#Self-Cleaning Water market

[darknight3904]

It Burns For You

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ. ᴏᴏᴄ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ!

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

Coriolanus is 12 when he sees you for the first time. Your red uniform is pressed perfectly and your school bag looks brand new. Your lunch consisted of a hearty-looking sandwich with roast beef and lettuce and a container of fresh fruit that had his mouth-watering.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." Your voice fills his ears

A delicate-looking hand is holding a juicy-looking strawberry in front of him. He reaches for it and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to shove it in his mouth. Instead, he takes a small bite and thanks you for sharing.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

He doesn't. The school had said they would start supplying the students with lunches soon but how soon? Coriolanus had already been attending for a number of years and still nothing.

"I already ate it." He lied

"You're still hungry though. You can have the rest." You say with a smile as you push your fruit bowl to him.

"Is it your first day?" He asks

"Yes, my mother thought that my governess wasn't doing a good job so she had my father enroll me here. I miss being at home with my new kitten though. She has long white hair and she is the cutest thing in the whole world." You said

Coriolanus can't believe that you had your own governess, let alone a pet to call your own. He later learns from Arachne that your father became incredibly rich by manufacturing weaponry for the Capitol. Despite your inherent wealth, you've never flashed it around him.

You and Coriolanus are 15 when you discover all the lies he tells at school about his family. He had left his uniform jacket behind on his chair and you got his home address from Sejanus, meaning to give it back so he'd have it for tomorrow. Instead, you had discovered the Snow's decrepit-looking building and barely functioning penthouse. Coriolanus' heart nearly stops when he emerges from his room to see you and his Grandma'am sitting together as she compliments your shoes.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, ready for your judgment and teasing words

"I wanted to return your jacket, Coryo. You'll need it for tomorrow."

The red of the jacket in your arms matches his face as he ushers you to the door, trying to hide the fact that Tigris was preparing cabbage in the kitchen that would undoubtedly stink the entire place up with the scent of the Snow's poverty.

"Stop rushing me, your cousin invited me to stay for dinner." You say trying to stop the way he is leading you to the door.

"You don't want what she is making. Tigris is a terrible cook." He said

Tigris lets out a shout of disagreement from the stove and Coriolanus ignores it.

"How about, I go out and get something to add to the meal Tigris is cooking, and by the time I get back you change your attitude about me staying for dinner Coryo. "

And with that, you walk out the door and slam it in his face. He's rather stunned at your declaration but knows you're serious. He rushes around their home, trying to clean up what he can while Tigris laughs at his frantic motions. Then, just as he was debating whether or not he wanted to change out of his uniform, you return from your short trip to the closest market.

"I wasn't sure what Tigris is cooking so I got a couple of things." You say placing the bags on the table.

Coriolanus is sure you spent a fortune on what is in these bags. Fresh bread accompanied by a sickly sweet fruit spread and a block of butter sits in one while the other holds something else in a brown box. You take your seat next to him at the ugly little table he has eaten too many meals at and cut a piece of the bread for Grandma'am. He is worried when Tigris starts portioning out the cabbage she cooked on the stove. Coriolanus watches your expression as you take a bite but nothing that he expected happens. You don't knit your brows in disgust or get up to leave and take your fresh bread and mysterious box with you. Instead, you go back for a second bite and compliment what Tigris has done with the food.

He sits stiffly next to you and can barely accept the slice of bread you offer him. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom and Tigris reaches across the table and pinches his shoulder.

"Stop sitting like that, Coryo!" She scolds

"Like what?" He asks,aware that Tigris meant how oddly straight his back was.

"You're making her uncomfortable. You've been friends with her for years she isn't worried about what our home looks like." Tigris says

"She might not be but what happens when she goes to school tomorrow and talks?" He asks

He shuts up when he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening again.

"That was lovely Tigris. I've never had anything like it, I'll have to invite you all to my own home for dinner sometime. Our cook makes these pastries that are simply wonderful. They even get sold at local markets, which leads to this..."

His eyes widen when you finally unveil what was hiding in that second bag. A dozen expensive looking deserts sit in the brown box you brought, each one decorated differently.

"I hope I picked something everyone would like. I know Coryo mentioned that Grandma'am liked chocolate so I picked this one just for her."

Coriolanus feels a wide smile stretch across his face as you pass out your little desserts. His worries about you gossiping to their peers fade from view as he bites into what he thinks is a croissant. You laugh at his reaction and toss a napkin at his face which is most likely covered in the gooey fruit filling that was in his pastry.

He walks you back to your home that night and thanks you for making his night. He can't remember the last time Grandma'am had smiled from eating chocolate. You accept his thanks and gently tell him that he shouldn't be ashamed about his financial situation. He never gets to disagree with you though because a soft kiss is pressed to his lips followed by a rushed,

"Goodnight, Coryo! Thanks for the cabbage!"

He walks back to his own home with a jump in his step. Thoughts of you consume him as he smiles to himself, proud his first kiss was shared with you. He feels his heart burn with something that felt like it was going to come up and out his mouth as he finally made it back to his room, you officially had him wrapped around your finger.

Your room is flooded with sunlight the first time Coriolanus sees it. A soft, silky-looking bed spread sits atop one of the biggest beds he has seen as you beckon to your cat, Maisy to come and say hello to him. He looks at the oversized wooden dresser that sits against one wall. He sees the photograph of him and you that was taken a few weeks ago at your 17th birthday party nestled among little knickknacks. Books Coriolanus has never even heard of line your shelves as he you place a record on the player that sits on your desk. Soft sounds of a piano and the words from an unnamed singer fill your gorgeous room as he turns to you.

"Do you want to dance?" He finds himself asking

You accept and he leads you or well tries to. You're rather stiff and it turns out dancing is harder than it looks because he isn't any good at it either. You laugh as he trips over his feet and end up falling with him, landing on the ground entangled in each other. Your fingers brush his curls from his eyes as his nose brushes yours.

"What're you doing?" You ask quietly

"Nothing." He responds, his eyes flicking to your lips.

The moment his lips touch yours, a tingle shoots down his spine. This is a real kiss, not what you gave him when you were both 15. He cups your face and your hands are tangled in his hair as he deepens it. He felt his head spin as you moved against him, almost as if you wanted him to swallow you whole right here on your bedroom floor. A giddy feeling swelled in his chest when he pulled away for air.

"Coryo...what was that?" You ask

"I thought you'd know by now. That was a kiss, darling." He laughed brushing his thumb across your lip

"I know that...but why'd you give me one?" You ask

"Don't you know?" He smiles and places a chaste kiss on your lips "My heart, it burns for you, it always has."

Part 2 is out now!

Series Masterlist

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

The thing is, Tommy’s worried about Evan coming over to his house for the first time. He’s seen Evan’s loft. It’s all clean lines, modern appliances and details. What little sentimental odds and ends he owns are tucked away or so subtle than Tommy didn’t spot them the first couple of times he came over.

Tommy’s house, by contrast, is filled with the detritus one accumulates when they’ve gone no contact with everyone related to them and they’re trying to create a homey, family atmosphere out of thrift stores and the Pottery Barn catalogue instead of friends and family.

He’s a knick-knacker, an antique furniture collector, a throw pillow and afghan fanatic.

He doesn’t have much in the way of books, but he has shelves and shelves of notebooks, some full, some half-used, some untouched. It’s a habit he picked up when his first ever therapist (after he left the 118) coaxed him into writing everything down to make a little sense of the mess of contradictions, phobias, old prejudices, prejudices still clinging on and traumas that made it feel impossible to figure out what to talk about first when he sat down in that office.

There’s a small, awkward section of wall in his kitchen created when a previous owner of the house decided to add a laundry room (embarrassingly, his favorite room in the house for it’s sheer utility) and that’s where Tommy hangs his collection of coffee mugs. Some of them are Goodwill finds, some souvenirs, some band merch or creations by local artists he picked up at some market or other.

There’s five different varieties of protein powder constantly cluttering his kitchen counter because he ran out of room in the small pantry. His pots and pans hang over the tiny, rolling kitchen island, which is itself nearly taken over by a serving tray that holds his water filter, a candle, a decorative planter filled with his cooking utensils, a plastic case of toothpicks.

He still has a dvd collection, for heaven’s sake, and it takes up most of his sagging entertainment center. He should replace it, but it’s the first piece of furniture he ever restored and he’s having trouble letting go. Speaking of letting go, there’s a dog bed in the corner for a dog that passed away nearly ten months ago. He probably will at least hide that in a closet before Evan gets here.

Because he is coming over. No matter how nervous Tommy is, he’s not gonna come up with another excuse for why they have to postpone or meet at Evan’s instead. He gets the feeling he’s already made Evan a little wary, and with Evan’s relationship history and his fear of being too much, not enough, just left, Tommy will eat his own foot before he purposely exacerbates Evan’s fears.

If Evan looks around and decides Tommy is a hoarder or a slob or a million other nasty epithets Tommy’s brain is offering up like some cruel, self-sabotaging buffet- Well, they’ll talk about it. They’ll learn and adjust. Evan has never, ever been cruel to Tommy and it’s quite frankly laughable that he would start now.

That’s what Tommy tells the rogue half of his brain trying to rain on their parade. Another thing he picked up from his therapist - name the part of you that spews negative self-talk and talk back to it. Predictably, Tommy named his Vince. Shut the fuck up, Vince.

Evan’s shift ended twenty minutes ago and Tommy has chili on the stove keeping warm. Between showering and the drive over, Evan should be due at his door in another twenty-five or so. Tommy hides the dog bed, lights the kitchen candle, tries to find things to do with his hands so he doesn't watch the time like a hawk. They’ve had conflicting shifts for almost two weeks with only stolen moments and half-asleep kisses in between. Tommy misses his boyfriend. But a watched clock never ticks, or whatever.

His strategy works, because Evan’s knock on the front door actually startles him a little from the stack of unopened mail he’s sorting through. So many flyers for what feels like every home decor and craft store in the state.

Evan’s eyes are gentle and joyful when Tommy answers the door. “Hey.” He leans in to squeeze Tommy’s bicep and press a kiss to the wing of his cheek. Tommy can feel Evan’s mouth stretch into a smile against his skin.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy wiggles his fingers under the strap of Evan’s duffel to take it from him and steps aside to let him into the house. His heart thuds in his chest.

Evan surrenders his bag and steps into Tommy’s home for the first time. If he notices Tommy holding his breath, he doesn’t comment yet.

He takes a look around while Tommy tries to look anywhere but his face. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s being a complete lunatic about this, that he let his anxiety take over for the better part of the day.

When Evan turns around to face Tommy again and slides his hands over Tommy’s waist, presses his fingers into Tommy’s back, nudging them closer together, his smile has split into a full grin. Tommy can’t help reflexively smiling in return. He can feel his cheeks flooding with warmth. It should be embarrassing that Evan still makes Tommy blush at the drop of a hat even all these months later, but if it helps Evan know deep in his bones that Tommy is gone for him, Tommy wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It looks like you.” Evan draws his hands up and down Tommy’s torso in gentle strokes. “Cozy. Warm. Like…” He trails off and bites his lip, drops his eyes to Tommy’s chest.

Tommy hooks his fingers under Buck’s chin and lifts his gaze back up until their eyes meet in a move that’s become so routine it’s pretty much an inside joke between them. “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging.”

It’s Evan turn to flush a deep pink. He takes an unsteady breath in. “L-like home.”

An immense weight lifts off Tommy’s chest so quickly it almost steals his breath, but Evan has tensed up just a fraction, so Tommy hums softly, spreads his big hands over Buck’s wide shoulders and digs his fingers in to massage the tension back out. He slides deeper into Evan’s space to take his mouth in a chaste, lingering kiss, and he murmurs against his lips. “Glad to hear it.”

[appocalipse]

Congrats! How huge! Can I shop?! 🛍️

There's an antique lock and key set and a pair of velvet gloves that look like they have my name written all over them (or a smutty friends to lovers with Steve Harrington where maybe we're partners in a game - drinking game at a rager, yard game at a bbq, board game on a game night, chicken at the pool party...I'm not picky - and celebrating our winning streak gets...a little out of hand 😉😉)

thank you, angel ♥ i got more than a little carried away with this one lol 6.4k words | cw: fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex 18+ only! mdni! literally the smuttiest smut that ever smutted

amy's flea market ♥

"Ready?" Steve asks.

No. Fuck, no.

“Yeah,” you respond. Steve smiles that almost evil smile of his and dives down so you can climb onto his shoulders. Again. You can't believe you're doing this again.

It's the third round of chicken fighting that you and Steve are participating in, and as you climb onto Steve's shoulders, you try not to think that you're climbing onto Steve's shoulders.

Steve. Your friend Steve. The guy you have the world's biggest crush on...no, fuck that. It's more. You know it's more, but you're afraid to admit the stronger word.

Because Steve is Steve. He's off limits.

Which doesn't make it any easier for you to try not to think about the way his big, warm hands are now on your thighs, holding on tight so you don't fall off his shoulders, where you're sitting in nothing but a bikini, his head between your legs...

"1, 2,3...go!" Robin yells, sitting on the edge of the pool with her feet in the water. You raise your arms as the team in front of you advances, the girl's arms stretched in hopes of pushing you off Steve.

But you and Steve are, apparently, invincible today.

It happens faster this time; next thing you know, the girl's grip slips, and you are the one who ends up pushing her into the water, her partner also losing his balance in the process. They laugh and the crowd — including Robin — goes wild. The adrenaline surges through your veins as you realize you've won. Again. Steve keeps you up there for one more moment, just so you can throw your arms in the air, giggling, enjoying your third victory in a row. Then, he carefully lowers you down into the water. 

When he emerges again, wet hair sticking to his forehead, he's grinning at you as he grabs your wrist, making you raise your arm one more for the crowd.

You giggle.

Steve sighs. It's that laugh of yours, the one that makes his heart skip a beat every time. 

"I think that's enough for today," you say, lowering your arm and grinning up at him, a bit dizzy from the adrenaline of the victory and the heat of the sun on your skin. 

Steve suddenly feels dizzy too, for a completely different reason.

He unsuspectingly watches as a fat drop of water travels down your lower lip, to your chin, your neck... and then you turn around, moving in the direction of the pool ladder. Against his better judgment, he follows.

Once out of the pool, you look around. 

"D'you want me to grab a clean towel for you?" Steve offers, ever the gentleman.

"Towel, yeah, that would be great..." you murmur, feeling ten times more self-conscious now that the two of you are out of the water. You don't even know most of the people here… "Can I come with you?"

Steve coughs.

The pool party had started earlier that day. The only clean towels remaining in that house now are in his bathroom. 

In his room.

And you're all wet.

For God's sake. That's the last place where he should be alone with you right now. 

But, like an idiot, Steve nods, "Sure, let's go." 

He leads you through the living room, past a group of people who are sitting on the floor, drinking and laughing, to the stairs, taking them two at a time. You're a little out of breath, but manage to keep up with his long strides until he reaches the top. The hallway up here is a lot dimmer, but you can still see the soft, warm sunlight coming from beneath his bedroom door. It's strange how you've never been in his room before. Countless times in his house, sure, but never his room.

Steve clears his throat and then opens the door, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

It's... not what you expected. It's not messy like the stereotypical rich boy's room, but it's not pristine either. It's neat, orderly, but... lived in. There's a king-sized bed in the center of the room, covered with a duvet that looks like it's been slept in. A small nightstand on each side of the bed, with a lamp and a few framed photos on top — you're even in some of them with him and the kids. The walls are painted a soft, warm blue, and there's a big window next to the bed, letting in the bright sunlight.

The air smells like... like him. Like soap and hairspray.

Steve clears his throat, drawing your attention back to him. He's still shirtless, so it's not like that's hard to do. "Here, take this," he says, tossing a towel in your direction. You catch it reflexively, feeling the softness of the fabric against your bare skin.

"Thanks," you murmur, rubbing your hair with it. 

The sound of laughter from downstairs seeps in through the partly open window. Steve is standing on the other side of the room, a towel loosely draped around his neck, and maybe it's that mysterious drink Robin offered you earlier making you imagine things, but there's a strange tension in the air and you're under the distinct impression that Steve is consciously avoiding you as you dry off.

You wonder what he's thinking. 

Steve clears his throat again, seeming to steel himself for something. "Um... I'm gonna go grab a drink. You... you want one?" he asks, not quite meeting your eye.

"Sure. And...can you get my dress? I left it downstairs earlier."

Steve nods, turning away from you so fast you almost wonder if he's mad. He disappears into the hallway, and you hear the click of the door being closed behind him, followed by the distant sound of footsteps as he makes his way downstairs.

Left alone in his room, you wander over to the bed and sit down on the edge, now wrapped in your towel. The duvet is soft against your bare skin, and the pillows smell like him. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to curl up here with him, to feel his warmth surround you as you drift off to sleep.

Probably not the kind of thought you should have in your friend's room.

The door opens again, and Steve steps back in, two glasses of something clear and fizzy in his hand. "Here you go," he says, handing you one of them. You take the drink gratefully, sniffing at it before taking a sip. It's some kind of spritzer, sweet and tangy. "And here's your dress."

It's draped over the curve of his arm. Steve sets his own drink on the nightstand before sitting down on the bed beside you, extending his arm so you could take the dress.

You do take it, but make no move to put it on. "I didn't know you were that good at chicken fighting," you say, trying to make it sound light-hearted.

Steve smiles. "Pretty sure it was all you."

"Of course not," you playfully nudge him. "We're a team."

He looks at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he reaches for his drink and takes a generous sip. "Yeah, a team," he repeats softly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He studies you for a moment, taking another sip of his drink. The silence stretches between you. You wish you knew what was going through his mind, if he was feeling the same things you were.

"It is something," you quietly insist.

Steve looks at you, his eyes flickering uncertainly. "I don't know what you mean," he says finally, but there's a catch in his voice that betrays him, a hint of vulnerability that you've never heard before.

You stand up. He looks at you like you had just slapped him. 

"I'm still wet," you explain. Then, way too quickly for your embarrassment to go unnoticed, you add, "from the pool, I mean! Not...I don't want to make a mess of your bed or anything, you know...I mean, by sitting there while I'm wearing a wet bikini and-"

Steve cuts you off with a laugh. "Hey, hey," he says, reaching out to take your hand. "It's okay. You're fine. You can sit here." He squeezes your hand gently, and there's a warmth in his touch that sends a shiver through you. "And if you did make a mess, I'd clean it up. No worries."

You sit down again. Better than awkwardly standing there. 

"Very gentlemanly of you," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Steve shrugs, returning your smile. "I'm not that bad, am I?" he asks, his voice teasing.

"The worst. But you're a good partner in chicken fighting, though."

Steve swallows hard.

"Just that?"

There is a moment of silence, as you and Steve stare at each other. You know exactly what he means, what's behind that question, behind the look he's giving you right now, studying your face like it's the first time he's seeing it. At least...you think you know. 

He puts his glass aside again. You open your mouth to say something, but he's faster.

"I need to go."

"Wait-"

He doesn't wait. Steve is on his feet in a second, almost at the door in two. 

But you, somehow supernaturally faster…you grab his wrist. You grab his wrist with both hands and oh God, Steve's not quite sure what to do with you now. He doesn't respond, doesn't move. You tug at his arm, wanting him to turn around, look at you. He doesn't.

"Steve."

His name feels like a whisper on your lips. It's not loud, but it's urgent. 

Steve is having a hard time remembering why he's supposed to keep his distance from you. He turns around to look at you, your hand slipping down to his, still not letting him go…and he realizes it was a bad idea.

The desperation in your eyes mirrors his own, and before he knows what he's doing, Steve is leaning in, hands grabbing your face, mouth finding yours, lips parting. 

He's not gentle, not soft. 

You moan into the kiss and Steve kicks the door closed without looking, his hands finding your waist as you cling to his neck, the towel falling at your feet. Your lips part and he slips inside, tasting you, feeling the warmth of your breath on his skin as you gasp, stumbling back as he pushes forward.

The bed is soft but cold beneath you as you land, Steve on top of you, pinning you down."God," he groans into your neck. "Sorry."

You giggle. "God, sorry?"

He groans in reply, lips moving against your neck as he continues to kiss his way down your collarbone. "I mean it," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. "I shouldn't be doing this."

"M' not...complaining."

Steve laughs roughly into your skin, pressing his lips to the dip between your breasts and finally looking up into your eyes. He pauses for a moment, searching for something there. You can see the uncertainty in his expression, the fear of losing control, of what will happen if he really lets go.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you say automatically.

He chuckles at your answer, a soft, low sound that vibrates through your chest. "You're sure?" he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again, this time softer, slower. "Because I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to take advantage of you."

"How could you possibly take advantage of me?" you ask, sounding almost annoyed.

Steve smiles. "I don't know. I just..." He trails off, pressing a quick kiss to your chin. "I just want this to be right."

You can feel his hesitation, his worry, but you don't want to push him away. You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, and look into his eyes. "I want to."

"You want to?"

"Yes."

There's a moment where the weight of what you've just said seems to press down on Steve, making him pause. He looks into your eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or fear, but finds only the truth. He exhales shakily, looking like it takes every ounce of his self-control to do so. "Tell me you're not drunk."

You reach up, tracing his jawline with your fingers. "I'm not drunk."

"Fuck..." he mutters, trying to concentrate as you trail your fingers down his neck, over his collarbone. "Really? Don't lie to me."

You smile, shaking your head in disbelief. "I'm not drunk," you repeat. "I had like…two drinks. Are you drunk?"

Steve laughs, a choked-up sound. "I've had more than that," he admits. "But I'm…I'm okay." He looks at you for a long moment, like he's trying to commit your face to memory, just in case. Then he leans in, kissing you softly, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that belies his earlier urgency. "But even if I were drunk, you're welcome to take advantage of me anytime."

You smile against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I'll keep that in mind," you whisper, feeling a rush of affection for him. Steve groans into the kiss, pressing your back against the mattress as his hips move between your legs. His skin feels hot against yours, his muscles tense, and with nothing but the thin fabric of your bikini bottom and his swim trunks between you, there's little left for the imagination.

"Steve," you breathe out as he kisses his way down your neck, nipping at your skin with his teeth. His name feels heavy in your mouth, like you've been holding it there for years and it's finally been given the chance to be spoken. "Steve…"

"You keep saying my name like that and I'm going to lose it."

You feel the wet heat of his mouth as he kisses his way back down your neck, over your collarbone. His fingers are patient, too patient as they trail up your sides, over your ribs, stopping just shy of your breasts like he's afraid he'll go too far, too fast, too soon.

"Can I-"

"Yes."

His laughter is soft as he pulls back to look at you, eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly parted. He brushes a strand of wet hair away from your face, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"What were you going to say?"

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Something about wanting you. About how I can't believe I'm finally here with you." His fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of your neck before one hooks playfully under the delicate string of your bikini top. "I was going to ask if I could touch you."

You nod, feeling the anticipation building inside you. "Yes," you breathe, arching into his touch. "Please."

His smile is slow, almost wicked. He lets go of the string and instead cups your breast, thumb tracing the hardening peak of your nipple through the thin fabric of your top. Your back arches further, and a soft moan escapes your lips as his fingers find purchase and squeeze. He pulls back slightly, watching as you close your eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Is this okay?" he whispers, tracing a circle around your nipple with his finger.

"Yes," you manage to choke out.

Steve hums in understanding, his touch growing more confident as he cups your breast in his hand, squeezing gently before circling your nipple with his thumb. The sensation is almost too much, making your hips twitch against his as you arch further into the touch. 

He wonders for a moment if he should take it further, if he should untie the knot and push the bikini top down, revealing your breasts to his touch...would you be okay with that? Or should he keep going, teasing you until you beg? His eyes flicker down to your lips, watching as they part slightly with each shallow breath, how your tongue darts out to wet them. 

You're so beautiful, he thinks, almost dizzy from the sight of you.

He can feel the warmth between his legs, the insistent pressure as his cock strains against the fabric of his trunks. You'll be the death of him, he's certain. He's already so fucking hard and you're not even naked yet.

He leans in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Can I?" 

He kisses your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. And then his fingers slide lower, tracing the line of your stomach, pausing at your navel… 

"Can I touch you here?"

The feel of his fingers tracing the line of your stomach, so close to where you ache for him to touch, is almost too much to bear. You chuckle as you arch your back, offering him more of your skin, more of yourself, then grabbing his wrist when he doesn't seem convinced, guiding his hand lower. 

"Please," grinning, you run your fingers through his hair with your free hand, feeling the dampness there as it clings to the strands, "stop asking."

He smiles against your skin, his fingers finding the soft, warm skin of your inner thigh, tracing up and down, so close to where you're aching for him. "You're sure?" he whispers, his voice low and teasing. "You're sure you want this?"

"Steve Harrington, you-"

But you can't even finish the sentence before he's kissing you, his mouth warm and wet and demanding as his fingers finally slip between your legs, sliding beneath the thin scrap of fabric and you gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch, forgetting whatever insult you were going to say.

You feel the rough pad of his index finger against your clit, and then he's pressing, circling, teasing.

"Fuck."

"You're so wet," he breathes, watching your face. "So fucking wet for me, honey, God," His fingers move faster, his touch more demanding as he presses deeper, finding your entrance and circling, circling, wanting to push inside. 

You grip the back of his head, your other hand clutching at the duvet beneath you, your hips arching off the bed as his fingers move in a blissful, insistent rhythm. It's been so long since anyone has touched you like this, since you've felt this kind of need and desire, but this…this is even better than you could have imagined. This is Steve, your Steve.

"I want you inside me," you pant before you can think twice about it, your words breathless and urgent. "Please."

Steve hums, his fingers still working their magic as he leans forward, kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. "I want that too," he whispers, and then he's pushing the bikini bottoms aside, throwing them across the room, revealing your wet, aching folds to his gaze, moving to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, over your hip, and finally to the juncture of your thighs. 

Shit. He parts your legs with his shoulders, bending his knees to kneel between them. "Let me make you come first."

With...his mouth?

You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at his face, more than a little self-conscious now. "Wait, but you...you're gonna...?"

He wraps his arms around your hips, holding you still as he leans in, his breath warm against your exposed skin. Curiously, he asks, "You don't want me to?"

You shake your head; no, of course you do. But the idea of him going down on you...it's so intimate. So much more than just having sex. "I just..."

He looks up at you, and there's something in his eyes that makes you forget whatever you were about to say. Something that makes you feel safe and wanted and desired. "You just...?" he whispers, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thigh.

It's hard to concentrate when he does that. You squirm a little, but his hold on you is surprisingly firm.

"I just..." You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. "I just haven't had anyone do that for me in a really long time." It's true; the last time you can remember was with a boyfriend years ago, and even then it was more of a "be polite" thing than anything else. But with Steve...it feels different. "Do you *really* want to? Because you don't have to if-"

You feel him smile against your skin as he continues to gently kiss his way up your thigh. "I want to," he whispers, and the way he says it, the sincerity in his voice, makes you believe him. "I really want to. But, um…only if you want it too."

You open your eyes, watching as he looks up at you, waiting for your answer. He looks so hopeful, so eager. If he wants this, if he wants to make you feel this good...how can you say no?

With a shaky breath, you nod, your fingers threading through his hair. "Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

Steve hums in satisfaction. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he slowly pulls your legs wider apart, resting his elbows on the bed as he leans in closer, his hot breath fanning across your folds. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he gazes up at you, watching your reaction, almost daring you to tell him to stop. 

You watch, mesmerized, as he tilts his head, licking his lips before he leans in, pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the very center of you. 

Boy... does he know what he's doing.

Your eyes flutter shut as he begins to lick and suck, his tongue dancing over your most sensitive skin, his fingers curling into the flesh of your hips, urging you to arch into his touch. You gasp, feeling your whole body tense, your hands tangled in his hair, your nails almost digging into his scalp. He moans, his breath hot against you, and you realize he's watching your reactions, taking cues from your body. 

"Good?" he asks, as if you're not already on the verge of coming. 

But you can't answer, can't form a coherent thought, let alone a word. So you nod.  Frantically so, head thumping against the mattress. He smiles against your skin like he's won some sort of prize, and then you feel the slip of his fingers, two of them easily sliding inside you, tight but wet enough to be ready. You cry out, his name a desperate plea falling off your lips as he thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them up to find just the right spot. 

"Oh, God..." you moan, your hips bucking up against his hand. "Steve..." Your fingernails dig into the duvet, your back arching as he expertly works his fingers inside you.

Steve seems to sense that you're getting close, the way your hips are moving erratically against his hand, the way your breath is coming in short, ragged gasps. He looks up at you for a moment as if to gauge your reaction, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He keeps his fingers exactly where they are while he leans up over your body to kiss you, propping himself up on one elbow.

"You taste so good," his voice is a whisper against your lips as they part beneath his. "So wet. God, I want to feel you around me." 

"Yes, please."

Your enthusiasm makes Steve grin against your lips. "Please?" he muses. He's hard, of course he is hard in his swim trunks, cock straining against the fabric as it leans against your thigh. But he doesn't want to rush this. Not with you.

"Steve," you admonish, sliding your hands up his arms.

His fingers are still moving, but more slowly now, less urgent. It's almost as if he's teasing you, drawing this out. Your hips rock up against his hand, and you feel a surge of wetness between your legs as you arch your back, seeking more contact. His lips find yours again, tongue sliding against yours as he thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them to hit just the right spot. You moan into the kiss, your body trembling as the pleasure builds, your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Oh God," you say in a shaky voice. "Steve, please..."

He groans against your lips, curling his fingers deeper inside you, searching. "Please what?" he whispers as he kisses along your jaw, teasing, not mean, never mean, but drawing it out just a little bit more.

In lieu of an answer, you find yourself arching your back in a desperate manner. His fingers brush against something deep inside you, something that has you gasping and tightening around him, close too close. His fingers find the rhythm you've been craving, your orgasm building, building, building.

"That's it," he whispers against your neck, his own breath hot and uneven. "That's it, baby."

And you do. It's unlike anything you've ever felt before, a rush of pleasure so intense it makes your vision blur, your skin warm all over. 

Steve, watching your expression as you come apart beneath his touch, feels the warmth of your release coat his fingers, the tightness of your body around them. God. It's a heady sensation, knowing that he can make you feel this way.

His fingers are slick with your wetness as he pulls them free and gently pushes you back onto the bed. You're lying flat on your back again, and he's grinning as he looks down at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"You're...very good at this," your voice is a breathy whisper as you glance up at him, a flush rising in your cheeks. You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him down for a gentle kiss. Steve's skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his kiss featherlight soft against your lips. "Do you want-"

"Yes," he cuts you off with a husky laugh, leaning down to nip at your neck. "If you do," His hand finds the string of your bikini top, finger following along it all the way up to the bow. With a practiced flick, he undoes it but doesn't yet pull the fabric away, watching your eyes as he lets the knot slide free, half expecting you to tell him to stop. You don't, though. You watch him, your chest rising and falling with every breath, and something in his chest aches at the sight.

"You can take it off," you reassure, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "It's just me." 

You hope that comes across as playful and confident, but maybe you don't seem so convincing when you're still a little breathless, a little sensitive, so you decide to take matters into your own hands and reach up, fingers shaking only a little, to pull the cups of your bikini top down and away from your chest. 

Steve watches you, his expression somewhere between adoration and awe as you reveal yourself to him like a fucking gift unwrapped. 

"You're unreal," he breathes. "You're so..."

When he reaches out to touch, just the very tips of his fingers brushing against the sensitive flesh, you try to encourage him by arching into the contact.

"So fucking beautiful," he whispers, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. "I can't get enough of you." 

His hands slide down your sides, over the smooth skin of your hips, and then lower still, cupping your ass. He pulls you closer, pressing your body against his, slowly grinding against you. "Do you want..." he tries, an urgent edge creeping into his voice. "Do you want me inside you?"

Steve looks like he's about to explode at the mere suggestion, his expression a mixture of raw desire and aching need. You're about to reply when he nips at your neck, his teeth grazing the skin there. You momentarily lose your words.

"You're killing me," he half groans, half laughs, his hips moving harder against yours as he pushes himself as close to you as he possibly can. You can feel him through the thin fabric of his swim trunks, hard and insistent, and you're sure it wouldn't take much more of this teasing before he loses control completely. "Just say the word," he whispers, kissing along the line of your jaw, "and I'll give you anything you want."

"Can I...can I touch you?"

You feel Steve stiffen at your request at first, his body tensing beneath your fingers. "Of course you can," he breathes, a shudder working its way through him. "You can do whatever you want, baby."

You reach down, fingers shaky in your eagerness to please. You grasp the hem of his trunk and tug gently, almost hesitant, but he's already cooperating, kicking them off and letting them fall to the floor without so much as a second thought.

"Oh,"  you breathe, eyes widening as you take in the sight of him, naked and perfect in front of you. Steve's cock is already hard, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip, and you can't help but reach out and touch it, tentatively at first, but then more confidently, wrapping your fingers around the base of him and waiting to gauge his reaction.

"Oh, fuck," he moans, closing his eyes as you stroke him. "That feels...that's so good."

Your fingers feel warm and soft around him, and with each gentle stroke, he feels himself growing harder and harder, unable to contain the pleasure building inside of him. He opens his eyes to look down at you, watching your expression as you touch him, your focus solely on the way your fingers slide up and down his length.

Before you can get too carried away, though, Steve's hands are grabbing yours, guiding them away from his cock rather urgently. "If you want me inside you," he pants, a strained smile tugging at his lips, "you're going to have to stop that." His voice is a little shaky, a little rough, and you can tell he's struggling to keep himself in check.

You grin up at him. "I...do want that."

Steve's answering smile is a little more confident now, and he leans forward, brushing the pad of his index finger across your lips, tracing the shape of your bottom lip as he does so. "I think you've had enough teasing today," he whispers, hand moving to cup your neck, his thumb rubbing gently over your pulse point. "You really want this?"

"Yes," you breathe, unable to keep the word from slipping past your lips. "Yeah, I do."

Steve's thumb continues to trace circles around your pulse point as he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. His kiss starts gentle, a mere brush of his mouth against yours, "Yeah? Can I?" sliding his hand down your stomach, between your legs, he adds, "Fuck, yeah, you're...you're wet enough."

You gasp into his kiss as he brushes his fingers against you. "Yeah," you moan, arching your hips up into his touch, with a grin, "Yeah, I am, I...you're gonna make me beg or something, huh?"

"I'd never make you beg for anything, sweetheart."

His fingers move in a slow circle, spreading your wetness around your entrance, making sure you're as ready for him as you can be.

You reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck. You pull him closer as he begins to shift between your legs, his hand coming back up to gently guide himself towards your entrance, and then he looks down at you, searching your eyes for some sign, some reassurance, before he's pushing inside, slowly, gently, taking his time to ease his way into you. 

You gasp at the feeling of being stretched, filled, but at the same time it's perfect, it's...right.

He leans forward, bracing himself on his arms, and watches as you arch your back, your lips parted in a silent moan. "More?" he whispers, his voice a rough rasp. "Should I...?"

"More," you breathe, meeting his eyes.

And Steve gives it to you. He slides deeper, pushing in farther, stretching you just enough to make you feel so full of him. You're tight and he's impatient, but he makes sure he doesn't rush, doesn't force it. You feel the muscles in his back and arms tensing as he fights against the urge to go harder, how much he wants to lose control and just fuck you into the mattress.

He takes you like he's been dreaming of it for years, like he's never going to get the chance to feel you like this again. Slowly.

"Steve," his name rolls off your tongue like a sigh the moment he's all the way inside you, your muscles clenching around him in an attempt to hold him close. 

He tries to remember how to breathe, pressing his lips to your shoulder. He feels you squeeze around him and muffles a sound between a moan and a growl against your skin, "Can I move?"

"Yes, I...yes."

He pulls back slightly, just enough to adjust his angle, and then pushes back inside you. The sensation is almost too much, the way your body seems to fit so perfectly around him, the way your muscles clench and release, drawing him deeper still. Fuck. You're so wet that he can feel himself sliding easily in and out of you. The sounds of your skin slapping against his is a perfect counterpoint to the gasping, keening noises you're making into his shoulder.

He knows he won't last half as much as he'd like if you keep that up.

"God, that's it," he growls, the words lost in the movement of his hips against yours. "Tell me how it feels, sweetheart." One of his hands slides down between your bodies, cupping your aching clit, rubbing in a tight circle as he thrusts into you. The sensation is overwhelming, too much and not nearly enough all at once.

Your legs twist, one hooking behind his back for leverage, and you arch into his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders as you feel the tension building, the familiar tightness coiling in your core. "So good," you moan, thrusting your hips up to meet his, wanting more of that friction, more of his skin against yours. "Can you go...faster, please?"

He's lost to the sensation of your body moving against his, the feel of you slick and hot and tight. He's close, so close, but he doesn't want this to be over yet. He pulls back slightly, only to slam back in harder, the head of his cock hitting the spot inside you that makes you arch your back and gasp.

His hand moves faster on your clit, circling and pressing, and you're so close now, so close, you can feel it building, making you shiver and writhe underneath him. Steve leans down, lips finding the skin of your neck, sucking and nipping as he thrusts harder, deeper, faster.

"Yes," you moan, arching into his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, yes."

Steve lets his hand move from between your legs to the back of your knee, hooking it there, holding you open to him as his cock slides in and out of you with a harsh, wet sound. You feel so full of him, stretched and sore and aching in the best way possible. 

He's so close now, the tension in his body almost painful as he fights against the urge to come before you do. Steve watches your face as you writhe beneath him, lips parted and flushed, eyes glazed over in pleasure  like you can't quite focus. It's the most erotic thing he's ever seen. He doesn't want this to end. Being inside you like this, feeling the way you move against him...he doesn't think he'll ever get enough.

Your nails scrape down his back, leaving little red lines in their wake. Steve thinks he's going to lose it every time you do that.

"Fuck," he groans, the word caught in his throat as he thrusts harder into you. The sounds of your skin slapping against his makes it almost unbearable and he has to think of something else, anything else, to keep from coming. "Feels good, sweetheart?" he whispers, his hand moving between your legs again, this time finding your clit and rubbing in a steady, circular motion.

You arch into his touch, your hips moving in time with his thrusts. "So close," you moan, your voice shaking. "I...I..."

Steve feels the tension building inside you, knows that you're close. He watches your face, the way your eyes have almost rolled back in your head, the way your lips are parted and your breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. 

He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and teasing as pushes inside to the hilt, holding you there, feeling your body trembling beneath him. You cry out then, your back arching off the bed, and Steve feels you tighten and pulse around him, gripping him like a fist as you come. 

The sensation is almost too much, but he somehow manages to ask, "Can I come inside you?"

You nod, your eyes closed tightly, and he thrusts once, twice…then one last time, feeling himself spill inside you as he moans, body tensing and then relaxing, spent. 

Steve collapses on top of you without pulling out, sweaty bodies sticking together. He somehow finds the energy to kiss your shoulder, your neck, your ear, nibbling and sucking until you laugh, shifting beneath him.

"You're heavy," you tease, but you don't really mind. It feels right to have him pressed against you like this, his heart thumping against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

He chuckles, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck. "Sorry," he mumbles, before pulling himself up enough to look down at you. You're beautiful, even with your hair tangled and your lips swollen from his kisses. "Do you want to get cleaned up?" he asks, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

"I think I love you."

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and for a moment, you're not sure if you should take them back. But then Steve's eyes widen, his lips part in surprise, and you know it's too late. You've said it.

"Sorry, I shouldn't...I mean, I-"

Steve cups your face in his hands, his eyes wide and serious. "I love you too," he says, his voice a little unsteady. "I have for a long time." 

He leans in, pressing his lips to yours gently, then more firmly, as if he's making sure this is real, that you feel it too. 

But you feel it too.

God, you feel it too.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A taxonomy of corporate bullshit

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

There are six lies that corporations have told since time immemorial, and Nick Hanauer, Joan Walsh and Donald Cohen's new book Corporate Bullsht: Exposing the Lies and Half-Truths That Protect Profit, Power, and Wealth in America* provides an essential taxonomy of this dirty six:

https://thenewpress.com/books/corporate-bullsht

In his review for The American Prospect, David Dayen summarizes how these six lies "offer a civic-minded, reasonable-sounding justification for positions that in fact are motivated entirely by self-interest":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2023-10-27-lies-my-corporation-told-me-hanauer-walsh-cohen-review/

I. Pure denial

As far back as the slave trade, corporate apologists and mouthpieces have led by asserting that true things are false, and vice-versa. In 1837, John Calhoun asserted that "Never before has the black race of Central Africa, from the dawn of history to the present day, attained a condition so civilized and so improved, not only physically, but morally and intellectually." George Fitzhugh called enslaved Africans in America "the freest people in the world."

This tactic never went away. Children sent to work in factories are "perfectly happy." Polluted water is "purer than the water that came from the river before we used it." Poor families "don't really exist." Pesticides don't lead to "illness or death." Climate change is "beneficial." Lead "helps guard your health."

II. Markets can solve problems, governments can't

Alan Greenspan made a career out of blithely asserting that markets self-correct. It was only after the world economy imploded in 2008 that he admitted that his doctrine had a "flaw":

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/greenspan-admits-flaw-to-congress-predicts-more-economic-problems

No matter how serious a problem is, the market will fix it. In 1973, the US Chamber of Commerce railed against safety regulations, because "safety is good business," and could be left to the market. If unsafe products persist in the market, it's because consumers choose to trade safety off "for a lower price tag" (Chamber spox Laurence Kraus). Racism can't be corrected with anti-discrimination laws. It's only when "the market" realizes that racism is bad for business that it will finally be abolished.

III. Consumers and workers are to blame

In 1946, the National Coal Association blamed rampant deaths and maimings in the country's coal-mines on "carelessness on the part of men." In 2003, the National Restaurant Association sang the same tune, condemning nutritional labels because "there are not good or bad foods. There are good and bad diets." Reagan's interior secretary Donald Hodel counseled personal responsibility to address a thinning ozone layer: "people who don’t stand out in the sun—it doesn’t affect them."

IV. Government cures are always worse than the disease

Lee Iacocca called 1970's Clean Air Act "a threat to the entire American economy and to every person in America." Every labor and consumer protection before and since has been damned as a plague on American jobs and prosperity. The incentive to work can't survive Social Security, welfare or unemployment insurance. Minimum wages kill jobs, etc etc.

V. Helping people only hurts them

Medicare will "destroy private initiative for our aged to protect themselves with insurance" (Republican Senator Milward Simpson, 1965). Covid relief is unfair to people that are currently in the workforce" (Republican Governor Brian Kemp, 2021). Welfare produces "learned helplessness."

VI. Everyone who disagrees with me is a socialist

Grover Cleveland's 2% on top incomes is "communistic warfare against rights of property" (NY Tribune, 1895). "Socialized medicine" will leave "our children and our children’s children [asking] what it once was like in America when men were free" (Reagan, 1961).

Everything is "socialism": anti-child labor laws, Social Security, minimum wages, family and medical leave. Even fascism is socialism! In 1938, the National Association of Manufacturers called labor rights "communism, bolshevism, fascism, and Nazism."

As Dayen says, it's refreshing to see how the right hasn't had an original idea in 150 years, and simply relies on repeating the same nonsense with minor updates. Right wing ideological innovation consists of finding new ways to say, "actually, your boss is right."

The left's great curse is object permanence: the ability to remember things, like the fact that it used to be possible for a worker to support a family of five on a single income, or that the economy once experienced decades of growth with a 90%+ top rate of income tax (other things the left manages to remember: the "intelligence community" are sociopathic monsters, not Trump-slaying heroes).

When the business lobby rails against long-overdue antitrust action against Amazon and Google, object permanence puts it all in perspective. The talking points about this being job-destroying socialism are the same warmed-over nonsense used to defend rail-barons and Rockefeller. "If you don't like it, shop elsewhere," has been the corporate apologist's line since slavery times.

As Dayen says, Corporate Bullshit is a "reference book for conservative debating points, in an attempt to rob them of their rhetorical power." It will be out on Halloween:

https://bookshop.org/a/54985/9781620977514

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/27/six-sells/#youre-holding-it-wrong

[meidui]

to the point of invention

for @robertdowneyjjr

There are four quiet years after Tony Stark's infamous press conference as stock prices climb back up the vine and Stark Industries earns its reputation back. Iron Man is, among other things, good crisis management. For four years, Stark Industries grew its branches in robotics and microtech and slowly but steadily puts down new roots in clean energy. Four years is long enough for thinkpieces on the slumber of Stark Industries to get old.

Then, all of a sudden, new inventions begin flying out the doors of that tower again, every patent hot off the press, a renaissance of when Tony was too young to run the company and just young enough to be called a wunderkind. What's different is that this time, his designs land in civilian hands.

First comes Everglass, a nearly indestructible glass that self-repairs. They're installed on the windshields of people's cars, mostly. Then come the StarkVision glasses, which are contracted in bulk to underground mines and fire departments. There's MyJarvis, an AI home assistant that nursing homes love.

Tony Stark does an interview, his first public media appearance in two years, and the interviewer wants to know where he gets his inspiration from these days.

He smiles a little, not at the camera and barely even at the interviewer, and then says, "I've got this friend. He's pretty accident-prone. I guess that's my inspiration."

-

There are four busy years after the press conference that still gives Pepper a headache. Tony shores up the company on one shoulder and the world on the other, and this is his chance to do something good, so he doubles the size of his robotics and microtech divisions and doubles them again and starts in clean energy. He spends four years with his head down, making up for the last twenty, and sometimes he wonders what the hell he's going to make next, if the only thing he's good for is weapons.

Then Steve Rogers comes crashing into his life like a comet, and in the wreckage he makes, Tony thinks, I can do better than weapons.

Tony watches him stumble off the Quinjet, glass shards in his hands and a gash on his forehead where a bit of debris blew through the broken window, and after he sits through medical with him, he disappears into his lab and comes out two days later with a prototype: a panel of glass that's nearly indestructible and self-repairing if it does break.

They're busting a black market bunker when the lights crash out and the pipes burst, and Tony's got his HUD, but there's panic in Steve's voice because he can't see in the pitch black and the water is getting higher and higher. That night, with one hand still wrapped in a mitt of bandages, Tony fits Steve for a pair of specialised glasses.

In a moment of vulnerability, Steve says that he likes JARVIS because he's been easy to understand since the beginning. It was the first thing about the Tower that made him feel safe, and Tony realises just how many people JARVIS is capable of helping.

Tony accepts an interview request for the first time in four years. It's a live taping and he gives Steve a VIP pass to it.

"This is for me?" Steve asks, lighting up, and Tony smiles at him, resisting the urge to tell him, it's all for you.

[360iris]

For me, the vibe drastically shifts when I think of the moon knight system individually—

Like there’s Steven, who’s very sweet and accommodating. He’s easy going but just the right amount of snarky that never fails to make you snort with laughter.

He’s the kind of person I’d want to go to Starbucks with and order a large refresher only to walk around Target for a good two hours like it’s the mall or a farmer’s market.

Steven is Tuesday nights spent sprawled out on a modest sized couch, the two of you wrapped under a large blanket and trying to be respectful of each other’s space as you’re both self conscious of how much space you’re taking up.

But eventually, your calves are touching and ankles are interlocked as you’re leaning over him to get something off the end table.

It’s him standing at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth and intently listening as you rambunctiously complain about obnoxious coworkers and customers over the noise of the shower running, shampoo being massaged into your scalp and rinsed from your hair.

He’s the partner you spent your adolescence daydreaming about.

And then there’s reserved, calculated and partially measured Marc. He’s quiet in an attentive sort of way, the type of big, semi-permanently grumpy guy who’ll take mental notes of literally everything that has to concern with you.

For example, he’ll pinpoint the exact pieces in your wardrobe you’re more inclined to pull out and wear before anything else in your closet— and he’ll always be sure to have washed, folded and returned them to their drawers so that they’re ready for you to pull on again at the end of the day.

It’s the kind of act of service that’s so subtle, you don’t realize he’s been doing it for months.

This man will fully memorize your go-to restaurant orders and act like it’s simply a coincidence when the waiter arrives and he’s just finished flawlessly reciting what you want, for you.

He knows what things you tend to somehow always forget to pack in your purse for work and will neatly line them up on the kitchen bar so that you couldn’t possibly miss them (you still forget to take them though… and after a while, he just starts packing your work bag for you. It doesn’t take long and he finds it’s nice that it gives him something to do.)

Marc is Sunday mornings spent baking cupcakes, lining the counters with different flavored box mixes, eggs and large ceramic bowls. Splashes of vanilla extract, tins smeared with butter and coated in flour for easy removal. The smell of sweet chocolate icing filling the air.

The two of you taking turns alternating from dish duty to prep. Pressing indulgent kisses in between his shoulder blades as he whisks eggs into oil and water like the yellowy yolks owe him money.

The way you serenely clean up behind him— a little spilt cake mix here, or broken eggshells there— doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. The small gestures really go miles for him.

Marc wordlessly gives out tender pecks, against your temple or at the nape of your neck just because. He’s comfortable silences and fingers warmly intertwined.

He’s the man you find yourself stealing glances at when you think he’s not looking, wondering how you got so lucky.

And last, but never least, there’s Jake who’s hardy, spartan and disciplined. A true product of his environment and circumstances. Someone who learned from their oppressors and surpassed them in their capacity for brutality. The thing about Jake however, is that he has a great proclivity for gentleness as well.

Jake is Wednesday nights, the two of you undressing layer by layer, garments piling into a neat stack to later be placed into the laundry hamper. Jake resting his chin over your right shoulder, his arms wrapped around your middle as you fold your pants and his shirt.

He’s knelt alongside the white garden tub, his hand under the running water from the facet, adjusting the temperature as needed. Eucalyptus scented suds and bubbles fill the space around you as your back rests against his chest.

With his hands brought around your front, he peels one of the set of three clementines you’d brought from the kitchen. Hand feeding you segmented pieces to be lazily gnawed at, soft sloshes and splashes sounding at your feet as you wiggle your toes in the comfortable silence. The two of you exchanging hushed mumbles.

He’s cold nights with chill air slashing your cheeks, a steady chocolate stare he fixes you with as you shuffle in place in front of him. His neck craning as he leans forward, a gloved hand encasing your hands clasped at your mouth and moving them aside— his lips pressing against yours wordlessly.

He’s the protector you only ever heard about in passing stories.

[saltofmercury]

The Garden

Pairing: König x reader

Authors note: this was based on this skin I saw on him I just picture this guy having a garden or being a bee keeper.

"The Garden"

It had started with poppies. Red, orange, and pink. As if it were a routine every Sunday morning he would come in, flowers behind his back, a coffee on the other hand, and kissed you deeply. He would then present his assortment from behind his back.

You gushed at the small bouquet, wrapped in the comic section from the newspaper, colors of the comic making the petals stand out more. It was small things like that, that made you wonder more about him. As secretive as he was about his job, bits and pieces of his true self came out too.

Then, his second attempt was to bring you flowers you’ve never seen before.

Pink orchids, perfect storm hibiscus, ranunculuses, in different shades you couldn’t believe. 

“It’s not my birthday…” you sighed, exhaling in adoration. Surprised by his generosity every time.

“It is for… just because” he smiled, seeing your eyes roam the petals, the smile on your face growing slowly, making his heart melt.

You wondered, what farmers market was he going to that you couldn’t find?

It wasn’t until one weekend that you over welcomed your stay that you uncovered his secret little hobby.

You had woken up, startled that his side of the bed was cold. You huffed, upset that he had gone to the gym. You stretched and slumped down the hallway to get started on breakfast.

Or so you thought.

You saw König through the window in his backyard holding a soil bag over his shoulder, his face covered by a towel, and a bucket hat.

He had been up at six in the morning, dressed in a white t-shirt, denim overalls, and green rain boots. What was he up to?

You walked over to the window, knocked on it. It was so cute seeing him turn around, his face a shade whiter because of the sunscreen cast, then a smile appearing on his face. You waved at him, and he dropped the soil bag, walking over to the door.

“Schatzi… you shouldn’t be up at this hour” 

“It’s 9:30 in the morning…”

“Exactly, it’s way too early for you.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“I didn’t know you.. tended a garden.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes.

“It’s nothing, I don’t like a messy backyard.”

“Yeah yeah,” you paused, he had taken out many tools, laid out in front of a gate.

“Since when does the military show you how to garden?”

He laughed at you, and swiped a finger on your nose.

“I’ll be done in one hour, and we can go to breakfast.”

You ignored his proposal, wanting to see more of him in action.

“No, let's stay home today, I can eat here, you finish gardening.”

He side eyed you, thankful for not disrupting his hobby, and shrugged.

“Okay schatzi I’ll be outside.” He turned back to his garden.

The entire morning you had watched him bent over, on his knees, poking, prodding, cutting, digging, pulling, planting, watering, and spraying his entire backyard. You sat by the window, sipping your third cup of coffee. He had finished by eleven in the morning, just in time for lunch.

He came in, drenched in sweat, stomping his way to the kitchen. He poured himself a huge glass of water, and proceeded to chug it down.

You had been preparing lunch, eyeing him from the window, waiting for the meat to cook. He had peeked open one of the lids on the stovetop.

“How come you never ask me to help you?”

He had choked on the water, coughing it up, and then regaining composure. 

“Schatz, jesus christ… Announce yourself!” 

He cleaned up the water from his chin, inhaled and exhaled, and came over.

“Help me in what? You mean outside?” He said it surprised, he never told you about the garden, thinking it would be “too feminine” as his father told him as a child. He looked at you nervously.

“Yes outside, I never knew you had a garden! I just knew about your jacuzzi from that one night.”

You weren’t sure if he was turning red or just red from outside, but he had taken the towel off his head, wiping away at his face.

“It’s just my hobby, but if you insist I'll show you.” He sort of had no choice, he was excited to show you this part of him, and for the safety of his garden being picked or prodded at by you, he extended his hand out and guided you outside.

*

You couldn’t keep a plant alive to save your life, you never understood “plant” people constantly buying plants to keep in their home. You remembered your mom having a vine type of plant hanging off the ceiling in your apartment, but that was the extent of your knowledge.

Flowers were about as close as you got to keeping something alive, but happily and greedily letting those die because they had no source of life connected to them.

Now you were walking to the extra plot of land König had saved in his backyard.

What seemed to be bushes of green surrounding the entrance, had mesmerized and lured you in.

There were rows of planter boxes on the ground, silver metal archways inside some of the boxes, vines connected to them. He had small fruit trees in one corner, in the other corner he had plants, actual green plants growing, blooming, and thriving in the sun. 

There was a place and order for his garden, just like his house.

You couldn’t keep a plant alive, but König could probably feed you two through the winter.

He excitedly pulled you around his garden, telling you what he was growing.

“You see, schatzi, this is where I grow my crops. I have some eggplant, tomatoes, broccoli, and small peppers.”

He had pointed to the small crops growing, their colors vibrant, his produce huge just like him. It was outstanding.

He tugged you to another planter box.

“This is where you have your leafy greens. I only do kale and sometimes lettuce here, but I am not a fan of salads.” 

You laughed, the bunches of kale growing a deep shade of green, their leaves crinkled and huge. Some of his lettuce heads had holes in them, probably from pesky critters.

He walked you down to some of the plants he was growing.

“My grandma always liked to grow new life, so this is her corner of the garden.”

Vines, sage bushes, and lavender, growing in one end of his garden, Colorful shades of green, purple, violet, and deep green growing and surrounding this area. The fragrance hit you, reminding you of your childhood. It felt nostalgic, smelling these plants.

He had quietly said,

“All things grow with love and patience.” he paused, “That’s what she used to tell me.” A small reminder that she used to tell him when he was worried next to her in the garden, his plants wouldn’t grow (like him) and they would die.

He brought you to the other corner where he pointed at a couple lifeless trees.

“I hope by December, this little guy will bloom pomegranates.”

“Pomegranates?”

“Yes schatzi, I’ve had so much trouble trying to grow this tree, I saw some improvement last fall, but had only produced maybe four small fruits.”

“They were only four, but they were a brilliant red, and so juicy!”

You heard his determination in his voice, how proud he felt that he grew and produced fruit. It was a side you never seen before, let alone heard. He had touched one of the branches drooping down toward him, he caressed the branch and its leaves, being ever so gentle, and then releasing it, making it wobble up and down.

“Over there are the grapes, they aren’t ready yet, but I promise you by July, we’ll have so many grapes we will be sick of them.”

A jungle of small green grapes had appeared by one of the silver archways he built, tangled in huge leaves and thick vines.

“Wow, you have grapes too?” was all you could say.

He turned his attention towards you, grabbed your hand again and led you to another corner.

He had got nervous, let go of your hand, began cracking his fingers, a nervous fidget he had grown accustomed to when it came to showing you things.

“This corner here… is uh.. Well you know what it is.”

You never thought of König as a romantic, but you think deep down, somewhere at the bottom of his heart is where he hides it, it’s where his love for you has blossomed, pouring love into this small corner of his garden.

The flowers that you never could find, that he always brought to you on Sunday mornings are grown here, in his backyard. This small little garden plot, he had dedicated to you, filled with almost every color imaginable, petals of different shapes, hues of orange, red, yellow, pink, purple, and even blues surrounding you, comforting you.

He peeks over to where you are, his face pooled with admiration and love, when he tells you “This is your corner of the garden.”

“You grew all this for me?”

“Yes.. I did”

He looked like a boy, innocently smiling super big, his hands in his pockets, watching you, take all the colors in.

“I never knew what I would grow for you, but I figured it would be flowers, who doesn’t like flowers.”

You had bit your bottom lip attempting to hide your smile.

“I’ll have sunflowers by summer too. I know you said something about Van Gogh, so I started early last month.”

You smiled, remembering that you were talking about the exhibition of Van Gogh, not the flowers. You turned to him, praising him.

“Thank you, I just, I don't know what to say.” And you didn’t, there wasn’t any grand gestures from him before. Especially in your relationship. Sure he had ordered hundreds of roses when you guys fought, but you think maybe this was his way of showing how much he really did care, giving you your own corner of love.

“So when can I help?”

König’s eyes widened, before peering down at you, bending over to kiss your nose.

“Whenever you want.”

*

Saturday morning you’re standing in his garden again, ready to help him.

He’s slathering on sunscreen, before putting a cool, damp towel on his head, secured by his bucket hat. He then comes to you, rubbing sunscreen on your nose, neck, and ears.

“Schatz I get you like the sun, but trust me, sunburns are painful.”

He knows, after being on a dangerous mission in the desert, taking no precautions how powerful the sun is.

He hands you a basket filled with tools you’ve never seen.

“Ready? It's a two hour work day.”

He leads you to one of the boxes, instructing you to pull the weeds out. 

“These are clovers, they’re good luck.”

“They will sprout white flowers, not good for this area.”

You begin to pull them out, kind of upset. You always liked clovers.

He turns to you again, seeing you pout.

“Come on schatz, clovers are weeds.”

You smiled at him, “but they looked so cute.”

“Did you know my grandma used to tell me stories about clovers?” he looked over at you.

“She used to tell me, ‘little clover bunches bring small creatures from the woods, they’re the ones who steal your crops.’ He looked up at you again, where he was finishing up his own side of the bed.

“And… when you see a circle of mushrooms it’s fairies, coming to keep you awake at night, which is why we must pick them out.”

You two had finished the bed, working on the other two, then watering the beds.

He looked so at peace here, tending to his garden. He looked like he had possibly been a farmer in Austria, with all the extensive knowledge he told you about soil, plants, which things to grow when, and how much water everything needed. He turned to face you,

“you just turned three different shades of red in the last 5 minutes… did you reapply?”

“No…”

“Go reapply and i’ll show you how to water your corner.”

You stomped to the porch again, slathering on sunscreen, then came back.

He pointed the hose at you, then showed you which dial to use on it.

“See, if you go to this one, it won't ruin your petals, just give it a nice mist.”

He modeled it for you, then gave you the hose. “Gentle schatz, these are your flowers.”

You sprayed lightly over the rainbow of flowers, hoping you weren’t going to drown them, or worst case scenario, kill them. Once finished, he asked you for help on the arch trellis.

“Arch trellis?”

“This arch right here.” He pointed to the silver metal arch you had seen last week.

“With this, I think I’ll be able to have the grapes hang over for easier access this summer”

You two worked, untangling and tangling the vines into the arch, being so careful because the grapes were still in their early season to mess with. Then let the small green grapes hang, cutting off a few big leaves.

You had enjoyed it, you didn’t expect to be left on a high helping pull out weeds, water some flowers, or untangle some vines. He picked up his equipment, held out his hand, and walked inside. 

The fatigue of being in the sun all morning weighed on you as soon as you entered the house. He placed his tools in the sink, then took off his clothes. He plopped himself on the couch, pulling you in.

“This can be our hobby, you know, I have many things to show you.”

You had been undressing yourself too, to just your underwear, then plopped right onto him. Both of you sticky from the sun.

Excitement filled your stomach, ready to help him with anything.

“Whenever you’re ready to start”

[neonovember]

Golden Boy

part three of three

warnings; filth, angst, lover boy, self deprecation, anxiety, mentions of death, smut, heartbreak, fluff, face fucking, oral (m recieving), piv (wrap it yall), 18+, explicit language, Richie, carmen being in love, the nickname bear, some very not so slef inserted heartbreak and love confessions

w/c: 6k

a/n: this request really changed from a drabble to a 3 part series holy fuck i need a job, but really this is actually so self fulfilling to be able to deliver your requests about a character i love we all love so much! it’s like we’ve created this aesome little community here :) i love this universe sooo much so be sure there will be drabbles connected to this series

BEAR COMES OUT IN LESS THAN A DAY! LET’S START AMPING IT UP

also if anyone was wondering how i’d imagine high school!carmen it would honestly be this one edit i saw of lip ages ago lmaoo

The dull rain of the shower resounded through your bathroom, the rest of your things had been delivered in the early Friday morning, and you rushed to enjoy the high water pressure Mae had boasted about before you moved in.

The steam has begun to fog up your mirror, and you wipe a hand across it, your reflection distorted between the streaks of your fingertips. Today was the day. You would finally see Carmen again and your body was racked with fear like it was the day you left him.

After you had come back from the Farmers Market, you had received a text from Sugar, and you spent the afternoon unloading everything to her about work, your move back and most importantly Carmen. 

You and Sugar had grown close after you and Carmen had become friends, in fact, you had grown close to the entire family before you left for New York. And all it took was a phone call for you and Sugar to fall back into that familiarity once again, all you hoped was that it would be the same for you and Carmen.

Once Mae had finished up with work, the both of you, as promised shared a bottle of a wine and a blunt where she had squealed at your news of the dinner, and, despite your protests on the phone brought a rosy hued summer dress that she had begged you to keep. 

It was left on a hanger on the door hook, and you stare at the gorgeous wave of the hem, and dip of the neckline that you had got you looking at Mae in doubt. She had screamed when you had tried it now, boasting about her amazing fashion sense and how utterly ruined Carmen would be.

You steered clear from feeding into her delusions, Carmen could be married for god's sake, whilst you were thinking if he would like the colour of your dress. He was not though, you had practically burned the entire timeline of his socials into your retina and there had not been a single indication of Carmen having a partner. But he had always been sort of secretive, and you couldn't hold onto the hope that Carmen hadn’t taken a liken to any one of the hundred girls that threw themselves at him.

I mean, it wasn't like he was waiting for you, right?

The heat of the shower spread through your body and you sighed in relief as the water loosened the soreness of your muscles that had begun to ache. You had a couple hours until the time Sugar and Richie had told you to come in, and you spent it leisurely, washing your hair carefully, and scrubbing your skin clean with the multitude of products you had accumulated the second you had more money to spend on just food, rent and utilities. 

You forget to put a bath mat near the shower, and the cool stone is stained with your wet footsteps. You make quick work of drying yourself off before reaching for the same old bottle of shea butter you hadn't stopped using since high school. It was on its last leg, the worn label tearing apart, and soon enough you would have to cut it open to get to the last droplets. Old habits die hard and you had been a broke college student for a long fucking time.

After you've finished with your makeup and curling your hair so that it lay in soft blown out curls, you carefully and not so gracefully step into the dress. You don't own a lot of nice pieces like this, and you were forever grateful to Mae for coming in the way she did even despite your protests. 

Because as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you realise you look pretty fucking hot. You put on the last of your jewellery, spritz yourself with some perfume, before sliding your feet into flats that wouldn't destroy your feet. You reach for your phone, the time flashing 6:30 and later than you had anticipated.

Stress fills you at the thought of coming late, especially since you really only knew three people there, but you force yourself to calm down with a breath, realising the beef was only a 5 minute drive from your place anyway.

The drive to the Beef was one that was filled with anxiety and glee, you couldn't help keeping the smile off your face as you passed through the familiar roads leading up to the family restaurant. Despite the familiarity of the streets, your mind always finds its way back to the most familiar place of all, Carmen. You wonder what he might look like all grown into himself, you've followed his many strides in the culinary world, even if you didn't understand a bit of the kitchen itself, but you were unbelievably proud of every award he had and numerous received. But that had been all online, to see Carmen in person was a whole different thing entirely.

It was an experience, to see the way he’d body moved, from the light touches of his fingers helping you play guitar to the way he glided through the kitchen concentrating on cooking you up new recipes he’d made.

He’d take criticism from only you, even if Mickey's loud booming voice intercepted your comments from across the kitchen island. You had to sniffle back tears at the memory of it, Mickey and Carmen were so incredibly close, you feel like a fraud having not been there for him when he died, how could you even call yourself his friend? 

The truth was, you and Carmen had a horrible way of dealing with grief, you were battling with your own loss at the time, getting news of Micheal’s death only months after your own Father had died from a drunk driver. You had come back to Chicago for the funeral before running back to New York and stuffing yourself with your work. The pain had been too great then and the regret of leaving your brother and mother to clean up the mess had eaten you alive for years. 

You and Carmen had a habit of stuffing your emotions into tight spaces. Your father, Mickey, the both of your absence in each other's lives, it was a grief you wore well.

In the knots in your shoulder, in the bags underneath your eyes, in the aching hearth of your heart, in the emptiness of your suppressed stomach. As well as you could anyway.

But the world keeps turning, and the view of the renovated Beef catches your eye as you shakily turn into the car park adjacent. You can’t run now, there isn’t a back door you can slip through and a plane you can catch to escape the reality of your past. 

This was it, had this been what you had waited for? 

You can feel your heart in your throat as you walk through the car park, the soft lantern lights hanging across the top of the restaurant in ribbons. The place had changed from the last time you'd seen it, the rotting wood replaced with pristine painted planks and the cloudy windows now crystal clear. It even had a name change, replaced instead with the unmistakable nickname of Carmen,

Bear

Sugar had texted you to meet at the front, and as you bite your lip in anticipation, you see a blonde haired woman shout back a swear before walking towards the front of the Beef, her eyes catching you through the front windows, shooting up in surprise and glee, before rushing through the doors.

“Holy fucking shit! You were always hot Bug but goddamn, you outdid yourself! How are you my love?” Sugar replies, reaching to gather you in her arms. 

You press your face into the familiar scent of her, and you sigh in relief as your fears begin to dissolve, you weren't utterly alone here.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Carm is going to fucking implode when he see’s you” Sugar whispers with a grin, in which u shake yout head with a chuckle.

“Uh I don’t know about that, we haven’t really talked in, well, since High school” You reply honestly, you may have lied to Richie, but you couldn't escape Sugar’s bull-shit- detector gaze.

“You both were always so scared to make the first move, Mikey had to hold me back a couple times from just locking you both in a room and forcing you both to confess” Sugar replies with a grin

“Confess? What do you mean” You reply, and Sugar shakes her head with a chuckle,

“Don’t bullshit me Bug, it’s as clear as day. You both were inseparable then, and you will be inseparable now, everyone has their own timeline.”

You nod with a sigh, rubbing your eyes as you thought back to the call you had received asking you to join the design group in charge of revamping Madison Avenue. So much had changed since then, and it was about time that you faced what you couldn't 8 years ago.

“You changed him, ya know?” Sugar says, all of a sudden into the comfortable silence between you.

“Hm?” You reply

“I don’t know. Carm, he’s just, he’s distant, always has been. And then somehow, you became friends and there was this just change in him. He started to smile and laugh more, started opening up to us, because of you. Whether or not you realise it, you marked him in a way that was permanent you know? And when you left- well, it all went to shit, he was fucking destroyed and the only person that could help him was Mikey, and you, you get the rest of it” Sugar sighs, shaking her head as you stare at her.

“Sometimes, I’d bring you up, or-or we’d be talking about a new building, architecture or whatever, anything that related to you, and you'd just see him shutdown. He needs you hun, he doesn’t realise it but its like he’s fucking decaying without you.”

Anyone else and you would have shaken your head, but it was Sugar, and all the years you've known her she hadn't once sugar coated anything. 

“It was always going to be Carm, Sugar. A million times over and it would always be him” You reply, a tight smile on your face as you try and blink back tears, and she nods with a frown. 

“No crying, god I told myself I wouldn't cry” Sugar says, shaking her body as you laugh, sliding a hand in hers before walking into the Bear.

You aren't given enough time to investigate the changes to the restaurant, eyes glancing at pictures frames and stainless kitchen benches before stepping into a decorated back dining space, fixed with a long table covered with steaming plates of food and entrees. 

The sound of your footsteps has the entire room coming to a halt, and you scan the many people seated at the long table, their eyes watching you with a look of surprise before recognition floods across them. 

You can't recognise a single face, all unfamiliar to you but you get the strange feeling they know who you are, as they await for you to speak.

“Uh, Hello, um, you all probably have no idea who I am and this is kind of weird so-” You ramble nervously, trying and failing to introduce yourself to the many people watching your every move.

“Oh carino, you are gorgeous! You must be Carmen’s friend?” A short hispanic woman grins, making her way over to pull you into a hug, and the move causes the entire table of people to come over and introduce themselves. 

You can’t stop keeping the smile off your face, as you learn about each of the amazing people around you who have kept your sweet boy company. They were incredible, and you don’t doubt they shared a bond you only ever built working together, piecing together where Carmen had spent his time, and recognising the glimpses of faces you had seen on the walls you had walked by.

You converse easily with Sydney, a young aspiring chef who had kept Carmen on his toes, but your mind isn’t exactly present. Your eyes are glancing every second at the door, waiting for the man you've been dreaming of since you were 18 to walk through those doors.

You hear a tumble coming from the back door leading to the alleyway behind the Bear, before the familiar voice of Richie yells out incoherent curse words. You aren't able to prepare yourself for the footsteps coming up the steps and into the entrance of the dining room before Carmen cerulean blues catch you immediately. 

His eyes take their time with you, indulging in the peek of skin from the slit in the dress, before they trail up to your hips, snaking around your waist and blinking back at the dip of your cleavage. Carmen is undone, entranced by the way you hug and fill out the dress so perfectly, it does something to him he feels guilty about. Like the moments he would thrust up into the column of his fists after that one party where you leaned against him, or when he remembered the taste of your body wash.

Carmen is scared to move his eyes up to your face, fearing that he will be irrevocably gone if he does, but he does it anyway, because he's wasted enough time without you, and he can’t bear the seconds past him by without seeing the face he's dreamt of since forever

Carmen has to reach for the table near him, gripping the wood in his fists as he steadies himself when he sees you for the first time. He has to bite back his immediate response to let out a swear, his eyes trailing along every curve and line of your features he has begun to forget. The rush of memories, and feelings of you unleash within him like an unyielding current, breaking down every wall and shield he’s put up to stop it. It was fruitless, Carmen knew one day it would all come crashing down, because it was always going to be you, a thousand times over.

You let out a shaky breath as you catch his eyes fluttering over every single feature, you should feel self conscious but you don’t, you bare your entire self to him. You furrow your brow as you take in the honey caramel wisps of his hair pushed behind his ears. Your eyes catch the numerous inked sketches running along his arms and hands, you yearn to run your fingers along them, feel his veins jut out, they trail up his arm, like a stream and you have to swallow back the desire that had begun to unfurl at the vision in front of you.

He was utterly beautiful, his clean shirt contorted and stretched from the sheer size of him, the muscle and girth of his biceps and shoulders were so different to the lanky teenager you fell in love with. You feel a sadness at the thought of not seeing him since then, it had truly been too long. 

He still wore his chef apron, though it lay untied and around his neck like he had quickly run into the kitchen to fix something.

You don’t know how you’re able to form the words, but you can hear yourself calling his name like a plead

“Hey Bear” You whisper, the tears at your waterline one whisper away from falling

And it’s the simple sound of your voice that has Carmen crashing and falling, swallowing back tightly.

“Hey” 

You can make out Sugar calling everyone out to the front of the house, mumbling about flying pigs or whatever conjured up lie to leave you both alone. But it’s practically white noise around you, as your eyes remain forever on Carmen, like they always wore.

There's a silence that stretches between you two, and you feel the distance between you both from your fingertips.

“Thought I told you I’d punch your stomach if you cried” You say with a smile, tears falling down your cheeks and Carmen crumbles at your words, it's like his been hit by a freight truck, when you reminder of that day, but he still lets out chuckle, looking up at you with a grin.

“So I hear you're redesigning our very own Madison Avenue?” Carmen says, and it's like he’s been practising and rehearing the sentence over and over in his mind, it sounds more like a script than something he truly wants to say.

And you see through his bullshit, turning your head to the side as you look at him like he's translucent, and Carmen gives up before he is even able to start, what’s the point of faking it now when you could both see through each other.

“God, you're beautiful” Carmen says after a beat, the blues of his iris crashing and falling into a deeper depth as he looks at you. You blush, you never blush, you only ever blush for Bear.

“Carmen..” You whisper, the tears continuing to fall and roll down your neck

“Why didn't I tell you? God why didn't I?” Carmen says in a tight voice, like he's holding himself back, like he's holding himself from breaking, and you want to reach out and hold him instead.

You feel your heart drop, as you look up at him in anticipation, no no no??. You didn’t run half way across the state, you didn't spend years searching for Carmen in relationships and first dates, no- how? All this time. All this fucking time you could have spent with him, whether long distance, in New York, whatever, you would’ve made it work, hell you would have travelled endlessly for him.

“Why didn't you?” You breathe out. letting every tear and cry loose. And Carmen lets out a breath, your eyes communicating what your mouth could not for 10 years, letting your body shake with grief at the truth of it all.

Carmen feels his entire world breaking, he can feel the ground beneath him shake, he is consumed with you, you you you, and always and forever you.

“All this time..” Carm replies, shaking his head, laughing a little to himself as he stares at you in grief and love

“Yeah” You chuckle, before tears spill down your cheeks, and Carmen kind of breaks too, all the worries and missed time and love you would have shared out in the open between you. You both had been so foolish, so wrapped up in the fear of rejection/ruining your friendship you had ruined it all instead.

“I love you, I have loved you the moment I walked you home. I have loved you desperately, I loved you from afar, I have loved even when you didn’t know it”

“God Carmy, my sweet golden boy, I always knew it” You sniffle, and Carmen scrunches his eyebrows, grinding his teeth against his jaw as he shakes his head, undoing his apron so that he doesn’t get your gorgeous dress dirty, pulling you close to him. You reach for his hand, its size massive in yours, as you bring it to your chest

“You feel that? My heart beats for you Carmen, only you, forever you” You whisper, as you hold onto his hand tight

“I was just- I was so scared, so scared that I would ruin everything, our friendship, it was the one thing going for me and I couldn’t ask you, I couldn’t ask you to love me?” Carmen says, shaking his head like even saying the words felt stupid

“Carmen you are worth loving, I loved you then and I love you now. Sugar was telling me about how I changed you and you know what I was thinking the entire time? How everytime I think back to those years before my heart just aches. It aches because I have always been searching for you, Carm, my body yearns and reaches for you every day, you were the one thing that made me feel like I could make it out of here. That if I tried hard enough, if I had you believing in me too, I could really do it.

“And you know what Carmen? I did do it, I’m back in Chicago designing something that I believe in and I still feel so out of place. I feel scattered, like half of my body and mind is missing, and I’ve always known, even when I didn’t, that you kept that part of me. You held it safe, and I want it back, I want you back Carmen. I want my boy back.” 

“It was always going to be you Carm, that’s the truth, I love I love I love love love you” You breathe out, your heart hammering against your chest as you let all the chips fall where they may, you each Carmens face, trying to decipher the look on his face.

You want to know what he's thinking, have you scared him? Does he not love you anymore? And it's like Carmen can tell the thoughts are consuming you because you can't think of them anymore, in fact you can't think at all except the feel of Carmen lips pushed up against your own.

They’re pillowy and soft, and it takes you a second before you kiss him back with such reverence that you swallow back each other’s groans. You don’t come up for air, you won't, you can't let him slip through your fingers again, Carmen can’t let himself lose you now, with the taste of you on his tongue, so sweet like he imagined you to be.

Carmen fears he might combust, that he might dissolve into a puddle right in front of you because you taste so good, he slides a hand up your neck pressing you closer to his chest as you grip his shirt in tight fists.

Carmen can feel himself smiling into your lips, and it causes you to let out a chuckle, allowing Carmen to press his canines into your lip, just a little, a nibble that has you moaning out loudly in a way that shocks you both.

You press your body impossibly closer to Carmen’s, until you can feel him nudge against the curve of your stomach, grinding down against him until he grip’s your waist tight, pushing you deeper until you both have to let go with a breath.

“You don’t know how long I have waited to do that” Carmen says, his eyes still shut, like he was savouring the taste of you that was on his tongue, on his lips, his skin, everywhere. Carmen wanted you everywhere.

“And how long I have waited to do this” You trail your nails across his chest, his eyes watching the mischievous grin on your face grow as you trail your fingers down his chest, resting on his belt before the sound of a yelp and a clap breaks out, causing you to retract your hand and causing Carmen to let out a whine.

The rest of the crew and Sugar come tumbling into the room, hootting with cheers and laughter like they had been pressing an ear to the door the entire time, which they probably had. Sugar makes her way over, hugging you both, and pressing a kiss to your cheek before punching Carmen lightly.

“You didn’t think I knew? God what kind of sister do you take me for??” 

It’s all a blur of laughter and smiles and light shooting colours, Carmen keeps his eyes on you the entire time, and you don’t leave his side, holding onto him like he might fly away. And in all the commotion, in all the light and laughter and love Carmen sees Mikey. Sees him in flashes, the nape of his neck, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a smile and he swears, Carmen swears he sees him nod towards him.

You let it rip, bear, you did it, you did it. 

And Carmen did, and he looks down at you in his arms surrounded by people he loved and his heart for the first time feels full. Carmen had written himself off to a life of fulfilment through his work, and whilst that was purposeful and important to him, he always felt like a piece of his life was missing, a piece of his heart, it was taken by you just as he had taken yours. 

And now he can’t mask himself from his feelings, he can't watch you from afar anymore, he wants you beneath him, wants to bottle your laugh and drink in to cure him. He's broken and he doesn’t deserve you but god with the way you look up at him? It makes him question everything, makes him think he's enough, that there might be a chance he's more than the vile words he calls himself.

He want to get better for you, for the both of you, and its overwhelming, all these feelings he feels all of a sudden, it's like a switch has turned on and he can’t stop it, it washes over him, those memories from before, and you grip his arm with a squeeze, looking up as him before walking him out, guiding him with a hand until he follows you out into the alleyway.

“Sorry, it just was a whole lot at once, I haven’t even properly asked about you and now the entire kitchen knows you and” Carmen rushes out, rocking back and forth on his heels nervously

“You forget how well I know you bear?” Is all you say, and you can see the way he relaxes into himself, looking up at you with a nod. And it’s true, you know him completely and utterly, and it’s almost a relief, it almost makes Carmen cry because for the first time he doesn't feel like he needs to explain himself. Carmen feels like he has someone who knows him deep down, knows all his flaws, and problems and issues, and still wants him. 

The thought is so foreign and strange but he stomach bubbles with the elated glee of the start of something, something you both know, deep down, was meant to happen whether it was now or in 30 years. You would always, always find each other, how could you not? When it felt like half of you had disappeared without them?

Carmen can’t help but a press another kiss to your lips, snaking his arm so that it rested on your hip, squeezing a little before you break from him

“The food in there looks lovely, but considering what has just occurred, do you want to go somewhere more..” You start

“Intimate? Fucking yes. I don’t need Richie watching me and Sugar breathing down my neck. There is so much..” Carmen replies, eyes having a bit of a faraway look as he thinks back to all the times he had wished he could confide in you but couldn't.

“Let’s make up for lost time, shall we?” You grin, holding out a hand that Carmen eagerly grasps, before practically running into whichever car is closest. 

You and Carmen end up in a dimly lit jazz bar that sells signature shirley temples and tampalas that make your heart sing. You spend the entire night talking about everything, you both spill the entire contents of your guts to each other and you couldn't be happier, wiping each other's tears when the love got too much and your chest filled with gratitude at finding each other again.

You tell him you're only here for 6 months, and you leave the bar calling Mae to extend your lease. It doesn't take long for you both to slide into the familairy of your friendship again, spending every waking moment with each other, fulfilling every desire, checking off every firsts, exploring Chicago again with the one man who's been waiting for you for eternity. 

It would have been cute if you werent fucking like rabbits as well, you were addicted to each other, chasing orgasm after orgasm like it was a high. You should have been thrown in jail with the amount of times you had nearly been caught, and Carmen’s office was practically a health code violation.

But the truth was, Carmen finally had something to come home to in the late evenings and you had something to say goodbye to in the early mornings.

*

The early morning sun drags along the horizon, it cuts through the shapes and cuts of the intricate frost that had begun to develop over the window, showering the room in its dull yellow through the linen curtains of your shared bedroom.

It had snowed during the night, and the city council had closed the roads, advising as many people to stay indoors if possible, causing you and Carmen to finally have an excuse to stay indoors and pressed against each other the entire day.

The only sounds you can hear in the early cold July morning are the shutters of shop doors opening and the simmering wave of traffic that would soon begin to spill into the city streets below.

That and the strangled sound of Carmens moans as you slide your hand across the slick length of him, heavy in your palm.

He watches you carefully, eyelids heavy as you blow on the tip of him, causing him to wince in desire. Your motions are slobby and wet, and Carmen is still half asleep from your sleeping position not moments before.

“Please…”

You bite back a giggle, looking up at him from your knelt position between his legs. You’ve pulled him to the edge of the bed, and he grips the white sheets in his fists as he tries to restrain himself from coming undone by the way you smile up at him.

“You want me to suck you off him? You wanna feel good baby, you gotta tell me you wanna feel good cause I can't hold back any longer

“Fuck..please make me feel good, you know how to do it, please h-honey” Carmen replies before knocking his head back with a groan when you take the tip of him in your mouth.

You and Carmen weren't exactly experienced at first, you both had never truly held a relationship long enough to progress to that stage, but it had only taken a month before you knew how to have him stuttering thrusting up into you with need and it had taken him 3 weeks to know how to make you cum 9 times a day. What could you say? You had waited long enough.

You don’t waste time as you circle your tongue around the red tip, licking the precum clean from the slit, groaning around him at the sound of his throat letting out strangled moans. You want to take him in entirely, but he was so thick and long you couldn't possibly without getting used to him again.

Carmen loved giving, he could spend hours with your thighs around his shoulders, but there was something special with getting your broody chef to come undone, to be reduced to a puddle at every lick and kiss from you.

You push him deeper, circling your tongue so that it drags flat against his length as you pump the rest of him that you couldn’t yet reach.

“Holy-sh-fuck babygirl, easy, easy” Carmen groans out, and as you flicker your eyes up at him, the vision causes you to sneak a hand down between your thighs. 

Carmen looks down at you with furrowed brows, struggling to sit, grinding and jutting up into your mouth as his blonde hair lays across his forehead sweaty. His cheeks are a rosy crimson, and his tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth biting down when you catch his blown out almost-black eyes.

You ignore his protests, pushing him further down until you feel him in your throat, constricting the space until it has him groaning out in pleasure. Carmen can’t help thrusting up into your throat, quickly apologising before you shake your head, reaching for his hand to grip your hair, begging him to use you however he wan’t. It’s too much for Carm, he feels like your puffed out cheeks, the tears eager to drip down your cheeks, the rut of your hips trying to find any friction causes the very tight bind to nearly snap in him.

“Fuck, don’t- not gonna last long” Carmen heaves out, gripping your hair until the veins in his arms and neck begin to juttt out.

You continue bopping your head down onto him, gathering the spit and cum and hollowing out your cheeks before taking him out and then in again. Carmen can’t take his eyes off of you, his chest heaving up and down as he watches you entranced.

“You don’t want to cum huh? Am I not making you feel good? Fuck my throat Carm, show me how you want it and i’ll show you how I do” You groan out, looking up at him from under your lashes and it causes Carmen to groan out, before gripping your jaw in his hand, and dragging your tongue back down his length.

Carmen is careful with how he fucks into you, but it’s reverent and heady and full of need, and he finds himself gripping your hair, watching you bop down on his cock until it bumps against your throat, and he feels that tight warmth that surround his sensitive tip.

He’s a mess, a jumble of incoherent swears and half moans of your name as the slick heaviness against your tongue shealths up and down, the mess of cum and saliva dripping from between your lips. 

“S-so fucking, so good, all mine babygirl, you’re all fucking mine” Carmen replies with a growl, as hes thrusts into you grow sloppy, and you press your nails into his thigh, breathing through your nose as Carmen loses himself in the warmth and feel of you, chasing his release without a break.

The tight band deep in him snaps when you constrict around him, and catch his heavy gaze, he screams out your name, jutting up into your throat, slick shooting down as he holds you head against him, and you milk him dry eagerly, taking every last drop he gives you.

You swirl your tongue around him, gently taking him out of your mouth as he winces at the over stimulation, you look up at him, opening your mouth and poking your tongue out, and you don’t miss the low fuck he whispers at the image of you swallowing every last bit of his mess.

You aren’t able to get up yourself before Carmen is dragging you up to him, wiping and kissing away every tear before swallowing you with a heated kiss. Carmen can taste himself on your tongue, manoeuvring your bodies so that he lay against the headboard, with you grinding up against his lap.

“Need to feel you fill me up Carm, I need it so bad” You groan out between your heated kiss, and Carmen grips you against him, his cock hardening again at your words, he always wanted to please you, it was his dying quest, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you like it was nothing.

You line yourself up with him, before sinking onto his length, the both of you breaking apart from your heated kiss to suck in a breath, Carmen leans into the croon of your neck, biting the skin there lightly as the feel of you tight around him gets too much.

You have to grip him, pressing half moons into the contorting muscle of his shoulders and back as you get used to him, before sinking further down with a groan. You felt impossibly tight, walls velvet and soft like caramel as they glided up against him with its slickness.

“You sure you can take it all? Hm darling?” Carmen whispers as he leans over in your ear, so that you slide further down his length, and it glides across a sensitive spot in this new position that causes you to rock your head back with a groan.

“Oh no baby, no no no, eyes on me hm?” Carmen reprimands you, sliding a hand so that he can see the dazed look in your eyes.

“We have the entire day, locked in this house from the snow, and I’m going to fuck you stupid doll” Carmen replies with a grin, before easing out of you and thrusting back into you hard, causing stars to appear in your vision, the white hot pleasure of the beginnings of your orgasm gripping you.

[miscfandomwrites]

A/N: This was supposed to say "Bad day" but whoops. I'm tired. anywho, this seriesis inspired by some other authors with their own 'Sunshine series' yet my main take was wanting a main character who is a housewife ish and is fed up with their shit. They're all scared of this rabbit shifter because she's put up with them for this long. There's a whole backstory and lore and such if you want me to get into it, but for now here's 'Bay day' lol

Pairing: (Shifterverse) 141 + Keegan + Konig x Rabbit Shifter! Reader

Warnings: Lots of language, mentions of bodily harm.

Words: 1.3k

Tagging: @tyler-t0t

~

Nothing seemed to be going right. 

First, it was a downpour all day, meaning I couldn’t even drive to the farmer’s market since they had announced that they were going to be closed for the weekend since the weather was so severe. 

It also meant that I had to rush outside to the garden in my new, clean, white sundress, getting mud all over it as I hustled the chickens and ducks back into the coop, and ran around gathering all the tomatoes I could find before they split from the excess rain, some of them already splitting as I gathered them into my dress, staining it red and coating it with tomato seeds.

They boys were all on base today, yet weren’t coming home anytime soon both due to the weather and due to the paperwork they were getting held up with from their last couple missions. 

And today was a Sunday, meant to be a relaxing, self-care, pampering day for me, yet here I am, running around like I lost my head. 

I had just started to dry my hair with a kitchen towel before I remembered that there were sheets hanging outside on the line to dry - one of the perks of living with a team I guess, is that even with an industrial washer and dryer, it still didn’t cut the amount of laundry this house went through during the week. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I yelled as I ran back outside, skipping putting on the rainboots and just decided to go barefoot, easily hopping the small gate that kept the animals on the fenced side of the yard. My ears twitched as the rain hit them, and I flattened them against my head as I muttered curses to myself as I tore the sheets off the drying rack and ran back inside, about to toss them into the dryer before I realized my dress had covered them in mud. 

I opened the washer, expecting it to be empty, yet was greeted with the sight and smell of Soap’s mildew-y clothes that have definitely been sitting in the washer for the last two days, unswitched. 

“Motherfucker.”  I hissed as I dropped the sheets on the floor and grabbed a laundry pod and some scent beads, throwing them into the washer and starting his clothes on a hot, heavy washer since half of it was his workout gear. 

I shook my head as I felt some of the water starting to reach my inner ears, causing them to twitch and me to wince and I quickly grabbed a spare cloth and quickly cleaned them out, hating the feeling of water in them. 

I could faintly hear my phone buzzing from upstairs, and I jogged up there only to be greeting with Price’s contact, wanting a voice call.

I answered as I opened the dishwasher, realizing I forgot to start it before I went to bed last night, the pod door still closed tight. 

“Hey love, looks like we might be running even later tonight, there’s a new recruit….” He started as I held the phone between my shoulder and head and tried to start the dishwasher again. 

“What time should I have dinner on the table then?” I interrupted him as he was telling me about how they were going to be training not just one but several new recruits, causing them to be home around eight pm at the earliest. 

“Oh, uh, probably around nine or ten then?” He questioned. 

I just shut my eyes and sighed for a moment, before nodding. 

“I’ll get some stew in the crockpot then, today’s not going too great so I doubt I’ll be up that late.” 

“That’s alright dove, we can just pick up food on the way over.” I heard Ghost’s voice, causing me to pause for a moment. 

“Am I on speaker?” I asked softly. 

“Yeah, we jus’ got out of a meetin’ “ Soap replied. Sounds like everyone was there. 

“I’m implementing a new rule: Set a fucking timer on your phones for your laundry. Next batch that grows mildew in the washer will go into the burnpit.” 

A hushed silence answered me, before I heard a smack! and Soap yelling out. 

That was definitely Gaz. He’s the only one who actually takes care of his laundry on time. 

The washer beeping from downstairs gathered my attention, and I said my round of ‘be safe’ and ‘don’t kill the newbies’ before I hung up and tossed my phone on the couch, only for it to slide off and land on the wooden floor, landing screen-first. 

“Oh that definitely fucking broke.” I sighed, padding over to it and picking it up, wincing as I saw shards of glass left behind on the ground. 

A slew of expletives left me that would’ve left Soap blushing, and I set it face-up on the coffee table and headed downstairs, switching over laundry and starting half of the sheets in the washer before heading back upstairs, and cleaned up the mess my phone made. 

It was around three at this point, so I gathered some thawed meat out of the fridge and some vegetables and went to work putting together and stew for the boys that could be left cooking for the next several hours. Halfway through chopping up the carrots, the dryer buzzed, scaring me enough that I accidentally sliced into my finger instead, causing me to yelp and immediately hold it to myself, using my dress as a pressure dressing as I rushing into the bathroom and yanked out the medkit from under the sink. Only to find it fucking empty. 

I hissed at finding this, heading back into the hallway and pulling open the doors and finding the spare medkit things, disinfecting and wrapping up my fingers. (Turns out I nicked two, not just one.) 

I didn’t bother putting away the items since I knew I needed to refill the medkit anyways, leaving the bloody wrappers and roll of gauze on top of the box.

I headed downstairs, switching laundry again, and set up the drying lines we had in the laundry room for the sheets, carefully setting them up, not noticing spots of blood getting on the edges from my fingers. 

After switching laundry I headed back upstairs, my phone buzzing with an incoming call from Soap, which I didn’t even bother touching as I was not about to get shards of glass into my fingers. 

I finished making dinner, setting it up in the crockpot on medium heat, and didn’t bother cleaning up the kitchen as I collapsed on the couch, about ready to cry my eyes out. 

Instead, I fell asleep, my body exhausted, and about jumped out of my skin when I heard the door open and several voices. 

About thirty minutes had passed, leaving me groggy as shit, blinking sleep out of my eyes as they shuffled inside, dropping off bags of something on the counters as Price made his way to me. 

“I know we’re a little early but-holy fuck, what happened?” He started, causing everyone to immediately stop and head my way, causing me to be crowded by everyone. I could barely keep the tears out of my eyes, explaining that today was just horrible. 

“C’mon, let’s get you out of that dress and into something warm, bun.” Gaz spoke softly to me and Price starting giving instructions to the rest of the boys: Konig and his crew were to take care of the animals and check the perimeter, Ghost was to help with laundry, Soap was on dish duty, Price was going to finish up with putting away the groceries which I later learned were from them going to the farmer’s market ass-early in the morning before the sky opened up to make sure I got what I needed for the week. Keegan took it upon himself to restock the medkit, and helped rebandage my hand as I sat on my bed, Gaz sitting behind me, softly brushing my tangled mess of hair. 

This. This is what a pack was like.

[ghosts-bandwagon]

Hey there!!

Im being hella self indulgent with this ask but could you do some Task Force 141 + König headcanons for a reader dealing with stomach issues? (like the nausea, being cold and having headaches all the time, stomach pain, etc). If you could I would really appreciate it!! If this makes you uncomfortable feel free not to do it :))

Oof ouchie ouch

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

He’s unsure what to do with himself at first so he kinda does everything he can? He’s cleaning up the house while you’re resting in bed, he’s got peppermint tea going, he’s running out to the pharmacy for meds to help your nausea and headaches

He’s setting up the heating pad to gently rest it on your stomach, he’s making lemon water and sitting on the bed, gently tilting your head and instructing you to take small sips

If you ask him to, he’ll rub your stomach with the softest touch

If your nausea reaches the point where you’re throwing up, he’s holding your hair or rubbing soothing patterns in your back with moderate pressure

He makes sure to take some meds with him just in case your headaches or your stomach pain flares up, he watches you intently to be able to catch it before it gets bad

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:

He’s so comforting, if it’s a chronic issue he’s got everything you need when you get a flare up

If it’s something that happens on occasion, he’s still ready for you, he’s got pretzels, applesauce in the fridge, Dramamine for your nausea and headaches

He’s got a heated water bottle ready for your stomach aches

If nothing else, he is prepared and doting. He’s insisting you rest, he’s happy to do everything around the house for however long you need, he refuses to let you do anything

He’s at your beck and call and he makes it known, if you don’t have the energy to shout you can shoot him a text but you probably won’t have to because he’ll be right there at your side

John Price:

King of home remedies lmao

He’s got tips and tricks he’s picked up when he was younger and when he was in his academy days

Ginger tea with honey, large glass of water with lemon juice, peppermint tea or peppermint candies, bitters and club soda, tablespoon of apple cider vinegar

If your nausea reaches a point where you’re throwing up, he’s standing behind you, holding your hair back and pressing a hand against your forehead (trust me it helps)

Once you’ve cleaned up, he’s giving you some ginger tea with a little honey in it, and gently rubbing your back as you take a few slow sips

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Gerrick:

He’s not quite sure what to do outside of things his parents might’ve done for him when he was younger, so he looks it up on his phone when he’s sitting on the bed at your side, gently rubbing your tummy

He’s listing off the different things he’s finding to see which of them seems most appealing to you

As soon as you pick something, he goes with it, he heads out to the grocery store to grab the things he needs to help you feel better

He’s grabbing the chicken soup, applesauce, jello, pretzels, ginger ale, popsicles? (In his mind cold = soothing)

When he comes back, he’s giving you a little bit of everything, sitting beside you on the couch with you all bundled up and wrapped in blankets, and he’s got himself a small bowl of the pretzels he got for you, your favorite show playing on the tv

König:

I feel like he’d call his mom for advice or home remedies, but when some things aren’t available for purchase where you live, he asks you what you’ve normally done and what you’d like him to do

He’s following what you say to the letter, he’s quick about getting what you need from the super market, and he’s quick about coming back

He makes you some homemade chicken noodle soup and gives you a glass of ginger ale and some ice to chew on when you’re done with the drink

He’s rubbing soothing circles on your tummy, his hand warm and calming as you lean against him

He’s got the lights dimmed so it doesn’t make your headache any worse, he’s given you some medicine already to help it go away quicker, he’s softly humming, gently rubbing your arms and your back

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 30

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet you encourage me.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do, Professor,” Sirius throws his head back, stretches the tendons of his neck. Something in Remus says bite and he’d like to pretend it’s the moon phase, but he knows it’s more - it’s the hex he cast at a muggle (Statute of Secrecy be damned), it’s the dreams he still has of the jail guard, the steady collapse of the self control he’s spent all his life clinging to. Every silly trip to the market he can’t help but agree to, and every cup of tea he makes without being asked. It’s Ziggy, and the Potters’ owl, and the knowledge he’d let any other animal stay, too, if Sirius were to ask.

He wants to bite the way wolves do, not for dominance but for ownership. He doesn’t think Sirius is something to be owned, though, too wild and too unpredictable, and too beautiful in it to bear containing. Remus wouldn’t want to try, not even if whatever it is that he feels was to be accepted, returned to him.

Beloved of my heart, he thinks, of course it had to be you.

“The buildup of curses on this thing… it must have taken years to complete,” Sirius is contemplative, quiet, “they must have really loved the intended.”

“Would appear so. I wonder what it’s protecting.”

“Must be something to help with the lycanthropy. To ease the transition, maybe? They speak of the body, here,” he points to Remus’ translation, “I’ve heard its… well, I’ve heard its difficult.”

Remus doesn’t mean to sound bitter as he laughs, but difficult is such an understatement, it bubbles out of him by itself. Sirius looks contrite, mouths an apology.

“No, don’t. Don’t apologise. There is no need for you to know.”

“There is now. So, I’d like to. If you’re willing to tell.”

Remus looks at him – looks at him – Sirius’ expression is open and waiting. Like he’d asked about a bad day or an unfortunate trip, not about this. Even Remus’ mum didn’t ask, not so openly. In different ways, yes, in cups of tea and charmed-hot blankets, but not with words unfaltering and eyes unafraid.

“Have you ever broken a bone?”

Sirius pulls up the bottom of his shirt where a thin white line runs over the hipbone.

“It’s like that, just… everywhere and all at once. The transformation is only minutes, doesn’t leave a permanent mark. That’s all down to how the wolf is feeling on the night.”

“It hurts you?”

“Hurts itself. Gets bored, I think. Looks for something. Misses… I don’t know,” Remus hedges, “I don’t remember much, just snippets here and there. It’s not me in there, not really.”

Sirius turns to the replica scroll, touches the line of hieroglyphs where it calls the werewolf by endearments. “They really must have loved them.”

“Maybe. Not a good life, that.”

It’s an offhand comment. Remus doesn’t even really register what he says, already looking down to his translation to try and work out the rest of the riddle.

“What do you mean by that?” it’s the sharpest he’s heard Sirius’ voice. Something almost aristocratic, the kind of voice that could send people to their deaths.

“Loving a werewolf,” Remus speaks slowly, unsure of where he’d gone wrong, “it’s not something I’d wish on anyone.”

“Remus, I know you to be a very smart man. Don’t make me rethink that stance.”

It’s absurd, and Remus laughs, but Sirius is stuck in that space of haughty stillness.

“It’s alright, Sirius. Like you said, you don’t know about this. You never had a need to and now you only do on account of the work we’re doing. Don’t worry about it.”

The air crackles, just a little, Sirius’ hair raising at the ends like from an electric storm. Remus doesn’t want to have to deal with cleaning up the office again, not the day before the full moon.

“Sirius. Please, calm down. I’m tired, you’re tired. Let’s drop this and go home, alright?”

At first, it makes it worse. Remus can taste the magic like an iron bar in his mouth. Then, Sirius forces a breath, then another, and the air calms down.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need.”

“Just, hearing you talk about yourself like that…” Sirius looks straight at him, through him, “you’re a wonderful man, Remus. No matter what happens a night of a month, no matter even if it were every day.”

“Sure, Sirius,” he says, because it’s a nice notion, and Sirius doesn’t know any better. “Thank you for saying that.”

It’s clear that Sirius knows he’s lying – he always knows – but he doesn’t say anything more. There’s something like hurt around the edges of his mouth.

They venture out into the library, split up between shelves. It reminds Remus of being at university and he wonders how it would have been, had they met there, had Remus not been what he is – just two students going about their days, meeting across a bookshelf or maybe reaching for the same tome. How Sirius would have looked like, just a little younger but without the weariness of prison. If he was wilder yet, or instead maybe more cautious, before that caution had run out.

NEXT PART

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

@arasael

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[tomorrowsgardennc]

🍠 harvesting sweet potatoes 🍠

this was my second year growing potatoes, but my first year growing sweet potatoes specifically. when i grew normie potatoes, i ended up with less than what i put in the ground... that's how bad it turned out. while researching why i did so badly, i learned sweet potatoes grow totes differently so i decided i would try those this year.

i am very happy i did.

i started off by bringing my teeny tiny harvest basket assuming i did horribly, but after half of the first plant i had to go grab my big boi harvest crate my dad made me. i also found 4 baby carrots that i grew last year during my harvest. ignore those.

prior to harvesting, i turned to the internet out of habit to see what needed to be done. sadly, the internet had varying degrees of how to handle both harvesting and curing potatoes. then i remembered farmer mama used to grow these so i hit her up for the true knowledge. i shall put it here for y'all.

there's no need to wait until first frost, and actually it's prolly not ideal if you wait. it's going to be first frost pretty soonTM so right now is just fine. it's easier to diggie dig if you trim back all the vines first. i did prune back the vines and leaves the deer left for me, and i tossed them in as my first layer of compost for the garlic bed (garlic post soon, i'm running behind on planting them...)

now i can grab on to the neck of the plant and rip it up. totally not morbid to phrase it that way. to say i squeed with joy when i saw large and bountiful potatoes this time is an understatement. hubs was prepping the perennial flower area to plant those plants and he thought i was getting attacked by yellowjackets again. my yipee and my panic screams are the same so i don't blame him.

for digging, since this was in my tall raised bed i just used my arms and hands and dug around. i had my shovel handy, but my acoustic self prefers to use hands for everything, and also because the shovel could pierce the skin of the potatoes. which isn't horrible, but an annoyance and an extra worry when curing so just not worth imo. the potatoes didn't go further than 8 inches below the soil, so no reason to keep digging. you can also tell when the roots get smaller and smaller. i also learned that for sweet potatoes like 90% of the taters are right under that neck, so also no real reason to dig around too much except if you want to find those baby outliers.

so incredibly happy with this harvest 😍❤️🍠

the purpose of me growing these was because, well, why not, but also because i want to offer sweet potato slips at the farmers market next april. i offered only a few this year because i just didn't know what would happen and if i wanted someone else to grow it and see how theirs turned out to compare. why purple? well, why normie???? purple is so much prettier and i'm actually going to focus on a lot of purple produce in 2025 lmao. but i digress.

ok so i hit the tumblr photo limit just from talking about harvesting these gorgeous purple divas therefore i shall do a 2nd post about the curing stage. spoiler alert: i am curing the baby tubers because market slips next year and i washed the big chonkas in my outdoor sink and boiled them immediately.

boiling was a mistake. good news is i learned the kitchen would look pretty with purple floors 🫠 and that if you clean up purple potato water on kitchen floor with clorox bleach that it turns the purple color blue 🫠 i love science.

since i got too overexcited i boiled too much. i saved enough in the fridge to make a sweet potato pie later this week, ate some for dinner, and then froze the rest in ziploc bags. i have a feeling i'll be making multiple purple sweet potato pies this season because why the hell not.

don't worry i'll have photos of the pie when i make it. hehe.

ok chores real quick then on to the next post about curing the potatoes, very important.

[resvarie]

Do you have some Ami's voice lines?

this took so long… i wrote this before 2.6 before rappa voice lines were released so bear with me! they’re all below the cut 😎

First Meeting:

You can call me Amihan. I'm just a lone drifter amongst the stars, no need to pay me any mind. Unless you need parts, of course. Don't ask me where I source them though, haha…

Greetings:

Heya! Wonder what sort of treasures we’ll dig up today?

Parting:

Fair winds, my friend! I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other soon enough.

About Self: Captain

I wouldn’t call myself a captain, but I am the only member of the S.S. Nova, so everything falls to me. Navigation, repairs, cleaning, keeping stock… Solo ship life keeps you humble.

About Self: Mechanical Peg Leg

My leg? I carved the wooden bit myself. I lost it in a freak accident when I was wrestling a shark on my home planet— or maybe it was when I fought against that brute from the Annihilation gang.. or was it when I was doing repairs on my ship and that piece of metal fell— Ah! I’m getting carried away here, aren’t I? I’ll tell you another time!

Chat: Business

If you’re ever in need of some scrap metal or ahem, IPC approved goods, just message me. I have dealings in the trade– and you won’t have to pay the abhorrent prices they put up on the market.

Chat: Principles

You gotta give to take, everything has balance in this universe. Just so happens that I like giving miscreants a good flogging, and I like taking their belongings as my payment, and sharing that with people who really need it.

Hobbies

I like making these little carvings in my spare time… This one’s a horse, this one’s a dog. Um, this one’s supposed to be a shark. I’m not used to this kind of wood, so it’s hard for me to get the shape right. N-No, it’s not an excuse!

Annoyances

This might sound odd coming from me, but I get the worst motion sickness when someone else is at the wheel. No offense to Pom-Pom.

Something to Share

Look, I don’t believe in luck. If you want something you can’t just dawdle, waiting for something to happen. You need to take action. That’s all we can do in this universe.

Knowledge

Lushaka is a place filled with flooded ruins and seas so blue it’s hard to see where the water ends and the sky begins. The scholars there have tried to tell me about the ruins, but honestly, I’m more interested in the sunken treasures that are waiting to be found…

About Boothill

He’s a reckless one, isn’t he? We galaxy rangers tend to work alone, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of times he’s dragged me into the fray, even if it is just the tail end of whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. Not like I don’t enjoy it though, heh.

About Boothill 2

…I have a lot of respect for Boothill. I envy him sometimes, but deep down, I know I could never do what he could. To have everything taken like that… it’s… *sigh*

About Rappa

It might be a little hard to keep up with her way of… communicating, but I promise you, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. I trust her judgement. She reminds me of my little sister…

About Rappa 2

The Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions? Rappa tries to teach me, but it just goes in through one ear and out the other for me. I’m not too good with words and remembering things like that, but I’m happy to indulge her.

About Aventurine

Ugh, if I have to hear him speak about luck again, I might just send myself overboard. Is it really luck if he’s putting in that much effort to scheme and calculate the outcome?

About Sampo

Sounds awfully like this guy who keeps undercutting me online– Once, I even tried to buy from him just to see if he was legit. Turns out he’s all talk. He even pretended to be a bot when I confronted him… No integrity!

About Himeko

I met Himeko and the Astral Express once upon a time, she offered me an incredibly bitter cup of coffee whilst talking my ear off about fixing the Express. I could only understand a quarter of what she was saying… but wow, she’s amazing to do all of that by herself.

Eidolon Activation

Dead men tell no tales.

Character Ascension

There she blows!

Max Level Reached

Time to take this seriously.

Trace Activation

All hands on deck!

Added to Team With Boothill

Keep up, cowboy!

Added to Team with Rappa

Er, how does it go again.. As the Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions read: “Let’s kick some serious butt!”

Added to Team with Trailblazer

Up for some treasure hunting after this? Saw some untouched trash cans on my way here.

EXTRA:

rappa and boothills voicelines for ami

About Captain Yukaze

The Captain's attempts at learning the Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions are commendable, but it seems she has a long way to go if she wishes to reach an acceptable level of ninjutsu. I worry for her…

About Ami

Ami’s saved my behind more than a couple of times— I owe her, but uh, I’m not too sure on how to really pay her back, plus she always denies whatever I throw at her, insisting she doesn’t need it. She’s not good with her drink, so a good malt’s out the window and she’s pretty set in her ways with her weapons so I can’t get her something new… I’m at my wits end here…

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #1

Transformation 🔀 / Farmer's Market 🌽

Ethan jolts awake on the couch in his apartment with no memory of returning. For a single, perfect second, nothing hurts, and then his human sensations rush back one by one: his back is killing him. There’s an awful crick in his neck on the right side. His head pounds, and his throbbing stomach churns like a washing machine. He stifles a belch and carefully lays back for a few moments longer. Fuck. What did he eat last night?

There’s not even the barest hint of warmth to the sky through the window. He gingerly swivels his neck until he can catch the microwave’s green LED display: 4:27 am. His alarm is going to go off just minutes from now, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to even haul himself upright for another hour at least. All of his systems have diverted power to his throbbing stomach, and he needs those systems to get the cafe up and running.

Except his alarm is across the room at his bedside, and when it shrieks to herald the morning he curses his past self for not being able to collapse like ten feet to the right. Can’t trust anyone these days, not even your own subconscious.

He stumbles across the room and smacks the snooze button, lies down carefully on his back with a pillow behind his neck and sleeps for nine more halcyon minutes before he has to get up for real.

He sits up slow, stifling a gag and then a series of progressively uncomfortable belches that make even him, a connoisseur of all things supernaturally gross, wince with disgust. The old ladies in town are always asking how a nice boy like him hasn’t settled down with anyone. He belches again, a deep rumble that makes him groan and press an arm to his stomach. Yeah, he’s a prize, all right. 

He showers with the lights off, and even if he can’t see the water turn rusty as it streams down his distended midsection, he sure can smell the sting of iron rising with the steam. Never thought he’d be at a point in his life where he could not only recognize the scent of his own blood, but also associate it with relief. 

The hot water soothes some of the aches in his protesting body, but his center of gravity is weighed down with what-the-fuck-ever he gorged on last night, and he’s so stuffed that he can’t draw a full breath. Jesus. Sad state of affairs when a man can’t take a shower without getting winded.

After almost forty years of this, Ethan’s at least amassed a fair amount of clothes that look professional enough without also exacerbating his various aches, pains, and post-shift bulges, not to mention the few — okay, twenty — pounds he’s put on lately. He throws on a loose t-shirt and a looser flannel over it, unbuttoned, and the biggest pair of jeans he owns, also unbuttoned. It takes him longer to put on socks and boots than it did to shower, and afterward he has to sit there panting for a few minutes with his head as between his knees as he can get it.

He ties up his damp hair, throws back half a dozen ibuprofen and chases it with a palmful of antacids, then eases down the stairs to the cafe. Out of habit he checks the mirror at the base of the stairs for any rogue smears of blood or viscera on his face and immediately he wishes he hadn’t. Oh, he’s clean, all right, but he looks like something the dog dragged in. 

He gets the coffee going, starts his prep routine, and sticks a slice of each of yesterday’s cakes onto the warmer for Vanessa. After five minutes on his feet, he has to take a breather against the industrial fridge. Great. This is gonna be a long one.

When the coffee’s done, he rips open two ginger tea bags and pours his coffee in over them. Not exactly a winning combination but it’s the most efficient if he wants to feel both awake and functional. He gulps it down as fast as he can, takes exactly three minutes to sit on the floor in the deep freezer and try to marshal himself into some kind of order, and then hobbles to the front door to turn the OPEN sign around at six on the nose. 

And predictably, at six-fifteen, Vanessa appears on one of the front bar stools like a specter in layers upon layers of draping black, her familiar cloud of ozone and plum wafting back to him in the kitchen like some ancient pagan essence. Her slim black bicycle is looped to the rack outside the window, secure under a deceptively robust lock that no teen yahoo has yet managed to crack. He asked her how she managed that once, years ago, and she just smiled and said it was a very old spell. He didn’t believe her then, but he does now. 

“Good morning,” she calls, and Ethan catches a belch in his fist and pokes his head out to say hello.

Her eyes widen slightly when she sees him, and he half-heartedly tells himself that it’s probably not personal. Anyone would react that way to seeing the bags he’s packing under his eyes.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, sweeping his flyaways back from his face. “Your cake’s coming in a second. Moving a little slow this morning.”

“I can see that,” says Vanessa, ever tactful. “Rough night with your dog?”

He scowls at her, and she smiles beatifically. He’s hated the euphemism since he was growing up; it’s one thing for everyone to talk around it the way they do, but he’d rather they’d just say it outright than dress it up in cutesy language. Vanessa, on the other hand, finds it charming.

“Just for that, you’re getting coconut,” he says, turning back to the kitchen and pressing a hand to his gut when he’s sure he’s out of her sight line. Vanessa doesn’t protest, because she can see the future and knows he’ll give her devil’s food anyway.

Other early-morning regulars trickle in, and Ethan slogs through rote orders while Vanessa sips her first mug of coffee, black except for a touch of cream. He already has a to-go cup set out for the latte she’ll order before she leaves for the morgue. 

He slugs another mug of ginger coffee, though it does little to help the glut in his stomach. It used to baffle him, how Vanessa kept that little figure when all she eats is cake and coffee with cream. Now he thinks maybe it’s not so much what he’s eating as it is that he’s running around the neighborhood stuffing himself multiple nights a month and stretching out his appetite for the rest of it.

Christ. At least it’s getting a little easier to breathe. 

His headache has subsided a bit by the time Vanessa finishes her cake, though his bloat hasn’t. His stomach is still roiling unhappily, and each time he bumps it against the counter, he swallows down a groan. It’s barely been an hour, and all he can think about is how much he wants to lie down. Cesar will be in at eleven; maybe he’ll let him handle things for a while and take an hour for himself.

“Do me a favor and eat some damn vegetables for lunch,” he says as he switches out Vanessa’s plate and fork for the check. “Or I’m gonna resort to hiding them in the cake so I don’t have to drive you to the hospital for scurvy.”

It’s an old threat, but the morning wouldn’t feel complete without it. Vanessa dabs at her lips with a napkin, her eyes bright with mischief. “Your concern moves me deeply, Mr Chandler.”

“Latte’ll be — urrp — right out,” he manages, and he immediately goes red when he fails to stifle the belch that spills out of him. 

For her part, Vanessa goes red too. The mischief in her eyes gets crowded out as her pupils dilate. 

“’Scuse me,” he mumbles, and he ducks back into the kitchen before he can do any more damage. He makes her latte with his pulse flooding his ears, embarrassment worming through his already overstuffed stomach, and under the grumble of the espresso maker and the scream of the steamer, he tries to prod out any remaining belches with his free hand before he has to face her again. 

He tries not to look her in the eye when he goes back out with her latte, but of course Vanessa is staring right at him, her half-distant gaze beveled to too fine a point. He grimaces and slides the latte toward her, mumbling something about how he’d said it was a rough night, and he’s about to sidle around her to check on someone else and make his escape when she grabs his forearm.

Her hand is cold against his bare skin, her round black nails sharp, and he blinks at her, uncomfortably aware that he must look like a wild animal caught in headlights. Vanessa’s pale eyes blink back, her wide pupils making her look even more like a creature from beyond the veil. 

“I have something that could help,” she says, her grip relaxing infinitesimally. “A tincture. Not with me, but I could come back on my lunch hour.”

“Oh,” he says, squirming, “no, that’s all right, don’t go out of your way. I’ll be fine. Just overdid it last night.” He palms his stomach sheepishly, and Vanessa’s nails flash against the skin of his wrist as her grasp tightens again. “Really, Vanessa. I’ll live, I swear.”

“Well, that may be,” she intones, retracting her hand and tucking it primly into her lap. “But you don’t have to suffer.”

He scuffs out a laugh. “You tell that to the universe, Miss Ives, or to God or whatever deity you’ve got on the horn this week. Doesn’t make much difference to me who it is, but I’ve got a bone to pick with them.”

She watches him for a long, pointed moment before gathering her things and wrapping her hands around her latte instead of his tender flesh. “I’ll let them know,” she says dryly, and then she’s gone, bicycle lock coming apart easily under her black manicure.

He holds out until Cesar shows up, a little earlier than scheduled because he’s still trying to impress Ethan, and then he begs off for an early lunch and goes upstairs to nap. He dreams fitfully of Vanessa’s black nails, of the rich blackness of overturned earth and of fresh blood singing across his tongue. When he wakes up, he doesn’t feel sick so much as just heavy.

There’s a plastic takeout bag looped around his doorknob when he steps out to head back downstairs, supplementary doses of ibuprofen and antacids coursing through his system, and for a moment his gag reflex kicks. Did he order food in his sleep? He’s probably beyond help if he’s gotten to that point, good Christ. 

But no. Inside there’s a little tub like Vaseline or hair pomade comes in, nondescript black, no label. There’s a note taped to it, handwritten in long, spindly letters that adjoin and stumble against each other:

Cesar let me up. He is quite susceptible to psychic threats. Apply a teaspoon or two to each wrist before you go to sleep tonight. You can add some on the back of your neck as well to mitigate nausea. Repeat in the morning if necessary. It does contain turmeric so it will likely stain any fabric it touches. Use with care.

Feel better. No one else will remind me to eat vegetables.

V.

P.S. I did not threaten Cesar. I simply asked if he would like to see what his future held if he didn’t let me up to your door. He declined. 

And then Ethan’s laughing to himself on the tiny landing between his apartment and the diner, long past caring if the sound filters downstairs for anyone else to hear. He unscrews the cap and brings the tub to his nose: that’s turmeric, all right, and alcohol, aniseed, and something with a sweet burnt-sugar note he can’t quite place. He opens his door and tosses the bag onto his bed, then heads downstairs, shaking his head. Vanessa’s getting that cake for free tomorrow, that’s for sure.

[edaworks]

Wasteland Survival Guide: The Institute, Fusion Reactors, and M.I.T.'s Actual Basement

It's that time again. Periodically I make unreasonable longposts about Fallout-related topics (it's a good way to keep track of fic research). Today I'm tackling nuclear fusion, the Institute, and the real-world Massachusetts Institute of Technology's basement.

Yeah, Yeah, M.I.T. is the Institute, We've All Seen - Wait, What Do You Mean, "The Vault Laboratory?"

M.I.T. - the Massachusetts Institute of Technology - is a highly exclusive research university with a well-deserved reputation for hosting brilliant minds.

It also got its serial numbers filed off in order to host the in-game Institute. Why? Probably because of all the very real research into robotics, artificial intelligence, and power armor (no really). And because M.I.T. is actually doing now what the Institute tries to do in-game with nuclear fusion.

And, of course, because of the vaults in the basement.

You know what? I'll just start at the top...Read on below.

I'll be focusing on fusion-related research in this post, and comparing in-game Institute work on fusion to what's actually happening over at M.I.T. (We'll get to the Media Laboratory and robotics and AI and the, uhm, power armor stuff in a separate post. Or three.)

all actual M.I.T. researchers/faculty/students and/or nuclear physicists have my sincere apologies, I don't know shit about shit but I'm doing my best

I Didn't Sign Up for a Physics Class, but Okay

Here's the thing about nuclear fusion generators - y'know...the ones powering nearly** the entirety of pre-war in-game America?

Including self-contained, miniaturized reactors (fusion cores, fusion cells, microfusion cells, Corvega engines, assaultron and robobrain power supplies, recharger weapons, G.E.C.K.s, etc.) and full-scale reactors (powering vaults, the Lucky 38, the Prydwen (and Rivet City before Maxson Happened), missile silos, etc.)...?

We don't have them yet.

Of course we have nuclear power generation, what are you talking about?

Yes - but nuclear power plants currently operating use fission reactors! Fusion reactors, though? Well...

For the pre-war in-game universe, even more than for us, that fuel-to-energy ratio would have been absurdly important. Companies rushed to implement fusion for damn near every possible use, but waited until the Resource Wars left them no other choice. "No more (viable) oil reserves? Well, shit. Fusion it is."

Because of this, by October 23, 2077, pre-war Western markets were still somewhat new to adopting miniaturized nuclear fusion reactors.

For instance, Chryslus' first fusion vehicles - intentionally reminiscent of the absolutely wild Ford Nucleon concept car dreamed up in 1957 - came to market in 2070, less than a decade before the nuclear exchange.

As for the other benefits of nuclear fusion...Atom knows the in-game universe could do with less radioactive contamination:

It is no wonder the Institute wants to get the reactor in their basement up, running, and running better than originally designed.

Real-life M.I.T. is no stranger to running fusion reactors - they've been at it since the late '60s - but as it turns out, they are currently also "building a better mousetrap," and if they succeed they will be achieving all the Institute would hope for in clean energy production - without the moral deficit.

If nuclear fusion is so great, why aren't we using this technology yet IRL?

Because - and I cannot stress this enough - we are attempting to levitate bits of the Sun inside a donut to make really hot things boil water* so steam will turn a fan attached to a dynamo to power light bulbs.

*(there are two other ways to generate power using this heat)

Naturally...this comes with some complications.

We know fusion reactors can be the most energy-efficient form of power generation - we just need better reactors. That's where M.I.T. comes in.

The biggest problem right now is efficiency:

TL;DR - as of April 2024, all fusion reactors as a matter of course still consume more power to run than they are able to produce (meaning they do not reach "breakeven"). Many cutting-edge reactors also require tritium (very rare) as well as deuterium (very common) fuel.

We did not even see a fusion reaction that reached "breakeven" for power production until December of 2022. That reaction occurred at the National Ignition Facility in California, and their results just passed peer review in February of this year (2024).

Several in-progress reactors aim to improve on this, including ITER (the combined work of dozens of nations) in France, and SPARC: the new reactor under development by Mass Fusion Commonwealth Fusion Systems and M.I.T.'s Plasma Science and Fusion Center (PSFC).

Another big problem with this technology is that it involves plasma.

Plasma, as a particular song reminds us, is what the Sun is made of and The Sun Is Hot. That means plasma carries some very real 'we're-losing-structural-integrity, the-warp-core-is-breaching' risks, and we must jump through all kinds of hoops to work with it.

Why are we shoving the Sun inside a donut, again?

The most well-funded, well-researched way of smashing atoms together involves plasma and magnetic confinement fusion.

This shit is beyond cool. It may also look very familiar:

In-game, the Institute is trying to get what appears to be a spherical tokamak reactor up and running.

Bethesda's choice of reactor was no coincidence: M.I.T. operated the Alcator C-Mod, a spherical tokamak, while Fallout 4 was under development - but that reactor could not achieve "breakeven" IRL, and per Shaun's in-game dialogue, the fictional Alcator C-Mod couldn't either. (Weird given the miniaturized fusion devices everywhere in-universe, but okay, Shaun.)

However, M.I.T. stopped operating that reactor in 2016, a year after Fallout 4's release. SPARC, their planned replacement reactor actually has the sort of power potential we see in-game - and they aim to bring fusion power to market in this decade.

M.I.T., right now, in real life, is doing exactly what you're asked to help the Institute do in-game: build a fusion reactor that surpasses "breakeven."

What the hell is a tokamak and why does it look like half of a Star Trek warp core?

Your typical tokamak reactor is a great big donut-shaped vacuum chamber (the torus), traditionally surrounded by AT LEAST three sets of electromagnets (sometimes many more). M.I.T.'s design for the new SPARC reactor is a bit different, but let's start with the basics.

Why so many magnets?

Because plasma, being Literal Sun Matter, cannot come into contact with the torus containment walls or it will instantly burn through. (This happened in France in 1975. Following initial "well, fuck"s and a couple years' repairs, the logical next step was to publish a paper about it.)

The magnetic fields work to heat the plasma and provide current drive (keep electrons moving in a consistent direction through the plasma and around the torus), while also keeping it from touching anything, preventing a "warp core breach." I'll take a stab at explaining it but the Department of Energy probably does it better.

Meet the magnets:

Toroidal field magnets (blue, above): These enormous D-shaped magnets wrap around and through the torus, conducting an electrical current. This creates a magnetic field that keeps plasma from drifting horizontally into the containment walls.

Central solenoid (green, above): Inside the "donut hole" sits a massive, stacked electromagnet that generates enough electromagnetic force to launch two space shuttles at once. This heats the fuel to about one hundred million degrees Celsius so that it reaches plasma state, and helps "drive" the plasma current around the torus. (Radiofrequency or neutral beam injection heating/drive may be used as well for reactor prototypes aiming for power generation, because current drive from just the solenoid isn’t practical for continuous operation.) The central solenoid also creates another magnetic field called the "poloidal field," which "loops" around the plasma like a collar to prevent it from drifting vertically into the walls. The strongest central solenoid in existence was made for the ITER reactor...by General Atomics.

Outer poloidal field magnets (grey, above): A third set of electromagnets "stacks" up the outside of the torus, and helps maintain and adjust the poloidal field.

Together these three sets of magnets force the plasma to "float" inside the torus, shape it, and provide current drive. The stronger the magnetic field, the higher the reactor's power output.

Okay, and then what?

Given sufficient heat and drive/stability, the plasma fuel mixture undergoes fusion.

Neutrons released during fusion have plenty of kinetic energy (the kind of energy a kickball has midair before it hits you in the face), but no electric charge.

Since magnetic fields only affect negatively or positively charged particles, neutrons completely ignore the fields, sailing straight through and slamming into a "blanket" of metal coating the donut's insides. Neutrons passing into the 'blanket" lose their kinetic energy, which is converted to heat and absorbed by the "blanket." (ITER's "blanket" involves a lot of beryllium, which...behaves a bit differently IRL than it does in-game.)

Heat captured by the "blanket" is then used to generate power. For instance, a water cooling system can bleed heat from the "blanket," regulating temperature and creating superheated highly-pressurized steam to run turbine generators.

I notice you described a "typical" tokamak above -what's the atypical option?

Check out SPARC.

Its huge design departure is that it uses new high-temperature superconducing magnets (most existing types have to be cooled to vacuum-of-space temperatures using something like a liquid helium system to achieve superconductivity, which is a huge power drain) to create a monstrous magnetic field - and its size is tiny in comparison to its projected power output.

Neat. So why did you refer to plasma as a problem?

Well...between the heat and the neutrons, the "blanket," the "first wall" and all plasma-facing surfaces inside the torus take one hell of a beating:

"Neutron degradation of wall surfaces-" "Energy is released in the form of the kinetic energy of the reaction products-" In practical terms, that just means countless neutrons are doing THIS:

...but to the containment wall and other surfaces inside the torus, instead of to Batshuayi's face. And so:

Basically, this stuff breaks fast enough - and the only materials that don't break quickly are rare enough - to create a real barrier to commercial use.

And THIS is one of the problems they're working on solving in M.I.T.'s basement.

Now we can talk about the Vault. FINALLY.

M.I.T. is home to the Center for Science and Technology with Accelerators and Radiation (CSTAR). CSTAR's splash page announces:

Linear plasma devices? You mean like -

No, not like plasma rifles. Instead of weapons, we're talking about tools being used to solve the "plasma fucking destroys everything it touches" problem.

How does CSTAR do this? They've got CLASS. ...No, really:

This field is called plasma-surface interaction science, and if you want a really long but very informative read on how CSTAR's work helps move it forward, check this out. It involves the DIONISOS Linear Plasma Device - a "let's shoot it with plasma and see what happens" tool.

CSTAR also works to better undertstand how materials handle radiation damage, and how they behave after becoming irradiated.

And to handle this sort of work, one needs a...

The Vault Laboratory for Nuclear Science "combines high-intensity particle sources, precision particle detection, and a heavily shielded experimental area to create a facility for nuclear research in high-radiation environments." It contains, among other things:

the DT Neutron Generator, which is used in a variety of experiments, including radiation detector development (pretty damned important) and characterization, fast neutron imaging, and material activation (stuff becoming radioactive).

the DANTE Tandem Accelerator, which was "originally designed to produce high neutron yields for use in cancer therapy research."

And that is what's actually going on in M.I.T.'s basement: truth is cooler than fiction.

The takeaways:

Yes, M.I.T. really is building a revolutionary fusion reactor with parts from Mass Fusion Commonwealth Fusion Systems.

Yes, there really is a secure underground facility where incredibly advanced research related to nuclear fusion, radiation detection, irradiated materials, and degradation of materials due to radiation exposure takes place.

Yes, I really would spend eight hours researching nuclear physics instead of doing more dishes. Shoutout to @twosides--samecoin for tolerating my absurd hyperfocus on researching this.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk on what M.I.T. is really doing in its basement.

Tune in next time for M.I.T.'s Media Laboratory, and how it is related to real-world power armor, plus: the relationship between Langley, P.A.M.'s IRL cousin, and Vault 101.

** (Fallout is wildly inconsistent re: how widespread fusion is in-game and when it was developed. I mean we're talking a two-decade spread of inconsistency! And somehow the technology - first available to the military - was then miniaturized and made available to the general public before becoming widespread for commercial power generation? And somehow we both do and don't have impossible cold fusion in game? It's a mess. I reject this reality and replace it with a fish, hence this post. Also, I hate fission batteries. don't talk to me about fission batteries, "fission batteries" are small fission reactors but they are definitely not "battery sized" - the "fission batteries" in-universe are so miniaturized that they are more likely another kind of atomic battery like a radioisotope thermoelectric generator and those are subject to a law of diminishing returns as the fuel decays/not producing a reasonably useful power output after over 200 years due to the isotopes normally used/can be VERY dangerous if the shielding is breached or removed, and - you know what, that's also a whole different post.)

[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (3/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 3: Tradition. The siblings are about to move into their new home when Omega suggests a Pabu tradition. Crosshair struggles with accepting help. ~5800 words, Crosshair & Omega POV. (This incorporates part of a previous ficlet, but adjusted to fit within this story, just in case you think some parts seemed familiar!)

---

The days kept coming.  Omega seemed to be feeling better again, her regular sunny self once more, and she was buzzing with excitement about the new house.  There were only a few more days of work on the electronics and finishing touches, and then it’d be ready.  Good.  None of them liked using the Imperial shuttle as their home, and even though it was bigger than the Marauder, they seemed to get on each other’s nerves more easily in here.  

Crosshair yawned.  He hadn’t slept well the night before, waking up several times and then sleeping long after the sun had risen.  Wrecker, Hunter and Omega were apparently already up, leaving him alone.  It was time to get up and get ready.  He shambled out of his bunk and into the ‘fresher.  

He stared into the military shuttle’s poor excuse for a mirror, frowning at what he saw in the dimly reflective gray metal.  The stubble on his face was slowly trying to turn into a beard, gray shot through with white, coarse hairs slightly curling.  The hair on most of his head was much the same, scruffy and wavy.  After their cadet years he had always kept his hair short, irritated by its curly texture and the maintenance needed to keep it from tangling.  After Bracca he’d gone even further, keeping it nearly fully shaved, and even on Tantiss they’d allowed him to keep it shorn close.

But now --

His left hand curled into a fist.  His stump hung uselessly at his side.

He knew Hunter or Wrecker would grab the clippers or razor they’d picked up from the market and cut his hair for him happily.  All he had to do was say the word.  It shouldn’t be so difficult, and yet…

Crosshair let out a long breath.  To hell with it.  He glanced around, looking for the clippers, but they weren’t in their usual spot.  His eyes landed on the razor instead and he hesitated.  Before he could think better of it, he splashed his face with water and lathered his patchy beard with soap, then picked up the razor with his left hand.

How hard could it be?

He set the razor down five minutes later, dropping it into the sink to let it wash clean.  Bloody water swirled into the drain, and he grimaced, wiping his face.  Multiple streaks of blood came away on the back of his hand.  Close enough.

He turned on the hot water in the shower.  He stripped off his nightclothes one-handed, fumbling with the shirt as usual,  and stepped beneath the water, his face stinging, his eyes burning.

---

”Cross?” 

“Hrm?” he muttered, toothpick wavering between his lips as he sat down on the gangway, where Wrecker was working on what remained of breakfast.  It seemed Hunter and Omega were out with Batcher.

“You, uh, you shaved,” said Wrecker, giving him an odd look over his mug of caf.  

Crosshair shrugged, looking at the bowl of fruit resting beside his brother.  He should probably eat some of it, though he wasn’t particularly hungry.

“Time for a change.”

”But you’re bleeding.”  Wrecker reached over, holding out a napkin, looking concerned.

Crosshair froze.  “Kriff,” he hissed beneath his breath.  He reluctantly accepted the napkin, dabbing it at his face and wincing.  

”You know, if you ever need a hand—” Wrecker began.  

He glared at his brother, suddenly needled.  The breath felt trapped in his lungs.  “Very funny.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that!”  Wrecker sighed, looking abashed and shaking his head.  “I didn’t mean --  You know what I was tryin’ to say.  If there’s somethin’ you need, you can bug me any time.”

Crosshair nodded.  He’d known Wrecker wouldn’t ever purposefully jab at him about something like this, but in the moment, it had surprised him how the casual phrase had stung.  He looked down, balling up the napkin in his fist.  “I… didn’t want to ask.”

”I get it.  Must be hard.”  He held out the bowl of fruit to Crosshair.  “You want some?”

”Sure.”  He tucked the napkin under his right arm, remembering to reach for the fruit with his left hand.  He grabbed a meiloorun, its flesh pleasantly firm in his grip, and sniffed it.  The aroma was sweet.  He took a bite, though chewing took more effort than it should, and the fruit didn’t taste as good as it had smelled.

“So… you gonna grow your hair out like Hunter?” Wrecker asked slyly.

”Don’t.  You.  Dare.”

Wrecker broke into peals of laughter.  “Just picture it!  We could get you a bandanna with a crosshair on it!  Red or black?”  

“Wrecker, I will end you myself,” Crosshair growled, before a grin stole over his face.  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “All right.  If my hair starts looking anything like Hunter’s, I’ll ask you to shave it immediately.”  

“Deal!”

“Well, now that that’s settled,” said Crosshair.  “Any caf around?”

“You work on the fruit, and I’ll get you some caf.”  Wrecker got to his feet to head back inside, then paused.  “You slept awful late today.”

Crosshair’s mouth quirked down at the edges.  “Happens now and then.”  It didn’t used to happen.  He’d always been an early riser after a lifetime of military training.  Now, though… “I can’t sleep in?”

“No, no, you can.  Just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all,” said Wrecker.  He gave Crosshair an appraising look, as if he could see right through him.  

He slept through the night, Crosshair told himself.  I would have noticed if I’d woken him up.  He had an unsettling feeling he might have talked in his sleep, though.  Flashes from the night seared his mind, an electric shock arcing through the calm summer morning --

His hand useless and shaking, losing its grip on the binoculars in the jungle -- the vibrosword’s blade lifting back up, his own screams in his ears, what did they do to him -- being dragged away in a trail of blood, staring helplessly at a small bundle limp and sodden in a lake of red, five half-curled fingers --

He shivered, then busied himself eating his fruit, turning away from Wrecker and gazing out on the colonnade with an effort.  He barely noticed how it tasted, distracting himself with watching the marketplace.  His eyes scanned the crowd carefully until half a klick away he spotted Hunter, Omega and Batcher, their silhouettes instantly recognizable.  They looked to be doing the day’s shopping in the market.  He tried to focus on small safe details, sunlight glinting off Omega’s hair, Batcher frisking around Hunter’s heels.  

A lake of red --

He huffed a deep breath.  No.  Don’t think about it.  

“Cross?”

Crosshair shook his head, giving Wrecker a faint smile.  “I must really need that caf.”

”All right, then.”  Wrecker headed back inside to the tiny galley.

Crosshair watched him go, then finished his fruit mechanically.  He reached up to wipe his face, wincing when the acidic fruit juice stung half a dozen tiny cuts from his shave job.  He’d have to figure something else out, or go for a beard after all.  

He gazed out sullenly at the marketplace, his mind empty, feeling cold despite the sunny day.

---

Omega steadied her breath, trying to keep her hope tempered.  Moving day could be as early as tomorrow.

Of course, the idea of “moving day” itself was silly.  Between the four of them and Batcher, their possessions were meager -- what remained of her brothers’ armor (no backpacks, no helmets, Wrecker’s chestplate nearly unusable), the two blasters they’d managed to make it off Tantiss with, the few sets of clothing they’d cobbled together with the help of the villagers, and a few other odds and ends.  Wrecker could easily carry it in a single load; even Omega could bring it all down from the ship with a cart.

But as they’d worked with the village to build their little house, Lyana had told her that moving days on Pabu were special.  They weren’t common, most people tending to live in the same home for their life on the island, but sometimes when a family grew or changed there would be a move, and there had been many moves after the sea surge.  It was a time for letting go and saying goodbye to the old, but also joyfully welcoming in the new.  

That sounded like something they all needed, but now she had to figure out how to get her brothers on board.  She found her opening at dinner.

It was Crosshair’s turn for dinner plans.  At first they’d told Crosshair he didn’t need to worry about the dinner rotation, he was still healing and getting used to doing things one-handed, but he’d just glowered as fiercely as ever, the angle of his toothpick sharp and aggressive.  “I’ve got it,” he’d said, eyes narrowing, and they’d backed off.  If he had it, he had it. 

Omega waited for dinner while playing with Batcher and Wrecker, Hunter sitting beneath the great weeping maya and watching them.  Wrecker and Hunter still weren’t fully back to their regular selves either.  Wrecker got tired more quickly, more easily out of breath than he used to, and Hunter was stiff in the back, with a slight limp.  Like Crosshair, they were both slowly improving; but also like Crosshair, they tried to pretend that they’d come back from Tantiss with nothing more than a few scratches.  She hated seeing them do it, but she understood, too.

After all, she hadn’t told any of them about the nightmares she kept having about the bridge.  

She shook her head.  They were here on Pabu.  They were safe.  She repeated it to herself.  We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.

Batcher snuffled, running up to her and nearly knocking her over.  Omega laughed as her reverie broke, giving the hound a good scratch on the chin.  “Wrecker, do you have her ball?” she asked.

“Oi!  Batcher, over here!” Wrecker called, winding up and chucking the ball a good thirty feet past Omega.  Batcher shot off, her claws scrabbling on the stone as she galloped for the ball.  Omega turned back to Wrecker with a grin, but her smile faded when she saw him rubbing his chest, wincing.

“Maybe we’d better take a break, Wrecker,” she said.  “Besides, Crosshair’s probably ready with dinner soon.”  She wandered to where Hunter was sitting and took a seat beside him, and Wrecker followed a moment after.

“I hope it’s something good,” Wrecker said.  “I’m starving!”

Hunter chuckled, patting Wrecker on the shoulder.  “You’re always starving.  Don’t worry, everything here’s good.  Hard to go wrong with our basic plan of ‘trade for something from the market, put it together with something else from the market, eat.’”

“But the house should be ready tomorrow, right?” Omega asked.  “We’ll have a real kitchen.  We could learn how to really cook something!”

Hunter gave her a small smile.  “You want to learn to cook?  We can figure it out together.  Maybe there’s someone in the village we can ask to give us some pointers.  Your guess on how to cook anything is as good as mine.  Which is to say, terrible.”

She giggled.  A loud whistle came from the direction of the shuttle, and she looked up to see Batcher tearing off to meet Crosshair out front of the shuttle.  He leaned down to pat her with both arms, but Omega saw him glance to his right as he did so.  

“The forgetting must be so hard,” she said quietly to Hunter as they walked back to the shuttle.  “With his hand.”

“I know,” said Hunter.  “I see it too.”  His face darkened with a hint of sadness. “It took Echo a good while before that got better.”

Omega reached out, taking Hunter’s hand for a moment and squeezing it.  “I wonder when Echo will come back.  I think it’d be good for Crosshair if he was here.”

“I do too, but we talked it over before Echo left.  Crosshair insisted that if Echo was up to it, he should get back to the fight.  Especially with his work helping the other clones from Tantiss,” said Hunter.  “He didn’t want Echo to put that off for him.”

She sighed.  “That sounds like him.”

They reached the shuttle and followed Crosshair and Batcher inside.  Something smelled good, though the tiny galley was a mess, with tins piled on top of each other and splotches of sauce all over the slim counter.  Crosshair was normally exceptionally neat -- nothing like the chaos of Wrecker or Tech -- but Omega figured it’d be hard to keep things clean as he went in such a small space, with only his left hand.  

Besides, the mess mattered little.  The narrow collapsible table was pulled out with a tray of seaweed wraps, cooked fish, a large dish of rice, and an assortment of thin-cut vegetables of varying sizes.  There were so many tasty things there wasn’t room for their plates on the table, but eating with a plate on their knees had never stopped them before.  Omega grinned.  “Crosshair, this looks delicious!”  

He shrugged.  “Not like I did most of it.  I just asked around at the market for what went well together.  All I did was the rice and the vegetables.  I think it’ll be edible.”

“Looks great to me!” Wrecker said.  He doled out portions for each of them, then they sat down on the flight seats lining the walls, balancing their plates in their laps.  Omega rolled up rice, fish and vegetables with the seaweed and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth, grinning and flashing Crosshair a thumbs up.  He smiled slightly back at her.

“Well, the house is… done, I think,” said Hunter.  “We can pack up everything and sleep there tonight.”  He shook his head, taking a bite of a roll.  “Hard to believe we’ll have a house.  Us.”  

Omega looked up at him with wide eyes.  He looked so wistful, still half in disbelief even though they’d all been down in Lower Pabu working on the house all week.  “Actually, Hunter, I had an idea.”  She beamed at her brothers.

“Shoot,” said Crosshair.  He balanced his plate on his knees, keeping it pinned in place with his right wrist, and worked at trying to roll up food with his left hand.  Rice spilled out of the end of his wrap as he took a bite.

“What if we do moving day tomorrow?”

“Moving day?  It’ll take about an hour to walk back down there tonight with everything, and then we’ll be done,” Wrecker said with a hint of confusion.  “Why do you wanna wait?”

“Lyana told me about how people here make a big deal out of moving day.  It’s a tradition.  You say goodbye to your old home first, and thank it for what it did for you.  Then, you make a fresh start in the morning in your new home.  It’s a way to celebrate new beginnings!  And… that’s what I want.  A new beginning, with my brothers.”  She smiled, looking around at each of them hopefully.

Hunter looked touched, a soft smile on his face.  Wrecker wiped at his eyes, clearing his throat.  Crosshair nodded thoughtfully, setting down his half-eaten roll.  

“That sounds real nice, Omega,” Hunter said.  “All right, we’ll do things your way.”  He chuckled.  “Though this shuttle isn’t much to say goodbye to.  It’s… serviceable, and it got us where we needed to go.  But that’s about all I can say about it.”

“I know,” Omega said, wrinkling her nose.  “I don’t like it either.  But…”  She hesitated.  “Maybe we should say goodbye to the Marauder instead.  We lost her so suddenly.”  She folded her arms over her chest, squeezing herself in a slight hug before returning back to her food.

“Villagers said they hauled up a few more pieces of her, a few days ago,” said Wrecker.  “Nothin’ salvageable.”  He hung his head.  “It happened so fast.  I saw the detonator flash one, two -- I grabbed Gonky -- and I jumped --  That’s all I remember, ‘til I woke up.  And then you were gone.”  He reached out, tousling her hair and letting out a long breath.  “That was a rough night.”  

Gonky, charging in the corner, let out a soft, mournful warble.  “Yeah, we almost lost you, you pile of bolts,” Wrecker said.  Gonky gonked back at him, sounding much more chirpy.

“I don’t think any of us like thinking about that night,” said Hunter.  He glanced at Crosshair, and Omega followed his gaze.  Crosshair had stopped messing with his food and sat there silently, his face somewhat paler than usual, his gaze lowered.

“We don’t have to talk about that part of it,” Omega said quickly.  “But… what about happy memories of the Marauder?  Like -- like the first time I ever saw hyperspace.”  A warm glow filled her chest, remembering Tech’s sure hands on the controls, Hunter’s encouragement, the starfield opening wide before her.  She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so thrilling, so alive with possibility.  The memory sparkled in her mind’s eye.  “The whole galaxy opened up for me the day we first left Kamino.  All those stars.  I’ll never forget that, not ever.”

Wrecker grinned at her.  “Aw, kid.  You shoulda seen your face.  You just lit up.  Never seen anyone so happy before.”

“That was special,” Hunter said fondly.  “Even with everything else going on --- that was a good moment.”  

Crosshair quietly rolled a clumsy wrap together, taking a bite and chewing slowly.

Omega frowned, trying to catch his eye and failing.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that that memory was tied up with their fleeing Kamino… leaving Crosshair behind.  She knew it hadn’t been his fault, it hadn’t really been him that day, and they’d had to leave.  She knew they’d all been moving past that, but it still stung if she let herself think about it.  

She tried a different tack.  “Well, what was it like for all of you?  The first time you saw space?”

Hunter gave her a quick look.  He’d picked up on what she was doing, and approved of it.  He pursed his lips together, deep in thought.  “Our first spaceflight as Clone Force 99…”  He laughed.  “We were itching to get out there.  Knew we were ready.  We’d had the training and then some.  The Kaminoans wanted to make sure we were… ah, worth the investment.”

“We couldn’t be as good as the regs.  We had to be ten times better,” Crosshair said at last.  “And we were.”

“Hell yeah we were!” Wrecker said.  “But they wouldn’t let us go out without those flight tests.  We each had to pass.”  He shook his head.  “Never liked flying.  I passed, but uh, it’s not my thing.”

“What about you, Crosshair?” Omega asked.  “You let me fly when we escaped.”

“I’m an adequate pilot,” he said, shrugging, his nose wrinkling.  “But up in vacuum without atmo, the light can be a little much.”

Omega tilted her head, puzzled.  All ships had treated viewfields to help protect their pilots’ eyes.  Shouldn’t that be enough to block out the radiation?

“Crosshair’s enhancement,” Hunter explained.  “He sees more of the spectrum than we do, but in space, it’s too much.  Gives you headaches sometimes, right?  Something about UV light and scatter?  Tech could explain it better.”

“Something like that,” Crosshair said.  “It’s better with a helmet.  Keeps things manageable.  But I prefer my stargazing from solid ground.”

“Well, Tech and I had fun with the test, at least,” Hunter said.  He grinned at the memory.  “The reg who was grading us did not approve of some of our maneuvers.  Something about not being regulation.  Tech just quoted back three pages of the flight manual to him and then pulled a Tech turn for good measure.  The reg almost failed him out of spite, but Wrecker cracked his knuckles at him, and that was that.”

Omega laughed brightly, hearing Hunter use her name for Tech’s most outlandish maneuver.  It made her miss Tech a little extra, but in a good way. 

“Good thing they didn’t bother with inspections after we passed,” Hunter said.  “They’d have had a heart attack with some of the modifications to the Marauder Tech made.  Some mods weren’t just against regulation, but I think they were technically illegal in many, many star systems.  Of course, that didn’t matter to Tech as long as he thought his ship flew better with them.”  He snorted.

Crosshair abruptly set his plate down on the seat beside him.  “Anyone want any more?  I’ll put the leftovers away if you’re done.”

“Oh no you don’t, I got cleanup!” said Wrecker.  His eyes fell on Crosshair’s plate, still mostly full of food.  “Wait, you aren’t gonna finish that?”

Crosshair shrugged.  His face looked pinched, his jaw set tighter than usual.  “Wasn’t that hungry.  You can take it.”  He got to his feet.  “Going to go take the hound for a walk.  So it’s settled?  We’ll ‘move’ tomorrow?”

“Uh -- yeah,” Wrecker said, giving Hunter and Omega an uncertain look.  “Come on, Cross, stay.  We can all take Batcher later.”

“She needs to go now,” said Crosshair, in a tense, strained voice.  “Save any leftovers for her.”  He hurried out of the shuttle and into the soft dark of the early evening, Batcher at his heels.

Omega, Hunter and Wrecker looked at each other.  “Was it somethin’ we said?” Wrecker asked.

“I don’t know,” said Omega, her good mood fading to be replaced by worry.  “I thought it was nice, talking about the Marauder.  And Tech.”  She glanced back at Crosshair’s mostly untouched plate, remembering how hard it had been for Crosshair to keep his plate steady and roll up his food.  “Maybe his hand is bothering him.”  She sighed.  “Do you think we’ll be able to find him a new one soon?”

Hunter smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  “You’re always looking out for him, aren’t you?”

“All of you,” she said stubbornly.  “My little brothers.”  They chuckled, and Wrecker reached out to pat her on the back.  She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

“Echo talked to him about a prosthesis,” Hunter said.  “It’s not as simple as just running out to the nearest marketplace.  One, they’re not always easy to find.  Two, the people who make and sell them might ask questions about clones looking for them.  It’s a… sensitive thing to acquire.”

“They’re expensive, too,” said Wrecker, taking a bite of the leftovers from Crosshair’s plate.    “Crosshair’s worth it!  But might take some time.”

Omega leaned back against her seat, remembering the credits she’d won off that Imperial officer.  Crosshair had almost been scandalized at how good she was, but she knew he’d been impressed, too.  Despite how dire the situation had been, it was still a good memory -- the two of them against the world.  

Her eyes narrowed.  They’d stuck together in tough times before.  She’d do everything she could to help him here, too.

---

His blood pounded in his ears, a dull roaring rush, his pulse jagged and skittery.  Crosshair rounded a bend in the stairs, descending them aimlessly, no clear idea where he was going.  Batcher followed him, looking up at him now and then with a soft whuff, but he kept onward.

Dinner should have been easy.  He should have gotten something premade, something he could have doled out of a tin one-handed onto their plates.  But the fresh fish had looked good, the villagers’ vegetables fresh and vibrant, and he’d wanted to show his family he could give them something decent.  He’d figured he should try.

It hadn’t been too bad, except for the chopping.  It had taken him the better part of an hour to cut up vegetables for four people.  The vegetables had come out all different sizes, and more than a few big hunks had dropped on the ground for Batcher to eat, but he’d gotten there eventually.  By the time he’d finished, he had thought he might have had this dinner thing down.

Except for failing to account for the fact that everyone else had two hands to roll their food up with, and he had one.  

But those little things didn’t matter.  He was starting to realize that there were just going to be obstacles now, things he couldn’t think of in the moment that would prove to be frustrating and difficult, and that truth was starting to settle into his bones, where he could expect it.  He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

He jogged down the steps, the stone ringing under his feet, his breath coming quickly.  

Dinner would have been fine.  But why they’d had to start talking about --

He stopped, catching his breath, leaning on the short stone wall overlooking the moonlit sea.  He bent over the wall, breathing hard, his eyes screwed closed.

Batcher nudged his leg, whining.  He reached down absently with his left hand, patting her half-heartedly.  

“Sorry,” he muttered.  “You can go back to the ship, if you like.  Just needed -- to get out of there.”

They’d all sat around, trading stories, laughing, eating their dinner easily with both hands; and he’d sat there, getting quieter and quieter, tenser and tenser.  He didn’t understand why panic had started clawing at the inside of his chest, why it had gotten harder and harder to breathe as they kept going.

His breath seared.

He shook his head, nostrils flaring, biting his lip.  Focus.  He went perfectly still.  Then he balled up his left fist and smashed it into the wall.

Pain instantly radiated out from his knuckles, despite the fact he’d pulled back at the last second.  He swore, shaking his hand out, then tucking it beneath his right arm and pressing it tightly to his chest.  

Stupid.  You only have one left, idiot.

He shook his head again with a growl, trembling slightly, breathing hard.  Batcher whimpered, nudging his leg again.  

“I said go!” he snarled.

Batcher sat down, looking up at him defiantly, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.  She tilted her head and whined.

“Fine,” he relented.  He crouched down beside her, reaching out with his throbbing hand to pat her.  He scritched her on the chin, which she always loved, and he took a deep, shaky breath.  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered.  The hound just leaned into his hand, closing her eyes as he scratched her.  He scratched and scratched, until the throbbing in his hand went away, and the moon swung high above them.

---

Hunter was waiting for him.  He sat on the gangplank, a cup of caf in hand, watching Crosshair and Batcher cross the moonlit colonnade.  

Crosshair sighed.  He’d hoped that being gone so long might have meant the others had gotten to sleep.  He should have known better.  

Batcher galloped to Hunter for a good scratch, then went on inside the ship to go find Omega.  Crosshair closed the distance between him and Hunter much more slowly, at last stopping a few feet away.

“Evening,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s a nice night for one,” said Hunter, just as awkwardly.  He tried to crack a grin, but took a sip of his caf instead.  “That was some walk.”

Crosshair sighed.  “You didn’t need to wait up.  Don’t tell me I have a curfew.”

“No,” Hunter said.  “But I thought you might want to talk.  You left dinner in a hurry.”  He reached behind him, pulling out a closed food tin.  “Hungry now?”

Crosshair glared at him for a moment, then relented, sitting down and taking the proffered tin.  “...yes.”  He’d almost forgotten, he had been feeling so agitated, but his stomach gave a reminding rumble.  He struggled for a moment with the lid, batting away Hunter’s hand before he could lift it for him, and popped the top off.  Inside was a portion of dinner’s leftovers, except the food had already been assembled for him in easy-to-grab rolls.  

His shoulders sank.  Hunter must have noticed he’d been having a hard time at dinner.  He closed his eyes for a moment, torn between accepting the small kindness and telling Hunter just where he could shove it.  

He took a roll and crammed it in his mouth Wrecker-style, barely tasting it.  “Thanks,” he said with his mouth half-full.  He ate a few more pieces in silence, then glanced over at Hunter, who was watching him closely.

“So where’d you and Batcher head to?” 

Crosshair shrugged.  “Around.  Took the stairs for a few laps.  Needed to stretch my legs.”

Hunter nodded, apparently accepting the explanation.  But his eyes flicked down, then back up.  “Did you trip or something?”

“What?”

“Your knuckles.”

Crosshair swore to himself, picking up his left hand.  Scrapes adorned the knuckles, clear as day, and they were faintly swollen.  They didn’t really hurt anymore, but it had been careless of him.  “It doesn’t matter.”

Hunter sighed.  “You’re damn stubborn, Crosshair.  But you’re not subtle.  What happened at dinner?”  

“I don’t know,” Crosshair said honestly.  “But I had to leave.”  He stared down into the tin of food.  He’d been looking forward to sharing a meal with them. He’d wanted to stay.  But there’d been an emptiness gnawing at him the longer they’d talked.  “Felt like… the walls were closing in.  Needed the air.”

The simple admission took Hunter aback.  “Oh.  You’re actually telling me.”

Crosshair chuckled.  “It’s my new softer side.”

Hunter nearly choked on a stifled burst of laughter.  “You’re a shit sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

He finished his dinner, setting the tin down.  It had been far easier to eat like this, with a little help.  It galled him even as he appreciated it.

“Did the fresh air help?”

“I think so.  Hard to describe it.  I… wanted to stay.  But I couldn’t.”  He shook his head, frowning, breathing a little harder.  He rubbed his head with his left hand, his palm brushing against the short crop of hair stubbornly growing back.  “It’s nothing.  Just… adjusting.”

Hunter nodded, mouth pulling to one side with a bit of tension.  “If it stops being nothing, and starts being something… just remember, we’re here, Crosshair.”

“Since when did you get so warm and fuzzy?”

Hunter laughed, a sharp barking sound, and checked Crosshair with his shoulder.  “It’s my new softer side.”  Crosshair snorted, and for a moment they laughed together like they were cadets, their guard slipping.

“And how’s your hand?” Hunter asked.

“You mean the lack of it?”

“I -- yeah, I guess.  Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Crosshair waved his wrist at him.  “Don’t be.  It’s awkward.  I’m still getting used to it.”  He gazed off into the strings of glow lamps adorning the colonnade and the surrounding buildings.  Their bright orange and white and yellow colors swirled together, a soft blush against the dark.  

“Is it still hurting?”

He thought of saying no.  It was certainly less painful than it had been, by several orders of magnitude.  But that didn’t mean it was fine.  “Yes.”

“When’s the last time you saw AZI?”

“Yesterday.  He still has me on pain pills.  I don’t need them often now.  But when I do, it’s --”  He scowled.  “And it’s random.  Hard to predict.”

Hunter nodded.  “You know, Echo pinged us while you were out.  He’s between missions for another rotation, wanted me to let you know in case… you know, you wanted to talk.  Left a message for you.”

He thought of Echo lightyears away, with Rex, Howzer, Gregor.  Good men, after everything.  He had no doubt Echo would continue to fight for a long while.  But talking to him — there was nothing new to say, especially over long-range comms.  Crosshair shrugged.  “Hm.  I’m good.”  He wondered what Echo’s message had been.  Maybe he’d check it out, after the others fell asleep.

Hunter cracked a half smile.  “Yeah, he figured as much.  He and Omega had a long chat, though.”  

“Mhm.  She misses him,” said Crosshair.  He wondered if that had been part of the reason she had seemed so off a few days ago.  

“I think she hoped he might stay with us with Tantiss gone.  But Echo’s followed his own path for a while now,” Hunter said.  He sat back, gazing up at the night sky.  “You were right back there.  On Tantiss.”

”About what?” Crosshair asked, giving Hunter a wary look.

”We’re not Clone Force 99 anymore,” Hunter said in a rough voice.  He held out his hands, bare instead of gloved, no plates or gauntlets on his arms.  They were the hands of a civilian, not a soldier.  “We can let it go.”  He let out a long sigh.  “Ahh, look at me getting — well, whatever this is.”

Crosshair closed his eyes.  Let it go.  It sounded so simple.  He was the one who’d thrown it out at his brothers like a grenade, a bomb to impress upon them the seriousness of what he was saying, something to jolt them into accepting his sacrifice.  And then they’d stepped up.  Told him they were in it together.  He believed it — then on Tantiss, and here on Pabu.

So why was it so hard to lean on them?

He didn’t have an answer.  He opened his eyes, meeting Hunter’s gaze.  “Letting go is easier than it sounds,” he said at last.  

“I think I know what you mean,” said Hunter.  He gave Crosshair a nod.  “Come on, it’s getting late.  And we’ve got the move tomorrow.  You left before Shep and Lyana came by with their announcement.  Guess moving day comes with a party.”

”Oh?” 

“They said the villagers will be stopping by with donations, food, drinks, little things to make the place feel like home.  I tried to tell him we were fine, they’ve already been too generous, but Shep’s as stubborn as you are.  And I could see Omega really wanted to do it.  Wrecker, too.  I mean, there’ll be food involved,” Hunter said.

”Goody,” said Crosshair.  It sounded like a kind enough gesture.  But a day of near-strangers in their new house, when all he felt like doing was being alone, sounded like… a lot.

His arm prickled with a sharp, arcing ache.  He hissed, rubbing it hard with his left hand, biting back a curse.

”Want me to grab your meds?” Hunter asked.

”No.  I got it,” said Crosshair.  He got to his feet, picking up the empty tin of food in his left hand.  He gave Hunter a long look.  “Thanks.  For this.”

”We’ll be more mindful of your hand,” said Hunter.  “Should’ve helped you from the start.”

Crosshair shook his head.  “I have to figure this out on my own.  It’s the only way.”  He hurried back inside to get his medication, his arm tingling in waves, and nearly missed Hunter’s retort.

”It doesn’t have to be on your own.”