#I'm nearly done with the Missing Link

[moonheavens]

me & Nic talking about our "marked for later" fics and what to read after we finish The Missing Link (by @lostmykeysie who is a genius btw) 

I just... have so many ... so I'm very tempted to just let y'all pick a random number and I'll just sort my spreadsheet (yes I have a spreadsheet for fics I read and want to read don't even say it pls) and just. pick that way. I'm suffering how do y'all do this

[himbopunk]

i saw a post about missing back when da games didnt point out your romance dialogue choices and just gave you a list oft hings to say not knowing one of them is romantic cuz it felt more realistic or whatever and it just reminds me of how until i started engaging da fandom stuff in like early-mid 2014 id played thru most of origins without having any clue that romance was a feature in that game. like i didnt know it was a thing you could Do. i knew once i started da2 obv, i think i started around the time i actually started to see ppl talk about dragon age online and then i went back and replayed origins.

that being said idk if i necessarily agree or disagree with op cuz they were like, its fine sometimes you say something a little flirty and lead someone on etc by accident and my first instinct is just okay then don't be a pussy just click the heart anyways. if you dont mind potentially cancelling an unintended romance & the heart is the nice thing you wanna say then do it. & like i get what they mean cuz sometimes its about stumbling into the discovery of a character romance & the limitations of older games in general did often result in a lot more moments of like. Interesting discovery like that. i think people playing rpgs nowadays need to let go a bit but i do understand that some things make doing so a bit more fluid ig. idk

[aisnextdoor]

DISJOINTED - han taesan x reader

there are far worse things to be addicted to

PAIRING: taesan x reader GENRE: established relationship, fluff | WORDCOUNT: 1.7 k WARNINGS: weed/marijuana use, smooching, minimally suggestive

The high hits you slowly, then all at once. Each time you double over to echo Jaehyun’s laughter at Riwoo’s jokes, your consciousness moves first and your body follows, slow and stilted. 

There’s a fuzziness behind your eyes, like the static of Taesan’s old records that has you reeling, head tilting back against the seat of the scratchy sofa. 

You stay like that for a bit, letting your thoughts drown out the faint hum of noises bouncing around the walls of Leehan’s basement. Thinking of nothing and everything. Losing yourself in the haze. 

There's a drag of cold fingertips against your cheeks, wandering to tuck your stray hairs behind your ear, that brings you back. The same touch tugs at the lobe gently to coax your eyes open. 

You’re rewarded with a glimpse of Taesan’s soft eyes as he takes you in. The lazy smile that pulls a bit wider at your lips, and the breathless laugh that escapes them as you reach out for him instinctively. 

Taesan obliges, like he always does, scooping you up from your spot on the floor to flop unceremoniously half on the sofa, half on his lap. 

“You’re finally here. I missed you, you took fucking forever,” you complain with a stifled yawn. A swift kiss is pressed to your cheek, the silent apology accepted with a roll of your eyes. 

“You can't possibly have missed me that much. Looks like you were having tons of fun on your own, getting started without me,” Taesan teases. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt to rub at the small of your back, snorting as you jolt at the icy temperature. 

You try to wiggle away from his frosty touch but Taesan only snakes his arms around you tighter, trailing goosebumps across your skin. “I didn't have much choice,” you grumble, “It was either smoke or have Jaehyun hog and finish it all before I can even get a whiff.” 

There's a faint yell of indignation from across the room that you ignore, instead busying yourself with untangling Taesan’s chains. You follow and separate the twists in the links up towards his neck. Your boyfriend stills his motions, busying himself instead with admiring the way your brows knit as you pull them apart.

(It was a mystery to you how Taesan’s necklaces always managed to get so tangled. You could never recall him having such problems before you started dating. Luckily for him, you were more than happy to indulge his whims and untangle them at the beginning of every meeting.)

When you’re nearly done, and you've reached the nape of his neck, the pads of your fingers brush against the long strands of Taesan’s overgrown hair. They come back cold, and you freeze looking up to blink at him owlishly, “your hair’s wet,” you say, voice tinged with bewilderment. 

Taesan leans back in a laugh, hands too occupied holding your waist to shield his smile like they normally would. “You’ve only just realized?” He shakes his head like a dog, spraying you with the remnants of the droplets that cling to his bangs. 

The splatter of cold beads makes you shriek and once again you try to cringe away from him but Taesan keeps you firmly in his grasp, smirking as you resign yourself to your captivity.  “I showered before I rushed over here,” his voice teasing as he raises an eyebrow at you, “how far gone are you that you didn't even notice?”

It's futile to deny it when your eyes are so clearly rimmed red and your head so far in the clouds but you do it anyway. “I'm not that high,” you wink, “I was just too distracted by your pretty face to pay attention to anything else.”

Taesan simply snorts, unconvinced but amused enough to not contest your obvious lies. He settles into the couch, resting his head atop yours and a comfortable silence descends upon you. Drowsiness tugs at you and you melt with your head lolled in the crook of his neck while the pair of you watch the antics of the others. 

Normally, you'd be thrown in the mix, bickering with Jaehyun and playing tricks on Sungho, but the high has you choosing to refrain from participating. Instead, you’re buried in Taesan’s arms, refusing to shift from his lap even when he jokingly whines about being suffocated and crushed. 

Past all the exaggerated groans, Taesan loves nights like this when you’re pliant, putty in his hands and clinging to him like a second skin. Taesan is free to monopolize you without any teasing remarks. Relishing instead the way you shake with laughter at the jokes he whispers into the shell of your ear, and the giggles he draws from you when he noses at your neck playfully. 

“Alright lovebirds, if you’re done being gross, I rolled the last of it. We’re headed out to grab some pizza if you two want to come,” Leehan approaches with a joint held out in his grasp. You immediately perk up, reaching for it eagerly when a much longer arm intercepts, grabbing it before you can blink.

“You guys can go, we’ll stay here. Y/N is more out of it than usual,” Taesan interjects, ignoring the way your jaw drops and the subsequent protests that follow. The whole time he holds the joint firmly out of your reach as you wrestle the limb down to try and take it. 

The commotion is enough to attract Jaehyun's attention, and he descends upon you like a hyena. “Awww little baby Y/N can't hang?” His laughter rings mockingly through your ears as he pinches your cheek. 

You splutter at the accusation, staring at Taesan to see if he was really going to let your dignity be slandered like this. “Taesan you're not serious?” you whine, trying to shake reason into him as the rest of the boys file out of the basement with calls of goodbyes and laughs. 

“I am serious, I’m not gonna let you smoke yourself sick baby,” Taesan shakes his head, easily slipping in the pet name now that it was only the two of you. You give up on arguing any further, making your displeasure apparent with the way you cross your arms tightly, refusing to face him. 

Taesan only chuckles in amusement at your petty display, digging into the pocket of jeans for his lighter. He dangles it in front of you, the familiar scuffs marring the engraved silver. “Wanna do me the honors?” his eyebrows wiggle goadingly.

There's a brief silence as your narrowed eyes ping pong between the smirk on his face and the lighter, your initials that Taesan had etched into it staring back at you mockingly. With a tortured sigh you snatch it from him, “I can’t believe you’re making me light you a joint that you won't even let me smoke,” you grumble.

“But if I light it myself you’d end up sulking because I didn't ask,” he snorts, knocking his head softly into yours. You don't bother responding (mostly because he’s right), busying yourself by popping the cap off and flicking the lighter on.

Taesan ducks closer to let the tip of the roll between his teeth meet the flame, the fire casting a warm light across the contours of his face. His eyes flicker up to meet yours and you're trapped in the warm amber of his gaze, remembering just why this was one of your favorite things to do.  

The soothing chill of his fingers wraps around yours to hold the lighter steady until a tendril of smoke rises between you two and he’s leaning back with a content hum.

It's a captivating sight, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he inhales. The smoke billowing from Taesan’s plump lips to curl and swirl upwards, charting the lines of his features. You can see the moment he takes to assess you, mulling over an idea while you patiently wait for him to share what's occupying his mind. 

His answer comes in the form of hands tracing your jaw to pull you in closer, fingers tilting your chin upwards. There’s a gentle tap on your lower lip prompting you to part them, you comply and Taesan grants you a pleased smile at your uncharacteristic obedience. 

It makes your cheeks burn with an odd satisfaction, but you have little time to think further as Taesan takes a deep drag of the joint, your chin still firmly in his grasp. He leans in, pausing to wordlessly ask your permission and when you lean closer, he meets you halfway. 

There’s a quick brush of his lips against yours, lingering for just a second till he’s exhaling. And Instinctively you inhale, the whisper’s distance between you bridged by a stream of smoke. 

You hold it in the back of your throat for a moment before letting go, and in the same breath you rush to tease him airily, “I thought I was banned from smoking for tonight, your highness.”

Taesan slides his hand from your chin down towards your nape, his touch sweeping against your jaw. “Well… you looked so pitiful I decided to have mercy on you,” he drawls, eyes glinting mischievously in the dim light.

“Yeah right,” you scoff, “More like you just wanted an excuse to kiss me.”

Taesan shrugs, looking far from bashful as he admits smugly, “Not that I need an excuse to kiss you but sure, that might have been a motivator.” 

And now you’re breathless for a different reason as Taesan takes full advantage of the complaints that threaten to spill from your lips, silencing them instead with a firm press of his mouth on yours.

The minutes pass by like that, the two of you caught in languid kisses, only separating for much needed air or for a heatless glare when Taesan bites at you teasingly. 

The joint’s long abandoned, lost somewhere in the crevices of the couch to be found weeks later. For there's no high quite as intoxicating or as addicting as the one you get from Taesan’s lips. 

a/n: this started as a 2 am brain rot that I ended up spending way too much time on. hope u enjoyed :)

stream HOW? n EWF!!! n tell me ur fav song off the album (mine's amnesia)

[scourgeofmyownbrain]

More "Bumblebee and Optimus meeting as ✨Adults✨ but still being Father and Son" stuff I came up with, plus extra because I can't get these chuckle-fucks out of my head.

Link to my prev. post for context. incase yall missed it bc I'm not explaining myself, we're just diving right into the deep end

Edit: i entirely forgot but i have a third one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bee knows Optimus isn't one for physical affection, and he fully understands and accepts that. He doesn't want to make Optimus uncomfortable by disrespecting one of his boundaries, that's just a shit thing to do. And Bumblebee is not a shit person. But... he's also desperate. Look, being deprived of physical parental affection your whole life fucks you up something good, let Bumblebee tell you, it makes you do some odd shit just to get a taste of what you've been missing out on. And! And most of the stuff Bumblebee has done are perfectly normal things to do! Plenty of casual stuff, leaning against his chair to look at what Optimus is working on, high fives and fist bumps (Optimus rarely, if ever, does these but for Bee he'll do anything just to make him smile, see Optimus acting totally normal about his feelings what are you talking about), leaning against him for a second when he's tired, totally normal! There are, less normal things, like when one of Bee's legs nearly got torn off on a mission and Optimus had to carry him back to base and Bee curled up close in Optimus's arms the whole time- because of the pain, totally 100% definitely only the pain that was Not mostly taken care of by some field anesthetics. It felt nice to be carried like a kid, sue him.

Getting injured is a special case with giving and taking affection. For example, when Bumblebee had to drag Optimus to a med bay after he passed out from a mission. They were walking into the common room together; Optimus was telling Bee he was fine when he CLEARLY wasn't because he didn't want to wake the medics for something as Trivial as THEIR LEADER and FREIND'S HEALTH (Bee is this close to strangling him) when Optimus just pitched over onto the floor.

Optimus, clearly tried and hurt: I will be fine, there is no need to wake the medics, I just need some energ... *faceplants*

Bumblebee: What did I say? What did fragging I say?! *Hefts Optimus's limp body onto his shoulders* fragging, stupid, slagging, moron, 'I don't need a medic, I'll be fine' he says, if I had been the one doing this, you would have torn the base apart getting the medics up, fragging idiot. *drags Optimus's body out of the room*

Optimus: *Mumbles something about not wanting to bother anyone*

Bumblebee: Too fragging bad, big man, you are going to take care of yourself and you're going to like it!

So now Bee has to drag a bot much bigger than him back down the hall and into the Medbay, just because Optimus was being fucking stupid. Yes it looks as funny as you're thinking. Optimus is semi-conscious but delirious as they make their way down the halls of the base and says "I don't want to take anything that would be better served helping any of you, I care about all of you so much I don't want to see you hurt. I love you." and Bumblebee's like Optimus, I feel so loved and so angry right now, but fuck what you want you're getting taken care of. No, you did not just make my fucking day, I lOve yoU tOo dAd-. He gets Optimus into the medbay on a berth then goes to forcibly wake the medics up to calm himself down because he is seconds from crying.

Optimus eventually gets better with affection, and now Bee gets a hug whenever he asks. He has yet to come down from this high.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bumblebee calls Megatron his "Shit Ex-Stepfather". The entirety of team prime thinks this is hilarious. Even Optimus can't help but smile, though he tries to hide it. Someone, probably Jazz, changed Megatron's file name to "Worlds Worst Stepfather". After the war, if Megatron is still alive, he will mysteriously acquire some kind of award saying "Cybertron's #1 Worst Stepfather". He is very confused.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you could get Optimus drunk, he would become such a sap. Like, insufferably soft and emotional. And he would be talking about Bee damn near the whole time. He would be so annoying.

Optimus: *Drunk* Did I ever tell you about Bumbl-bee? He's, he's my boy, my bumble boy, my gold'n boy, my buzzy boy, my sweet cheese. An, he's really yellow, you'll know it's him, he looks like- he's really yellow, it's hard not to see him, but he's really really good at sneaking. Even though he's so yellow. He can sneak around so good, no one sees him. I can see him, 'cause he's my boy. He can sneak around and nooo one finds him, 'cept me, 'cause he's my boy. He can hide so good, he hid under sshockwave's chest once. Riiiight under his eye, his big purple eye. Bee's so funny, he tells such funny stories. He tells his stories better then me, they're a lot funnier. I'm not good at funny stories. He's really good at it. He's really good at lots of things. Bee's so cool. I'm so happy he's here, he's so cool and funny and nice and cool. And he fights real good too, he's so cool. he once- Bee once punched my ex once, right in the face. Riiight in the kisser, just, boosh. My ex sucks, Bee's so cool. I like him, he's my boy. An-and he taught himself how to do aaaaall the cool things he does. He didn't have anyone to teach him, he did it all by himself. All alone... I wish I met him sooner, when he was small. He says he was really cute when he was small and I want to see him small. I like him big though, he's really fun when he's big. He's- *Sobs* He's my booooy, and I love him so muuuuch.

This continues for hours. Luckily he never drinks so no has to suffer through this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you thought Optimus was the Serial Adopter, you'd be wrong. It's Bumblebee. No bot is safe from his clutches. He scoops up family members like a pelican scoops fish. Optimus is barely aware of how many family members he technically has, he stopped keeping track a long time ago.

Bumblebee: *Bursting into the room dragging some bot he was on an extended mission with* OPTIMUS, I GOT ATTACHED AGAIN YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER FAMILY MEMBER

Optimus: *Not looking up from his data pad* That's great, son, go put it with the rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Optimus would be such a good grandparent. In the future, after the war ends, Bumblebee comes into possession of a kid; whether he finds someone and takes them under his wing or he just fucking makes one, I don't know nor care, but he gets a kid. And when he introduces them to Optimus, Optimus just fucking melts. He was already a huge softie before but he's so much worse now. He goes full grandma mode. He has snacks in his pockets (or whatever bots have) that he sneaks to the kid every time he sees them. He gives them money at random. You best believe he would destroy anything that even looked at his grandbaby wrong (Bee: Optimus, stop attacking the door. Optimus, the door just bumped them, they're fine. Dad stop, omp(rimus))

The "Bee finds a kid and both of them get attached and now are a family" is the funnier option. Because the kid knows who these guys are, they saved Cybertron. The kid's still getting used to having Bee as their guardian, so when they meet the 13th Prime: Holder of the Matrix of Leadership, Savior of Cybertron, they don't expect Dotting Grandparent Extraordinaire.

Bumblebee: and this is Optimus Prime. He's your Grandpa.

The kid : *nervous* He's my what?

Optimus: *on the verge of tears* mY grAnDbABy-

The "Bee made a kid" version is still pretty funny.

Bumblebee: *Exasperated* Optimus, give me my child back.

Optimus: *violently crying* nO, It'S mY bAbY nOW.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Imagine, if you will, Optimus and Bumblebee sitting on a roof together, not talking, not touching, just watching the sun set. Just enjoying the silence together, maybe with some energon to go with it. Because they get it, oh they get it. Sometimes you just need to be alone with someone. That good mutual respect and love from a found family that understands you. this is why I need bee to be an adult, I need both of them to be hurting and find some comfort in each other, to find solace in each other, to be a family and to be equals, is that too much to ask?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A list of things Bumblebee is allowed to get away with:

Interrupting Meetings to Tell Optimus Something, important or not (hi dad)

Casually touching the Usually Touch Adverse Optimus (Physical affection ftw)

Calling Optimus out on his self-sacrificial bullshit (you're going to see the medics and you're going to like it, old man)

Using the three points above to drag Optimus into the Medbay by force (Ratchet is so smug about this)

Getting Optimus to do something fun and relaxing (father son bonding time, as Bee says.)

Swearing aggressively (for everyone else it's unprofessional, for Bee its therapeutic. He stretches this excuse as far as it goes)

Making Insulting comments about others to their face (look they deserve it if the Perpetually Friendly Bumblebee is saying it)

Talking about Megatron (Usually team prime avoids talking about Megsy outside of war related convos out of respect for Optimus's history with him. Bumblebee does not give a shit, Megatron is a bitch and he's going to make his opinions known (Everyone thinks it's funny dw))

Illegal activities (this fucker street races in every universe, you think he isn't doing shit like this on the daily?)

Murder

Stealing/Sneaking snacks (he shares with Optimus)

Making jokes about Optimus being his dad (he thinks it's funny bc they're not related and they met like 6 years ago. Optimus explodes with emotion every time bc you consider me good enough to be your dad?)

Bee is a fucking menace, Optimus loves him so much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Misc. funny word vomit I came up with that have no context, reason, or sense

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Optimus is working at a desk focusing on some data pads. A tiny energon cube flies into frame, bouncing off Optimus's forehead and landing on the desk. Optimus grabs the cube and eats it without looking up from the datapad. A few minutes pass, another energon cube flies and bounces off Optimus's head. He eats it without looking. Bumblebee is sitting off to the side in the room with Optimus with a bag of energon snacks, periodically throwing one at the distracted Prime. This is Bee's and Ratchet's newest scheme to get Optimus to actually eat, and it's working splendidly. (Actually, Bumblebee originally was throwing the energon onto the desk, but over time he got bored and started just throwing the cubes directly at Optimus. He hasn't noticed any of the cubes hitting him at all, so Bee's started trying to do trick shots.)

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Bumblebee?"

"Absolutely, now throw me."

"Alright... Three, two, one- Ngha!"

*distant loud metal slam*

"..."

*distantly* "I'm good! We're in business!"

*quietly* "oh thank primus..."

*distantly* "Okay, I'm done. I'm coming back down."

"Wait-"

*distantly* "Hup!"

*loud crashing metal noises*

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It's early morning, everyone got back to base late the night before. Everyone is tired. Optimus is sitting at the table in the common room, slowly drinking a cube of energon. His eyes are half open and bleary. Bumblebee is beside him, head in his hand, dozing. Bee's head falls from his hand and slams onto the table. Optimus doesn't even blink at the noise, just takes a sip of energon.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Bumblebee takes a lot of pictures. Mostly of his team. He's pretty sneaky about it too, usually just taking a capture from his visual feed and saving it to his personal datapad. And at a glance none of the pictures are all that special, captures of a group of bots hanging out between missions, selfies of Bee and company on missions, drunken mishaps, quiet moments, he's got this really funny one of Cliffjumper stuck in a storage closet, but Bee keeps all these photos out of sight. The others are aware of his habit but they never see most of the photos, they never ask. Bee only opens his photos folder when ever he has a quiet moment alone and just scrolls through, reminiscing. His favorites are the ones where he caught someone's genuine smile. Sometimes they're in the background of a larger group shot, or it's just them smiling at Bee in conversation. He's got a lot of Optimus's smile. Optimus doesn't smile a lot, but he always seems to smile when Bee's around. Bee's proud that he can do that for him.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

this could literally be anyone on team prime: *teasing* You playing favorites, Prime? Giving Bumblebee all this special treatment is making the rest of us feeling left out.

Optimus: You all treat him the exact same way I do.

again, literally anyone on team prime: ... Touché, Boss bot, touché...

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

After spending an extended period of time in close proximity to Megatron (for what ever reason), Bumblebee and Optimus talk.

Bee: You had terrible taste in partners.

Optimus: *sighs*

Bee: Physically, I can see the appeal, but everything else is a wild thing to say yes to.

Optimus: ...

Bee: His personality, his interests- just why none of that clocked you onto how fragged up he would be is beyond me.

Optimus: ........

Bee: You're not stupid, I hope that your next partner will be leagues better than him. Ratchet maybe, oh or Elita, they would make great partners (and even better step-parents), or maybe-

Optimus: CanwePleasestoptalkingaboutmylovelife??

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Bumblebee: If you get back together with Megatron I'm disowning you.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

BB: This is... so dumb.

OP: The higher I am the better I can see.

BB: You can- You can fly.

OP: Hush now Bumblebee! I am searching...

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ idk man, brain rot hits something different when I think about it for long periods of time

[krypticcafe]

i wanna know how u think 141 + König & Alejandro would react/feel about reader doing this trend with them, ofc reader doesn't upload it or anything they just record it for fun :]

if the link doesn't work the trend is basically a person is putting on lipstick and they "mess up" and their s/o wipes it off for them and the camera pans to their s/o covered in kissmarks

this has been on my mind for a while i think its so sweet 🥲 i lovelovelove ur writing!! its so good lik oml <33

Lipstick trend w/COD:MWII men

rating: teen

character(s): Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price, John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Hound König, Alejandro Vargas / GN!Reader

warning(s): language, suggestiveness

wordcount: ~1.6k

summary: Silly little lipstick trend with your silly little military boyfriend.

a/n: the money I'd pay to kiss these men dizzy.

Gaz

Knew about the trend for a while, was wondering if you'd do it, so it's not much of a surprise when you come to him asking about it.

Honestly, he thinks it's a little cheesy, but he's not so insecure that he doesn't want to do it, he's happy to make you happy.

Literally won't stop teasing you like "You sure you're doing this just for the trend?" when you're smooching him all over his face.

When you're done, you can't but stare for a bit.

"What, too pretty for words, love?"

"Shut up, Garrick."

"Make me."

Now his lips are a bright red to match yours<3

The recording goes pretty smoothly, but by the end of it, Gaz can be seen bursting into giggles which in turn makes you giggle a little until the recording cuts off.

You guys don't post it publicly, but I like to think Gaz posted a screenshot of when the two of you are in frame, looking at each other with goofy smiles.

Price

The last person you'd expect to be up with any trends, but it's alright, you're here to help him!

He's hesitant, only because he's a bit bashful! When it comes to these silly little recordings and any of your playful schemes, he gets a little shy about it.

But if you really bat your eyes, pout a little, maybe even tug on his sleeve...

"Please? Just this once, sweetheart?"

He sucks in a deep breath. He's a captain for Christ's sake, he's resisted things worse than this, and no amount of hellish torture has ever made him crack in the slightes-

"Pretty please? For me, Johnny?"

What was he thinking about again?

He sits there while you practically bounce in your spot while you lather on thick layers of lipstick, wondering if this will haunt him.

But all his bashfulness goes out the window when you cup his face oh-so-gently, smother him with kisses, giggling about how ticklish his facial hair is, how it nearly messes you up, how you smile proudly at your work and at him.

You swear you won't post it because you know he can't risk his reputation as a captain... but you also know nothing is stopping you from bringing it up every now and then to him.

Pulling up the pictures and videos, smugly grinning and ogling them while he groans at how smug you are.

Real proud of that one, aren't you?

Soap

"So basically for the trend I just need to put on some lipstick, kiss yo-"

"Say less."

Literally he doesn't care what he has to do, this man wants his kisses.

He'll be all "You missed a spot" when you're applying the marks on his face.

Your guys' version of the trend is a little different.

Instead, the video starts with you putting on lipstick, Soap takes it, commenting how the shade would look good on him, applying it on his lips before smothering you with kisses in the video, leaving the two of you all covered in lipstick stains.

After you wiped your face off, you notice Soap hasn't.

He's just staring smugly at the mirror, rubbing his chin, talking about how "Y'know, I think this actually looks good on me" and "Think I'll keep it on for today, yeah?"

"Honey, you can't go out like that."

"An' why not? I'm jus' wearin' makeup."

"Don't be a smartass- hey! Get back here MacTavish!"

Every day that man tests your patience, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

Ghost

"You won't budge until I say yes?"

You're sitting on his lap on the bed, keeping him still, batting your eyes with faux innocence. He could lift you off if he wanted, but he doesn't, and that alone is enough of an answer for you.

"Nope."

He's trying to pretend so much that he doesn't care too much about it, that he's just letting you do whatever you want. Obviously, he's just playing along.

However, it isn't until you kiss that particular spot of his neck just right under his jaw where the stubble stops that it escalates.

"Oh? Is the lieutenant feeling ticklish?" You coo.

"'m not ticklish-" He's cut off by more kisses peppered around the area and a few extra on his face.

"Mhm, really, because," You're giggling in between your words, "When I kiss you here," He forces the fakest cough he's ever made when you kiss the same spot against, nipping it slightly. All he can do is lean back into the couch, leg bouncing impatiently, trying to bite back a chuckle or two until he finally cracks. The two of you are in a quiet fit of snickers and giggles until you finally let up.

After making the video, you silently gush over it, replaying it over and over. There's a hint of redness on his cheeks, and his eyes seem to flicker from you to the camera, it's the most flustered you've ever seen him be and you got it all on tape, lucky you.

Roach

"That's so dumb, of course I wanna do it."

Roach is all for goofy little couples trends, so it's nothing new if you ask him to do another.

"Babe, stay still would you?" You pout, "I'm gonna have to start over if you keep squirming!"

"Mmm, I think I'd like that."

"Of course you would." Rolling your eyes, you pinch his cheek and he yelps, apologizing and letting you continue. He really can't help it though, it's really ticklish for him.

It takes maybe three tries for you to get the video right, ending with one where Gary messed up your makeup for you by swooping in to give you a sloppy smooch and clumsily wiping it only to further smear it while in a fit of giggles. He claims you were taking too long so he put matters in his own hands.

"So when do I get to do you?"

"What are you talking about, that's all there is- Gary!"

"Nuh-uh, c'mere!"

Hound

He's confused as ever but agrees to it on a whim since he's often entertaining your needs and wants anyways.

As you settle on his lap, his hands rest on your sides and he looks up at you with affectionate eyes. He was looking at you like that when you were putting on your lipstick, too. You almost don't want to ruin his pretty little face, but at the same time, you think it'd look so much prettier with your kisses all over it<3

His eyes close and he stays still while you mark his face all over, even when your lips tickle sensitive spots like his scars. Patient as ever.

When you pull away, he looks like such a doll for you. Your hands cup his face and his lashes flutter open, showing those big brown eyes still giving you the same adoring look, and your chest is basically hammering. He can probably hear it, too. He reaches up to hold your hands and presses his lips against the knuckles. You swear your heart just stopped.

"Everything alright, sugar?"

Oh fuck, what were you supposed to be doing?

"Mhm." You nod frantically, face burning while his thumb brushes over a knuckle, "Y-You know, maybe we can just... tonight... haha... holdmeplease?"

Yeah... you never did quite get your video.

König

"What, with me?" He asks, bewildered.

"Of course?? Who else am I going to do it with? Oh sure, let me call up Horangi, I bet he'll be happy to-"

"Nonono! I want to do it!"

Moments later, he's sitting on the edge of your bed, hood off, fidgeting awkwardly, and watching you quietly. Now you know what he meant when they told him he couldn't stay still for the life of him.

"König, honey, you act like I'm going to hurt you or something." You chuckle, popping your lips as you apply your lipstick in the mirror. He wasn't even this skittish in bed so what had him all jittery?

Setting your hands on his shoulders, you reassure him with a kiss first on the forehead. "Relax, I just want to take a video, that's all."

"Sorry schatz, I'll behave." He hums, easing up at your touch and you smile, planting kisses all over. It seems he just didn't know what exactly he was in for.

You show him how he looks on your phone, "Thoughts?"

"Not bad..." He attempts to wipe off the marks, but you swat his hand away from him.

"You think we're done, mister?"

"Huh?" Practically pouncing on him, you cut him off with a hungry kiss, hovering your body over his. What, he didn't seriously think all you wanted was a video, did he?

Alejandro

He snickers, "If you just wanted my attention, you could've asked."

"I'm serious, Alejandro, it's a thing!" You beam, pointing to the videos on your phone.

He jokingly dismisses your claim and settles onto his office chair, looking at you expectantly. You're confused for a moment, what was he staring at you for?

"Are we going to do this or not? Don't tell me it was actually an excuse now, mi vida."

"No!" You blurt, though now you're debating if you should do this or just leave him waiting with how much he wants to tease you. Then again, you can't pass up this opportunity.

While applying your makeup, you can spot him quietly admiring you in the corner of his eye, and it nearly throws you off your game.

As you kiss him, he keeps his eyes on you, a grin on his lips. Not for a single moment does he tear his attention away from you, instead pointing at a few spots for you to mark.

"I got it, I got it," You huff, mumbling to yourself, "You're certainly enjoying this, colonel..."

Post-production, when you get up to wipe off your lips, he looks at you with offense, "What, that's it?"

"Yes..?"

"Nonono, I think we need to do it again, my way, this time." He snickers, pulling you in by the waist.

"Your way? Alejandro!" You whine without fighting back as he pulls you in for a longer kiss, all your protests forgotten.

a/n: homies i kinda regret writing this so close to valentine's day haha...

[anamericangirl]

What's telling to me about how sick people can be is that Trump was nearly killed, someone in the crowd WAS killed, multiple other shots went out, the whole thing was a terrifying event that everyone in the world should be able to agree was scary And yet I see the media on the left trying to spin this "Well this is to be expected, he's so radical and so fascist that of course someone tried to kill him" and "#YOUMISSED" is trending on Twitter Mask is fucking off and I'm done hitting Anon when I send asks to you, these people have truly shown they have no empathy, no sympathy, and are bloodthirsty. People get shot up in a school and their first thought is "This is why we need to ban guns" and "This is because of ultra-MAGA"

Some unhinged motherfucker actually attempts to kill the former president and kills someone in the crowd and the left turns it into a fucking hashtag and an opportunity to try to blame it on Trump even though he's the one that got shot at.

The left are fucking deranged, and I know better than most because I used to be ON the left. I shaved half my head, I had blue hair, I lived with liberal pedophiles (literally) in Ohio for 2 years who wore diapers around the house and bitched about Elon Musk and Trump every fucking day. I know these people are psychopaths and now they have finally just outright announced to the world how sick they are.

Even fucking Biden tried to call the hospital Trump was at to ask if he was okay, EVEN DARTH FUCKING BRANDON CARED ABOUT TRUMP and yet these Twitterlibs and liberal media fuckwads are just jumping on the opportunity to go "Aww man #YouMissed, you fired 5 shots how come you couldn't get him, you fucked up, omg"

For fuck sake hate the man all you want but SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL HIM AND AN INNOCENT PERSON'S BRAIN GOT REMOVED FROM THEIR HEAD, FOR FUCK SAKE HAVE AT LEAST A MODICUM OF SYMPATHY FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE YOU FUCKING SAVAGES.

If this doesn't turn people away from the democrat party then nothing will. Trump was not the only victim of this shooting. A couple of people were injured, an innocent person was killed and still the only thing we hear from leftists is annoyance that the shooter missed.

And while we are rightly angry at the spins the msm is putting on this assassination attempt, they have to put that spin on it or eat their words for the last 8 years. They've been characterizing Trump as a fascist tyrannical dictator since 2016. They've spun him to be Hitler 2.0 telling everyone he's a threat to democracy and leading people to believe he's a threat to their very lives. The "trans genocide" and "kids in cages" the "don't say gay" bill all that nonsense is always, always linked back to Trump and if they turn around now and condemn this attempt on his life what would that say about them? Either they will have to expose themselves as the liars and propagandists they are or they will have to be seen as being sympathetic towards literally Hitler. And narrative is more important to them than anything.

Which explains why they were trying to avoid reporting what happened like the plague. The headlines I saw in the aftermath, after we already knew Trump had actually been hit by the bullet were things like "Trump escorted offstage after gun shots were heard." "Loud popping noise heard at Trump rally." And other variations of that headline. And still leftists don't question why after Trump was shot every single mainstream media outlet had the same headline and they all avoided saying Trump had been shot or an assassination attempt had been made.

They can’t come out and say this was wrong because it will mean they will have to admit to something even worse: that they were wrong.

But of course the people currently in office can't come out and condone the shooting. That would look very bad. So yeah, it's good that Biden stood up there and said the right words and made an effort to contact Trump but how convenient that this happened a mere couple of weeks after the democratic party has abandoned and turned on Biden so his words and condemnation will be buried and ignored and mean nothing.

For the last 8 years, though, Joe Biden and every other democrat in office, paired with the media, have been villainizing Trump for his rhetoric. Everything bad thing that happened was directly the fault of Trump because of his "dangerous rhetoric." But the rhetoric they've employed against Trump and all conservatives since that time has been the worst fearmongering and slander I've ever seen so they are directly to blame for this shooting because of their rhetoric. No more "rules for thee but not for me." They have to live in the world they made.

Leftism, as I'm sure you've seen first hand what with your experience of being one and living in that environment, is no longer about what you support, it's just about who you hate. And every sane person still aligned with them is waking up. The mask has been slipping for years and most of us were able to see who they really were way before it fully fell off but there is no mask now. They're not even trying to hide it.

They have the ideas they pretend to support when told to, but all leftists are only united by one thing: hate.

Their heroes are criminals like Michael Brown, George Floyd and Trayvon Martin. And they hate police until they shoot and kill Ashli Babbitt who's only crime was being a Trump supporter at the capitol on January 6.

They still bemoan the killing of a pedophile, wife beater and injury of a career criminal who were shot because they tried to murder a child while villainizing the child they tried to kill because he successfully defended himself against their attack.

To this day they spin their violent riots as "mostly peaceful protests" while the January 6 protest was a "violent insurrection."

The rapes and murder on October 7 were a justified response to "occupation" but anything Israel does is "genocide."

During covid they freaked out about "public health" and wanted everyone vaxxed and masked to "save lives" but when Trump got covid they all immediately wanted it to kill him.

When a white boy shoots up a school it’s an example of how evil white people and right wing gun nuts are but when a trans person shot children at a Christian elementary school the main focus of leftists, all the way up to the White House, was the danger the trans community would allegedly be in from right wing retaliatory violence and how “hateful Christian rhetoric” was responsible for the shooting.

And none of this has anything to do with the values they claim to adhere to. All of their positions on every single issue come down to who it is they hate the most of the people involved. So their "values” change by the second.

So the violence, depravity and dangerous rhetoric is pretty much 100% on their side but watch them try and spin this assassination on Trump as Trump's own fault. And watch leftists just unquestioningly go with it or just try to distract people with more fear mongering about Project 2025 or something else stupid like that.

The only thing that bothers them about this shooting, other than the fact that the shooter "missed', is that this has pretty much guaranteed Trump is going to win the election. And of course they can't stand that after all they've done to try and make sure that doesn't happen.

[rillils]

Do you have Wakanda Stucky fic recommendations ? I'm just weak for them in that phase with their looks 😭

I most certainly do, my dear nonnie! 💕💕 I'm gonna link a few of my favourites below, and I hope you'll find some of them to your liking :3

Just a heads-up, though: some of these are only visible if you're logged in on AO3, so make sure you're not there "only" as a guest, otherwise you won't be able to access them!

NOW LET'S GO:

Let this be light work by caughtinanocean (rated T) (8,628 words)

On the run with Sam and Natasha, Steve finds the words to describe his commitment to Bucky. As with most of Steve’s decisions, there are unintended consequences. “It’s no use,” Natasha tells Sam. “You won’t get him to go out and flirt. Steve here’s a married man.” They’re somewhere in Croatia, and Sam’s been hard at work, trying to pull Steve away from a busy night of sketching and staring at his phone. He wants to go out and drink plum brandy and dance with the locals. “You should go without me,” Steve says, hazy. Married. A married man. Isn’t that something?

Correspondent by girlfromcarolina (rated E) (8,049 words)

It started with Bucky sending him photos: the river with the sun gleaming on the surface or the moon’s silver streaks across the water. The children gathered around Bucky, teaching him a game. Words came eventually, thoughts and emotions laid down a few sentences at a time as they each began to feel more comfortable. The messages represented the chance to reconnect in ways they couldn’t while they hunted Zemo and tried to clear Bucky’s name. Some things were too difficult to say face-to-face; some questions were too complex.

deserving by sunflower_dragon19 (rated E) (1,401 words)

While Steve was away on a mission, Bucky spent his time eating whatever he liked and resting as much as he wanted. Steve very much appreciates the results.

Get It Right by sangha (rated E) (4,426 words)

He's been sweet on Steve for as long as he can remember. It's as natural as breathing to Bucky. He reckons a life without Steve wouldn't be much of a life at all. Or: a tale of two weddings, nearly 80 years apart.

ready, able by rohkeutta (rated T) (1,370 words)

Steve snorts, helplessly charmed. “Harold like your gang boss uncle Harold?” “A gentleman does not name his goats and tell,” Bucky says solemnly, but he leans a little more firmly against Steve’s side, and there are crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. He’s the best thing Steve has ever seen.

so here we go head first by endofadream (rated T) (1,631 words)

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s face and says, so quietly Bucky could have easily missed it, “I missed you.” The first tear falls, then the next, and Bucky doesn't bother to try and stop them.

time on my hands (could be time spent with you) by thedoubteriswise (rated M) (23,023 words)

"You doing okay, kid?” Steve releases a breath, deciding how honest he wants to be. No point in lying. No point in telling the truth, either. "Glad to see you." "That’s not what I asked, but same to you, punk."

It's Waiting There for You by sunflower_dragon19 (rated E) (3,228 words)

"Shuri, me and Steve… we're not --" "Could have fooled me." She shook her head, muttering under her breath in Xhosa as she connected a series of wires in his arm. "My brother offered him the nicest guest suite in the palace and you know where he decided to stay instead?" She pointed an accusing finger at him. "In your hut. That has one bed." -- Steve visits Wakanda and Bucky decides he's done being afraid of his feelings.

i love him and our goat children by talkplaylove and wearing_tearing (rated T) (5,526 words)

“Bucky, why does Sam have a photo of you surrounded by goats and the words “Always be happy with Jesus” on it?” Steve asks, looking at him on the screen. Or the one where Steve and Bucky move in together, adopt some goat kids, and live happily ever after.

Moon River by sangha (rated E) (5,763 words)

Steve and Bucky are reunited in Wakanda and they can no longer run from their feelings for each other.

a line that goes all the way by napricot (rated E) (45,218 words)

"About six months after he left Bucky in cryostasis in Wakanda, Steve got a text from an unidentified number: He is awake and well, and wants to see you." Steve and Bucky reunite and reconnect, with some help from modern technology.

all my bones are begging me to beg for you by dragongirlG (rated E) (2,711 words)

After Thanos is defeated at the Battle of Wakanda, Steve accidentally doses himself with an aphrodisiac hidden inside of a celebratory alien drink. The ensuing side effects lead him to confess and act upon his feelings for Bucky, who readily agrees to help Steve work through his urges, much to Steve's surprise.

Not Bad (for the End of the World) by relenafanel (rated T) (2,425 words)

Bucky comes in from a day of work to get ready for an impending war, blow-dries his hair, has a small crisis over his nascent attraction for Steve. Just usual Bucky Barnes things.

love is blind (steve and bucky are just dumb) by talkplaylove and wearing_tearing (rated T) (4,409 words)

“You shouldn’t have interrupted their date, then,” Natasha pipes up, finally showing her face as she gives Bucky a wave and a tiny smile. “I like the hair.” “Thank you.” Bucky preens a little. He ignores the teasing about this being a date; Nat and Sam somehow got it into their heads that Steve and him were dating via Skype calls. They’re not. They’re just friends who video call sometimes. Friends do that.

Found My Place in Time by Cap_D, humapuma (rated E) (12,430 words)

“Buck,” he heard Steve say, “wake up. We’re here.” Bucky opened his eyes and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension out of his back. When Steve’s words sunk in, though, he turned and leaned forward, staring past Steve’s chest to look out the window. Beyond the wing of the plane, he found a beautiful coastline with white sand, blue waters, and palm trees, as well as rows of bungalows on the water. “Wow,” he murmured. “We’re staying in one of those, right?” In which Steve invites Bucky on a trip to Fiji and they discover something a lot more than beautiful vistas and friendly locals.

What a Bright Time (It's the Right Time) by sunflower_dragon19 (rated G) (2,531 words)

Bucky gets a Christmas surprise.

(i'll be home for christmas) if only in my dreams by crinklefries (rated T) (13,728 words)

“I told my best friend that story,” Steve says after a moment, voice thick. “When we were seven years old. And he told me he’d do the same for me. And that year, when I opened my present, inside was a small wooden bird to hang on the tree.” Bucky looks up at Steve, the little bird in his hand and Steve--well he’s smiling. “I don’t remember,” Bucky whispers.“I’ll tell you,” Steve says. *** (or; six Christmases Bucky Barnes doesn't remember--and one he will)

[twola]

Sorta got carried away with the prompt list…(I must be ovulating because DAMN the pregnancy prompts got me going)

But #161, 154,151,140,125- where the reader is preggo and miserable walking around camp so the gangs giving out ideas (sexy time) and Arthur’s like ;) then later on the reader is like ya know what get over here.

Do with it what you will.

You do the best with anything you type!

Xoxo

Oh - trust me, I am into this.

I'm also eight months pregnant myself so I am SUPER into this. Am I projecting something here? Perhaps…

Pain Relief

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI, Pregnancy Sex, Breeding Kink

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

You are very over it at this point. Really. Very over it. It’s a struggle to get yourself out of the cot that you and Arthur share. 

The morning sun beats down on the worn canvas of your shared tent, and you know it's by some divine providence that Miss Grimshaw hasn’t summoned you to work yet. Or maybe it was Arthur snapping at her when he saw you struggling to carry a basket of laundry.

That must be it.

But a laze you are not - even now, when your swollen stomach makes any kind of movement difficult - when your sleep is nearly non-existent and the pains and swelling and overall discomfort are driving you crazy.

Pushing yourself up, you huff, annoyed that seven months ago you were chasing down bounty hunters on horseback and now getting up out of a cot makes you lose your breath. 

God, this was terrible. Finally getting around to standing up, you glance at yourself in the small mirror Arthur uses for shaving. Your chemise stretched taught over the swell of your belly. The dark circles under your eyes from lack of quality sleep. Sighing, you run your fingers through your long hair to tame it, or at least attempt to. After fighting with the fabric of your dress to cover your frame, you shove your feet into your boots and breathe out heavily as you sit back on the cot to tie the laces. God damn everything is a struggle with how swollen your belly is.

By the time you make it out of the tent, the midmorning sun beats down, and you shield your eyes for a moment before you feel a small tug on your skirts. You look down to see Jack give you a toothy grin, one small hand fisting the cotton of your skirt and the other clutching the most recent toy Charles had carved for him.

“Auntie, you’re so big! You look ready to pop." Jack pipes up excitedly.

You laugh as you hear a cluck of disapproval as Abigail follows in her son’s footsteps, “Jack - that’s very rude of ya - shouldn’t make comments about ladies like that.”

“It’s alright, Abigail,” You smile at her as she frowns down at the boy, “I do feel ready to pop.”

“Y’look like the baby’s dropped… ain’t long now.” Abigail’s eyes trail down to your belly as she shoos Jack off to play elsewhere.

“Too long in my opinion.” You roll your eyes and Abigail chuckles in return.

“Ladies!”

Susan Grimshaw’s voice cuts through the peace of the morning. Abigail’s gaze looks past you to where the sharp disappointment came from, and you frown as you hear footsteps stomp ever closer before the camp matriarch pushes into your view.

“There’s laundry to be done,” Susan eyes you up and down, “You can certainly sit and still do the washing. C’mon, get to it.”

She waves her hands at you dismissively, Abigail rolls her eyes and starts to head over toward where the other women have started doing the day’s wash.

You scowl at Grimshaw’s retreating figure, rubbing your aching lower back as you too make your way over to the edge of the camp, where the large tub is filled with soapy water and the pile of men’s shirts seems to be overflowing. You sigh tiredly, finding the stool 

Mary-Beth places her hand on your back slightly over your own, massaging gently as you sigh in a moment of temporary relief. 

"Try walking, I hear it helps. Tilly and I will cover for you for a few minutes.”

You thank her quietly and slowly make your way to the woodline of camp, taking a few minutes to walk back and forth before giving up and sitting down on the stool, letting out a long, labored breath as you wince in pain.

“Y’know….”

You open one of your eyes to see Karen across the tub, a mischievous look on her face. Cocking your eyebrow, you wait for her to continue.

Karen smirks, "You should try having sex."

Well - volume was never her strong suit. Across the camp, the men’s conversation falls silent as several pairs of eyes glance at you.

You flush from your hairline to your chest as you dunk a shirt into the tub, trying to ignore the stares you know you're getting as Karen merely chuckles.

“Aye, Arthur- sounds like you're needed elsewhere.” Javier chuckles and you're mortified.

You spare the quickest glance up in his direction, the man who got you into this mess in the first place. You can see Arthur’s smug grin from under the rim of his hat.

-

You silently scrub at the rest of the laundry load, handing shirts to Tilly for her to wring out and hang on the line.

“Don’t let her get to you, you know how Karen is. Tilly places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently to assure you before returning to the laundry. You sigh, taking another shirt and dunking it into the water.

A pair of boots land in your vision before a hand reaches down toward you. You look up to see Arthur ready to pull you up to stand, a gentle smile on his face.

“C’mon now sweetheart.” 

You sigh and take his hand, secretly grateful for the assistance to stand up. He steadies you before pulling your hand to his lips and pressing them to your knuckles.

“How’s about you lay down for a little.” He offers, holding his arm out to you as you wind your own around it, letting him walk you slowly to the tent, holding back the canvas for you to step inside. 

You let out a long breath, bracing your lower back with both hands for a moment before sighing. There was just no getting comfortable at this point.

“C’mere, let me help you.”

Arthur stoops down on one knee and loosens your bootlaces enough that he can pull them from your feet one by one. You let a breath out once both boots are off, unable to deny it felt good to get your swollen feet out of them.

“Better?” He looks up at you for a moment and you nod, your hand moving from his shoulder that you were balancing on to your lower back again, idly rubbing at near-constant ache that has settled there. 

Arthur stands up and places a kiss to your forehead before turning around and taking his hat off, placing it on the small table where he kept his shaving kit.

Karen’s suggestion echoes in your mind as you watch him run his fingers through his short hair absentmindedly.

You roll your palm over your distended abdomen, frowning.

“You don’t have to lie and tell me you want me.” Your voice cuts through the silence and Arthur swings around to look at you, puzzled.

“Darlin’, it ain’t a lie. It’s never a lie.” He responds softly, taking a step closer to you.

“Really? Lookin’ like this… it does something for you?”

Arthur blushes before looking down at his boots. “Well, I… uh... Yes?”

You quirk your eyebrow, placing your hands on your hips, “I’m a goddamn watermelon-”

“You’re pregnant-”

“Literally swollen up like a damn cow-”

“C’mon now darlin’-”

And damn, if you can’t hold back the tears from collecting on your eyelashes as you spin away from him.

His broad arms wrap around your swollen waist, pulling you back half a step and against his large frame. One hand spreads wide over your belly as you feel him press his lips to the top of your head.

“I… ain’t the woman you was chasin’ after anymore.” You admit with a cracking voice, the tears spilling down your cheeks as your hand falls upon his over your belly, “Who knows when I’ll be able to ride or shoot or do anythin’ like that again.”

His lips move from the top of your head down to your earlobe, where he nips gently. Arthur’s low voice rumbles in your ear, causing a delightful shiver down your spine.

“Whole world knows you’re mine -” He pulls you another half backward and you gasp as you feel the long, hard line of him against your rear, “Christ, you’re the most beautiful thing alive, all big with my child.”

“A-Arthur - ” You whine as one of his hands cups a swollen breast through your blouse.

“Have half a mind to keep you like this.” Arthur continues, his other hand moving downward to slide between your legs and the needy sound that escapes your throat is loud enough to make him shush you as he presses at your core through layers of cotton.

Your hands fly to grasp his forearm as he gently gropes at your breast, and you turn your head up toward his and he greedily pushes his lips upon your own, tongue pressing inside your mouth as you moan into his.

You have no idea how long it is you spend wrapped up in his arms - your hips pressing back into his, his hands groping at your breasts and cunt, your knees shaking as you pant into his mouth. 

Those damned hands of this, they keep you under his spell as somehow, he unlaces your skirts and they fall to the ground in a heap around your ankles. He spins you around in his embrace, and his lips fly to your neck as he opens the buttons of your blouse. You let him pull the sleeves down your arm, leaving you in just an old cotton chemise stretched tight over your belly. The seam of your bloomers, soaked, chafes delightfully against your cunt.

It’s only another moment before he’s shrugging your chemise down over your shoulders to free your breasts.

“What’s gonna be the best for you?” Arthur whispers into your ear, his warm, somewhat rough palm engulfing your breast, squeezing it gently.

Your head tips backward as you lean against him, a high and flighty moan bubbling up from your chest. “On- on my side-”

Your chemise flutters to the floor, along with your bloomers, his hands pushing the cotton down of your body.

“Go on, get in the cot and get comfortable.” Arthur nips at your ear again and gives a playful swat to your rear.

You nod, eyes falling from his face to his hands as he pulls his suspenders down his arms and begins unbuttoning his work shirt. You back up two steps to the cot, slowly sitting down upon it, your gaze refusing to leave him as he strips himself down.

With the speed of a man on a mission, he rids himself of his boots and the rest of his clothing and stalks the few steps to the cot.  You turn yourself over to lay in it, burdened by your stomach as you let out a long breath as you finally settle down on your side, facing the wagon that makes up the side of the tent.

Arthur slides into the small cot next to you, that warm, big hand finding its way to your belly as he situates himself behind you, pressing all six feet of his frame against you, his body hard, hot, and wanting.

“You tell me what feels good, darlin’.” He mouths against your neck as his hand retracts behind your hip to stroke his cock.

You moan lowly and press your hips back against him, you can feel his smile on your skin as he guides himself to your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses into the rim of your cunt, and his hand moves to sling your thigh back over his, opening you to him more.

“Mm, that feels good.” Your voice strains as he slides himself deeper into you, a deep, satisfied rumble coming from his chest when his hips press fully against your rear, fully sheathed in your cunt.

His arm swings across your hips, pulling your thigh backward even more as he languidly rolls himself into you. His fingers find that small bundle of nerves as he nibbles on your earlobe.

You mewl aloud at the stimulation, panting as he continues to press himself into you. His low, rough voice whispers in your ear, vacillating from sweet nothings to filthy utterances. The slide of his cock into your cunt is the constant, grounding thing as his fingers that rub at your clit speed up and slow down.

“A-Arthur-” you pitifully whine, gasping as you huddle toward that precipice. He grunts into your ear as he slightly picks up the speed of his hips rolling into yours, still gentle. He pinches at that nub and you’re gone, your legs shaking and hips seizing as you meek through your release, your slick glossing his cock and dripping from your body, even with him filling you.

“Tha’s my girl…” Arthur slurs as his hand moves up to cup at your lower belly, “Christ, I ain't ever gonna be able to stop fillin’ you-”

His murmurs fade into a groan as he presses forward one final time, burying himself deeply in your warmth as he shudders his release into you.

You sigh in contentment at the feeling, warmth blooming from your joined hips. His lips touch the back of your neck as his large hand rubs gently at your hip as he catches his breath.

Arthur gently pulls out, you gasp slightly at the feelings of the loss of his flesh and the dripping of his warm spend from your body. He shushes you with a kiss over your jaw, rubbing circles over your swollen belly.

“Feelin’ any better?”

Your hand covers his over your belly as you lean back fully into his embrace.

“Much better.”

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 24 - Equipment failure

I give Four (especially Vio) a Bad Time!!

I'm so behind on these, but I’m determined to finish, so don't be worried about that. I WILL get these done, even if it takes until thanksgiving 😤

...hopefully it won’t though.

Warnings: mental anguish/issues (magically induced), brief injury

Ao3 link

————————————————————

Four knew swords.

Strong swords, weak swords, big and small, light and heavy, he knew them all. Four wasn’t a master at blacksmithing like his grandpa yet, but his knowledge was pretty good, he thought. Especially when it came to his own sword.

The Four Sword had been a beauty from day one, even before it had been the Four Sword. After three adventures with the blade, ones where he'd helped forge the sword itself, and make it more powerful, Four knew every single inch of it. He could tell when the balance was off, knew the moment it needed to be sharpened. Saw every fleck of dirt, and cleaned ever speck of blood from the metal, rubbing it down and polishing it bright.

Four knew his sword more than he felt like he knew himself sometimes.

Which was why when Vio desperately raised his sword to block a swing from a spiked ball, he more felt the sword crack rather than heard it.

Pain hit like a bolt of lightning to his heart, and Vio gasped, dropping to a knee. He saw the others stumble in his periphery, Blue missing a swing, Red crying out, Green clutching at his chest.

“What was that?!” Blue yelled, but Vio couldn’t reply, out of breath from the sear of pain and trying to keep himself alive in the meantime.

The knight with the ball and chain continued to advance on him, and Vio struggled backwards, nearly screaming as what felt like jagged cracks shifted around in his chest. The knight seemed to smirk at him, and Vio hissed in pain. The weapon must have been enchanted, no regular weapon would be able to crack the four sword, even only a fourth of it.

Infected. Must be.

Vio grunted as his hand slipped, scraping his palm as he tried to back away. He knew he needed to assess the damage to himself and his sword, figure out what to do about it and keep his weapon safe in the meantime, but also his sword was the only weapon he had right now.

He’d lost his shield. The knight kept getting closer.

And his sword had a crack that spiderwebbed right down the middle of the blade.

“Vio!” Red called in a panic, watching as the spiky ball nearly crushed him again. “Hold on, we’re coming!”

Red was stuck battling his own enemies, as was everyone, but Green managed to make it over to where Vio was struggling, throwing his shield out to block a vicious swing.

“The sword...” Green said, sucking in a breath, staring at Vio’s blade. “Vio...”

“I know,” Vio forced out through the pain squeezing his chest. “We can f-figure it out later, we have to—”

The spiked ball slammed against Green’s shield, and he grunted, feet skidding through the dirt as he nearly fell on top of Vio.

“Where is everyone?” Vio bit out, and Green looked out at the battle, then back at the monster they were fighting.

“They’re all upstream, by that big collapsed tower,” Red shouted, having heard the question. “Too far for help!”

“We don’t need it!” Blue growled, slamming his hammer into a stalfos and shattering it to pieces. “We’re almost done with these goons.”

“Not the knight though!” Green said through gritted teeth, and Vio ducked under a swing, his fingers shaking where they clutched his sword. “Vio’s sword is cracked! Would one of you get over h— whoa!”

The spiked ball slammed into Green’s shield, launching him away from where he was protecting Vio. He yelped as he went flying into the nearby stream, and Vio stared up at the knight, breath rasping as he tried to scrabble backwards.

His back hit a large piece of ruin, and Vio clutched his sword as the knight swung his chain back, preparing to launch the ball forward. Blue and Red both shouted his name, and Vio swallowed, then watched as if in slow motion as the ball and chain swung forward.

But the same time, he gathered his meager strength and lunged forward, a yell escaping him as he plunged his sword into a gap in the trooper’s armor.

The ball and chain trooper howled, stumbling backwards, but Vio held on despite the cracks shifting around in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Vio worked on logic, but despite his brain screaming at him to let go, he kept his sword buried to the hilt, his vision sparking, body cracking.

The trooper finally fell to its knees, dark blood pooling, and Vio felt another sudden crack, one that made his vision split into jagged shards.

Pain slammed into him and Vio screamed, something deep inside him cracking, unsettled, unraveling and deeply, deeply wrong—

The trooper fell, someone screamed his name, Vio’s hand clutched the blade as a blinding flash of color lit up the clearing and then

he

gl i t

c h

e

d

...

.

(...)

Twilight climbed over a fallen pillar, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked around. Everyone was busy patching themselves up from the battle, but Twilight hadn’t seen Four come back yet.

He’d seen him split from the main group to go chase off some skeletons, but Twilight had thought he was right over here. Four would know better than to go too far, but he didn't seem to be here anywhere. Where could he have gone?

Twilight scanned the small clearing next to the stream, stepping around ruins and monster parts and blood. He was beginning to get downright concerned when his eyes finally caught on something that wasn’t stone or blood, and he gasped.

Four was curled up in the fetal position on the ground, his breath coming out in short gasps. His hands were clutched in his hair and there was a small puddle of vomit beside his head, and Twilight scrambled over the ruins and to his side, already scanning for injuries.

“Four, Four what happened?” Twilight breathed, brushing Four’s hair away from his face. He’d expected blood, but all he saw were Four’s eyes, rolled back in his head so far he could barely see the irises.

Twilight frowned and carefully tilted Four’s head up, then sucked in a sharp breath.

There was a jagged line running down Four’s face, purple and oddly shiny. It cut across his face like a scar, and different ideas of what had happened began whirling through Twilight’s mind, each more terrifying then the next.

He hesitated, then lightly touched the line with the pad of his thumb.

Four keened in distress, startling Twilight as he jerked away from him, and his eyes rolled around unsettlingly, limbs twitching. Twilight froze, and suddenly realized Four’s tunic was missing a square, the place where the purple should be oddly tarnished.

“What the...” he whispered, brushing a hand over it as Four stilled.

Four whimpered, and Twilight glanced to the side and saw Four’s sword sitting nearby. He leaned over and picked it up, and frowned. The blade was lacking the shine it usually held, strangely dull, something about the color just... off.

And he knew Four had split before running off.

“Link? Can you hear me?” Twilight tried again, carefully pulling Four up into his arms. Four just curled up tighter, mumbling something under his breath so rapidly that Twilight had no clue what it was. It grew in volume though, and Twilight listened in dismay as Four’s voice rose.

“Don’t know what— why can I hear— stop panicking, it’s not— why are we—”

Four’s disjointed sentence broke into another keen, and he curled into a ball, pressing his head to his knees.

“Fix it fix it— can’t! He’s missing— head hurts— Green what’s—”

Four wailed, then went limp so abruptly Twilight jumped, and he hurriedly checked to make sure he was still breathing. Four’s heartbeat was fast, but it was there, and Twilight ran a hand along his cheek where the line wasn’t.

What had happened?

A different groan came from nearby, and Twilight’s head shot up, his ears pricking. He leaned his head around the piece of ruin that was next to Four, his hand hovering near his weapon, then stared.

Vio lay motionless on the ground a few feet away.

Twilight looked rapidly between the two Fours, brain going a mile a minute as he tried to quickly process the sight, then cautiously scooted over and touched Vio’s shoulder.

“Hey, Vio,” he said, still holding the other Four tight. “Vio, wake up bud.”

The violet fourth of the smithy groaned, then twitched as his eyelids flickered.

“Vio, what happened? Why aren’t you... in Four? How is this possible?” Twilight asked worriedly once he looked at him, eyes exhausted. “Are you hurt?”

Vio’s breath hitched.

“The sword...” Vio rasped, ignoring Twilight’s questions. His hand shakily reached through the grass. “Ran...cher, get Le...”

His breath caught, and Vio’s hand clutched weakly at the handle of something hidden by the grass. Twilight reached forward to look at it, and sucked in a sharp breath at the cracked blade of Vio’s sword. It looked like it was barely holding together. He ran a finger over the purplish lines spiderwebbed across the metal, and Vio jerked like he'd been struck, a rattling gasp escaping him.

Twilight quickly drew back, and looked at Four and Vio, then between the two swords.

Four was only three. He’d merged without Vio somehow, and the cracks had something to do with it.

Twilight blinked hard, and swallowed, running a hand over Vio's head. How this was even possible was beyond him, but Four was in trouble. He didn’t have to know magic to see that.

"Twi," Vio rasped again, and Twilight immediately focused his attention back on him. "Le...gend. Sword. Know... fix."

"You need your sword fixed? That'll fix things?" Twilight asked, and Vio confirmed it with a pained mumble. "...Legend can fix it?"

"No... j-just..." Vio rasped, then coughed, his free hand clutching at the grass. "He knows... tell... him..."

Vio trailed off with an agonized wheeze, and Twilight gently took his hand. There must be some way Legend could fix the Four Sword, or at least something here that could do it for him? This was Legend's era after all.

Maybe he knew a way to help.

Four (or should Twilight call him Three?) suddenly jerked in his arms, and Twilight yelped, quickly stopping him from falling to the ground. Four froze again, twitching oddly, eyes still rolling around, and Twilight wondered with a brief spurt of panic whether he was having some kind of seizure.

Four stilled again after a moment though, and Twilight breathed out, holding him tight, but careful to avoid the purple scar along his face.

"Okay. Okay I'll tell him. We'll fix you up, I promise," Twilight reassured.

Vio gave a pained nod, and Twilight carefully set down Four, reassuring the violet smithy he'd be right back.

Then he ran off back towards the others, fear speeding his steps.

(...)

“...take it to... trust them to fix...”

“...sure? If... this wrong...”

“...only choice. He...”

...

“Okay.”

Something touched him.

Vio stiffened, then gasped as arms carefully pulled around him, lifting him up. The broken pieces in his chest shifted around, and he choked back a cry, trying to stay still so they’d settle.

He felt shattered, cracked into pieces that would never be fixed. Something inside of him was broken, something that shouldn’t have been able to break, and it felt like it would never be fixed.

Was this how Shadow felt?

“We got you Vio, we’re fixing this,” a voice assured somewhere above him, and he tried to listen. “Legend knows a blacksmith, one who once worked on the Master Sword. He’ll be able to help.”

“O...kay,” Vio managed to croak out, and whoever had picked him up set his head on their shoulder.

Vio let out a quiet hiss of pain as the cracked pieces shifted again, and he flinched as someone else rested a hand on his head, saying something he couldn’t make out. But he was also relieved.

They’d figured out what he meant. They were bringing him to a blacksmith.

Vio’s breath hitched as whoever was holding him began to move, and his consciousness sank back under a sea of broken glass.

(...)

Vio woke up to a splitting pain in his head, like Blue had somehow smacked him with his hammer, and he cried out, trying to get away from the pain.

"Oh no— hold him!" someone cried out.

Arms grabbed Vio and he gasped, trying to stay still, but unable to stop himself from flinching violently as the pain hit again, an earth-shattering noise accompanying it.

“He’s connected to it, this must be agonizing—”

“At least the rest of him isn’t reacting—”

“Vio? Vio relax, I know it hurts,” a closer voice spoke up, and a hand rested over his. “He’s working on the sword right now, but it won’t be too long.”

Vio dragged in a raspy breath, and clenched his teeth to stop another scream as the noise slammed into him again. Right. The sword. He could handle this. It was being fixed. It hurt, but it would be a good hurt in the end. He knew what you had to do to forge a sword.

Unfortunately knowing that and living through it were two very different things.

Another hit shook through him, and Vio curled around one of the arms keeping him from thrashing, trying to take slow, steady breaths. If he weren’t in so much pain, he’d be rather interested at the physical effects currently hitting him like a hinox. He’d worked on the Four Sword before and never experienced anything like this.

Probably because this time it was actually broken, his mind whispered, and he whimpered as the sword was struck again.

A hand brushed over his head in steady motions, wiping sweat off his forehead, and smoothing wild hair. Vio tried to focus on that, not the regular pound of pain and sound that slammed into him like a physical weight.

“Hold on Link,” someone said quietly, and Vio lost himself in the steady hits of pain as the blacksmith fixed the blade tied to his very existence.

(...)

Four woke up.

He blinked slowly, a gentle light falling over his face as he tried to figure out where he was and what had happened.

A splitting headache throbbed through him, and he raised a shaking hand to his forehead, wincing as he rubbed the space between his eyes. He felt like he’d been through an avalanche or something, what had happened?

Also... hadn’t he been split before?

“Four!”

Someone took his hand, and Four squinted up at the group of blurry figures that had suddenly appeared around him. Their faces slowly swam into view, revealing themselves as the other heroes, and he saw expressions of worry and expectancy all around.

“How are you feeling, Four?” someone asked. Time, maybe.

“Drained,” he answered honestly, voice a hollow rasp. He closed his eyes, then reopened them, staring up at the others. “There was something...”

Four trailed off, and then a brief memory flickered through his mind, one split and jumbled and chock full of pain and cracks.

“My sword,” he said suddenly, and tried to sit up, arms shaking. At least three people tried to push him back down, voices overlapping with worries and admonitions, making Four’s headache worsen. “My sword,” he repeated urgently, sitting up anyway. His memories were a disaster at the moment, but he remembered feeling the crack in his chest, panic and terror and pain accompanying it.

“Here, here I’ve got it,” someone spoke up, and Four watched Legend push his way past the others, something held gently in his hands.

The Four Sword.

Whole and complete.

Four reached out with a shaking hand, and Legend gently handed it over, his face exhausted, but pleased.

“We fixed Vio’s sword up as well as we could, used the finest ore we had,” Legend explained as Four ran a hand over the blade. “I oversaw it myself. We did as much as we could with what we had, if there’s anything wrong with it it’s my fault.”

“The moment we handed it back to Vio you reformed,” Twilight said next, his hand on Four’s arm. “And you’ve been out ever since. We... weren’t sure it worked.”

“It did,” Four said softly, clutching the sword to his chest. He could tell there’d been work done on it, but the magic inside was stable and clear, four tendrils weaved intricately together working in harmony again.

It was fixed. It was whole.

Legend had sat down on the bed next to him, and Four leaned against his arm, overwhelmed with relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered, blinking back the sting in his eyes.

Legend nodded with a little smile, and Four held his sword tight as the others gathered around him, relieved and glad he was okay.

[lizardsfromspace]

Sylvia Browne was one of the most famous psychics of the turn of the millennium, and one of its most despicable. You may remember her from when she told the mother of Amanda Berry her daughter was deceased, which she believed, and she died believing that...but Barry was alive the whole time. Or from the dozens of other times she did something similar

Sylvia Browne released her predictions for the new year every year, like many psychics, but she was stupid enough to keep them online so people could judge them later. Her predictions for the year 2000 include Bill Bradley beating out the Reform Party for the Presidency (he lost the primary to Al Gore, and the Reform Party finished fourth, behind the Green Party with less than half a million votes), that David Letterman would retire (he stayed with the show for 15 more years), that small businesses would flourish in the 2000s, and that Donald Trump will not have a career in politics. Which did technically come true in that he didn't run in 2000, but uh

Also, from reading these at the time, she predicted the big one in California and the death of the Pope nearly every year. Only a keen psychic mind could predict that a man in his eighties could pass away from old age

There's one year she left out, though. She wiped her 2001 predictions from the internet...and her 9/12/2001 predictions. But thankfully, someone preserved them (they're not in the Wayback Machine bc its only 2001 save is in October. And apparently the thing below was a pop-up)

Let's unpack this

She says bin Laden was behind it. An amazing prediction, except she posted this a few days after 9/11, when the media was already speculating he was responsible

She was "given information", which I guess is a way to phrase "watched CNN"

She just makes up a country. She says 9/11 was done by the "Palestinian Republic of Bundi". I can find forum threads from then wondering what the fuck she meant, and all these years later it's still baffling

Did she mean Burundi? A country in Southeastern Africa? There's villages named Bundi in Iran and India, but I can't even begin to imagine what she was even imagining, or why she didn't even begin to stop imagining it

"Triad of Jordan" also turns up nothing

The first name she mentioned just brings up Linkedin pages.

The second only turns up this post. Neither of those names seems to exist in any language

She tried to explain why she didn't predict 9/11, by saying she's not omniscient, and she warned of terrorism...in 1999. But that article I linked dug up her 1999 predictions, bc she left them online, and she said there'd be terrorism...in Florida and London

At the end of this, she takes care to note that 9/11 will NOT stop the Sylvia Browne cruise through Greece and Turkey!!

She saw 9/11, and rushed to make a statement trying to explain why the spirits didn't show her 9/11, and also make up a few countries to blame 9/11 on. Then she sold a cruise, deleted the page, and wrote a book claiming everyone who died on 9/11 was led there to die by their spirit guide to be martyrs to bring patriotism back. I'm glad we don't have celebrity TV psychics anymore but I almost miss them. Simply not justice in how she got off scot-free and our passive aggressive, intermittently-Jamaican queen Miss Cleo got nabbed

[dreamwatch]

Part 2 Part 3 AO3

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Black Friday pop-up event.

Prompts: Black, Friday, "I'm not standing in line for that", Leftovers, Trampled, One Day Only, "I am giving thanks."

Yeah... all of them, and you're right, it was a stupid idea.

Part 1

Word Count: Pt1 - 3080 | Rating: M | CW: Past suicidal ideation (very subtle, blink and you'll miss, I'm just being cautious) | POV: Mixed - Pt1 Eddie, Pt2 Steve, Pt3 Eddie | Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson | Tags: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Gareth CC, Jeff CC, Matt CC, Wayne Munson, disabled Eddie Munson, pining, protective Gareth, protective Steve, kissing, guitars, reference to canon typical injuries, references to blood and injury - - please let me know if you think I've missed any.

I'm posting in 3 parts, because this is nearly 12k in total, which is a lot. Mods - hope that's ok! I'll link them all together. :)

There’s a wispy smell of smoke wafting under his bedroom door.

Something’s on fire.

His eyes fly open. Holy shit, something’s on fire!

Eddie pulls himself out of bed as quick as he can; in a fraction of a second his mind has managed to flick through his options like a rolodex  - grab his crutches, yes or no? Should he put clothes on? It’s freezing outside, he should at least bring a sweater, right? Shoes though, those are definitely important. Maybe he doesn’t need to go out at all, maybe it’s small and he can deal with it himself—

He’s hears crashing and banging from his kitchen, followed by a loud “Mother fucker!” 

That is definitely not Wayne.

He’s on fire and he’s being burgled.

He grabs a crutch with the full intention of braining someone with it, and drags his sleep addled body through the house. He stumbles into his kitchen, crutch raised to find Steve Harrington waving a towel around, and something smouldering in the sink while being doused with water.

“Uh, what the fuck is going on?”

Steve spins around, the towel waving come to an abrupt end.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eddie limps to the kitchen table and gingerly lowers himself into a seat. It’s been eight months since… since. His mind is in a surprisingly good place, all things considered, but his body, not so much. After everything, after Chrissy, God rest her soul, and Patrick, and being hunted by an entire town, and then being ripped apart by creatures that shouldn’t exist outside of comic books and fantasy games, after all of that his body just said ‘enough.’ The bats got enough bone, muscle and tendon to leave him changed in ways he couldn’t imagine when he was sitting under Skull Rock trying to make sense of what his life was going to be like if he lived long enough to see it;  court cases, long prison sentences (or death row), and a complete and utter mental breakdown. He avoided the court proceedings and prison, but he got his mental breakdown eventually, once the relief of being alive and the undoing of handcuffs had sunk in. He was free. He was going to live. Time for his mind to try and process the tsunami of emotions that overwhelmed it during the summer.

He got through it.

There’s a number of reasons for that. Wayne, first and foremost. Wayne, who never doubted him, who had always done his best by Eddie, somehow managed to step it up another notch. He took extended leave from work, that Eddie knows he couldn’t afford unless he had managed to dip into what Eddie knew to be an extremely meagre savings account. Eddie doesn’t love easy, trusts people even less so. People leave. People can be bitterly mean, people can hit and lash out when you’re least expecting it. His father was a viper in their nest of a home, always coiled, ready to strike. Wayne was never like that. Eddie pushed that mans buttons so hard but there were no hands raised, no words that couldn’t be taken back. Just disappointment. Anger was rare, but Eddie had been beyond a fucker to him at times, when he was young and the world had torn away everything he knew, the good and the bad. They fought, then they made up. Nothing was held over his head, nothing got filed away and thrown at him at a later date. They fought, they said sorry, they moved on. 

Eddie doesn’t love easy, and he trusts people even less so, but the exception to that is, and always will be, Wayne Munson.

Of course, there is also the Nerd Brigade that he kind of thought he would just never really hear from again, if he’s honest. They went to school together, he ran campaigns for them, and okay, they saved him from something horrific but like, it’s just something he got caught up in right? He didn’t really mean anything to them, after all. 

Except, they visited him in the hospital. They came to visit him at home. They brought him books and tapes and magazines, and kept him company when he was stuck in bed most days. Brought him movies once he could make it to the sofa. He wasn’t in the mood for them in those early days, especially when he was stuck in his little tar pit, but they kept throwing him ropes until he hung on. Stubborn to the bitter end.

Gareth, and Jeff and Matt. Well, that was more complicated, because they couldn’t ever know what had happened, and explaining away injuries like his was tough when you can’t say the words ‘inter-dimensional bats.’ There was a wall there for a while. It’s a fence now. They can see over the top of it, can link hands and shoot the shit, but it’s still a divider. Maybe one day they’ll get to push the last of it down.

The last reason he managed to climb out that nasty fucking pit of self loathing and pity was currently standing in his kitchen with an exasperated look on his face, dish towel over his shoulders and hands on his hips. 

Dustin and the other kids he could understand. They’re excitable chimps, nerds of the highest order. They have things in common, things to talk to him about that gave him a reason to wake up in the morning, and get out of bed. And his band, well they’re his band, you know? Brothers in arms, even if the arms are linked a little looser than before.

But Steve Harrington turning up to their new home? Nope, that was not on his recovery bingo card.

Steve was there in the hospital, dropping off and picking up kids. So sometimes he sat with him a while, when the chimps were visiting Max. And then one day Chief Powell walks in, mutters some half assed apology and uncuffs him. Just like that. As it turned out, those cuffs were the finger in the dam. And once you take the finger away, it all comes pouring out.

Eddie’s not entirely sure about what happened next. He knows he let out the most embarrassingly loud sob, and that spurred Steve into motion because then he’s being held; Steve was on his bed wrapping his arms around him, and fuck if Eddie didn’t hurt all over, his skin, his legs, his everything on fire, but it felt good to be held. To have someone to press their mouth so close to his ear and tell him it’s okay, you’re going to be okay, for someone to stroke his hair, lay a comforting hand on his back. For someone to reach the pain that morphine could never dull.

After that, Steve was just there, with or without the little assholes that tormented him. He was there the day the doctors told him they couldn’t do much more for him, he was there the day Eddie went home. He had been there even when Eddie wasn’t; the asshole had helped Wayne move into their new little house and decorate the place. 

He was there through the summer, there with the kids, there without. He was there when all Eddie could do was stare blankly at a wall, and he was there when all Eddie could do was cry. He was there when things started to get better.

And now he’s here, setting fire to Wayne’s new kitchen at eight P.M.  on Thanksgiving. 

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, obviously, but um… why are you setting fire to my home?”

“I wasn’t setting fire to your home, asshole. I was trying to—“ he gestures angrily at the sink, “make you dinner. Or heat, it up at least. But that’s ruined, so…”

“Dinner?”

Steve shrugs at him, flushes a little across his cheeks, and Eddie does his best not to think about that too much.

“I just— when you said Wayne was working tonight, I just thought, you know. Like, your first Thanksgiving after… and I just thought—” He’s beet red, looks firmly at the floor, at the wall, at literally anywhere other than Eddie. “I just didn’t want you to be on your own, thats all.”

It’s not a revelation, exactly. He had several offers for Thanksgiving dinner; Hop and The Byers, which would have been desperately awkward, the Wheelers, an absolutely firm but polite no, and even the Sinclair and Hendersons. And it was all lovely, honestly, that people were over the Satan workshopping thing, but they’d moved onto the pity thing. And more fundamentally than that, their Thanksgivings were never going to be like his and Wayne’s Thanksgiving, and that’s fine. Variety is the spice of life, and he’s sure they’ll have a great time. It’s just not for him.

But maybe it is. Because Steve didn’t want him to be alone, and there’s a little lump growing deep in his throat. 

“That’s… really nice, actually.”

Steve huffs, dramatically. “Yeah, well, it’s ruined. Mom gave me all this left over food and all I had to do was leave it in the oven,” he scrabbles around on the counter, in amongst the dishes and retrieves a piece of paper. “It’s all here, all the times, the temperatures. And I fucking nodded off and now it’s—“ he gestures to the sink again.

Eddie climbs out of his seat and makes his way to the sink. He winces at the sight of what he thinks might have been some turkey.

“It’s pretty black.”

Steve sighs. “Understatement.”

“If you were trying to make charcoal you did a pretty good job.”

“Ha ha.” 

Steve flops into the chair Eddie vacated. “I just wanted it to be perfect for you. You know, it’s been a shitty year, like for everyone, but you especially.” He tails off, his voice gets quieter, as if he’s embarrassed by it.

Something swells inside of Eddie, a knot of happiness. Not at how dejected Steve is, but at how much it had clearly meant to him that this was good for Eddie. 

Perfect. He wanted it to be perfect. 

He needs to not be reading into things so much. There be dragons, after all.

Steve looks miserable, and Eddie hates that, can’t bear it actually, so he makes his way back to the table and flops into the chair facing Steve’s.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging Steve’s hand with his. “Honestly I really appreciate the thought.” 

And who is this Eddie Munson that doesn’t mock people for being considerate, for putting effort into things he’s never considered important? A habit born out of bitterness at not having parents like everyone else’s, at not just being different, but having to lean into the different, to own otherness before someone else takes it and wraps it around him anyway. 

He does appreciate the thought. He’s revelling in it and trying desperately to keep a lid on just how much it means to him. Outside of Wayne, who has cared this much about whether he has nice things?

Steve leans back in his seat, that quick flash of red colouring his cheeks again. “Yeah, well, the thought isn’t much good if it’s sitting in the sink burnt to a fucking crisp, is it?”

“How was your Thanksgiving?”

Steve shrugs. “It was okay. Mom was hosting this year, so we had like, a million people in the house. My cousins are a fucking nightmare, honestly, probably ripping my room apart as we speak. Animals.”

“Was the food good?”

The confused little ripple on Steve’s face is cuter than it has any right to be, and Eddie doesn’t even make an effort to stop the little smile that he knows is pulling at his own lips. He rests his head in on hand, elbow planted on the table.

“Yeah, it was good. You’d know that if I didn’t fuck up reheating it. I should have just put it in the microwave, seriously, I don’t why my mom—“

“Was the company good?”

“Uh, sure. It’s nice to see the family, yeah.”

“Was it perfect?”

There’s a silence, a little wrinkle as Steve wonders on the question. There’s something about sitting here with Steve, just the two of them at the kitchen table, burnt food in the sink. Something warm. Something homey. Like Steve fits in ways Eddie had never imagined anyone fitting. It’s resolute and fast and comes from nowhere - I want this. Eddie buries it as fast as it came.

“I mean, it was nice, sure.”

“But was it perfect?”

Steve shrugs and it strikes Eddie that Steve might think he’s being made fun of, that Eddie is goading him somehow, and nothing could be further from the truth.

“You know how I usually spend Thanksgiving? Wayne usually works it, money’s too good to pass up, you know? So he works, and I get up early and then we have a couple of Turkey dinners and a couple of beers, and maybe pie if we could get one. And then we sit in front of the TV until Wayne falls asleep in his chair. And I cover the old man up in a blanket, and I leave him to sleep for the day. I go to my room and I listen to music and I read and then when it’s time to wake him up we have waffles and ice cream and maybe some more pie if we’re feeling extra decadent. Then he goes to work. 

“And I’m here by myself and yeah, it’s lonely, sometimes. But I have Wayne, and so I get a day to be thankful for that. It’s not perfect by most people’s standards, but it’s perfect for me.”

Steve looks at him, awed.

“Holy shit.”

It feels reverent, oddly, like Steve has seen this gentle part of him, like he’s unpicked locks for Steve, like he’s—

“You’re such a sap.”

Asshole!

“I am not!”

Steve leans back in the dining chair, wood creaking dangerously, grinning widely. 

“You are! You’re a fucking sap, Eddie Munson. How did anyone think you were cool enough to be a Satan worshipper?”

Eddie damn near splutters at it. “Oh fuck you Harrington! Look at me, I’m practically the Prince of Darkness.”

“Okay, so that’s Ozzy—.”

“You remember—“

“—and also you’re a fucking pussycat.”

He has to bite his tongue, can’t say anything else or it might be something he can’t take back. And he doesn’t want to lose this. He’s never been short of friends, he has the band, and okay, they’re like eleven years old or something, but Dustin and the dweeb crew are friends now, too. There’s Robin, and Nancy - Nancy fucking Wheeler for Christ’s sake - and then there’s Steve.

There’s something to be said for people seeing you at your worst and sticking with you regardless. All of those people - okay, not the band - have seen him at his worst. Dead is probably him at his worst. Bloodied and torn open is not a good look for anyone. He feels sick thinking about it. But they saw it. 

Steve saw it, then he tried to fix it.

Or well, Steve gave him CPR; no one wants to know they’ve had CPR performed on them, it’s a window into an event that he really doesn’t want to think about. But it was Steve, and somehow that feels big in a way he can’t put his finger on.

And then Steve got him out, and Steve kept him alive in the car all the way to the hospital, and Steve screamed at a nurse until they brought a gurney, and Steve, Steve, Steve. It always comes back to Steve.

Crushes are childish things, things for hair twirling girls and handsome boys, and Eddie has never had crushes. He watches someone from afar and then stuffs it away, squashes it before it gets that far. He watched Steve, once, before folding that feeling neatly and stuffing it in a box marked ‘I Can’t Have It.’ 

But there’s something to be said for a man saving your life, for risking his own to save yours, and then for sticking with you for months after. For not just being there physically, but mentally, emotionally. There’s a bond that has been growing, a root deep within Eddie, a seed that’s been there for years but has finally been watered, has had the sun of a long hot summer to grow it; Steve is his best friend. But the flutter of more, of want, sings within him.

Sitting here with him, hands almost touching over the worn top of the kitchen table, burnt turkey in the sink, over cooked potatoes and solid gravy on the counter, it’s as close to looking at that neatly folded thing as he dares, and this time when he stuffs it back inside it hurts.

“So,” Steve says, with a soft knock-knock on the table. “Have you got plans for tomorrow? Hitting up the stores?”

Eddie can’t help the snort of laughter. “Uh, no. Just chilling here, I think. The guys asked me to go with them to Indie, but… not really in the mood for walking around the mall all day, you know?”

Steve flashes a look, like concern maybe? 

“Oh. Everything okay?”

“No, yeah, everything’s fine. Just tired is all. And you know,” he taps his leg, the only shorthand he needs for the shit show that has become his body. He smiles, big and as genuine as he can make it and it does the trick as Steve’s shoulders relax.

“What about you? Big plans?” Eddie crosses his arms and leans across the table with a wide grin on his face. “A date, maybe?” It stings his lips to say it.

“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffs. “Robin wants to get away from her family for the day, I think she has about a hundred Buckley’s camped out in her place. You’re welcome to join us?”

That flutter again. He’s so close to saying yes before he reins it in.

“Nah, I think I’m just going to laze around in my pyjamas for the day. But thanks for the offer.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind…”

They spend the rest of the evening throwing out what’s left of Mrs Harrington’s prize, and very, very black, turkey, and ordering a pizza. And Eddie doesn’t think anymore about that thing folded up inside of him.

[karlachismylife]

For the celebration! The Prompt: laying their hand on the other’s leg. The pairing SoapxReader or DammonxReader, you choose! >:3 pls and tyyy

Never ask me to choose again, darling, I'm polyamorous for a reason >< You get both! And also lots of love from me for your support and overall awesomeness <3

Link to the celebration post for anyone interested here!

Emotional Support Dog

John "Soap" MacTavish x gn!civilian!reader

Even the air around you feels charged with anxiety. No amount of meticulously created comfort can tone it down: tucked into the soft corner of your couch, surrounded with pillows, a blanket, a steaming cup and a bowl of snacks to accompany fat stacks of papers to read, you still feel nervous. No one can blame you though: your boss wasn't particularly fair informing you of the upcoming meeting late. Very late. Couple of days before a very important meeting with your place at the company depenging on it - that sort of late.

Goddamn corporate.

So it's not surprising that you're slightly crumbling under pressure to get prepared with all available documentation; maybe they're trying to set you up to be at their mercy or fail, but you're not going down without a fight. Even if the fight makes your knee bounce nervously and the almost-forgotten nail biting come back as your eyes scan one bureaucratic word vomit page after another.

You're so engrossed in the process of absorbing vital information from the bulky speech figures and long columns of numbers that you nearly miss the sound of the apartment door opening and closing - and the one entering isn't even trying to be subtle about it. Poor door suffers a concussion in its core each time it gets slammed shut by the overly excited to be home individual; then follows the jiggling of keys thrown to their place, two hasty thuds of boots being enthusiastically kicked off, and finally - a dramatic pause. Were you a little less busy, you would've already been at the door, right where one hearty hug awaits, arms opened and everything; maybe you would've made him wait on purpose, just to see a sulky pout of an impatient pup light up with pure inner sunlight by your presence; but you can't just pull yourself away from this very important reading.

So in a minute Johnny peeks around the living room entrance, wary expression immediately replaced with a loving glint in the aquatic eyes at the sight of you. In two strides he is already at the sofa, plopping his ass right next to you and nuzzling the side of your face with one, two - three kisses: to the temple buzzing with brainwork, to the soft cheek and to the corner of your sightly frowned mouth.

"Whit are ye doing there, bonnie? Thought ye fell asleep, didnae even come hug me at th' door," here comes the famous pout, eyes full of betrayal boring straight into your soul in hopes of coaxing more kisses and cuddles. Would've definitely worked.

If not for the bloody headache fussing over this goddamn meeting planted into your skull.

You open your mouth with a sigh, planning to answer him - you're going to hug and kiss him alright, just a second, you just have to finish this paragraph, so wordy and inhumanely written that you almost don't doubt it was done by a real person - to deliberately make every reader's of this file head explode. An efficient way to balance the workforce market.

Soap, however, reads into your frowny silence and immediately smells that something's wrong. And it very much might be his fault - even though he did the dishes, took you to your favourite Italian on the weekend, showed impeccable restraint when a guy at the parking lot ran his mouth at you (that prick was lucky Johnny didn't want to start the date with a fight: "Ye better thank tis guardian angel 'ere fur haudin' me back, or ah'd teach ye a lesson, ye sod," - all said with a firm hand placed on the small of your back while you glared at the mouthy motherfucker), folded the laund- oh shite. It was the laundry, wasn't it?

"Bonnie, ye're nae angry at me, are ye?" Johnny tilts his head, trying to catch a direct glimpse at you, and almost shoves himself between you and your reading, squeezing in more kisses. "Ah'll dae th' laundry, ah promise, must've forgotten-" - you finally blink and emerge from your hyperfocused state, immediately cupping the Scot's worried face and planting a loud smooch on his nose.

"I'm not angry... not at you, at least," you give him an apologetic kiss on his pouty lips and look back down at the paper in your lap. "It's just work. Gotta read all this or I'll be in trouble, boss gave me a really short notice this time. It's like they're trying to set me up... sorry for ignoring you, sunshine."

Initial relief on Johnny's face that showed there when you confirmed he didn't get on your bad side (he did fold the laudry after all, just managed to forget that he did) gets replaced with a concerned look once again. Leaning back a bit, he gauges the stacks of papers laid out on the coffee table in front of you and furrows his full brows.

"'N' how long ye 'ave tae read all tis?" - "The meeting's two days away, morning." You rub your neck with another exasperated sigh, and a much larger hand, warm and calloused, comes up to do it for you, squeezing the sore spots and making you shudder as it forces the knots away. How long have you been sitting here, hunched over the papers?

"Steamin' Jesus, tha's a lot of reading tae dae," he mutters, squinting to try and make something out of the corporate gibberish - and inevitably failing. With a sigh, Johnny reserves to kissing your temple again. "Well, shite, nae lik' ye 'ave much choice, dae ye? Wanntae 'ave pasta fur dinner? Ah'll cook."

With a confirming nod and a grateful grunt from you, already deep in the papers again, he raises from the couch that creaks with relief, but then pauses and sits right back down. His big hand finds its way to your leg, squeezing your knee reassuringly and stopping the jittering with warm, heavy weight. You lift your eyes once again, meeting his bluest ones with a net of crow's feet around them, nothing but warmth towards you. This sight makes breathing, constricted by the pressure put on you by the situation, easier.

"Ye got tis, aye, bonnie? Ah ken ye got tis. Ye gonnae show 'em."

With a pat, meant to gently hammer in this confidence in case you were still worrying and doubting yourself, Johnny finally gets up, and your knee immediately feels cold without his big paw on it.

"Ah'll go start th' dinner, and ye holler if ye need anything, aye? Ah heard snoggin's good fur yer brains."

Of course he did. Bloody rascal with his innocent blue eyes winking at you and calming your wired self down. Well, why refuse such considerate service when offered?

Forged Under the Stars

Dammon x gn!reader

The cool of the night yields under the relentless burning of several campfires and torches lighting the clearing your celebratory party takes place at, their heat amplified by mulled wine and other drinks generously shared between everyone present. Sitting close to one of the campfires, you quietly observe folks with genuine smiles on their faces that only add to the pleasant warmth in your chest. It's nice, you think, seeing them relax and shrug off the heavy weight of barely avoided danger. They deserve this small moment of peace and quiet among impending doom, and so do you.

Drunken laughter at one of the barrels people gather for the good ale distracts you, your curiousity piqued as you lazily try to make out what caused the whistling and hooting - some brave soul trying to compete against others in absorbing a humongous mug in one go, perhaps? Whatever it is, it keeps your attention long enough for someone to stumble a bit clumsily and seat themself down with a quiet "oof", warm knee nudging your leg in an accidental move before the person straightens up. Snapping your eyes to the right, you can't help the wide smile tugging at your lips.

"Hello to you too, Dammon," you raise your clay mug as a greeting, taking in the view. The blacksmith doesn't look too out of it, but he's clearly tipsy - you aren't surprised, he does give off the impression of someone easily getting lightheaded from a drink or two. Even the warm orange hue of the campfire can't hide cute rosy blush on his cheeks and pointy eartips; neither manages he to conceal a certain glint in his bright glowing eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles, probably referring to his clumsy landing, but you just shake your head - he didn't even really disturb you, holding up quite well. Same can't be said for everyone: with another glance around, you notice a completely plastered tiefling maiden try and dance with Wyll, who ends up catching her and preventing a fall after fall for the giggling girl. A quiet rustling from behind alerts you, but even without looking you realize it's just Dammon's tail getting restless, usual reserved attitude lifted by ale or whatever he was drinking.

You two sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the party and stealing glances at each other, smiles widening and chuckles escaping when you catch each other looking - after one of these accidental eye contacts Dammon and you burst out in particularly loud fits of laughter, leaning forward and shaking your heads. Alcohol makes it so much funnier, fuzzy, pleasant feelings coiling like furry cats in your stomachs.

"Gods above, I haven't laughed like that for a long time," Dammon sits back up and tilts his head back, inhaling fresh night air and watching the night sky. His vision makes the stars shine brighter, and while you watch him instead of the nightsky, you think you see the celestial bodies swirling in his eyes, reflected as if they were a crysral clear lake.

"Not much laughter in Avernus, eh?" Your slightly intoxicated tongue works faster than your brain, and you immediately stutter, cursing yourself for bringing The Descent - of all things, damn it! - up. "Sorry, didn't mean to..."

"It's alright. I know what you meant," Dammon's smile doesn't falter and he tears his gaze away from the sky to look at you. Maybe it's a play of the flickering flame you sit at, but it seems as if his eyes only shine brighter when looking at you. "And you're right, that wasn't... although there was this one time..."

He briefly checks if you're listening and goes off - waving his mug, unusually expressive and talkative, clearly encouraged when you prop your cheek on your palm and listen on. Maybe you don't quite keep up with the amout of terms and unkown words his slurred speech is littered with, but you still laugh, when he puffs his blushing cheeks, reenacting the way some poor apprentice thrown into his forge held a heavy anvil and tried to use it as a hammer when they ran out of those (how does a forge run out of hammers? why yes, of course, when a whole squadron of unprepared for battle soldiers swarms it and takes everything and anything they can use as a weapon. yes, the firepokers too.)

At the sound of your laughter, loud and unbothered, Dammon pauses with his antics and turns back into his shy self, holding his breath and drinking in the sight of you with a surprisingly sober shine to his eyes. Your fit of giggles dies down, when you feel a warm hand on your thigh, barely squeezing, long tiefling claws carfully denting the skin underneath your clothing.

"Thank you," sincerely whispers Dammon, looking at you like you've hung the moon in the skies and lit up the fire in his forge, "for everything. For this night."

He leans in closer, lips slightly parted, something else dancing on the tip of his tongue, something he can't brace himself to say out loud. You smile, covering his palm with yours - his is strong, warm, a hand of someone working hard, rough and with visible burns from accidental sparks scorching through the protective mittens. It startles Dammon, fingers twitching and squeezig a bit harder before he lets go of your leg and moves his eyes away. His ears slowly start glowing brighter, tail swishing behind you and nearly swatting your bum - turns out, it almost coiled around your waits while you two were sitting next to each other.

Unwilling to let his bashfulness to get in the way, you catch Dammon's hand before it slips away and hold it gently, allowing to rest on your thigh again, your fingers almost intertwined.

"I'm glad you're here," there's enough courage in you for the both of you, added in liquid form or coming to you naturally - doesn't matter. Dammon's shy smile grazes his lips once again, and he finally allows his tail to wrap around your seated form, carefully, ready to pull away if you show any signs of discomfort.

You don't.

"I hope we see each other again," with your support, Dammon allows his thoughts to spill out. It's a little bittersweet, a reminder that the celebration will eventually come to an end and you both will have to move on, heavy burdens on both of your shoulders. But maybe, just maybe the knowledge that wherever life chucks you, if there's a forge nearby, you might see a familiar face - maybe that knowledge lifts the weight just a little bit.

After all, this blacksmith has some fine, strong shoulders you can lean on.

If you know anything about the Faerûn traditions, it's that lovespoons are carved out of wood. Unlike that little forged one that you find among your posessions the next morning.

[mandalhoerian]

ghost to its haunt, I | leon kennedy x reader

read part 1: moth to a flame pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader summary: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt. But this time, it has to be different. word count: 6K warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, peppers of fluff as a treat, smut (blink and you'll miss it), leon being feral from day one like seriously he's unhinged, his negative self-talk notes: this installment comes in two chapters. chapter two is still being written and will be published and linked here when i'm done. header template can be found here. we're nearly at the end besties, thank you for sticking with me until the end, and please enjoy.

🌀 read on ao3! 🌀 NEXT CHAPTER

i. Leon knew right from day one when you’d breached the solitary safety of his shadowed corner in the bar of his unusual drinking choice, that you were tempting and twice as dangerous as a mirage to a parched man lost in the desert. 

In the pleasantly neon-lit sanctuary of a bustling bar, amidst the cacophony of clinking glasses and spirited conversations, he stuck out like a sore thumb with the air of melancholy around him, making people near his booth uneasy with the way he was observing everything — to them, he was not to be approached, as if one look to his way would be enough for him to start a fight, but in reality it was his inability to relax in crowds, subconscious calculating for unlikely scenarios to unfold and contingency plans on how to get away. Yet he’d wanted to come here just once anyway, see what made here one of Major Krauser’s favorites, it was psychological torture, but Leon did it to himself anyway, knowing so.  

You came to Leon first when nobody would approach him, setting a starting point of the pattern in your relationship where this’d be repeating over and over again. 

The stifling hot humidity of the South American forest and how heavier the stench of blood stuck at the back of his nose still followed him around months after, and you tracked the trail like a shark in the water, it was in the way you’d been openly watching him upon spotting him in his corner, in the way you slid towards him in the booth, eyes glinting, seeking, curious, expecting — giving straight away of how fresh you were to this compared to the poor unfortunate soul before you chasing after Operation Javier. 

You looked young, around his age, but had a certain softness and eagerness that reminded him of an unprepared rookie back in 1998, so before you could get a word in, he’d said, “I suggest you walk away for your own safety. You know how this ends.”  

You know how this ends. 

Such first words. What a way to doom an entire relationship and a person. 

If Leon knew how his words had shaped the reality he’d chosen, he’d have gone with something promising, more open, like, “How’d you know I wanted company?” — he’d expressed himself more, made his attraction more prominent, secured you to him better, but he was always about safety and protection, wasn’t he? Paranoid beyond belief, self-sabotaging. Of course he’d warned you about taking caution so you wouldn’t get hurt, especially given what had happened to the previous journalist looking into the operation. 

Your reaction to this was opting to buy him a drink instead of getting intimidated. Leon had made it clear over and over again he wouldn’t tell you anything and to go your own way. You didn’t know anything about him other than being a connection of the White House to Operation Javier somehow and he certainly wouldn’t be the one reporting this back to the base, so he made sure this was about saving one more person’s life from being ruined in vain even after this brief encounter had led to a hasty hookup in a bathroom stall and eventually to a hotel room like he was some teenager with no control over his dick —

You had ruined everything. 

Unabashedly interested in him and just pushing, eager, genuine, passionate as you kept talking about your job in wanting to expose corruption the more he kept things dry and silent, and he just saw the same spark in you that he had once; how naive, how idiotic, how endearing — such respect-worthy dignity and enthusiasm and drive that you had managed to find him of all people in your pursuit. He’d never been attracted to anyone quite like this, not the same way with Ada, not in that elusively mysterious and alluring, dangerous and unapproachable, thrilling distance, but the other end of the spectrum, the sort that fed on kinship and admiration that made him want to protect you from what he knew would happen if you kept going like this. 

Jesus, it should have been discouraging you from this path and nothing more, instead, Leon had been randomly snapped out of years of dissociation and autopilot since Raccoon City, and for what? Mind-blowing sex he didn’t even know was coming for his throat on a random fall night in 2002? 

Really, it was his routine being broken that had done it.

His life was meticulously governed by strict routines and unwavering habits, as if each day were a precisely choreographed fight, a paragon of order and structure. Leon’s world thrived on meticulous organization, where every document, tool, and weapon had its designated place. Even the symmetry of his living space mirrored the precision of his mind, with every item aligned flawlessly, punctuality eventually becoming second nature to him, his internal clock a finely tuned instrument, ensuring he was never a moment late, not at all a result of being late in his first day as a cop. Time was a precious commodity, a resource he safeguarded fiercely, as he understood that even the smallest delay could have dire consequences. This devotion to structure allowed him to remain laser-focused on his objectives, and also avoid hellish punishments back at Offutt Air Force Base located near Omaha, Nebraska where he had spent quite some time as a special agent trainee.

Military would make a clockwork out of anyone, but being trained under Major Krauser had turned him into a well-oiled machine that only had training and mission objectives in mind. Leon used to be highly adaptable and open to surprises before, but his encounter with you had revealed just how unprepared and anxious to impulses he’d been molded to become. Spontaneity had ended up a stranger to him, an unwelcome disruption that threatened to dismantle his carefully constructed world, and as an extension, anything else was regarded as losing control — which was, an unthinkable notion; he had been trained to maintain composure in the most chaotic of situations. 

There wasn’t even the semblance of composure in how he handled you. 

Never in his wildest dreams would he entertain the thought of someone managing to unbelievably, randomly, turn him on so uncontrollably one day that he’d lose his mind enough to risk public indecency in a fucking bathroom stall with pants around his ankles not only once, but twice. 

Sitting on the toilet with your back to his chest, one leg spread wide open over his knee and the other hiked up in the air from his elbow, you basically limp in his arms as all you could concentrate on was shutting your mouth tight enough not to make noise as he wildly bounced you up and down on his lap — and the next thing he knew after blowing his load right after with no rest whatsoever was that he had you flat against the graffiti-stained door separating a bunch of girls from what the two of you were doing, one hand clamped on your mouth, having you press your thighs together so he could languidly slip back and forth against the tight crevice of your wetness and the plushness combined that he had to use all his control for the door to not rattle and feeling your pussy spasm each time he grazed your clit, his head buried in the crook of your neck whispering filth he didn’t know his mind was capable of conjuring right to your ear with no filter —- how much of a pervert you were to be enjoying this when all it had to take was a peep from you for people right in front of you to discover you were getting off to the thought the humiliation of being looked at while getting fucked from behind, all the while it was Leon who was dying to explode from how horny he was that it was unbearably painful. 

And the only thing he could think about was to hell with it all and the hammering of his heart to hear you moan uncontrollably, he could just plunge inside you right then and there, had to bite down on your clothed shoulder to hold back the impulse, hell, it took everything in him to keep his breathing steady and not heave, every second the girls didn’t leave was dragged torture, his legs were trembling from holding back and the sheer excitement, but holy shit was it concentrated ecstasy that had his eyes rolling behind his head when they had finally left and he’d rammed himself in to the hilt so forcefully that the hinges of the door had almost broken off.

You had consumed him whole, your skin, your scent, your taste, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and pleasure and just digesting his whole being that he didn’t even have one grain of logic or common sense as a pea brain or nothing — just that he wanted to keep fucking and it was so soft and everything just felt so good and good god Leon was going to have an aneurysm from overheating because of you.    

The post-nut clarity after all that was interesting to say the least. 

A blood clot had to have shot up to his brain for his sanity to have snapped like that … And for him to think this wasn’t enough and he wanted more as you rested in his embrace — in a fucking bathroom stall. He wasn’t a people person. He simply didn’t do this shit in the first place, what was even happening?

Leon didn’t know what to be embarrassed about: of himself for doing this kind of thing in a place like this or disrespectfully exerting a woman to this degree, he had no idea whatsoever where all the talk about getting discovered had come from, didn’t that make Leon the pervert? Good lord. 

He had to be thankful that you were coming down from a high and had no energy to turn around and look at his face, because you surely would see him transition from all shades of red out of shame. What the actual hell had come over him?  

Leon was made aware that night that it’d been such a long time since he’d felt such a visceral physical response to someone that his whole body was in a flushed flurry — the kind of intensity that hadn’t even scraped the top of his heated need, he couldn’t even think before suggesting you two take this to somewhere else better that he could drown in this feeling some more. 

The man who said this basking in your afterglow and the man who warned you about how this ended were two different people. 

The man at the very beginning of this would have known better than to let himself indulge in you. 

But your pull was worse than that of a black hole’s, and in Leon’s mind, him taking you to a hotel room was equivalent in his mind to tossing you over his shoulder like an impatient caveman foaming at the mouth, and he knew he’d looked so constipated and unenthusiastic about it back then because he was trying to keep his shit together and not let his libido rush straight to his head, it was absolutely batshit crazy that his mouth was fucking salivating over you and he had to physically fight not to get hard where he stood, especially after having a taste of how you melted in his arms and he just couldn’t keep his together and — this was unreal, Leon had never went into a frenzy over someone before and you’d just taken it. 

He wanted to be gentle, enjoy it, savor it, and you weren’t even going anywhere, but even after he’d gotten him and you a room, Leon had taken you like he hadn’t fucked in his life before, like his dick had gotten hard for the first time in his life, and pathetically like he was desperate for his skin to touch another human being’s — and you… 

You. 

You had made everything worse. 

He still remembered that exact moment when your hands found his hair, the gentleness of the caressing contrasting his rough rutting, he remembered how the rhythmic squeaking of the bed stuttered and gave it right away that he was caught off guard even though his head was buried in the cushion of your tits — embarrassing, utterly disgraceful, all that you’d done was pet his fucking head and his heart had purred like a goddamn cat, and even more shameful was that he’d come right on the spot when you’d started pulling on his strands, Jesus fuck, he wanted to die on the spot. 

One condom change and a carry to the bed later (because Leon had shattered upon passing the threshold of the hotel door and he’d wrapped your legs around his hips and had you against the door, again) things had finally begun to become mellow and sensual as he’d started enjoying you, significantly calmer and more collected compared to before, paying more attention to how you liked it and what you liked, where you liked better, putting those observational skills to more gratifying uses. 

Somehow this was the most satiated he’d been yet, actually taking in the sight of you struggling against the pleasure brought him the unexpectedly superior fulfillment to chasing his own height. He was alerted and awake, sensitive to the very last cell watching you, endeared, wanting to give you every last drop of euphoria he could just to see how you’d react to it. And the more he explored, the more he couldn’t get enough, so adorable, so sexy, so hot, how could he take pleasure in making someone cry? How and why the hell couldn’t his dick stay down for five minutes? 

By the time he’d finally become downright spent and quenched the fire inside, the sun had already risen, the floor was just littered with ripped condom packets, you were covered in hickeys, bite marks and bruises that he’d questioned if he was a feral animal, and the sheets were… disgusting. 

Leon was a repenting sinner with an imaginary tail between his tails when he’d wrapped you in clean linen and laid you on the sofa, changed the sheets, and straightened the pillows, getting you to pee and drawing a bath for you afterwards, it was mortifying he’d made you basically unable to walk for the time being, and he surely didn’t deserve your insistence that you two share the bath together, twice as horrified and disturbed at the tender intimacy with which you’d washed him, warm fingers massaging his scalp almost lulling him to sleep.  

Sharing the room service breakfast, streaks of golden sunlight of the early hours washing your face and making the white of your bathrobe glow as he tried not to make it obvious he was ogling, you’d tricked him into promising you a date for all that he’d put you through that night, you’d be calling in sick; and Leon was covering his face in guilt and embarrassment inside even though all that he’d presented you was an abashed grin and an, “As the lady wishes.” — stupidly giddy enough to have lowered his guard (like that idiot in 1998) that you hadn’t suggested this because you wanted information out of him but were genuinely interested in his company, in him. 

He wasn’t overthinking it back then, just reveling in your presence, luxuriating in the fluffy, satisfied, peaceful feeling, new to him, not afraid of how it could be ephemeral. He was drunk, and not conscious about the fact just yet.  

The withdrawals had hit right after parting ways with you — this was a mistake, this was a huge mistake, he shouldn’t have promised anything, he shouldn’t even have done this in the first place. Leon had no time for this, couldn’t even keep a plant alive if he committed, didn’t know how it’d work, nobody was allowed to know about the kind of work he did, the world of bioterrorism was a secret kept so tightly it became nooses around the necks of nosey individuals. 

He just couldn’t allow himself to loosen the leash around his normal because if he did let go of himself, he would make a mistake. That mistake could doom you. 

More importantly than it not being fair to you, he’d be putting you in danger just by being in your proximity. 

All that fretting around, putting the stress of wishing to see you again but the garbage feeling he mustn’t (that he hadn’t expected to make him this moody) into exercising more intensely than before, and ending up scaring the folks around the office unintentionally in work, only to feel immediately like spring had come at the drop of a hat when you’d called saying because he hadn’t, apparently, and you were waiting for him. 

This was terrifying. How you made him feel... It was entirely out of his control. 

I suggest you walk away for your own safety. You know how this ends.

Leon should have kept telling this to himself. 

ii. The date was at your place, planned from start to finish by you, an attentiveness and special treatment he didn’t deserve, but Leon got warm inside anyway, especially after you said this seemed like the better option since he didn’t seem to do well in crowds. Something about him being noticed on this kind of personal level had caused him to confuse his right from his left and he was sure his palms were sticky just from that and the way you smiled. 

You’d said you wanted to get to know him, and Leon unfortunately didn’t have enough going out experience to decide if cooking together and then sitting down to solve a murder mystery game was the most creative thing ever or not, because he thought it was. 

At the end of this, he knew you much better, and had shown you himself in a way that wouldn’t be possible by answering questions. 

Leon had approached the murder mystery solving game with a calculated and analytical mindset, trained to think strategically, he had diligently assessed every clue, scrutinizing them for hidden meanings and connections. He hadn’t meant to get invested this much, but he had ended up approaching the game like a covert operation and a blast from the past to his police academy days, examining evidence with sharp attention to detail and requiring evidence instead of just a hunch like you kept hitting him with. Each clue was like a piece of intel, and he’d taken the murder of Mrs. Huntington very seriously. Relying on his instincts, leveraging his experience in decoding complex situations to unravel the layers of the mystery, his logical thinking and ability to tackle every single thread of this one by one had brought structure and organization to their investigative process.

In contrast, you had embraced the game with innate curiosity and unlike him, a childlike interest — like a game should be perceived. As an investigative journalist, he’d seen that you had a natural knack for delving deep into stories and uncovering hidden narratives, embarking on the game with a keen eye for the human element, looking beyond the surface level clues to understand the motivations and emotions of the characters involved. You thrived on the adrenaline rush of piecing together the puzzle, always seeking out the next lead or breakthrough, and brainstorming on the possibilities, which clashed with Leon, leading to a sort of bickering that was entertaining, really. Your inquisitive nature and intuition led you to explore alternative perspectives, constantly questioning assumptions and seeking out overlooked details.

When was the last time he’d had this much fun? Leon didn’t remember. 

All that you’d given him that night was a kiss, he hadn’t minded you halting things before the heavy makeout session that had his brain melting like jello could escalate into something more, and he definitely didn’t mind being hypnotized into saying yes for doing this again sometime in the future — when he should have cut things off. 

Leon really couldn’t seem to think coherently around you.

And, despite his better judgment, there was a third time. There also was a fourth. A fifth. A sixth. Seventh. Until he forgot it was a matter of numbers and he simply kept seeing you — that was it. 

Amidst the unlabeled dates that unfolded between you and Leon, there was an undeniable disparity in your cooking styles. While he considered himself a decent cook, you couldn't help but find his dishes lacking in flavor and spice, often describing them as bland. Nonetheless, there was a silver lining to this culinary discrepancy: Leon's competence in the kitchen ensured that all ten of his fingers remained intact, a feat that seemed elusive whenever you attempted to prepare a meal.

Your culinary misadventures had reached a crescendo one fateful day, as Leon returned home to a scene of chaos. The kitchen lay in disarray, food scattered about, a bloody rag, and a knife ominously present. Heart shooting up to his throat, he practically shouted, "Oh my god, what the hell happened?"

It was then that you revealed your mishap, a deep and severe cut that required stitches. Despite the severity of the injury, you had opted not to seek medical attention to avoid the burden of an exorbitant bill. Unbeknownst to you, Leon possessed exceptional suturing skills, honed through the necessity of tending to his own wounds after the hazards of his missions. He hadn't disclosed this fact of course, but rather emphasized his meticulousness when it came to first aid that he’d taken a course on it in the past.

He kept on boomeranging back to you every time he regretted the previous entanglement the morning after, dreading this was bound to end badly and he should leave you alone. He could… He could get sex elsewhere, he was a dog on a leash because stumbling on physical compatibility on this level had made him an idiot, that must have been it, he thought.  

But that wasn’t the issue at all. Nothing had thrown him off and even affected his daily life the way your absence did. It wasn’t craving the skin contact and fantasizing about the next affair that did Leon the damage, it was simply wanting to see you and be by you that even his appetite was lost along the way — he had been scared of what this was. The utter enormity of it made him panic. 

In the depths of his soul, a bubbling longing simmered up and up, getting close to the surface the more he deprived himself of you, taking over him with an intensity that defied description. His heart echoed with the fading echoes of your laughter, a melody he yearned to hear once more and came back to him when he least expected it — in the field he could chase away all thoughts and concentrate, but in the waking moments devoid of action, his thoughts collapsed toward you, unable to escape the gravitational pull of your absence. A hunger, primal and unyielding, gnawed at his core, a hunger for the touch of your hand in his hair, the warmth of your embrace, the nightmare-free, cloud-soft sleeps by your side. He’d come to find solace in fragments of memories, savoring the remnants of your presence, like faded polaroids etched in his mind. It was unbelievable to notice the world around him grew muted and colorless, as if drained of life's vibrancy, each passing day intensifying the ache, searing his heart with an inconsolable longing, fueling he urge he kept resisting to bridge the chasm of his own making that separated him and you. 

Leon had to accept he liked you despite himself, liked you to the point of no return, and that he was afraid to admit the stronger word. 

iii. He couldn’t tell you who he truly was and precisely because of that, couldn’t fully let you in. 

Countless reasons came up to defend why this was for the best — it not only protected his heart but also protected you by keeping you at a certain distance from all of this ridiculous baggage…

And he took notice of you noticing and being accepting regardless, settling for whatever you could when you shouldn’t. 

He was such a selfish man to keep taking advantage of that to stay however he was able to, a hedgehog’s dilemma. 

Leon had managed to find boundaries of your unpredictability and had managed to establish a routine, an ebb and flow of some sorts, entirely dependent on the volatile schedule of his missions that you had no idea of and tried acting nonchalant about — the absences, the bruises, the emotional unavailability after losses he had to keep to himself. He had to be wearing you down, crawling back through the dirt and the blood and the undying monstrosities only to be mute about everything and go straight for your embrace in search of a moment's peace. 

And what about you?   

The part of himself that was still sane knew he was making you suffer because of his selfishness, stringing you along in this unlabeled affair with the excuse it was with your eventual well-being in mind when it was easier for him — in the sense that if it came to the worst, you’d be able to come out of this on top and just hate and keep blaming him so you wouldn’t be hurt in the long run. 

But it was selfish, he still wanted to keep being around you, though, didn’t have the right or face to say he wanted you, so orbiting you was the best he could afford to do. 

Just for a little longer. A bit more. 

Leon wished you would be done with him and tell him to leave you alone so he could finally get out of your life for good, but in all his returns you welcomed him coming back with open arms. It was the garden of Eden and he didn’t belong there, feeling like a pillager sneaking in and getting whatever he wanted and fucking right off afterwards, each and every time leaving you with less and less and a faded viridescence. 

But he couldn’t stay. Not for as long as he wanted. Never in the way you deserved. 

And before Leon knew it, he and you had toppled two years of his bullshit — and you were still here throughout it all.. 

In 2004, the truth of bioterrorism and the existence of monstrous abominations with no regard for human ethics were thrust upon the world, and wiped yet another Raccoon City off from the map of the mediterranean — and things got so much more confusing in regards to what was allowed to be secret or not.

Unbeknownst to you, it was this incident that unknowingly contributed to the growing rift between you. Leon carried the heavy burden of witnessing the President's decision to deny AUPIT’s assistance to the FBC, leaving him as a mere bystander while hundreds of lives were lost due to the incompetence and inexperience of those involved. Even Terrasave, an organization not known for its extraction expertise, fared better in their efforts.

The Terragrigia Panic became a turning point, a catalyst for Leon's introspection, the weight of the world he couldn’t lift one finger to help pressed upon him, driving him towards self-destruction and an ever-deepening spiral of despair, soul scarred by the consequences of inaction and the haunting memories of present lives lost and a past city long in the dust. He questioned the system that bound his hands, preventing him from making the difference he so desperately yearned for. It was during these tumultuous times that you stood by him, unaware of the inner battles he fought and the toll it took on his well-being, and it made him feel so much worse about everything. 

His heart trammeled with the inevitable conclusion he could no longer ignore, he made the painful decision to set you free from the grip of his own shortcomings. Overwhelmed by a sense of unworthiness and consumed by his own greed, he knew he had to release you, unable to bear the weight of his own inadequacy any longer.

The timing, eerily close to the anniversary of the day he first met you, held a bitter irony. It was as if fate had conspired to test the limits of his resolve, presenting him with the most challenging mission of his life just as he made this life-altering choice. Bound for Spain, his path was paved with uncertainty, fraught with danger — but he’d sworn that things would be different this time and he could actually return, reformed and squeaky clean, somehow this mission could be his saving grace and actually wipe his brain clean of grime and rust.

The break-up had loomed before Leon like an impending storm, and he had steeled himself for the emotional turbulence that would surely follow, however, what caught him off guard was the resignation from you, as if you had anticipated his intentions and thoughts, ready to release him with open arms — eager to say yes the moment the words would slip out of his mouth. 

Devastated would be an understatement to describe him — he’d sat frozen on the kitchen chair, his mind a tempest of confusion and disbelief, the composed and scripted nature of your words waterboarding him as you continued to speak, nonchalantly expressing your expectations of this inevitable departure. You seemed braced, almost as if you had been reading his mind, as if you knew this day would come. The nonchalant manner in which you spoke of his leaving, seemingly devoid of any emotional attachment, tore at his heart. It was like time itself had paused, and Leon felt the dissociation creep in, his mind unable to process the scale of what was happening, the world around him blurring, finding himself lost in a void of numbness. How could it be that you were so ready to let him go? How could you speak of no hard feelings when his heart was shattering into countless fragments?

Yeah, right. 

Betrayal was it. 

He’d felt betrayed by you when he had no right to be angry like that — because he had warned you right from the start. 

You know how this ends. 

You’d taken his advice. Leon should have, as well. 

iv. It wasn’t only his jacket that’d got taken away by the village freaks, but also the watch you had given him as a gift — which the loss of was more personal and lethal to him.

And he had no time to look for it between saving and taking care of Ashley and trying to navigate a much bigger conspiracy. 

Coming to terms with the fact that it was gone, just like you, seemed poetically fitting, a form of karma that he should lose a memento of you when he hadn't proven himself deserving of it in the first place.

At the back of his mind was the memory of you trying to act like it wasn’t for anything special when Leon knew it was the first anniversary of the day you and he met, you just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, walking around eggshells around him with the vaguest boundaries and definitions unspelled so he wouldn’t run away — Leon knew all too well. 

He had mentioned going for some type of Casio G-Shock when recounting he’d been meaning to buy a new one, and you’d apparently paid attention to that, not at all questioning why he would want a solar powered watch with 1312 ft. of water resistance — and had given him another much more sporty Longines stainless steel chronograph watch on the side, absolutely humbling him on the spot with just how much money you had to have spent on these two — and the amount of thought you had put into it. 

Modifications on both watches were specifically allowed by him, he'd gotten your initials and the Roman symbols of that day in the fall of 2002 engraved at the back of them to deceive himself, interchangeably using them, the Casio one in the missions, and the Longines in casual days, not bothering to buy any other watch for himself after that. You would see him wearing it all the time, but fortunately for his abashed pride, never commented on it, having no idea just how important they were to him. 

And it was Ada who casually reunited him with it, her throw of the watch certainly gentler than that of the jet ski key’s, as she was walking away with the Amber, a mysterious, knowing glance in his way, a perfectly shaped smile on her glossy lips. “Here. Consider this an equal exchange. Learn to take better care of special things, Leon.”

Somehow she wasn’t just talking about the watch and it irritated him, but she was right. 

v. The depths of Leon's feelings for you were intertwined with an overwhelming sense of terror. 

It terrified him to realize how much he needs you, how your presence has become an integral part of his existence, that you were now the surface he swam up to breathe after hours in the dark of the ocean, and the desire for reciprocation, for you to need him just as deeply, and knowing that you do but unable to bring himself to do anything about it, all filled him with longing and apprehension, both holding hands hiding behind the walls of his own making, pulling each other back as they kept watching you from afar. 

He feared that he may not be enough for you, that his flaws and past were going to inevitably cause harm and ruin.

The emotions that surged through him when you were near, the way his heart raced and his thoughts became consumed — it was new, it was unknown, it was exhilarating, it was petrifying. The spotlight of the vulnerability he’s put in was a double-edged sword, for it exposed him to the potential for joy, but also, immense pain. 

He could lose everything and it would lay waste to his soul, yet in the face of this fear, he couldn’t bear the thought of pushing you away completely, because the terror of being without you somehow had become equally paralyzing that he couldn’t breathe in the PTSD-rooted nightmares of them anymore.

Thus, you had found yourselves trapped in a state of limbo, unsure of where to go or how to proceed, but it was his fault, he thought of himself as a flightless bird sitting up on a roof with you, who could obviously fly; if he attempted to follow you he could fall, if he let you go you would migrate to warmer lands and would never come back. so you were both stuck there, and none of the scenarios involved — what if he could also fly? What if he could do what he thought he wasn’t capable of?

The thought of losing you now, after experiencing the depth of how far he could go with you; the promise, the mirage, the illusion, the dream, was a sense of impending devastation. And yet, he was plagued by the fear that it may already be too late to salvage what he once had with you. What he could have with you, if he allowed himself to surrender — 

Leon had changed, he wasn’t the same person, but he also hadn’t changed, hadn’t lost himself no matter the cost, hadn’t strayed from the original path he was treading on — he was capable of saving people, capable of changing the ending.  

Spain was as traumatizing as it was eye-opening and life-changing, through the reunion with Ada, the betrayal of Major Krauser, the loss of Luis and the successful extraction of Ashley, one single thread of hope had been holding Leon up and running:

He had to get back to you. 

He would come back to you, no matter what, even from the grave, even knowing there was a chance you wouldn’t take him back. To hell with taking comfort in a self-defined ending, to hell with the facade of protecting you when it was just protecting him, to hell with everything. 

This time, it had to be different. 

[yukimiyum]

ALL ROADS LEAD BACK TO YOU PT. 2 | 1,778 words (~13 minutes reading time). afab!reader, toxic!oliver, boyfriend!yukimiya, abandonment, complicated relationships, oliver pov & reader pov, penetrative sex, nipple play, fingering, creampies, praise, pet names (darling, my love, darling)

author's notes: you already know how enraged oliver would be over someone like yukimiya being with u...especially bc he knows better. i'm in tears btw. [ao3 link]

-> taglist: @qichun @unriding @mitsuwuyaa @suyacho @rhyzoma -> join the taglist!

it's so late, again.

oliver barely makes it back to his room before slamming his fists against the closed door. once again, they lost. they fucking lost, and there was nothing they could do. the hole in his chest is aching, roaring at him at how much of a failure he is, watching those quick feet sidestep him as if there was nothing he could've done.

there was nothing you could've done better.

sendou's voice echoes in his head. he knows he's right—sendou tends to be right whenever it comes to this stuff. he's smarter, he's dealt with failure far more than oliver ever has. being in his position, it naturally causes him to feel more. to deal with more. and he does, letting it slip off of him like water off of a turtle's shell.

so, he calls the one person he knows will pick up. it's been a good six months...maybe even longer. time seems to fail him these days, and while you haven't seen each other nearly as much as you normally do, it's...he misses you.

he fucking misses you so much, it hurts.

he's seen the vacancy in your eyes, too, whenever you're beneath him. that last time...it broke something inside you, he thinks. one time too many. one abandonment too many. he'd hurt you too many times, but he can't get enough of the way you come when called anyway. as if he's too good to let go. it gives him a sense of pride, of knowing no matter how much he hurts you, you'll still come back.

he's a fucking monster, and he's enjoying it.

that is, until your phone goes to voicemail.

he texts. the message goes through, a read receipt appears, but no dots appear of you typing. he texts again. no read receipt this time. he calls again. no answer. voicemail.

he's starting to get desperate. the overwhelming feeling that you're gone, that you've finally had enough; it frightens him. it terrifies him so much, seeing the shadows on the walls of his hotel room looking so much bigger and scarier than they have before as he calls again.

this time, finally, finally, someone picks up—

"hello? who is this?"

oliver's blood freezes in his veins.

because it's not your raspy, tired voice, full of exasperation and thinly concealed want. it's not a voice that he's familiar with hearing over the phone, but it's one he knows so, so well. well enough that he almost hears his phone crack in his hand.

because it's yukimiya's voice.

oliver can't bear to say anything. he's completely frozen, locked in place, his heart slamming in his ears as he watches his vision blur with tears. he's going to fucking cry, isn't he? he's going to fucking break down because this is confirmation that you're finally gone. you're finally done. it's over.

it's over it's over it's over—

yukimiya's voice hums on the other end, but there's no whisper or acknowledgement that you're even on the other end. you're being smart, he knows it—keeping silent while yukimiya chuckles, as if he knows it's oliver on the other end. but he can't know, you never saved his number, hence why he's asking who it is.

or he's being a dick. could be both.

the line goes dead after yukimiya whispers down the line, chills fluttering over oliver's back as the three beeps sound in his head. the three beeps of death, knowing you're not coming back.

hot, disgusting tears fall down his cheeks and into his short beard that he's grown, without you tutting at him and brushing your knuckles against his usual clean-shaven cheeks. his entire body feels freezing cold and like he's been dipped in flames at the same time.

his phone ends up cracked, shattered even, a dent in the wall as he stomps into the bathroom. he needs a cold shower. anything to forget that you're not coming back this time.

and it's his fault.

"yukki? who was that?" you whisper sleepily as your boyfriend reaches over to pick up your buzzing phone. he doesn't let you so much as look at the screen as he answers for you, before humming and hanging up, shrugging.

"must've been a spam caller," he says back to you, before moving back to what he was doing before your phone buzzed.

your stomach drops, because you know he's wrong. he doesn't know he's wrong, but you know—it had to have been oliver. yukimiya had come over immediately after their loss, wanting to feel your warmth just as he does after wins. he makes quick work of your clothes, but never fails to just lay with you and enjoy you—not like oliver, who only wanted aggression. to take things out on you. to use you for his own ends.

yukimiya's different. yukimiya feels safe.

yukimiya doesn't leave in the morning without a word to you.

yukimiya doesn't abandon you like you mean nothing to him.

yukimiya doesn't—

"my love, what has you so lost in thought?"

his voice is so soothing for you as you look down at him. his chin is perched on your bare chest, lean fingers cupping your breast, gently squeezing every now and then. his glasses have disappeared, somewhere on your bedside table, so his big eyes are only settled on you. there's concern in them, but mostly just love.

love. something you've always been looking for, but no one has ever wanted to give you.

"nothing." it's a lie, and yukimiya's much smarter than he lets on as his brows furrow for just a moment before shrugging it off. "i believe you," he says, moving up to nuzzle into your neck, "but i'm here to talk about it when you're ready." so patient.

his lips press against your soft flesh there, breathing your scent into his nostrils. "let me make you forget about it for now," he says in a low voice, his eyes precise as he looks up at you, moving downwards to capture one of your bare nipples in his mouth. his tongue rolls across it, flicking and sucking so gently that you can't help but keen, your thighs pressing together, feeling his lean hand become trapped between the fat.

his fingers gently push your underwear to the side, your thighs involuntarily shuddering as he drifts his fingers through your lips. his touch is so much softer than oliver's is, and even after a loss, yukimiya never fails to make sure you know he's not mad at you. he could never be mad at you, really—you know that. why would he, anyway? it's his loss.

this is his way of taking it out on you.

instead of oliver's commanding, angry demeanor, yukimiya takes a very sweet view on sex. it's the closest to making love you've ever gotten to.

because yukimiya treats this as his therapy, really. if he can make you cum, if he can make you squirt all over his thick cock and his pretty hands, then he's still good. he's still good enough, he's still worthy of something. of someone.

so much different than oliver. so much better than oliver.

yukimiya has you creaming all over him not long after that. his fingers make quick work of you, especially when he looks at you like that. so gently, as if you brought him into the world to serve you and there's nothing better for him out there. it's intoxicating how much he loves you—the past six months have proven that to you time and time again.

especially when he whispers against your neck how good you feel wrapped around him as he gently pushes into you, your walls accommodating his size slowly as he works you open. "god, you feel amazing every time," he groans out, thrusting into you, his hands on either side of your face, looking down at you with the sweetest smile as he watches you come undone beneath him.

his movements are like the ocean; consistent, moving in and out, reveling in how you squelch around him, so agonizingly slowly that you're getting frustrated. redness blotches across your cheeks as you whine, wriggling underneath him. his lips upturn in a smirk.

because yukimiya has his own drawbacks. obsessive ones, ones that you enjoy without realizing how much you like it.

"need something, love?"

"yukki," you whine, "need more, need more of you, please—"

this was the main one. he constantly teases you to tell him what you want. considering it a drawback isn't really accurate...it's more of a qualm. a passing annoyance that only leads to a harder climax for you—and that's why you enjoy it so much. secretly.

"oh, i'll give you more," he says, suddenly slamming into you so hard that stars erupt in your vision as your jaw falls open, a cry of ecstacy ripping form your throat, "i'll give you all of me if you only ask. all you have to do is say please, darling."

"y-yukki, yukki, yukki—"

"yeah? are you going to come for me again, sweet thing?" his voice is so patronizing, but there's no aggression behind it. only a sense of control, something yukimiya surprises you consistently with. for being such a pacifist, he really enjoys inflicting pain on you—painful yearning for him to make you come in the only way he knows how.

his hand sneaks down to where you two are joined, his wet thumb flicking against your clit as he rails you into the bed. the bedframe slams into the wall behind you, but you don't care. you never did. all you can feel is warmth pooling down below, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you hear yukimiya laugh above you. "yeah, that's it, that's a good girl. you look so pretty squirting all over me, darling. i am so fucking lucky, my god—"

you can feel him filling you up as you ascend, your very skin feeling like it's on fire as yukimiya comes inside. but he doesn't stop, he never does as he fucks the come right back into you, not wanting to waste a single drop. he rides out your climaxes together, dropping his face into the crook of your neck as his hips finally sputter out and he collapses on top of you—a sweaty, welcoming warmth as you both catch your breath, a wet kiss pressed to your cheek as your eyes finally flutter back open.

and you forget all about the missed phone call when yukimiya's face swims into your vision, his smile so gentle as he presses another kiss to your lips, and then to your forehead.

"my beautiful girl."

divider credit: @/adornedwithlight networks: @pixelcafe-network

disclaimer: DO NOT copy or repost my works for any reason. translations are acceptable, but please ask for permission first!

© yukimiyum 2025

[we-stan-the-stans-27]

Dead Asleep AU?

Okay, so I kind of wanted to write another part/version of that sleeping beauty AU from the other week. But this time, Stanley is the one who gets too suffer! HAHAH!

So, here is part two. Also, I posted both parts up on my Ao3 account and I'll link it here if you want to save it for later or whatever.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62066953/chapters/158737552#main

And of course, I'm going to @sixerstanley again! Because this was their idea. Now. Let's get into being evil. Heheh.

(I had most of this done on the tenth, but then I basically died and couldn't finish. So, enjoy. That live stream was like crack or something. Idk guys.) (P.P.S. Gonna post this on its own now because I don't think anyone saw it when I reposted it attached to the old post. Rightfully so. That shit was long as hell.)

Truth be told all of Stan Pines favorite and happiest memories took place on a boat. It didn't matter if it was on some crappy litter scattered beach.

It was theirs and nothing could soil those memories. Back then all that mattered was the hot burning sand, maybe the stings of glass cuts across a sole, and tumbling along getting hurt, hand in hand.

Sure, it took forty damn years to get back there, but he's anything if not stubborn. And it paid off.

What's that saying? 'Most gamblers call it quits right before striking it big?'

Good thing he never stopped betting with higher and higher stakes then, right?

The future is much brighter because of it. The deck of the ship has a sharp bite to it now. From one extreme to the next. A hot infected wound, now soothed by a cold compress.

The arctic Ocean.

There isn't a lot in the area for fishing, but there is still plenty of wildlife to watch from the top deck if your patient.

Late at night the sky lights up with the northern lights, or 'Aurora Borealis' if you speak blabbering scientist. It's beautiful and a new flavor of Ford's favorite activity, Stargazing.

Out at sea there is no better place for it without any light pollution. Just them, the universe, and the expansive inky blackness below.

Sitting out on the deck, fish watching with a pair of binoculars, the world is practically blinding this time of the afternoon. The white overcast clouds mixed with the occasional chunk of ice covered in snow lights up the world like being inside a light bulb.

That's not what pulls Stanley's attention from the endless water he's been looking at all morning though. Finally, he sees something!

Off the starboard side from where they've been anchored a group of Narwhals is swimming by, long tusks poking out of the water and interrupting the sleek outline of the waves.

"Sixer, get the hell up here!" He knows his brother won't be nearly as excited about seeing this marvel as he is, but Stan still wants to share it with him anyway.

Just because Ford saw a million different impossible things through the portal doesn't mean whales aren't interesting too. Sure, not what they're hanging out waiting for, but who cares?

When Stanley can't hear Ford immediately running up the stairs, no big surprise if stuck in a book, he stomps on the floor of the deck without looking away from the water. Grinning like an idiot.

"Stanford Pines, get up here! I'm having a heart attack!" Okay, yeah. It's not funny. But that never fails to get him top side no matter what he's in the middle of.

'Boy who cried wolf' Yack! Yack! Whatever. If it works, why fix it?

There are at least ten different Narwhals intermittently breaching for air but the sight is incredibly short lived before they dive again on another breath hold, disappearing from sight below the grey waves.

"Awe, too slow! You missed it!" His booming voice is the only sound on the ship and it makes Stan finally drop the glasses and get up out of his chair with a crack from both knees.

He stomps, again, and then listens with a little more attention to the ship.

There is the lapping of the waves against the side, the slight breeze blowing the fresh smell of sea salt over the vessel, but otherwise its quiet.

Hmm. He could stay up here, maybe even pretend to fall over and really scare his brother. Except the last time he did that Ford almost threw him overboard into the freezing cold water.

Still. It is a little weird that Ford didn't at least yell a few foreign curse words up through the ship.

"Alright, fine. You want to prank me back? I'll bite." It comes out in a mutter and Stan makes his way across the deck after one more glance around at the water.

Through the wheel house, down the steep steps, and around the corner into the room dubbed 'the office' only in the name on the door. It's a glorified science lab that Stan gets to store a shelf of books inside of.

Pushing open the door is a little challenging, like something is blocking it but after a minute of shoving he's able to get enough room to squeeze through to get a look around.

Yep. This is 100% a prank.

The thing blocking the door? Ford, leaning back and looking pretty limp. Stan has got to hand it to him, this is a really convincing look.

"Nice try genius, laying around on the floor isn't going to convince me. Come on, up we go." It takes a lot more work than it should to move Ford from the floor up into the single chair in here.

The only real dead bodies Stan has ever seen have been bloody from being murdered or covered in vomit thanks to overdosing on something. Lots of blood, bruises, stomach acid and empty eyes stained with their last moments.

Ford's open, blank ones, do cause a little bit of alarm, but. It's how damn cold his body is that brings the first real taste of concern to the forefront of his mind.

"I thought I told you to turn on the space heater periodically. You have bad enough circulation as is, you idiot." Ford is very cold, and limp just like a dead body, and his eyes-

To humor Ford, and to reassure himself, Stan does a big show of rolling his eyes and then putting two fingers to Ford's wrist. You can't hide having a pulse, genius.

"................................................................................................................"

Okay. Maybe you can hide a pulse on one arm, if you cut off circulation. Whatever, big whoop?

Stan shifts over to check the other wrist and lets out a tisk of annoyance before raising those same fingers up to Ford's neck.

Same result.

Huh.

Now that's a neat trick.

Ford is doing a really good job pretending not to breathe too.

A really really good job.

That's bad.

"Alright Sixer, good one. I've learned my lesson here, you can undo whatever witchcraft you used to manage this." His confidence that this is a joke is cracking with every second Ford doesn't hop up and start lecturing him.

That's what should be happening. Another long rant about how pretending to be injured or sick isn't funny, not a good way to get attention, and unnecessary.

Yeah. Stan knows all that.

Ford does come topside, eventually, whenever he yells. It's just-

Sometimes Ford gets a little too caught up in his work and needs to be reminded the rest of the world exists. Extremes are the easiest way to do that.

And, yeah. Stanley can admit in the safety of his own head that he enjoys the fretting Ford does, despite knowing it’s a false alarm. It's been a long time since someone cared about him enough for something like that.

Or maybe those memories are what decided not to come back. Eh, his life seems pretty sad. Makes sense.

What doesn't, however, is why Ford is doing this for so long.

Plain and simple, he wouldn't.

But, that would mean something so terrible that his mind still won't accept it.

Because Ford can't be dead. That's not possible. They had this conversation.

Before leaving Gravity Falls, they had a really long and difficult talk about health issues. Ford came up with game plans for emergencies, Stanley had to own up to his numerous health issues, and how does Stanley know with complete certainty his brother can't be dead?

Bill said so.

Ford isn't supposed to die until he's ninety-two of a heart attack.

Now, Stan doesn't trust that demon on much. Or anything. Except this.

Because Bill liked Ford to an uncomfortable degree, otherwise he'd be dead right now. Or, would have at some point during the apocalypse.

So. The devil must have been telling the truth on this one thing, right?

Ford had seemed pretty sure that he wasn't going to be the one needing healthcare at sea, solidifying the belief in Stan's own mind. If Ford wasn't worried, why should he? He's a genius!

But-

What if Bill did lie? Tricking them into a false sense of security only for Ford to drop dead one day. Honestly? That does sound more his style.

Except, it can't be today.

It just can't.

Because if Ford is dead-

That's not a possibility Stanley Pines has ever considered for so much as a millisecond.

Not when Ford went through the portal.

Not for thirty years during the rebuilding process.

Not even prior to rescuing him from Bill and saving the world.

Because he can't imagine a world without Stanford Pines.

Sure, he's been gone before. Missing, but he came back from the portal and they eventually fixed things. They're okay now.

That was six weeks ago.

And, yeah, they still fight, but that's normal. Expected, living so closely after so long apart.

Stan has found himself frozen standing next to the chair simply staring down at Ford waiting for-

The joke to end? The camera crew to jump out? Ford himself to come in from the other room telling him this is a dummy or clone?

That spurs him back into action, rushing out of the room. "You aren't funny, Stanford Filbrick Pines! When I find you, I'm going to give you the worst wedgie in the multiverse!"

There are really only four places Ford could be hiding, given his size. Their bedroom underneath the bunk beds, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen pantry, or the engine room.

The kitchen pantry is bare, as expected. It’s a pretty shitty hiding spot.

Looking underneath the bed is tricky, but he isn't under there either.

The bathroom shower is clear too and he leaves the lights on, doors open, as he yanks the tiny half-sized door to peer into the almost crawlspace-sized room-

Empty.

For good measure Stanley does a second, and third, lap of the ship from the deck all the way back through leaving no chance for his brother to be sneaking around hiding.

In the end he still lands back in the office, leaning against the wall, looking at his brother's freezing cold and lifeless body.

Dead, body-

Nope, nope, nope! Ford can't be dead, he can't be.

Instead of looking at 'Ford' Stan looks around the room at anything else in search of answers. There's a stack of books and some science doohickey on the desk, but that's not all.

When first entering the room, Ford was laying on the floor back against the door. The chair was sideways, almost like he'd fallen out of it.

Down on the floor is a small collection of scattered papers.

It certainly looks like-

"Nope. Not happening." I'm not going to entertain it, not going to think about it. Ford is cold and being an idiot.

Stan busies himself with gathering up the scattered papers off the floor and organizing them on the desk and-

Ford's phone.

Before leaving port they'd both gone out and bought one at the behest of Dipper and Mabel. For taking pictures, calling, texting, and use of the internet.

They have this thing called a 'hot spot' that allows them to use the internet on their laptop for video calls and such. Ford usually sets that up and Stan gets the call going.

Neither of them knows the full process, so they have to work together.

Finding it discarded on the floor fits with the scene Ford has laid out trying to play dead. It's all very convincing, really.

But all that panic and worry remains buried deep, because what else is there?

Losing Ford would probably give him a heart attack, for real, right about now.

So. It's pretty concerning to see the phone open, wasting the battery, to their text chain.

It looks like Ford tried sending him a text up above deck.

'Stanley, I require medical assistance, follow protocol 32-C. Thank you. -Stanford Pines'

Except the text never went through, that red bubble with the exclamation mark 'Not delivered' is obvious enough for even Stanley to see.

Okay. There isn't any ignoring that.

Why? Ford was right here, why didn't he yell or come upstairs, or knock on the ceiling for fucks sake?

Except it does look like Ford might have tried to leave the room-

Real, honest panic claws its way up into the center of his chest from where he's kneeling on the floor looking at the text that didn't go through.

Maybe it was never a heart attack, could've been a stroke-

This text is pretty long and lacking spelling mistakes though, like all the other messages Ford has ever written.

His last words.

"Stanford..." It comes out broken and he ignored the complaints of the floor in the rush to get up, still clutching the phone, and across the room to his brother.

Idiot! Stupid, God damn idiot!

Instead of helping him for one fucking second you decided to play hide and seek!

Nope, we aren't going to cry. Not now, nope. Doesn't matter that there isn't anyone around to-

Nope!

Pulling Ford down onto the floor to assess him is easy with how limp he is and Stan makes quick work of pulling off his gloves in search of-

Something.

There still isn't a pulse, but the skin along each wrist and the neck feels colder than it did earlier. Stan's hands are shaking like he's going through withdrawals, trembling.

Focus.

Despite what his brother might think, he did in fact take the time to review the procedures stored in their extensive first aid kits. Not because any of them are helpful here though.

Ford put that together with Stan exclusively in mind.

What to do in the case of a heart attack, stroke, aneurysms, seizures, and all the small things too. Stuff for stitches, concussions, burns, and there is one small pamphlet on amputations.

The reason he took the time to review them was to put together his own plans, just in case.

If this is a heart attack he can't use to stupid paddles on Ford because of his metal plate. Besides, who knows what kind of effects that might have if it is a stroke-

He's already dead-

"Shut up! Just, shut up. He isn't, not until I say so!" The yell echoes back inside the claustrophobic room. The boat has never felt so painfully small-

CPR it is then.

Thirty-two C is essentially an undefined chest pain. Aspirin, monitoring, and high tailing it to the closest port.

Hard to do any of that when Ford can't breathe, much less swallow. And, you know, being three hours from the closest dock doesn't help either.

Stan has wasted too much time fussing and being useless as is. He knows how to do this. Where the hands go, the rhythm needed and the right amount of pressure to apply. How often to force Ford to take air.

This gives his hands something useful to do, his mind something to focus on instead of pure white-hot panic.

Because that's what he feels.

There is only one thing he could never protect Ford from, himself.

Sickness, and eventually death fall into that same category because the body does those things without considering what you want. Old age would come for his brother someday, regardless of how anyone feels about it.

Stanley had always assumed- no, made damn sure -that he wouldn't outlive his brother.

Because he can't be the one to carry on. That is a world he wants no part in.

He realizes, a while into doing compressions, that he should have consulted a clock before starting to try and keep track of how long he's been doing this.

Whatever, like it really matters.

Stanley continues anyway, long past when his arms started to burn and past hearing two different ribs crack.

What makes him stop is when he physically can't catch his own air enough to continue.

He is, understandably, a mess.

Snot smeared between both faces, tears across the front of Ford's shirt and cheeks, and Stanley himself can't breathe, chest tight and wracked with sobs.

Even if Ford did have a heartbeat Stanley knows he wouldn't be able to feel it because of how badly his hands are trembling and how fast blood is rushing in his own ears.

Six god damn weeks. Is that really all we got? All that time, all those mistakes? So much wasted all because I couldn't control myself for five fucking seconds!

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry Stanford." It comes out choked, barely real words around his chests arguing efforts to sound like a dying animal and take in enough oxygen to avoid meeting his own end.

The pile of regrets is immeasurable, but not so much about the past.

They've done that song and dance, so those aren't the thoughts that tear into him now.

So many things missed that still need to be made up for.

Christmas. New Years. Drunk nights out. Their birthday for fucks sake!

Now they'll never get to share that, ever again. Forever Seventeen.

Just-

Being together again.

Joking together.

Together!

Not apart.

Haven't they had enough of that? Wasn't four cursed decades of loneliness plenty?

Guess time has a funny sense of humor.

Or the world just hates him specifically.

Stanley Pines isn't allowed to be happy, hopefully everyone got the memo!

He can't remember ever crying so hard or for nearly as long ever in his whole life. Countless nights spent breaking down in the basement, slumped over the desk in the upstairs office, or camped out in some slum across the back seat of the car are nothing in comparison.

Lying across Ford's chest feels unnatural. It's too cold, too still-

Wrong.

It's like someone just broke one of the fundamental laws of physics here in their office and Stanley can't handle it.

When he finally manages to pull away a crazed laugh bubbles up and out into the room without permission.

There is nothing funny about this, but it seems to have a mind of its own, running away with his vocal cords.

What the hell else is he supposed to do? His whole world just died. Ford might as well of snuffed out the sun, causing the whole universe to go out with it. All that's left are stars.

Memories.

That's not fair. None of this is, and he knows that life ain't fair. Why would it be now? Of course it wouldn't, but-

"Why?! Why now, huh?! You couldn't of waited ten fucking minutes? At least let me be here with you? I could of done something useful for once! But no, I always have to fail! It's the only thing I'm good at!"

The humor vanishes, the hysterics of it washed away by anger and grief.

He ends up sitting back on his ass with knees drawn up with both arms wrapped around them, just like when they were kids.

What is he supposed to do?

Ford's dead. Stanford is dead. Sixer is dead. My twin brother is dead-

Repeating the same thought doesn't make him feel any better. If anything, it makes the shaking ten times worse. Unsteady hands, trembling shoulders-

He's shivering all over, goosebumps caused by something other than the cold.

"God, i really am a failure. Can't argue with me now, huh? You died, fifteen feet away from me and-" He can't look at Ford like this anymore, so he brings up a hand to cover his face while trying to regulate his own awful breathing.

Who cares? Why does it matter? Why bother calming down if Ford's dead?

As much as he'd like to give up, because it would be incredibly easy to do so, Stan knows he can't. Not now.

Okay. Deep even breathes.

In. One, two, three, four, five.

Out. One, two, three, four five.

It takes several tries to manage getting past two, but it gets a little easier to stop feeling so light headed the more he focuses on it

He can't give up, because like it or not-

Why not?

Because of the kids? Because of Soos? How exactly would they feel to find out both of us were brought into port dead by the coast guard? Two funerals to attend.

Although they would probably do them together-

That's a nice thought.

Nope, we aren't encouraging that!

"Alright, come on. Get it together. You know what to do..." That doesn't make it easier.

Back up. First onto both knees, then both feet.

Unlike moving Ford into the chair, dragging him around, Stanley takes more care lifting Ford up over one shoulder to carry him from the office across the boat into the bedroom.

Laying him out on the bottom bunk, tucked into the blankets, it looks like he's just sleeping.

Despite barely doing anything Stanley is exhausted already. Arms sore, his back is going to be killing him tomorrow from picking up all that dead weight, so he settles on the edge of the mattress. Just for a minute.

There was once a day when the gun would, metaphorically, already be in his hand.

The world hadn't exactly been kind to him. Not growing up. Not on the road. Not even fully in Gravity Falls. Sure, it was home, but the basement was its own form of torture and suffering.

All of that was supposed to stay off the boat.

Land was pain, the ocean was perfect.

Or at least he'd thought so. If death was going to come for them, taking them into the ranks of lives lost at sea, they were supposed to go down together.

It's tempting. More tempting than ever before.

"I'm sorry." He can't turn and look at Ford, but the presence of his body is comforting in a weird way. Just don't think about how-

"I know you keep telling me I don't need to be, and that we're all good, but I really am. I'm the reason we lost so much time, so maybe it’s just that I have to live with that until my heart gives out." These are the kinds of things he'd never say if Ford was really here.

Or in front of anyone, but what's the harm now? Might as well get it out now before heading back.

From there Ford will be carted off to the closest morgue, body probably cremated, leaving Stanley to bring the ash remains home.

"Maybe I was a damn fool to think I could have it all. Should have known it was too good to be true. I can't-" He has to stop to take several deep full breaths before pushing on.

"I can't do this. Thirty years, forty, all alone. Ruined, and now-"

Things were good, fantastic, for fucks sake!

Having someone to cook and clean with. To get annoyed at when they hog the bathroom. Pointless arguments, bickering, but always getting over it.

It was domestic in a way he'd always wanted but never allowed himself. Always afraid anyone who got close would leave.

In a way, Ford did. Not intentionally, but he did walk right back out the door just like everyone else. Who knows, maybe it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

"I-I know I wasn't great to live with. I'm a pain in the ass screw-up and I guess that's all I'll ever be." Failing to notice something was seriously wrong sooner, not hearing any noises his brother might have made, not getting that text-

Overshadows saving the world. It doesn't matter if the sun keeps rising if his brother isn't here to see it.

He doesn't really know what's considered 'normal behavior' around a corpse. It might be incredibly weird of him to decide to sit up against the wall at the head of the bunk and get Ford situated laying back against his chest, repositioning the blankets.

Stan finds he doesn't care either way. If his brother is dead, the love of his life, he's going to sit with him for a little while before his body gets all stiff and gross and corpsey.

It'll take about two hours, give or take, before then.

Other than the bed being cold it’s not hard to pretend things are okay. Stan's own breathing moves Ford with each inhale and exhale in the otherwise quiet room.

They're both to old to be cuddling, but who's around to judge him? The next closest human is miles away and Ford...

He doesn't really get a say anymore.

Stan lets out a sad and exhausted chuckle, shaking his head and tucking his face down into Ford's hair while keeping both arms tight across his brother’s chest.

It smells of sweat, sea salt, and something chemically that makes his nose burn a little. He needs a shower, gross bastard.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to miss you, Sixer. No fucking clue how much I love you."

Never, ever, would Stan dare be so open in front of anyone, much less his equally emotionally constipated brother. But it’s not like he's going to be able to say all this stuff in front of people.

Not when he heads back to Gravity Falls, tail between his legs. Much less at the funeral.

"I mean, you had to know. One person doesn't dedicate a lifetime to fixing a mistake like that if they don't give a shit. But, well, you know."

He's a corpse Stan, he doesn't know anything. Not anymore.

"It was never the boat. I didn't care that you wanted to go to school. I didn't care about taking the journal. I didn't even care about you being a pretentious asshole. Okay, maybe I did care about that last one a little." It's the first genuine laugh Stan's let out since finding Ford.

"It was the separation I had a problem with. We could have been enlisted in the military for all I cared, as long as we did it together. Talk about codependent, am I right?"

His arms are tired from doing compressions so instead of continuing to hug Ford in a vice grip he settles for holding one of his hands instead.

Cuddling, weird but not outside of things they've done before. Usually after or because of nightmares.

Hugging is practically a daily occurrence at this point, sometimes multiple times depending on the itinerary Ford's always got in his stupid head.

But this, holding hands, isn't something they've done since they were kids.

Hopefully, Filbrick found a special space in hell for yelling at them until they stopped. He was right, socially, of course. But Stan can't help holding a grudge regardless. As if Ford needed more negative press about his perfect hands.

They're cold but Stan pointedly ignores that in favor of savoring the moment.

"It was good we spent time apart, in its own stupid way. Not because either of us had a good time or anything, but we finally grew up. Eventually. Just took the world ending for you to get your ego checked." It's nice having Ford lying back against his chest, their hands intertwined over Ford's cold one under the blanket.

It's sad, and temporary, but better than nothing at all.

You take what you get and you don't throw a fit.

"But hey, it wasn't all bad." Looking around the room the proof is right here. "We did it, eventually. We had some fun, stole some treasure. Never did get any babes though, but-"

The wall closest to the door is covered in a large cork board covered in pictures from the camera Soos gifted them as a housewarming present before leaving port. Original pictures of them back in Jersey pinned at the top with their adventures detailed in the ones below, picking up decades later.

He sighs, bringing up his free hand to straighten out Ford's hair. It's always a rat’s nest. "I was never as worried about that part as I probably should have been, because I-"

Dead or not, is this really the kind of thing he should be saying out loud?

The things he's saying aren't really for Ford, they're for Stanley's own benefit anyway. "Well, heh. You see, about that...I, uh. Really only had interest in getting one babe on board." He squeezes Ford's hand for emphasis, like he's listening.

But even Stan can't help bursting out into laughter at his awful joke, managing to avoid letting out more than a couple tears. "Oh god, that's terrible. I'm terrible, I know. But, you never had to worry about that. You being here is more then I could've asked for. No sense betting it on the bonus word and getting left at a dock when things where good as is."

There. It's out there, in the room, shared with someone who can never tell his worst secret. That wasn't so bad now, was it?

"As it was, I guess. Still can't believe you're gone and our adventure is over before it really got started." It's a somber thought, but he leaves it at that.

What else is there to say?

Time passes, only marked by the slight darkening of the clouds outside the boat and the ticking of Stanley's watch.

He keeps saying 'five more minutes' but that started up about two hours ago. It's been nearly three since settling into bed. His back hurts from staying in the same position, fingers cramped, but he still doesn't want to get up.

That means letting go. He isn't ready for that.

Probably never will be either.

It must be the cold keeping Ford from getting all stiff like dead people should because he's still just as limp and relaxed as when he first died. That thought makes him wince.

"Alright. As fun as this is, I should probably get up and bring us back to port before it gets dark." He says it like Ford will be able to encourage him to do so, like the corpse is going to hold him accountable.

Except, it can't.

Stan finds the willpower to get up and off the bed anyway, leaving Ford tucked in, and heading out into the hallway that is the kitchen and dining room.

Next step is getting back to port, calling the local authorities, and explaining what the hell happened. That won't be fun. None of this is.

He only gets as far as the kitchen before having to sit down.

Who is he kidding? This is impossible. How the hell is he supposed to do any of this?

No matter how hard he tries to cling to the fact that he has other family, because Stanley knows full well how much the kids and Soos care for him, that doesn't make the suddenly unbearable weight on both shoulders any lighter.

The boat is suffocating, cold, and it’s only going to get worse.

When Ford had gone through the portal it was easy enough to rationalize his feelings of hopelessness away using pure denial. Can't be sure Ford is dead if you can't see him.

And yeah, he'd been right, though on all accounts he shouldn't have been.

Stan can't do that here because Ford is very clearly dead and gone.

All those years he'd already been through the first several stages of grief periodically. Denial, anger, and bargaining but had always gotten stuck in the second to last step. Depression.

If people can get past that one, they usually reach acceptance and from there, it’s all about finding a way to live with it.

I can't do that.

How on earth am I supposed to after everything? So many mistakes, miscommunications, lost time, and for what? For it to end here?

What the hell am I supposed to do? Pack it up, return to Gravity Falls, and drink myself to death?

That's probably what he would have done if Ford hadn't been able to make it home. If he'd actually been dead for thirty years and all that effort was for nothing.

It doesn't take much to make up his mind. It’s only a matter of when, not a matter of if.

The painful silence of the ship is interrupted by his watch beeping at him several times, indicating it’s time for his blood pressure medications.

This watch is considerably uglier than his gold one, but its water proof and has some fancy alarm and timer settings.

Ford set it up to remind him.

He all but collapses in on himself with tears escaping easier than before in the office.

This was all he ever wanted, for someone to give a damn about him and now the only person who ever did is gone!

No more bickering about who used all the hot water. Complaining about who's turn it is to handle the laundry. Doing dishes together.

No more laughing, cracking jokes, or arguing over what to have for dinner.

"I can't do this, I'm not strong enough for that." His voice is choked, barely above a whisper.

His own feet bring him to the first aid kit fastened to the wall above the toilet in the bathroom. It's where any medications they might need are kept from ibuprofen to some other more questionable alien junk of Ford's.

Nutrition pills are not a substitute for real food, even when you’re sick of fish Stanford.

Down on the bottom shelf right next to the Aspirin and Tylenol is where his stupid medication is to take-

Except currently there is a small and simple letter propped up on the shelf blocking the several bottles there with 'For Stanley Pines' on the front in neat and actually legible cursive handwriting.

He looks around the bathroom, almost comically, because he really has lost it.

Maybe he actually had his own medical problem while trying to do chest compressions and now he's a ghost or something?

Because this looks like Ford left him a letter right inside their medicine cabinet.

Except he's dead in the other room.

After picking up the letter, and taking his stupid meds, Stan goes back to the bedroom to double-check that the corpse hasn't managed to go anywhere in the last ten minutes.

Nope. Still there.

Okay.... Well, might as well read it then?

He closes the bedroom door first and goes about straightening up the million open doors and all the unnecessary lights left on this whole time, settling against one of the kitchen counters and tearing the envelope open with his pocket knife.

'To Stanley,

If you are reading this letter then you must be in the throes of panic at the moment. As I know well, it’s not very fun to have a brother who continues to terrify you with health scares. I have tried discussing this with you several times, but clearly, you don't fully understand.

Perhaps this spook, over a supposed 'blocked blood vessel', will set the record straight. I do not find your jokes about 'keeling over' to be amusing. Waking me up purposefully drooping one half of your body also isn't funny.

It is for these many reasons I've devised a plan to scare you, briefly. The serum I gave myself to cause the presentation of symptoms should have no permanent or ill health effects. However, it does eventually result in a loss of consciousness, so you will need to administer the antidote.

It is tapped to the roof of our fridge and kept at the appropriate cool temperature until it is ready to be used, with the dosage already measured out in a previously prepared needle. Any vein will do, though it may take some time to circulate and take-"

Stanley doesn't bother finishing the stupid list of instructions Ford may have left him filling out the rest of the letter. In fact, he can't even bring himself to be mad right this second about Ford torturing him like this.

He's alive. That's all that matters.

It’s a rush of slamming open doors, making a mess of the top shelf of the fridge, before Stan is able to find the supposed needle right where the letter said it would be. Back to the bedroom he yanks on the light, tearing off the blanket.

"I knew it, I fucking knew it-"

Or at least he hopes this is real and not some hallucination caused by grief. Seems a little too good to be true, but he'd be willing to gamble on giving Ford sulfuric acid if he left a note saying so right about now.

Sure enough, by the time Stanley is able to yank Ford's closer sleeve up he can see a big X drawn with a sharpie over the vein along the interior of the arm where you'd have blood taken. Or shoot up heroin.

How long does he have to give the antidote? Could it be too late? That letter was probably supposed to be opened hours ago.

Whatever.

No time like the present.

He's done this plenty of times on himself, so it’s not hard.

Using one of Ford's ties out of the closet (a ridiculous thing to bring on a boat) he's able to create a tourniquet without having to go back to the bathroom.

The cap gets removed with his teeth and once the vein is visible, he carefully presses the needle in under the skin before pushing down the plunger and injecting whatever the weird black medication is.

Only after putting the needle aside does he run off to get dressings and gauze to patch up the injection sight and stop the bleeding. The same amount you'd expect from a live body.

A weird sense of euphoria takes hold in the time it takes to secure the gauze over the injection site with some medical tape.

And a little bit of hope.

Rightfully, he should be beyond pissed. What the hell was Ford thinking in the first place? Okay, yeah. They suck at talking, and he hadn't been the most open to Ford's previous complaints about his 'death jokes' and such.

Dark humor. But he hadn't expected Ford to do something this extreme in retaliation.

Talk about a prank war getting out of hand.

This is worse than when they got into a closet territory war in high school and it had ended with them both getting yelled at, and grounded, when some itching powder accidentally ended up in the wrong laundry.

Later he can be upset, but right now Ford will probably be waking up in enough pain over his own stupid choices. Being given CPR is a rather violent experience, his chest is going to hurt considerably for a long while.

That's revenge enough, and-

Okay, maybe you could consider this lesson learned.

Stanley is left to wait, with bated breath, for Ford to wake up.

It's pretty safe for Ford to say that this whole experience turned out to be a lot more traumatizing than it should have been.

Maybe he was a bit of a dick, planning on scaring Stanley a little, but that's all. Just a tiny scare to get his brother to stop being so-

Difficult, let's go with that.

Pain in the ass would be more accurate

Regardless, absolutely nothing had gone to plan and it had very nearly ended in the worst possible way. Him dead, and Stanley heart broken.

What was supposed to happen was pretty simple.

Starting with sending the text, which Stanley would get above deck. Meanwhile, below deck, Ford would cast the spell meant to slow his pulse to an unsteady rate on top of accelerating his breathing. Mimicking something close to a heart attack.

Just for a little scare, with no real consequences.

Then Stanley would come downstairs, freak out, but follow the procedure.

Which is when he would have found the letter, stopping the whole scene before everything got so out of hand. Easy.

But, no.

The text hadn't gone through, because their signal was spotty at best out here.

No problem, because the spell does technically leave a window before putting you into stasis.

Or, it’s supposed to.

Thirty-two and a half seconds isn't nearly enough time to do anything useful, as Ford found out the hard way.

The results were him being left waiting on the floor for Stanley to find him and being left fully aware of every second without being able to do anything to stop it.

Having chest compressions done when your heart is fine, just old, is not fun. Very not fun. One of the more painful experiences he can admit to participating in.

This whole thing, in fact, is up there with one of the top five worst moments in his life.

All because Stanley wouldn't listen!

No, it's because you’re an idiot who seems to only know how to hurt your own brother-

Shut up!

That's not helping anything.

The slow-to-restart heart rate, which never fully stopped, is more painful because of the time left lying around. Not a surprising response to his apparent death, but-

Two broken ribs, and some pretty bad bruising, but otherwise physically he'll be fine.

Just as soon as every vein stops burning from the antidote.

Truly that's a just punishment for the time he's left waiting after feeling the injection up until he's able to breathe and move again.

There is a lot that he could unpack here, but that would involve facing everything that he just caused. Which is terrible.

Better to focus on the one damn good thing to come out of this whole mess.

Stanley loves him.

Not only in the 'brotherly love' kind of way, but it certainly sounded like it had been implied romantically, hadn't it?

The spell or the cold he'd been experiencing couldn't have made up a hallucination like that.

It's logical if you think about it.

Stanley was under the impression he was dead, so why not own up to all kinds of gross and sappy crap? Taking time to mourn everything that was, could have, and is.

Brother, best friend, and-

Lover is a rather big leap to make from some simple implications on their own, but-

Was it two or three hours of straight-up cuddling and holding hands?

That might be as much evidence as Stanley would ever willingly provide without being physically tortured out of it.

Knowing that his own feelings are returned is actually worse than being trapped inside your own skin, because what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

If they can't talk about Stanley no longer making jokes, how is he supposed to bring this up in a way that doesn't make his brother jump off the boat to drown?

Ford can't help but let out a quiet pained groan with the first gasp of air, taking away the option of saying something first thing.

It's better than screaming, which is what he feels like doing from the pain.

Not the first time an experiment resulted in such poor results, it'll be fine.

"Stanley," is the first thing Ford forces himself to say just as soon as it’s not going to come out sounding too pained. As if either of them needs to feel worse at the moment.

Stan hadn't so much as gotten up off the bed after dressing the injection. He brought up a hand to steady Ford when he tried to sit up too fast. "Woah, take it easy there, Sixer. The world's not going anywhere."

Now is not the time for jokes, Stanley. This isn't funny.

His brother’s ability to compartmentalize traumatic events and the emotions associated with them is astounding. Must be a shared trait.

Trying to talk is like swallowing tacks but he managed to make a motion towards the water bottle they kept hanging from a hook above the bedside table halfway between their bunks.

Relief was about all Stanley could feel getting up only enough to grab the water bottle for Ford before settling back next to him on the bed.

He's still cold, but very much alive.

It's visible in the tense set of Ford's shoulders when he's awake, the crease and possibly only wrinkle on his whole stupid perfect face between his brow from worrying or fretting over something, and the strong grasp around the bottle when taking a drink.

It's almost enough to make him cry again, except Ford is awake now, so he keeps a better lid on those feelings by shoving them back in a closet. Hugging Ford as soon as he's had a drink also allows for a good expression of his worries while actively hiding any stupid emotions (or tears) his face could be doing against his will.

No matter how much it physically hurts (maybe at least one of those ribs is broken, rather than cracked) Ford wholeheatedly returns it while trying to lubricate his mouth and throat enough to say something, anything, useful.

"Did it work at least? Do you understand now how physically upsetting it is to have you faking health scares? That pure terror is what I feel every single time, regardless of if you’re kidding. It's not funny." His voice is still ruined and dry with an edge of ache, but audible.

Stan lets out a dry chuckle, but it's forced and tight. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, you got me. But for the record, I knew it was a sham. I could smell it from a mile away!"

Both eyes are also a little dry from the extensive time spent open up until Stan closed them, which gives a good excuse for why he blinks at Stan like an idiot.

What, does he think I'm stupid?

Sure, Stanley seemed fooled for a while, but the last several hours of panic and grieving-

He doesn't know.

Oh.

Well, that's. A perfectly rational assumption given that's what the letter said, the spell was supposed to end in unconsciousness in a form of slowed metabolism and heart rate in a form of intense hibernation.

"I was awake." The reaction is immediate feeling the hand on either shoulder tighten momentarily with several emotions passing over Stanley's face too fast to read.

Panic is all he catches before its smothered with the rest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Well, that is almost worse than Ford being dead, because what the hell is he supposed to do now?

They're three hours from port, without anyone around, and no internet connection.

Ford could easily kill him and no one would ever know the difference.

Because that is certainly what's about to happen. He knows, he heard, he saw for fucks sake.

If it wasn't for the physical and literal beating Ford would have already had him in a headlock on the floor.

Watching Stanley physically, and not so subtly, recoil is heartwrenching and Ford won't stand for seeing any more pain on his brother’s face.

There has been enough of that in one lifetime, and tonight.

"Hey, I'm not upset." He has to physically stop Stanley from getting up off the bed by grabbing one shoulder and the closer hand tightly, pulling him back to sit again.

This might be the absolute most embarrassing moment of his whole life.

Worse than the teasing they got as a pair over Ford's kissing bot in high school, which previously held the top spot.

Maybe I should just throw myself overboard to get away from this conversation.

Sure, I'm not dead, but living with 'being let down easy' and then everything spiraling into the most awkward friend zone of all time is much worse.

Death would be kinder.

Stan's whole face flushes bright red but otherwise his expression remains mostly neutral and steeled waiting for whatever comes next. Though its still tempting to run.

Very, very tempting.

This is terrifying, but not nearly as scary as thinking Stanley was going to do something drastic while left to his own devices. In comparison, this is easy.

If you ignore the fact nothing has ever been easy for them.

"I'm, you could say that- I understand." What the fuck was that? He tries again, pushing on because that didn't make any sense. "I mean, I've visited more dimensions then I can count, I'm certainly not- I've grown out of my own reservations, so you could say. But, obviously, I never thought..." He does another lame motion with their linked hands, hoping Stan will read his mind and end this painful moment.

Okay, now this is definitely a hallucination triggered by some sort of mental lapse or stroke.

Ford being dead absolutely did get to him.

Enough to make up a whole letter and shoot up a corpse with some random chemical and now some sick hallucination.

That seems more likely than what Ford is trying to imply or suggest.

But the hand in his, with six fingers enveloping Stan's five, certainly feels real.

And there is the small, helpful, argument-nagging details coming from the back of his head that Ford never actually pissed himself or anything like most dead people do.

Stanley must have picked up the habit of laughing when he's nervous over the last several decades because, from Ford's perspective, nothing about this conversation is funny.

It's very serious and raw, so why the hell is he laughing so hard?

At least he isn't pulling away. That's good?

"For fucks sake, Stanley, can you take anything seriously for one whole minute? Why the hell do I even fancy you? You’re an ass!"

"Fancy me, what are you, a British nark?" Jesus, Stanley can barely breathe trying to calm down but doesn't let Ford pull his hand away an inch.

"I'm going to kill you, just as soon as I can breathe without my whole chest convulsing, I'm going to-"

"Oh, I'll show you being unable to breathe alright." He does not know where the boldness comes from exactly, probably the high from the recent near-death experience, but either way he snatches Ford by the shoulder with his free hand to pull him over into a proper kiss.

He ignores how it tastes of stale water and snot.

[ruershrimo]

take me back (take me with you) | f. megumi x fem! reader | chapter 9: you'll hate me

ao3 link for additional author’s notes | playlist | prev | m.list

chapter synopsis:

“You’ll hate me once you see what happened.”

“No, Megumi, I won’t,” you reassure him, “And anyway, things are different now, too.”

---

You could never hate him. After years of waiting to see Tsumiki again, you can finally do so now. Yet still, there's a sombreness in the air, and Megumi won't let you place a finger on it just yet.

word count: ~3k; tws: none for now ^-^

short a/n: hi everyone! I'm so sorry this took so so long, I really missed you all a lot. basically, school and life got a bit busy, but I'm happy to say I'm back now :). I've written an update here where I just talked about some matters regarding the series and my writing. you can read it if you'd like, because personally I think it's quite important for you to do so if you read this fic :)

28-6-2018 

“Morning. Did you sleep well?” 

Megumi moves the blanket away from him, blinking sleep out of his eyes still. You hoist yourself up until your back is against the headboard. 

“The blanket wasn’t here before I fell asleep, I think,” he voices out, nearly inaudible, drenched in the aftermath of a deep slumber, “Did you—” 

You nod your head.  

“...thanks.” 

At this moment, it’s as if nothing exists. Just you and him and the sky at blue hour, on his bed doing something that people who are just friends shouldn’t do. The urge to trace over his face— over his shut eyelids and sharp nose and thin lips— clings to you like a second nature, one which you never thought you had. There’s hair on his head like a nest you’re itching to touch, spiky and jet black like blades of grass. 

You’ve seen this kind of movie before, felt these feelings with your best friend, no less— and now they’ll eat you up from the inside like bacteria on a rotting fruit. Because feeling like this means feeling everything else assault you all at once: you don’t know if you'd like to bury your face into something and scream, or cry from the fact that it may be unrequited, or jump around in joy for everything good Megumi has done for you. 

But forget the sorcerers, forget the healing, forget the cursed techniques and the need to be useful and needed for one second, forget your parents, forget Tsumiki, even— and you can’t believe you thought that. What can they offer which you can’t find next to him, right now, on a warm twilight with cold blankets and pillows? 

There are so many things you have wanted. But right now, just this is enough. 

“Sometimes I regret talking about how I feel, being emotional and things like that— to the point that if I feel things strongly, these days I try not to show them. It’s… the vulnerability, I guess. Letting your walls down. I know it sounds super cliche, and I know that about 80% of the time I probably fail at this, and that it’s not always good being like that—” stirring him further into consciousness, “—but I think you’re the same, just in a different way. You don’t like talking about your feelings. Still, I have to say, I really enjoy this, these things we do.” 

His gaze stays locked on yours, and silence fills the air again; nothing but steady breathing. You wonder, if there’s anything he thinks about when he’s alone on mornings like these, whether he thinks about you. 

“So do I.” 

The girls’ and boys’ bathrooms are right next to each other. So at 4 in the morning, when everyone else is still asleep and the sun is yet to rise, you bump into Megumi after brushing your teeth. 

“Not going to shower?” he asks. 

“The sound will travel and it may wake the others up. What about you?” 

“I don’t shower in the mornings, only at night.” 

“Oh, right.” 

He pauses for a while, makes a little sound to fill in the gaps of his hesitation. You wait for him patiently. “Tsumiki… I can let you know about what happened to her. The truth is, she—” 

“Take your time,” you interrupt him. You aren’t stupid; something bad must have happened to her for him to be like this. Any slither of hope you have left that she’s all fine and good was used to play dumb and deny yourself the truth. 

“...let me take you there. To where she is.” 

For more than half your life, Tsumiki’s been a constant. As you moved around and floated between friend groups, you felt lonely in every waking moment; only wishing for the days when you had Tsumiki and Megumi again. That was the impact they had on you. So after such a long wait, your heart leapt with joy at the thought of seeing her again. 

“Okay.” 

“Actually, do they not have a curfew? It’s only 5 am,” you say as the two of you are on the sidewalk, next to each other; not with either of you in front of the other. You pull the strap of your bag up every time it slips down. 

“They do, but it’s only until 4 in the morning. It’s not as if it’ll be easy for sorcerers to obey a curfew anyway, so the teachers don’t really check if everyone is observing everything,” he explains, “Hey, I can hold your bag for you, you know—” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“It looks heavy. It’ll hurt, and I don’t mind carrying it for you for a while. How many things are in there, actually—?” 

“... I do try to pack minimalistically. I don’t have many things in it. I don’t know why it does this.” 

“Let me hold it.” 

“...okay. Thank you. But next time, you don’t have to.” 

“I really don’t mind. It’s uh… like what you said. We take care of each other.” 

“I’m surprised you still remember that,” you note, chuckling, “In that case I should try to take care of you more.” 

“...you’re already doing more than enough.” 

“Hope I’m not being too much, then,” you joke, and your voice sounds a little too fond as you hear it exit your mouth, “I’ll start doubling down from now on.” 

A small part of you wants to indulge yourself; to imagine him doing this for you always. To feel the extent of the things he can do for you, and to want to do the same. 

You hand him the bag. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

You have a problem here. You’re in deep, aren’t you? 

The two of you had decided not to phone up anyone who could drive you there, nor were you able to take public transport from the school’s campus to your destination. In truth, you had no idea why it seemed that he and you were being secretive about it, but since you weren’t sure if whatever happened to Tsumiki was something Megumi wanted others to know yet, you obliged him. 

“Where are we headed to, actually?” 

“...the hospital.” 

“...what?” 

“...you’ll see. I’ll be able to explain once we get there.” 

It’s as if the expression on his face is written in a language you can’t understand. 

It only spurs your worry— what happened to Tsumiki? You’d wanted so badly to see her again and speak to her ever since she stopped all contact with you. The whole time you’d thought she was just busy, or that she would speak to you again soon, as if she were some constant who you couldn’t imagine being absent from your life due to sickness or injury. It hadn’t even occurred to you, that after you checked in on her and hadn’t even seen that she’d read those messages. To you she was a constant, and she’d always come back. You couldn’t imagine a life without her doing so. 

First your mother, and now Tsumiki. 

“The whole time I thought she just decided to… stop talking to me for a while.” 

“If anything was done to her, she would have told you, provided that she could. You weren’t an afterthought to her. She loved you. I… it was my fault, that after everything happened, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I’m sorry.” 

She loved you?

“I still don’t know what happened. I mean, don’t blame yourself—” 

A car passes by and the two of you cross the road. His hand hovers near your back at the end of it, when the pedestrian traffic light goes red and the cars move rapidly behind you. You pretend his actions aren’t blowing up fireworks inside you. 

“No, you called me, right? You even tried to reach me, and… after all I did and how I acted… it wasn’t the right thing to do. But I chose not to call you.” 

You remember when you did, remember how it stung. 

He’s not the only one keeping secrets. You’ve got the letter and the years of yearning you want to let him know about. Yet it would feel like betrayal to yourself, even with the guilt you have from always keeping them. You’re not sure if that guilt is for him or you. 

“But you apologised for all of that, and, well— I think I’m mostly fine with it now. It was just… circumstance, I guess. Especially because it was Tsumiki. Not sure what happened to her, but I mean… if it was just what was happening at that time, even if it may frustrate me, I just have to accept it,”  you explain yourself, speaking from your chest. 

“You’ll hate me once you see what happened.” 

“No, Megumi, I won’t,” you reassure him, “And anyway,  things are different now, too.” You’ve got more control over your technique, fine-tuned it with practice and determination. You may still be weak at times: you may struggle to heal severe injuries or may get a nosebleed when you’ve pushed yourself too far and tried to heal bruises on four hours of sleep, but you’ve improved.

“No— I’ve hidden it for so long, I don’t know—” 

“I mean, look, we all have our secrets. Sometimes we have them even if we don’t want or have to. You don’t have to be privy to all of myself, especially what I try to keep hidden, but if both of us ever want to… we can always take one step at a time, and I think we’re doing that quite well, in my opinion. Besides, you’re here now. And now that we’re both on campus it’s going to be even harder to get away from me.” 

He stops in his tracks all of a sudden. You do, too. The words come floundering out of his mouth. “[Name]... I don’t know the… ‘right’ way to say this, but I don’t want to get away from you.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, I never did.” 

“Huh.” 

He hums.

“…me neither,” you coax out of yourself. 

“...there’s a floral shop nearby. I usually get her some flowers.”  

It’s time to get your mother some flowers, too. 

The florist there greets the two of you with a wistful smile, and says that she hasn’t seen Megumi in a while. Megumi introduces you as a childhood friend. 

“What do you usually get?” you ask. 

“Lilies, usually. Carnations and daisies, sometimes, too.” 

You’ve only bought flowers to pay respects to the deceased, at least when it was you buying them and not Yuuji. You’d never met your grandfather, but back when your parents still called you their little girl, your father would bring you to the temple where his ashes were kept every year. You’d see that photo of his face, smiling in black and white, next to your grandmother on their wedding day, and you’d notice how your father prayed before it. He’d replace the flowers— carnations, lilies, daisies, and tell you all the anecdotes he had with his father growing up. You’d gaze at the chrysanthemums and carnations with their honey-hued petals, at the lilies and daisies in their clear glass vases, and you’d think of how pretty they were. You think your grandfather would have liked them, his smile a spitting image of your father’s and a spitting image of yours. 

“Those are her favourite, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“They suit her. It’s a perfect match, because— well, to me, I always thought of parts of her as different things. Her kindness and the joy she shared with other people were cherries. Her hair was brown, so I’d think of chestnuts and that reminded me of Christmas with her, or mont blanc desserts. And her smile was like a flower to me, a bouquet of lilies. At first I only thought that it was because she was pretty and one of the sweetest people I knew, but now it’s more than that— wait, sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, no— it’s okay,” he replies, almost immediately. 

“I’m just excited, is all.” 

He sighs, though you don’t know why. “Then you’ll want to scream at me,” he begins, “…I’m sorry. You’re excited and I just… I’m sorry. You’ll understand when we’re there.” 

You want to hold him. Tell him that it’s okay. Tell him that no matter what, you could never hate him. That you’d never had the power to, ever since you met him on that spring day. 

He chooses one bouquet on display, then heads over to the cashier. You don’t think you’ll be able to hold him at all, today. Or he won’t let you, his walls barring you from him, even when you thought many of them were already gone. You’d been so stupid, thinking the two of you were getting closer, but there was still so much more you had to learn about him now. There was still so much more you had to wait for, until he was willing to take them down. 

“Have you known her for a long time?” you ask, exiting the shop. He bought two— one from him and one from you. 

“Ever since Tsumiki got admitted.” 

“I can pay you back for the bouquets, by the way,” you suggest. 

“It’s fine.” 

“Gojo’s money?” 

“Gojo’s money.” 

You snicker. 

To be honest,  it’s a little difficult walking with him now. The two of you are devoid of any communication whatsoever, a silence calm in the night and early morning yet thickly unbearable once the sun has risen. Before this, you’d been timidly tiptoeing between small talk and deep conversations. Yet now, with the mood of Tsumiki’s incident looming over the air like a ghostly whisper, there’s nothing to talk about, really, as much as you’d like for there to be. 

You’d once heard that people who fell in love were able to talk each others’ ears off for hours on end. You could do that with Yuuji. But Megumi has always been different— in your life, at least. He’s not as boisterous, and not as agreeable with most people despite his politeness, but it’s always been a pleasure being silent with him. Sitting in silence. Lying on the bed together. There’s no spark before you, just the tranquility of an ocean at midnight. In the darkness, with shadows. 

He’s special. Now you can see that, now more clearly than ever before. 

And even now— even when things are awkward and jittery, you find you don’t mind this that much at all.  You don’t think you mind anything if you’re doing it with him. 

So there are no words between you, and you glance at his face, at the frown that contorts his face so softly and gently. 

If you held hands now, it would be pleasant. 

If you held hands now, your hands would inch closer to his as shyly as the first hints of spring arrive after winter. Your wrist would reach his, fingers aching for others to interlock with. Then they would slowly graze his palm like a lost man navigating through the wilderness, until you slid your fingers up his arm again. You would keep them on his wrist, at the outline of his veins, and perhaps if you pressed on it hard enough and used the same mental imaging you do for your cursed technique, you would be able to watch as blood flowed through his arteries and veins. You’ve held his wrist before anyway, grabbed it and pulled him along while his hand would slacken a little. At that time you did it almost abrasively. 

Maybe he would flinch. And maybe you would pull your hand back. 

But then before you realise it he would be tugging on your fingers again, palm against yours, finger to finger. You can even feel it as you think of it now— you would nearly melt in the grooves of his palm, the texture of his skin, and your hand would dance around his a bit until both of your hands wrapped around each other, a snug fit.

“[Name].” 

Your breath seems to fall short as you’re pulled from your fantasies. “What?” you ask, your face hot like a pan sizzling with melted butter. 

“Are you okay? It’s time to cross the road.” 

“Yeah. Just… it’s just… Tsumiki.” 

His hand is on your wrist. 

“Okay.” 

And if your hand slides down to his palm, and you squeeze his hand before he squeezes yours back despite not looking at you at that moment, well— 

You’ve done this before, and several times. But yo know why it’s different now. 

The sun has risen. There’s a certain pallor on Tsumiki’s face that you’ve never seen before. Under the early morning light it’s as if sunlight is seeping through her like light refracted in water. Her face is torn between peace and a grimace, as if she’s suspended precariously between a dream and a nightmare. A glaring red mark burns into her forehead like carved wood in patterns completely alien to you. There’s no lively ponytail bursting from her head, only the sordid scene of strands of chestnut hair gone flattened and lifeless, her once bright pink lips turned desiccated and pale; the sight of her grinning face from before only slipping through your fingers like powdery heaps of dust. She’s drawn out on the mattress resembling a fawn carcass in a documentary: too young and innocent to be like this, shallowly breathing in the torpid air. Comatose. The sight juts through your heart. 

This is different from grief. It feels like suffocation, like heaviness in the air. Your breaths are shallow as you take the clear glass vase, fill it with water and replace the previous lilies with new ones. There is no grief because nothing has been lost, only suspended. Locked in a standstill, for a little while. 

“We think it was a curse,” Megumi chokes. 

“How can you cure her?” 

“There’s no known cure since it was made from cursed energy. All we can do is wait for her to wake up.” 

“How long…?” 

“Since junior high. A while after you left.” Megumi confesses, “I’m sorry if you’re angry that I should’ve told you sooner,” his voice is strained and soft, a little bit from cutting himself off, “I’m sorry.” 

How many times had you thought of seeing her? How many times had you wondered why he’d never call and let you know how she was? Would she survive this, or would you have to wait a hundred times more just to see her again?

He knew all of this. He could have told you. 

Don’t be unreasonable, you think. Just focus on what you can do next. 

“It’s not your fault,” you sigh, “It’s just that after everything…” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“I just wish I could’ve known. Then this whole time that I spent waiting—” 

“I know,” he goes, begging you to be angry. To hate him, as if anything he’s done to you could be the cause of something so great. 

You can cure people. You were placed on this world, born with powers to make or break life’s structures and processes, to cure people. With powers like that you’ve been hunted, sought after, protected— and yet now, when you need to heal this wound of hers, there’s nothing you can do. 

It makes you feel so useless it shakes you to the core. 

“I don’t know if I can do anything,” you start, half-resolute and half-doubtful. But despite your doubt you know that this is what it’s all about; what you’ve pledged yourself to do— to try your best and be useful. Like walking on a tightrope: you’ll have to march forward in the face of all of this and just force yourself not to look down, because this is all it’s ever been. Maybe, you think for a second, everything in your life has led to this moment. “But can I try?” 

“…of course. If anyone could do it, it would be you,” he remarks, voice softening with each syllable. 

“…thanks.” 

He’s very… tender today. Vulnerable. You suppose it’s because of Tsumiki and refrain from commenting on it.

You focus all your energy into her forehead and her brain, trying your best to somehow work against an obscure charm with an even more abstruse molecular structure. 

You can feel it— the strain on your consciousness, how it hurts to even think at some point, but ignore it all and try your best to help her. 

Be useful. If you don’t make it work now, her health is going to be up in the air for longer. If you don’t make it work now, you won’t know if you’ll be able to speak to her again, to thank her for everything— for teaching you to be kind and loving, for caring for you and appreciating parts of you when you’d never felt it before, for her cherry hair tie and her bright smile and her endless wisdom and— 

[Name]? 

If you don’t make it work now, how many more months will she have to spend without smiling through life and sharing her love with others? 

You want to scream at Megumi sometimes, actually. 

[Name]!

If you don’t make it work now, how much time of her life would be wasted in the end, when she had so much potential to change the world and shine her light on others? 

…he could have just told you from the start! 

You have to focus. If he told you this at the start, would that have changed anything? 

Be useful. 

[Name]! 

You have to make it work. You have to bring Tsumiki back. 

taglist:

@bakananya, @sindulgent666, @shartnart1, @lolmais, @mechalily, @pweewee, @notsaelty, @nattisbored

(please send an ask/state in the notes if you'd like to join! if I can't tag your username properly, I've written it in italics. so sorry for any trouble!)