#MR. FIXER HIMSELF

[yoakkemae]

“ i don’t always need you to fix everything. i just— sometimes i just want you to listen. ” / martha!

martha , do this , martha do that. martha has spent her entire life fixing people's problems. ( " martha , you're going to go nuts , " adeola's amused voice had said numerous times. she'd been the only one to try to calm everyone down and not put so much on her -- tish sometimes resented martha , that martha was so dependable and could help everyone. other times , she used it just as everyone else. ). was it no wonder that she became a doctor.

still , it's because of her role in her family that martha can never seem to turn off that part of the brain that came across a problem and thought of ways to make things better. she's struck silent when the doctor complains about her need to fix everything , but ... oddly , she's not hurt. ( vicky's complained about the same thing , after all , whenever she vents about sean. considering the situation now , the irony isn't lost on her ).

martha reaches out to hold the doctor's hand. ' yeah , i can do that. let's just sit and you can talk. '

[vipetas]

i. the radio's revival

The worst possible scenario just unfolded before Alastor's eyes—his beloved antique radio broke.

He stood in stunned silence, his usual jovial expression replaced by one of utter disbelief as the once-majestic device now lay in pieces, its intricate components scattered across the floor. With a heavy heart, he knelt beside the shattered remnants, his gloved fingers tracing the familiar contours with a sense of mourning.

It was a futile gesture, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss for the part of himself that had been taken away with it. For Alastor, the radio was more than just a mere object; it was a piece of his identity. Each scratch, each dent held a story, a memory of a bygone era that now lay at ruins at his feet.

In that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever before, stripped of the facade of invincibility he had carefully cultivated over decades. However, as he surveyed the damage, the vulnerability was quickly replaced by a flood of other emotions–anger, frustration, disappointment. How could something so precious, so irreplaceable, be lost in an instant?

The faint sound of shuffling feet then drew his attention. As he gazed up, one of the egg boys—those bumbling, loyal lackeys of Sir Pentious—timidly stepped forward with a sheepish expression.

“Uh, sorry about that, mister Radio Demon, sir. It was an accident,” the egg boy mumbled, his voice tinged with guilt.

Alastor's eye twitched in annoyance at the feeble excuse. Accidents were one thing, but this? This was inexcusable. His patience, already stretched thin, threatened to snap as he struggled to contain his frustration.

“Sorry?” Alastor repeated through gritted teeth. “Sorry won’t fix what’s been broken, now will it?”

The egg boys exchanged nervous glances, their carefree demeanor faltering under Alastor's withering gaze. “We didn't mean to, Mr. Alastor,” another one of them stammered. 

Yet it was far too late for apologies. Alastor's frustration bubbled over like a pot ready to boil, and with a growl of irritation, his form began to shift. With each passing second, his horns extended, his body swelled in size, and his once elegant silhouette towered over the trembling egg boys like a vengeful deity.

The egg boys recoiled in terror, their eyes wide with horror as they watched Alastor's transformation unfold before them. In their panicked mind, they could only imagine the worst—that Alastor, in his fury, would devour them whole.

Just as their fear reached its peak, Sir Pentious burst onto the scene. Positioning himself between the egg boys and the Radio Demon, his voice rang out in a chorus of apologies.

“Mr. Alastor, sir, I must beg for your forgiveness on behalf of my hapless egg boys,” he pleaded desperately. “They meant no harm, I assure you. It was a mere accident, a foolish mistake!”

Alastor's gaze narrowed as he observed Sir Pentious. As the snake demon continued to shower him with apologies, Alastor suddenly remembered the reason they were all gathered here in the first place—a party, of all things. With a wry smile, he glanced around at the other residents of the hotel, noting the fear etched onto their faces. The sight of their unease might've amused him under different circumstances, but the loss of something so precious to him soured his mood.

With a shake of his head, he allowed his form to shrink back to its normal size. As his horns receded and his imposing presence diminished, he felt the tension ebb from his body, the anger gradually fading away.

But that didn’t mean that all was forgiven.

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with my broken radio now?” Alastor's voice dripped with barely contained frustration as he shot a piercing gaze at Sir Pentious. 

Sir Pentious, visibly sweating under the weight of Alastor's glare, scrambled to offer a solution. “Ah, well, fear not,” he stuttered, his words coming out in a nervous rush. “I happen to know a mechanic—a fixer, if you will. Someone who can repair anything, no matter how... delicate.”

Alastor's eyebrow arched in skepticism, though a faint flicker of interest danced in his eyes. "Is that so?" he mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had his doubts about Sir Pentious' ability to deliver on such a promise, but at this point, he was willing to entertain any possibility.

“And where can I find this mechanic of yours?”

Following the instructions scribbled hastily on the back of a crumpled receipt, Alastor eventually found himself in the slums of Pentagram City. The narrow alleyways led him to what appeared to be a workshop, its exterior bearing the signs of neglect and decay. The windows were grimy, patches of paint flaked off the weathered walls, and the sign above the entrance barely hung on by a single rusty nail.

It was a far cry from the elegance he was accustomed to, and he couldn't help but feel a familiar surge of anger rising within him. This was the place that was supposed to hold the solution to his problem? The Radio Demon scoffed inwardly, doubting that anyone within these walls possessed the skill or expertise to repair something as delicate as his beloved radio.

Still, he pressed on. Pushing open the creaking door, he was met with a gust of stale air, tinged with the scent of oil and metal. Inside, the workshop was a scene of disarray. Tools lay scattered across workbenches, and half-finished projects cluttered every available surface. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with spare parts, some of which appeared to be salvaged from long-forgotten machinery.

Alastor's lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he absorbed the surroundings. Then, his gaze fell upon the lone figure, hunched over a nearby table—you.

As he drew closer, you finally looked up, and to Alastor's surprise, you greeted him with a wide smile.

“Hi there! What can I do for you?”

Alastor's sneer deepened at the sight of the chipper mechanic, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the workshop. He had half-expected to find someone as worn down and weathered as the building itself, yet here stood this bright-eyed individual, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around them.

Suppressing a sigh, Alastor straightened up, the edges of his grin faltering ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he began. “My name is Alastor, and I'm here because I was told you might be able to fix something for me.”

Your smile widened at his words, and you nodded eagerly. “Of course! What seems to be the problem?”

Alastor hesitated for a moment, eyeing you warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that entrusting his precious radio to you was a mistake. Yet, he had little choice in the matter.

“My antique radio is in need of repair,” Alastor explained, his tone guarded. “It's a delicate piece of machinery, and I require someone with the utmost skill to handle it.”

You listened intently as Alastor detailed the intricacies of his radio, nodding along with each word. Despite his cautious demeanor, you could sense the underlying concern in his voice. It was clear that this radio held great significance to him.

As he finished speaking, you gave him another nod. “I understand, Mr. Alastor,” you reassured him. “You won't be disappointed, I promise. Now, let's take a look at what you've got there.”

With that, you gestured for Alastor to follow you to your workbench, where he finally presented the fragmented piece of machinery. As you laid eyes on the broken radio, it became immediately apparent to you just how extensively damaged it was. Fractured casings, tangled wires, missing components–it was a daunting sight, yet you refrained from revealing the true severity of the damage to Alastor, not wanting to add to his distress. Instead, you maintained a composed demeanor as you turned to look at him with a confident grin.

“We'll get this sorted out, Mr. Alastor,” you assured him once more. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor felt a flicker of hope stir in his blackened heart at the prospect of having his radio fixed. Though a hint of doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, he nodded begrudgingly.

“Very well," he muttered. "Just... be careful with it.”

As Alastor stepped back, allowing you the space to work your magic, his eyes remained fixed on you with keen interest. He observed the fluidity of your movements, the subtle shifts in your expression. Whenever you encountered a challenge, your brows furrowed in concentration, and with each successful repair, a hint of satisfaction graced your lips. Alastor found himself unconsciously mirroring your expressions as he watched your steady hands diligently work to bring his beloved radio back to life.

And as time passed, so too did his initial skepticism begin to wane, replaced by a growing sense of admiration for your skill and expertise. There was something captivating about the way you worked, a sense of determination and passion that shone through with every meticulous movement.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, you made the final adjustment. With bated breath, you flicked the switch and awaited the outcome. The room fell into a tense silence, thick with anticipation. Then, suddenly, a burst of static erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of music emanating from the speakers.

Alastor's eyes widened in disbelief as the once-silent device surged back to life. Your face lit up with a triumphant smile as you savored his reaction, a sense of pride swelling within you.

“There you go, Mr. Alastor,” you declared, extending the repaired radio toward him. “Good as new!”

As Alastor reached out to accept the radio from you, his fingers inadvertently brushed against yours in a fleeting moment of contact. In that instant, a jolt of electricity seemed to course through him, sending a distinct shiver down his spine.

It was a curious sensation, one that he couldn't quite place, yet it stirred something deep within him.

Even after withdrawing his hand, the feeling lingered, leaving Alastor perplexed. His gaze shifted from the repaired radio to your face, searching for any indication that you too had felt the same inexplicable energy pulse between you. However, your smile remained unchanged, oblivious to the tumult of emotions swirling within him.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured, his voice softer than usual, betraying a hint of sincerity that caught even him off guard. “You did a remarkable job.”

You beamed in response, your eyes alight with satisfaction at Alastor's words. “You're welcome,” you replied gently. “I'm glad I could be of help. And remember, if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me.”

Alastor offered a subtle nod of gratitude, though inwardly, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, he tucked the repaired radio under his arm and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. Stepping out into the dimly-lit street, he walked with deliberate steps. His thoughts drifted back to the moment his fingers brushed against yours, and despite his attempts to push the memory aside, his free hand instinctively flexed, fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing once more.

This was going to be a problem.

part i / part ii

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed<3

[pricegouge]

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Two | master list | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, pining for another man's wife

reader is fem and fat

Mostly, he blames himself. For the late hours and the cold, empty bed; the broken promises Soap had been too preoccupied to keep. The general, dejected state of her. John knows he's a fixer, knows himself well enough to spot the pattern: pick a project, tend to it, leave it better than you found it. He's not sure where he went wrong with Soap's bird, or if it was indeed the failure itself that kept him circling like a dog with a bone under its bed, all he knew was how very, very fucked he was.

John sleeps on base most nights. An old habit he picked up when his marriage was falling apart, though it served him well enough still - kept him busy late into the night when his thoughts had a tendency to turn treacherously domestic. Home was a place to unwind for most soldiers, a reward to work towards, but John feared his wires had been crossed long ago. The day he was born, possibly. For him, home was the sense memory of damp, musty laundry he'd forgotten to change over before crawling into a cold bed despite promising he would at best, or the empty, aimless space he'd toil away at between missions at worst. On paper, he lived in a nice, secure apartment out in Leeds, though in effect he may as well have taken his captaincy for the ensuite it came with.

It's a good tactic, mostly, one that had worked for hundreds of higher ranked officers before him and would continue to work long after he's gone, MIA or otherwise. The problem unique to John in this situation, however, was his inability to look his own sergeant in the eye without being reminded of the very thoughts he was trying to run away from.

It was an absurd thing, really - the complex spectrum of reactive emotions John often fell victim to while just trying to do his damn job. After the career he'd led, John had considered himself quite prepared for the position of an officer. Had trained himself to respond to any and all obstacles with a level head and an uncompromising efficiency; an unrelenting ruthlessness honed so sharp that lesser officers often cut themselves on it. It had been useful, economic, a gnomon by which he had navigated a career even the former Mrs. Price could not fault.

His storied career, however, had failed to prepare him for Sergeant John MacTavish. Or his bloody little wife.

He’s a force of a man is the problem, equal parts hard to love and hard to hate though there are times when John desperately wishes he could do the latter. Nights he lay awake - even in the curated sterility of his rooms on base - thinking of the pretty bird that warms Soap’s empty bed, her dour countenance and the big, hopeful eyes she'd turn on him with every visit. It would be a convenience to hate Soap, but adept as John is at bending his morals to fit his own goals, blaming Soap for the shortcomings of his relationship is simply not a circle he can square.

Mostly, he blames himself. For the late hours and the cold, empty bed; the broken promises Soap had been too preoccupied to keep. The general, dejected state of her. John knows he's a fixer, knows himself well enough to spot the pattern: pick a project, tend to it, leave it better than you found it. He's not sure where he went wrong with Soap's bird, or if it was indeed the failure itself that kept him circling like a dog with a bone under its bed, all he knew was how very, very fucked he was.

The thing is, despite every moment of his past pointing to the opposite conclusion, John can take no for an answer. Really, he can. But 'I'm married' is not 'Get away from me.' And 'I don't want to hurt Johnny,' is not, 'I don't want you,' and damn him but he can't get that distinction out of his head.

He'd told Kate about it once, drunk on thirty year old Lagavulin after a particularly memorable win. She'd listened raptly for an hour, probably - hard to tell time for the way the clock hands swam -, and then summarily told him to get his goddamn act together because MacTavish was a great sergeant, one John himself had specifically requested, and she wasn't going to be sending him away anytime soon. 

She's right, he knows. Soap is far too indispensable as sniper and demolitions both, and is marked for a captaincy of his own, besides. MacTavish didn't deserve the blight of an officer-requested transfer on his rap sheet, and John had no real want to give him one anyway. Because he didn't hate Soap. Couldn't, despite every waking thought telling him it would be easier to do so. MacTavish's affability ran too deep; primal, John suspected. Something about the rakish grin and the boisterous laugh. Brought people back to a time when the war crimes of the village brute could be summed up in a single court hearing. He'd even managed to reel Ghost in, so John couldn't really be blamed for his soft spot.

But if he had to suffer through one more illuminating conversation about how inconsiderate the man was on the home front, John was going to have to take matters into his own hands and there was nothing else for it.

Someone had to make that pretty bird happy, after all.

***

Orders come through late in the evening but John knows his men well enough he barely hesitates. Simon, nearly preternatural in his ability to know when he's needed, picks up so quickly John has to check to be sure the call registers as outgoing on his phone. Gaz, eager to prove himself, is similar, sleep clearing from his voice the second he hears his captain's rough growl on the other end.

It's John who gives the last call pause, finger hovering over Soap's contact almost regretfully. One in the morning, day before the bird's birthday. She'll be upset, even if Soap isn't. If John could do this without the man he would, but it's not up to him and he can't fight it this close to wheels up so he hits call and waits for the Scot to answer with something close to contrition settling in his stomach.

Soap picks up on the third ring, voice alert but distracted. Huffy. Strained and short of breath. Dark and burly. 

It's instinctual; hard pressed. John's been trained all his life to be observational, to seek out answers where none are freely given. It doesn't turn off just because the person on the other end of the line is his own sergeant, but that doesn't explain the way his breath catches as he listens to the background of Soap's call, how his stomach turns to lead as he leaps to assumptions; waits for confirmation, hoping he's wrong; hoping he's right just so he can hear -

A whistle sounds, the tinny noise of stadium cheer compressed through a cheap sound system. Soap groans in defeat and mutes the TV. "Evenin', cap, to what do ah owe?"

"You're… up?" John double checks the time on his phone just to be sure but there's no getting past it. Soap is watching a match of some sort at 01:00 hours. Not outside the realm of normalcy, but odd enough. 

"Time difference," Johnny grunts, already distracted again. 

"Who's even playing?"

"Looks like Germany." Not even invested in it. He should be keeping his pretty bird warm in her little nest, but what did John know? He was a divorcee himself after all, and awake himself no less.

"Well wish 'em luck. Wheels up by oh-four-hundred."

"Where to?" Eager as always. No trace of regret for the day he'd miss. 

"Madrid. Got a hit on a large scale weapons dealer. Pack light."

"Aye, sir. See ye soon."

***

John used to think the hardest part about traveling so much for his job was all the jet lag, or all the late nights spent scrambling to make a charter he'd only been given an hour's heads up on. 

Now, he knows the hardest part is the company that takes up space in the seat next to you.

Garrick's squirrely. Usually is when he's heading into a mission he doesn't know the ins and outs of too well. It's an easy job, low stakes. More intel collection than anything, though the risk of a muck up in such a heavily populated area warranted the use of a team as highly specialized as them. Still, debrief had been almost suspiciously minimal, and Gaz was subtly unsettled by it, if his chattiness was anything to go by.

It's always Soap who indulges him, the two sergeants evenly matched in their geniality. Normally, it's a blessing to have them paired up, entertaining each other. But tonight, Gaz wants only to talk about Soap's bird and her upcoming celebration. So when Gaz asks what Soap got his wife for her birthday, and the man just shrugs and says he’d been planning on taking her out to dinner that night, John’s hard pressed not to swallow his cigar in shock and shame and anger.

“You didn’t get her anything?” Gaz doubles down, good lad, and John lets the ensuing squabble wash over him while he runs mental damage control, primary target swapped from arms dealers to fixing the bird’s ruined day from afar quicker than he can even process the change. He’s distracted the rest of the ride, even more so when they go through the monotony of establishing themselves on site. John slips away the second he’s able, orders same day flowers from a hotel lobby after smiling sleazily at the receptionist to garner a quick favor, knowing better than to use his burner to give out Soap's address.

"And the message, sir?" The clerk on the other end of the line prompts once he's settled on a pretty little arrangement meant to convey regrets and observances both, apparently. She's hopeful, he thinks, like she's rooting for a love story.

"'Sorry I missed it. John.'"

He can almost hear her deflate. "Sure thing, luv. Anything else?"

"No, that's -." John stops, voice guttering out. From his vantage point by the desk, John watches as outside on the sidewalk where he'd left the lad, Soap helps an overeager child to her feet after she'd gone tumbling to the ground, helping her to brush gravel off her palms. His voice is hardly recognizable when he speaks again. "Johnny."

"Sir?"

"Sorry, that's -. The name. Johnny. Love Johnny."

"Oh. Easy enough fix. Have a good day, sir."

He doesn't bother returning the pleasantry.

Next>>

[drabblesandimagines]

Home

Leon Kennedy x female reader I just wanted to write some damsel in distress nonsense with Death Island Leon, but imagine whoever you like! Fluff - though mentions of blood, smatter of death.

Coming to, you feel as if you’re hungover - disorientated, nauseous and a sore head - but that can’t be right, you didn’t drink last night.

It takes a moment to localize the throbbing pain only to the side of your head rather than all over and, as you catch sight of blood smeared against the white tiles of the kitchen floor – something you were desperate to change as white shows up everything­ - you remember.

You’d been working in the home office. Leon had set it up for himself originally – you’d never been brave enough to research what the price of the beautiful mahogany desk must’ve been, but you’re always sure to use a coaster to avoid marking it. He used a laptop, so he’d insisted you utilize the space instead for your desktop when you moved in over a year ago. It was a nice house, on a quiet, suburban street – he’d bought it as a fixer-upper, a bit of a passion project. The rooms were all in various states of completion but he wanted your opinion and input.

“This is our home,” he’d stressed, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Plus, you’ll be here more than me…”

You’d heard of the conspiracy theories surrounding the Raccoon City incident. Who hadn’t stumbled down that rabbit hole before? Leon had confirmed it in vague, half-told recollections of the night a few months into your relationship after an argument about his commitment issues, and you hadn’t pressed further than that since. He told you the bare minimum so you were aware of what his work now entailed, why he had to go away for weeks at a time, why he was so desperate to keep his work and personal life separate for your safety and protection.

He accompanied you when he could to family and friends’ celebrations, charmed them all into forgiving him for his flaky appearances, but they could all see how happy you were since the two of you had got together.  

You’d been wearing noise-cancelling headphones as you worked to drown out the next door neighbour’s relentless building works that had started on Monday – a basement leak meant the foundations were being fixed and the noise was horrendous - and had gone to the kitchen to make an ill-advised afternoon coffee and…

Nothing.

Well, the building works have stopped which is a positive, but that doesn’t negate the blood on the floor and your thudding head.

“Mrs Kennedy, I presume.” A man, well-dressed in an awful tight-fitting suit kneels down in front of you. He doesn’t look familiar - blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a bit of stubble, looking tired, mid-40s, you guessed. You’re confused by the way he’s addressed you – you’re not married, there’s no ring there - and he clocks the bemused expression at once. “Or perhaps you’re his whore, waiting for him to return to your little love nest, hm?”

There’s no good answer or witty comeback so you keep silent, instead trying to raise your hand to feel your head, gage how bad it is – head wounds bleed a lot, you knew that much – but your arm doesn’t comply. Your gaze finds the plastic of the zip-tie cutting into your wrist, holding it snugly against the arm of the chair you’re now seated in - dragged in from the dining room.

“Ah, yes.” He cups your chin, tilting your face back towards him in an effort to get you to focus on him. “A necessary measure. I need you to play the damsel in distress.”

“Leon’s not here,” you reply, quietly, words feeling thick on your tongue though it’s not a lie. “He’s away with work - I don’t know when he’s going to be back.”

“Oh, he’s due home very soon. I couldn’t make such a pretty thing wait for days on end.” He lets go of your chin only to place his hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You try to jerk away from his touch but find your ankles have received the same treatment as your wrists, though tethered together as if to stop you standing.

“I apologize about your head,” he stands up then, a smug look on his face as he towers over you. “I did tell my men to be gentle, but it appears one misunderstood.”

You shuffle in the chair in a pitiful attempt of relieving the pressure on your wrists. “Who are you?”

He clucks his tongue. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Kennedy’s ETA is four minutes, sir.” A gruff voice states from behind you.

“Excellent.” Your captor smiles. “I suppose he was hoping to surprise you with his arrival, hm? Nice that we can turn the surprise around on him.” He snaps his fingers at one of his subordinates, “You can gag her now.”

A hand yanks your hair, forcing your head back and you gasp only for a wad of fabric to be stuffed behind your teeth. You try and push it out with your tongue on instinct but another bit of fabric is forced between your lips, keeping it snugly in place as it’s knotted at the back of your head, causing you to whimper – or at least attempt - when he brushes up against your head wound.

There’s a hive of activity around you – the three grunts getting into position, checking their ammo. They can’t just plan to shoot Leon outright, surely. Why would he need a damsel otherwise? Your captor grabs the back of your chair and drags it, positioning it in line with the hallway door, meaning that you will be the first thing he sees. He places his hands on your shoulders and squeezes.

“Showtime.”

Your heart is pounding so loud it’s all you can now hear – maybe it’s so loud Leon will hear with that incredibly sensitive hearing he has before he opens the door, know something’s wrong and get the hell out of here.

No such luck, though. The building work next door hasn’t resumed, so you can hear him cut the engine in the driveway, hear when the Jeep door opens and closes, hear the jingle of his keys in the door. He has his eyes cast down when he enters, immediately turning to the lock the door behind him out of both security and habit.

“Sweetpea?” He sounds upbeat, happy as he calls for you and it breaks your heart all the more when he turns, eyes meeting yours. “Fuck.” He breathes out, taking a hurried step forward, hand automatically reaching for his pistol still holstered on his belt. A loud click pierces through your left ear, cold metal prods into the side of your temple and Leon freezes in place.

“Uh-uh, Kennedy. Unless you wanna see your lovely lady’s brains splattered all over the floor, I’d drop that right now.”

Leon doesn’t hesitate, holding his hands above his head and dropping the pistol to the ground, hitting the wooden floorboards with a thunk.

“Keep those hands up and kick it over.”

Leon complies, kicking the pistol so it skids down the hallway, swiftly collected by one of the grunts.

“Dante.”

“Oh, I’m flattered you remember little ol’ me. Come - join us.” The gun leaves your temple but the fear remains as Leon slowly strides up the hallway, hands still in the air. “Pull Kennedy up a chair and make sure he’s comfortable.” A grunt ducks into the dining room and emerges with one the armless chairs, placing it down heavily on the kitchen tile as Leon enters. He’s swiftly smacked across the face with the butt of a gun, followed up by a punch to the stomach, causing him to double over. Another grunt grabs his arms, yanking them behind his back and you know by the way his biceps tense that he could break out of that hold easily enough, but he’s choosing not to.

You feel horrible that you’re the reason why he’s not.

He’s pushed down onto the chair and his wrists are quickly secured behind his back with a zip tie through the wooden slats. He lifts his head up to reveal a bloodied lip, but his eyes are immediately on you as he speaks.

“She has nothing to do with me and you, Dante.”

“Oh, I know that.” He scoffs, digging his fingernails into your shoulder once more. “But your little sweetpea is so useful in making sure that you remain on your very best behaviour.”

“You’ve got me now, okay?” Leon shrugs his shoulders in demonstration. “Let her go.”

“Aw,” Dante tuts. “Did you think you had her out of harm’s way, Kennedy? Kept your personal life underwraps? Granted I couldn’t quite confirm her name, but here we are all the same. Pretty little thing – shame she had to get wrapped up with you.”

“What do you want?” You can tell Leon’s annoyed, though he keeps his voice measured.

“The Apollo files.”

Leon raises an eyebrow, scoffing. “I don’t ha- Ugh!” The grunt in front of him had pistol-whipped him once more, his nose now bleeding a little in consequence.

“Next time you tell a lie, your woman is going to get the same treatment.” You grip the armrests in apprehension and Leon once again tenses as he notes your discomfort.

“Okay, okay! They’re in the attic. One of the storage boxes up there – there’s not many. Against the south wall.”

“Good boy.” Dante chuckles, ruffling his hand through the agent’s hair condescendingly. “You two - with me,” he points at two of his men, before turning to the third. “You, keep an eye on the lovebirds.”

“Be careful where you step up there – I haven’t put in a permanent floor. Been busy.” Leon retorts.

“Aw, boys, he’s worried we’ll hurt ourselves.” He grabs Leon by the chin then, squeezing his cheeks. “We’ll be right back. I wouldn’t want to keep this lovely lady waiting any more than she has to.”

He shoves Leon’s face to the side and heads out to the hallway, the two grunts following as the third remains in position to the side, gun in hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetpea, but I’ll get you out of this – I swear.“ Leon says softly, turning his head to the side to look at you. “Okay?”

You nod – there’s little else you can do – but you know you’re shaking. You hate yourself for doubting him, but you can’t see how the two of you are getting out of this in one piece. He doesn’t say anything more, his eyes flitting from one direction to another as he calculates his moves for what feels like hours.

The building work next door resumes – a loud drilling echoing around the kitchen. The grunt winces at the sound and Leon gets to his feet, arms still bound around the dining chair and headbutts him, sending him stumbling back, blood gushing from a broken nose. Leon spins then, slamming the chair against the marble countertops, splintering the wood and releasing himself from the chair. He then jumps again, tucking his legs impressively close to his chin, though letting out a strangled grunt and his bound hands are now in front of him. He lifts up his knee, tenses his biceps and slams it down, the zip-tie splintering across the floor – all in the time it takes the grunt to come to his senses and aims his gun blindly, sending bullets thankfully in every direction but yours.

Leon ducks and dives, swiftly grabbing the grunt around the neck with an arm and holding it tight, cutting off his air supply until he goes limp in his arms and he grabs hold of the man’s gun, quickly checking the cartridge with one smooth downward motion.

A bullet sails over his shoulder as one of the grunts returns from upstairs and Leon quickly takes him out with a headshot. You divert your eyes then, not wanting to see. It’s them or you – you know that – but it doesn’t make the act easier to witness.

It is barely a second before another gunshot rings out, followed by a second - Dante and the remaining man at the kitchen doorway, though the grunt goes down as quickly as he entered due to Leon’s return fire.

Dante’s face is furious, his gun aimed squarely at your head and he pulls the trigger. Leon sidesweeps the chair legs from under you, sending the chair toppling backwards and you with it, your head smacking once more against the tile and making your ears ring and vision dance with black. The bullet soars over your head and into the kitchen cabinet.

There’s another gunshot, a horrible, squelching sound, and then a series of grunts and groans – flesh on flesh – but you can’t look up, can’t see what’s going on as a succession of gunshots ring out and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor.

There’s the clatter of a drawer being opened frantically and then, suddenly, Leon is above you – his shoulder bloody – and a knife in his hand. He lifts your head up gently, cutting through the back of the gag and pulls it away from your mouth, fishing out the fabric that had been making you feel close to choking.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you.” He says softly as you catch your breath, taking glorious mouthfuls of air. “Stay still, okay? I’ll get these off you.” He presses the blade against your wrist with a careful flick and you’re released from the first of your restraints. He makes quick work of your other wrist and the ones around your ankles, pulling you up into his arms, cradling you in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, rocking you back and forth. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Leon, it’s-”

“Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not okay. I promised to never get you mixed up in this. I don’t know how they found this place, how they found you. I’ve been so fucking careful, baby.” His voice breaks, along with your heart.

“I know you have.” You try and soothe. “It’s not fair, but it’s not your fault, sweetheart. I love you.”

He presses his lips to yours then, kissing you softly. “Love you too – so much. Feel so selfish.”

“Uh-uh, no – you deserve to be happy. I want to make you happy.”

“You do, sweetpea, but-“

“If I can’t say it’s okay, you can’t go down this road either and we both can’t pout about it.”

He sniffs, rolls his eyes and you finally remember the blood patch on his shoulder.

“Did you get shot?” He shakes his head. “Grazed me. I’m fine. You, however, need a full check-up.”

“If I’m having one, you’re having one too. We can have a date to the emergency room.”

He laughs – it’s nice to hear, to see the smile reaching his eyes. “I owe you a much better date than that.”

“Nah – maybe they’ll put you in a hospital gown.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What?” You bite your lip.

“The ones that don’t tie at the back?”

“Oh, don’t they? Interesting.”

He kisses you again then, with a bit more passion than before. “Baby, you do not have to get me in a hospital gown to see my ass.”

“Who said anything about seeing your ass? Get your head out the gutter, Mr Kennedy.”

Leon rolls his eyes once more, getting to his feet with ease with you still in his arms. He pushes your face into his chest as he walks towards the front door.

“Leon, no, you need to rest your shoulder. Put me down - I can walk.”

“Don’t want you to see.” He murmurs. “I’m gonna get you in the Jeep, call work quickly – they’ll come sort this mess – then straight to the hospital.”

You keep quiet then, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent as you nuzzle your head against his chest, a realisation hitting you.

“We won’t be coming back here, will we?”

He pauses, fiddling with the keys in lock.

“I’m sorry. I know you were finally feeling at home here and-”

“No.” You cut him off. “Home is us together – wherever. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He opens the door. “You’re right. Home is with you, sweetpea.”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[enviedear]

Ohmygosh. I haven't been able to stop thinking about farmer Jason since you first posted about him! It's the midwestern in me. I think the first question would be what does he farm? Do you think he would be a cattle or, like, a corn and soybean kind of farmer? More like a farmhand for those people. Alternatively, he could have his own little farm just for himself. He would have a decent acreage with an old fixer upper. He'd have chickens for eggs and grow his own vegetables. He'd work to being self sufficient. But he is a city boy so he doesn't really know what he is doing. Ooooh i just realized the weather would be so different from Gotham. One day it is 80+ the next it is hailing and oh what is that? A tornado warning the next day? But it is raining without any clouds in the sky?? The summers are like swamp heat and how is it -30 outside and people are still wearing shorts and oh gosh is that a hail tornado? I have more thoughts but I like hearing yours more >///<

yay!!! i'm so glad you're loving farmer!jason <3

what does he farm? Do you think he would be a cattle or, like, a corn and soybean kind of farmer? More like a farmhand for those people.

i think he'd stick mostly to easier farm animals, and for himself mostly! i think he'd sell some products if he ever has too much (he never wants to have too much, because he knows someone else may need it) think goat cheese, cow milk, and eggs! i think his main source of income would come from his crops! probably wheat, and then hay when it's season for it! (he hates doing hay, it's expensive and labor intensive but the profit can be fucking amazing) also corn!! he would have a cornfield and he would deck it out for hayrides and a maze for the harvest season (all the town kids love mr. todd's farm...and the candy apples he gives out for free) so basically i think he'd do mixed farming lol!!

Ooooh i just realized the weather would be so different from Gotham. One day it is 80+ the next it is hailing and oh what is that? A tornado warning the next day? But it is raining without any clouds in the sky?? The summers are like swamp heat and how is it -30 outside and people are still wearing shorts and oh gosh is that a hail tornado?

as a girl with multiple tornado shelters on her land...if jason experiences one tornado he's building one. also i just know his first summer there he'd be DYING!! it's hot in a way that's literally almost inescapable. it's humid and unrelenting. he think's he'll get a break in the winter...no. southern winter is just ice on the roads...and i don't think the city is salting any roads by his house. (cause they're all backroads/dirt roads)

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

hi mo! i want to wish you a HUGE congrats on your milestone (: you deserve every single follow and like and reblog! your writing is so, so good and it brings me sm comfort if youre still taking requests, can i pls request alfie + “how long has it been since someone hugged you?”

Oh Noni this was so sweet! You are so so kind. It brings me immense joy that my writing brings you comfort. That is the greatest compliment I could ever receive. I’m sending all my love to you darling, I hope you enjoy this.

Guys this is the last request from our 100 Follower Celebration!!! This was so fun and I am so in love with the community we have built here together!!! I’m currently working on our final installment of Interviews for New Beginnings!!! Anyway I love y’all so much, have an amazing day my loves!! - Mo

100 Follower Celebration: Always

Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

Warnings: cursing

“Mr. Solomons. I know you don’t want to hear this… or anything I’ve said the past 10 years I’ve been your physician… but you really need to watch your stress levels sir. It may very well kill you one day.”

Dr. Young had been treating Alfie Solomons exclusively for 10 years. Every stab wound, bullet hole, and influenza season had been watched over diligently by the good doctor. But every month his largest concern was Alfie Solomons’ blood pressure and tension headaches. Unfortunately for Dr. Young… Alfie Solomons was the worst patient he ever had.

Alfie ripped the stethoscope off his burly chest and threw it back at his doctor, “Bah fuck off. Respectfully of course. I’m fine. I’m going to live longer than you mark my words. Stress is good for the body.”

Dr. Young shrugged, there was no use fighting with Alfie. Usually Alfie would see reason and silently beckon and repent right before death came knocking, “If you believe Mr. Solomons. Anyway I want you to keep counting your pulse and recording it. Not that you’ll do it I wager. But I’ll be back same time next week.”

“Yeah, right. See Ollie gives you your fee. And double check with my secretary that your window is still open.”

Dr. Young smiles, “I’ll be sure to let her know that I gave you a task so that she keeps you accountable as well.”

As he walked out, leaning heavily on his wooden cane to offset his heavy medical bag, Alfie hollered after him, “You will do no such thing damn you! Ask her the schedule and nothing else!”

Alfie hears the slight chuckle of his ancient physician behind the closed door. Alfie finally lets out the sigh of relief he had been holding tightly all morning. His head falls into his calloused hands. The slow and rhythmic push and rush of his palms against his eyes and temple soothe the panging and banging in his head. An ache that has been ever present for the past few days. One that hasn’t been aided at all by the lack of water in his day to day.

The past few days have been Alfie’s own personal hell. The Americans’ prohibition on spirits has added another layer of problems to the business. New men had been hired and were not all bright, causing more mistakes than their bodies were worth. Cops were getting greedy, and were needing more to smooth their hands and seal their lips. Usually, a boss would have been able to hand off problems to lower levels. Not Alfie. Never Alfie. Alfie doesn’t get to give jobs to anyone else. No one wants to help Alfie. Alfie is to solve every problem. By himself. If he doesn’t do it, it will not get done. If he doesn’t fix it, everything will fall. But it’s always been like this. Ever since his father passed away, he’s been the man. He’s been the fixer. The protector. The boss. The leader. He alone can do it. He alone does it. He alone. He is alone.

Through the barricade of his stress and rage and sweat and stiff muscles, he hears his door click open, and the soft tap of your feet across the floor boards. Your sweet bell voice tingles his nerves, “Alright Alfie I set up Dr. Young’s appointment next week so you are all settled. This afternoon you have two more meetings. Mr. Yusef and Mr. Edmonds. Also you will need to look over the shipping particulars for the shipment to New York in three we- Alfie are you alright?”

You pause looking at his face. He’s always looked rather scruffy and wild but this was different. His face was gaunt and ashen. His usually ruddy cheeks were pale and covered in a thin sheen of sick sweat. Those bright blue and sparkling eyes looked glossy. If you didn’t know better… they could almost be tears.

You don’t even let him try and explain away his symptoms.

“We’re cancelling the rest of your meetings today. No arguements.”

Screaming. Shouting. Bellowing. The glass in the window panes shake. The wood of the desks bang like the sound of gunshots and canons. “VILE WOMAN YOU TOUCH THAT CALENDAR YOU ARE FIRED DO YOU HEAR ME! YOU BRING YOURSELF BACK HERE NOW!”

You ignore him, calling the other secretaries, having to shout over the bellows and cries of your melodramatic yet beloved boss. The excuse you concocted didn’t matter. You wouldn’t care to remember the story you told. You would deal with it later. What mattered was clearing the calendar to make sure that Alfie could be released from his bindings that he so tightly wound around himself cutting the circulation and breath of peace.

You set the cornflower blue and cream colored tea pot on the little stove in the corner. Gingerly stoking the flame, coaxing warmth and light into a sweet roar. You call for hearty treats from the bakery next door, a good array to settle the spirit of your war laden boss. Soon the tea is ready and the soulful remedies are set. The roaring of the animal in the office has settled into rumbles. It was safe to enter.

Upon entering Alfie is again shouting, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve treacle. I am your boss. I am your superior officer. I pay your paycheck. And you have the absolute fucking audacity to…”

You let the hot words wash over you like a summer storm. You place your tools of healing on Alfie’s desk, swiftly and quietly. You take your spot in your chair across from him, grabbing his worry worn wooden pipe and filling it with his tobacco. Like a dance you’ve done a thousand times, he gingerly takes that pipe from you as he’s still yelling and scolding, pausing briefly to light it and suck in that air like it’s his last meal.

You smile as he blusters on like a thunder cloud. There was no true threat. You would never really be fired. Even if he was cross with you. There was a certain comfort in the noise. Like the storm cloud the noise signified that there was still life and that a calm would soon follow. But there was still the tightness in his shoulders. There was still that look you saw before he started to storm and blow. In a feat of courage you cocked your head to the side, “When was the last time someone hugged you?”

Immediate silence.

“What. What the fuck did you just ask me?”

“When’s the last time someone hugged you? You look like you need one sir.”

His index finger might as well have been a loaded pistol the way he pointed at you, “Men do not hug. I have never been hugged nor will I ever hug do you hear me? Hugged?! It’s even a ridiculous word. I mean… hugged?! No! I don’t want one I don’t need one that is completely and utterly ridiculous!”

You smile, knowing that he would say something like that. As if approaching a wild dog you put your hand out, offering yourself to him. Offering your vulnerability to him. Alfie stared down as thought it held an invisible gun, unsure what it was you held. Carefully and out of practice, he slowly slipped his hand in yours. Cool and smooth fingertips against is hot rough hands. Your hands so easily slips around his, finally finding its home. To Alfie’s absolute shock, he watches as your perfect thumb runs patterns and circles around his scarred knuckles and ornate rings. He watches the way your lashes flutter and soft smile blooms on your face. In a gentle caress to his ears you say, “You know you don’t have to keep it all inside. You can ask for help.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. But doesn’t move his hand away, “I don’t need help.”

You laugh, and he feels his heart skip, “Oh I’m sure you don’t. I’m sure you could run this entire thing by yourself.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

Alfie hums, satisfied that he’s won enough. You sit in silence, the muffled sounds of the distillery and street below being the only signs that you’re still on Earth. Alfie never moved his hand, never responding to your ministrations beyond a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you… for… being here.” Alfie finally breaks the silence. He can’t help the blush that rises to his ears and cheeks. He can’t look away from the smile on your perfect lips.

You nod at him, squeezing his hand and shaking it. “Always.”

[throwaway-yandere]

The Owner Who Broke The Leash (Yandere!Kamisato Ayato/Reader)

a/n: this is a chainsaw man au but I tried writing it so that you don't need to be an anime/manga reader (suffer with me.) I'm not 100% following the source material, so Beidou and Kazuha are platonic & no mother-child themes the orig has people debate over. I won't be explaining the latter to those who did not understand lmao. (Y/n)'s 20 years old. This is just a yandere fic, relax hehe. also, huge shoutout to @navxry for beta reading, their insights were helpfull!!! and also shoutout because honestly nothing is more fulfulling like seeing a live commentary of roasting the yanderes and for some reason, my husband too sorry dain-

cw: yandere themes and degrading nicknames ("dog"), and dont read while eating ig?

unreliable synopsis: "Thank you, Mr. Kamisato," (Y/n) mumbled. "It's just... I'm still pretty pissed by what happened. I had an absolute shit first kiss–"

Kamisato Ayato questioned whether he had a heart in his head because, on occasion, it beats louder than the one cradled by his ribs. Or perhaps he's just grown incredibly susceptible to human emotions– or in this scenario: "headaches." Then again, in a world where 7 out of every 20 Inazuman citizens are killed by Devils in a concerningly short duration, is it really surprising that Ayato would experience such distress?

The Public Safety Devil Hunters have often questioned their limits throughout the years. Many of them have hardened themselves into pawns who seek glorified kinds of justice and retribution with the limited and declining manpower they have. As a result, they needed people like Kamisato Ayato, a mystifying man who presented himself as a gregarious yet reticent individual regarded either with respect or distaste. 

Only a few people have gone insane, which he and the captain of Division 4, Dainsleif, considered to be regrettable. They both had a strong conviction that complete sanity was inappropriate for a devil hunter. The rational and sensible are not in demand in this profession. Only those who have lost their sense of humanity can remain alive with their limbs intact. Many disputed Dainsleif's claims, questioning how could they be true. And to this, he answered:

"What does sanity truly mean when demanded of you by a Devil?"

Unfortunately, not many people understood the significance of that puzzling question, and even if they did, they rejected this way of thinking. Losing one's sanity is equivalent to losing what kept many alive–

And then…

There's (Y/n).

"Holy shiiiiiit!!!" (Y/n) spat out with their mouth full as they gouged the poor leftover traces of udon from the bowl, fully savoring what drops can be salvaged. They tilted their wrist and licked the remaining noodles, which made Mr. Kamisato's associates raise an eyebrow. Their unbrushed hair would sometimes cover their eyes, making them appear more monstrous and feral.

That was enough to know that in an instant, (Y/n) was endowed with a life that was blessed— at least, in physiological matters.

Despite their disheveled clothes and messy hair, anyone would've mistaken them for a somewhat functional human being. Ayato was quite pleased to dress them up after finding them bloodied and dazed. Not that the zombie devil was ever considered a formidable foe, but seeing the Chainsaw Devil in action is enough grounds for fascination, yes?

The Chainsaw Devil… What name does his "family" go by nowadays? What does the "Fixer of Hell" do around this era?

And why did he form a contract with this… mess of a human being? Why did the Chainsaw Devil agree to become this person's heart replacement?

Why didn't the devil let them perish?

Kamisato Ayato has been dying to know–

"Is this what you devil hunters eat every day?" (Y/n) gawked at him, who was snapped back to reality by their childlike antics. "Seems pretty fucking worth it to me. Those jackasses must be ripping me off if I did the same work for less than, what, two eighty percent? I don't know jack-shit about math, though. Unless it's about calculating debt."

"Is that right?"

When (Y/n) eliminated the Zombie Devil, the public safety officer was able to locate the "dog" in person. Fortunately, he just so happened to know that there was a devil in the vicinity and saw (Y/n) covered in blood. Surely, finding out that the Chainsaw Devil became (Y/n)'s heart via a contract was a mere coincidence in Mr. Kamisato's perspective. He's a cunning being, but not omnipotent, yes?

"Duh," their nose scrunched. "Gotta pay my dead dad's debt somehow. The sins of the Father are the sins of the... I forgot the rest of the line."

"Hmm."

To say (Y/n) is the… most entertaining person is the understatement of the decade. They exude none of the dignity of an ordinary civilian when bringing up their lack of rudimentary mathematical abilities and literary knowledge. Like a child who was isolated in their room for so long, (Y/n) was the type of clumsily put-together person you wouldn't expect to pique Ayato's interest. 

Yet here he is, answering them with something far from a business smile.

Ayato was entertained by their awkwardly talkative behavior and flushed cheeks.

(Y/n) has a crush on him. He's certain.

He can make use of that.

"We take care of our workers, yes," Ayato smoothly replied. His gaze did not falter away from the more-than-exploited hybrid. Hidden behind his stare was an obsession he had yet to add a label to. There's a strangely human urge for him to wipe the stray noodle off their chin.

They failed to see his soft gaze and continued to mindlessly ask nonsensical questions.

"P-Peanut butter and jelly too?"

"If they so desired it. I do not see why they cannot afford to buy some with their paycheck."

"Woah."

They looked incredibly amazed, if not, pathetically deprived. It made Ayato even more curious– just what life was this poor dog living if they craved incredibly simple joys?

And… peanut butter? Was that ever considered peak luxury? What a miserable life. Dead mother, murdered father– and a poor heart condition to match. He'll never consider their living conditions humane.

"Dog," Ayato thought to himself. "Positively a dog."

So faithful. So easily handled. 

Just as the Public Safety Devil Hunter had hoped for.

Humans are strange creatures and even more challenging to please. Ayato noticed that people attract others when they're unfortunate yet not far enough where they're "beyond saving". Balancing that fine line is a hindrance. Humans strive for authenticity but retreat when it causes discomfort— running away from the empty or broken bits that reflect their innermost selfish beliefs. These people will probe for trauma and unfavorable emotions to relate to, but won't exert control to change or challenge the speaker. 

They want a "palatable" story– a "marketable" person.

Kamisato Ayato didn't enjoy how hypocritical humanity is. Perhaps that's why he connected with (Y/n) instantaneously. 

Because (Y/n) was no longer human.

They're a devil-human hybrid. There's nothing for (Y/n) to mask, and most importantly, they're so damn easy to please.

Ayato glanced at his wristwatch. 

It's nearly time for tea with his fellow commissioners.

He closed his eyes and sighed softly. There was no latent vitriolic expression on his face, but that did not mean Ayato cared for his colleagues deeply.

They're all dogs in his eyes.

"Let us depart, (Y/n)."

And (Y/n) might be the best one yet.

Mr. Kamisato stood up and ruffled their hair.

"Come. Be a good dog and perhaps I'll spoil you with as many treats as you desire."

—-------------------

"Holy shit…" (Y/n) muttered to themselves.

"Today, I'm going to experience my first kiss ever…"

"Oh, a kiss you say?"

"M-Mister Kamisato?!"

It's been a while since Mr. Kamisato saw (Y/n), and they exude a brighter aura than before.

He's not pretentious enough to say (Y/n) had grown so much since he last saw them. There are qualities to them (he wouldn't say redeemable) that Ayato was certain weren't there in the past. After assigning them as Kaedehara Kazuha's subordinate and roommate, (Y/n) rehabilitated to the norms of public safety devil hunters. There were some setbacks, including the time they refused to kill a devil because they were naive enough to consider them as friends. But here they were, inside a busy restaurant after a month of dispatching (Y/n) to their new job– new life.

And won't you look at that?

Ayato's gaze softened as it sank in how much his influence had changed them over the months.

They… look radiant, don't they?

(Y/n) stood up, shocked that the refined public safety officer would be joining them. No one told them that he was invited. The rest of Division 4 followed suit, extending their pleasantries to their superior. The only exception was Beidou, who spoke nothing as she continued chugging her beer. Ayato greeted them and gracefully slipped away from his black cloak and placed it on the chair.

They remained standing until Ayato reached out and ruffled their hair.

"Sit."

And so they did.

Mr. Kamisato's grin widened.

"Good dog." He said.

…

Good dog…?

For a moment, the world was on mute for Mr. Kamisato.

And in that personal silence, he pondered to himself:

Why does he care so much about a dog?

It matters not since they will always remain a dog in his eyes. The day he stops calling them a dog and treating them as one is the day he'll forget about the "Fixer of Hell."

"(Y/n)..."

Ayato turned to look at the woman who moaned.

Beidou was one of his favorite dog's new coworkers alongside Kazuha, Kaveh, Al Haitham, the blood-fiend Arataki "Numero Uno" Itto, and the rest. Unlike the aforementioned four, Beidou often regarded Ayato as a "manipulative bastard" while her long-time partner, Kazuha, felt that there is a certain level of melancholy about him that they repeatedly failed to comprehend. Kazuha had a better sense of the world than his dear old eye-patched friend, but even he finds Ayato unpredictable.

Ayato doesn't mind her hostility and their wariness, not when they took great care of his pet on their latest mission. 

Yet, he's holding back a glare.

"(Y/nnnnnn)..."

He doesn't appreciate the way her hand repeatedly traveled down his dog's thigh.

"H-Hey, you're d-drunk–" (Y/n) kept "discreetly" glancing at Ayato, worried. "Q-Quit it! Y-You're making me uncomfortable, man–"

"Shhhhh!" Beidou hushed in a low and seductive tone. 

"Just wait, (Y/n), I give better kisses when I'm far from sober."

Ayato's eye twitched.

How intriguing.

"W-WH-WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!!!–"

"Your reward for killing the Eternity Devil, you scallywag~" She hiccupped, red-faced. "Kiss, with tongue, re-mem-ber?"

Mr. Kamisato closed his eyes, clenching his fists beneath the table as his colleagues drank and ate to their hearts' content. She's drunk. She'll likely regret those words tomorrow.

For a moment, he wished he could drown himself in Kaveh's talks about wearing his father's hand-me-downs or staying in Public Safety for the paycheck. Or maybe hone in on how Itto kept adding zeros to his IQ when asked. 

But his whole being was focused on this peculiar conversation.

Suppose a lonesome dog will latch on to any attention it will get.

"K-Kiss…" (Y/n) squeaked.

Don't be so overjoyed.

Ayato desperately wanted to say.

Can't you tell that between the two of us, it's me who you would choose in a heartbeat?

"Who's kissing who now?" Ayato raised his hand, calling for the waiter while staring at the morally conflicted (Y/n). "A glass, please."

(Y/n) paused, not looking at both Ayato and Beidou. They were deep in thought, assessing the situation as though it was their most life-threatening moment. 

Good.

They perked up again, somewhat sweating.

"U-Uh, Mr. Kamisato! H-Have you heard? I found an important metal-piece thing and grabbed it!"

Ayato no longer held back a defeated sigh and clenched his fists under the table.

… Disappointing. 

So they have chosen to ignore his confrontation instead of turning down Beidou's advances. Shame. Ayato's face contorted, but no one noticed his dismay other than Kaveh, who did not know what to make of it at the time.

"Yes, I have, and what fine news it was indeed. Excellent work. Oh, to have been a fly in the wall..."

Seeing as that "piques" his interest, Kazuha leaned his elbows on the table.

"While we're on the topic, Mister Kamisato…" 

Kazuha proceeded to add more to the subject, calmly stating all the information and inferences the group had acquired after the last mission. The "metal-piece" thing (Y/n) found was a portion of the Gun Devil, and Kazuha blabbered about how it appeared that (Y/n) had been targeted by many devils.

"–somehow (Y/n) is at the crux of everything. You know something that we do not, right Mister Kamisato?"

It's only natural for Kazuha to act this way. (Y/n) had no formal training yet fought the Eternity Devil for three days without rest. They had even utilized the Chainsaw Devil's ("Thoma" was its new name) power to torture them nonstop. Devils regenerate by drinking blood so they grained the Eternity devil regularly, yelling and taunting it like a maniac. So in Kazuha's conclusion, (Y/n) was not only stranger than they suppose; they are stranger than they can suppose.

Division 4's and Ayato's main objective is to hunt this "Gun Devil", but there's no need to mind such trifles. At least Makoto is dead. That's one battle won.

Ayato gazed at Kazuha, then his drink.

"What an interesting notion. How about a game?" Ayato placed a finger on his lip. "What do they call this… was it called hot pot? Hmm… No matter." 

"The mechanics of the game is to outdrink your opponent," Ayato smiled. "Will you accept this duel?"

As if on time, Beidou placed her empty glass down, making Kazuha just a bit more confident to take the risk. Kazuha nodded.

"Excuse me! Two sakes, please!"

Beidou, who would've normally banned Kazuha from drinking because of his height and not his adult age, yelled on top of her tops.

"HE-HE-HEYYY!!! MAKE IT THREEEE!!! I'LL PLAY THE DAMN GAME TOO!!!"

"MORE SASHIMI!!! THERE BETTER NOT BE A BEAN MIXED IN THERE!!!" Itto demanded soon after.

"I-I'd take a plate of sweet potatoes and cheese, please!" Kaveh humbly requested, fixing his red hairclips.

"HEY WAIT, ME TOO!!! MORE TEMPURA TOO!!!" (Y/n) followed, causing Al Haitham to cover his ears. 

Ayato smirked, drinking his mug. He already knows how this will end.

—--------------

Just a few drinks in, Kazuha proved his humanity by slowly fluttering his eyes to sleep.

Both Kazuha and Beidou failed to defeat Ayato in his game, albeit the latter wasn't trying their best. The others lost focus on the match when they knew Ayato had secured victory the moment he gave the mechanics. It's hopeless. Even a newbie such as the salt-and-pepper haired man knew it was a battle whose result had long been decided. 

"Excuse me, sir," Ayato smiled, smug. "May I have another drink, please?"

Mr. Kamisato retrieved his umpteenth beer, eager to take a sip but as soon as he had it in his hands, that woman chimed in again. 

She kissed them.

…

"... Goodness," Ayato muttered emptily.

That bold woman kissed what's his.

Ayato shook his head slightly, drinking his glass with a malicious glint in his eyes. As that woman aggressively thrust her tongue inside (Y/n)'s mouth, his dog shook, peering over the unimpressed Mr. Kamisato. He made it known to them that he was not pleased by this front-row display of "affection", but (Y/n) made little effort to stop it. He heard her moan and scrutinized the way she yanked their collar to deepen the "kiss", closing all distance between them.

He could've sworn the mug cracked a bit so he loosened his hold. Mr. Kamisato had felt another "headache" settling in as he watched that filth violate his pet with perverse pleasure. He snarled quietly.

What a low-quality "treat".

"Is this what you call a reward?" Ayato muttered. 

She must taste horrible. 

His (Y/n) must feel horrible.

Surely they wouldn't enjoy being taken by another person? 

Yet they're melting in her arms. 

Ayato scoffed.

What an unpleasant sight.

He felt... unsettled and restless.

Suddenly, they pulled away. Ayato was almost impressed (relieved) until he saw the reason behind (Y/n)'s distress. That kiss was disgusting, and everyone at that table will reasonably agree on that after seeing what had happened to (Y/n).

"HAHAHAHAHA!" The blood fiend laughed heartily. "IT'S IN THEIR MOUTH!!! IT'S IN THEIR MOUTH!!!"

That disgusting acidic liquid…

Itto elbowed Al Haitham beside him.

"AND YA BOYS KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN ANYTHING NUTRITIOUS GETS INSIDE (Y/N)'S MOUTH?!?"

Mr. Kamisato stood up and immediately pulled (Y/n) away from Beidou, pampering their lips with tissues and scrubbing the remains of that wench. His eyes sharpened as (Y/n) leaned into his touch, trembling while grabbing his white dress shirt. Ayato ignored how he would've normally felt a twinge of disgust over the stains they left on his clothes and gently cradled them; his focus now aimed at Beidou– disregarding how the other members laughed or visibly shivered at the sight.

… it's puke.

"THEY SWALLOW IT!!!"

Ayato's eyelids lowered as he heard (Y/n) gulped Beidou's vomit involuntarily, cringing while sobbing– gagging. Itto's laughter drowns out any sounds of concern. (Y/n) hands flew to their throat, clawing to spit everything out as the others watched. 

Is this… what people call "headaches"?

How dare she.

She dared not only steal his dog's first kiss but also dared to vomit inside them. Beidou had publicly disrespected what was under his control.

His eyes were emptier than before.

Unacceptable.

He did not fail to notice the others in the room as well. Kazuha jolted up awake at the commotion and searched for a tissue immediately. Some watched out of morbid curiosity like Al Haitham, while there’s people who nervously laughed without knowing what to do like Kaveh, and the rest hollered with the blood fiend. 

The last category was filled with employees who had been in the department long enough to know Beidou’s antics. As one of them had told (Y/n) before the party started, Beidou had kissed nearly everyone in the room they’re in already when drunk. Couple that fact with how these colleagues have most of their sanity stripped away and live their lives unhinged, and you got yourself a group of people who no longer processes traumatic events as it is. To them, this is comedy.

The superior Public Safety Devil Hunter shifted his glare to them, effectively halting their laughter.

Mr. Kamisato will be keeping an eye on them.

He knows their names and their faces.

“Tch.”

Ayato roughly dabbed their mouth, cooing at his traumatized (Y/n) as the others looked out for Beidou. (Y/n)'s hands remained locked on their esophagus as if pushing out the last remaining toothpaste from the tube. Pitiable. And somehow, for ones with a sadistic inclination as he does, charming–

No.

Get it out.

Get it all out without hurting what's his.

Scrub every last trace of that woman out of them.

Mr. Kamisato let go of the tissue and brought his thumb against (Y/n)'s lips. Their breath hitched as his ministrations differed greatly from before. Instead of something so intense and near degrading, the way Ayato wiped the stains was warm. Intimate.

Yet Ayato's permanent polite smile betrayed his thoughts.

Blindfolds. Hands. Kneel. Blindfolds. Hands. Kneel.

Squish.

He closed his eyes.

Ayato did not care for whatever happens to Beidou next– she can get killed by a devil next week for all he cares– but he will not allow anything of this sort to occur ever again.

"Oh, my dearest (Y/n)," this time, he smiled not to seem normal but to comfort. And such a genuine gesture scared Ayato deep down. "Allow me to help you get it off your system, okay?"

Finally, their coworkers fully acknowledged (Y/n)'s plight. Kazuha was the first to lend his handkerchief, something Ayato made a mental note of. Kaveh turned around instead. The hairs in the blonde's arms certainly stood the straightest. In response, Al Haitham rolled his eyes over how squirmish his fellow recruit was.

"I have a grandmother who often vomits, perhaps–" 

Kaveh immediately cut off Al Haitham, "Wait, you're actually volunteering to help?"

He shrugged. "No, I was merely offering advice on how to–"

Ayato snapped.

"I'll take care of this. Alone."

Ayato's grip on (Y/n) tightened, pulling them close to his chest protectively. He can sense them eager to cough out the vile shoved down their throat but sweetly, he will not give a damn if they released all that in his chest. Ayato led their head on his shoulder. His hand ran through their scalp, soothing them.

Every decision Kamisato Ayato makes is final.

He needn't hear more of their so-called input.

They don't need you.

His (Y/n) does not need ANY of you.

Slowly, Ayato tilted the nauseous (Y/n)'s chin.

"You'll let me take control, won't you, love?"

They nodded, tears in the corner of their eyes. Charmingly weak. A reflection of their humanity. The humanity Ayato did not care about for so long.

"Good do–" Ayato stopped himself.

"Good," he chuckled. "Just good. Now, follow me to the restroom."

He didn't let (Y/n) interact with anyone else that night.

—----------

That incident occurred yesterday, and it was still fresh in their memory. 

(Y/n) had been especially gloomy as of late and had been ordered to never talk to Beidou until permitted by Mr. Kamisato. Instead of staying at Kazuha's apartment with Itto, Ayato made arrangements so that they'll have a room in his government-owned apartment. The man from then on refuses to let them out unless a mission requires them. It rattled (Y/n). In a sense, they were like a dog caged for a vase they did not break. 

Like most mistreated dogs, they whined silently. Which were sounds that never go unnoticed by caring owners. 

And all caring owners will prioritize their pets more than their phone ringing.

Ayato immediately muted his phone.

42 missed calls from Mr. Kaedehara, 36 from Ms. Beidou, and 11 from Kaveh.

He swiped their text notifications all away and faced it down on the table.

"(Y/n), my dear," Ayato began in a soft voice as he set down his boba tea and the take-out for tonight's meal. "Something troubles you. Though you may not wish to share at the moment, know that I am here for you should you ever need an ear."

(Y/n) looked up with gratitude in their eyes. Although they were not vocal about it like they usually are, they did not expect Mr. Kamisato to be perceptive and kind enough to acknowledge their demeanor.

"Thank you, Mr. Kamisato," (Y/n) mumbled. "It's just... I'm still pretty pissed by what happened. I had an absolute shit first kiss–"

They sobbed, voice cracking.

"–and even if I kiss a bunch of other women or guys in the future, I'll probably never get that taste of vomit off my mind, won't I?"

The room went quiet, and Ayato's shoulders dropped at their pitiful sounds.

He retrieved his cup of boba milk tea on the table again and silently placed it in front of (Y/n), aligning the straw in the direction of their lips.

"I understand," Ayato replied. "Sometimes, wounds of the heart take time to heal. But remember, there is a chance to create beautiful memories within every setback. Now open your mouth."

With a sigh, they took a sip of the boba milk tea, the taste of blueberry cheesecake tantalizing their tastebuds. (Y/n) relaxed, the tension in their body dissipating. However, as if urged to see their discomfort yet again out of perverse pleasure, Ayato spoke once more.

"You will likely never erase the taste of vomit in your mind for all eternity."

(Y/n)'s eyebrows furrowed.

"However," Ayato cupped their cheek, forcing them to share his gaze.

"Now that you will forever live with me, you will have the chance to taste a wide variety of new flavors to the point you will never have to recall that unpleasant taste again." 

As they savored the comforting flavor, Ayato's eyes twinkled mischievously, and a small smile tugged at his lips. He chuckled. 

"And I would like you to take notice, (Y/n)," he began playfully, "that this delightful boba tea we're sharing is the taste of your first indirect kiss."

Surprised, (Y/n) messily choked on their drink, spluttering the content in their white shirt as embarrassment colored their cheeks red. Ayato chuckled softly, reaching out to pat (Y/n)'s back gently as they recovered.

That adorable expression. It beats that of a dog.

Their blush is human.

(Y/n) is human.

As (Y/n) wiped the sweet taste on their lips, they couldn't help but feel a newfound sense of hope, knowing that Mr. Kamisato will be there for them. Their lingering disappointment remains, that much is certain, but it will disappear in time. (Y/n) drank until the cup was emptied. It was a symbol of Mr. Kamisato's promise to make the taste of puke a distant memory and that–

In the end, everything will be alright.

He likes them. He's certain.

(Y/n) can make use of him.

Give Mr. Kamisato a chance, dearest (Y/n).

He'll add Ms. Beidou's death to his list of things to check off in your next assignment. 

Not only that, of course. She won’t be the only one that’ll keep him busy. He has not forgotten the faces of those who laughed at you during your dilemma. 

Maybe once the officer reassigns them all to a more… enthralling location, he’ll get a more satisfactory answer to the question:

"What does sanity truly mean when demanded of you by a Devil?"

[abdullahbroshairif]

New England college-aged brothers Daxton and Brandon White were -art tomb a little too much. Their dad always joked, when they misbehaved, “I’m gonna sell you to the Sheik.” And , throughout their lives, the boys always laughed at that. As IF their dad could, or would, sell them off to live with a Middle Eastern royal. Well, Dax and Bran’s first semester grades were pitiful. Seemed like the brothers couldn’t stop partying enough to make their way to class and went to the gym every day instead.

Bill White had done some work overseas, as a military contractor. And Bill was beginning to think his sons needed a lesson of perspective. So Bill, early on, before he was even married, found himself rubbing (hairy) elbows with the Arab elite, back in the Gulf War days. In fact, Bill had spent time with Sheik Qadar. Sheik Qadar had even come into possession of an ancient changing stone.

One day the boys got picked up from the gym by their dad’s companies’ “fixer,” Mr. Nadir. Nadir took the boys to the airport and shipped them off, first to the city Bursa, Turkey, where they lived each day as a new hairy Arab. Then they were taken overseas to the Caribbean to wake up daily as black man who lives their lives as online influencers personal training the wealthy arabic vacationers. Next, the boys were shipped of the UAE where they did the same, learning arabic with their thick Eastern Caribbean accents. Gosh, it was getting difficult for them to remember English after becoming so used to speaking Arabic. Lastly, they were sent to India where Daxton and Brandon completely forgot being white Americans, but were able to remember their lives as Caribbeans and Arabs.

Dakaar and Brishaan now are being picked up by a man they’ve never met, Mr. nadir, to be taken back to America. Oh, so sad how the boys were crying and scared, not wanting to leave their homeland of India. Dakaar soothes his younger brother and tells him, in Hindu “we’ll be okay, brother. We must obey this new life with our new master in America”

The trick is on Bill, who assumed his sons would eventually regain their life as his white American sons… three years later the Indian brothers are just as unable to attend school, since they only English they now know are the names of the machines in the gym and the only counting they can do is May decidable by the numbers on the side of weight plates and dumbbells. Bill is doing his best, though, to teach his boys English. They get tutored by handsome blonde university men every day.

💚💚💚

[prettyboykatsuki]

Fang i just found out constantly liking people who seems like they wouldn't like me back/commit to me is also a sign of commitment issues.

Soooo which blue lock man (or another 2d man that comes to your mind) fixes this🫡

oh twin not you just finding out KJSDNKJ. i understand however

the number one man is mr fixer himself isagi yoichi. you will like him and he will like you and make u feel like the most lovesick fool ever and u will be locked into a long term relationship before u even know whats happening. i lowk also wanna attribute this to barou and maybe karasu 🫡

[manicplank]

Got any angst about the pt cast?

Of course, I do.

Peppino: He was bullied as a child/teenager and developed horrible social anxiety and depression from it. He also has generalized anxiety disorder. He's not necessarily estranged from his family, but he doesn't communicate with them a lot. This has caused tension to rise as his family began to think he doesn't love them. His failing business only adds to his crippling anxiety. He holds it against himself and is convinced that he's a failure.

Gustavo: I've said it a million times, but he's a divorced dad with minimal custody rights. He feels guilty for it. The divorce was super hard on him and still hurts. He was also very lonely at home before he got Brick. Other than that, he's a pretty jolly guy.

Mr. Stick: He's a lonely guy. His social skills aren't the best, and he's very condescending. His gambling problem has actually caused him great losses in life. He has maybe one friend (Burton). Despite being a con man, he's very gullible.

Pepperman: His narcissistic tendencies have cause many relationships to peril. Family, friends, and even partners had grown tired of his antics. He spends most of his time on his art and forgets to take care of himself. He's quite lonely.

The Vigilante: He doesn't have any family left. His maw and paw died early in his life after they were killed by outlaws. This is what made him decide to become The Vigilante. His peepaw, John E. Cheese, raised him. After he passed, The Vigilante had nobody but the ghost of him. He's become very lonely and is slightly depressed.

The Noise: He has an absent father who he resents for not being there. He grew up as a chaotic AuDHD child with a mother who didn't know how to handle it. He was bullied a lot. He's very paranoid that people will use him for money and fame, which is why he doesn't really have any friends other than Noisette. He's very angry and depressed underneath that silly persona. His social skills aren't great, either.

Noisette: She's incredibly insecure when it comes to criticism. She got bullied a lot in school for her poor social skills. Like Noise, she's also AuDHD, but her parents were educated and raised her well. She holds herself to modern beauty standards and occasionally gets insecure of her appearance.

Fake Peppino: He was met with violence and fear very early in life as he was constantly being hunted down by others in the tower (piggy police, The Vigilante). People were afraid of him, and it made him sad about himself. [Fic spoiler] Bruno was a great friend to him, but now he's gone. Until Peppino arrived, he felt that he was unlovable. Pizzahead is fine but can get too rough when it comes to correcting behavior.

Pizzahead: His poor social skills and onsessive behaviors have caused him to suffer greatly in his social life. He's very lonely and pushes most people away. He snapped at a certain point and went completely insane. He's a psychopathic maniac. He buries himself in work most of the time to avoid his feelings.

Pillar John: [Fic spoilers] John was originally a maintenance man in the tower. He was an incredible fixer and was good friends with Pizzahead. The tower was old and falling apart. Once Pizzahead realized there was no fixing it, he created a crazy contraption and trapped John in the top floor of the tower, causing the pillars in each level to support the tower's stability. Because of this, John developed a horrible depression after having a happy life.

Gerome: Gerome had somewhat of a tough upbringing. His mom and dad got divorced when he was young. His dad wasn't a great person. He was depressed as a kid because he felt the divorce was his fault. When his mom met John's father, things changed drastically, especially when John was born. At first, he didn't like John or his father. Once he saw how happy his mom was, he opened up and became close to John and his dad. Despite this, the depression still haunts Gerome to this day. Gerome even finds himself feeling a bit guilty over the tower situation.

[lamanchalandfamily]

[There's a small tug on the train of the Barber's dress. Looking behind her, the culprit seems to be a small child no older than seven or eight, struggling to hold back tears.]

E-Excuse me, Ms. Barber? I-Is Mr. Lorenzo gonna be alright? I, [sniff] I think I h-hit him t-too hard during the Fixer contest, an-and they said they h-had to bring him to the infirmary. [sniffle] I'm sorry...

Oh dear.. She reaches down to pick the child up into her arms. He's going to be just fine. Come now, no need for tears, La Mancha Land is a place for joy not sadness, you needn't worry about a thing while you're here. When he's better, I'll make sure he tells you himself just how okay he is, and how impressive you were in the contest, now come along, let's go on the ferris wheel, shall we? ✂️

[cybervesna]

Hello, I'm not sure if I missed it somewhere but what's the backstory between Wiosna and Kurt?

Hi! Actually! I haven't talked about them in complied way... Thank you for asking this, I will explain and ramble about them here 😅 At the start, I will say that my photo series Wires is telling the story of the two of them in chronological order (with the exception of Valentine's special cuz that will be set after a few that have to come at some point, I'm sorry Part 7 is so demanding...). However, Dogtown Nights are shorter bits of their life, in unspecified time points (unless stated otherwise cuz some will be follow-up/prequel to Wires) More under the cut

In early 2076 Wiosna became a netrunner for hire after her abusive fiance Arthur Jenkins died. She started small, but thanks to her experience (as she learned netrunning in Poland, where NetWatch is far more strict and only the best can survive (Thanks Eurosource Plus) and a death wish, she quickly made her way to The Afterlife. There, she was known under the nickname SPR1NG. People knew about her only what she allowed them to know, which wasn't much. But Rogue didn't complain, since Spring did all her suicidal gigs with utmost excellence. Happy client = happy fixer. With Wiosna's status increased she started being looked at by many organizations. Corps wanted to hire her to steal data from one another, cause global security breaches, and such things. She was picky with her jobs. Wiosna wasn't after money, nor she was after fame. It was the thrill. She wanted to feel something worth living for. She wanted to be scared to die. Which never really happened. So, when Rogue told her there was a special client from Dogtown who would like to hire her, but there were no deets about anything, she was intrigued. She agreed to the meeting, and from that point forward, her career was under the watchful eye of Mr. Hands. The meeting itself revealed that the client was no one else than Kurt Hansen himself, who needed a capable netrunner to build the lab for Cassels visit. Kurt was a figure everyone in Night City heard about. And Wiosna wanted to find out what was true. How the whole thing went can be seen on Wires: Part 1. But but but but!!! Dogtown Nights 4 is an indirect follow-up that happens between Part 1-5 of the Wires.

Wiosna had a life before this one. Life she ran away from, but that life made her who she is. And she was a highly educated psychologist. She liked to analyze people, trigger certain emotions in them, and make them what she wanted... And Kurt Hansen had something in him, that made her develop an unhealthy obsession. Especially, that he, just like her liked playing mind games.

And Kurt liked her, because she was pretty, smart and it was intriguing as hell she was not jumping to his bed the second she got a chance. In fact, she was cockblocking him.

Kurt and Wiosna were dancing around each other for weeks, and poor Kurt had no idea he was the one losing. Wiosna wrapped him around her finger, by letting him think he was winning, but in reality, she manipulated her way to his heart. Heart, he thought he didn't have. The stepping stone for them was the moment Kurt found out about Wiosna's past.

For Wiosna is was a test. She knew it wouldn't be easy since he didn't get any info on her the first time. All of this was to check if he was willing to bother, and what kind of reaction he would have to the truth. I made some of her files there (I should do more)

Wiosna always saw herself as flawed and unworthy of anything, due to her child trauma. She spent more time in psychiatric facilities, where they tried to "fix her" than she spent with people at school. Any free time she had, she spent in cyberspace or in ballet class - however alone.

Her files consist of dozens of evaluations, diagnoses, incident descriptions, and everything really negative that everyone in high-corpo society sees as "psycho" but in a - we can't make it useful for us psycho way.

Kurt in those files saw potential.

Of course, for him it wasn't really about love, but what he could gain from her. And sadly, Wiosna was naive enough to believe otherwise.

I don't want to say much, because it's in my upcoming stories, but I will say this: Aside from her terrible past, Wiosna also has a powerful name she doesn't use - Kochanowska. Her grandfather is Antoni Kochanowski, owner of LoveSky Space Mining Company. As of 2076 her family owns half of Earth's resources, and 90% of resources on Mars and Luna, they supply manufacturers like Arasaka with resources to make weapons, mechs etc. I want to be clear, that this is only my headcanon! We got that? Good, then to give you the level of importance LoveSky has on the market - Kurt's precious Chimaera was made from resources delivered by LoveSky to Militech. They're the fundamentals of any corporate force. Wiosna is the last of her line. Her parents died tragically (99.99% set up by their enemies) on launch to space where they were meant to start their new project, which makes her - their only child an heir to everything they owned. Which is half of LoveSky and a seat on the Arasaka Board. But Wiosna herself disappeared, despite her grandparents looking for her, and Asukaga & Finch lawyers ready to execute the will of her parents.

For Kurt she is a trophy. One that came straight to his arms at that. But well... remember what I said about Wiosna outsmarting him. They both were into each other, for their selfish reasons. What they found surprised them both.

I hope I satisfied your curiosity!

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - July 30

 Hi friends!! So someone (hi @till-i-get-back-punk )  commented on last week’s bonus rec list, surprised that I’m @areiton​ so--as a reminder, your friendly neighborhood rec curator is indeed arei! I started the STW because I love reading and was running out of fic recs and occasionally that’s still true---so always feel free to send me new things to read via asks. I don’t do requested rec lists often, mostly because I’m crazy busy, but I’ve been thinking of a series of mini-lists for the holiday season--more on that later. 

Now on to this week’s list--as always, remember to share the love--comment/kudo if you’re enjoying the fic! 

~*~ 

poor flesh and fluttering hearts by deathsweetqueen

Steve blushes so adorably when Tony walks into the kitchen, staring down at the plate of pancakes that he made for himself and the rest of the team.

His brown wings, the colour of burnt umber, shake out before folding around his broad form.

For a moment, Tony is confused and then, he looks down at himself, noticing the way he strode into the kitchen in just a pair of silk boxers, arc reactor and shiny red scars on vivid display.

He shifts uneasily on his feet and immediately hates himself for the action.

Why should he feel so awkward, so self-conscious just because perfect fucking Captain America finds him an absolute mess of a person?

The Way of Things by Sineala

The Avengers have been around a long time, and they have a lot of traditions. But when Steve finds out that the team has a tradition he's never been informed of, he learns that there's something Tony hasn't been telling him, either.

Fixer-Upper by imafriendlydalek

Tony leads the way up the steps to the house, and as the door swings open with a long creaking sound - note to self: oil door hinges - Steve’s eyes widen. He steps inside, turns slowly on his own axis as he looks around.

“Tony, this place, it’s…” There’s a sense of wonder in his voice. Tony smiles inwardly. It is just the kind of thing Steve would like. Steve, who has a keen appreciation for fine aesthetics, who has a healthy - okay, sometimes more than healthy - sense of history and an acute desire to preserve things he deems worthy.

“This place is a dump.”

Well, so much for that, then. Tony shifts his weight to one leg as he takes an appraising look. “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, yeah, I’ll give you that, but it’s not past saving. Just needs some TLC.”

Steve uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Well listen, you ever want an extra set of hands with some of the work, just give me a call.”

Big Boy Toys by extantecstasy

Steve finally gets fed up with Tony’s juvenile pranks. When Tony models for a sex toy, Steve seizes the opportunity. Or, it seizes him.

Glitch by iam93percentstardust

And I'm not even sorry, nights are so starry

Blood moonlit

It must be counterfeit

I think there's been a glitch, oh, yeah

~

“Ms. Potts, my name is Steve Rogers, and I’m Justin Hammer’s roommate," Steve says.

“Oh, what does that asshole want now?” she asks.

“I don’t think he wants anything—except to make a quick buck and ruin Mr. Stark’s reputation.”

Trust Fall by Sineala

Tony needs someone who cares about him, bandages, a jacket, ibuprofen, dinner, a lasting romantic relationship, a nice time in bed, and assistance committing federal crimes. He gets them. In that order.

Tony Stark vs. the Heteronormative Agenda by sweatervest

Nat leans her hip against the table and folds her arms. “Short of making out in public, I don’t think anyone will make the jump to ‘they’re dating.’”

Steve glances at her and then over at Tony.

Nat follows Steve’s gaze. “You did make out in public.”

“Steve never got his Time’s Square victory kiss,” Tony protests.

--

Or, five times the general public was determined to believe Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were just close friends, and the time Tony made sure they knew otherwise.

through thick and thin by earliebirb

“We should break up,” Tony declares, gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling window of their bedroom. The colorful twinkle of lights of the New York City nightlife is truly a mesmerizing view.

“Why?”

“I don’t love you anymore.”

Steve scoffs, utterly unfazed.

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? by ceealaina

Steve’s going to ask Tony out for New Year’s Eve. Really. He absolutely means it this time. He just... has to work up the nerve.

The Emperor's New Clothes by Captain_Panda

No, Tony wasn't "flirting with him."

Tony was trying to drive him crazy. Steve Rogers would not stand for it.

Honey, I Can See The Stars by twentysomething 

"The most he'd ever cared about anything remotely related was his uniform, which, beyond the stylistic, was pretty necessary. But now his suit comes from a lab far more advanced than the basement of a Brooklyn antique shop, and the only decision he really gets to make is if his pants are too tight. (They were, but he doesn't really think they changed them. He doesn't know why, but he thinks that might have been on purpose.) That being said, he doesn't know what he's done to deserve the double take Tony gives him as he walks in the room."

The Most Amazing Things (Some Terrible Lie) by copperbadge

Tony's decision not to reveal his identity as Iron Man to the world was shrewd and calculated. Too bad it's about to backfire on him like a Jericho missile.

It Started with Two Men by Missy_dee811 for tarialdarion

Steve remembers and confronts Tony but there's more to Tony's confession than Steve had ever thought possible:

“Tony, I –”

Tony cut him off with the wave of a hand. “Why can’t you understand that everything I do, I do for you?” He was sobbing now into his hands, covered in blood. It was jarring to see Tony like this. Steve didn’t know how to respond. This didn’t go as planned, he thought to himself. He hadn’t expected a heartfelt confession. In truth, he had expected more lies, more deceit. He felt like the world’s greatest asshole for using his best friend as a punching bag.

Make It Clap by shetlandowl

Steve is a sophomore at BU and Tony is finishing his graduate degree at MIT when they begin their relationship. This story is told as 31 snapshots from their first two years together. The story is told in sequential order, though not always in sequence (i.e., some chapters capture events only hours apart, while some chapters are from events weeks or months apart).

Ice Ice Baby (The Hockey Fic) by youcancallmearrow

Tony Stark is a star center, sidelined by a slip in sobriety. Steve Rogers is a goalie, suspended for a punch thrown off the ice.

When the two meet, they're trying to get their lives back on track, both off and on the ice. It turns out, the saying is true: A burden shared is a burdened halved. At least until Howard Stark gets involved.

(A get together fic full of fluff, supportive friends, dad Rhodey, and hockey! But if you know nothing about hockey, you'll be fine, because neither does the author.)

Tonight we're gonna make it all come true by gottalovev

Steve Rogers is one of the best players in college football and is ready to prove it. The road towards becoming a professional football player? Is totally crazy. Falling in love with Tony Stark, the young quarterback from Stanford, may be even more life changing.

i don't have a choice (but i'd still choose you). by frostfall

There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—

Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.

Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.

Anthony Edward Stark.

(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)

[masterjedilenawrites]

hi there! so recently I've been dress shopping and i started daydreaming ofc and i now present you with an idea: how would the delta squad react to seeing their s/o in their wedding dress (like a first look) and seeing them walk down the isle 🤍💍🥹

Aww this prompt is so freaking adorable 💕

Boss: Beams. His partner, and anyone else for that matter, will have never before seen such a wide, beaming smile on him before. It's the kind that lights up his whole face, puts a little sparkle in his eyes, and even seems to reach down through the rest of his body. He seems lighter, so joyful, with just a hint of incredulous disbelief, like he can't believe this moment is real, that such a beautiful person exists... and that they're his. He'll take a second to whisper a compliment into their ear once they've approached, and any private moment they have thereafter will contain more whispered sweet nothings.

Fixer: Would elect for a private moment ahead of the actual ceremony to see each other and take photos. He is uncharacteristically quiet and shy during the interaction, mainly because his brain has short-circuited. He was not prepared to see his partner looking so stunning, and the thought of what their dress symbolizes, how they're about to swear their lives to each other, is all very overwhelming. He's almost afraid to touch them for fear of ruining this one perfect thing he has in his life. He is not able to take his eyes off them for the rest of the day. Guests, drinks, dancing, none of that matters to him on this day.

Scorch: Is not shy with his emotions, and boy does he experience a range of them upon first seeing his partner in their dress. From heart eyes to shocked silence, to tender tears and dramatic squeals. He'll also have done a private moment before the ceremony to first see each other, and thank the stars because having those reactions on display would've been a bit much (but honestly, who are we kidding, he'll still be animated during the ceremony as well). He'll be very interested in the dress itself, having his partner twirl around and show him the different features. And he'll definitely make plenty of comments about helping take it off later.

Sev: Mr. Stone Cold over here is predictably very stoic as he watches his bride walk toward him down the aisle. Any of those people who like to look back at the groom during this moment will be disappointed. His partner, on the other hand, can see it... subtle little tells of just how invested he truly is. His eyes zeroed in like he's following a target through his scope, the way his shoulders inch a little higher in pride, how his fingers tap a specific rhythm along his thigh, his way of trying to calm himself. It's not just his partner's beauty that he's enamored with, its the whole moment.

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Delta Squad Saturday Masterlist | Master List of Master Lists

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[alpineshift]

number 1 please!!! Maybe in the ‘the fixer’ verse? (mr motorbike - second in command to his mother’s empire jackie is 🔥)

the concept of powerful/brutal/ruthless/cold!Jack to everyone but his beloved Nico occupies serious real estate in my head. it's ridiculous! for context, here's 'the fixer'.

1. “Okay, maybe I have a crush on you! So what?” 

The thing is, life with Jack by his side has always meant that Nico has someone he can lean on, someone he could always turn to, and, on occasions, someone who just...makes all the bad stuff go away. It doesn't matter who. It doesn't matter what. Somehow, Jack just. Fixes things.

In the past, Nico may have felt uneasy about it. There's an uncomfortable passing thought that he's taking advantage of Jack's generosity and time somehow, but over the years Jack's made it abundantly clear that he takes care of Nico because he wants to. It's that simple.

But lately, after the whole drama with getting rid of his terrible cheating ex (or lack of drama, considering Jack just made that asshole disappear from Nico's life overnight), Nico's getting a different kind of vibe from his friend.

You know. Clocking the subtle stares, noticing the soft lingering touches, keeping track of the unsubtle doting bestowed upon him, and only him. That kind of vibe.

Nico is ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure Jack likes him. Maybe more than likes him, because Nico's seen the way Jack treats the people he hates, people he tolerates, and the few people he likes. And everything that's happened since he evicted Stefan's poisonous existence from Nico's life transcends a simple like. Actually, Nico's ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent sure Jack's in love with him at this point.

But Jack has never acted on it. Never hinted at it. Doesn't seem like he's ever going to acknowledge it.

Not that it stops him from pulling all the stops, treating Nico with care and adoration. Everything short of laying him out and kissing him senseless on the bed is fair game apparently.

Like: surprising Nico with dinner reservations at a five-star skyscraper restaurant with Quinn's longstanding MVP credentials. Getting dirt and dust all over himself cleaning out Nico's garage after finding out Stefan had promised for months to do it but never did. Picking Nico up from an interview on his motorcycle, with an extra helmet in Nico's size. An utterly spontaneous trip to the crystal clear waters in Malta simply because Nico was looking 'too gloomy' cooped up at home. Never mind that Nico's got plenty of his own fun money after those decent years with the NHL under his belt.

It's fucking ridiculous. And Nico says as much, the one evening they're hanging out in Jack's penthouse instead, Succession playing on mute in the background while they mess around with some thousand-dollar whiskey Luke sent over. Jack nearly spilled the whole bottle on his counter, uncharacteristically flustered as Nico presses him for an explanation, because he's losing his god damn mind over this little dance they've got going on and he wants answers, now.

"Okay, maybe I have a crush on you! So what?" Jack finally shouts, throwing his hands up. "Do you want me to be the sleazy dirtbag that tries to make a move on his friend that's fresh out of a shitty relationship? Swoop in like a vulture, and you're a piece of meat? Like you're some toy to get passed around? Fuck you for thinking I'd do that, Nico, I swear--I can't have you, it's not--I can't--"

"But what if I want you?" Nico asks, and watches the myriad of expressions flash across Jack's face. Shock. Disbelief. Hope. Need. "What if I want you to be mine? What if I'm the one who wants to keep you?"

The whiskey sits abandoned on the counter for a long while after that.

send me a jacknico prompt!

[momotonescreaming]

This started as me word-vomiting into @unclewaynemunson 's inbox, and thanks to them encouraging me to flesh it out - I now have this whole thing. Wayne Munson and Scott Clarke build a home together. Clarkson. (3.5k)

Looking back, it seemed inevitable, the pair finding a new home together.

Scott would have never felt comfortable moving into Forest Hills, packing up a whole house worth of stuff and cramming it all into a trailer not even half the size. Living in the middle of many other trailers, where you could hear everything your neighbours did. Mrs. Carter, from the trailer behind them, turned her TV all the way up and you could hear the show as clear as anything from the Munson’s own living room. John and Katie, from just down the way, had screaming matches whenever he got home late from the bar, drunk as anything.

Everyone knew everyone’s business in the trailer park.

Wayne didn’t begrudge Scott that, the same way Scott didn’t blame him in the slightest for not feeling comfortable in the suburbs. In his big house on a street full of semi-identical houses. Full of middle class families with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, who knew who Scott was, and loved to gossip even though they claimed they didn’t. His house was too quiet, too big, too different.

So they would stay the night, or a weekend, and then drift back to their separate houses. It was fine at first, as they figured out their relationship. Where they stood, how the other worked. But the more time passed, and the more time they spent together — the more Wayne could feel the ache in his chest when they parted. Settling low in his ribs when he had to leave for his shift at the plant, gripping at his chest when he went back to his trailer.

It wasn’t pleasant, but it was enough knowing that he had Scott, even for those short moments.

Then he lost his job at the plant, found himself working during the daylight hours now, and the aching grew worse when he could finally spent full nights curled up in bed with Scott. He knew exactly what he was missing when he left.

Wayne had taken that ache, the longing that seeped into his every pore, and let it grow into something solid. Something he could hold in his hands, run over in his mind. And when it was finally something he could grip, something he understood, he talked to Scott.

In the quiet of Scott’s house, in his bed, when it was just the two of them and the moonlight shining through the gap in the curtains — Wayne held Scott’s hand and asked him if he had ever thought about getting a home together.

And that was how it started.

Wayne would look at the houses for sale in the paper, circling ones he was considering. Scott visited the local real estate office, looking at photos and brochures of what they had on the market. It was a little touch and go for a while, the pair figuring out where the balance was between Scott’s nice suburban house, and Wayne’s cosy trailer.

Eddie had helped, pointing out houses that he said had charm, that told a story. Ones that were fun, or unique, that he thought would be cool to live in. To say that you own.

They had found it eventually, their perfect house. Wayne always thought it was cheesy TV drama, when those couples in real estate shows talked about how they ‘just knew’ when they found their dream home. It didn’t seem so cheesy now that he had it himself.

The house was advertised as a ‘Fixer Upper’. A cosy future home in need of some TLC. A semi-secluded house by the lake front, down a long gravel drive in a small clearing  and surrounded by the forest. Two bedrooms and a detached garage.

Wayne and Scott had discussed it intensively — making sure it was what they wanted, it was the right move, if they were able to fix it up or not. Wayne had talked to Eddie, and to Steve. Running it past both of his boys — while Scott had talked to the bank. Getting opinions, calculating every variable, dotting their I’s and crossing their T’s.

And then there was no reason for them to refuse. So they bought it. They owned a house together.

The real estate agent wasn’t lying when they said it was a fixer upper. The paint was peeling off of the siding, and off the windows. The wallpaper was old and faded. The ceiling leaked. The kitchen didn’t work, and the plumbing was iffy at the best of times. The land was overgrown, and there was a long list of minor things to fix. It was barely inhabitable.

It was perfect.

And so Wayne kept his trailer, and Scott kept his house, and they slowly started to pack things away as they spent weekend upon weekend working on their house.

They get Eddie and Steve round to help clear the long driveway of branches and rocks, to strip the wallpaper and start to give the whole house a deep clean. Eddie only complains the whole time. Wayne smiles at Scott as Steve threatens to dump a bucket of soapy water over Eddie’s head, laughing all the while.

Many an evening is spent flipping through wallpaper samples and paint swatches, Scott passing one over to Wayne to ask for his opinion, only for Wayne to reply that he’s really not an expert on these things. The walls stay bare for a long while. Scott continues to show Wayne colours, determined to find one he will have an opinion on, while Wayne focuses on getting the house habitable first.

Each weekend they make a little more progress. Wayne puts his handyman skills to work, steadily working his way through the house. Scott helps out with the electrics — checking the light fixtures, the switches, making sure nothing major is wrong. They do a lot of cleaning. A lot of cleaning.

But it isn’t always hard work, thankfully. Wayne doesn’t think his back could take it, if it was. There are cool afternoons spent wandering through the empty rooms of their house, cracking open windows to air the place out. Drifting through the rooms with their hands entwined together, discussing what should go where.

How they should lay out their living room, what furniture to keep and what they can get rid of as they merge their things together, do they want curtains or blinds. Shelves and hooks for Wayne's mugs and hats is a given. Scott says so offhandedly, casually — of course they’re going to display his collection in the living room —  and Wayne smiles softly in return, kissing his partner on the cheek.

Scott spends ages talking about where to put the snake tank — telling Wayne about climate and temperature control, adequate space, snake behaviour and the need to hide. He gestures with his hands as he talks, the excitement and sheer joy lighting up his face. Wayne smiles fondly, and it’s nice knowing he doesn’t have to hide that here. He can smile at the man that he loves, and doesn’t have to worry about anyone else, about the outside world. It’s just them, together.

Wayne didn’t realise exactly just how happy this would make him. He knew he loved Scott, and he knew he wanted to be with him, but the sheer happiness of building up their home together had him feeling giddy. He was almost embarrassed about it, how excited for the weekend he was — because he knew he would be wiling away the hours working on making their house a home.

They’re not quite sure who bought it up first, but they end up with an air mattress on the floor of their new master bedroom, piled up with old pillows and spare blankets. The embarrassment fades when Wayne realises that Scott is just as excited to start this new chapter of their lives together. They’ll spend the night on their mattress on the floor, clothes neatly piled up on the hardwood floor next to them.

None of the rooms have curtains yet, so the cold of the forest seeps through the glass window, but Wayne finds he doesn’t mind. He can hear the chirping of the crickets, and can see the stars out the window. It’s nice, he thinks, having their bed face the window so they can see the forest outside. There’s no metal trailers, no raccoon eating trash, no nosy neighbours.

Scott pulls himself closer, entangling his legs with Wayne, wrapping his arms around Wayne’s middle. Their blankets trap the heat, and the cool of the air around them makes the warmth more enticing. Everything is soft and slow, as if the room has slowly filled with molasses. He curls up to Scott, eyes fluttering shut, feeling the warmth of his breath on his skin. Wayne falls asleep to the soft murmurings of Scott softly describing the constellations to him.

--

Wayne wakes up slow, mouth dry and eyes bleary with sleep. He’s warm, limbs heavy as he slowly slips into waking. Blinking, he opens his eyes to find that him and Scott have shifted even closer in sleep; can see that they’ve entangled themselves laying face to face, legs still entwined. Wayne’s legs are bare, having taken his jeans off to sleep only in his boxer briefs. Scott brought a spare pair of pyjama pants (he always did feel the cold a lot more than Wayne), and he can feel the soft fabric of them where Scott’s leg is sandwiched between his own.

The sun is only just rising, sky dusted with soft pinks and oranges. It’s beautiful, but Wayne can’t help but ignore the curtain-less window to watch Scott. He’s still asleep, breath warm and steady as it brushes Wayne’s face with hot air. Face lax, still weighed down by sleep, lit only by the soft glow of the dawning sun. Shifting his arms, Wayne holds Scott loosely, slowly rubbing one hand up and down Scott’s back — feeling the bumps of his spine.

Scott hums contentedly, still asleep, and nuzzles closer to Wayne. He brings his other hand to rest at the base of Scott’s neck, fingers slowly running through his hair. They don’t have anywhere to be, there’s no rush to get to work or school, so Wayne lets himself lay there watching Scott. Feeling the warmth of his body pressed into his, the soft fabric of his undershirt underneath his hands. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, watching Scott sleep, feeling the sun slowly rise as the warmth of it shines through the window. The birds are singing happily in the trees, chirping and tweeting at each other.

He could get used to this; waking up to the sounds of the woods, and the sun, and his lover wrapped in his arms inside their house. There’s a shifting, the air mattress moving underneath them as Scott slowly drags himself into waking. He blinks, eyelids fluttering open and then immediately scrunching shut at the light. Wayne chuckles, leaning over to kiss Scott on the cheek. The mattress squeaks underneath them.

“Mornin’” Wayne whispers, not yet daring to speak at a normal volume. They’re in a sleepy little bubble, wrapped up in their blankets, and it feels as if one wrong move will make it burst, and then they’ll be shocked back into reality. There in the early morning, with his love by his side, on the floor of their new house, the world doesn’t feel real yet. It’s just them, together.

Scott peels his eyes open slowly, sluggishly, smiling at Wayne’s lips on his cheek. “Morning,” he mumbles in return. Half asleep — still barely awake — Scott drags his hand so its resting on Wayne’s waist, thumb running in gentle circles. They melt into the moment, still heavy with sleep and the knowledge that they don’t have to be anywhere else. They can stay in bed, in the rising sun, watching the love on each other’s face.

Drawing his other hand up to cup Wayne’s cheek, Scott gently presses and draws Wayne closer. There’s no pressure, no rush, as Scott leans in to kiss him. Wayne lets himself be handled, sinking into the kiss in return. It’s languid, familiar. A slow, sleepy drag of lips against lips. Scott’s body is warm where it’s inching closer to his, and his 5 o’clock shadow scratches against his own. Wayne smiles against Scott’s lips, joy bubbling up inside, wriggling in his stomach. His hand trails down to settle at the small of Scott’s back, resting there, not pushing or pulling.

There are no expectations, no goal — except for kissing Scott. Scott, who hums happily against Wayne’s smiling lips, feeling it rumble in his chest. They follow the motions of the kiss, not deepening it — hungry and eager — but letting it settle as something soft and sweet. Feeling sleep heavy and a little love drunk.

“I could get used to this,” Scott murmurs into Wayne’s mouth.

“My thoughts exactly,” He replies, their kissing slowing down, morphing into quick pecks, gentle presses of lips in between words. “Good thing we have a house then.”

Scott smiles softly. Another gentle kiss. “Can’t wait for it to be ready.”

“You just want to put me to work,” Wayne jokes, tone light and voice still quiet as he kisses the corner of Scott’s mouth, feeling it draw up into a smile beneath his lips.

“You do look very handsome in a tool belt.” Scott laughs, his voice honey sweet. He presses a quick kiss to Wayne’s cheek, and then leans back, smiling, raking his eyes over Wayne’s face. He looks happy. “Thank you. For doing most of the work on this place. I know I’m not the biggest help.”

“You help plenty.” Wayne replies, gaze softening at Scott’s words. “I couldn’t do this without you. I wouldn’t want to.”

“Thank you,” Scott replies, slowly drawing away from Wayne. He misses the warmth already . “Speaking of helping, I’ll make us coffee.”

They kiss quickly, Scott pulling himself upright and stretching with a sleepy grunt. Wayne follows the motions, letting his hands drift along Scott’s sides as the other man sits up. He lays there for a second, watching Scott, before slowly peeling himself out of bed with only mild grunts at easing his aching back off of the air mattress.

Scott stands there, next to the mattress in his undershirt and pyjama pants, smiling fondly down at him. “You don’t have to get up. I was going to bring the coffee to you.”

“Not as nice without you,” Wayne simply says with a subtle shrug of his shoulders, as if it was a known fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and everything was nicer when Scott was there.

“Come on then,” He says, holding his hand out for Wayne to grab, using it as leverage to ease himself off of the bed and into a standing position.

They don’t speak as they get dressed, falling into a familiar routine. Words aren’t necessary here. He can see Scott’s fondness on his face as he smiles, can feel it in the simple way he hands him his pants before he can even reach for them himself. Knowing that Scott’s eyes raked over his body and saw him shiver in the early morning air — anticipating his need before he can.

So in return he brushes away Scott’s hands, looking up at him through his lashes and buttoning up his shirt. Making sure it matches up, he hasn’t missed a buttonhole, leaving the top buttons undone, just the way he knows Scott prefers. He runs his hands over the fabric, smoothing it out and brushing off imaginary dust. Feeling the warmth of Scott’s chest, and the familiar fabric underneath the rough callouses of his hands.

Scott smiles at him, before leaning over to pick up Wayne’s discarded flannel shirt. He helps him into it, straightening the collar so it lies flat. Wayne smiles back. It somehow feels more intimate helping someone put their clothes on, than it does taking them off.

He follows Scott out of their bedroom, and into the kitchen. It needs a lot of work, and Wayne can’t help but notice it every time he enters. There’s no fridge, the oven is broken, half the cupboards have broken hinges, the floor might need re-tiling. But it has nice big windows that look out the back of the property — over the woods and the lake, the sun reflecting back at them.

Wayne can ever so clearly picture them spending their lazy mornings here together. They’ll put a little table by the window, and Wayne will smile when Scott calls it a ‘breakfast nook’. He’ll cook — making them eggs and toast, or a big stack of pancakes — while Scott brews them up some coffee. They’ll be in their slippers and dressing gowns, fighting off the cold. He’ll be reading the newspaper, while Scott flips through one of those science magazines he’s subscribed to.

There’s a click, and Wayne watches as Scott turns on the small gas cooker they bought from the camping supply store. It’s a small cheap thing, but it does the job. They’ve sat it on the counter, next to a large jug of water they’ve been boiling to help clean off some of the more stubborn dirt. Scott puts a pot on, fills it with water, and lets it heat up as he sets up some of the supplies they prepared. Some of Wayne’s mugs — ones that he didn’t mind leaving at the house, instant coffee, sugar, milk powder.  Some basic groceries that would last, should they need them while they worked on the house.

Wayne gestures with his head, lets Scott know he’s heading outside, and leaves through the back door just off the kitchen. The door is still sturdy, with peeling red paint and a small stained glass window in the middle. It leads off onto the back porch, fairly large, with a white railing and a set of stairs that led down into the clearing out the back. The one with the path that led down to the lake.

They had talked about putting Wayne’s porch couch there, on this new porch, so they could have a place to sit and look out over the lake. It was a nice idea, but for the moment it laid bare, save for an old ashtray. Wayne leans on the railing, and considers why he actually came out here. He doesn’t feel the itch to smoke, the urge shaking his hands, and is surprised but not complaining. So he leans, and breathes, enjoying the sounds of nature and the shimmering lake.

There’s a dock down there, jutting out over the water. Some of the boards were loose, and damaged with time — but it was theirs. Scott had checked with the agent, that dock was theirs to use as they pleased. One day — Wayne wanted to fix it up. Make sure it was sturdy with no risk of breaking any time soon.

He can picture himself using it to go fishing in the early morning, sitting on a deck chair, watching the water and waiting for the sun. Enjoying the chirping of the birds and buzzing of the insects. The sound of the water gently lapping at the dock. Or perhaps a small boat. He can picture Eddie and Steve, heading down to the dock in the heat of the summer sun. In the afternoon, when it was hottest and most oppressive. They’d jump off, splash around, swimming in the lake until their fingertips wrinkled.  He can picture Scott sitting on the end, dangling his feet into the water, smiling at him. Maybe he’s reading a book, maybe he’s sitting next to Wayne, telling him all the assorted fish fact he’s picked up over the years of teaching.

The smell of freshly brewed instant coffee draws him back inside. The back door creaks, but Wayne finds he doesn’t mind. Scott’s at the kitchen counter, stirring their coffee with a cheap plastic spoon. He turns when he hears Wayne enter, smiling at the sight of him, before holding out one of the mugs. It’s white, with a a decal of a fish in the middle of some text that read WOMEN WANT ME, FISH FEAR ME. Eddie had laughed his ass off when he gifted it to Wayne, knowing the pair of them were as gay as anything. Scott’s mug was a faded shade of brown, with looping text in the centre that advertised IT’S COOL TO BE A COWBOY. He smiled at it. 

Wayne takes the coffee, thanking Scott, enjoying the warmth of it as it seeps into his hands. He leans against the counter, and takes a sip. It’s perfect. Exactly how he likes it. Scott smiles at him fondly over the top of his own mug, steam curling up into the cool air, almost caressing his face.

The coffee is instant, the cracked tiles cool underfoot, and none of the appliances work — but Wayne wouldn’t have it any other way.  Not with Scott looking at him like he does, in a house that’s theirs.