "oh sure, this show can handle having someone who plots and manipulates as the main villain! I'm sure that will lead to lots of satisfying episodes?"

It's not impossible, miracles do happens, but it's the height of arrogance - or perhaps desperation - to act like it's unreasonable to assume that the first five seasons weren't a reasonable representation of the writing quality that we'll be seeing in future seasons. They're not replacing the writing team. What you've seen is most likely also what you'll get. Do you have five bad meals at a restaurant and then say, "It's unreasonable to assume that meal six will be bad, too! Have some faith in the chef."

[idiopath-fic-smile]

adding on to the previous ask: the zombies run prequel from the same post if you're so inspired!!

ooh okay!

(for reference, we're talking about this post.)

the zombies run prequel was abandoned specifically because it was going to need to be extremely long, so i'll need to post quite a bit in order to get to new writing.

“Arse,” says Jack.

“Bastard,” says Eugene.

“Creep.”

“Dolt.”

“Eh—um. Uh.” Jack puffs out a frustrated breath. “Egg…face?”

Eugene rolls his eyes. “Eggface? Seriously?”

“E’s hard,” says Jack. “I’d like to see you try it.” He sighs.

“Aggravating,” says Eugene.

“Well that’s just uncalled f—” Jack starts, and Eugene makes a face Jack can’t possibly see, but the message must come across anyway, because a second later, he adds, “oh. Starting over. Yeah. Berk.”

“Clod.”

“Dickhead.”

“Easy.”

“Easy doesn’t count,” Jack cuts in. “That’s not an insult.”

“I meant, in the sense of—“

“Yeah,” says Jack, “I know how you meant it, I, too, speak the English language.” His voice raises, almost to a normal pitch, and then he catches himself and resumes in a whisper, “Just—don’t you think it’s a bit, uh, slut-shamey to—“

“You just don’t want to give me the point.”

“Listen, mate, clearly I do wanna give you the point, otherwise we start over and I’m stuck with E again—”

“Egghead, then,” says Eugene.

“You give me shit about eggface, and then you turn right around and—?”

“The difference,” Eugene interrupts, “is that egghead is an actual insult, in, you know, the English language?”

“Prove it.”

Eugene scrubs one hand over his face. His hair feels gritty. So does his skin. It’s so dark out that his eyes hurt, trying to keep focused on the narrow flashlight beam before them. The pipe he’d been using as a weapon cracked in half two days ago, and now he’s got a long-handled shovel instead, gripped too tightly in both hands.

“Where, exactly, are you expecting me to pull a dictionary from?” says Eugene, and Jack lets out a dry, rattling laugh like a burst of static, quickly swallowed back. Eugene can’t really judge him for the immaturity. Nerves. Adrenaline. A dangerous degree of sleep deprivation. All of the above.

“D’you hear something?” Jack whispers, and it’s Eugene’s turn to force down ill-advised hysterical laughter because yes, he heard something, he’s been hearing something for the last hour, ever since they realized the valley where they’d tried to set up camp was overrun with the biggest swarm of crawlers they’ve ever had the misfortune of not being able to see in the failing light.

“Nothing new,” says Eugene, in the calmest undertone he can force out of his mouth.

Jack had knocked them away in all directions, swinging W.G. with a savagery that was no longer surprising but very welcome, and Eugene had done his part with the shovel, but there had never been any hope of cleaning out the area, not with the two of them and only one flashlight. All they could do was clear a retreat.

There must have been an explosion out here at some point. An explosion or a giant fire, because Eugene can’t think of any other explanation why—there’s just so many, it’s like a tide coming in…

They’re crawlers, he keeps reminding himself. You don’t need to kill them all. Crawlers are slow. They’re low to the ground. Running is a waste of energy right now, and dangerous in the darkness. All Jack and Eugene need to do is keep walking until the sun rises again and it’s possible to get a sense of their bearings, find high ground, make a stand or make sure they’ve shaken the last of the horde. If they can keep at a brisk pace all night, they should be fine.

They just need to keep walking. They just need to stay awake.

They were already so tired that they didn’t notice they were unrolling the sleeping bag in a nest of the undead until it was almost too late.

The forest floor behind them is a seething, biting, scratching tide that wants to kill them, but even with every twig snap signaling that they are not safe, Eugene can feel his brain trying to shut off.

But. It’s fine. He just needs to—they just need to—

“Arrogant,” says Jack.

“What are you—” Eugene figures it out a long, stupid second later. “Yeah. Sorry. Uh, brigand.”

“Cranky.”

“Not an insult.”

A stray crawler drags itself into view of the flashlight beam, and Jack drives W.G. into its head. “Well, it’s not a compliment,” he counters. “Fine. Crazy.”

“If you object to ‘easy’, then I’m gonna have to object to—”

“How about ‘Canadian’, then.”

“Annoying,” Eugene fires back, and Jack makes a quiet sound of protest that breaks off into a quiet sound of resignation.

“Boring.”

“C—” Eugene feels a tug on his shoe and he whirls around, slamming the shovel into something that has a little too much give. Whoever it used to be, they must’ve died a while ago.

The tug stops. His skin prickles. His hands are shaking. He’s done this a thousand times before but it’s so, so much worse in the dark.

Jack swings the flashlight around. “Nothing else gaining,” he observes. “That one must’ve come out of the bushes or something. You alright?”

Eugene nods, pointless since Jack won’t see, and takes a deep breath. He can still feel his heart beating in his ears. “Cowardly,” he says at last.

“No,” Jack’s voice is soft, almost pleading, “hey, it’s okay to be scared, this is more than anyone would—oh. Yeah. Uh, Dim.”

“Ersatz,” says Eugene.

“Okay, you can’t just—string sounds together and invent new words—”

“Ersatz,” Eugene repeats. “It means fake.”

“Fine,” says Jack. “What’s—oh, F. Uh, fake!” Eugene imagines a flicker of smugness on his face.

“Greasy.”

“Oi!”

With every step, Eugene’s fighting to keep his head up. Part of him thinks, what’s the point? He’s so goddamn tired. He just wants to curl up and—what an ignoble way to die, to survive three weeks on the road and come to an end just handing the zombies their dinner. (Ignoble. He makes a mental note, in case they ever make it up to I. Unlikely: this is the first time they’ve gotten as far as G.)

“Shit,” Jack mumbles, “what’s next, H. Huh. Hah. Herpes.”

Case in point.

“Not an insult,” says Eugene with infinite weariness.

“Again, not a compliment,” and thank God for Jack’s bone-headed objections, thank God for his inability to play the game right for more than thirty seconds because at this point, Eugene’s frustration is the main force keeping his eyes open.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it an insult. You wouldn’t say, ‘well, that’s herpes.’ You wouldn’t call someone ‘herpes’—”

“Just watch me,” says Jack. “Just watch me, you…herpes.”

Eugene rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna punch you on the arm right now,” he says. “On your left side. Just telling you so you don’t startle and try to hit me with the bat.”

“Okay,” Jack says, and Eugene taps one fist against his left bicep.“Ow!”

“Keep it down,” Eugene whispers.

“You punched me!”

“You said ‘okay!’”

Foliage crashes maybe twenty meters ahead of them, loud enough that it can’t be a crawler, must be something that can stagger upright. ‘Great, you scared up a zombie,’ Eugene doesn’t actually say, because he’s not that petty. The flashlight is weak, which means they have to keep heading forward, waiting for the thing to come into view.

“Har…bing…ing,” says Jack.

A shape emerges in the thin streak of light. It slouches towards them, one foot rhythmically sweeping the ground. Most of the flesh has sloughed off the lower half of its face, so its mouth is all jagged teeth, hanging open too wide—

Eugene darts forward, strikes out hard with the edge of the shovel, knocking the creature onto its side so that Jack can deliver the killing blow. The thing stills. They keep walking.

“Harbinging,” Jack says again. His voice wavers at the edges.

Eugene didn’t get a good look, but he thinks it was wearing a uniform. A cop, maybe. A security guard. A paramedic. He tries to sigh but it’s half a shudder.

“Not an insult,” he gets out. “Also, not a word.”

“Anal retentive,” says Jack.

“Brainless.”

“Not yet,” mutters Jack, and they both giggle like five-year-olds.

“Oh shit, what, uh—what’s next?”

“The letter E,” says Eugene.

Jack yawns. His footsteps are slowing. They’ve been slowing for a while. Jack hasn’t slept well lately, even by their current lax standards. Eugene keeps trying to push the thought to the back of his mind but it won’t stay: however bad he feels right now, Jack must somehow feel worse.

“Come on,” says Eugene.

“Do we—d’we really need to keep walking,” Jack slurs out. He yawns again. “If we just—rested, for fifteen minutes, I would have so much more energy to—”

In a way, Eugene’s glad that Jack’s said the words out loud. Now he can argue with it, instead of letting it gnaw at him. (Gnaw: a poor choice of words, under the circumstances.)

“If we stop walking,” Eugene reminds him, “we both fall asleep.”

“Mmmm,” says Jack, low, deep in his throat. Because he’s exhausted, obviously, not because—well, actually, Eugene’s statement doesn’t even work in a dirtier context.

Eugene does something he almost never does then, which is to really zero in on the confused thread of nerves and arousal that runs through his dealings with Jack.

It would be so much easier, so much safer, to write the whole thing off as a lost cause—the least of many, now. But without sounding conceited, well. Sometimes Jack will smile at him for no reason, or joke-flirt with only the flimsiest of punchlines. More than once, Eugene’s caught him guiltily jerking his eyes away from the lines of a tattoo in a way that felt downright promising.

Of course, Jack could simply be that friendly. Jack could be that oblivious, that clumsy at picking up on his own innuendos. Jack doesn’t seem like the kind of guy with incredible impulse control, and in three weeks, he hasn’t made a move. Neither has Eugene, but.

But. If Eugene’s wrong, that’s a surefire way to make everything excruciatingly awkward for the rest of their lives. However much longer that winds up being.

The uncertainty of it jangles, like a chord that won’t resolve. A month ago, Eugene would’ve been climbing the walls to avoid these kinds of thoughts, but now it’s like his annoyance with the alphabet game: focusing on the raw edges drags his brain back to something like wakefulness.

“Shit!” A step behind him, Jack stumbles wildly, falls. The flashlight hits the ground and Eugene scrambles blind for it, drops it twice, and swivels the shaky beam onto Jack’s face. Jack’s breathing hard. He’s not fighting anything Eugene can see, but he could be in shock, could be too late already, could be—

“Crawler?” Eugene asks, shovel heavy and urgent in his hand.

“..tree branch.” Jack sounds maybe a little too tired to be sheepish.

“You okay?”

“Stubbed my toe,” Jack says pitiably.

Eugene’s not sure if he wants to laugh or scream. “I meant,” he hisses, “any broken skin or—” Zombie infection, he doesn’t need to finish. If a branch brought Jack down, it could’ve tripped something else, something that left part of itself behind.

“Uh,” says Jack, “I don’t—I don’t think so, but—” They’re both wearing boots and jeans, for exactly this reason. Long sleeves, but Jack had pushed his up. Eugene rakes the light over his elbows, his forearms, his hands. Clear.

He lets out a breath, less steady than he’d like. “You’re good,” says Eugene. “Okay, c’mon, up.”

Jack doesn’t move. He laughs, hiccupy. “Don’t you think at some point, it gets—diminishing returns?” he says. “Walking all night. It’s just.”

“Get up,” Eugene says again, more urgently. Staying crawler-height in the dark in an unsecured area is so stupid he doesn’t have words for it.

“Do you—” Jack yawns. “Even hear anything behind us. D’you see anything. Anything but, but fucking trees?”

Looking would mean moving the flashlight beam away from Jack, who is unharmed and whole and patting the ground next to him with a sleepy smile and—definitely about to get them both killed.

Adrenaline itches in Eugene’s bloodstream. “Get up, dummy.”

“So tired.”

“Do you think I’m not? Get up.” Fear rises in his throat like bile. Jack blinks up at him, distant. “Jack. Are you really gonna let me win the game?”

Jack’s eyes are slipping shut. “Let’s be honest with ourselves,” he mumbles, “like I was ever gonna think of something for E.”

Eugene looks down at Jack, curling up on the ground, and feels something bleak and desperate overtake him, like jumping headfirst into icy water. He can’t stay here, he can’t leave Jack, he can’t—

“Get. Up.” He can’t recognize his own voice.

“Can’t.”

“No,” says Eugene. “No. You don’t get that option.” Jack’s lying on his side, eyes closed, shadows lurching all around him although maybe that’s because the flashlight won’t stop trembling. Eugene nudges him in the ribs with one foot. “Get up,” he says. “Get up, Jack.” Another nudge. “I can keep going. Jack. Get up.” Nudge. “I’m not stopping until you get up. Come on.” Nudge. “Jack. Swear to god, I can stay here all night, I am not leaving until—”

Jack lifts his head. “Wanker,” he grumbles, but he takes the flashlight when it’s offered, lets Eugene grab an elbow and haul him to his feet.

Something unclenches in Eugene’s chest. He laughs softly. “Oh buddy,” he says as they start forward again, “we’re not nearly to W yet.”

“Can we play a different game,” Jack pleads a few minutes later. “Alphabet’s not so much holding my attention.”

‘We can do anything you want, just stay awake,’ Eugene thinks. “Tell me a story,” he says.

There’s a pause. There’s such a long pause he starts to worry Jack’s somehow fallen asleep while walking.

“You’re asking me to talk,” Jack says slowly.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t like when I talk.”

“It’s fine,” says Eugene.

“You—complain about it, all the—”

Even with a full night’s sleep, Eugene wouldn’t have the energy for this conversation. “If it really bothered me,” he says, reasonable, “how would I have managed to put up with you all this time?”

Jack starts to list to the side. Eugene pulls him back.

“Flatterer,” says Jack.

“A story,” says Eugene. “Talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything. The—the worst date you ever went on.”

“Already told you that.”

This is true, Eugene remembers. It had started with the other guy showing up at the bar already drunk out of his mind, and ended with Jack’s would-be suitor vomiting on a stranger’s jacket and starting an actual bar brawl. (“Yeah, so I just—left. Silver lining, he never noticed me slipping out through the kitchen. Too busy menacing someone with a snooker cue.”)

“I don’t know,” Eugene says. “Think outside the box.”

“And then, ah, everyone else leaves—Innkeeper Lady, Mr. Innkeeper Lady, Messy-Hair, Colonel Mustard, Wacky Russian Guy, and In-Retrospect-Probably-a-Lesbian. It’s just Dour Older Lady. And she turns on the radio, and Three Blind Mice starts playing. No, wait, that doesn’t make sense, why would that be on the radio?”

“Why indeed,” says Eugene. His grasp of time is hopelessly turned around but with any luck it’s been at least an hour. Feels more like four.

“Anyway,” says Jack, “Point being, she’s alone. Mood is set, it’s very creepy, and then—I think she—sees someone the audience can’t see, and she says, uh, something that’s probably about the plot, and then she gets murdered.”

“Go figure.” They still don’t seem to be walking uphill yet, which is worrying; how much longer is this valley?

“I—uh. Just realized.” Jack sniffs, thoughtful. “Maybe not the best choice—nightmare forest, only one flashlight, a play about people getting picked off one by one—”

“Don’t worry,” Eugene assures him, “You removed any shred of suspense when you picked a story where you didn’t retain a single character’s name.”

“Hey,” says Jack, “I saw it a long time ago, you can’t—huh.”

“What.”

“Nothing,” says Jack.

“What.”

“I might’ve—only now realized, I don’t actually remember how it ends?”

“You don’t remember who the murderer was, in the murder mystery,” Eugene repeats blankly. “That’s—the whole point is how it ends.”

“Okay, yes. But: counter-argument, now it’s a sort of—choose your own adventure.” Jack spreads his arms wide, sending shadows swinging in all directions. “Who do you suspect?”

“Well,” says Eugene, “I think we can safely rule out the dead woman.”

“Barring a pretty mind-blowing twist,” Jack agrees.

“Okay, process of elimination. That only leaves: everyone else.”

Jack yawns. “Who do you want the murderer to be?”

This would be easier, Eugene thinks, if he’d managed to internalize Jack’s long list of not-names. “Colonel Mustard,” he says at last. “I’m a traditionalist.”

“Sure. Colonel Mustard in the study—”

“With a lead pipe,” Eugene throws in.

“With a lead pipe,” says Jack, agreeable. “Y’know, I always wondered about that, in Cluedo. Half the weapons make perfect sense. Revolver, sure. Dagger, okay. Rope, a bit nasty, but fine. But—lead pipe? What, is there a lot of loose piping just hanging around in old mansions?”

“They could’ve brought it from home.” Eugene’s feet are still in motion but they’re beginning to feel oddly disconnected from his body, as if his head is floating high above the ground, through a fog.

“But why, though,” Jack goes on. “If you could bring anything. Why—’oh, this murder-pipe has been in the family for ages’—”

“Not a bad weapon,” says Eugene. It comes out more pensive that he’d like. He feels ridiculous, mourning a broken piece of metal like an old pet. Jack pats him on the shoulder. Actually, Jack goes for Eugene’s shoulder but in the darkness winds up just kind of batting at a nipple. Eugene assumes it’s meant to be comforting, at any rate.

“There, there, it was a fine murder-pipe.” Jack’s voice is soothing, or maybe mocking, or maybe somehow both. ‘Fond’ is the word that slips into Eugene’s thoughts and won’t leave.

Eugene swallows. “Well,” he says, “it was no W.G.”

“Nothing else can be.”

“Colonel Mustard, in the study, with a cricket bat.”

“He can take W.G. over my dead body,” says Jack.

“There’s a time and a place,” Eugene says with a wince, and Jack lets out a bark of laughter.

“Fine, then,” says Jack. “Your turn. Storytime. What’ve you got?”

*

“So Lakshmana is badly injured, and there’s this herb that can save him, but it only grows on one mountain, very far away, and there’s no time. And if he dies, Rama will stop fighting, and Ravana will win. But then, Hanuman the monkey god—”

“Hang on,” Jack interjects. “When you say ‘monkey god,’ what d’you mean?”

“I mean a monkey god,” says Eugene patiently.

“No, but—is he a god of monkeys, or a god to monkeys? Do monkeys worship him? Or is it more like a sea-god, where it’s, y’know, his dominion is monkeys?”

Eugene considers this. As a child, he’d always taken it at face value. “A god who is also a monkey,” he decides at last. “There’s gods, there’s goddesses, and then there’s—”

“The monkey god.”

“Right,” says Eugene. “So, Hanuman, loyal friend that he is, steps forward and says—”

“He can talk,” says Jack. “A talking monkey.”

“A talking monkey god. So, he offers to fly over to the mountain and get the—”

“And he can fly. A flying, talking—”

“Monkey god,” Eugene finishes. “The ‘god’ part, that’s important. So he flies over to the mountain, and when he gets there, he realizes he’s not sure what the herb looks like.”

“Wait. He can talk, he can fly, he’s a god, but he didn’t think to—check a, a garden manual, or—”

“Well,” says Eugene, “I mean. He is a monkey.”

“…fair.”

“So instead, he lifts up the mountain, and he—carries the whole mountain back to the battlefield, herbs and all, and Lakshmana is saved.”

“Because a monkey god carried a mountain.”

“Yes.”

“Out of friendship.”

“Well, and there was a war against demons at stake.” Eugene rubs at his eyes. “But yeah, friendship was a factor.”

Jack seems to mull this over. “Gene?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it, uh, it’s not a problem, is it, that I sort of spent the last few minutes—”

“Mocking my religious and cultural heritage?” Eugene finishes for him, helpfully.

An awkward silence descends. When he speaks again, Jack sounds wretched. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “…that.”

Eugene blinks and remembers, too late, that sarcasm is much easier when the other person can see your face and read your body language and isn’t staggering, exhausted and dehydrated, through a post-apocalyptic hellscape. As a general rule of thumb.

“Oh,” says Eugene, “Don’t worry about it. My mom married a Lutheran named Ben, if that gives you a sense of how traditional we were. I grew up with the stories, but they were—more like fables, I guess.” Except ‘fables’ doesn’t really cover it. He thinks about staying home sick from school, his mom’s hand cool on his forehead as she recounted tales of gods and goddesses to distract from his sore throat. It had felt like a secret he’d had on the other kids, something he could hold over their ready-made place in the world, their unquestioning acceptance of each other, their Lunchables.

The sound of his mother’s voice murmuring the few words of Hindi he can still remember. She must have spoken it around him at other times but he can’t bring anything else to mind.

“Good story,” Jack says.

“I, uh. I always liked it.”

“The power of friendship.”

“I think I might’ve—underplayed the demon war angle,” says Eugene.

“Would you carry a mountain for me?”

The inside of Eugene’s brain feels like it’s been scraped out with a rusty spade. His eyelids burn with the need to close. But if he stops walking, then Jack stops. He forces back a yawn. ‘I already am,’ he thinks.

From the edges of his blurring vision, he can see W.G. swinging by Jack’s side. They’ll need to wipe it down in the morning. Neither of them keep track, but he knows that Jack’s kill count is considerably higher than his. Eugene hesitates sometimes, over thinks it, hates hitting anything too recognizably human. He’s getting better at it. (Part of him isn’t sure he wants to get better.) But it can really fuck with him afterwards. Jack does the fighting when possible, and doesn’t seem to begrudge it.

Deep down, Eugene knows that if they hadn’t met—if he hadn’t tripped over that unwashed, groggy, mud-encrusted bundle of humanity on the outskirts of a rave-turned-bloodbath three weeks ago and spouted off a really regrettable Terminator reference that somehow convinced said smelly hungover man to join forces with a pipe-wielding stranger—it’s likely neither of them would be alive right now.

You could argue they’ve been carrying each other’s mountains for a while.

A soothing thought, which is—not useful right now. “It’s a moot point, since your botany skills are somehow worse than a monkey’s,” says Eugene at last.

Jack makes an indignant sound. “I was gonna say I’d do it for you,” says Jack. “But after that—little comment, I wouldn’t carry you a small hill.”

‘Yes,’ thinks Eugene, ‘stay awake.’ “You couldn’t tell the difference between spinach and nettles.”

“One time,” Jack protests. “One time and it was dark out.”

“It was a memorable one time.”

“Okay,” says Jack. “But, counterpoint: shut up.”

The terrain has finally started shifting into a slight incline that, hopefully, is taking them out of the valley. In another few hours, it might be dawn, but the sky is still dark from end to end. Eugene’s feet are numb. His head is a lightbulb about to burn out, all fraying wires and singed glass. He thinks, ‘When did Jack start calling me Gene?’ He has no idea. Maybe it happened gradually, like the ground sloping uphill.

Daylight is in reach, but only if they can hold out.

Jack’s lagging. If he tries to lie down on the road again, Eugene might not have the energy left to pull him up. It’s a little unclear how they’re both still walking.

“Talk,” says Eugene.

“About what.”

“Whatever’s on your mind.” Eugene forces his voice level, wills himself not to panic. “Whatever you’re thinking, right now.”

“What if you don’t want to know what I’m thinking,” Jack says slowly.

“What,” says Eugene, “another murder mystery without any resolution, or—”

“Would we be friends?” says Jack. “I mean, if we’d—met in the real world.”

“This is the real world.”

Jack sighs, annoyed. “You know what I mean.”

He does. He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to say no, but he also doesn’t want to lie, and he can’t picture them moving in the same circles.

“How would we have met?” Eugene says at last.

“What does it—I dunno, at a party?” Jack offers. “I knew music people, you knew…restaurant people, it—could’ve happened.”

Eugene’s not sold on the overlap, but he dutifully tries to give it a shot. “Depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“Lots of things.” Eugene fails to completely swallow back a yawn. “Whether or not I was there for work, whether we had friends in common, the last time you’d taken a shower.”

“Off the clock, a bunch of friends and how are we not yet sick of the ‘Jack smells’ jokes?” says Jack.

“If I’d come with friends, I might not’ve tried that hard to meet new people,” says Eugene.

Jack snorts, although for once, Eugene has no idea why. “Assume I would’ve talked to you,” he says, which makes sense, because Jack is probably the kind of guy who flourished at parties, chatting with any nearby stranger, perfectly at ease in a crowd.

Eugene thinks of the last party he’d been to, some industry thing hosted by a friend of a friend: a bunch of painfully self-aware neurotic types all fighting to sound smarter and cooler and better informed than each other. He’d hated it, and he’d also hated hating it. The whole exercise made him feel like he was staring into a void. If Jack had shown up there, with his goofy jokes and his puppyish exuberance and his total lack of shame, if he’d looked up at Eugene and smiled and introduced himself, boldly asserted some idiotic stance on a movie they’d both seen, well.

“And let’s say I’d showered before I left,” Jack continues. “Because that is a thing I used to do, you know. Before the world ended.”

“In that case, I probably would’ve tried to go home with you,” thinks Eugene.

Actually, wait, no: he says it. Out loud.

He doesn’t realize this until a beat or two later, when Jack lets out a strained giggle and Eugene remembers what dire embarrassment is.

“It’s the hair, right?” says Jack. “You think you know a guy, and then you discover his secret fetish for gingers. It’s alright, I don’t blame you, everyone has their—”

Eugene shakes his head. It’s still completely dark out. Genius. “That’s not, it’s not,” he says. “I just—have a type.” Had a type? As a whole, the dating scene is paused indefinitely.

“Yes,” Jack says, mock-patiently. “You have a type. Karen Gillian. Scully from the X-Files. Paul Bettany, maybe? Robert Redford, except he’s ancient. And probably dead. Well, they’re all probably dead, but—Please don’t say The Little Mermaid, because—”

“Stop.” Eugene is almost smiling despite himself. “No. God. Not a creepy—redhead obsession. People have types. Like, ‘into music, shorter than me’—”

“That’s convenient, since everyone’s shorter than you,” Jack puts in. “Seeing as you’re freakishly tall.”

Eugene’s not that far above the national average. “Sense of humor,” he continues, before they can get on another tangent about what does and doesn’t count as freakish. “Likes beer and wine but isn’t pretentious about it. Appreciates a good bass riff. Properly—uh, properly disdainful of jam bands. Willing to overanalyze pop culture for hours. Good smile. Nice hands.” Too late, he realizes the list is verging on damningly specific. He clamps his mouth shut.

“Oh,” says Jack. He starts to stumble, and Eugene throws his free arm around Jack’s shoulders, steadying. Jack hums what might be a thanks, leans into it just a bit. “So what you’re. You’re telling me that if we’d met before all of this—you’re saying we would’ve shagged?”

Put that way, it sounds so presumptuous. Eugene winces. “I think I would’ve tried,” he says. “Who knows whether—”

“You’re saying we would’ve shagged,” Jack repeats. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound offended. He sounds—confused? Confused and loopy. Fair enough; Eugene’s head still feels disconnected from the rest of his body and everything is surreal. They’re discussing this, like it’s any other conversation. “After—all that talk about easy.” There might be a hint of a smile in Jack’s voice. “Woods, you dog.”

“I would’ve—been respectful about it,” he counters. It’s such a ridiculous thing to say to someone who has saved his life more than once that he laughs a little.

Jack laughs too, thank god. “Oh sure. Gentlemen Gene. A gentleman until the clothes come off,” he says. “Bet you would’ve slunk off before sunrise, though. Tragic. I’d never even get the chance to laugh at your weird breakfast rituals—maple syrup, in your beans, like a madman. And then you wouldn’t have called,” he adds, reproachful.

This is almost terrifyingly astute. If the night had gone badly, Eugene would’ve wanted to forget all about it. If it had gone well, he would’ve woken up desperate to get out of there before the inevitable souring. He would’ve had some excuse. He would’ve found one.

It was, he thinks, easier to write people off when there were so many of them.

“Probably not,” he admits, and every muscle across Jack’s back goes tense, all at once.

“Oh,” says Jack again. This time, there’s something off about his voice, although it’s hard to say what. “Oh, um. You weren’t joking.”

‘Oh,’ thinks Eugene. ‘You were.’ Carefully, he removes his arm.

He’s seized by an urge to apologize, but he has the sense that getting it wrong would be worse than keeping quiet, and he can’t begin to guess what he’s supposed to say.

Jack is the first to break the silence, because that’s what Jack does. “Well, lucky we didn’t meet before all this, then,” he says, and it’s lighter now, still not back to normal, but maybe he’s just tired. Or maybe Eugene’s just tired, and hearing tension that isn’t there. “Imagine: the end of civilization, and there I am, stuck wandering the ruins of England for the rest of all time, just me and that douche who never returned my text.”

The frayed lightbulb feeling worsens. He can almost smell the burning filament. “It’s—you know, it’s nothing personal,” says Eugene.

“Yeah.” Jack sighs. “I know.”

When a pair of zombies comes crashing out of the underbrush, directly in their path, it’s almost a relief.

“That was close,” says Jack, after.

It was close. Closer than it should’ve been, really. Their reflexes are beyond shot. Jack had flat-out missed with the bat a couple of times, which never happens.

“Yeah,” says Eugene. He clenches his fists, trying to keep them steady.

*

“Are we walking uphill?” Jack sounds vaguely surprised.

“We have been, for about an hour.”

“Don’t you think we’ve shaken the crawlers by now?”

There’s an edge of pink to the bottom of the sky but sunrise is a long way away. “I’d just—feel a lot better if we could get someplace with a decent sightline,” Eugene says.

Jack doesn’t agree or disagree. He yawns.

“Come on,” Eugene says when Jack’s steps have slowed to a shuffle. “Come on.” With his free hand, he gives Jack a little push forward.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbles. “I shouldn’t—you’re tired, too.”

“Not as tired as you,” says Eugene.

“What?”

He hadn’t actually meant to say that, either. It’s been a banner night for inadvertently blurting things out.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Eugene starts, but Jack cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. ‘Oh, stupid Jack, can’t even sleep right’—”

“No,” Eugene says, and then, nonsensically, “I didn’t.” He shakes his head, trying for something like clarity. “If we took longer shifts at night, we could each maybe get another hour.”

“Another hour,” echoes Jack. “Another—do you really think that’s the problem? Do you really think that’s what’s lying at the root of my—sleep issue?” It’s the most alert he’s sounded for some time. “Do you really think it’s not, oh you know, the fact that we are surrounded by fucking monsters, every second of our lives?”

There’s really nothing to say to that. “Still.” Eugene rubs at his eyes. “If an hour would help. We’re not making great time, but—”

“Oh, what is the bloody point,” says Jack suddenly. “Where are we going, Eugene? You said, ‘Let’s get away from London’ and I thought, ‘Makes sense, London’s a big streak of smoke in the sky.’ But what now? We’re just—walking. When was the last time we saw another living person? What are we doing, do we keep walking until we reach the ocean and then turn around, walk the other way? How is this worth it?” His voice cracks. Eugene is glad that the light is still too poor to see his face.

“We’re alive,” says Eugene.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Eugene breathes in and out through his nose. Calm. Be calm. “Something comes after this,” he says. “Remember when we had a working radio? We know there are other survivors. And even if those particular people aren’t—we’ve made it this far, right? So there must be others. England’s not that big. We’ll find them. They’ll cluster, it’s human nature. Three weeks is not that long in the scheme of things. We will find something.”

“Sorry,” says Jack, a little choked. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I’m just so tired.”

“We’ll find something,” Eugene tells him. “And by that time, I’ll have some hilarious jokes about your mystery-telling skills. And you’re the only person with the context to understand them, so.”

“You’re saying I need to make it so you have someone to laugh at your stupid punchlines?”

“Yes,” says Eugene. “Yes, that is literally what I’m saying.”

Jack’s laugh is quiet and shaky but it’s not a noise of pure despair, and so Eugene is counting it as a win. He thinks, that will keep us going for another few hundred steps.

*

“Jack?”

“Mm, what?”

“Jack, you’ve gotta keep walking.”

“I am walking.”

“No you’re not, you’re standing pretty still.”

“‘M trying.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Would it help if you leaned on me?”

“What? Uh, maybe?”

“Here.”

Eugene is vaguely aware that they must look idiotic right now, two grown men struggling to climb a hill, tipped towards each other like some sort of drunken three-legged race. Above them, the sky is fading into a full pink, lighting up the peak of the hill. The grass is wet and green. There’s a tree at the top. Walk to the tree, he thinks. Walk to the tree.

He has to keep telling his feet to make each step. Every one is a test of his willpower. The grass squeaks beneath them. It actually looks too green, too sharply delineated from the sky, from their muddy feet.

“Almost there,” he says.

“Whuh?” says Jack, who really is more or less asleep against his shoulder this time.

The last few meters to the tree are a blur in Eugene’s mind, but then there they are at the trunk, and then they are settling onto the ground, no longer on their feet. Eugene sits up, bracing his back against the bark.

“Give me your pack and I’ll unroll the sleeping bag,” he says, as Jack flops onto the ground.

“‘M fine,” Jack says. He lays his head on Eugene’s thigh, asleep almost before his eyes close. Eugene watches him snore and realizes then that one of them will need to keep a lookout. Which one of them will it be? A mystery all too easy to solve.

“Okay,” Eugene says, to nobody in particular. “Okay, great.”

They’re still resting at the base of the tree, Jack pillowed against Eugene’s leg, Eugene slapping himself in the face at odd intervals to stay awake, when he hears a woman’s voice from behind him, tentative.

“Is, um, everything okay?” she asks.

And that’s how they meet their first fellow survivors.

*

It turns out that the most embarrassing thing about meeting another person after days and days of living as a scavenger on the road is not realizing that she’d definitely caught him smacking his own face in a futile effort to stay alert, or that Jack is still snoring and lightly sleep-drooling against his thigh, or even that maybe just before she’d showed up, Eugene had been using his free hand to carefully brush the hair off Jack’s forehead, you know, so it wouldn’t be in his eyes. As he slept.

No, the single most humiliating aspect of the whole affair is that Eugene’s response to her wide-eyed, earnest question, a question which carries with it obvious undertones of “Are you dying?” or “Have the pressures of this new world chipped away enough of your sanity that I should be worried for my life?”—

Eugene’s response is to blurt out “Fine, thanks, how ‘bout you?” in one breath, a little too loud, in something close to the bland, polite tone he used to use on cashiers or waiters or co-workers he didn’t know especially well.

‘Jack must never find out about this,’ he thinks, halfway hysterical.

The woman blinks at him. She’s got dark brown skin, a thick-bordering-on-unintelligible accent that might be Welsh, an axe in one hand. 

“Kelly!” she calls out in a low voice. “Kelly, I found some people.”

“Y’mean bodies,” says—Kelly, apparently, striding up behind her. “Really, dear, healthier in the long run if you can stop seeing them as—” She catches sight of Eugene. “Oh.” Her eyes narrow. She’s considerably smaller than her friend but older, and something in the set of her jaw suggests that she’s the one to watch out for. “Who’re you, what’re you doing here?”

“I, uh. I’m Eugene and this is Jack,” says Eugene. “Sorry if we’re—trespassing, or. We didn’t know that you—we were just passing through. Uh. You know how it is.” He gives an awkward laugh.

Kelly and not-Kelly exchange a look. Kelly jerks her chin down at Jack. “Is he bit?”

“No,” says Eugene.

“Are you bit?”

Annoyance flashes through whatever numbing survival instinct has kept him halfway calm. “If I’d been bitten, do you really think he’d be sleeping right here?”

“Could’ve lied,” Kelly tells him. “People lie, you know.”

Eugene can’t repress his shudder. He doesn’t have the energy for it. “Well, I wouldn’t do that to him,” he says.

“That’s very sweet,” says Kelly. “You gonna be offended if me and my friend Eira check you anyway?”

They’re armed, and at any rate, they have no real reason to trust him. “Go ahead.”

Kelly doesn’t try to touch either of them, which he appreciates. When she needs to, she asks Eugene to move, to lift up his shirt, to turn Jack’s arms over. It’s dispassionate, almost professional. It feels weirdly like a check-up at the doctor’s.

Eira hangs to the side with her arms crossed, looking bored. “Thanks,” she says at one point, “Being a real sport about this, Jack.”

Eugene frowns. “No, I’m Eugene, he’s—”

“Right,” says Eira. She glances down at Jack, still asleep with his face scrunched up against the rising sun. “He’s cute.”

Eugene’s no less exhausted than he was before. His thoughts feel like they’re covered in a murky film. So he can’t be sure what possesses him to snap, “He’s gay.” 

Unfortunately, he might be able to guess.

“Okay,” she says, laughing a little. She raises her hands in the air as if to telegraph I’m harmless, but she doesn’t put down the axe first so the effect is—mixed.

“You’re both clear,” Kelly declares at last. She crouches down to bring her face level with Eugene’s and holds out a slightly grimy water bottle. “Want some?”

“What?” says Eugene.

“Water,” says Kelly. “Since now we know you won’t repay the favor by going grey and eating our brains.”

He takes the bottle and sips cautiously. It’s warm but cleaner-tasting than anything he’s drank in—maybe weeks. He takes another sip and glances down at Jack, trying to figure out if it’s worth waking him up for a few mouthfuls of water, if the dehydration outweighs the sleep deprivation or the other way around. 

When he looks up, the simple motion of his eyes makes him dizzy. It takes a few sluggish seconds to work out that the reason he can’t eavesdrop on Kelly and Eira’s conversation is that they’re not speaking any language he knows. He hunts for clues in their faces and gestures, but all he gets is that they seem basically in agreement about something. Hard to tell if that’s reassuring or not. They could be saying, ‘Yes, great, let’s bash their heads in and take all their possessions.’ Unlikely, he tries to convince himself. If they’re not wasting water on future zombies, they’re not wasting it on future murder victims either.

Kelly turns, catches him watching. “Gonna go check in with the others,” she tells him over her shoulder. She gives him something like a smirk. “You boys stay put.”

Eira lingers behind. Eugene can’t tell if she’s meant to keep him and Jack from leaving, or to keep them from getting eaten. He sags back against the tree. 

“Is Eu—is Jack really gonna sleep through all this?” says Eira.

Eugene rubs at his forehead, which might as well weigh fifty pounds. Everything is getting a little dreamlike, but this is a question he knows the answer to.

“He slept through the first thirteen hours of the end of the world,” he tells her.

“Whoa,” she says, eyes wide. “That’s a bad wake-up.”

The first day or two, Jack was quiet, distant, agreeable verging on pliant in a way that, in retrospect, gets more upsetting the longer Eugene thinks about it. “Are you guys military?” he says instead, remembering Kelly’s cool detachment, how prepared they seem.

Eira’s response is a long, snorting laugh. “No,” she says. “No.” She sucks in a breath. “We were on vacation. Off-road mountain biking and camping. A kind of a—wilderness adventure thing.”

“Well,” he says, light, “guess you got at least fifty percent more adventure than you bargained for.” 

Any trace of a smile drops off Eira’s face. “That’s—in very poor taste,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.” Eugene scrubs a hand over his eyes, yawns. “Sorry. Uh, so have you been in the area long?”

“Yesterday and the night before,” she says. “We’re holed up in an old cottage. Not a bad place. Just stay out of the valley down there.” She gestures back the way that Jack and Eugene came. “Packed with—”

“Crawlers,” says Eugene. “Yeah.”

“You heard?”

“We’ve been,” he says. “All last night.”

“Fuck,” says Eira, half-laughing again. “You two’re stupid.” She sounds almost impressed.

“Yeah,” Eugene says absently. “Maybe.” He yawns again. 

“How’d you two meet, anyway?”

Eugene’s brain is starting to lurch in and out of full awareness. He knows that he knows the whole story but in that moment he can’t begin to see his way through all the steps of telling it.

“There was—a rave,” he manages. “Kind of.”

He wonders why he didn’t notice earlier how comfortable it is to sit like this, propped up with tree bark digging into his spine through his shirt, Jack’s head heavy on his thigh. He tips his own head back against the tree. Amazingly, the trunk bears its weight. “Do you mind if I’m falling asleep now,” he says. Thinks he says. Might say. At any rate, he’s not awake to hear the answer.

*

“—wake them up, d’you think? Doubt we can carry them,” someone says. Eugene blinks. When he opens his eyes again, the sky is brighter than he remembers, and Kelly has returned.

“How long was I out,” says Eugene, squinting.

“Under an hour,” says Kelly. She crosses her arms and gives a slight, ironic smile. “Long enough for a lively debate back at the house about whether to trust you two.”

The inside of Eugene’s mouth is dry and sticky. He finds the water bottle where he left it at the base of the tree. He takes a sip.

“What’s the verdict,” he croaks.

“If you’re raiders or bandits, you’re very bad at it,” Kelly tells him. She clears her throat. “So here’s the situation. We’ve got some errands that need doing. Nothing too dangerous, but we could use the help. If you two lend a hand, we can guarantee a safe place to stay for a day or two. You want to talk it over with y—with Jack, fine by us.”

He can’t imagine Jack turning down a chance to help some friendly survivors, any more than he can imagine Jack passing up the opportunity to eat something other than Spam. Still, it seems shitty to make the decision unilaterally. Come to think of it, the discovery of other living humans might’ve merited waking him up in the first place. 

“Jack,” says Eugene loudly. Jack makes a vague, sleepy noise and rolls over without opening his eyes. “Jack.” Eugene pokes him in the back of the neck. “Hey. Jack.”

“N’ready yet,” Jack mumbles, blindly grabbing a fistful of Eugene’s shirt as if trying to burrow away into his stomach. The tip of his nose is cold, almost ticklish, which may be why Eugene is laughing as he says, 

“Now, Jack, that’s no way to behave in front of company.”

“Mmh?” says Jack.

“Um, hello,” says Eira.

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Jack startles badly, limbs flopping in all directions as he flails around to face her. Eugene dodges a knee and then and elbow and thinks, ‘This is a man who regularly kills monsters.’

“—the hell,” breathes Jack, staring up at the strangers.

“And you must be Jack,” says Kelly. “Nice to meet you, kid. Shall we get a move on?”

Kelly quickly briefs Jack on the way back to the house. Some amount of spring has returned to Jack’s step. Either half a REM cycle did him good or he’s that excited to talk to new people.

“So,” he says, “mountain biking adventure-campers, huh?” From the sound of his voice, he’s smiling. “Wow, at least you got your money’s worth on the adventure front.”

The joke goes no better the second time. If anything, the silence feels more pointed. “Uh, tough room,” Jack mumbles. 

“Jack,” says Eugene in a low voice, trying to shoot him a look that’s equal parts commiseration and ‘maybe we can try to remind each other that not everyone deals with intensive trauma by cracking jokes about the trauma.’ Jack just rubs his eyes and frowns, confused. ‘Later,’ Eugene mouths. “Kelly, you said you needed help with some chores?”

“Yeah.” She glances back over her shoulder at them. “Uh, what are the odds you lot know anything about bike repair?”

“Not unless your bicycle’s attached to an amp and a wah wah pedal,” says Jack.

“A what pedal?” Eira chips in from the back.

“It makes guitar effects,” Eugene tells her. 

“Did some work as a sound technician,” Jack says. “Back, uh. Before.” Regret flickers across his face as soon as he’s said it. Funny how simple words used to be so harmless.

“Still not sure it counts as a job if the band only pays you in beer,” Eugene says, and if his voice comes out a bit brittle, it’s hopefully a bridge to something that could pass at a distance for ordinary conversation.

“Hey!” The impact of Jack’s mock-outrage is blunted by the way the back of his hair is sticking almost straight up. “I’ll have you know, the barter system is an ancient and noble tradition—”

Eira has been glancing back and forth between them for a long moment. “Do you—is that a streak of glitter behind your right ear?” she asks Jack at last.

It is. It’s been there since the day they met. 

Still walking, Jack reaches up, rubs behind his right ear, and scrutinizes his hand. “Oh my god,” he says, rounding on Eugene, “have I had glitter on the back of my head since Hampshire?”

Regardless of the circumstances, Eugene has to bite the inside of his cheek before he can manage to say, calm, level, “Why, Jack? How would you have gotten glitter on you since then?”

“That was three weeks ago!” Jack hisses.

“It’s almost like you should wash your face more carefully, or—”

“This is not my face!” Jack says, gesturing at the back of his head. “No amount of face-washing was going to reach the behind-the-face area! You areshole, you knew this whole time, and you said nothing?”

“I thought it was maybe just your natural sparkle,” Eugene manages, and then he loses it.