#Rote Maske

[mityenka]

i feel like wearing a surgical mask to protests to provide for more anonymity is generally good advice but ofc remember to be careful because i've been to several protests that were kettled by the police due to protesters wearing ffp2 masks even though surgical masks do not legally fall under the anti-masking law here as well as reports of masking protesters getting arrested during and after protests because police suspected them of trying to hide their identity,

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 39

Part 1 Part 38

Will’s heartbeat picks up when someone knocks on the front door. Even though Demogorgon’s don’t knock, and bad men with guns probably don’t either. He stays curled up on the couch while Jonathan goes to open the door.

The voice that drifts in from the front door makes his shoulder relax.

“Johnny boy!” Eddie calls, pushing into the house like he owns the place, Steve trailing in his wake. Eddie looks around, eyes wide. “Woah, this place cleans up nice.”

Mom and Jonathan had picked up all the furniture, cleaned all the debris from the linoleum, and packed away all the Christmas lights into boxes they’d stuffed into the garage. Neither of them had let Will help, so he’d sat on the couch, doodling pictures of Steve and Eddie as they worked around him.

“Thanks?” Jonathan says, awkwardly shuffling on his feet.

Steve smiles at him, “hey, man,” he says, bumping their shoulders together companionably before slinking past him to sink down onto the couch.

Will reaches out to snatch Steve’s hand, notices the fine tremors running through it. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, standing out starkly without his hair to mask it.

“Are you okay?” Will asks.

Steve smiles over at him, “I’m fine.”

“Actually,” Eddie says, clapping his hands together enthusiastically before wincing and shaking out his fingers, “We just came from physical therapy, and someone,” he pauses to make squinty eyes toward Steve, “could use some food to make up for the calories.”

“Eddie,” Steve sighs.

“No,” Eddie says, crossing his arms, “the doctor said you needed to eat to like, fix your body and shit.”

“I’ll, uh, go grab some sandwiches,” Jonathan says, scurrying into the kitchen and away from the conflict.

“I’m hungry,” Will murmurs, even though they’d had breakfast late and he’s really not.

Steve slumps into him, head lolling onto his shoulder as he groans pitifully. “God, there’s two of you now.”

Will giggles, cheeks warm at the contact.

“How tragic,” Eddie says, slumping down on Will’s other side, reaching over him to run his hand playfully over Steve’s head, avoiding the stitches. “Two people care about your wellbeing? Whatever will you do?”

Steve slumps further into Will, shaved head scratchy where it’s rubbing against Will’s chin. Eddie pushes him down, gently onto Will’s crossed legs. Steve grumbles but lets himself be shoved.

“There,” Eddie says. “Now we can feed you like the wilting princess you are.”

Steve scowls, eyes drifting between both of them as he mutters, “Whatever, dude,” before he seems to droop, eyes closing.

They sit quietly, waiting for Jonathan to come back. Will settles into himself, enjoying the way his skin isn’t crawling, the way it only seems to when he’s with Steve and Eddie.

It’s like, now that he’s met them, the shadows only fully recede when they’re in sight. That crawling thing inside him stops trying to get out.

Jonathan looks surprised when he gets back, plates full of sandwiches stacked on top of one another. He puts them on the coffee table, eyeing Steve. “Should we, uh, wake him?”

“’m not asleep,” Steve mumbles, levering himself up with a wince. He, notably, doesn’t open his eyes until Eddie grabs one of the sandwiches and curls his fingers around it.

He eats slowly, sedately, and seems to doze off again, a quarter of the way through. Will pulls the sandwich from his fingers and puts it back on the plate.

Eddie puts the remains of his own sandwich on top of it, pushing Steve gently down onto the couch, gently placing the throw from the back of the couch over where he’s curled into a ball.

“Is he okay?” Jonathan asks quietly.

Eddie’s brows furrowed as he looks down at Steve, but he smooths it out by the time he looks back up. “He’s fine,” he says, ironically echoing Steve’s own words, like covering up each other’s raw edges comes by rote. “Physical therapy just seems like a lot.”

Steve’s legs are now in Will’s lap. He clutches Steve’s ankles, cuddling them into his stomach.

“Guess we’re staying here for a bit,” Eddie says nonchalantly, but he’s biting his lip and darting his eyes between Jonathan & Will like he’s waiting to be kicked out.

Will clutches Steve’s ankles tighter, looking over at Jonathan as well. Jonathan shrugs, “Sure,” he replies. “Mom’ll be overjoyed. She’s pretty much adopted you both into the family.”

Eddie looks down, at Steve’s sleeping face, biting his lip. “Oh.”

Will thinks of Uncle Wayne, and the way Eddie’s Mom or Dad weren’t ever mentioned, not even once. He thinks about the conversation he’d overheard his Mom having with Hopper, that Steve couldn’t go home alone, and the way Steve hadn’t seemed to want to call his parents at all. Even in trouble. Even in Hell.

Well, they’ve got three more family members now, whether they like it or not.

And Jonathan’s right – Mom is happy when she gets home to find two teenaged boys passed out on her couch. She makes her special occasions lasagna, and the smell seems to rouse both boys from their prolonged nap.

It’s a quiet dinner. Mom asks gentle, probing questions about Steve’s health, and when everyone’s thinking of going back to school. Steve waffles around the conversation, blushing and turning awkward every time Mom turns the power of her care onto him.

Eddie seems to bloom with it, though, talking about getting back into D & D, and his band, and his plans to corral Steve into staying home at least for the rest of the week.

By the time they leave for the night, Will’s belly and heart are both full. Still, the shadows creep back in.

Will goes to sleep, alone in his bed, shivering from the cold, clawing thing inside him.

Part 40

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 8)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 7, Part 9

summary: You visit your ex. Miguel tags along.

warnings: mentions and description of depression. heavy angst, depictions of a toxic relationship. some suggestive language.

a/n: me when idk shit abt the american school system:

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 5.8k

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

you had forgotten; they were good.

Blank walls. Quiet corridors. The buzz of monitors and dull chatter sandwiched between blue vinyl and exit signs. You're not usually one to wander during your breaks; but you're going crazy looking at the same four walls. 

That hair net itches and the strap of a blue mask digs into skin as you make your way to a little courtyard. You sit out on a paltry bench overlooking concrete. The spindly remnants of a tree provides little cover from harsh elements. Wind whips through its branches, whistling and cool, as you rip off the mask and crumple it up in your pocket. A heavy sigh, and you feel some semblance of peace. Some quiet, before the morning comes. Before a rush of orders and shunting plastic trays up and down the wards. 

You screw your eyes shut to still the pounding at your temples. God. You're grateful for the job, really. And all things considered, it's not particularly taxing: coffee orders until the little cafe closes, meal prep for the morning rush, and sometimes you'd volunteer to take orders to bed bound patients. A whole lot of reheating and chopping and pressing buttons on the little machines. You don't quite get it, of course, but your lone coworker picks up the slack well enough. 

The older woman doesn't do much for company, anyways. Riveting conversation comes in the form of grunts and sharp elbows when you get in the way or round the corner of the kitchen. It has you counting down the seconds until your shift ends. 

And so you are grateful, well and truly. Jamie's not so sappy, anymore; doesn't partake in 'I love you's or grand gestures; but he is dependable. Safe. Willing to stick his neck out for you, at least. He'd gotten you a job at the hospital he has his placement at; with decent pay, and it slots in well with your other ones. He's taking you seriously – taking the news better than your parents. After telling him you wanted to go back to school, you're not met with thinly veiled disbelief, or lips pressed together with pity. He'd nodded, rather simply. Didn't make a fuss. No deep sighs, or heavy frowns. Okay , he had said. How can I help? 

It was the simplicity of his reaction that had bowled you over, almost bringing you to tears. To have someone believe in you, for once – wholeheartedly and without an onslaught of questions – felt like a deep breath of air after almost drowning. It felt like love ; and after desperate breaths, gasping and gulping and clawing at something to hold on to, you think you've found dry land. Something solid, something stable; a rough palm to pull you out of swirling depths. Because, unlike your family, and unlike half-hearted friends: Jamie was there. 

After heading back in to catch the morning rush, you're wiping down surfaces and sorting plastic trays onto a cart. Rote, repetitive, boring; you've settled into a routine that feels familiar. A couple more months, you reckon, and you'll be able to cover the costs for a second go at undergrad. You can shed the skin that seems to follow you at every family gathering, and the job interviews in between. Dropout – and when your Mom says it, it feels like a vile curse. Jamie calls it spiteful, and you opt for the democratic alternative; she's being dramatic - rather than cruel, rather than hurtful, rather than crass. You've heard enough, from all sorts: ‘too much pressure’, and ‘didn't think she had it in her, anyways’, are common phrases whispered in the background of phone calls home. 

Your chest aches with the weight of it – the kind of ache that seeps into skin, and lines a casket. Grief; mourning a person you could've been, and a person you never would be. For a while, it left you paralysed by the what ifs and the maybes; rotting in a quiet corner. Sinking into sofa cushions or caked onto the bed sheets like the mystery mould bloomed onto the plates in your room. But Jamie was there, more than anyone else. 

You'll wait for him in the corridor near the back of the service elevator, like you always do after a shift. You finish when he starts, early in the morning and rubbing away sleep from his eyes for ward rounds. You'll give him a kiss, and he'll give you a soft little smile to send you on your way. It almost makes the whole thing worth it. Almost. 

You give and you give and you give. Your boyfriend isn't quite the same; doesn't pour into you the way you'd like him to. But it works. It works because it has to; a thousand miles away from anything resembling home. You can't ask for more – the right words die in your throat. 

~~~

You've spent the past couple of hours in the library. Procrastinating for at least half of it, but you've managed to draft out a couple of essays and more or less reorganise your life. It's something you've been dreading for the past week or so; letting yourself get swept up in the monsoon that is your roommate. Miguel – sarcastic, saccharine-sweet Miguel – and his stupidly pretty lips, his pretty hands, and the pretty way he scrunches up his face like he's smelt something rotten. 

You're staring at a computer with a slew of books spread out on the adjacent desk. Your half-finished report seems to jumble together on the screen; a tangle of citations and filler words and shitty diagrams. It's not quite clicking , and it's making you want to tear out chunks of your hair in search of relief. A tale as old as time, one you can merely wallow in and fold yourself between its pages. Struggling at school; and this time it's a stats module you thought would be an easy couple of credits, that you definitely can’t afford to fail if you want to graduate early. 

You’ve picked a quiet spot on the third floor; a computer bay tucked into the corner. It overlooks a little window, cramped and claustrophobic and mystery mould in the corners of its grout. You've resorted to scanning the cracks with sharp eyes, light fingers on your neck to trace the leftovers of the morning. You can see it in the slightly mirrored surface of cloudy glass; you look like shit, you feel like shit, but you can still feel him. Lips on your neck, sucking soft hickies into the skin; and you can't help but like the way it looks on you. It's the same under your jeans, blooming like mauve and purple heather on a sprawling field.

You cross your legs, wincing at the dull ache that spreads. Sore, in that way that feels good; sending flashes of a morning with Miguel. Fingers knuckle deep in your cunt and the heat of him – cut and lean-lined – on top of you; it's impossible to ignore. Condensation drips from the panes, pooling in its corner and you swipe a finger in it, lazily. Again, you're reminded of him, for the thousandth time in the past hour: shaking legs, fisting his cock, spraying fat globs of his cum onto your face and chest. 

With another glimpse of your reflection, you sigh. Deep and heavy, with the weight of half a decade of frustration, sexual or otherwise. You've never felt this good or had your needs satiated so wholly, so exorbitantly. It feels odd. You don't know where to put your hands, how to place your feet on the floor. Do you shout, do you scream? How do you tell all the poor bystanders that scatter the third floor: I'm sleeping with Miguel O'Hara! A walking red flag with cheekbones that could cut glass! He wants me, and I want–

Your phone rings. The noise catches you off guard, and has you stumbling to press accept. 

"Hey," Miguel's voice sounds tinny in the speakers, and so you press it to your ears. 

"Y-Yeah?" You steel yourself, batting away daydreams of your legs wrapped around his middle – too horny for your own good, clearly. 

"I'm outside, chula. " He stops talking. The quiet ticking of an indicator becomes the only sign of life, before he says, "In that parking bay by the–" 

"I know, I know. Give me 5 minutes." You rush to pack up, clicking off the monitor and haphazardly shoving your notes into your bag. Not everything fits, and you give up trying to cram that textbook in. 

A beat passes before you realise he's still on the phone. Quiet, but still there. 

"…I brought food, by the way." 

You only just manage to catch it, slotting the phone between your ear and shoulder. That makes you perk up. 

" Seriously? " You give him a small laugh. You think you can hear him smile through the phone. "Thank fucking God, I'm starving. But you weren't rushing, or anything, right? I mean, it's so soon after your session with… Sally, or–" 

You're bounding down two steps at a time, so eager to see him – to get food , actually – that you're careless going down the stairs.

"Sarah . " He breathes, and you make your way downstairs. 

It stops you in your tracks, for some reason. 

"Okay. Sarah ." You say it with finality, voice tight. "What did you end up doing anyways? At her place, you said?" 

"Pressure differentials. Modelling viscosity. It's not very interesting." He hums, shifting in his seat. "What about you? Did you get something done?" 

You take a beat too long to respond, and it comes out half-baked. 

"Loads, Mig."

He snorts. " Sure. "

" Fuck you. " You say it under your breath, ducking past the entrance, and into a side road.

And there Miguel is, car heaped onto part of the sidewalk. He's leaning back, lazy arm sticking out the car window, showing off muscle and pretty tan skin. It's getting cold, but he's cracked the car door ajar; donned in a well-fitting t-shirt and slack trousers. 

You're trying not to drool; and he makes it a little easier by flashing a shit-eating grin. 

Childishly, you stick your tongue out; wrenching the door open and slumping into the passenger side. You tuck your things by your feet, and it lands on the floor with a thump. 

"You can put your stuff in the back.. . " Miguel frowns.

" Can't. We need the space, remember?" 

To pick up the rest of your things left in your ex's apartment. You hope he can parse out the rest of that from a raised eyebrow. 

He sighs, tossing a brown bag of takeout onto your lap. He starts the car. "...I didn't think we were still doing that, to be honest."

He seems disappointed, eyes flitting this way and that as he reverses and pulls out. You must've hit your head at some point, because you're in heat – pressing sore legs together at the way he does it. One arm on the back of your headrest, sharp jaw jutting out as he looks back, and bottom lip hooked under his teeth; he's just concentrating, trying not to hit one of the cat-sized rodents that roam the streets this late at night, and he's still hot . 

"You promised ."

"I had my face between your thighs. Would've said anything if it meant I could have more."

You draw your lips in faux disgust – your heart's not in it, but it's enough to make him chuckle. 

"Fuck you."

He doesn't miss a beat, deadpanning, "...you'd like that."

Lips pursed, you ignore the way it twists your stomach into knots. Steadfast, you stare out at the window, watching the yellow lights of a bustling city pass you by. 

Miguel takes a different turning, one that'll take you across the city and away from your place. To Jamie's, most likely. You soften, taking a moment to look across at him. 

His eyes flit over, intense and almost a deep red in the neon and lights. It's barely a couple of seconds, but he knows, just like that. 

"Are you nervous?" He tests the waters, voice steady and non-committal. It's not an accusation; even though everything feels like one, lately. Not from him, though. Never from him. 

" No ." Your tone is betraying, and you both know it. He seems to pretend not to hear that tremor in your voice. 

"You'll be okay, sweetheart." He says it soft and low, not quite looking at you. 

"It's just… it's the first time I'm going to see him after–" Your voice crackles. "After everything."

"You'll be okay," He starts. It doesn't feel like an empty platitude when he says it: it feels genuine and full-bodied and sonorous, clanging around your head like the chime of church bells. "Probably not right away – it's going to hit you like a semi, first. And you'll feel like shit afterwards. But it won't last. You'll move on, and you'll be okay; because you have to be."

He drifts off somewhere far away when he says that last bit; and you're not too sure what he's talking about anymore. Regardless, you wrap his words around you, holding it to your chest like a little songbird in the cradle of a tree. 

You'll be okay. You have to be. 

It feels less solid when it's not Miguel saying it, you think. You don't tell him that, though, sinking into the seat instead. 

He doesn't let that silence sit for too long. Traffic creates a natural lull, and he reaches over to tap at the book in your lap – one of many different textbooks, the rest of which is lodged in your bag.

"You're taking a stats module, I assume."

You nod. 

"With Dr. Karev?" 

You sit up slightly. "...yeah, actually."

He hums. "You thought it would be an easy A, then." 

He's right, but it doesn't make it sting any less. You were hoping for simple math and data processing, and here you were: drowning in matrices and linear algorithms.

 "I thought it would be."

"Let me help you, then. I took one of his classes and he barely changes the syllabus. I could dig up my old notes, and–" 

"You want to tutor me ?" You splutter – but you don't mean to sound as shocked as you do. " Why? " 

"Why not?" He shrugs. 

"I… I don't have any money, or anything."

"M'not offering because I want money." He's nonchalant, inching towards the car up front. 

You squint. It's not adding up. "What's the catch?" 

"No catch, I swear. Is it so hard to believe I'm being nice?" 

Now, you feel guilty. "Sorry, Mig. I appreciate it, I really do–" 

"Sit on my face and we'll call it even."

He turns to you now, face flat but with a twinkle in his eye. The corners of his mouth are slightly upturned - amused. He thinks this is funny? 

You give him a light shove as the traffic starts to break up. He's riled you up, now, and you're much too annoyed to be nervous. 

"Eyes on the road, asshole." 

It's more bark than bite, and you settle into the seat, finally cracking open the paper bag. You munch on fries and it makes him laugh. Miguel swears he can see it: the hint of a gentle smile on your face. 

~~~

He pulls up to the apartment complex. Modest, close to the hospital; and you probably couldn't have afforded to live there without your ex. Jamie was lucky; his parents could foot the bill of moving out, and he had family that lived in the city. 

It feels odd to be on the outside looking in. The building's windows become snapshots into other people's lives. For some, it meant an early night, blinds drawn and lights off. From the parking lot, you can see the dim yellow of lights streaming through other apartments. Silhouettes flit past every now and then; the only sign of life. 

Jamie's apartment is on the top floor, the two windows on the far right. You crane your head out of the car window, to get a better look. The lights are on, with one window left slightly ajar. 

Miguel moves to get out, with shuffling that breaks the silence. You stop him with a hand on his arm. 

"No, no. I'm going up by myself."

He cocks his head to the side, ever so slightly. 

"...you sure? If you need help shifting boxes, I can–" 

"I'm good, Mig. I just needed the car."

It comes out snappier than you meant it to, already irritable. With that, you pop the door open with a thunk . You can't see it, but he frowns, watching you swish and sway towards the entrance. 

You trace familiar steps to Jamie's apartment. The door code hasn't changed, and so you buzz yourself in. This is something you can do quickly and efficiently, you've decided. In and out, and you don't have the energy for much else. Bracing at the door, you get ready to knock, hand curled into a fist. 

The door swings open before you get the chance. He's there; still in light blue scrubs and a name badge pinned to his chest. It's the first thing you see, trying not to look at his face. But it's like pulling teeth, you decide: less painful when it's quick and sharp. 

" Where's my –" 

" Your stuff's in the –" 

In a great clash of words, you finally look up at him. Where you're expecting some form of emotion – a flash of something, even for just a moment – Jamie is steadfast. Blank; blinking back sleep, if anything. You clamp down what feels like bile rising in your throat and push past him into the front room. 

"Is this how it's going to be?"

Head down, you grit a quiet, "Don't . "

It's just as you left it, to the point it's almost comical. The same pillows you'd bury yourself in after work, the patterned tea towel you'd bought on a whim. The bar stools in lieu of a proper dining table, and that great big desk he had insisted on carting to the living room for years . Bits and pieces of you, of your relationship, and he barely bats an eye. He'll use your mugs and sleep on your patterned sheets. 

It makes you sick .

You head to the second room. There's a stack of boxes, hastily stashed in the corner. There's still permanent marker on them from when you first moved in. Now, it houses the things you couldn't take with you the first time – everything you left behind. 

Sick, sick, sick . 

You take a moment to dig through the top box, that's clearly been moved. Knick-knacks, books, clothes and all the clutter you've acquired; and it reminds you of family, it reminds you of friends. 

Jamie leans by the doorway, looking on in silence. 

When you pick up a box, straining to lift it, he doesn't offer to help. He watches as you flounder, dragging it towards the door. 

You're huffing when he finally says something; something that's clearly been on his mind for a while, with the way he says it. 

"Are you seeing someone?" He's looking out of the window, gaze fixed on the car parked outside. Miguel's car. 

Your eyes widen. You don't quite trust yourself to speak.

You leave the box by the door. "Are you?“

He shrugs. "Don't have the time."

It's noncommittal and frustratingly blasé. He's not giving you much, and it's fucking with your head. This whole thing feels like a big joke – he wants to talk, and all he's doing is asking bullshit questions. Once upon a time, you would've stewed in it; sat with that question on your tongue and let it rot. 

"I don't understand." You croak. It hurts to say out loud, but you say it. That's the important part. "I don't know why you're doing this… why are you still doing this?"

"I don't like how we left things." He says it slow, like he's choosing his words carefully. 

You want to scream.

" So? " 

" So , I need some kind of closure. We've got unfinished business."

" Unfinished business? " You roll it around on your tongue, reeling at its bitter taste. It feels clinical and lifeless, yet again. 

And then… oh. It clicks. Looking at him, arms folded and leaning on a wall, he looks antsy and uncomfortable. Now, when forced to face you. 

" Closure. " Another word that tastes like shit. You give a watery laugh. "You feel guilty."

He doesn't say anything but his body language says enough. He shifts his weight side to side, unable to make eye contact. 

You don't bother to stick around for an answer, snatching up the box as best you can. Through the doors, and down the corridor. You stagger down the flight of stairs, gritting your teeth. It's heavy – you've packed as much as you can inside, trying to get this over quickly – and you make it to the first floor before it clatters onto the steps. 

You fold ; knees drawn to your chest and hands tight in your hair. Heart racing, chest pumping: you're trying not to get swept away by heavy emotions. The tide rises. You pump your legs around the swirling mass - barely staying afloat in deep, deep water. 

You'll be okay. 

You remember Miguel's words, gentle and sweet and kind. You remember the way he said it; firmly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of grace that you don't have to work for and doesn't need a performance. He believes in you, at least; thinks you're stronger than you have any right to be. And you think of him in the car: eager to help and reassure. You brushed him off. You were mean. 

Deep breath. 

Miguel's waiting for you, just outside those doors. Diligent and patient, saccharine-sweet Miguel. Getting up, you make your way down the stairs with that box. 

When he spots you, a pretty little thing in a hoodie and jeans, he leaps out of the car. 

"Hey, hey, easy… " 

"I'm good, Mig – " 

You're struggling with the box, and he eases it out of your hands without breaking a sweat. One hand on the boot of the car, the other holding up the heavy box effortlessly, and he gives you a quick once over. 

"...he didn't offer to help?" His face is scrunched up - disgusted by the looks of it - and all you can manage is a limp shrug. 

It doesn't take him long to figure it out. You're dejected; nervous, down-trodden, blue in every meaning of the word; losing a little bit of that shine you had started the day with. If he had to guess, and he knows you well enough he'd bet money on it, it was that ex of yours – stealing away that light in a burlap sack, a thief in the brilliance of bright sun. 

It makes him grind his teeth, eyes flicking up at the fourth floor window. 

"I could help." He offers, a hand on your shoulder. It's your favourite hoodie, he thinks, as he circles the soft fabric with his thumb. 

You purse your lips, thinking it over. 

"It'll be quicker, chula. "

That pushes you over the edge, and you finally nod. 

It must be a sight, knocking at the door with Miguel hot on your heels. After living with him for so long, you've forgotten how intimidating he can be when you first meet him; taller than Jamie, and mean-mugging the blonde with a deadly look. If you weren't so on edge it would make you laugh: you know your roommate is mostly harmless. 

Jamie doesn't, of course. He visibly bristles, looking you both up and down. 

"I just need some help with the boxes. This is my roommate, Miguel."

You turn to the man beside you.

" Miguel ," You say it softer. "This is Jamie."

Wordlessly, he stretches out a palm,

rough and broad and tan. Hesitant, the man in front of you takes it. 

"Hey, man." Jamie flashes you a strange look when he says it. 

Miguel doesn't answer. 

You lead him to the second room, divvying up the boxes as Jamie hovers at the doorway. It's surprisingly efficient: Miguel insists on taking the heaviest boxes, hauling them up onto his shoulders, before stacking them up at the door. You'll take the smaller stuff, and it seems everything will be done in far fewer trips than before. It's hard to say out loud, but you're grateful for his help – Miguel was right , for once. 

After the first trip, he's bounding back up the stairs for more. You've both made it into a game, with neither one of you having to explain the rules. He pinches your arm whilst you sift through boxes, and you stick your tongue out in response. Elbow deep in crap, and he manages to make it feel a little better. 

Jamie stews. Jamie festers. In a corner of what used to be your shared apartment, he pretends to tap at his phone, uninterested. You know him too well for that facade to stick. 

Miguel takes the last of the boxes down, and you're straggling behind, picking up the last few bits and pieces. You're left alone with your ex, for a brief moment. 

"You're fucking him." He says it quiet, in a whisper that sounds oh-so loud in that little room. Fucking. He spits it out, and makes the word feel cheap and dirty. 

You look up from across the room. Slowly, he traverses its width, gaze pinning you down like a bug under a microscope. 

He brings a hand to your chin, cupping the flesh tenderly. It's intimate and familiar, reminding you of better days. Something bubbles up in your stomach, sweet and innocent. That feeling doesn't last long. 

"You're fucking him." 

It's accusatory, spat out with a rueful smile pulling at his lips. His fingers brush over your throat and you squirm, pulling up the mouth of your hoodie. 

Those hickies, blossoming like flowers in the spring. They crackle across your skin like fallen leaves in autumn. 

"It's none of your fucking business."

"Of course you are. I can't believe you." He rolls his eyes, half-laughing. "I was going to apologise! I was planning to say sorry for the way I handled things and you had to rub it in my face."

" What ?" You croak. 

"You brought the guy you're fucking to our apartment!" He explodes. 

His lips flatten into a tight line.

" ...now it's our apartment? You kicked me out. You dumped me ." 

"Don't…. fuck , don't do that. Don't make me the bad guy, here. I gave you plenty of time to find a new place."

"Two. Weeks." You grit. "You gave me two weeks, asshole. You left me alone, and told me to fend for myself whilst you fucked off to your sister's." 

That fire dies down as he hesitates. "I… I would've let you stay longer. You know that, baby."

" No. No I don't know, 'cuz you don't tell me shit , anymore." You blink back hot tears. "I don't make as much money as you do, and my family can't support me like yours can."

"I would've–" 

"You didn't. " You swallow roughly. "You didn't. I don't even know what I did wrong ."

"No, no." He cradles your face with his hands, swiping at stray tears. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Now, you look up at him. With glistening eyes, and a heavily furrowed brown, it barely comes out as a whisper; red-raw and strained. 

"Then why don't you love me?"

He doesn't deny it. There isn't a scramble to reassure you; to pat your head and kiss away tears to show you how much he cares. Instead, he steps away guiltily. 

"I care about you, of course I do. Remember when you changed your major?" 

You nod. 

"I was there, wasn't I? I stayed up for hours talking you through it. And when you dropped out, I came over on the weekends and brought you groceries."

"I was there. I helped you through that funk , and helped you get that job for school. Every stupid little question, every depressive episode, all those moments where no-one else would help: I did. Even though I had other things going on in my life, I showed up. For you. It was enough, for a while."

Until it wasn't. He sighs. 

"I'm starting my residency next year… and you're still in school, right?”

“Yes, I am.” You say it simply, not able to say much more without breaking down.

“I'm happy for you, really - proud that you actually got that far. But we're going in different directions, and at different paces. It's easier now that we're not together.”

You bristle at his tone: still in school, actually got that far . It oozes pomp and a quiet kind of superiority. Easier now, like it was difficult before. 

“I didn't make that decision because I hate you, or because I don't care about you. I know you're angry.” He places his hands on your shoulders, and doesn't break eye contact. For the first time since you got here, you think he's finally showing emotion; quiet melancholy just below the surface. Up this close, you can see it: deepening bags under his eyes, sallow skin, and fine lines. Jaime looks tired. In fact, he seems exhausted .  

“I'm sorry that I made you feel that way. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you brought your fuck buddy here, when I just wanted to talk.”

It feels cruel. The way he looks at you, and the way his demeanour switches from the Jamie you knew before, to this .  

"I wanted to talk." You strain. " Months ago. After you broke up with me, and disappeared off the face of the planet. Every time I called, crying and panicking, it went straight to voicemail." 

You shake his hands off of you, stepping back. 

"Miguel's a friend… did you ever think of that? Maybe I just needed some help moving my things, Jamie. Maybe I don't have that many friends since they stopped talking to me because of you, Jamie. Maybe, there's not some devious plot to spite you."

You pick up the rest of your stuff, a little basket of trinkets and books. The very same books that he had told you to pack up; to make some space for his textbooks. 

"Get your head out of your ass. Don't call me. Don't text me. I'm done. "

You're already halfway out of the door. With that, you start to storm off; clattering into Miguel by the stairs. When your things spill out of your hands, you both drop to your knees in a scramble to pick them up. You're chewing the inside of your cheek so hard it draws blood, fumbling around. Miguel is more efficient, scooping up your belongings back into its box. 

You're drooping, only able to mutter a quiet thanks. On the way to his car, you're dejected. Miguel watches carefully, trailing behind. 

~~~

He doesn't know what to say. 

You've left him speechless before. Many times, in the span of your couple months together. Miguel recalls it in exasperated messages to Lyla; you're something else entirely. Frustrating, sometimes. Quick-witted. Perceptive. Thoughtful. A million and one words to describe you, and yet, it still doesn't paint the full picture. You are multi-faceted and brilliant in a way he's not sure he completely understands. 

[Sent: 22:33]

Can't explain it, Ly. 

[Sent: 22:33]

I'm going fucking crazy. 

[Received: 22:34]

ur being dramatic :p

[Received: 22:34]

think u just need to get laid 

[Sent: 22:34]

Fuck off. 

[Sent: 22:35]

I said I'm taking a break. Meant it. 

[Received: 22:37]

(image attached) 

[Received: 22:37]

got this at the party

[Received: 22:37]

ur staring, mig

[Sent: 22:38]

… 

[Received: 22:38]

that's my dress! told u I have great taste :)) 

[Received: 23:06]

miggyyy

[Received: 23:06]

stop ignoring me! its not fun anymore >:(

That was a while ago. Before anything serious happened between you both. And he's had the privilege of seeing you in many different ways; stressed, angry, beaming with joy. Bouncing off the walls after too much coffee, or crawling out of bed following a late night. He's seen your lips curve to form a delicious O as you writhe underneath him; he's seen you smile. He'd tattoo it onto his skin, if he could. 

Fuck . He's overthinking it. 

You've retired to your spot on the couch, and yes, he's staring. Tracing the slope of your jaw and the tilt of nose outlined by the glow of the TV. After getting back home late, he brushed off limp protests and took most of the boxes up himself. It sits in a pile by the dining table. You'll deal with it tomorrow, he supposes. 

Retreating behind your ratty blanket, you stare blankly at the screen. Glassy eyes, you've curled up to watch reruns late into the night. Can't sleep, you told him, as he hovered by the doorway. 

He should go to bed. It's nothing to do with him, really, and he shouldn't have overheard as much as he did. Miguel is curious but not nosy, and well-versed on the art of minding your business . So he shouldn't feel his heart splintering; creaking like the trunk of a felled tree; hacked into two by the way he sees you drowning. 

He sits by your side. Not too close, of course, he's wary of all the shit you've been through today; not wanting to make you feel more uncomfortable. 

He's reminded of a childhood holiday. Half a summer spent at a campsite, bounding through woodland and creeks somewhere up north. Gabi and him would disappear, forgoing the beaten paths for their own adventure. Miguel couldn't make friends the way his brother could, so he'd straggle behind; watching from afar as the other kids would climb trees or swim in quiet lakes. Reading by the banks, and he remembers a time someone had slipped under the water. Drowning, and it wasn't anything like the movies. It was quick, silent and deadly. Thrashing under choppy water, and then…

…nothing. Just quiet. 

He feels that panic rising now, watching you stay so eerily still. You've slipped under the waves, and he doesn't know what to say to pull you back out. 

Miguel isn't too good with words. He's not known for his warmth, or comforting presence. Sometimes, he thinks he wasn't built with that switch turned on in his head – and he certainly didn't learn the right words from his parents. And so, he gives you comfort the only way he knows how. He shows you. He takes care of you. 

You come to him. Like two parts of a whole, you slot together perfectly: your head on his shoulder, at first. You end up on his chest, curled up like a housecat; matching shaky breaths to his steady ones. He brings a hand to your shoulder, drawing lazy circles in the fabric to soothe you. 

With the dull chatter and gloom of the TV, you fall asleep. It takes Miguel a little longer, but he wraps his arms around you. He listens out for it: the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Steady, like a metronome, and it grounds him – drowning out the creak of gears. 

_

_

_

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[girlboss-enthusiast]

Patriarchy affects autistic women and girls in a unique way imo. I'm thinking particularly of masking (when you learn and perform behaviors from others to hide your autistic traits), but also of the autistic tendencies to compartmentalize, to want clear rules (esp socially), to assume honestly and/or good faith from others, to generally struggle to understand the intentions of others.

If we can't intuit social rules, then it makes sense that we would try to learn them by rote from outside sources. And when those outside sources are pushing patriarchal roles on us, when it seems like other women find it easy or natural, when we can't or don't trust ourselves to understand how to be accepted/acceptable...is it any wonder we try to mask? Is it any wonder we're more vulnerable?

I think this same thing is why a disproportionate amount of autistic women ID as trans or nonbinary. It makes perfect sense to me. Gender ideology offers us a different script; it says, "Do you feel ostracized, lonely, like an outsider? Here is a solution. Here is an alternate path." And then we're given an explanation, different rules to follow, something that seems less constricting than the rules of femininity. That's why gender ideology appealed to me, anyway. After years of struggling to perform femininity and growing steadily more dissociated from my body due to misogyny and disability, the idea that I could opt out sounded marvelous! Except, of course, that's not how it works.

This post has been All About Me but I'm an extremely rule-bound person, and I know many other autistics are not. So I'm curious—

Autistic women, do you find that patriarchy and misogyny have affected you in ways specific to being autistic?

[tuiccim]

Though I Have Never Read It (Part 10 - Final)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 4112

Warnings: Fluff, angst.

A/N: Special thanks to my hype princess & beta reader @whisperlullaby.

Though I Have Never Read It Masterlist

Bucky fed you, encouraged you to rest, and left you to let you sleep. You wanted to beg him to stay, to hold you through the night, and make it all better. You didn’t think you’d sleep but you were wrong. The exhaustion of the past week caught up with you and you didn’t even remember your head hitting the pillow. You slept deeply and woke at the time you would normally have an alarm set for. Deciding to find a project in the hangar to get lost in, you dress and head that way. 

You find a mess of work that had piled up while you had been out caring for Eva. Normally, it would frustrate you but today you were grateful for the distraction. You lost yourself in it, forgetting everything else, and going time blind until your phone dinged late in the afternoon with a text from Mark. 

Mark: Hey. Everything is set for tomorrow night. I’ll meet you at seven. How does Athena’s sound? You: Sounds good. See you then. 

You answer him almost by rote. A message you had sent him many times. You check your phone, hoping you had missed a text from Bucky but nothing was there. As you had told him everything last night, you had hoped he would say something. If you were honest, you had wanted him to tell you not to do this, that he felt something for you. You had wanted him to fight for you and he didn’t. Was that your answer? If he had real feelings for you, wouldn’t he have? You shake your head to clear it before starting work again. You wanted to lose yourself as you had before but the questions rolled through your brain over and over again. Were you being the stupid one? Maybe he didn’t want to take your chance with Eva away and it was you that needed to take that first step. 

Hours later, as your head ached from debating with yourself, you sit back from the engine you were working on. You made up your mind that when you and Bucky went to the farmer’s market  tomorrow morning, you would tell him how you felt afterwards. Thoroughly exhausted from the day of work and the mental gymnastics you had put yourself through, you make yourself a quick sandwich, take a shower, and go to bed.  Sleep is fitful through the night and you wake feeling heavy. The weight of your thoughts pressing on you. 

Your stomach is in knots and your nerves are jittering under your skin as you get ready to go to the market. Taking a little extra care with your appearance, you stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment before grabbing your basket and going to meet the group. Natasha and Wanda are waiting in the kitchen when you appear. The three of you chat while waiting for the guys. You looked up expectantly when Sam walked in but he was alone. 

“Where’s Steve and Bucky?” Natasha asks Sam. 

“They went out on their motorcycles earlier this morning. Bucky said something about needing a distraction,” Sam shrugs as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “We’re still going to the market, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Wanda says. 

They all seem to miss your absolute devastation. You quickly mask your feelings and follow everyone out. You're lost in thought for most of the walk while Wanda and Sam chatter with the occasional comment from Natasha. Your mind runs amok wondering what kind of distraction they were looking for. It wouldn’t be hard for him to find one should he want that. You jerk your head at the thought, trying to force it from your brain. 

“Are you okay?” Natasha drops back from the other two, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“Fine. You?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, “What’s going on?”

“I just have a lot on my mind. It’s been a long week,” you avoid her question.

“If you need to talk about it…” She lets herself trail off. 

“I appreciate that. I’m gonna grab some produce.” You smile and move away from the group. You browse the stands and come upon one of your favorites, but rather than joy, you find yourself nearly in tears as you stare at the heads of cabbage. Recalling when you had last made sausage and cabbage to share with Bucky. 

God, why was everything about your relationship with him so complicated? From the beginning in that cabin, to meeting him again, the secrets, and then finally finding a comfortable place with each other. And then Mark takes the simple relationship you have and wants to complicate it. You hated all of this. You hadn’t spoken to Bucky since you told him about Mark’s request. He hadn’t asked you not to. You thought he had feelings for you, but what if you were wrong? You thought back to that night, trying to find some hint, something that would give you answers. You thought through Mark’s request and Bucky’s reactions. You thought about the chance to be with Bucky and the life you could have being a family with Mark and Eva as you shopped. 

“What does your heart say?” The voice of your best friend breaks through your thoughts. She could have been standing right next to you for the clarity you hear it with. And then, “What is your heart telling you?” Comes through in Bucky’s voice just as clearly. You laugh and shake your head, probably looking absolutely mad to anyone watching you in the crowd. The answer to that question is the hardest thing to figure out and you had to by dinner tonight. 

—

The wind whipped past Bucky as he sped along the roadway with Steve close on his heels. They had been driving for hours and still Bucky hadn’t found the distraction or peace his mind craved. He was consumed with losing you. You would be giving Mark his chance and being a mom to Eva. He couldn’t stand in the way of that. It would be barbaric to pile onto your already heavy load by confessing his own feelings. He just couldn’t do that to you. 

Steve’s bike pulled ahead momentarily and he signaled for Bucky to stop. They pulled over at one of the state park’s scenic spots where a couple of benches overlooked a view of the water. Bucky pulls off his helmet and looks over the beauty in front of him, wishing he could share this with you. He drops his head at the thought and berates himself for not being able to let go. 

“You ready to talk yet?” Steve’s voice drifts over to him from where he’s standing. 

Bucky walks over to him and stares out over the expanse, “She and Mark are getting together. So they can be a family for Eva.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve puts a hand on his shoulder.

Bucky shrugs, “Just my luck, right?”

“Is that all she said when you told her how you felt?”

“Well, uh…” Bucky scratches the back of his neck, “I didn’t exactly tell her.”

“What? Bucky!” Stave gapes at his best friend. “You didn’t tell her?!?”

“She had just gotten back from their place. She was exhausted and upset. Mark asked her for a chance to be a family. I can’t come between her and them and I didn’t want to add more to her burden. What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you want to be Eva’s mom and this is your chance, but would you be willing to give that up for me? Some broken down ex-assassin whose mind is precarious at best?”

“You shouldn’t think of yourself like that,” Steve says softly. 

“All the better for her. She doesn’t need me messing up her life,” Bucky sighs.

“Why don’t you let her decide that?”

“I can’t come between her and Eva, Steve!” Bucky says, frustrated. 

“Damnit, Buck! It’s not like she would never see Eva again! You aren’t taking that away. You would just be giving her another option. A different chance at happiness. Don’t be an idiot!” Steve all but shouts. 

“You don’t understand!” Bucky yells back and turns away. 

“I do, Buck! I know what it’s like to lose someone over a stupid decision. You just need to tell her!” Steve sees Bucky shaking his head and his frustration boils over, “Why? Why can’t you just tell her?!?”

Bucky turns back to him, eyes red-rimmed and shouts, “Because I don’t think I could stand it if she didn’t…” He stops, looking down and shaking his head. 

“Choose you? Feel the same? …Buck, if what I’ve seen is any indication, she feels the same. Don’t lose her over a hypothetical.”

“It’s not that simple. I wish to God it was,” Bucky stalks back to his bike, revs it, and takes off. 

Steve follows him. He didn’t want him to be alone right now.

–

Your mind was made up; head held high, shoulders square, and your nerves an absolute wreck as you reach the door and walk through the entrance of Athena’s. The casual diner was a popular spot and there was a bit of a crowd but you spotted Mark sitting in a booth as you did a quick survey. He was smiling up at Maia, the third generation owner of the joint. Her grandmother, Athena, had started the place in the 60s and worked in the kitchen until she handed the reins over to Maia’s mother, Phoebe. Maia was fairly young for a restaurant owner but she had worked every position in the place and always made sure to greet her regulars. You could just make out their conversation as you walked over. 

“Where’s Eva?” Maia asked Mark. 

“Oh, she’s with my mom tonight. Grown-ups only dinner tonight. We have some things to talk over,” Mark says. 

“Everything okay?” Maia tilts her head inquisitively. 

“Yeah, just catching up, ya know?” Mark answers. Clearly neither had noticed your approach, so you hang back for a second. 

“Well, you’ll have to bring Eva by soon. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. She’s so precious. I love that kid,” Maia smiles. 

“Really? Yeah, I’ll do that. She loves your crunchy honey. That’s what she calls the baklava,” he laughs. 

“That’s adorable! Well, I’ll be sure to bring you both a piece when you come,” Maia shifts as she speaks, putting you in Mark’s line of sight. 

“Oh, hey!” Mark notices you. 

“Hey Mark. Maia, how are you?” You slide into the booth. 

“Great. Booming really,” Maia replies. 

“And well deserved,” you smile, “The place looks great. Did you paint the bar?”

“Yes. Just freshening things up a little,” Maia looks around the place proudly. 

“I thought something seemed different. It looks great,” Mark pipes in.

“Thanks. Well, I let you guys get to your dinner,” she waves over a waiter but turns back to Mark before walking away, “I look forward to seeing Eva and you guys soon.”

You order a drink and peruse the menu. It was almost pointless, you knew the menu well but you were stalling. Glancing up at Mark’s nose buried in the menu, you smirked at the thought that he was doing the same. No matter what, this wouldn’t be easy. You make small talk, order your meals, and then there’s nothing but open air between you. 

“How, uh, how was the rest of your week?” Mark asks. 

“Busy. There was a mess of work to do when I got back and then the team and I went to the market this morning. I did some meal prep today. You know, same old song. How about you?” You ask, your nerves buzzing under your skin.

“Yeah, luckily I can work remotely for a lot of things but I’m pretty sure when I get into work on Monday there is going to be some catching up to do,” Mark nods.

“Do you think Eva is good to go back to school?” You ask, concerned. 

“I think so but her teacher and I have emailed and she’s going to keep a close eye on her to make sure she doesn’t get overtired. Mom’s not far from the school if Eva needs to be picked up.”

“Well, you know if she needs any help…” You let the words trail off. 

“I know. Thank you,” Mark’s voice softens as he looks at you with a loaded expression. 

You feel your palms begin to sweat as you know what’s coming. You weren’t ready. 

“I-”

“Of course,” you say the words more forcefully than necessary and then give a breathy little laugh. “Um, I mean, you know, I’m always happy to be there for Eva.”

“Right,” Mark gives you a small smile, the look in his eyes telling you he understood your nerves and it helps you relax. You exhale for what feels like the first time since you sat down. It’s Mark, he’s your friend, your family, and everything was going to be okay. 

You smile at him as you calm yourself and then apologize, “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. Please go ahead.”

Mark lets out a short laugh, “I’m the one that needs to apologize to you.”

You look at him askew, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been really unfair to you.”

“No, Mark. You haven’t,” you reassure him. 

“I have,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t right of me to ask you what I did. I mean, it makes sense from a purely logical level. We’re great friends, you love Eva, Eva loves you, and it would make things easy. For me, that is. But, I, um, realized something. I’ve had the love of my life and she’s gone now. So, for me, I’m not risking anything going into this relationship. I’m getting everything and not giving up a thing. I don’t want it for myself though, I want it for Eva. I want her to have the best of everything and you are. You are an amazing mother figure to her and you will be whether or not we are a traditional family. She’s a lucky kid.”

“Lucky to have you for a dad, too,” you smile at him. 

“Thanks. Look, I don’t know what you thought about this stupid idea but I’m sorry. I’m sure it put you in a weird headspace. After I asked you, I kept thinking about how much I loved her and I wondered if you had ever felt that. I found the love of my life. I got to marry her and have a beautiful little girl. I got to be truly happy, even if it was shorter than I wished, than I’d wish on anyone,” Mark blinks as if fighting back tears and clears his throat. “So, I can’t take that possibility away from you. I can’t steal your future happiness. You haven’t found the love of your life, yet, and you need to have that. Wait… have you? Found… I mean-”

He didn’t know it but, in that moment, Mark healed a little bit of your brokenness. He had given you reassurance that you deserved love, deserved that chance, and it was something you hadn’t even realized you needed to hear. You laugh as happy tears fill your eyes, “Um, I don’t know… but I think I might have. Maybe…” You trail off as doubt begins to take hold again. 

“Maybe?” Mark prompts with raised eyebrows. 

“I told him about us. About this. I thought… I thought he’d say something. I thought he’d fight for me or, at least, tell me how he feels but he didn’t. He just let me go-”

“Your meals,” the waiter announces as he sets your plates down in front of you. 

“Uh, thank you,” you stammer. 

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” The waiter asks with his best customer service smile. 

“No, thank you,” Mark says and immediately turns back to you. “Maybe he let you go in hopes that you’d come back to him.”

You scoff, “I doubt it.”

“Or maybe he was hoping you would fight for him. Did you tell him how you felt?” Mark asks. 

“No, I was going to but he left this morning. To find a distraction,” you roll your eyes bitterly. Images of Bucky finding that distraction with another woman came unbidden to your mind and you force yourself to push them away. 

“A distraction? What does this mean?” Mark looks at you concerned. 

“He and his best friend went out on their motorcycles,” you shrug. 

“Sounds like he needed to talk to his best friend. I mean, Bucky’s a good guy. I doubt he’ll do anything stupid,” Mark says the name slyly and his guess is confirmed when your head jerks up. 

You narrow your eyes at him, “How did you know?”

“You talk about him a lot. Eva even talks about him. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Look, I’ve never met the guy but he’s an idiot if he’s anything but interested. Let’s finish dinner and then you go back home, find him, and talk about it. Easier said than done, I know, but, if he is the love of your life, it’s worth the risk.”

You smile at your friend, “You’re right. After all, I do believe my best friend told this one guy she was friends with that she had a massive crush on him and it ended up working out pretty well for her.”

“Once he picked his jaw up off the floor since he thought she was so far out of his league. Yeah, I think it did,” Mark smiles, remembering the moment he realized he had found the one. 

“Thank you, Mark,” you reach across and squeeze his hand. 

“Anything for my best friend. Now, let’s eat before our food is cold and we insult Maia,” he winks. 

You dig in and the two of you talk about everything and nothing. The same easy friendship that had been yours for years reestablished. You were laughing at one of Mark’s stupid dad jokes when your phone rings. 

“Who is it?” Mark asks after seeing a strange expression on your face. 

“It’s Bucky,” you reply, looking at him with furrowed brow. 

“Answer it.”

“He-hello??

“Doll!” Bucky’s frantic voice comes through the phone.

“What’s wro-”

“I can’t let you do this!” Bucky interrupts. 

“What? What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get in the way but I can’t let you do this,” Bucky says. ���Please give me a chance to explain. I tried to make it back there in time but I’m an idiot and I can’t. Please-”

“Bucky. It’s okay. We can talk. Where are you?”

Mark smirks while whispering, “Guess he decided to fight for you.”

You glance at him as a joyful laugh bubbles up, “I guess he did.”

Bucky’s voice comes through the phone, “I’ll be at the compound in less than an hour. Am I too late?”

“I’ll meet you there,” you confirm. 

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice betrays his fear. 

“You’re late, Barnes. You’ll have to wait to know the answer. See you soon.”  You’re giddy as you hang up. 

“Torturing the guy a little bit, huh?” Mark laughs. 

“Maybe a little,” you laugh. “He can take it.”

Mark nods, “You know what? I got this,” he gestures to the food, “Go.”

You can tell he’s holding in his laughter, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“I look forward to hearing about all this,” Mark grins.

You slide out of the booth and make your way to the door. You glance back to give Mark a final wave and bump right into Maia. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Maia looks at you strangely.

“My fault, sorry,” you reassure her.

“Everything okay?” Maia asks with a lift of an eyebrow. 

“Better than okay. I just have to go,” you can’t help smiling, heat stealing into your cheeks. 

“Oh, um,” Maia grins. “Can I ask…” she falters for a moment but then glances back to Mark before looking you full in the face, “You and Mark?”

Your mouth drops open as you realize what she’s asking, “Never! We’re just friends. His wife was my best friend.” 

“So, he’s single?” She asks nervously. Maia knew Mark was a widower but apparently was unsure of your status with him. 

You couldn’t hide the grin that spread across your face, “You should give him your number. Actually, would you mind keeping him company for me?”

“I might just do that,” Maia smiles and ducks her head. 

“See ya later, Maia,” you rush to your car and book it to the compound. You make it there in record time and decide you’d rather wait for Bucky in your room, away from curious eyes and ears. It was a nerve wracking 20 minutes of pacing, waiting for Bucky to appear. For the second time that day, you were a bundle of nerves. You jumped when the knock finally sounded. You pull it open and you and Bucky just stare at each other. He smells of leather and forest and sunshine. You just take him in for a moment, the chestnut brown hair, full lips, and cerulean eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. 

“Hi,” he gives a small smile. “Am I too late?”

“Come in,” you say instead of answering and pull him through the door. 

“Doll?” Bucky seems desperate for you to answer him. 

“You asked for a chance to explain. So… explain,” a sadistic side of you was enjoying torturing him just a little.

“I went out for a ride. Steve and I did and we drove for hours. Steve kinda knocked some sense into me. I never want to come between you and Eva or Mark. I realize you might have chosen Mark, but I couldn’t let you do it. Not without telling you how I feel. Not without telling you that I love you. I know I’m nothing compared to them but I love you so much. I would never-”

You reach up to cover Bucky’s lips and stop his tirade, “I know you wouldn’t. You’re not nothing, you’re everything. And I love you, too. ”

He stares at you in disbelief for a moment. You let your fingers slide from his mouth to caress his cheek. You glance down at his mouth and then back up to those beautiful eyes. When his lips finally descended on yours, it was as if you were starving for each other. Your bodies were finally giving into an indulgence that you’d waited years to taste again and you didn’t want to part. He clutched at you, relief and joy mixed with the desperation flowing through him. 

When your lips finally part, you press yours to his neck and, this time, it’s your voice that whispers the desperate plea against his skin, “Please.”

He was just as gentle as you remembered and this time you allowed yourself to indulge in him. Not hidden under blankets in a tiny bed, you revel in his body and touch. He studied every arch and moan as his hands and mouth played over you. You called his name as you came and it was enough to send him over the edge, whispering I love you as he fell. 

As you laid together, tangled in the sheets, with hands playing over each other, you told him about how the evening went with Mark. How Mark had apologized and how you had reassured each other. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says after you finish. 

“Anything,” you affirm.

“What was your decision? Before you got there?” Bucky seems to hold his breath as he waits for your answer. 

“That I love Mark and I love Eva, they’re my family. But it’s not the kind of love that you build a marriage around. More than that, I couldn’t ignore the feelings I have for you. I knew I would have to tell you and let the chips fall where they may. I was disappointed when you didn’t ask me not to go to Mark but I realized that you were trying to not complicate things for me,” you explain. 

“I don’t ever want to come between you and Eva,” Bucky reiterates. 

“I know but promise me you’ll never do that again. Always tell me how you feel. Promise?”

“Promise,” Bucky says, kissing the side of your head. “Right now, I feel amazing.”

“Yeah?” You can’t help smiling.

“Mm-hm, and you feel amazing,” Bucky says as he rubs his hands over you. 

“Anything else to say?” You ask. 

“Just one thing…” Bucky whispers with his lips against your neck. 

“What’s that?” You moan. 

“Please.”

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[horsesource]

I guess that is what drives me crazy about us speaking/masking autistics. There are plenty of nonspeaking/non-masking autistics whose semiosis cannot be successfully recuperated by a semiotics of power. And I think if there is any revolution to autistic flows it has to be with them. Because with speaking autistics who identify as autistic, they're begging to be recuperated! The a-signifying flows of autism are captured (enthusiastically!) and it becomes a rote deadening--"you feel uncomfortable in the gaze of another? you wiggle your foot? that's your autism." Everyone rehearses the signs of autism and how to detect them. Autistic flows can be “breathing spaces”, can be resistant to "the dictatorship of the signifier", but "autism" becomes just another (very convenient) signifier when it turns into "there it is! your autism. now it makes sense." We'd be better off dancing and spitting and humming and exiting or repurposing these technological platforms that hierarchize our semiotic flows instead of trying to detect signs, gestures for meanings of autism in videos posted on said platforms

[enqmind]

As ever, I accept payment in kind words and follows.

Ghost/Female Reader WC: 1.8k 18+ content

Warnings: Suicide attempt by reader, gaslighting, manipulation, Local Manc has worst possible reaction to a suicide attempt, ~*self indulgence*~

Reader notes: Thin enough to fit into a standard bathtub, light enough to be lifted from a standard bathtub by Ghost, mentally ill, pale enough for noticable blushing (feel free to ignore), atheist (it's now plot relevant, but I'm not your dad), ≥ 5' - < 6' tall (by Ghost's estimate)

One Man's Treasure III

Previous Next

 The idea that she’d recognise him just hadn’t occurred to him at all.

 He took great pains to cover his face so much of the time, after all. Surgical masks in the warmer months, balaclavas and scarves in the chillier ones.

 When could she have seen his bare face?

 Her surprise melted away into despair.

 “Oh, this is part of the punishment isn’t it? A constant reminder of my cowardice.”

 Yes, all those times she looked like she wanted to ask him something but didn’t.

 “Go on.”

 “I wanted to get to know my neighbours, but it never seemed like the right time.” She stared at his covered chest. “I just couldn’t stand to be a bother, you know?”

 The look on her face was all too familiar. She’d learned not to be a bother, probably the hard way.

 “Despite always covering his face, he’d seemed somehow more approachable. Like there was space in his life for a new friend. I was just always too scared to make that first move.” A sigh. “C’est la vie. Though not anymore, I suppose.”

 There, an in.

 “If he always covered his face, how do you know what he looks like?”

 A weak smile.

 “Happened to spot him when he was getting his post in the dead of night once. He looked exhausted, so I let him be.”

 Sometimes you were so tired that you’d dream of doing the rote thing that you did all the time. Unthinking action becoming nothing more than subconscious thought.

 It was really his bad luck that his neighbour happened to see, and a huge problem that he didn’t notice her.

 She started to pull away.

 Ghost put his hand on her back and stopped her.

 No, I’m not angry at you.

 “I, er… need a wee,” she mumbled.

 “Go ahead then,” he replied, removing his arm. “But come straight back, I don’t want you wandering around.”

 She nodded and shimmied her way off the bed.

 He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

 They’d have to move. He couldn’t keep her around her own flat, she’d want to get stuff from it.

 He pulled his phone from his pyjama pocket and texted Price.

 -I need extended leave and a house-

 Ghost would have to make an itemised plan and shopping list.

 As nice as her roaming around his house in his clothes was, she’d have to leave the flat eventually and she’d need her own clothes for that.

 He’d have to find a storage place to put her stuff until he figured out what to do with it and break her lease.

 Oh, right.

 He’d need to find out what her name was. That would be easy enough, she’d have post in her place.

 The sound of bare feet on carpet caught his attention.

 She was swimming in that shirt, he couldn’t even see the shorts. Just a very nice pair of legs cut off by his shirt. There could be anything or nothing under there.

 “Um…”

 His eyes snapped up to her face.

 Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips as she sat on the edge of the bed, twisting toward him. Hands toying with the edge of the shirt.

 “I’m hungry, can I use the kitchen? Please?”

 There was nothing in there but a half empty tub of LoSalt.

 “No. What do you want?”

 Her brow furrowed in mild confusion.

 “Um, anything will do. I can throw something together.”

 “We’re getting takeaway.”

 Her eyes widened.

 “I really don’t want to be a bother.”

 You’re not being a bother.

 Women liked Starbucks, right?

 He pulled up his app of choice.

 “Ham and cheese toastie.” He peered at her worried face. “Caramel latte?”

 “You really don-”

 “There’s no food in the kitchen.”

 There, that stopped her.

 “Oh. Yeah, that sounds fine.”

 He glanced at her.

 “And get in the bed. You’re cold.”

 Her arm went over her chest and she turned red.

 Ghost tugged at the duvet.

 “In.”

 She climbed into the bed, teetering near the edge.

 He patted the bed next to him as his phone pinged.

 -Elaborate-

 -Somewhere quiet with good transport links to Johnny’s-

 She shimmied closer.

 Yeah, somewhere quiet ought to make this whole thing easier to believe.

 Easy access to Johnny’s meant there’d be a good shot of his Mrs being able to check in on her. Which Mrs MacTavish would do, since she still cared about Ghost despite the fact that he knew that she knew that he was making faces at her under his mask. She had his number, and he respected that.

 He lay down his arm behind his neighbour, which caused her to pause for a moment.

 She stared at it, then lay down with his bicep as a neck pillow. Stiff as a board.

 Not the most comfortable position, but he could make it work. He bent his arm and rested his hand on her arm.

 It could be nicer, but this was nice enough for now.

 His phone pinged again.

 -Why?-

 “You’re really comfortable,” his neighbour mumbled, turning her head and smiling. “I was led to believe you’d be a lot bonier.”

 “That was before I started working out.”

 The smile turned into a full grin and she relaxed.

 -Suddenly gained a dependent-

 He felt a gentle touch on his side, her hand tentatively resting on him. He stared at it as it stood stark against his t-shirt.

 Ghost put his phone on his chest and immediately entwined their fingers.

 God, her hand was so small in his. He could crush the bones with little effort. Had women always been so delicate, or was this one special?

 She swallowed spit nervously.

 “Why-”

 His phone pinging interrupted her.

 Terrible timing.

 -How big is it?-

 -5 foot something-

 Now the phone was ringing.

 “Should I go?”

 He shook his head.

 “You stay, I need to turn the heating on anyway.”

 She sat up, releasing his arm without being asked.

 Thoughtful little thing.

 He briefly rubbed her back as he got up and answered the call.

 “What do you mean ‘five foot something’?” Price demanded.

 Ghost watched her roll into the warm path he left and snuggle under the duvet as he shut the door.

 “Didn’t ask her height.”

 A loud sigh came out of the phone as he went to switch on the boiler, pushing the temperature up a few extra degrees. Women ran cold, afterall.

 “There’s a limit to what we can sweep under the rug, Ghost. If you’ve kidnapped someone-”

 He half tuned Price out.

 Was this a kidnapping?

 Arguably he had taken her from her home without her consent; but, since she hadn’t yet attempted to leave, it was a moot point.

 He did want to think about her trying to leave.

 “I found her bleeding and about to drown in a bathtub,” he interjected. “A suicide attempt.”

 Silence.

 “Fourth or fifth try, she says.” He turned and stared at the bedroom door.

 Silence.

 Then, “you don’t sound like you’re in a hospital.”

 “Didn’t take her to a hospital.”

 More silence.

 “She’s in the other room and we’ve got breakfast coming.”

 “We need to talk about this.”

 “Yeah.”

 “What’s her name?”

 “Dunno yet.”

 “Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “Tell me the second you know, get all the information you can. I’m running a background check.”

 Ghost sighed.

 “You don’t need to, I-”

 “This isn’t a favour. It’s an order.”

 There was no arguing with that.

 No matter how unlikely it seemed, you could never be too safe.

 “Affirmative.”

 Another, brief, silence.

 “Don’t lose your head.”

 “I won’t, sir.”

 They ended the call, and Ghost leaned on the wall.

 Maybe he already had.

---

 Breakfast was about ten minutes away when he went back into the bedroom.

 His neighbour was wrapped up like a jacket potato. It was… cute.

 “So, what were you going to ask?” he prompted, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on what he assumed was her hip.

 Her lips pursed for a moment, but then she gave him a nervous smile.

 “Um, why does this place have the same layout as my flat?”

 Shit. He’d lucked out before, but— yes. He’d lucked out, and still was lucking out really.

 “Where else would your neighbour live?”

 Her brows drew into a frown.

 “I… suppose?” she paused. “...Am I doing this?”

 “Doing what?”

 She wriggled out an arm and motioned around.

 “Making it like this?”

 The suspicion in her voice was worrisome, but nothing a simple lie couldn’t cover. Even if he would prefer to avoid actively voicing them.

 “What were you expecting the afterlife to be like?” he questioned. He’d have to fit her beliefs as much as he could, afterall.

 She looked at him with less confusion and more like he was a bit thick.

 “Nothing. I’m an atheist, remember? This is all a surprise.”

 “You really have no preconceived notions of the afterlife?”

 “Now you’ve taken hell off the table? No.”

 Did that mean he could tell her whatever he wanted… and she’d believe it?

 “I don’t know much myself,” he began, gently rubbing her hip through the duvet. “Normally when I take people to the hereafter, it’s a swift affair.”

 “Tha-that sounds about right,” she agreed, not a hint of suspicion in her.

 Yeah, the truth was the best lie, wasn’t it?

 “But what I do know is that when someone dies by a human hand, their afterlives are picking up where they left off.”

 Data point of one, but did that really even matter? It was true, his truth.

 Fear hit her like a tonne of bricks, eyes already beginning to get shiny with tears.

 She sat up in a scramble and grabbed at his t-shirt.

 “Please don’t. I’m begging you, please don’t send me back.”

 The punch to his gut of guilt took him by surprise, forcing an instinctual response.

 He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to his chest.

 “Never.”

 She sniffled into his shirt.

 “Promise?”

 He pulled back and tipped her chin so they could meet eye to eye.

 “No need. You don’t want your life, but I do. And I don’t give up what’s mine easy.”

 It was as that statement left his mouth he realised how fucked up it was. How it would scare her away, back into a life she hated.

 His arms twitched, ready to pin her to him at the slightest sign of an escape attempt.

 She stared at him blankly for a few moments before she broke into a nervous smile.

 “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, I suppose.”

 Relief washed over him and he allowed himself a small smile.

 “That’s right, you’re my treasure.”

 A nervous smile became an embarrassed blush.

 “But… I don’t even know what to call you.”

 What should he tell her to call him? Because whatever it was, it would be forever.

 There was really only one option.

 “Simon.”

[steddieficrec]

Some Of My Favorite Smut

more than you bargained for by anonymous

(1/1 I 2,432)

"Mike leans in closer, forehead almost touching the door, just in time to hear Steve shushing the girl gently. He gathers her curls with one hand, the other settling around her throat, and pulls–

Their eyes meet.

It’s definitely not a girl.

Eddie Munson stares at him through the tears in his eyes, lips parted in ecstasy as Steve Harrington fucks him within an inch of his life."

OR

Mike kind of regrets staying over at Steve and Eddie's.

#1 crush by pizzabones

(1/1 I 5,713)

"'That was a big sigh. Whatcha thinking about?'

Eddie opens his mouth to say ‘ah nothing’, but he stops himself. Maybe it’s time to let the proverbial embarrassing cat out of the bag and let Steve know just how long he’d wanted this domestic scene with him. He hums, 'You, actually.'"

or

Eddie tells Steve about his long-term crush, Steve tells him a secret of his own.

Somewhere it Hides a Well by teddywesworl

(1/1 I 7,610)

Eddie ducks his head briefly, a gesture that doesn’t quite fit with the guy’s overall image: buzz cut, obvious ink, scars on his jaw. A bunch of his shirt buttons are undone, and Steve can see a white tank and a gold chain underneath.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I’m at a shop in Uptown.” It’s rote, sounds sort of disinterested. Steve might think he’s being dismissed if Eddie Munson’s eyes weren’t raking over him, lingering at his jawline, his throat, his hands when he adjusts his cuffs.

Or: At Lumax’s wedding in 2003, slutty bisexual physical therapist Steve sets his eye on inked up tough guy mechanic Eddie and peels away his mask.

sugar hiccup by 02tilt

(1/1 I 9.101)

His fingers brush over a tiny valley on his forearm. A rough, pink divot where a demobat didn’t bite, but— slipped? Or something. It’s interesting, actually, because if he lowers that arm to his side, he can see where that scar leads. Where the thing managed to latch on and rip a chunk out.

If it weren’t invading his dreams and turning him into an insomniac, he’d congratulate it. Good effort, man, but you didn’t get me. Just made me look a little cooler.

He could call someone. That’s an idea. And by someone, well. Who else is missing a few pieces?

The Honey Inside Your Hive (Director's Cut) by biggest_mistake

(1/1 I 10,764)

Steve Harrington is on his own in a big new city and running out of money. The clock is ticking and if he doesn’t find a source of income soon he’ll be forced to admit his father was right when he said Steve couldn’t make it on his own. Desperate, he scours the classifieds and comes across a vague ad promising a big payout for only a few hours of work.

If Steve had been a little more cautious—or a little less proud—maybe he wouldn’t be losing his virginity on camera.

Or: Steve unknowingly auditions for a porno. Eddie’s more than happy to help him get the role—and lose his virginity. Jim’s there to document the occasion.

(It’s a Casting Couch fic.)

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails by pinkiequinn

(1/1 I 15,121)

The Harrington-Wheeler’s have it all. They’re newlyweds. They’ve just moved into a beautiful new apartment. Nancy’s career has taken off. And they are finally, finally starting a family.

But there’s something not quite right with the neighbours. And the building is so cold. And Nancy’s never home.

And Steve’s has been having the strangest dreams.

the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you by greatunironic

(5/5 I 34,987)

Sixteen years after the world didn't end for the last time, Max Mayfield showed up on Steve’s doorstep and said, “You gonna walk me down the aisle in May or what?” Or, it’s 2002 and Steve Harrington attends a wedding, a funeral, and a birth.

Are You Flagging? by soidade

(17/17 I 40,991)

“Look, I’m just asking, okay? Not– I don't mean anything by it. But, uh.” His eyes darted back and forth, then he leaned in close to Steve. Steve had gotten used to that, kind of. The guy had no concept of personal space. “Are you flagging?” Eddie finally finished.

Steve shook his head slowly, eyes narrowed. He had no idea what that meant. He had no answer. “What?”

Eddie leaned away from Steve, facing forward again and nodding. “Okay, got it. That answers my question. Carry on.”

-------------------------------------------------

A (mostly) innocent question leads Steve Harrington on a journey of self-discovery, friendship, sex, and romance.

flight risk by Ayes, itskleo

(16/16 I 81,324)

Eddie Munson is famous for giving his bodyguards the slip. Enter Steve Harrington. Has this bratty rock star finally met a babysitter that can keep up with him?

[abc-masterranger]

Gasmasken können manchem schon allein vom Anblick her den Angstschweiß auf die Stirn treiben. Im Zodiac ist das Tragen von Gasmasken auch nicht so ganz ohne, ist sie doch durch die Zodiac-Jacke gesichert (rote Pfeile). Trägt man noch einen Helm, der seinerseits mit einem Riemen gesichert ist (gelbe Pfeile), ist man qasi noch zusätzlich in der Gear gefangen. Aber das ist ja noch nicht alles: Zodiac-Jacke und Zodiac-Hose werden mit Rund-um-Schürzen mit einander verwurstelt. Dan trägt man vielleicht noch Ellbogenschützer, die Splitterschutzweste, auf jeden Fall noch einen Rucksack mit weiterer Grundausausrüstung, wie Getränke oder die Filterbatterie.

Damit ist man endgültig in der Gasmaske gefangen!

Sich von der zu befreien, würde bedeuten, konzentriert und in Ruhe all die Dinge von sich ablegen, Jacke und Hose auseinanderzuwursteln und die Jacke wie einen Pullover abzuziehen - erst dann kommt man an die Gasmaske heran. Unter Bedingungen von Platzangst ein fast unmögliches Unterfangen. Erst recht, wenn man tatsächlich die Maske vollkotzen würde (auch ohne Platzangst).

Daher habe ich immer einen Dolch griffbereit dabei: notfalls die Maske vom Gesicht schneiden.

[yourheartonfire]

"Well, isn't this a pretty picture."

The protagonist jolted up to - oh no. Jolted up from where they'd fallen asleep on the floor of the backshelves, books and notes scattered around them like some kind of nerd bomb had gone off. And the antagonist, their old rival, was standing over them, lamp in hand and that same stupid sneer on their face.

"Shit. I mean..." The protagonist shook their head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here now," the antagonist said with narrowed eyes. "Which you'd know if you bothered to keep up with changes in your staff. The real question is what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be throwing a diplomatic reception or issuing royal commands or snoozing in the royal sheets?"

"You want a command?" The protagonist pushed themselves up. It was easy to put on the imperious mask when they were so tired and so irritated. "Help me clean this up. Then forget you saw me. Think you can handle that, Second Aide to Librarian?"

The antagonist's face was a study. But they put down the lamp with only a small whunk. "Yes, Your Majesty," they said and started scooping up books into a pile. The protagonist choked back a yawn as they sorted their scrawled pages of notes into piles. For a few moments they worked side by side in silence, the protagonist ignoring the looks the antagonist kept directing to the back of their head.

"I'm sorry... for your loss," the antagonist said stiffly. "I know you were close to Dax."

"Thank you," the protagonist said. It was a rote response now.

"The kingdom of Sterztan?" the antagonist said, rather more tentatively as they glanced at the title. "Don't you have people now to be experts for you?"

"Oh yes." The protagonist folded their notes into a neat stack. "The ambassador to Sterztan is one of my greatest allies on the council. And this morning she looked us all in the face and assured us that Sterztan would never pose a challenge to our metals imports."

The antagonist's brow wrinkled. Their fingers twitched towards the pages in their hands. "But... half Sterztan's economy is based on their silver trade."

"I know." The protagonist rubbed. "So my ally is either an idiot or a liar. Not the kind of research I can outsource to a secretary."

"Ah." The antagonist put down their books on a an empty shelving cart. "So of course you became hyper-obsessed over this and snuck off to waste a night researching something you already knew about Sterztan's economy."

"I didn't sneak anywhere," the protagonist snapped. "I am the crown-"

Abruptly the antagonist moved. Suddenly the protagonist found themselves crowded up against the shelves, the antagonist towering over them. "The crown," they said, "without their guards."

"How dare you!" The protagonist shoved the antagonist back. "Are you insane?"

"Are you?" The antagonist grabbed another book off the floor angrily. "You're our ruler now. I expect you to at least make better use of your time."

"But this is the only thing I'm good at!" the protagonist wailed. The antagonist froze in a half-crouch but the protagonist couldn't stop. Exhaustion and the unfairness of all it was too much. "I'm not supposed to be ruling anything; I was supposed to be here, doing research for Dax while he dealt with all the politics and rituals and lies-"

"Hey, hey, hey." The antagonist was crowding up against them again. But this time it felt... supportive? A warm hand on their back as the protagonist gasped for air through the panicked sobs. "You've got this."

"I really don't," the protagonist moaned. "God, I wish I were you. No that's not true. But I wish I had your job."

"There you go, that sounds more like you." The antagonist tugged at the protagonist's arm insistently, until the two were sitting side by side on the floor. "Okay. I'm going to write you a report."

"I already figured out the Sterztan thing," the protagonist sighed.

"Not about that. About every stupid mistake every great sovereign we've ever had made in their first year as the crown."

The protagonist wiped their nose on their sleeve. "That sounds horrible."

"It will be. But," the antagonist scooted closer. Their hand was still rubbing circles into the protagonist's back. It was weirdly soothing. "My point is that every great sovereign starts out green."

"Green like inexperienced, or green like constantly feeling that you're going to throw up?" the protagonist muttered.

The antagonist grabbed their hand. "I'm saying that once you compare where you are now against where our other sovereigns were in their first year, you're going to see that you're actually doing all right. I'm not going to lie, you're doing a lot better than I thought you would be."

The protagonist huffed a tired laugh. "That sounds... like a nice theory. Got the data to back it up?"

The antagonist quirked their lip. Not quite the same sneer. "Are you ordering up some midnight research?"

The protagonist hauled themselves to their feet. "Nope. You volunteered. I'll expect that report on my desk by tomorrow. That is, tomorrow tomorrow," they added. "Not in - oh, god, in six hours."

"Go to bed," the antagonist said, picking themselves up too. "Good night."

The report was on the protagonist's desk in 10 hours.

[superstar-nan]

Fight Tooth and Nail

Day 4

Summary: You and Michael go home and make up, but unfortunately don't make out.

Words: 3,894

Fun stuff: Toxic relationships, mentions of dead children, vague allusions to familial abuse, descriptions of corpses. Michael tries for reader, but old willy has their heart even if it's out of hate :> poor michael…

First ♡ Prev ♡ Next

───── (\ /) ─────

It was strange how quickly you could fall into routine. In the last few hours of the night, you rotely rebooted the haunted attractions systems with such bland ease that you almost considered playing music in one of your earbuds. You didn’t for a number of reasons—you wanted to stay alert, your mind was too overstimulated from your newfound discoveries, and you knew it would upset Michael more than you already had that night—so your strange mix of restlessness and boredom remained.

Michael stayed silent, but occasionally glanced back at you. You assumed it was to ensure you wouldn’t sneak off and get killed by Springtrap, and honestly it was justifiable. Even as you sat there having barely escaped death twice that night, you were itching to search the attraction for any secret wall entrances or trapdoors.

After the fight you had with Michael, you’d be willing to wait one more night for any more adventure. You only had two or so hours left anyway, which might not be enough time to thoroughly search the floors and walls while dodging Springtrap. You told yourself that anytime you felt the sense of urgency to find your best friend, hungry and dehydrated and alone.

So, you were well behaved. You didn’t even look at the cameras for Springtrap, no matter how much you wanted to. If Michael was pleased by your good behavior, he didn’t show it. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for the rest of his shift. Even after his alarm went off, you just stretched, cracking your back and shoulders while wincing from the bite mark on your neck.

Michael handed you his jacket, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

“To hide the marks.” He clarified.

You looked at his arms, withered and decayed like some kind of horror movie prop. You didn’t want to upset him, so you said, “I could just say we’re really kinky?”

You could see the warm byzantium even from beyond his black face mask, “Just put the damn jacket on.”

You put it on and zipped it up to your neck. When the dayshift guard came, you hugged Michael’s arm to keep it hidden from sight while Michael angled his other arm away from the guard. It hardly mattered, the dayshift guard seemed more interested in the new markings on the window, which you played dumb to since Michael was as silent as the grave. You dutifully performed the role of Michael’s partner as you hurried out the door before the dayshift guard noticed anything in the dim lighting. The guard had to believe Michael had some kind of skin condition or something...

Michael drove again, citing your bite as reason for him to drive, but at this point you think he just preferred driving. It wasn’t that important to you. You liked leaning your head on the window and looking outside while you let your thoughts run, organizing what questions you wanted to ask first. There were heavy and dark clouds in the sky. Though they looked weighted, you didn’t think it would rain just yet.

When Michael pulled up to his place, he opened his car door and said while stepping out, “I’m surprised you haven’t bombarded me with questions yet.”

You followed him in suit, “I want to.” You said, honestly. You opened your mouth to start-

“Whatever’s holding you back, keep listening to it.”

You closed your mouth. What an asshole.

He stepped through the doorway and threw his keys and backpack on the table, stretching his arms until they made a decidedly unnatural popping noise. He groaned as he rolled his shoulders before heading straight to the pantry. You hopped up on the table, crossing your legs. Maybe if you were patient enough, he would hear you out just to get you out of his peripheral.

He pulled popcorn out of the pantry and put it in the microwave. After pushing a few buttons, he glanced at you and scoffed in a way that sounded half laughing and half mocking. There was another rare smile from him—if you could call it that, maybe a smirk would be more appropriate. You weren’t charmed by this one, just annoyed. “Am I ever going to see you sit on a chair?”

Huh. You didn’t realize you never sat on chairs around him. “If you’re lucky,” You said.

Michael rolled his eyes, and it was a wonder to behold given how undead he was. He leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was staring at your neck. “You should bandage that now.”

Your fingers grazed the bitemarks. It didn’t throb as much as it did before, but it still stung ever so lightly. You didn’t want to bandage it up, but you didn’t have an excuse anymore. You swallowed as you nodded, “Yeah. I should.” You took Michael’s backpack that was behind you and started shuffling for the bandages.

Michael took a few steps closer to you, “Let me.”

You waved him off dismissively, “I’ve got it.”

Regret pitted at the bottom of your stomach the moment you caught Michael’s expression. For the briefest of moments, he looked wounded; a vulnerable insecurity revealed raw. He masked indifference just as quickly. That didn’t stop your anxiety from jumping to your worst fear: he thought you were disgusted by him earlier and didn’t want to touch him again.

“Actually,” You feigned nonchalance. “You don’t have a hand mirror, and it’s hard just using my phone. Can you do it?”

Michael didn’t respond, just exhaling through shredded, worn lips. He stepped closer to you and took the bandages, however. You had no idea whether you relieved any of his pain.

You took his large jacket—which you were still wearing, you now noticed—and let it pool at your elbows. He began measuring out where to bandage you, and he was close. You could see the details of his abrazed skin this close; peeking at his white teeth and blackened gums through the abrasions in his cheeks, realizing his dark brown furrowed brow must have been artificial like his hair, and watching his concentrating hollow eyes encased in shadow darker than the midnight sky. Like Springtrap, you found Michael more alluring with his death than without.

Michael tugged lightly on your sleeve. You realized he was trying to bandage you without touching you. Your heart felt heavy. “Should I take it off?” You asked.

Michael didn’t answer you right away, “I can work around it.”

“That seems harder than it needs to be,” You said bluntly. “I could... use the jacket? If you’re uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable isn’t-” Suddenly, the microwave timer went off, interrupting Michael with loud, annoying beeping—ones that oddly reminded you of red-flashing-blaring. You saw the corpse set his jaw through his abraded cheeks, and what wouldn’t you give to know what he was thinking. “Do whatever you want.”

You took off your shirt slowly—to keep from irritating the bite wounds too much, and you still ended up wincing—while Michael busied himself with the bandages. You zipped up the jacket to where it covered your lower chest, leaving the sleeves hanging off your shoulders so he would have full access to the wound.

Michael looked back at you. His void eyes widened and they scrolled your body, trailing from your eyes, down your neck, across your chest, and then settling on your bare shoulders and collar. Your brow furrowed. Was the wound worse than you thought? But that didn’t explain the warm byzantium shade sporting across his neck and ears. Was he really flushed? Or was that just the dingy lighting...? He swallowed, and it was thick enough for you to see it.

Your brow twinged lightly in concern, “What’s wrong?”

Michael’s eyes lowered as he bit his tattered lip. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Maybe it really did look worse than you originally thought, and you were too blinded by your hate-passion to realize it.

Cold fingers touched your shoulder and you shivered, a small and quiet gasp passing your lips. That surprised you... and that stung. It seemed he was done avoiding touch, and you were glad for it despite your visceral shudder. He was methodical and slow while bandaging you, each gentle wrap being accentuated by decayed fingers sliding between bandage and skin. It was a steady and deliberate gesture; he ignored your every hiss of pain as he glazed over fresh cuts and your every soft sigh of relief when he left them.

You couldn't place it—he was helping you, his hands were gentle (though firm), and he hadn't said anything—and yet, you felt like his ministrations were driven by agitation. You couldn't puzzle out over what, though. Was it because of you touching him earlier? Was it your fight? Was it something else entirely? You truly had no idea, and Michael was the furthest thing from an open book to spell it out for you.

When Michael was just about finished, you decided to speak, "...I'm lucky I met you." You said, softly.

Michael stopped. You hoped he realized that you were referring to your outburst earlier, because you already felt too vulnerable being the first to admit being wrong.

"The rest of this... I'm not so lucky, but meeting you?" You sighed, and it was heavy with the weight of everything you've had to bear these past three nights. "I'm glad we met."

You met Michael's eyes. He was staring so deeply into yours, it was hard not to get lost in his stare. An endless, bottomless, void-like gaze... You saw the slight furrow in his brow and the way his void eyes shook with uncertainty, and you knew he was battling with something. Michael returned to bandaging you, and though physically it was the same, somehow it felt gentler.

"You're not... completely inept."

Wow. That's how he apologizes in return. You said something super sweet, and he says you're not completely inept. God, he needed to be wacked in the head... Though, to be fair, you didn't exactly apologize either.

"No, I'm not," You agreed nonchalantly as Michael was finishing up the last of your bandages. He tucked the end of the bandage underneath his dressing, and you pretended like you didn’t wince. "Some might even say I saved us last night. You're welcome, by the way." You mimicked his gravelly voice.

Michael's mood soured, and not in the usual-fun-grumpy way, "Yeah. You saved us with your bizarre psycho-sexual relationship with my serial killer dad. Thanks for that."

Psycho-sexual. Your face grew warm with a deep blush, and void eyes hardened when he saw it. You scowled, pulling away from him abruptly and coming down from the table, "What are you talking about?" 

"You’re gonna play dumb?” Michael crossed his arms and shrugged, “Fine.”

“I’m not-!” You exhaled sharply while running a hand over your scalp. You didn’t want to fight again. You just made up, “I just don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Michael raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, “My dad drew a heart in the glass.”

“We already knew he was psychotic,” You growled.

“You used a box cutter to try and... break it? What were you doing?”

"He was mocking me!" You snapped your head toward Michael, "I was mad!"

"Were you mad when you stared into his eyes and sighed like a lovesick schoolkid?" Michael’s voice sharpened with a harsh venom by the end of his sentence.

You remembered exactly how you felt coming down from your hatred, Springtrap just beyond the glass, and imagining the torture he went through. God, you felt mad and sick at that, but you also knew Michael wasn't wrong. It felt nauseatingly good to be wanted so intensely, and you hated that about yourself, "I- I wasn’t-” What could you even say?

“You’re blushing.” Michael’s gaze was as sharp and cold as his voice.

You felt your face with your palm. You were so warm. That wasn’t good. You leaned against the table, rubbing your temples, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

"How do you think I felt? You don’t-” Michael cut himself off and you could hear the anger he was trying to quell. You couldn’t begin to wrap your head around what Michael must be thinking... and you didn’t know if you even wanted to. “You don’t actually think you lov-?”

“No!” You had to snip that train of thought in the bud right away, “No. And don’t even say it, or I will strangle you until death decides to take you after all.” Thank god you meant that honestly. You knew you were losing your mind, but at least your head was screwed on enough to not fall in love with Springtrap.

Michael blew out air between his teeth. He rubbed his void eyes as he held the countertop with the same exhaustion you held the table with. Despite how tired he looked, his shoulders relaxed slightly and the tension left his fists. “Alright. What is it, then?”

You raised your hand and dropped it in weak exasperation, “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” He said, and of course it mattered. It was why you are still alive.

You exhaled and rubbed your temples, "Look, Michael. I'm not... super well... psychologically, right now."

"Who would've guessed?"

You threw the bandages at him, which he dodged, but you continued, "I don't know where my best friend is, if- if they're even alive, every night might be their or my last, I've been hit in the head a few times, I've hardly gotten any sleep, I just found out ghosts are real-!"

"Okay," Michael cut you off. "I get it."

You sighed, shaky and soft, "I'm... not myself. I know I might do or say something weird that I-... Just know I hate Springtrap. I truly hate him.” Who knew hate could be so passionate? “I want to kill him. Whether we find my friend or not, that’s my goal. I’m assuming that’s what you want, too.”

Michael didn’t say anything as he mulled over your words.

“That’s what you want, right?” Why else would he keep going back there? To play hide-and-seek with his psychotic dad all night long?

Michael folded his arms, leaning back against the countertop, “... I’ve been thinking about why the Spring Bonnie animatronic acted the way that it did.”

“That couldn’t have been less natural.” You said, annoyed.

“Do you want to know my thoughts on Spring Bonnie or not?”

Damn... You sighed, “Alright, what do you think its deal is?”

Michael scratched the back of his neck, “It’s been a while—those spring lock suits were old even in the 80’s—but I think there’s some sort of protocol for returning customers. Something in their code that has them give special treatment or priority to people who regularly showed up to Fredbear’s—er, the diner they’re from.”

You nodded, slowly, “I thought it might be something like that... That’s pretty advanced for the 80’s. That’s pretty advanced for now.” 

Michael half-laughed, half-scoffed as he pulled the popcorn from the microwave. It had to have been cold by now. He didn’t seem to care, pouring the cold popcorn into a large bowl. “You should have seen them yourself,” He said, and his voice was almost wistful. “It was... it was like they were real, sometimes...”

You perked up at the promise of Michael-lore. “I’ve seen some videos...” You said, keeping your voice casual. 

He shook his head and you followed him out of the kitchen and into his living room, “It’s not the same.”

“Tell me about it.” You sat down next to him on his couch, fully facing him.

Michael took one glance at you, before scowling and throwing popcorn in his mouth. “Don’t look at me like that,” He said with a full mouth. You forced yourself not to cringe as you saw popcorn and butter chew to a pulp from beyond his abraded cheeks.

“Like what?”

Michael threw more popcorn in his mouth, before pointing at you accusingly, “With stars in your eyes and excitement written all over your face. You look at me like that whenever my past gets brought up.”

“I’m curious!” You said, offended. “Even if you weren’t-” Michael gave you a hard look, and you wisely decided against bringing up the fact that he was dead, “-a security guard, I’d still want to know about your past.”

Michael exhaled, exaggeratedly and annoyed, before using his remote to turn on the TV. Whatever was playing was arbitrary and unimportant, so you ignored it regardless of Michael’s eyes glued to the screen.

“Come on,” You leaned your head against the couch as you faced him, a playful smile breaching your lips. “Staying mysterious can’t be that important.”

Michael turned up the volume of the TV.

“I’d love to know where you learned your shitty manners.” You said, blandly.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about my past because it sucked. Terribly.” He looked at you pointedly, “Because growing up with a psychopath for a father tends to ruin your childhood. Ever thought about that?”

You bit your tongue. You knew Michael wanted to stun you into dropping the topic; which he did, but not in the way he intended. The thing was, you had thought about that. You were curious about Michael, that wasn’t a lie, but the weaker part of you wanted to know exactly how William treated his son. You wanted to know just how far he took his abuse. You wanted to know every evil word or every raised hand, all to add more coal to the fire that was your hatred. You could chalk it up to morbid curiosity, but you knew yourself better than that.

Guilt washed over you in a wave. You shouldn’t want that, you shouldn’t want to know that. So you decided not to ask anymore, for your own sanity. The less you learned about William—about Springtrap, the better. You turned to the TV, your eyes glazed over. The screen could have been static, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Michael must’ve seen your face and believed you felt guilty for a much more altruistic reason (and you would never tell him otherwise), because he sighed, seemingly exasperated, and said, “I spent a lot of time at Fredbear’s growing up. It was basically my second home.”

Michael was a goddamn jezebel. You just rallied the strength to not pry into his (and, by proxy, his father’s) past, and he was going to offer it to you on a silver platter? You couldn’t stop yourself from turning to fully face him, pulling your legs underneath you and nodding at him to continue.

Michael tried to hide his blush with a scowl at your attention, “My mum... wasn’t in the picture.” You wouldn’t have been surprised if William killed her. Or if she just left him; you don’t imagine child killers make good husbands.What was more surprising was that he managed to get a kid or three out of her before she left or died. “And... My dad worked at Fredbear’s, so I spent every day after school there. Even when I got old enough to take care of Elizabeth and-” He stopped, dropping his gaze. “-my sister and my brother, I still hung around Fredbear’s. That’s where all my friends were, and-...”

Michael looked away from you, his shoulders oddly stiff and somber. He ran his fingers through his hair and his hands were shaking.

“I stopped hanging around Fredbear’s just a few years before my dad killed all those kids.” His voice quieted. You wanted to know why he avoided Fredbear’s if it wasn’t because of the murders, but the melancholy in his voice stopped you from asking.

“...But you ended up working at a few Freddy’s places later?” You asked.

“It was complicated.” He said.

You hummed in thought. He wasn’t telling you everything, but you didn’t mind it. “Was it fun? Being at Fredbear’s all the time?”

“Sometimes. It was what every kid dreamed. It was fun and loud...” He said, and you pictured Spring Bonnie from the picture: pretty and bright and wonderful. “What almost every kid dreamed. Sometimes... It was a lot. Sometimes you just wanted to get away from the bright lights and the loud noises.”

“Sounds overwhelming.”

“Sometimes...” Michael trailed off.

“What were your siblings like?”

Michael brought his void eyes up to meet yours, and you worried you overstepped. Then, his gaze settled on your lap, distant and somber, “Childish. Both of them, in different ways. My sister was a bit spoiled, but well meaning. She cared so much about stupid stuff. My brother... he was soft-hearted. He cried about everything. He hated Fredbear’s.”

Though Michael hardly said a kind word about either of his siblings, the tenderness in his voice spoke volumes. “...Are they-?”

You didn’t even have to ask the question, “They’re dead.” Michael said, and his voice hardened with the cold words. “Both gone before they even got to grow up.”

“Oh,” You lowered your eyes. You had wondered as much, seeing the little boy and girl both disappear from Michael's pictures, but it was more somber hearing it from him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” He said, though you didn’t believe it was actually fine. “It’s been a long time.”

Michael’s hand was next to your legs. You gently placed your hand over his hand and rubbed your thumb along his skin. Michael was frozen for a second, before he turned his hand over and held yours.

After a comfortable space of silence, Michael spoke, “What about your family?”

“What about them?” You asked.

“Tell me about them.”

You felt strange talking about your family, especially since it seemed like bragging since—no matter your family situation, it was still better than a child-murdering father. But, it was only fair since you pestered him about his past, so you told him about yours. You told him about your childhood, your family, the things you liked and the things that were hard. You told him how you met your best friend and how you came to be friends. Your voice started to waver as you talked about them, so you stopped. Michael still held onto your hand, even as you shoved cold popcorn into your mouth to keep yourself from crying.

“I’m starving. I wish you had real food,” You said, choking on popcorn.

"...I'm sorry," He said. You knew he wasn't talking about the popcorn, but you made yourself believe he was so you wouldn't have to think about your own grief.

You leaned your head on Michael's shoulder, watching the TV. You honestly had no idea what was happening on the screen; you weren't paying attention and you doubted Michael had either. It didn't matter, though. It was something to focus on that wasn't important.

So you watched melodramatic vampires and theatrical reactions like you didn't have to go back to Fazbear's Fright tomorrow. You sank into the couch like you wouldn't have a new injury the next time you returned here—if you returned at all. You leaned into Michael like you weren't hatefully enraptured with his father, dreading Springtrap as much as you craved to face him. You relaxed like you weren't losing your mind, craving wicked things that took your closest friend from you.

You fell asleep like you had no worries at all.

[forever-carlyle]

more in stars and time liveblog

I’m so worried about siffrin. They keep pinning their hopes on just one more thing and I worry that soon he’s going to run out of pins. I’ve seen a few ominous things about what might be coming, but the game itself is ominous enough. even as you get these memories of the quality time siffrin is spending with the party, they’ve got loop’s voice in the back of their head telling siffrin about how to plan for the inevitable next time loop. and I already had to redo one once, and you just see how everything fades for him, how these genuine connections that he felt just have become a rote script he just has to try to get through, and I know it’ll only get worse from here…

You even see it in the smallest things of just the ecstatic joy siffrin felt about the snack Bonnie made for him just fading down into the same old mask.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

Charlos au where carlos is a resident of a politically destroyed country and charles is a hitman and carlos needs his help to kill the politicians and restore his country and they pretend as a married couple BUT ALONG THE WAY—

i was like “oh god not more prompts” and was gonna mentally nope out of this. but THEN i had a vision of hitman/huntsman carlos paying a visit to royal charles’s accommodation — in this fantasy-ish AU charles is the heir to the kingdom that follows matrilineal lines and gender presentation is less rigid. and anyway i digress. point is:

carlos is in charles’s room, high in a castle tower. the fireplace is crackling and carlos had to fight off almost a dozen henchmen to even get here, but for now they are indispensed and unlikely to bother carlos or charles for the next several hours at least.

charles has been hiding an important diplomatic fact about his family (a freshly negotiated alliance with the hamiltons, a formidable line on their own, one of the most respected and coolly ruthless) that may alter the balance of power as they know it.

carlos is aware of that charles has this secret, that he is likely bethroed to another, because it’s a political marriage. and maybe he knows that charles knows that he also knows, so really it’s a triple bluff.

so carlos has come to the room to seduce charles and see how far he can push the other man. he leans into his heartbreaker/debonair persona and seduces the socks off charles. backing charles onto a chaise sofa, leaning into his space, eyes flickering over his body, voice all husky: “we both know you’ve wanted this, cabrón.”

“did i?” charles whispers. head tilting in carlos’s hands, jaw moving under carlos’s fingers as he speaks. carlos remembers the last time he felt this sensation. it was an injured deer he had found in the forest, before his men made the mercy kill with a knife.

“when were you going to tell me about king hamilton?” carlos asks.

what does he have that i do not? carlos doesn’t say. his mind echoes with the answers. a treasury. an army. safe harbour, fortified by unfathomable power — so much so that charles would never need to run from anything again.

charles remains very stil in carlos’s hands. he only blinks once, slowly, like a cat trying to prove it is not a threat. carlos knows better. he has travelled far from these lands, you see. he knows that there are large cats, not like here. ones that swish their tails just like kittens, but they are to be feared.

“carlos. this game is so much bigger than you could understand.”

that angers carlos. the reminder that he has been a pawn. so he leans his body over charles, pushing charles’s back into the chaise with a thump. he towers over charles, wills him to feel his hardness, his rage, his fear.

it is a corruption of the way they once laid together, summer day in a field far away, on a previous trip when he was assigned special royal guard. no entourage, just the two of them, a quick disappearance from the city in a politically fraught time. they went west, all disguised, so nobody knew charles’s name. and carlos wishes he could have just a minute of that day back. he wonders what he might do with that minute, now.

carlos leans down, and they kiss. carlos holds back at first, then doesn’t, mouth challenging charles’s, heated, bordering rough, willing him to challenge back.

charles is icy as a surface of a lake.

when they break apart, carlos is breathless. charles keeps his hands on carlos’s shoulders, but it feels mechanical, a rote dance with a nameless suitor. carlos knows charles, knows the mask he puts on when he truly retreats inside himself. for a necessary performance, for self protection. and carlos hates it.

“was any of this even real to you?” carlos spits.

charles’s eyes are open, then. and sad. embers burning through coal before it dims again.

“would it make a difference to you, if it was?”

[random-thot-generator]

Where the Love Light Gleams

A 'LOVE THY FRENEMY' HOLIDAY ONE-SHOT

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

-

Summary: Simon comes home for Christmas.

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, So. Much. Fluff., No use of Y/N

(Notes: Wrote this for @glitterypirateduck and her Christmas fic challenge. Merry Christmas, Ducky. Love you, my enabler! (((hugs)))

My inspiration was the song 'I'll Be Home for Christmas'. Thought it would be perfect for Ghost, since he has such a tragic association with Christmas Eve. Decided to give my favorite masked man a happy Christmas for a change. Oh, and there's a little musical accompaniment for the last scene in the fic. It's linked. It's how I imagined Fiona and Ned would sound when singing the song. Hope you all enjoy and happy holidays. May your love light always gleam.)

Word Count: 4.2K

[image via TENOR] [Skull Divider] [Mistletoe Divider] [Banners]

I'll be home for Christmas You can plan on me Please have snow and mistletoe And presents under the tree

Christmas Eve will find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams

— Kim Gannon and Walter Kent, 'I'll Be Home for Christmas'

-

Simon doesn't 'do' Christmas.

He's not told you why he doesn't celebrate the holiday, but it's something deep-rooted and painful, something he avoids speaking about or even acknowledging. You don't push; that's not the way to get Si to talk. You accept it as is and wait for it to come out in its own way, in its own time.

When you mention decorating for the holidays, he offers no comment. He usually likes to tease you about such things, seems to find it amusing how much you love decorating for each season and holiday, but Christmas is different. It pulls a dark shroud around him that leaves him brooding and quiet.

He doesn't gripe like he would when retrieving your boxed decorations from the attic, never utters a complaint when you ask him to help get the tree in its stand. Yet he doesn't linger once you begin to decorate it, instead taking himself off to the pub, returning hours later reeking of scotch.

When he announces a few days later that he's most likely going to be deployed over Christmas, you're not surprised; disappointed, yes, but not surprised. You don't ask if he volunteered for the assignment; you don't want to know.

"Sorry, doll," he mutters after giving you the news, then he takes himself off to his office and closes the door. You'd be more upset about it, but his apology is sincere, that invisible shroud hanging heavy on his shoulders and bowing his head.

When you follow him to the door a few days later to say your goodbyes, you hug him tight and whisper, "Going to miss you, Grumpy. I'll check in, alright? So, don't worry about me. Just... stay safe. Come home."

He clutches you to him, a ragged breath gusting past your ear. "Gonna miss you, too, doll."

You pull back and give him that crooked smile that makes his chest constrict. You watch him hitch up the duffel on his shoulder, adjust the mask on his face, then he nods to you and steps out the door. He gets about halfway down the walk before you call after him. He pauses, looks back.

"All my X's and O's, Grumpy."

He grunts, even though he feels like he's choking, his voice strained as he replies by rote, "Damn right, they're all mine."

You snort a laugh and shake your head.

He takes another moment to look at you, taking in the little smile on your face, leaning in his doorway, your arms crossed over your chest. You're dressed in one of his old hoodies and leggings, a pair of those ugly fuzzy socks on your feet, Christmas themed, of course. He burns the image into his brain before he turns and trudges through the gate, climbing into his truck and driving away without another backwards glance.

-

Simon spends two weeks on assignment but returns to base in plenty of time to go home for Christmas.

But he doesn't.

Simon surprises Price when he asks to be put on the duty roster over the holidays, the captain knowing that this would have been your first Christmas together as a couple, but he wisely refrains from commenting or asking questions. John knows why Simon doesn't celebrate Christmas; he had just been hoping that this year would be different for his lieutenant.

Simon doesn't call or text, too guilt-ridden to face you, but he reads each text you send, watches every video you share, his heart clenching every time you say his name and tell him you miss him. Because, Christ, he misses you, too. So bloody much.

It's two days before Christmas when Price stops by Simon's office and invites him out for a drink. The captain is leaving for Liverpool in the morning, yet he felt the need to give Simon this one last chance to change his mind about going home, hoping he can bring him 'round by getting him to talk about you. He knows Simon misses you, catches him looking at your photos on his phone, re-watching those videos you've sent, over and over again. The lad wants to go home to you, he's just too bloody stubborn to admit it.

They're strolling down the sidewalk to the King's Crown Pub in Hereford when something catches Simon's eye in a shop window, and Price suddenly finds himself walking alone. Stopping, he turns to see his lieutenant staring through the window, one gloved hand pressed to the glass. Curious, he retraces his steps to see what's captured the other man's attention. His brows climb up his forehead when he sees it's a collection of charm bracelets made of white-gold links, delicate little charms and colored beads dangling on display atop a dark green cloth of crushed velvet.

"Pretty," he comments, noting Simon's avid gaze.

"Look at tha' one charm," Simon murmurs, finger pointing. "It's a li'l stack o' books. See it?"

Price peers through the window, nodding, playing along. "They all got a theme, don't they? Like that one must be for a nurse, an' that one with the books is for a teacher. See the ruler and pencil? Even got a little apple," he says, pointing out the charm and chuckling.

It's a little white-gold apple set with the tiniest red gemstones. Simon's heart gives a flutter in his chest and his breath fogs the window as though it's just been punched out of his lungs. He remembers that you once told him that in literature, apples often symbolized knowledge.

But also love.

"Huh," Price grunts. "Says on the sign ya can choose the charms ya want. That's nice, innit? Makes it more personal."

That does it for Simon. He can see the shop is closed, but they're open tomorrow. If he gets there when they open, he can buy a bracelet and be on the road before lunch. It's a four-hour drive, but if all goes well, he should be home before you leave for the Christmas Eve party at the Dog. Hell, he might even go in for a few minutes, say hello to Ollie.

"Hey, Cap. I know it's late notice, but ya think I might—"

John grips Simon's shoulder, a pleased smile crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. "Say no more, lad. I'll take your name off the duty roster when we get back. Consider yourself on leave, effective tomorrow morning."

-

Simon returns to the jewelry shop as soon as it opens the next day, braving the horde of last-minute shoppers to purchase the bracelet. He spends nearly an hour going over all the different charms available, picking the ones that remind him most of you, but making sure to buy two apple charms, as well as a little skull charm that he couldn't resist.

The shop owner puts the bracelet in a slender, velvet box and wraps it in pretty foil paper, adding ribbons and a bow, before handing it over to him with a warm smile. Simon nods his thanks and tucks it safely inside his coat, heart beating faster as he makes his way back to his truck. He's nervous, he realizes, but that only makes his steps more determined. He's running a little late, but if he makes good time once he hits the M4, he should still get home before you leave for the party.

Once he's on the A417, he peers over at the diminutive gift in the passenger seat, and that nervous fluttering he's been feeling in his chest returns. He hopes you like the bracelet, hopes it makes you smile. He thinks you will like it, thinks you'll probably love it, in fact. He can't wait to put it on your wrist.

He's about an hour into the almost four-hour drive to Banfield when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, glances down to see your name, but doesn't answer, though he wants to. He had decided he was going to surprise you and answering would give him away. So, instead, he waits until he gets the voicemail alert, then hits the play button, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Si! Was thinking about you, so decided to check in. I've been baking all day, getting ready for the Christmas Eve party at the Dog. Fi and Ollie said to tell you hi. Margie and the Gillys send their best, too. Oh! Guess what? Ned and some of his mates are going to be playing at the party. Ollie said they're really good... Anyway, I guess that's it for now. I miss you, Si. Take care of yourself and come home safe, yeah? All my X's and O's, Grumpy. Bye."

Simon's hand is trembling when he pulls the phone away from his ear. "Damn right, they're all mine," he mutters softly. An overwhelming feeling wells up inside him, a feeling so intense it prickles and stings at the backs of his eyes. He huffs a shaky breath and presses play again.

"Hey, Si! Was thinking about you, so decided to check in..."

-

An accident on the M4 delays his arrival, so by the time Simon turns onto his street, it's well past dark and he's well past irritated, or at least he is until he sees his rowhouse come into view. He parks at the curb and sits there, peering through the foggy windscreen, his dark eyes reflecting the lights decorating the front of his home.

Warm yellow string lights twinkle in the cold night air, wound through the bushes and outlining the door and windows. There's a large wreath hanging on the door that's lit up as well, its jaunty red bow slightly fluttering in the wind. It's as pretty as a Christmas card.

Simon sighs out a long breath and it feels like a weight is being lifted off his shoulders as he continues to stare at his house. That's my home, he thinks, our home, and is caught off guard by the revelation, because of the way it makes him feel.

Through the sitting room window, he can just make out the blinking of more Christmas lights, though it appears that the rest of the house is dark. He huffs and shakes his head. He's always griping at you for leaving appliances plugged in or the lights on, but this time, he's glad you did. Grabbing your gift from the passenger seat, he tucks it back into his coat and exits the truck, duffel slung over his shoulder.

That warmth he's grown accustomed to feeling when he returns home now, once more engulfs him again as he makes his way up the walk to the front door. Though he knows you're not at home, that you've already left for the party, he can still feel your presence in the glow of the lights, welcoming him home.

His comes to a halt when he steps through the door. The first thing that hits him is the sweet scent of baked cookies, with hints of orange, pine and warm spices to round out the smell. When he closes the door behind him, sleighbells jingle on the door handle, making him snort out a soft laugh, before he turns to take in the rest of the house.

You've not gone crazy with the decorating, though he told you to do whatever you liked. There are potted poinsettias in the entry, a bit of greenery gracing the door and window frames, pinecones and candles with sprigs of holly arranged on the entrance table. You kept it low-key. For him.

Yet it's the Christmas tree that makes him wince in regret. He had avoided looking at it before leaving, and how sorry he is that he did.

The tree glows in the darkness, drawing him further into the room. You had kept it simple with the decorations for the tree as well. There are strings of stale popcorn and dried cranberries draped over the branches. Carved wooden ornaments and glass baubles, worn from years of loving use, are suspended on thin loops of ribbon. A delicate, filigreed gold star tops the twinkling boughs. He sighs, bumping a wooden nutcracker figure with his index finger.

And then he spots his ornament.

It's a half-skull made of clay, formed to mimic his mask, but with a Santa hat on it, 'Simon' etched into the cranium in your neat script. It's obviously hand-made, though done so with care and skill, and he wonders how long it took you to make it. He can picture you sitting at the island in the kitchen, tongue caught between your teeth as you molded and shaped the air-dry clay with your deft little fingers.

When he strokes his thumb over the skull, he can feel that there's something also carved into the back of the ornament. Turning it over, he sees you've carved 'Grumpy' into the clay, then beneath it, 'All my X's and O's', and he laughs.

"Damn right, they're all mine, doll," he says, laughing to himself.

And if his laugh sounds a little choked, a little watery, there's no one's there to hear it but him.

-

The Dog is bustling, the villagers all come down to the local for Ollie's Christmas Eve party. Dear old Ned and his lads are set up in the back corner, playing a lively rendition of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', his long-suffering wife seated nearby, clapping along.

Ollie is behind the bar, resplendent in his Santa coat and hat, serving up pints of cider and winter ale, while Fiona and Margie supervise the tables laden with food. Pushing through the kitchen door, you side-step your boss with another tray of freshly baked sausage rolls, the smell of them drawing a drunken conga line into your wake.

"'Scuse me. Pardon," you repeat again and again as you wade through the crowd, tray held aloft.

Fiona takes the tray from you when you finally make your way over, placing it on the table before motioning you to join her off to the side. Placing an arm around your shoulders, she whispers, "Take a break, Dee. Ya've been runnin' yerself ragged since ya got here."

She's right. Staying busy keeps your mind occupied, distracts you from the lonely ache that's been plaguing you all day. You thought you had accepted Simon's absence, had resigned yourself to being alone for Christmas, but the feeling has only grown worse as the night's progressed. Still, you can't deny you're feeling a little frazzled, so you nod and pat her hand.

"Was planning on taking break, anyway. Just wanted to get those sausage rolls out first. This lot's eating them faster than I can make them."

Fi snorts a laugh. "Aye, so no need tryin' t'keep up with 'em. Go on, love. Get yerself a drink an' rest. Enjoy the party. Me an' Margie got it covered here."

You offer her a parting smile and head towards the bar, waving Ollie over as you squeeze in between two drunk blokes arguing about the proper ingredients for wassail.

"What can I get ya, sweetheart?" Ollie asks, leaning on the bar in front of you.

You were going to ask for cider, but what comes out of your mouth is, "Two fingers of Dewer's, please."

His eyes go soft and a little sad. "Sure, lass. Comin' right up."

You sigh, feeling like a lovesick eejit, pining after Simon when you know he'll be home in a few days. This is something that you need to get used to since this will no doubt be how you spend the rest of your Christmas holidays for the foreseeable future. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing, really, less than nothing, so you need to just let it go. You'll be fine.

Ollie slides your drink over to you, watching as you take a sip and grimace. He'd laugh if it weren't so bloody heartbreaking. He can see you miss Simon like mad, and the old captain feels his palm itch with the need to box his greenie's damn ears. Sure, he understands why Simon doesn't celebrate Christmas, but you don't, and that's the rub of it. He should at least explain, help you understand.

"Ya doin' alright, love?"

You nod and plaster on a smile. "Yeah, just knackered after all that baking. I'll clean up in the back after my break."

Ollie waves you off. "Leave it. Ya've done enough. Go have a seat an' rest yer feet."

The room erupts in shouts and applause, distracting you both, as Ned and his band finish their song. Ale and cider go sloshing as several in the crowd lift their pints aloft in salute. There's a lull in the din as the band discusses what to play next, then Ned calls for Fiona to join them.

A genuine smile lights up your face when you see your bessie join Ned, the two of them whispering a moment before she nods then takes a calming breath. Not many know it, but Fiona sings like an angel, so this will be a rare treat for everyone.

The room grows quiet as Ned exchanges his fiddle for a guitar, then begins to pluck out the chords to 'I'll be home for Christmas'. The rest of the band sit back to give the pair center stage, letting the sound of the guitar resonate through the room as Ned begins to sing. When Fiona joins in, the room goes completely still.

"Christmas Eve will find me/ Where the love light gleams..."

And suddenly the tears are welling up, your chin wobbling, and you have to duck out of the room and down the hall into Ollie's office, before anyone sees you crying. You drop down into the chair in front of Ollie's desk, feeling so lonesome for Simon, you think your heart might break.

You're still sniffling, swiping at your face with the sleeve of your sweater when you hear the door open behind you, Ned and Fiona's harmonized voices filling the room.

"S-Sorry. Just needed a moment," you stammer out, peeking over your shoulder expecting to see Ollie or Margie standing in the doorway. Your breath hitches in your chest when you see Simon standing there, instead.

"Si?"

"Miss me, doll?"

A sob tears out of your throat as you launch yourself at him, his big arms wrapping around you and catching you up in a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet. "Bloody hell, I've missed ya, love. Had to come back," he tells you, his voice muffled by your neck.

Your hands are grasping his head, kissing him over the mask before he growls and strips it off his face, tossing it aside as he steps forward and kicks the door shut behind him. He doesn't hesitate before carrying forward, setting you on the edge of Ollie's desk as he kisses you with all the yearning and longing he's been feeling since he walked out his door three weeks ago.

You're clinging to him, desperate to feel his hands on you, his lips on you, just needing to feel him. His thumbs wipe away the tears still streaming down your cheeks as he cradles your head in his hands. "Don't cry, doll. Please don't cry," he mumbles against your lips, his own voice sounding haggard.

You sniff, a watery little laugh escaping. "Can't help it. I'm just so happy you're home."

You feel his lips smiling against yours. "Me, too, love," he whispers, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips before pulling away. "I... I got ya a present," he mutters, reaching inside his coat and removing the box. He hands it over, his dark gaze almost shy as he whispers, "Happy Christmas, doll."

Your eyes are wide and unblinking as you take the gift with trembling fingers, eyes darting over it before snapping up to meet his. "Si, you didn't have to—"

"Christ," he huffs, a soft smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "Shut yer gob an' jus' open it, ya bloody brat," he murmurs, lowering his head to bump his brow against yours.

Your smile is giddy as you peer into his eyes and nod, tearing into the paper, catching your bottom lip between your teeth before opening the slender box. You gasp when you do.

"Oh, Si..." you breathe out, fingertips lightly tracing over the individual charms. "It's beautiful. It's... perfect!"

You're positively beaming when you throw your arms around his neck again, hugging him with all your might. He rumbles out a laugh, hugging you back just as tight. "'M glad ya like it, doll. Knew I had t'get it fer ya as soon as I saw it."

You sigh, pulling away to peer down at the bracelet again, overwhelmed. "The charms. They're all the things that I love," you say softly, beyond touched. There are tiny cooking utensils, a rolling pin and little cookpot. A little stack of books, a tea pot, a cute little bookworm. Tiny garden tools, flowers. The skull makes you giggle, brushing an affectionate finger over it as you smile. And the apples, two of them, one set in red gems, the other in green. "I love this so much, Si."

"Want me to help put it on yer wrist fer ya?"

You nod eagerly, handing the box back to him. "Please."

His fingers shake a bit as he takes the bracelet from the box and drapes it over your wrist, his big fingers fumbling a bit before he finally attaches the clasp. He takes your hand by your fingertips, arching your wrist to see how it looks on you, smiling. "Lookit tha'. Knew it would look good on ya."

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks ache, unable to take your eyes off of it. "I love it, Si," you whisper, your eyes drifting up to meet his. "I love it. And I love—"

A sharp rap sounds at the door, cutting you off, and Simon thinks he might kill whoever is on the other side. He growls, bumping his head against yours in frustration. You sniff a little laugh and peck his lips before calling out, "Just a sec." You stroke his stubbled jaw. "Best get your mask," you whisper to him.

He's adjusting it on his face when you go to open the door, not surprised to see Ollie standing out in the hallway. "Sorry, Ol. Didn't mean to commandeer your office."

Ollie glances over your shoulder with a shrewd eye. "'S fine. Jus' wanted t'check on the two o' ya." Translation: 'Just wanted to make sure the two of you aren't shagging in my office. Again.'

Simon scoffs, reading between the lines as well. "Don't worry, Ol. We're fine. Still fully clothed, as ya can see. Jus' wanted t'give Dee her present. in private."

"Uh-huh," he grunts, dubious. Yet when you hold your wrist out to show him your bracelet, a proud smile creeps over the older man's face as he admires Simon's gift. "It's lovely, Dee," he tells you, giving Simon an approving nod. "Ya did well, son. Good lad."

Simon's near bursting with pride when he walks you back out into the bar room, eyes smiling above his mask as friends and neighbors come up to welcome him home and wish him a happy Christmas. He doesn't think once about leaving.

As he sits in one of the booths, an arm around your shoulders, relishing the feel of your warmth against his side, he peers out over the pub, takes in all the faces that have become familiar to him, his neighbors and friends, and, yeah, his family. It warms him from the inside out, seeing everyone gathered together, eating and drinking and laughing, the whole scene set aglow by hundreds of twinkling lights.

He hears you sigh and glances down to see you admiring your bracelet again, your face glowing with an inner light that warms him through and heats his blood. It's the same light that sees him through the hard battles, that leads him out of the darkness when he's lost, that will always guide him home.

He pulls you tighter against him, burying his mask in your hair to breathe you in. He thinks about that song Fi and Ned were singing when he entered the pub, that one line replaying in his head.

'Christmas Eve will find me/ Where the love light gleams...'

And he finally understands what the term 'love light' really means, because you're glowing with it.

And so is he.

-

[kingwuko]

The parallels between bopal and wuko just keep on happening because i just remembered the scenes in the metal clan/ROTE where mako/opal tell wu/bolin to just be themselves and the latters are like "be myself..i can do that!" and its killing me 😭

OKAY I did just watch that episode recently and I noticed that and OMGEEEEEEEEEEE like yes I love it

BUT then I started thinking about that advice... And started thinking about my headcanons for Wu and Bolin. Are we all on the same page that Wu and Bolin have ADHD? Like. I feel like they do. And I'm sure anyone with ADHD will relate to the struggles of trying to reign themselves in to fit in better, ADHD masking. And it is actually REALLY refreshing when you've been pretending and holding back, for someone to tell you that its okay to be yourself...

that got serious I'm sorry.

Also Wu and Opal both do the princess diaries leg pop in the ruins comic when they hug their men.

COINCIDENCE? I think not

[dustorange]

the very idea of a person self-identifying as a “commentary” content creator is sort of lame and impotent and repulsive in that theyre already like very presumptively assuming a place of discernment and intelligence and a sense of rising above the fray and above the alleged stupid dumb rote memetic imitative trend brainlessness of upper middle class like tiktok Influencer or Normie people but even in their analyses—which are often mostly or at least directionally correct—THEY ARE GUILTY OF EXACTLY THE SAME KIND OF GROUPTHINK and TRENDS, just using stretched-out academized language, e.g., every point they make criticizing “overconsumption” is the exact same, albeit vaguely correct, as every fellow like vaguely left person and it’s the exact same as every textual social media’s current majority wave of opinion. And so they’re like dialectically framing themselves in this narrative as a very thin brave cutting-edge new criticism layer OVER the like dumb sheeple overconsumers who just latch onto trends and don’t think for themselves—but that stimulus is so small and the response (criticism of the stimulus and either explicitly or implicitly That Type Of Person, usually “”normies”””) is not new at all and they’re only repeating mindlessly the tropes that have already been laundered through X The Everything App or The Atlantic consensus but it’s framed as suchhhh smart important sociological analysis and the other problem with it is that implicit in this “commentary” or in this criticism is this sense of gleefulness that they get to be on this side of the tide of criticism, such that even though they ARE right, and their explicitly stated reasons are indeed like correct and follow through, you know that these reasons really just a mask for something else, a deeper personal social resentment/jealousy, and criticism in this way, a leveling of the playing field with the acting-wrongly-by-overconsuming socialmediabrainedNormie who is perceived somehow to be higher either by virtue of wealth or because of social status/popularity or (and i think this is a very big one) because they are Happy. The act of criticism confers intellectual status; it promises status to these people who, deep down, know they shouldn’t have it. Because they’re rotten and dumb and groupthinky too, and they have the added bonus of being moralising and bandwagony after pretending to be above that! Because they don’t have the horsepower to actually organically react and form thoughts on these cultural trends—they HAVE to wait for the vocabulary to trickle down (the term overconsumption) and for the “go ahead” to be given . Which is why all of the criticism is exactly the same!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT ITS ALSO TRUE THAT THE TREE SUGAR SCRUB OVERCONSUMPTION SHEIN THING IS CRAZY. But the criticism of it by certain people just rings so subtly jealous and sour and smirky and like it’s driven by lowheat simmering anger and its just like ugh i dislike you even more than the shein $300 haul people because you have a resentful vindictive wrongness of spirit that you’re trying to launder as thoughtful anticapitalist cultural analysis