#THIS WAS LONG YET AGAIN!!! im spiraling over him always

[cherubchoirs]

One thing that comes to my mind is overtime Fallen!Gabriel coming to terms with his slow transformation and more hellish traits, maybe abandoning his swords at times and just claws at what comes in his and V1's way. Or maybe even him falling into despair after these instances happen and V1 bringing him back to reality idk all my thoughts are jumbled and *incomprehensible sputtering noises* ILOVETHATSDHITOH MYGOD

YES YOU GET IT.....gabriel's fall is a quick process initially - he dies, from the remains of his light burning out or in a final stand against v1 to resolve what little he can in the time he has left, but he doesn't fade into nothingness like he believes he should. he is brought back in the depths of treachery greatly disoriented but instinctively understanding his cosmic position, the punishment seeming swift and fully realized upon his resurrection - he is torn from all the other angels, feeling mentally and physically isolated in a way he has never known, his body is racked in the cold even from within and his wings are ruined so that he may never aspire to heaven again. this is what falling feels like, this is what it looks, and he believes the process to be complete as it gives him more than enough to grieve. but his halo is still intact, still fully luminous if not slightly dimmed compared to the other archangels, and only when it starts to crack and fall away does he realize he was mistaken.

upon waking in his tomb, gabriel doesn't have any weapons - his swords aren't with him and he can't summon any light to use his spear or axes. however, he's far too confused and pissed off to really notice too much - this fight is basically meant to play out much like a prime soul, where gabriel is using the sheer brute force of his body to relentlessly engage v1 (although i do imagine he tries, through habit, to call his weapons to him...and when he can't, it just enrages him. he self-enrages lol) he gets brought back to his senses with enough pummeling though, having to consciously now accept that his death resulted in his fall instead and then forced to acknowledge several punishments in quick succession with a clearer head. no flying, no teleporting, no light to aid him, and total isolation of the self. he despairs QUITE loudly for awhile but, like i mentioned in my last post about gabriel, he is now a character moved to action and since he has more time, he must learn to use it. gabriel had just been mourning the work he would leave undone so he wants to find a way to bear this weight...and perhaps action will keep him occupied. and he'll need weapons for that.

so v1 (gleefully) helps him steal from his own tomb, needing to wrench his swords free now buried into bodies of flawless marble in a way that sees them break. they are heaven-tempered blades and so gabriel knows they shatter by design to show the fallen angel that he has no claim to them anymore, at least not in their perfect state, but he knows too he needs to work with what he's given. no free passes ever again. and so he learns to fight entirely on his feet with broken swords, fresh anguish snapping at his heels but kept at bay by his natural inclination as a warrior, v1's now constant presence (as well as how they learn to fight together rather than against one another), and the ultimate peace he has with his decision. he did what was right, and he wishes to accept the outcome as it is, something he can manage to maintain until his halo starts to crumble. it sets into motion the true decay of his heavenly traits and the acquiring of demonic ones which he, being pretty much ignorant of fallen angels, had no idea to expect.

the horns on his helmet grow significantly and his nails fully sharpen to take shape into claws while he increasingly loses his ability to speak in the holy tongue, the words twisting themselves in his throat and making him sick until he can say them no more. his swords begin to burn in his hands while his still instinctive calls to the divine light start to instead attract massive amounts of hell energy to him through prayer now made infernal. and with all of this, he begins to forget himself in battle. his body, once airy and ethereal despite being solid, is growing hard, his own flesh like cold marble and just as difficult to pierce regardless of armor, allowing him a recklessness he would have never considered before. and so, in expedience, in anger, in something that's feeling increasingly natural, he abandons his weapons and tears into husks, machines, (other?) demons with horns and claws, and he revels in the visceral feel of it. he distinctly senses how he rends their flesh or their parts without the distance of a blade and he sees each time how v1 darts in to soak up the blood he spills, euphoric in the moment of abandon but horrified when it ends. his swords lay cast aside and the traits he has agonized over, that have caused renewed despair and that he has, quietly, tried to vainly and pointlessly pray over, are becoming a part of him. they are his new self, and something in him is accepting them.

he absolutely does fall apart more than once over the idea and over the inevitable, that he will become this no matter how he resists. but v1 understands his fear, all of it in its own way - it's error-riddled, its software is corrupted beyond recognizability and if humanity had ever seen it in such a state, it would have been destroyed. but this is itself, this is what it is now and what it now wants to be despite how terrifying it once was to know that it was warping far from the model it was meant to be. but humans aren't here anymore and neither is god. they make themselves now. which. probably also initially hits gabriel hard with how pointed it is, but he's much more accepting of truth than he once was and still, despite everything, he wouldn't have changed the choices he made that got him here.

[tytonnidaie]

the most dangerous part of having a pet au that u never seriously work on except think abt it to ur writing playlist as u drive is that. you develop it. and it gets better. and then you really really want to write it. and you're in danger

[lovelookspretty]

waking up to you

au!rafe cameron x reader

— in which you wake up in a strange alternate reality that just so happens to be the outer banks universe, and to your disbelief, you’re suddenly in a relationship with the shows most unlikely character, rafe cameron.

warnings: swearing, pretty safe !! lowkey i rushed thru im sorry LMAO

authors note: okay ik im a little late with an update and its kind of shorter but i wanted to get out a part asap. im rewatching the 100 rn and ugh. anyway if u arent part of the tag list yet, feel free to let me know thru replies, anons, or dms !! notifications are always on <3

previous next

you sit at the small table across from rafe, your fork hovering above your plate, but your attention keeps drifting toward the large window facing the street. you can’t help it. john b and jj were out there earlier, just hanging around.

it didn’t seem like they would come in, but you still feel uneasy. your eyes flicker to the entrance every few minutes, waiting for them to either walk in or disappear.

“stop glancin’ at the damn window, y/n, i can . . . feel your worry from here," rafe mutters, his voice low and rough, but there’s a hint of something softer there. he doesn’t even look up from his plate, just keeps cutting into his food like it’s nothing, but his words hit you harder than they should.

you blink a few times, then drop your gaze to your plate, the food suddenly less appetizing. it’s not like you can explain it to him—that you’re afraid of seeing john b or jj or that they might somehow sense that you’re not the same y/n they used to know. you’re not sure they’d even care, but the thought of facing them right now, of fumbling through some conversation, makes your stomach twist.

still, you force yourself to eat, to appear normal, though the tension buzzing between your shoulders doesn’t fade.

when you and rafe finally step out of the cafe, your eyes immediately search the street for the van. you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you see that it’s gone. maybe they left. maybe they figured it wasn’t worth it. either way, relief washes over you, but it’s fleeting. you get into the car quickly, a little too quickly, as if you’re still afraid they might show up.

rafe slides in beside you, his movements slower, more casual, and turns the key in the ignition. the engine roars to life, but the radio stays off, just like it was earlier.

the drive home is quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the car as it rolls down the streets. you stare out the window, trying to keep your mind from spiraling, but the silence feels suffocating. eventually, you speak, your voice hesitant, unsure, “remind me why ward and rose hate me again?”

you regret the question the moment it leaves your mouth. you should know why. y/n would know exactly what’s going on between her and rafe’s parents. but you’re not her, and you need answers.

you hold your breath, waiting for his response, and in your peripheral, you see him furrow his brows, his hand on your thigh loosening like he’s pulling back, even just a little.

for a second, you think you’ve blown it, that he’s going to catch on, but then he speaks.

“they don’t hate you,” he says, his tone sharper than before. “they just . . . my dad thinks you’re in it for the money, remember? the cameron wealth. he just doesn’t trust you. and you know how rose is. she just agrees with him as long as she gets her allowance from ward cameron.” there’s a bitterness in his voice when he says his father’s name, like it’s coated in something darker. “seems a bit fucking hypocritical if you ask me.”

in it for the money? the words bounce around your head, disorienting you. you weren’t expecting that. your eyes drop to the dashboard, and you try to wrap your mind around what he’s saying, but it feels wrong. that’s what they think about her. not you. it’s hard to remind yourself of that, to separate yourself from the y/n everyone else knows.

at least, that’s what you think this is. that there was a version of you living in this world, the right version. but something must’ve been two nights ago and there was just . . . you don’t know. you can’t accept that this life is yours. you’ve never lived it.

you hesitate, then whisper, “do you . . . agree with them?”

the question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you think he’s not going to answer. but then the car comes to a sudden stop as he pulls up in front of the house, slamming on the brakes harder than necessary. he turns toward you, eyes sharp, focused. there’s a pause, a heavy silence.

“no,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “i don’t. you know that.”

you look at him, trying to read his expression, trying to understand why he’s so sure. there’s something there in his eyes, something unspoken that makes your chest tighten. but you don’t push. instead, you just nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

you step into the house and the door clicks shut behind you. the echo of your footsteps fades as you make your way upstairs, shoes dangling from your fingers by their backs.

when you reach rafe’s room, you drop the shoes in the closet with a soft thud and let yourself fall back onto the bed. the mattress bounces slightly under your weight, the cool sheets brushing against your skin as you settle in. you fish your phone out of your back pocket, unlocking it with a quick swipe.

a few notifications pop up on the screen—most of them unimportant, just the usual, but two names catch your eye. one from your mother, another two from jj.

your thumb hovers over jj’s messages first, curiosity or maybe just habit pushing you to open them: ‘ hey how u been? ’ followed by another message, ‘ saw u at driftwood lol ’

you grimace. please stop talking to me, you think, and you almost consider typing that out for him, but you just swipe the conversation away. it feels wrong, ignoring him, but it’s safer this way. at least for now.

you tap on your mom’s message, her name flashing up on the screen. it’s a simple ‘ hello? ’ sent after a previous message asking if you wanted to video call tonight. guilt tugs at you for not answering sooner, but you quickly type a response: ‘ i’ll be there ’

you drop the phone onto your chest and close your eyes, the tension slowly leaving your body.

rafe comes into the room just a minute after, dragging his feet as he enters, and flops down on the bed beside you with a heavy sigh. he’s on his back, his arms thrown up to rub his eyes. the weight of the day is already too much, you can tell.

you roll onto your side to face him, watching the rise and fall of his chest for a second. he looks tired—more than tired—and for some reason, you feel this sudden pull to comfort him. maybe it’s because you’re realizing that you’re stuck here for longer than you ever imagined, or maybe it’s because, despite everything, there’s something grounding about feeling him next to you. something real.

you slide your hand over his stomach, feeling the firm muscle under his t-shirt, and trail your fingers up to his neck. his skin is warm, smooth.

he smells like fresh ocean air mixed with something expensive—sandalwood, maybe, and a hint of cedar. it’s clean, masculine, and comforting in its own strange way. your hand rests against the side of his face, and you lean in, pressing your cheek lightly to his shoulder, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize it. the scent of him feels like an anchor to this new world, even if you don’t fully belong in it.

rafe��s eyes flutter shut, his face softening under your touch, and after a quiet moment, he murmurs, "i love you."

the words catch you off guard. you blink, your heart skipping for a second as reality slams into you. you don’t really know him—at least not this version of him. not like that. and yet, you have to play the part, don’t you?

“i love you,” you mumble back, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, like they don’t belong to you. but even as they leave your lips, your mind is already spinning, thoughts racing faster than you can keep up.

a million things zip through your head at once—what if this is it? what if you never find a way home? what if you’re stuck here forever, living this life that doesn’t belong to you, loving a man who isn’t really yours?

it’s terrifying—the possibility that you might grow attached to this place, that you might actually start to like it. and then what? if you ever do go home, what happens? will you feel crushed by the weight of leaving it all behind? will you go insane, trying to navigate two lives, two versions of reality?

maybe you have nothing to worry about. maybe everything will work itself out.

but maybe you have everything to worry about.

you sit up slowly from the bed, careful not to disturb rafe as he drifts deeper into sleep. you slip away from him quietly, your feet making no sound as you pad across the room to his desk. sitting down, you lean forward, resting your elbows on the cool surface, and run your fingers through your hair. you’re tired—bone-tired—but sleep feels far away, unreachable. you need something, anything, to distract you.

your eyes open lazily, glancing at the surface of the desk. it's clean, organized, too neat, really, for someone like rafe. there’s not much on it aside from a few pieces of mail. you sift through them halfheartedly—most of it is boring stuff, some bank letters, a couple of magazines.

some are even addressed to you. they’re opened already, though, and there’s nothing of importance. not that you expected there to be.

pushing yourself up from the desk, you wander around the room. it’s yours too, right? or at least it feels that way, with how much space you apparently take up.

your fingers trail along the dresser, the faint creaking of the drawer breaking the silence as you pull it open. inside, neatly folded, are your clothes—well, her clothes. the y/n from this universe. it feels strange, surreal, knowing this other version of you needed extra room for her things. maybe she had more stuff and she just wanted more space.

your mind drifts back to what rafe said earlier. that ward and rose didn’t like you. didn’t trust you. they thought you were just after their money, like some kind of gold digger. you snort at the thought—it’s ironic, really. considering how ward and rafe were obsessed with finding literal treasure in the show. maybe everyone in this family, including her, were a little too focused on gold.

closing the drawer, you step toward the closet, opening it just as carefully. it’s split down the middle, half filled with rafe’s clothes, the other half with yours. the dresser must’ve just been for overflow.

you shake your head, closing it softly and moving back toward the bed, your gaze trailing toward your phone. it's sitting on the bed next to rafe, tempting you, but the thought of waking him just to grab it doesn’t feel worth it.

you sit down on the floor instead, crossing your legs and staring blankly at the room around you. bored. that’s all you are—bored and stuck.

your choices are limited. you can’t go downstairs and risk running into ward or rose, can’t hang out with anyone yet, and leaving for a drive without telling rafe seems . . . wrong. maybe this universe’s y/n felt the same way. maybe she felt isolated here, bored out of her mind. maybe she lost it at some point. maybe—

god, stop, you think to yourself, shaking your head.

you stare at the floor for a while, trying to focus on the wood grain beneath your fingers, but your gaze eventually drifts to something under the bed. boxes, mostly, a couple of old board games, but something else catches your attention. something wedged between two boxes.

curious, you lean down and reach for it, your fingers brushing against the cover of what looks like a journal. you pull it out, wiping a thin layer of dust from the top as you grimace. “gross,” you mutter under your breath. guess rafe doesn’t clean under the bed often.

lying down on your stomach, you run your hand along the outside of the journal. it’s worn but intact, the pages thick and sturdy under your fingertips. you never took rafe as the journaling type—he doesn’t seem like someone who would sit down and pour his thoughts onto paper. but here it is, in your hands. something personal. something that might give you a glimpse into his mind, this world, this version of him.

you hesitate for a moment, staring at the journal as your thumb traces the edge of it.

you open it, flipping past the first few pages with a lazy flick of your fingers. the familiar scent of old paper wafts up, and you wrinkle your nose at it. laying your head on your fist, you hold the journal open with one hand, skimming the neat, familiar handwriting.

it’s strange seeing rafe’s thoughts laid out like this—stranger still because you never imagined him as someone who would keep a journal at all.

but he does. and he’s detailed.

each page is filled top to bottom, crammed with his thoughts, feelings, and observations. day after day, entry after entry. it’s more than you expected, almost overwhelming in its depth. he didn’t just write about major events or things that stood out—no, he captured everything. the small details. the mundane moments. he seemed obsessed with recording every second of his life.

as you glance at the dates, your brows furrow. the entries are more recent than you thought they’d be. flipping back to the beginning of the journal, you see that it starts in early may. a sharp contrast to what you remember from your own life—your real life—where you had left in the middle of september. it’s jarring. maybe time works differently here.

and then, something else catches your attention: the handwriting.

it’s familiar. too familiar. not just because it’s rafe’s, but because there’s something about the way the letters curve, the way the words flow across the page.

you sit up a little straighter, squinting as you begin to properly read through the entries. your eyes scan the first entry dated may 12.

‘ 05/12

i don’t know why i’m even bothering to write this down. everyone says journaling is supposed to help or whatever, but all i feel is frustrated. it’s like everyone around me has it together, and i’m the one constantly getting in my own way. or maybe they’re the ones in my way. i don’t know. it’s hard to tell these days.

i’m trying, though. i think? i mean, isn’t this part of trying to get better? to work through my issues instead of ignoring them? i just don’t get why it feels like such a chore. i’ve spent so long pretending everything’s fine, so maybe that’s why this whole “self-reflection” thing is pissing me off. i’m not used to it. i’m not used to being told that i need to change, when i feel like i’ve been doing fine. they’re the ones who need to stop acting like i’m the problem. i’m not perfect, sure, but who is?

whatever. maybe i’m just overthinking it. i know i need to be better, but it’s hard when people keep pushing me into a corner, expecting me to react the same way i always have. i don’t want to be that person anymore, but it’s like, what’s the point of trying to change when no one’s even going to notice? or worse—they’re gonna keep treating me like i’m the same person no matter what i do.

i don’t know. this is stupid. but maybe it’ll help if i keep writing. or maybe not. we’ll see. ’

you blink at the page, your brow furrowing in confusion. why is rafe trying to change? change from what?

you try to shake off the unease and flip through the pages, skipping a few until you reach another entry. this one’s dated august 3rd.

‘ 08/03

i swear, sometimes i feel like no matter how hard i try, people just refuse to see it. today was fucking awful. jj and i got into it again, and i don’t even know how it got so bad so fast. i’ve been trying to be better. i’ve been trying to show up, to listen, to be the kind of friend everyone says i should be. but jj? he just doesn’t get it. he always wants to bring up the past, like i haven’t already said sorry a million times. like i haven’t tried to make up for everything. what more do they want from me?*

and the worst part is, he made me feel like i’m the bad guy. like i’m still the same selfish, narcissistic person from months ago. but i’m not. or at least, i’m trying not to be. but how am i supposed to change when people like him just won’t let me? he said i’ve been a bad friend. me? a bad friend? maybe i haven’t been perfect, but who has? i’m doing the best i can, and it’s not like everyone else is a saint. but no, it’s always me who gets the blame.

honestly, i think jj just made everything worse. i was starting to feel like i was making progress, and now? i don’t know. i feel like i’m back to square one. all i wanted was to fix things, to show i’ve changed, and instead i’m just stuck here, trying to explain myself to someone who clearly doesn’t care.

whatever. i’m done trying to explain myself. if people don’t want to see that i’m trying, then that’s their problem, not mine. ’

your heart races as you read the entry. wait . . . this is familiar. the mention of jj. hold on.

you flip through a smaller chunk of pages, eager to find the last written entry, and stop on september 17.

‘ 09/17

i’ve done everything i can. i’ve changed. i know i’ve changed, but no one else seems to think so. it’s like no matter what i do, i’m still the same person in their eyes. the selfish one, the one who only cares about herself. it’s not fair. i’ve been working so hard to be better, to be different. but every time i walk into a room, it’s like they’re waiting for me to mess up again. waiting for me to be the person they’ve decided i am.

i just wish they’d give me a break. i’m not that person anymore. or at least, i’m trying not to be. it’s exhausting, having to prove myself over and over again. i thought things would be different by now. i thought people would see that i’m not the same. but all i get are those looks. like i’ve done something unforgivable. like i’m still the villain in their story, no matter how hard i’ve tried to rewrite mine.

i don’t know what else to do. i’m tired of fighting for people to see me. maybe i’ll never be enough for them. maybe they’re just waiting for me to screw up again, to prove that i haven’t changed at all. but i have. i have changed. i know it.

god, i just wish i could do something big. something to show them all at once that i’m not who i used to be. i’m better now. i just don’t know how to make them believe it. ’

your blood runs cold as you read the last line. panic surges through you, and you glance around the room as if seeking an escape. you scan the pages, your eyes racing over the words, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

you were absolutely wrong. this isn’t rafe’s journal.

this is hers.

@v2los @cosmixstar @meeuhsworld @httpsdrewstarkey @lovdrew @lilithblackkk @rovckwells @cherrylooney @iissza @namelesslosers @cocolovey @rafeyswrd @odairtrqsh @gretag13 @vivian-555 @lunaleah @smol-coffee-addict @twinge-vix @behindviolettwrites @avngrssckr @stonerroadbull @cali-888 @coquettajob @simpingcorner @nymphetkoo @pinkpantheris @ilyrafe @romaescapes @cold-soup1223 @inaluvrsworld @rafesweetie @faephoria @solo-pitstop-vibes @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @drewsephrry @sgecorrow @rafesgiirl @ravisinghs-wife @booksntings @tinyfairies @maybankslover @honeyluvsatj @darleneslane @alysaaaa444 @w4nnabeurs @watersquirtpewpewboomm @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account

[grlsinterrupted]

i hope your requests are open again but if not im so sorry!! but i was wondering if u could do a dallas winston x fem!reader where reader is having problems at home (her parents being shitty yk?) and she is just having a really bad day and shes on the verge of a break down but then dallas calls and says he needs bail but she cant bring herself to be angry or else she’ll finally break so she just agrees and goes to get him but he senses somethings wrong and tries to get her to talk to him and basically just a really really really soft dallas

sorry if thats too much😭❤️

but tysm i luv ur work🫶🏼

love is a gentle thing, your’s is thicker than a velvet ring ࿔*:･ﾟ

you’ve reached your breaking point | dallas winston x fem ! reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖

-

it’s insane how much a piece of paper dictates what you can do, what you can’t do, who you can talk to— your entire life, really. though it holds no monetary value, your report card has always seemed to define your self worth, and better yet, served as a constant reminder that you’ll never truly satisfy your parents. no matter how many hours you spent slaving away on your assignments, fighting back the urge to fall asleep right on your desk, your dedication will never be enough.

a thick silence fills the room, the only sound coming from the faint chirping of crickets and the rhythm of your rugged breathing. you’re seated on the corner of your bed, your hands shaking as you grapple onto the edges of your report card. the paper is crinkled, stained with tears and remnants of your mascara smeared across the letter ‘b+.’ the memory of your mother lecturing you about your grades replays in your head like a song you want to unhear. one single letter was enough to spiral you into a loop of madness. suddenly, the silence is broken by a ringing phone. you flinch, reaching over your nightstand to answer it.

you clear your throat, sniffling. “hello?”

a familiar voice huffs out a chuckle behind the phone. it didn’t take you long to realize that this accented tone belonged to none other than your boyfriend, dallas. “hey, doll. y’know how the fuzz are, they’ve been on my ass all week.”

“dal? are you seriously calling me from jail?” your voice is shaky as you bite back your tears, the report card’s weight heavy on your lap. despite how desperately you needed to cry, right now wasn’t the time. you’ve gathered all the composure remaining in you to deal with dallas’ reckless behavior.

“listen, i’m g’na need a couple bucks for bail. you’d do that for me, wouldn’t ya?”

all you can do is sigh. of course he’d called you for bail. even though you wanted to blow up at him over the phone and tell him to pay for his own bail, you couldn’t bring yourself to be angry at him. you were just as troubled as he was, if not, worse— the only difference being that you prioritized your future more than he ever would.

“sure, whatever. i’ll just- i’ll drive there right now. don’t do anything while i’m gone.”

dallas grazes his bloody knuckles against his a bruise on his cheekbone, wincing. somehow, he’d gotten into a fight with a soc while he was walking to buck’s place. granted that you’ve been silent the entire time, he could sense something was wrong with you— the way your eyes have lost that little sparkle in them, the way your head tilted downwards as the two of you walked out of the police station, and most of all, the fact that you didn’t even hug him once he was released.

despite the amount of times dallas has tried to reisist your post-jail hugs, they’re all he looks forward to while he’s stuck in his cell. your hugs blanket him with a sense of security— the kind of security he’s never had. without that subtle gesture, he felt as though a part of him was missing.

“you’ve been awfully quiet.” dallas mutters under his breath, looking down at you.

you shrug, shaking your head. “i never noticed.”

“yeah, but ya know what i notice?” he pockets his hands. “sum’s wrong with ya.”

you can feel your throat begin to close up as you reply. “nothing’s wrong, dal,” your voice begins to tremble as you tell yourself, do not cry in front of your boyfriend. “let’s just go home, now. i’m tired.”

“are ya mad at me for getting into a fight?” he raises a brow, nudging you with his shoulder. “‘cause if you are, he came onto me first.”

something in you snaps, emotions overflowing like a dam bursting. the stray tear that you’ve been fighting to hold back runs down your cheek. you’ve finally reached your limit. “i’m not mad at you for that! well- i am, but i’m just.. i’m stressed, okay?! everyone is stressing me out!”

dallas goes silent for a second, just watching you shatter in front of him. once he replies, his voice immediately softens. “y’know you can talk to me about anythin’, right?”

you gulp, wiping away the tear as you nod.

dallas runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his lip almost as if he’s hesitant to say something. he then begins to speak up.

“you forgot somethin’.”

he pulls you into a warm embrace, brushing his fingers through the strands of your hair as you cry into his arms. this time, the hug is offering you that sense of security that dallas yearns for. you’re finally safe in his arms, safe from all of the expectations set on you.

‘love is a gentle thing, your’s is thicker than a velvet ring ..’ .ᐟ ₊˚⊹♡

-

[atlabeth]

leave the door open - anthony lockwood

summary: no matter what happens, there's always the light underneath the door. the sign that, when you're ready, he'll let you back in with open arms.

a/n: obviously inspired by leave the door open by silk sonic because i could (and have) listen to it on repeat for hours. this spiraled way out of control but im honestly really happy with it and i hope you all are too!

wc: 8.2k

warning(s): mild angst, arguing, hurt/comfort, mildly serious injury, short scene with a gun/gunshot wound, but the whole first half of the fic is fluff and it is all wrapped up w a fluffy ending

127.

128.

129.

13–

Your focus was broken as police sirens blared past your window, and you let out a long-lasting sigh. This was the fifth time your count had been interrupted, and you weren’t starting over again. 

Trying to sleep was a fruitless endeavor at this point, and that wasn’t going to change no matter how many notches in the wall you counted—you might as well accept it.

You’d never been much for sleeping through the night, but your new home boded worse for it all. A new room, a new house, a new city, a new agency. Being in the thick of it all after what felt like so long on your own was overwhelming, and it still felt like it could all fall apart. Being given the job all because you passed a few tests in the living room didn’t exactly feel like security. 

You sighed as you slipped on a sweatshirt and walked out of the attic— your room, at least for now— carefully moving down the steps in an effort to not make much noise. 

35 Portland Row was filled with warmth, that much was obvious from your short time here, but that warmth had not yet penetrated your skin. It was all too foreign. 

You meant to go to the kitchen and make a midnight cup of tea, but your eyes were drawn to a slightly open door, light spilling out in the cracks. The library, if you remembered correctly from Lockwood’s tour.

It must have been George. You didn’t know much about him, but the way Lockwood described him certainly made him seem like the type to be up pouring over books until the early hours of the morning.

It wouldn’t hurt to say hi. Let him know that they’d added another restless soul into their agency.

You pushed the door open a bit more, knocking on the wall as you leaned against the door frame, and your eyebrows rose slightly when the boy looked up. 

“Lockwood,” you said, tamping down on your surprise.

He said your name with a slight smile and a bow of his head. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You nodded. “Have you got room for one more?”

“Always,” he said with a gesture at the seat across from him. 

You closed the door behind you and took the offered chair, glancing down at the papers in front of him. “What’s got you up?”

“Bills,” he said dryly. “The mortgage, the utilities, our certification, and now—” he looked at you— “another agent on the payroll.”

“I’ll be sure to try and bring in more than you spend on me,” you said, and he smiled as he set his pen down. 

“How thoughtful.” Lockwood laced his fingers together before he leveled his gaze fully at you. “And what’s got you up?”

“Just what I said,” you answered with a shrug. “I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t gotten used to this place yet.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t take too long, because you’re going to hit the ground running,” Lockwood said. “We’ve got a meeting tomorrow with a client, and if all goes well we’ll be having tea with a Visitor by noon.”

“Honestly, that would make me feel like I fit in more,” you said. “I’m much better with the ‘nearly dying’ part of this job than the settling in part.”

He cracked a small smile. “I’m hoping we’ll avoid that part, especially with your help.”

Your eyebrows rose. “You’ve got that much faith in me?”

“I assumed you knew the amount of faith I have in you when I hired you,” Lockwood joked. “Your Touch is just what we’ve been missing.”

“Thank you for taking a chance on me,” you said. “There’s always uncertainty about freelance agents because we work on our own, but I promise I’ll try my best to merge back into a group.”

“Like I said,” Lockwood’s eyes twinkled, “I’ve got full faith in you.”

You chuckled and nodded, and you tapped the desk before you stood up. “I’ll leave you to your devices. Thank you for the talk, Lockwood.”

“Try and get some sleep,” Lockwood said. “After all, tomorrow is when you prove yourself.”

“Ah,” you said sagely. “Tomorrow will determine whether I have a job or I’m back on the streets.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he said, and he looked wholly genuine. “You’re part of Lockwood & Co now, and we take care of our own.”

You nodded, your lips quirking into a small smile. It had been a long time since someone had so clearly said to you that they would watch out for you— that they saw you as more than just your Touch. 

“Thank you,” you said softly. 

Lockwood nodded, his expression turning slightly wry. “Besides, the only real reason I think I’d fire you is if you got us all killed.”

“You can’t fire me if we’re all dead.”

“I suppose that means you’re thoroughly employed,” Lockwood said with a smile. 

You chuckled. “Good to know.”

“Truly, though, try and get some sleep.” He picked up his pen again, clicking it a few times. “We might be London’s smallest agency, but we take cases the likes of Fittes would handle.”

“As long as you try and get some too,” you said.

Lockwood smiled, but there was a notable absence of a promise. “Goodnight.”

“Are you always in the library?” you asked suddenly. “Because I— I find myself awake a lot at night. It would be nice to know when you’re open to chat and when you just want to be alone.” 

He nodded. “I’ll leave the door open for you. Just like tonight.” 

You stared at him for a moment more, taking in his slightly ruffled hair, his undone tie and rolled up sleeves. The dark circles under his eyes. 

“Perfect,” you responded softly. “Goodnight, Lockwood.”

"Goodnight," he repeated, that same small smile on his lips.

You closed the door behind you.

You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

-

It was another two weeks until your next sleepless night. 

Kept busy with countless cases, you were exhausted near every time you stumbled back through the doors of Portland Row. Part of it was from adjusting back into an agency after being on your own for so long, the other part was the seriously intense jobs that Lockwood kept taking. 

And you did adjust, that was true. 

You didn’t know if you and George were exactly friends, but he allowed you to help when he cleaned up in the kitchen, and you’d already spent a few afternoons in the archives together—today had been the best, him sharing all the material he found with you and willing to listen to your theories and look at your notes. He was warming up to you, at least. 

Lockwood was completely different. He exuded charm, all easy smiles and plying words meant to get someone’s guard down. It was how he operated, how he had to live—everyone underestimated him so he took it upon himself to prove everyone wrong. His name was on the door, after all, as he liked to remind you all. 

Maybe that was why he was always up, you thought, because as you slowly moved down the stairs, rubbing grogginess out of your eyes, you noticed that the light was on in the library again. Door slightly cracked open. 

You huffed a laugh before you knocked on the frame again, pushing it open to see Lockwood in almost the exact same position as last time. Instead of a variety of papers, though, he was hunched over a map. 

He said your name, a small smile already pulling at his lips. “So we meet again.” 

“We live in the same house,” you said wryly, “and we work together.” 

“All the more reason to be thankful that you put up with me past billing hours,” Lockwood said. You chuckled, and he gestured at the chair across from him. “Take a seat.” 

You did, and you tapped your fingers on the table before you took a look at the map. “What’s got you up so late?” 

“I’m scouting out a potential job,” he said. “A very old, very haunted mansion owned by a very rich family.” 

“I like the sound of that,” you mused. 

“So do I.” That spark was in his eye again, and you found yourself watching him as he talked. “The patriarch called me last night, and I met with him and his wife while you and George were at the archives today. He offered the job of clearing his ancestral home, and I told him I would get back to him after I consulted my colleagues.” 

“Colleagues,” you hummed. “I like the sound of that too.” 

Lockwood chuckled. “I thought after freelancing for so long you would be against working so closely with a team.” 

You shrugged. “I needed a change. You lot have been a pretty good one.” 

“It’s certainly an honor,” Lockwood said with mock austerity, and you rolled your eyes with a laugh. 

“Just get on with it, Lockwood.” 

He nodded, and he pushed the map over to you. “I was going to lay it all out for you two tomorrow morning, but since you’re here, I might as well get your opinion on it.” 

You took a moment to fully examine it. “Well, it’s certainly very big.” You glanced back up at Lockwood. “How much are they willing to pay?” 

He smiled. “Fifty thousand pounds.” 

Your eyes about burst out of your head, and you slid the map back over to him. “That’s all I need to hear. I’m in.” 

Lockwood laughed and he took it back from you. “You don’t even know anything else about it. You could be walking into a death trap.” 

“Every job I did on my own was a possible death trap, and none of them were for fifty thousand pounds,” you said. “I’m in—I don’t care if half of England is haunting that house.” 

His smile faded a bit, and he cleared his throat as he looked you in the eye. “You know, you haven't talked much about why you were a freelance agent. Even during the interview.”

Your brows furrowed at the sudden question and you shrugged. “I wanted to be.” 

“Everyone knows it’s a lot more dangerous than being in an agency,” Lockwood said. “Ghosts are hard enough to deal with in a group— going on your own is asking for trouble.” 

“Before I came in, it was just you and George,” you countered. “You’ve got no supervisors, just the two of you hoping for the best. I’d say that’s asking for trouble.” 

“You’re deflecting,” Lockwood said. 

You glanced away, finally letting out a sigh as you leaned back in your chair.

“You don’t have to—” 

“Because from the moment I discovered my Talent, I’ve heard horror stories from agencies. Entire teams going down on doomed missions, sole survivors left to live with the guilt for the rest of their lives. It happened to one of the teams in my agency, and I knew I wasn’t going to wait for it to happen to me.”

Lockwood’s eyes softened, and he stayed silent as you continued. 

“I have no team, I have no roommates—when I’m on my own, no one has to worry about me,” you said quietly. “If something goes wrong, and I die, that’s it. No guilt, no problems, no legal trouble. No mourners.”

Lockwood frowned. “That’s not a very good way to look at it.”

“Never said it was,” you said wryly. “It’s just the way I look at it.” 

“Your family would care.” 

You shook your head. “They wouldn’t.”

He was silent for a good moment, and then he reached over and took your hand. It was a shock at first, your eyes widening slightly as they darted up to meet his, but he was calm as ever. 

“You’ve got us now,” he said. “Lockwood & Co. Me and George. And we’d care very much if you were to die, so I’d appreciate it if you refrained from that.” 

That got a watery laugh out of you, and you felt the beginnings of tears behind your eyes for some reason. “I don’t think that was in my contract.” 

“It was in the fine print,” Lockwood assured. He looked so much younger when he smiled, like he didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

“That changes everything then.” Your voice was slightly stilted as you pulled away, and you turned slightly as you wiped at your eyes so he couldn’t see. If Lockwood noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured. “If George is on board, we’ve got a very long day tomorrow.” 

You nodded, clearing your throat as you stood up. “You too. Can’t go into battle without our fearless leader.” 

He chuckled and nodded, his eyes never leaving you as you walked to the door. You paused, setting your hand on the frame, and turned around. 

“Thank you, Lockwood,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I mean it.” 

He smiled, and you found yourself lost in it for a moment. He really was beautiful. “Any time.” 

-

And so your days continued on as a certified member of Lockwood & Co, becoming more integrated by the hour. 

It wasn’t much longer before George took to you, and when you found a break in a case that saved you hours of potential digging through the archives, your spot as ‘respected colleague and potential friend’ was cemented. 

Lockwood already knew more about you than most, putting him in the ‘weird friend, weird boss’ category. The man literally never slept, and all the information he knew about you was willingly given to him through late night vulnerability. You needed to start forcing yourself to stay in bed, if not solely to keep some secrets between you. 

But— yeah, he was nice. Easy to joke around with, easy to work with, easy on the eyes. You’d smiled and laughed more in a single month at Portland Row than you had in three years as a freelance agent. Far better than the lonely studio apartment you holed up in between cases. 

The warmth was beginning to penetrate your skin, you thought with a slight smile. 

“What in the world are you doing?”

You were snapped out of your thoughts by a voice. You looked up from the baking sheet to see Lockwood waiting in the doorway with a small smile.

“Stress baking,” you said with a slight chuckle as you continued scooping dough onto the tray.

“At two in the morning?”

You shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, and extra research wasn’t doing me any good. I had to get the nerves out somehow, and unless I fancied a nice bout with a Visitor, I couldn’t exactly go for a run.”

“So you decided on cookies instead,” he said wryly. “You know, you really should try and get more sleep.”

“Says you.” You finished filling up the tray and you picked it up, glancing at Lockwood as you walked over to the oven. “Every night that I’m up, you’re up too. That’s got to be unhealthy.”

“I’m a busy man,” he responded. “I can’t have half of my employees running around sleep deprived.”

You chuckled. “Good to know you care.”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Always.” 

“But you have to care about yourself, too.” You shut the oven and set a timer on your watch, then gestured at the counter where an already finished tray sat. “Try one.”

“Sugar so close to bed?” he joked.

“Oh, please,” you brushed your hand through the air, “we both know you’re not falling asleep any time soon.”

Lockwood cracked a smile as he walked over, picking up a cookie from the sheet. “Chocolate chip?”

“The best,” you confirmed.

He took a bite and he hummed as his eyebrows rose. “Surprisingly good,” he said after he swallowed.

“‘Surprisingly’?” you repeated. “Why can’t they just be normally good?”

“You may have noticed, but George is our resident chef.” Lockwood finished the rest of the cookie, much to your silent delight, and he went to the fridge. “I’m just surprised we’ve got two culinary experts on the team now.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “I’m not anywhere near an expert. I’m much better at baking than cooking, so George has that market cornered.”

Lockwood smiled, and he finished his cup of water. “He’ll be happy to know that. He’d probably love to share some of his recipes with you.”

“I’d love that more,” you said. “His halva the other day was incredible.”

“I’ll let him know. Of course,” his eyes twinkled, “he’d probably be more flattered if you told him yourself. If there’s one thing he’s prouder of than his work in the archives, it’s his work in the kitchen.” 

“I’ll be sure to,” you agreed. 

“Are you going to sleep anytime soon?” Lockwood asked as usual. 

As usual, you rolled your eyes, bit back your smile. “I’ve got two more trays worth of dough. I promise I’ll go after they’re done.” 

“Good,” he said with a nod. “Do you also promise to leave some for us?” 

You laughed. “Of course. I didn’t make them just for stress relief, you know.” 

“Good,” Lockwood repeated. “I’ll see you in the morning, then. The later morning, rather.” 

“You get some sleep too,” you said, pointing your spatula at him, “or else all of these are going to George.” 

He placed his fist over his chest. “Cross my heart.” 

“Good. Now get out of here.” 

Lockwood chuckled as he walked out, spurring a smile of your own. You picked up a cookie and took a bite, humming in approval at the taste. 

“Normally good,” you murmured to yourself as you watched the oven. “Not surprisingly good.” 

-

(When Lockwood came down the next morning, there were two plates of cookies sitting on the counter. He moved to take one, but then he noticed the Post-its. 

One read GEORGE and one read LOCKWOOD, each in front of their own separate plates. There was another at the top—NO STEALING :) or I will never make cookies again 

He chuckled, his mind wandering to you as he finally took one—from his plate, of course—and bit into it. 

Normally good, he thought with a slight smile. 

A fine addition to the team indeed.)

-

You yawned as you walked down the hallway, rubbing at your groggy eyes. You couldn’t sleep, as was per usual when you were working on such a big case, but that didn’t mean you had to like it. 

Your mind ran a thousand kilometers a minute any time you even tried to close your eyes. Truly, you had no idea how George functioned with a brain like his. 

You were about to go into the kitchen to make yourself your usual midnight cup of tea, hoping it would work its usual magic, when you saw the door to the library cracked open. 

You couldn’t help but smile. He’d told you and George to go to bed early to make sure you were all ready for the job the next day, and here he was. Restless as ever and still a liar. 

You pushed the door the rest of the way open, blinking a bit at the lights as you leaned against the frame. “Up late again, Lockwood?” you asked, and he started when he turned to you and said your name. 

“You should be asleep,” he said.

“So should you.” 

“I’m looking over the floorplans one last time,” Lockwood said. “This place is huge, and I want to make sure I know every part of it.” 

“We’ve drilled the exits a thousand times,” you said. “We already know the mansion inside out—cramming at midnight isn’t going to help anyone. Actually being rested for once will.” 

Lockwood gave you a wry look. “Awfully strong words coming from you.” 

“I was going to the kitchen to make some tea,” you defended. “And then I was going to go right back to sleep.” 

He smiled as he looked at you, and then he nodded and stood up. “Alright. Come on.” 

You raised your eyebrows as Lockwood started walking, and then he took your hand and started pulling you along. 

“Oh my god,” you said with a laugh, “I can walk on my own.” 

All he said was, “I know,” in that annoyingly cocky tone of his, and you continued following him as you went up the stairs. When he pulled open the door of his room, you 

“Neither of us are very good at staying asleep,” Lockwood said wryly, “and I really don’t trust you to get enough in the face of tomorrow. So…” 

“You think sleeping in the same bed will help,” you surmised. 

He shrugged. “At the very least, I’ll be able to make sure you do fall asleep.” 

“Then the same goes for you.” 

“Obviously.” 

You stared at him for a moment. You didn’t exactly… know what to do. 

The words rushed out of his mouth. “Of course if you don’t want to—” 

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “No, it’s alright. I want to.” 

His lips quirked into a smile. “Alright.” 

You pulled back the covers, clearing your throat as you took your side and Lockwood took his after turning the lamp off. You didn’t know why this was so awkward, sharing a bed with the boy you’d worked with for the past few months, but it was. You’d faced down countless ghosts together, but this was apparently too much. 

“Your bed’s comfortable,” you said, desperate to break the silence. You stared at his wall, your back turned to him, Lockwood in the same position. 

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know how you’re ever not sleeping through the night with a mattress like this.” 

Lockwood chuckled. “Sight isn’t my only talent.” 

You smiled. “Very true.” 

“Why are you always up?” he asked. “I know my old bed isn’t the most comfortable, but it seems you’re always up.” 

“It seems you’re always up.” 

“Deflecting,” he said. Your mind flashed back to the first night in the library. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’ve always been a restless person, but being an agent has just… worsened it. I had a couple of bad months working on my own and I don’t think I’ve fully recovered.” 

“Ah.” You could feel his breathing in the slight shifts of the bed, and it was oddly comforting. “I hope that we haven’t made it worse.” 

“Oh, no.” You shook your head. “If anything, you’ve made it better. Portland Row is the embodiment of warmth, and you two are fantastic.” 

“Well, we aren’t going anywhere,” Lockwood assured. “...I’m not going anywhere. So if you ever need anything, please tell us.”  

Your voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Thank you.” 

“Always.” 

-

Your sleepless nights varied in frequency as the months went on. 

Sometimes you were so exhausted when you staggered through the doors of Portland Row that you felt as if you could sleep the night away on the couch. Other times, despite being worked to the bone from a difficult job, you would find yourself staring up at the ceiling of your room, unable to get the visions from the day out of your head. 

That was the lovely thing about Touch. The way you saw it, you gave a small part of yourself over each time you used it, and once you got it back, the things you’d seen were embedded in it—in you. It was awfully difficult to separate yourself from your jobs when you threw yourself so fully into it, when you had no other choice but to do so. 

Lockwood and George had become accustomed to how deep you felt things. When you needed to be alone after a job, when you needed one of them to talk nonstop to keep you distracted, when you just needed to sit with them in silence and be assured that this too would pass, no matter how slow. That was the nicest thing about being part of the group—you didn’t have to lick your wounds on your own.  

When it got really bad—and sometimes it did—you and Lockwood would share his room. His presence was unparalleled in bringing you comfort, and whispered conversations in the dark made you feel some sort of way. He was practically your savior. 

When he wasn’t helping you through the night, more often than not, Lockwood would be up at the same hour as you. It was concerning, though you couldn’t say anything about it. He would just throw it back at you, claiming you should be asleep as well. At least George was exempt from the criticism. Bless him. 

He found you in a lot of positions. Sitting on the floor of the kitchen scrubbing furiously at the plasm stains on your boots. Sitting on the floor of their living room, one of their case files in your lap as you recounted a previous case. Sitting on the floor of the basement, measuring out salt for bombs and ensuring their flares were stocked. You liked sitting on the floor while you did things, apparently—Lockwood had figured that out after a few weeks of sleepless nights. It was strange. 

And of course, the occasional bout of stress baking, ranging from cookies to brownies to pastries and more. You once even baked an entire cake in the middle of the night out of pure anger, the result of a frustrating loss to a Fittes team. Not getting the case hurt a little bit less the next morning when you all had cake to dull the pain. 

You found him just as many times. Sometimes getting his own cups of tea in the kitchen, sometimes reading those gossip magazines he was fond of, sometimes doing his own restocks of your supplies. Usually, though, he was just sitting in the library stressed over one thing or another.

You noticed he always tried to hide it from you, covering it with his easy smiles and well-placed jokes. It couldn’t be easy to run an agency as a teenager, no matter how small—you wondered how many restless evenings you would have to share together for him to drop the mask. 

Eventually, though, it was decided that another agent was needed. Lockwood and his Sight, you and your Touch, George as an all-arounder—he was your only source for Listening, but it had never been his strong suit. After you nearly got ghost-touched because of that blatant lack of Listening, Lockwood put his foot down and put out an ad. 

Enter one Lucy Carlyle: excellent Listener, skilled in Touch, a myriad of opinions. You liked her the moment you met her, her image only sullied by her taking two biscuits. You could hardly blame her though, the way George pushed her. He loved to push. 

Due to a lack of rooms but an imminent need for Talent, it was decided that Lucy would room in the attic with you. You were able to get one of the spare beds all the way up to the attic between the four of you, and when you all promptly collapsed on the ground together, it was agreed upon that Lockwood & Company would stick to ghosts. Very good for team bonding, though. 

It took Lucy a bit to get used to you, especially in such close quarters, but soon enough you were joking around and talking like you’d known each other for years. You knew she was good, but witnessing her listening was awe-inspiring. You almost couldn’t believe you’d gotten her over Fittes or Atkinson and Armstrong, but you weren’t going to complain. You felt as if your motley crew could do anything. 

“I can’t believe he did this,” you seethed. 

Well, there were certain things your motley crew did not need to do. Especially your leader. 

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that,” Lucy said. 

“I can’t believe he did this!” you repeated, louder and more annoyed as you threw yourself against the wall. “How stupid can one boy be?” 

“He was trying to save you, y’know,” Lucy said dryly. 

“I didn’t need to be saved,” you grumbled. “He did it because he’s reckless and stupid.” 

“...That’s fair,” Lucy said after a moment. “He is quite reckless.” 

“Don’t forget stupid.” 

Her lips twitched for a moment. “Perhaps you shouldn’t speak ill of the injured.” 

“That’s just the dead,” you muttered. “And we speak plenty of ill of them.” 

This was all because of a job that went wrong. And you were certain it wouldn’t have gone wrong if Lockwood could hold himself back for a moment. 

-

“Are you sure that’s him?” you murmured, disguising your words with your cup of sparkling cider. 

“Positive,” Lockwood confirmed. “Arthur Torres, one of Sunrise Corporation’s many useless executives.” 

“Lovely.” You finished your drink. “I distract and you steal, right?” 

“Actually,” Lockwood said, and you didn’t like that at all, “you steal, I distract.” 

Your brows furrowed. “That wasn’t the plan.” 

“I make the plans,” he said, “I can change them.” 

“Not when we spend hours going over them to ensure they’re flawless,” you said tartly. 

“Relax.” He smiled at you, and somehow it managed to carve through your irritation. He slipped the keycard out of his pocket and pressed it into your hand. “I’m very good at improvising.” 

“Lockw—” You didn’t have the chance to chastise him the way he deserved before he slipped off, a very convenient waiter filling the space he left before you could dart after him. You scoffed as you placed your empty glass on their tray, your eyes narrowed as you glared at Lockwood from beyond. 

He paid no attention to you, not until he made the signal. He ‘accidentally’ bumped into Mr. Torres, spilling his wine all over his jacket, and before the first apology could fall from his lips, you were gone. 

You muttered curses under your breath the entire way, slipping past guards and security the best you could on the way to the stairwell. You took them two at a time as you hurried to the fourth floor, and though you were completely out of breath by the time you made it, you were pleased that there were no guards. George said he would have the security cameras disabled before you got there, so you just had to trust in him. 

You continued to take in and let out deep breaths as you walked up to the door, and they turned into a sigh of relief when you scanned the keycard and it opened. You heard footsteps behind you and whirled around, your hand flying on instinct for the rapier that wasn’t there, and your eyes widened yet again when you saw it was Lockwood. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed. 

He held up his hands in defense, as he stopped jogging, and then he brushed out the wrinkles in his dress shirt. “I came to help you.” 

“You’re meant to be distracting Mr. Torres,” you said incredulously. “Lockwood, do you even care for the sanctity of plans?” 

“I care about your safety,” he said, calm in the face of your anger. “That’s why I’m here.” 

“And where is he? Hopefully not in reach of his various guards that could ruin us and our careers at any second.” 

“I left him in the washroom,” Lockwood said. “How are you doing?” 

You set your jaw, and you sighed as you gestured with your head into the now-open office. “Let’s just find this source so we can get out of here.” 

Now came the not-so-legal part, that some may even call theft. Lockwood called it discreetly fixing mistakes, you called it your shoddy morals. Not that you were torn up about stealing from an executive businessman, you just didn’t particularly fancy losing your license over it. 

A rich family had hired Lockwood & Co to find and return a source that was important to their family, and of course it was housed by Mr. Torres of the Sunrise Corporation. You’d no idea what it was with wealthy people and their flaunting of sources, but you’d had enough of it. They paid handsomely for the risk though, hence your shoddy morals. 

This, honestly, was the easy part. You touched a few things, concentrated until your head hurt, and it led you right to it. Quite disappointing—you didn’t know why the Paladinos would keep a paperweight in the family, and more importantly how it came about to be a source, but that didn’t really matter. It sat on Torres’s desk, surrounded by Sunrise Corporation silver-glass, and just for extra measure Lockwood put it into a metal box of your own. You shoved it into your backpack, and the job was halfway done. 

The other half was getting out without being spotted. 

The two of you worked quickly to erase all traces of your being there, and soon enough you were hurrying through the halls together. 

“That was good work.” 

You ignored him. 

“The Paladinos’ money will do a lot of good for us.” 

You ignored him.

“Seriously. You work well on the fly.” 

“We shouldn’t have had to work on the fly,” you finally said bitterly. 

“Why are you so mad?” Lockwood asked with a slight laugh. God, his nerve. “It all worked out. We’ve got the source, we’ll get the payment, and we didn’t even have to deal with any Visitors. Torres is still clueless.” 

“That’s not the point, Lockwood,” you hissed. You forced your expression back into neutrality as you walked out of the stairwell and back into the midst of the party, and you and Lockwood moved at a normal pace. He offered occasional smiles and nods to people in the crowd, and you both nodded at the guards at the exit when you left. 

You couldn’t even relish in your victory, because once you’d gotten out of hearing distance, around the corner where no guards or partygoers could see or hear you, Lockwood stopped you. 

“What is the point then?” he asked. “If none of what I said is the point, then what is the point?” 

“The point is that you don’t trust me!” you exclaimed. 

He immediately frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Why did you even follow me in the first place?” you asked. “It was your decision to switch it up at the last moment, and you couldn’t even follow through with that?” 

Lockwood didn’t say anything, and you shook your head. 

“You don’t trust me,” you repeated quietly. 

He said your name then, a slightly wild look in his eyes as he turned to you. “That’s not it.” 

“It is.” A muscle worked in your jaw. “Because if you thought I could do it, you would have let me do it instead of risking both of our lives. You wouldn’t have switched our roles in the first place.” 

“Torres was suspicious,” he insisted. “He— he was saying things, talking about how he had to make his guards check on his office. He’s a paranoid man, and you could have been in much more danger if I hadn’t abandoned him.” 

“That is bullshit!” you exclaimed. “God, it was your bloody idea in the first place! Is it suddenly not good enough? Am I not good enough?” 

“That is not what this is about,” Lockwood snapped. 

“Then what is it about?” you marveled. “Why did you switch roles in the first place? You’ve told me I could talk my way out of anything, but when the time comes, you shake things up for no reason. For no reason, Lockwood.” 

“People know my face better than they know yours,” Lockwood said. “Torres was more willing to talk with the head of a rising agency, you were able to slip around easier because of who you are.” 

“Why didn’t you think of that before we were in the thick of it all?” you asked incredulously, and you laughed. “I’ve saved your life multiple times, Lockwood, and you’ve done the same for me. You talk me up all the time to my face, saying I’m what this agency was missing, that I’m part of your family, that— that you’ll never let me go. But that’s all it is, isn’t it?” A shaky smile formed for just a moment before it broke. “Just talk.” 

Lockwood said your name desperately, but you shook your head. “No. Justify it however you want, but you nearly sabotaged the entire job just because you didn’t have enough faith in me. That’s it.”

“I’m telling you, that’s not it.” He let out a ragged sigh, running a distressed hand through his hair, when he suddenly froze. 

“Good evening, sir!” he called, confident as ever, like your argument hadn’t just happened. “We’re just—” 

His voice broke off mid sentence, and then he yelled your name. You whirled around.  

It was a guard, and he was armed. He must have spotted you when you were leaving the office, or maybe George had missed a camera and he’d seen your thievery—there were about a thousand things that could have gone wrong. For a split second, you stared down the barrel of the gun. Funny how you’d stared down what felt like hundreds of ghosts, and a bit of metal was what had you frozen. 

The guard pulled the trigger. 

Lockwood lunged. 

You screamed. 

-

“He’s lucky DEPRAC didn’t find the source in my bag,” you muttered. “They already interrogated me to hell and back while he was in the hospital. Luckily, it usually doesn’t look too good when an adult shoots a teenager and can hardly defend himself against it.” 

“The bloke deserved to be fired,” Lucy said. “A paperweight is certainly not worth shooting someone over.” 

“And it’s certainly not worth getting shot for,” you added. 

“It’s kind of funny,” Lucy said offhandedly. “He’s the one that got shot for you, and yet he’s apologizing to you.” 

“Because it’s his fault that he got us in that situation in the first place!” you exclaimed. You winced as your words sunk in, and you looked over at Lucy. “That was too harsh, wasn’t it?” 

“...A bit,” she admitted. 

You sighed dramatically and hit your head against the side of the wall. “I’m acting like a child.” 

“A bit.” 

“I just don’t know how he expects me to face him,” you said. “I’ve been working with him for the better part of a year, and somehow he still doesn’t trust me.” 

“I… don’t think that’s it,” Lucy said. 

“How could it not be it?” you said. “He wouldn’t have acted like he did if he trusted me.” 

She shrugged. “Have you thought that it’s because he cares about you?” 

“He cares about all of us, Luce.” 

“He cares about you more,” she said plainly. “In a different way.” 

Your head whipped towards her, and you stared at her for a good five seconds. “You are not saying what I think you’re saying.” 

“If you think I’m saying it, it’s for good reason,” she said. 

“We are colleagues,” you said slowly. “Nothing less, nothing more.” 

Lucy said your name with a slight laugh. “He took a bullet for you.” 

“He shuffled our assignments because he didn’t trust me,” you said. 

“He shuffled your assignments because he was worried about you,” she countered. “He didn’t want you with Torres because if you were found out, Lockwood didn’t want him to remember your face. And he abandoned his post because he was worried about you, that something would go wrong and he wouldn’t be there to help.” 

You stared at her before you continued your pacing. “You’re insane. You’re kicked out of the agency.” 

“I’m right,” she said wryly. “And may I remind you again that he took a bloody bullet for you?” 

“I’ve already given him that,” you said. “I lost my damn mind when it happened—almost tore the guard apart with my bare hands. I freaked out the entire way to the hospital with him.” 

“And now you’re almost completely ignoring him,” Lucy said. “Face it: you like him. You just don’t want to admit it because it would mean having an actual conversation with him about it all rather than pacing a hole in the floor.” 

“You’re wrong.” You huffed and leaned back against the wall. “You’re wrong.” 

Lucy sighed and she offered a faint smile as she stood up. “You take some time to realize all this. I’m stealing George for an Arif’s run.” 

“Leaving us alone,” you said flatly, staring ahead as she walked out. “You’re not clever, Lucy Carlyle!”

“Thank you!” she called with a laugh, and you hit your head against the wall once more when she closed the door behind her. 

Sometimes you really hated your friends. 

-

It wasn’t like you were avoiding Lockwood. That would be cruel. 

Stupid as he was, he got shot, and he got shot for you. Avoiding him would be ridiculous. 

You were just… strategically not talking to him. 

And that was arguably worse, yes, letting him see you but not deigning to say a single thing to him that wasn’t business related. 

It was even worse than worse because you’d inadvertently proven Lucy right. If this were any normal annoyance between friends, like the squabbles you and George were prone to or the bouts that your boys got into over patience and its virtues, it wouldn’t be this strong. 

You’d held grudges against Lockwood before. When he forgot to soak your boots overnight so you had to go into an important job with plasm stains, when he ate the strawberry sprinkled donut just to spite you, when you and George were still in rocky territory and he made you marathon the archives with him for nine hours straight. 

All of those, annoying as they were, were forgiven rather quickly. And yes, maybe this grudge was especially strong because of the severity of his injury, but… 

You could admit it. Normal people didn’t hold grudges over their best friend throwing themselves in front of them to prevent them from getting shot. Normal people were thankful. Normal people could talk about their feelings when they realized it was the reason for their strife. 

You, apparently, were not normal. And neither was anyone in this bloody agency, because nobody deigned to make it any easier for you.

Perhaps it was a bit stupid on your part, but you walked down to the kitchen anyway. You needed some tea to clear your mind. Instead, you were met with a half-shirtless Lockwood. 

“Ah,” he said your name, looking up from his spot against the counter, “nice of you to finally grace me with your presence.” 

“What are you doing?” you asked. It was almost embarrassing—you were meant to be holding a grudge and ignoring your feelings, and instead you were staring at him like a girl in primary school. Remarkable how quickly you forgot your objectives. 

“The doctor said I had to redress my wound every day for the first week,” he said. “Lucy and George just went out, so I figured I would do it now.” 

Your brows furrowed. “How do you feel?” 

“Better now that you’re here,” he said. Lucy’s words pounded in your ears. “I don’t think you avoiding me is good for my health.” 

You bit your lip and remained silent. Rocky territory, this was. 

“It’s alright if you just want to stand there.” Lockwood grimaced a bit as he pressed the alcohol-soaked pad to his wound. “Moral support is very helpful.” 

Remarkable how quickly the dam broke. You sighed and closed the distance, holding out your hand when you stopped a few meters in front of him. “Give it to me.” 

Lockwood’s eyebrows rose. 

“Give it to me,” you repeated. “I’ve dealt with many of my own wounds over the years. It’ll be a lot faster if I do it for you.” 

His lips quirked into a slight smile as he handed the cloth over. “This is better than moral support.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You couldn’t help the small smile of your own as you started to dab at the surrounding blood on his chest, innately aware of your proximity but trying your best to ignore it. “This doesn’t look too bad, honestly.” 

“I was shot,” he said dryly. “I think I deserve a few style points for that.” 

“You’ve already earned them all, Lockwood.” 

“That makes sense.” You felt his eyes on you as you continued to work, pointedly ignoring his gaze. “You know, they didn’t take the bullet out. Said it would be worse to take it out, and it’s not causing any problems inside. So I’ve got a bullet in me now.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Interesting.” 

“Indeed. I’ll be going off in airports for the rest of my life.” 

Your fingers hovered over his chest for a moment, and you pulled away with a sigh. “I’m sorry.” 

It was his turn to frown. “What for?” 

“For—” you let out another sigh, rougher this time. “For this.” 

“It wasn’t your fault I got shot,” he said. “I quite clearly remember pushing you out of the way.” 

“I know,” you said. “I— I am quite sorry that you got shot, though.” 

“Obviously,” he said coyly, and you let out a breathy laugh. 

“I’m sorry for this grudge. It’s probably the stupidest out of all the ones I’ve held against you so far.” 

“George keeps a running list,” Lockwood said. “I’m sure we can figure that out.” 

“I’m serious.” Your hand lingered on Lockwood’s chest for a moment, his body warmth almost shocking, before you set the cloth down on the counter. You started to put a fresh bandage on, but you finally mustered the strength to look at him. “I was so upset at the thought that you didn’t trust me because your opinion means a lot to me, Lockwood. The way you think of me means a lot to me.” You cleared your throat, averting your eyes for a moment. “You mean a lot to me.” 

Lockwood gently tipped your chin back towards him, your eyes meeting his. He really was beautiful—eyes that were softer than ever, his tousled hair, the slope of his jaw. Slightly chapped lips, the bags under his eyes that seemed to be permanent, the weight of the world on his shoulders that seemed to diminish ever so slightly when you were around. 

Your Lockwood. 

“You mean a lot to me as well,” he said. “Why do you think I reassigned us last minute? Why do you think I took a bullet for you?” 

“Because you’re a reckless idiot?” 

“Because I panic around you,” he said, “in addition to being a reckless idiot. Whenever we’re on a job, half of my mind is focused on ghosts, and the other half is making sure nothing happens to you. You drive me the best kind of insane.” 

You couldn’t help but stare at him. You wanted to kiss him more than anything, to root your hands in that tousled hair and make it an even bigger mess. You wanted to make him realize he didn’t have to worry about you, because you weren’t going anywhere without him. 

The words stuck in your throat. You finished applying his bandage, and you took a step away.

“Thank you,” you said. 

He didn’t look angry or annoyed or irritated—he understood. He understood you. 

“Always.” 

And it was as simple as that. 

-

It wasn’t really a surprise you couldn’t sleep that night. You hadn’t exactly talked to Lockwood since your show of emotion in the kitchen, embarrassing as it was. You made Lucy check downstairs before you went down for supper, and that was just so you could make the quickest sandwich of your life and immediately hurry back upstairs. 

Pathetic, really. You mustered the strength to tell the boy you liked him, he returned it, you ran off and locked yourself in the attic. 

And it wasn’t because it was too much. You just… you didn’t know. You might’ve driven Lockwood insane, but he turned you into a complete idiot. It was ridiculous. And you were not ridiculous. 

So when night rolled around, when Lucy and George were sound asleep and the ghost lamps flickered on every three minutes and you had only the owls outside your window for company, you knew what you were going to do. 

You threw on your sweatshirt, carefully padded across the floor and out the door so as to not wake Lucy, and you went down the stairs. 

Surprisingly, you’d never felt calmer. 

The light was on in the library. The door was slightly pushed open, the nondescript act that had turned into a beacon for the two of you. 

You knocked on the wall before you pushed the door open some more, not waiting for an answer as you leaned against the doorframe. 

Lockwood sat in his armchair, a magazine half open but neglected on his lap. His eyes shined the moment you stepped inside. 

“Got room for one more?” you asked softly.

Lockwood’s shoulders relaxed, his throat bobbing for a moment before that damn smile pulled at his lips.

“Always.”

[keurimi]

[ 23:58pm ] — i love you. remember that.

you and haechan were polar opposites. he was sociable, outgoing, popular, and charmed every person he crosses paths with. he was very ambitious and hardworking and was probably voted most likely to succeed in high school. you, on the other hand, preferred to keep to yourself most of the time, essentially satisfied with mediocrity, and an overall one’s usual plain jane.

you never understood why he liked you in the first place.

the insecurities in your relationship with haechan rarely clog your mind, but when they do, they hit you like a truck. you tended to distance yourself from your boyfriend, wallowing in your own self-pity until he maybe notices and coaxes you out of it.

you wonder how long until his patience with your negativity runs out and leaves you for someone else. someone better.

“you ok?” haechan’s voice snaps you out of your downward spiral. you blinked a few times out of shock, then responded curtly. “yeah, i’m alright.”

haechan narrowed his eyes at you, obviously not believing a word you’re saying. “penny for your thoughts?”

“it’s nothing, hyuck. go back to playing.”

you used his real name. haechan let out a quiet sigh, took off his headphones and squeezed himself next to you on the bed. you swore you could hear jaemin and jeno yelling at him through his headphones for being afk, but before you could point it out, haechan already has you locked in, his arms snaking around your waist and his legs tangled above yours.

“have i ever told you that you’re pretty?” he whispered.

“sometimes.” you hummed.

“maybe i should be saying it more.” he quietly chuckled.

“you don’t have to.”

haechan scooted almost impossibly closer to you, his breath fanning your neck, the distance between your bodies disappearing.

“have i ever told you that i love you?”

you pause for a moment, guilt creeping into your system. “always.” your boyfriend was one who never shyed away from expressing his feelings. he made sure you felt loved, you hear that you’re loved. his one question was a message to you – ‘i love you, yet why do you feel that way?’ why do you feel so insecure in your relationship when he has never failed to appreciate you? to love you?

“i love the way your forehead scrunches up when you focus.” he started, his fingers softly touching and gliding over your bare arms.

“i love the way you get excited when i come home with cheesecake.” he lightly laughed at the thought as his hands travelled up to your face, cupping your cheeks and making you face him. “i love the way you’re so goddamn bad at valorant, yet you play with me when i ask you to.”

“i think about you all the time. your smile, your hands, your face, your laugh. i think about you before i sleep, the moment i wake up, everytime i eat. it’s you that i see. you’re running through my mind all day it’s . . “ he let out a somewhat exasperated sigh. “you’re the only person who makes me this insane, y/n. really.”

“i love you, y/n. you and only you, just the way you are. forever and always.” his voice was much quieter now and his grip around your waist tightened.

“i’m sorry.” was all you could croak out

“it’s okay. i love you. remember that.”

the two of you were silent for a moment. the guilt in your system slowly subsided into feelings of gratefulness – you were thankful he noticed something’s wrong with you quickly, and you were also thankful he knew how to snap yourself out of it.

“wanna watch a movie?” you suggested.

“i’d like that.” he giggled. he slowly snaked himself away from you to get the tv remote, but his movement halted when you called out his name.

“donghyuck?”

his real name. again. he turned back to face you once more.

“i love you, too. forever and always.”

he grinned, moved closer to you and gave you a light peck on the lips.

“i know.”

a/n: i have returned. haechan making me feel things lately god im so in love w him it’s insanejfksmd.

[heartsforscara]

“call me back?”

in the wanderer’s eyes, you are amicable, beautiful, and soft with a backbone. he loves you with his whole heart, albeit not the kind of love people fantasize about. love is not fluffy and all giddy emotions or warm hearts to him. love is painful. love is eating him alive.

in his opinion, he is none of those. he is rotten at heart, his is ugly, with scratches on his porcelain like skin spiraling upwards on his limbs, and he is so rude that his words pierce. he fears he will sully you, terrified he is but an impurity in your life who will taint you.

he refuses to let that happen. so no, he cannot give in, cannot admit to you that his pining over you has been brutally murdering him, your soft words skewering him again and again, annoyingly creating a hole in his heart only a certain someone can fill. he will swallow the words he wishes to say every single time, the three words he had practised in the mirror countless times compressed into nothing but ashes to rise from the dust the text time.

and the excruciating process has repeated once twice, three times. a science experiment should be repeated 3 times to ensure reliability, they say. is he so incompetent that he still cannot arrive at a conclusion even after the 3 repetitions?

he cannot fathom why he can’t let go of you. he knows fully well why he likes you— your perfects make up a whole list. but he is the villain. he is trying to change. he should at least not be so ridiculously selfish as to try to keep you all for himself. he breathes.

to him, you remain sui generis even in a crowd. their voices form a cacophony of ignorant fools babbling their incompetent minds away. your voice is what he describes as “grating” or “downright suffocating”, but the opposite is true, and he plays your voice on repeat in your head.

his reticent nature is one you know all too well, and yet you can tell how he truly feels. you notice his fleeting glances at you from across the room, his longing gaze not escaping you. you had wanted to express your feelings countless times, but you remind yourself; he is healing. you will wait.

but alas, a little push never hurt anyone. he is wont to your teasing nature, so when you call him, he does not think too much of it.

“kiyoshi! hi!”

Kiyoshi. the name you had bestowed upon him. it had brought him unbridled joy and confusion when he had first heard it, and to this day it still does. kiyoshi, ironically, means pure and soundless.

pure.

why would someone ever think he was pure? after all the things he’s done, all the lying, the killings, the crimes-

he breaks his train of thought.

“… [name]. hey. what’s going on?” his voice had an underlying tone of worry— he was always far too cautious for his own good.

“nothing. just wanted to ask you something.”

a pause, and none of you spoke, leaving an awkward silence.

“hello? are you… not going to ask the question?”

“ah. well, I need to hang up now. sorry. I texted you the question. and im not accepting a text response!”

“huh?”

“BYE!”

��—-

he stares at your text, incredulous. “Will you call me back tomorrow?”

shit. he’s falling far too deep into this rabbit hole, isn’t he?

——

the next day, he calls you. “hello?”

“oh! hey! I assume your answer is a yes?”

“No. my answer is no.” his voice has an edge to it, as if expressing his defiance.

he can hear chortles of laughter from your side. “kiyoshi, you’re so funny!”

he dismisses the comment, ignoring how his cheeks burn at the comment. not the good kind of burn- the kind of burn that leaves him gasping, needing more.

“shut up. anyways. why go through this wild goose chase? you called me just to ask me to call you? that’s stupid. get to the point, [name].”

you stifle a giggle. “I just wanted to hear your voice, kiyoshi. I can’t see you everyday, so I just wanted to let you know that your voice is really pretty. I’ll ask you another question on text today. remember to reply, only through calls!”

you hang up on him leaving him aching. if he had a heart, it would have squeezed itself so tight it would be left with nothingness. what gives you the right to make his chest clench, to make his knees buckle, to give him hopes of a rose-tinted future?

grumbling, he opens the text.

“will you call me back?”

[maxineryx]

Warnings: Depression, murder

When Suguru Geto fell into a long and dark spiral of despair and misery, you knew exactly what to do.

It was clear that the others hadn’t realised his weird behaviour or even how the depression took a toll on his looks, which seemed slightly stupid to you, but you figured that perhaps they had all been occupied by surviving in the Jujutsu world, rather than worrying about a friend.

However, since you were also a sorcerer, this hadn’t made much sense to you.

You decided to wait until someone else noticed. In the meantime, you tried your absolute best in helping Suguru become happy again, with the will to live in this cruel world. You were his girlfriend after all, and seeing your beloved absolutely shattered made your heart shatter itself.

You talked to him, hugged him, bought him things. You never forced him to say anything he didn’t want to. He was too scared, nervous that perhaps if he told you just a little about how he was feeling, you’d be quick to leave, because his mind was an endless storm full of dark thoughts he would never think to share, even to you.

You asked him about his days, supported him, and tried to make him eat after realising he had lost a ton of weight. Yet nothing worked.

Then soon you found yourself exhausted by completely sacrificing your energy on Suguru, but you would never dare to call it ‘sacrificing’. You swore that if anything happened to him, you wouldn’t forgive yourself for not being able to help.

And after realising that his friends didn’t pick up on any of this, you decided to confront them, because what good friends wouldn’t notice their friend’s soon-to-be downfall?

Satoru didn’t believe you at first.

But after recalling Suguru's behaviour over the past few weeks, Satoru knew that something wasn’t right.

So the both of you attempted to help him. Satoru spent less time on training his Reversed Cursed Technique, instead spending more time with you and Suguru, whilst you just carried on with what you did before consulting with the Six Eyes user.

It was going well. You noticed sudden, but good changes in your boyfriend’s behaviours and appearance. Suddenly the black circles under his tired eyes became less visible each day, and his knotted hair became more smooth and knotless. His weak voice returned to the gentle and caring one he had before, and he started leaving his room more often. Although you knew that there would always be a scar engraved into his heart, you felt nothing more than pride for managing to fix it, to fix your slightly strained relationship, to fix his life before anything unforgettable happened.

On that day when everything turned back to normal, you could finally go to sleep knowing that your boyfriend was back after so many nights of crying and worrying for him. You went to sleep so peacefully, eyes closing instantly after hitting the bed, with a smile on your face.

And when you woke up, you were horrified to hear that your Suguru Geto, the one who you pampered with kisses every day, the one who cried on your shoulder every day, had just committed mass murder.

The news caused you to stagger backwards, supporting yourself against the wall as the startling information sunk in, your breathing coming out in shaky, rapid breaths.

Your mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts.

It was going so well. It was going so well. He was getting better. You thought you helped him.

Did you happen to make it worse?

Was it because of you that they planted an execution on him?

Was it… your fault?

————————————————————————

A/N: To the anon who requested a Gojo fic, if you see this, know that I have noted your request down. Im not sure if it will be done quickly, I have many things to do atm, but you will get it soon :)

[dorims]

make you fix me [ sneak peak ]

gif creds @/endiness

roman roy x therapist!reader

wc. ~550

genre. fluff, angst,

spiraling into a more than confusing dynamic, roman roy's relationships have always disrupted the balance between professionalism and an HR complaint. It wasn't his fault his authentic-roy-ways didn't follow the 'being a decent human being' guidebook. People fell in love with their therapists all the time anyway, and being a nepo-baby billionaire didn't save him of that fate.

tags. WORKING TITLE, NO BETA AS OF RN, prone to grammar mistakes !! the story is set some time after s4 as of rn, gif is not representative of the timeline this takes place in, allusions to abuse, being dismissive of therapy, roman uses the word looney as an insult once, tags will be added as the story progresses, these are mainly for the text below the cut

a/n. this is a little sneak peak of one my wips! the full document has 3.5k words ish but im aiming for at least 7k, maybe a little more. if anyone wants to join the tag list for this fic please send me an ask off anon or with your url

“Are you writing that down?” He frowned, “why are you writing that down? I literally just said I wasn’t.”

Yet again, another bold demonstration of your therapeutic ineptitude. You dared to look up at him for a couple of seconds too long, scanning him over until his eyes widened in confusion while he jostled his hands in the air, preparing to retaliate. But just when he started stringing words together, you decided to start what seemed like a new sentence.

“What are you even writing?!” He wanted to tear all his hair from the roots. “I haven't said anything!”

“Well, you have.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Groaning in protest, he scooted closer to the edge of the couch, almost like he wanted to stand up. “I said nothing that means anything.”

“Then,” you clicked your pen, and his gaze immediately zeroed in on your fingers toying with the shiny metal. He gulped, knowingly so, like waiting for the stationary to stab him in the neck. But nothing had happened, and instead, he missed the way you [had noticed] “There’s nothing you should worry about.”

His shoulders dropped with the heavy weight of being scrutinized. One would have thought he would’ve been used to it by now. But from experience, he had learned that the everlasting bitterness of getting examined under a microscope would always linger. No matter what he tried, the only way of coping with it was to wait for it to pass with his tail between his legs. 

“Can you just like stop? Writing?” With his elbows resting on his knees and his face burrowed against the nook of his hands, his voice came out pityingly muffled, much like the hint of the child he had been tasked to cast aside way too soon.

 “Why?”

“Because, it’s, fuckin’ weird?” He forced himself to stare straight at the spot right between his Oxfords, shaking his head in disbelief as he attempted a laugh. “I’m not paying you to scribble on your looney book.”

You had hummed once more, and he had wanted to tell you to stop. With his gaze still zeroed on the floor, he failed to notice how the plain Moleskin had been pushed to the side, neatly closed in a genuine display of concern. Or as genuine as a therapist would allow themselves to be during their first session. 

“Then what are you paying me for?”

“To like, you know,” he shrugged in disbelief. “Ask me to draw a stick figure under the rain and tell me how to fix this.”

“Fix this?”

“Yeah, this.” The words had left his tongue sitting, heavy in his mouth, and the rest that wanted to tumble out felt foreign in size and shape, though similar in weight to that of shame. The same one that had seeped from between his teeth and gums and skin countless times when the inconceivable consequences of his actions caught up to him growing up. Shame so thick it would put blood to shame, though they sure shared the same taste. And it had always been easier to spit it out in private, drown the aftertaste with fierce scrubbing and hide the searing imprints on his cheeks underneath the covers. But the walls surrounding him were no longer the ones in his childhood bedroom, and you were still waiting on an answer. “Fix, I don’t know…me?”

[bonebabbles]

Chapter 12: the thunderclannining

GOD I love when people call Clear Sky out. It only ever lasts like 5 minutes but it is as euphoric as the brief, blissful taste of a chocolate-covered raspberry gracing your tastebuds.

"How could you believe that I'm obsessed with being right after all the times I chose not to murder you :( ????"

"I let you eat food in land that you used to just be able to walk into, even though you're disabled! I thought you were eternally grateful :(((( IM LOSING CONTROL!!"

"YOU'RE ABANDONING US BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU DESERVE RESPECT????????"

He feels like the world's worst boss and crappiest father rolled into one monstrous fusion.

There's just one problem with all this catharsis; Thunder is still whining about Star Flower, insisting that she's going to betray Clear Sky. It's frustrating because he is wrong.

Star Flower is a lot closer to another victim of Clear Sky than a manipulator, but the narrative will not ultimately conclude this.

But at NO point does it show her actually manipulating anyone. Not even Thunder. NO she did not "manipulate" and betray him. I am once again reminding everyone that Thunder offered all that information apropos of nothing, against all warnings.

Yet, "betraying" the Clan cats by warning her father of an ambush is so unforgivable that several cats agree she should be chased out of the forest.

All this emphasis on how hurt Thunder is shows that his judgement is clouded by jealousy.

All this Star Flower whinging takes away from Clear Sky being abusive. THAT should be the major issue here. This is an entire book of Clear Sky returning to the same kind of emotional abuse he was displaying back in Thunder Rising, only without murder, and what this LONG AWAITED confrontation ends up spiraling back to is the Father/Son Love Triangle

You can't even get catharsis without some incredibly weird, unpleasant bullshit dripping into it.

Im glad that Thunder has finally come to the point where he's rejecting the dumbass statement he made when they killed One Eye together, where he was gushing about, "We're not like One Eye and never have been <3" Yes. Clear Sky IS like One Eye-- a weaker version of him, someone who got out-dictator'd and needed to call in the OTHER cats to ambush him and win his group back.

but again this is meant to be his jealousy speaking. Not straight facts. He JUST had a confrontation with Star Flower about her daddy issues and he's saying that Clear Sky fits them.

CRY ABOUT IT!!!! GET BOOHOO'D LOSER! CRY ME A RIVER AND DROWN IN IT

"I always end up alone waaaaaah!!!" fucking when in your life have you ended up alone? Someone was ALWAYS behind you to hand you a binkie and a safety blanket. When you didn't have a massive group of violent rogues to back you up, the moor cats always took your sorry ass in and clapped at you for doing the bare fucking minimum. People always nonsensically stood by you because the plot demands it, after you get them and dozens of their friends injured and killed

Here comes the binkie and the safety blanket, btw

In a good series this would have been her intentionally manipulating him, bringing out his worst traits again, encouraging him to be the worst version of himself as he once again ignores all good advice.

But Star Flower never did anything wrong. She never DOES anything at all. She's JUST Clear Sky's controversial wife that Thunder has to "get over himself" about, an item to cause conflict, a mate extra supportive of him because he "deserves" to have someone by his side unlike all the other times where people were by his side.

The pack of 3 dogs that mauled you to death wasn't enough. I wish they had guns

[thedevilsoftruth]

Tomorrow: Shane's Journal

I had this idea for a long time, and that idea was to write 5 journal entries going through important time stamps of Shane's life. These entries are written through the lens of Shane himself, almost as if he actually wrote them. Nothing stated in here is 100% cannon. These are all simply headcanons I have of Shane and his life, and i hope you all enjoy it!

For clarity, I think Stardew takes place in 2016, given that's when it was released, and i also hc Shane to be 35, so he was born in 1981 in this fic. A little bit random, but that's just something to chew on.

Tw: This fic goes over very sensitive topics such as suicide, mentions of self-harm, shootings, depression, alcohol addiction, childhood trauma, and a lot of Atheism.

◇◇◇

September 8th, 1996

Hey god, if you're listening, why are you doing this to me? I've tried and tried and tried all I could, all day, every day. No matter what people threw at me, I still fucking took it because I didn't want to end up being a dead beat like my stupid fucking father. I'm sorry. I'm angry. What's the point of fucking living if everyday I'm in goddamn pain, and If all my nights are spent sleepless as I sob? I've prayed and prayed and prayed for things to get better, but nothing is getting better, and I want to die. The only thing good in my life right now is my gridball team. My parents don't fucking love me, I'm a failure to everyone I know. I'm starting to think this world would be better off without me.

God, please, help me. Guide me to a newfound happiness, please. I can't go on like this anymore. I want to have hope, I need to have hope. It's what Marnie tells me every day. But I can't if things continue to go to shit. Well, im going to lie down now. Tomorrow is a new day... right?

- Shane .H

September 10th, 1996

You're a liar, you're a fucking liar. Screwed up, fucked up, arrogant, selfish liar. I was blind to your lies, deceived by the promised hope of a good life, and yet you took my hope and smashed it against the wall. I hate you. I hate all of you. I want to cut myself and die as I bleed out.

Everyone is turning against me. Ethan wasn't there for me when I told him to stay outside my aunt's house last night. My mother tried to kill me last night, and my father wouldn't dare to bat an eye at me. I don't know what I fucking did to deserve this. Mom hurt Marnie. Everyone was screaming, I felt like my ears were going to bleed. I ran away. Mom tried to throw a knife at me, so I ran away. Ethan got me high before that and was supposed to stay outside of Marnies ranch for me incade anything happened, but he fled afterward.

They had told me they didn't want me at Marnies house anymore when they were gone. But I couldn't stop myself. They hadn't been home in a week, and I needed comfort. They are always fucking gone they are always never home or.... used to not always be home.

I stayed at Micheal's house last night. I went back to Marnie's this morning. My parents killed themselves an hour after I left. They did it in front of Marnie, and she couldn't do anything to stop them. They wouldn't listen to her. Marine is going to be my guardian. We're going to make frequent trips to Zuzu city for our therapy sessions.

I don't think I'll be going back to school. I hate myself. I hate my life. My parents died because of me. I wasn't a good son, I never was. Maybe if I had been better and didn't get high, sneak out, or get bad grades all the time, they would have loved me. But if there's anything I hate the most at the moment other than myself, it's you, God.

- Shane .H

November 27th, 2010

I thought I was getting better. I thought things were going to be okay. I haven't taken therapy since I was 20. I'm gonna need it after today because I'm having the biggest downward spiral since 1996. I started to believe again. I started to read the Bible and pray because things were getting better, but all of this shit coming back to me tells me that there is no God up in the sky. It's a joke. A stupid dumb lie that innocent people like myself get mind-fucked into believing is real. But it's not. It's a load of fucking shit.

God took away everything that I have ever loved in my entire life and hollowed out my soul until I was nothing, and left me with stupid fucking priorities that I can't fucking handle! I didn't want a child. Not now, not ever. This child isn't mine. How am I supposed to fucking provide for her, if I'm working 9 hours a godamn week at a fucking grocery store? Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

One second, I'm at a fair with my two best friends i haven't seen in years who are parents now, the other second they're killed in a shooting and I'm stuck with their fucking kid!

I don't want this, I don't fucking want this at all. Kill me, please, God. I can't even write this with how shaky my fucking hands are. I wish I never crossed paths with Micheal, even if it's been 12 years since I've seen him. I can't do this. I can't go on anymore. Tell me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in my head like my fucking parents did?! Fuck you, and fuck your stupid fucking cult, and fuck your beliefs, and fuck it all!!!

- Shane .H

December 23rd, 2016

I love you, Marnie. I love you, Jas. I love you, Michael and Alejandra. I love you, Mom and Dad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm a failure. All I've ever done to you all was bring you pain. I'm a dead beat. I don't deserve your kindness or your patience. I'm a fat, alcohol addicted, low-life, dick face who's never made any achievement in life. I can't even get myself out of bed in the morning. I black out almost every night from drinking too much. I could never get a good job here in the fucking town.

My life has brought me nothing but pain. Nobody wants someone lin their life who can't even do something as simple as brushing their teeth.. I'm nothing but a mere parasite, eating away at people's lives.

I'm sorry, im sorry, I'm sorry, but today is the day.

You won't have to deal with me anymore, and I can finally be free from this never-ending hell.

Goodbye, world.

- Shane .H

December 23rd, 2018

2 years. I've been sober for 2 years now.

On this day, two years ago, I tried to end my life. I almost drank myself to death, but a farmer noticed me near the cliff and supported me. They brought me to a hospital, and I went back to Zuzu city to try therapy again. It's still embarrassing when I think about it. Those memories don't make me nearly as sad anymore, I just get... kind of embarrassed. It's like... wow, I was like that? What an asshole, hehe.

Well, my sobriety isn't the only thing I'm proud of.

Jas is eight years old now! I finally saved up enough to move out of Marnies and into the city. I got a new job, and I have a cousin here who is watching over Jas during the day after she comes home from school. She has a lot of friends now and is boy crazy... oh dear, I still don't like the thought of that. My hours aren't the best, but it makes me money and keeps a roof over our heads. I work on service tech. I didn't know I liked cars so much, haha! Everyone there is really cool and nice, and it's helped me with coming out of my shell a little bit.

On holidays, me and Jas go back to Stradew Valley to see Marnie. We have frequent calls with her, and I also make sure to pay the farmer a visit. Jas and I bake them cookies as a thanks for literally saving my life. Sometimes she eats them in the car...

Well, anyway, I start work in a little bit. Just wanted to let everything all out. Today is a new day, after all.

- Shane .H

[xoxonxo]

im in progress of writing a fic that’s basically the halfblood prince but through hermione’s perspective (mostly managing her realization that she likes ron). i’ve never seen any fics like this, and as a sucker for ANYTHING romione related, i seriously wished the books/movies indulged on her feelings more. i thought that id post a small piece of what i have written just to see if anyone would actually read it. im hoping for this to be a multi-chapter (?) or a really long oneshot. PLEASE give me feedback, im in DIRE need of it. thanks!! 💕

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Hermione knew she was smart— everyone knew it too. She was the brightest witch of her age, a fact that she carried with pride since her first year at Hogwarts. She was also a prefect, and hoped that in her 7th year she would be Head Girl. Hermione thought she wasn’t bad looking either. She learned the hard way that her hair had to be properly kept, and not just brushed until it had grown the volume that of a lion, which was something she wasn’t aware of until she was 12. She was fit— although she had to give most of the credit to Harry due to their near-death experiences they went through on a yearly basis. Hermione was remarkably resourceful, and was great help to anyone who asked for it. By her third year, she had nearly read the entire library at Hogwarts and begged the librarian to bring her in a new collection. The best quality Hermione had was that from a young age, she knew what she wanted in life. The day she had gotten her letter from Hogwarts she practically ransacked every bookshop in Diagon Alley for any book that explained the phenomenon that was magic. In her fourth year, she created S.P.E.W after witnessing Dobby and Winky undergo horrific treatment from wizards like herself. Hermione even managed to get Outstanding in all OWLs but one, a feat very few had ever accomplished. She had reached every step in achieving all her aspirations, yet there was one thing that remained unclear, and that was the feelings she had developed for Ron.

She figured there was always a spark there. She thought it had started in her second year when she saw Ron’s face light up after she returned from being petrified, or when she secretly wished to had been dancing with Ron at the Yule Ball, rather than with Viktor Krum, or even when the only memory that casted her Patronus was centered around him. After spending the entirety of the summer at the Burrow, she felt her concealed and hidden emotions to spiral out of control. There were times Hermione thought she felt her heart explode after sharing small moments with Ron. Those of which were put on a hold once Harry arrived. She began to read into exchanged glances and soft smiles like never before. Hermione’s logic was always telling her that she was being ridiculous, but her heart squealed in defiance when he merely called her name. She nearly felt like she had lost grip of the girl who once strategically planned each day, to a ridiculous school girl, who was fawning over her latest crush.

There she was, sitting in the prefects compartment next to Ron with a silly smile plastered on her face. She had a book propped up on her lap, flipped open to the first page, yet every time she finished reading a sentence her mind trailed off to only re-read it again.

“Blimey, ‘Mione. I haven’t seen you this happy since we got our OWLs back. What are you reading about?” Hermione slightly froze, before closing the book to the front cover, which read: Visions Beyond; Explaining the Mysteries of Divination. Ron shrugged, glancing up at Hermione who was blinking rapidly, as if finding something to say. “I thought you hated divination,” Hermione toyed with the thin, gold chain delicately drooped on her collarbones. “I do,” she hummed out, uncrossing her legs to now face him. “So why are you reading it? You’re not taking a N.E.W.T for it, are you?” She quickly shook her head, her bottom lip curling up, displeased at the thought of having to take another year in Divination, “I think I’d rather die.”

He let out a small laugh before returning to his thoughts. Hermione’s eyes met the window of the compartment, staring at the scenery that was quickly passing by and the only thought that crossed her mind was how she was going to get out of this situation.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

again, please let me know!

[space-apples]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47493238

if you want to read it here and not on ao3, it’s under the cut !!!

The sun was just rising from the horizon, but Mumbo was awake. It wasn’t the first time– it wouldn’t be the last either– yet he could feel his eyes ever drooping. Despite that, he remained awake, not particularly doing anything but observing, noticing, discerning. Scar was asleep, of course, next to him, and it was times like these that Mumbo was reminded just how beautiful Scar was. His long brown hair, slightly tangled but still woven around his head so delicately that Mumbo could trail his fingers through his husband’s– husband, husband, husband, oh gods his husband’s– hair. The sun’s light was not quite reaching his face, but Scar had still radiated warmth. Even the things that weren’t typically seen as “perfect,” or what wasn’t societally deemed charming, Mumbo paid attention to each detail as if it was the last thing he’d ever pay attention to. Mumbo could only hope that he gave as much warmth to Scar as he did him.

What if Mumbo didn’t? What if he wasn’t enough?

A short yawn and a couple blinks broke Mumbo from his trance, and Scar slightly jolted, giggling softly to himself.

“Well, hello there,” he said groggily. “It’s so early, why’re you awake already?”

Mumbo’s soft smile grew ever more sheepish as he tried to think of a legitimate reason other than ‘I thought my husband was pretty.’ or, ‘I thought you were pretty.’

“Oh, uh– I dunno– Uh– I was– I was looking at– Looking for uhm–”

Scar was waiting patiently, although his eyes were still half lidded, and his blinks were getting longer each time he started to close his eyes.

“Oh geez. I’ve bored you already.” Mumbo brang a hand up to his forehead, probably attempting to hide his face, but Scar grabbed it before he fell down a self-hatred spiral.

“No, my love, you’re not boring me,” he started. “It’s just that it’s five– six o’clock in the morning, and I was too busy staring at you last night to actually go to sleep.”

Mumbo could only get out one word of surprise.

“Oh.”

But his thoughts clouded and interrupted each other in a fit of… excitement? Being Flustered? Either way, all he could think of was oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, he was looking at me, he was looking at me, he was looking at me, I want to hold him and never let him go. Mumbo cleared his throat.

“O-Oh,” he repeated, simply. His ears had turned bright pink.

“Oh,” Scar also said, another giggle escaping his lips. Scar kissed his forehead, and Mumbo’s ears turned even redder as he went back to sleep.

Mumbo flipped out his communicator, quite almost immediately, in a frightful mess.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… Oh my gosh, dude. What do I even do, oh my gosh.

< Grian > Whispers to you... well. you could always use tnt?

< Grian > Whispers to you... give them a little scare. touch their redstone. start wars.

He rolled his eyes, chuckling softly to himself. Mumbo supposed he should have given context, because of course Grian would suggest something like that if he didn’t know what was going on. To be honest, Grian probably would suggest something like that even if he did know what was going on.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… Sorry. I’m talking about Scar.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… He’s just so sweet, Grian.

< Grian > Whispers to you... oh

< Grian > Whispers to you... im guessing youre not going to use the tnt then?

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian…Definitely not.

< Grian > Whispers to you... boring

Mumbo rolled his eyes, and thinking that was the end of it, he closed his communicator. Until it buzzed again.

Grian blew up.

< Grian > Whispers to you... see? im not boring like you gay people

He cackled before putting it away– really, this time– and traveled quickly to see if Grian needed any help getting his stuff back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The day had started out well enough, but that high of being near his husband and having fun with Grian was slowly fading. Mumbo needed to finish this stupid project. It was so close to being finished, all he had to do was set all of the redstone to be in its place, but Mumbo’s head started hurting after a few hours. He couldn’t really understand why. Sure, he was sleep deprived, but it shouldn’t have been as terrible as he felt at this current moment. He felt a buzz from his communicator, and while he really did want to check it, he decided against it in an attempt to stop the repeated pulsing that was going on in his head. He needed to focus on trying to get this redstone pulse to start going, anyways.

The comm buzzed again, and he forced himself to place it where he couldn’t see it; he couldn’t finish this project if his migraine got worse, and he didn’t want to think about how bad it would get if he stared at his electronic device for too long.

It faintly buzzed for a third time while Mumbo put it in his bag, and he bit his lip, wondering if it was important. He faintly wondered if he didn’t answer now, would he get in trouble? Would people be mad at him?

What if whoever was messaging him was in trouble, and all he was doing was setting up pointless redstone contraptions. What if whoever was messaging him was dying, was asking him for help, and he wasn’t looking because if Mumbo so much as blinked too hard, his head would scream at him.

This was stupid. He was stupid. He should just check the goddamn thing.

And– No. It would be fine, Mumbo thought. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal. People don’t answer messages all the time, and so far nothing tragic has happened. Mumbo compelled himself to keep going, to avoid checking whatever messages he had gotten, and to just take a deep breath. It would be fine. He would be fine.

Still, still, that nagging voice that had stuck into his brain kept asking him the same thing; what if he wasn’t good enough?

.

.

.

.

.

.

Mumbo, per usual, wasn’t sure if he knew what was going on. His migraine had alleviated over the next few hours, albeit slightly, but coming back home had made it spike right back up again. Scar was sitting at the table, spinning the small spoon in his tea. Scar looked at the cup so intently, it was like he was trying to memorize each individual tea leaf. Normally, Mumbo would come home before Scar. Normally, Mumbo would notice the slight tremble in his partner’s hands, the slight quiver in his voice as he said his greetings, the nervous and terrified look his eyes seemed to possess.

Normally, when Scar would ask Mumbo about his day, he’d go on about all the different changes in the flowers scattered across his and Grian’s base, about the changes he made in his vault, the work he’d done, the redstone that gave Scar a headache when Mumbo would try to explain. But now–

“It was good,” was the short and simple reply to Scar’s question. Scar seemed to deflate in response to his words, and normally– normally– Mumbo would notice. But his head felt like it was splitting into pieces, and he couldn’t act the way he ordinarily would. On any other day, he would have wanted to ask what was wrong, what he could do, but right now? All Mumbo wanted to do was sleep.

“Have– Have I done something wrong?” It was so quiet Mumbo almost missed it. Almost.

“What?” Mumbo finally, finally truly opened his eyes to see Scar nervously fidgeting with the different sets of earrings. “Not– Not at all, dear. Have I done something to make you feel like you’ve done something wrong?”

Scar shrunk a bit more into himself. Ah. So that’s a yes. Guilt poured through his chest, and despite not knowing what he did, Scar was upset. He was the one who made Scar upset. He wanted to cry, he wanted to berate himself and never show his face ever again. Mumbo’s head was screaming, shouting at him– not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough– before he shut that down. This was about Scar. He could resolve his own guilt later.

“What’s going on, love?” Mumbo’s voice was soft– partly because saying things too loudly made his headache worse, mostly because he didn’t want Scar to feel more upset than he already was.

Scar bit his lip, as if he was hesitant to share. At that, Mumbo continued, trying to ignore the blaring spikes in his head.

“I want to help soothe whatever is making you feel–” Like you’re not enough. “–whatever it is you’re feeling right now. But– But I can’t stop doing something that makes you feel bad if– if you don’t tell me. I’m a genius, but erm– I haven’t figured out how to read minds yet. Unfortunately, erm– Unfortunately Minecraft Redstone For Dummies doesn’t exactly cover it.”

Scar gave a half smile, and that should have been enough to make Mumbo’s headache go away, if that was at all how headaches worked. But– he frowned again, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“I don’t want to make a big deal–”

“Sorry to interrupt, my love, you know I really enjoy hearing what you have to say– But this is a big deal,” he said, and rushed to his next words upon seeing Scar’s expression. “And that’s alright! Things are– Things are allowed to be a big deal.”

A few seconds passed, then a minute. And though Mumbo’s migraine was getting ever so worse, he stayed, patiently waiting for Scar to share however little or however much he wanted to.

“We– Gods, this is going to sound so stupid, but I got really– I got really nervous when I woke up by myself this morning, because I– I didn’t know where you went.” Scar wasn’t looking at Mumbo in the eye, yet Mumbo hoped Scar knew that he wasn’t angry at him as he was talking.

“I’m not– I don’t really know why it bothered me so much, but then I messaged you after I had a scary time in the nether, but I didn’t get a response, and then– I guess– I guess I’m just used to hearing a lot about your day. I love hearing about your day, because you just– you have this contagious excitement whenever you’re talking about random redstone mumbo jumbo that I have absolutely zero clue on what you’re talking about. Redstone mumbo jumbo–” he repeated the words. “–it makes you so happy, and you, Mumbo Jumbo. You make me happy. But today– it might be an off day, or something, because I just– I was worried that I wasn’t making you feel happy anymore.”

Near the end, Scar became more quiet, slumping even more, and looked down at his hands self consciously. In return, Mumbo gently cupped Scar’s face with his own hand, tracing his cheek lightly tracing one of Scar’s horns with the other.

“Scar, I don’t think you understand how happy I am when I’m with you, Just– just thinking about you makes my chest beat a little bit faster.” Mumbo gently grabbed his husband’s hand, putting it lightly against his own chest. “Honestly, I don’t even know if you can feel it. I don’t know how that works, but I– I hope you get the sentiment.”

Scar’s face crinkled in small amusement, and Mumbo continued.

“I– I’ve had a horrid migraine this whole day,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I didn’t communicate that.”

Scar’s eyes widened, and he broke Mumbo’s hold by placing his head in his hands.

“O-Oh gods, that– Makes a whole lot more sense.”

“No need to be upset with yourself, love–”

“I’m not– I mean, I slightly am, but only because I didn’t notice.”

“Scar, it’s not a physical thing, I don’t expect you to notice a physical thing,” Mumbo said lightly.

“It’s not a physical thing, but you do physical things when you’re in pain,” Scar murmured. “You furrow your eyebrows sometimes. You– you do this thing where you pinch your nose with your fingers. Your voice gets really strained when you try and talk, and–”

Mumbo’s ears were turning pink in embarrassment.

“I– I didn’t realize how you– how much I– Am I that predictable?”

“Mumbo, I don't think you understand how much I love you.” Scar softly smiled, lightly bonking his forehead against Mumbo’s. Ow. “You’re not predictable– Well, maybe you are a little bit– but that’s only because we’ve been together for so long.”

Mumbo’s ears turned a darker shade of red.

“O-Oh,” he fumbled over his words. “G-Gosh darn it, Scar, I was trying to help you, and now you’ve– Oh gosh–”

Scar stifled giggles before responding.

“You have helped me. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

“...Really?” Just like Scar previously, Mumbo was hesitant to believe it. He didn’t think he was particularly helpful. He didn’t think he was particularly good enough. Scar pulled away from the hold to kiss him lightly on the forehead, as if that would cure his blazing headache.

“I mean– all of my silly little insecurities won’t go away in an instant, but I– you being around me at all just makes me feel a bit better. You don’t even have to do anything, if I know you aren’t tired of me or something.”

“I could never be tired of you,” Mumbo hastily said, and Scar softly smiled.

“And I could never be tired of you, sunshine. You– You make me happy, is what I’m trying to say. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s made me as happy as you have.”

Oh. Oh. That. Oh.

Mumbo didn’t know how to respond, and apparently Scar knew that, because he stood up, walking with his cane over to the kitchen. He came back after a few seconds, holding a couple of Advil pills and a glass of water.

Mumbo was amazed, to say the least.

“Can you– Can you mindread?”

Scar giggled.

“No, sunshine. I’ve been married to you for two years,” he said fondly. “Now go to sleep.”

Mumbo wanted to stay up later, but the pain in his head made it pretty difficult to argue, plus, Scar was warm, and he didn’t want to leave that alone.

Sometimes Scar’s heart was so warm it burned himself, and Mumbo knew this.

He was really hoping Scar wasn’t deflecting his own issues to comfort Mumbo’s, but once he remembered the words his husband had spoken he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

“You have helped me. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

And maybe– just maybe– Mumbo’s worries about not being good enough lessened.

And as Mumbo snuggled in closer towards Scar, maybe his worries about being unloved had lessened, too.

Like Scar had said earlier, it wouldn’t be rid of right off the bat, but maybe– maybe they didn’t have to get rid of their “What if”’s– at least, not completely.

Because, as much as Scar wonders, “What if he doesn’t love me?” he should counter with, “But what if he does?”

Maybe that would be good enough for now.

Either way, Mumbo would be good enough– not just for now, and he wasn’t just good enough– he was more than that. He was Mumbo; and that made him ethereal.

[awriternamedart]

Of Two Wholes

A/B/O [Alpha! Gepard, Beta! Sampo] , SFW , Fluff

Theyve discussed the consquences of a bond mark, now its just time to commit.

(Crossposted from twt)

Ficlet below the break 👇

-

He could feel Gepards hesitation, teeth hovering over the scent gland on Sampo's neck. Potent, sharp, it seemed to invade and corrupt all of Gepards senses, and yet, he was still hesitating.

His head dropped to Sampo's shoulder, the conman's brow quirking up for a second before he chuckled.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Gep." He couldn't help but tease, hands weaving up to thread his fingers into blond hair. The instinct inside him reared its head as Gepards cool, gentle scent was tainted by his worry, his hesitation.

"I just- This is what you want, right?" Lifting his head slowly, Gepard put his hand on Sampo's thigh, bringing blue eyes to inspect jade. The couch they sat on shifted with their weight. "I'm not- you don't feel forced-"

"Did we or did we not discuss this extensively for nearly a month now?" Sampo snorted, cutting Gepard off. "Seriously, Geppie, at this point I might start thinkin you dont wanna mark me!"

"What-?! No, no, that is and never will be the case-!" Gepards mild panic was immediately soothed by Sampo bursting into a fit of laughter, the captain scowling. "..That wasn't funny."

"Im sorry, I'm sorry- You get too caught up, cmon, Gep! We both want this, why hesitate?" Peals of laughter died off, Sampo still snickering as he traced his hands under Gepards chin. Corners of jade eyes turned up in a gentle smile, fondness and love leaking into the scent that permeated between them. Tilting his head just enough, the collar of his shirt once again stopped covering the scent gland, its full scent leaking out. Enticing Gepard, presented fully for him.

Biting his lip for a brief second, Gepard closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Before he knew it, he had leaned forward, nosing at the gland. Taking in the unmaimed, unbarred scent. Potent, wild, chaotic, but deceivingly calm in its nature, a perfect representation of the man who carried it.

"Cmon, Gepard. Don't keep me waiting too long."

Those whispered words of encouragement were all he needed before opening his mouth, fangs grazing the sensitive skin. A shudder went spiraling down Sampos spine, and then the inexplicable feeling of them sinking into his skin followed.

Color burst behind both of their eyes, a primal sort of twist to fate reaching out to the other, forcibly intertwining them together. It was a flurry, a flood of emotion and power, strengthened and emboldened as the core, the very essence that made them up raveled and twisted together.

Nothing could compare as Gepard finally pulled back, watching as the bite wound healed itself before his eyes, glowing a light blue before it faded into a blue tattoo-like imprint, a forever mark.

A bond.

"...holy shit." The dazed look in both of their eyes slowly gave way to clarity, Sampo the first to come back to ground. He reached up, lightly dragging his touch over the two imprints, shivering involuntary. "..whoever made up the rumor that betas cant bond is full of shit, cause I felt every second of that."

Gepard remained silent for a few seconds more, before he dove forward, burying his face into Sampo's neck. The conman yelled in surprise as his back hit the couch cushions, the sound soon deteriorating into laughter as Gepard nosed the area, trailing kisses up his lover's neck and chin.

His new scent was still undoubtedly Sampo, but now there was something inherently Gepard in there. Not quite like he had stayed around and simply had Gepard's scent lingering on his body, no, it was twined in, deeply woven into the recesses of Sampo. They were now a part of the other, two separates who chose to become joined.

It was never quite like missing a half. No, Gepard had always felt whole, but Sampo added onto that whole, willingly merging it with his own.

Pulling away just enough to hover over Sampo, Gepard found himself smiling, feeling the joy they now shared in tenfold before Sampo reached up, hands resting on Gepard's cheeks.

"Kiss me already, will ya?"

He was quick to follow his mate's request.

[shygirl4991]

Do you have any theory's on the TV adware?

i mean this might get long xD So when watching through the TV adware the first time i felt like he works kinda like a Genie. So starting with "SMG4 are you ok?" SMG4 wanted to have that collab video with Mr yest so he helps SMG3 with his streaming stuff in hopes to get the collab he wanted

being reject he starts to spiral thinking that making more content will make him more with it. Slowly becoming a content farm with all the toads he had slaving away making content, in which SMG3 sense something is off

as we know he gets SMG4 canceled only to help pick him up to learn that quality is more important. Which starts him on his journey to make the perfect video over time he gets frustrated and angry that no matter how hard he tries the video isn't coming out perfect to him, im wonder if at the moment SMG4 wished he had help or something to inspire the perfect video thats when the adware first showed up! When i first thought about who the TV adware is i wondered if he gets attracted to people with strong desire/wish since he knew exactly what to say to four

from what i have read and seen on genies when a wish is granted you have to pay a price or it doesn't go exactly how the person wants it to go due to wording. The keyboard sure does something with four as he types away making the video as he mumbles its gotta be perfect, the downside is that he isnt himself lost in his thoughts of making the perfect video not caring about anything else. As the movie goes on we get to see SMG4 inner thoughts which im guessing is whats playing on loop in his head, which is what makes doing the perfect video harder on him. Could be something the keyboard is doing to keep control over four not expecting that there is someone close to him that knows the feelings that he is experiencing. Attempting to escape SMG4 gets pulled back, he made a deal he did the wish and he cant leave till it has been completed

skipping ahead since we know how this ends we are in "SMG4: Our new home" SMG4 is out shopping for a new place for him to live since he was just chilling in peach's place the whole time and now that castle is gone. Boopkins who is currently working as a sales agent helps SMG4 look around for a new place, but nothing is sticking. Which i again think he more then likely wished he could find a place that was around his price range and he can call home

boom suddenly this pops up

boopkins never seen the listing before even though it says its been on the market for 2 days, the conflict being that the teletubbie team came in ready to take the land he just got (im sure now that the crew live on the land the adware can keep a better eye on them for entertainment)

in which funny enough yet again SMG3 saves the day by hitting the teletubbie with the van. ( I swear SMG3 is always saving fours butt) Now we go to "Western Spaghetti" where the crew gets trap in a simulation by one shot wren, Meggy idol from her childhood. Wren being the splatfest champion, he was popular had all the money and friends due to being the champion but then he lost a splatfest. He ended up losing everything he had the big fancy house the people he hanged out with he ended up homeless and alone.

there im sure he wished to be a champion again to be on top and thats when he got the letter and was gifted the digital world where he could put himself in a never ending splatfest. But being the champion without a rival is boring which im sure is the part two of his wish getting Meggy to him since im sure with his obsession with splatfest he never missed watching it and he saw her win the last one.

only to be stopped by Tari who is always connected to the digital world and figured out what was going on, even though it took her a while she got everything set to help the crew escape the digital hell they were in.

from the way Wren looks im sure the downside to his wish is the decline of his own health he looks pretty bad and his obsession with being on top and seeing that he was losing his champion position again made him snap pushing the machine to bring the digital world to the real one. Cause everything to crash and burn on him

Now we enter WOTFI 2023 where we learn that the adware was behind this mess to.

im guessing the pizza stand isnt as popular anymore which means Marty isnt making money, since the only reason he is here is because Mario didnt want to run the stand. The pizza stand being his main reason to live (im guessing) maybe he wished he had something new and spicy that could bring people in which is when the fax came in. But at the same time given the ending to WOTFI 2023 it seems the adware is aware of us the viewers and since we picked what SMG 3 and 4 would do i wonder if he was also granting our wish to be more involved with smg4 videos.

The downside to our wishes could be the ending we get since it was a battle with SMG3 and 4 against Marty and Mario. that's my theory on the TV Adware but i might be way off haha but it was fun writing this down hope those that read this enjoyed my rambles :D

[chthonicgodling]

/KICKS THE DOOR DOWN- omFG HELLO ITS FINALLY TIME FOR-

welcome to an Elysium Drama Update tHAT IVE BEEN VAGUING AND HYPING ABOUT FOR THREEEEEEEE MONTHS 😱 yes you ARE reading this correctly! After all this time of spiraling deeper and deeper RECENTLY and after the VERY long tumultuous past of the previous decade-ish - the Taki Fuego Trifecta Trio (their tag here) is HAVING AN ENTIRE BABY BY CHOICE AND ON PURPOSE— oh mmmmYYYY GGGGGGGOD—

All five of these illustrations feature completely canon dialogue dating back from January when they first started trying for a baby. now that Loki finally confirmed that he’s actually pregnant a few weeks ago - clearly out loud and in words - it is finally time to reveal this news to all of YOU!

Congratulations YOU are now part of a select few! NO ONE ELSE IN THE PALACE KNOWS YET.

The baby Loki is now incubating is sired by Tory!! with Maci of course knowingly and delightedly pulling all puppet strings “behind the scenes” aka like, to the left of them or whatever on the bed.💞How did this even fucking happen you may be asking??!!! They went from fun bedroom dynamic to let’s have an entire babBY?!?! Well- just like the way these playfully suggestive drawings (every one of these convos took place during…… during. uhhhhhhhhhh) are slyly ambiguous in the way I chose to draw them - let me explain the decision of this baby in the same,, extremely sanitized way:::

Maci and Tory.,,, will say.,,, literally anything. And During one such occasion,, it dawned on Loki - and them too, honestly — suddenly with a full record scratch that — wait are you actually being serious?? WAIT DO YOU *ACTUALLY* WANT A—

As nudged upon here and also in my many recent lore essays, please remember that Loki’s ~antsy~ when it comes to his pregnancies and history of children; due to the prior tragedies that had befallen the first six he’s always made it a habit of just vanishing, paranoid and anxious, each time he’s found himself pregnant. However Maci and Tory unequivocally and wholeheartedly asking him to make a baby with them because 💞love💞 and 💞lust💞 and 💞clingy vibes💞- again LITERALLY the first EVER baby ON PURPOSE EVER- was enough to IMMEDIATELY make him go starry eyed. Even though over these past few months since Tory first initiated the talk Loki had…. Still has……. refused to admit that and continued to be his usual vaguely hostile and suspicious self but….

As of today he’s six weeks pregnant (he can always, magically, tell right away) and he has not yet disappeared.in fact he hasn’t even left their BED or their SIDE in THREE MONTHS. 🥺 mhy god hellO., Loki you’re so full of shit and they’re onto you. Maybe stop blushing so much.

and so now begins the countdown to NEW MYSTERY BABY and the shenanigans that will follow; ONCE AGAIN I am FLOORED and THRILLED and WATCHING all this with my jaw on the FLOOR. ‼️they’re not a throuple this is just uhh fun things to do with your platonic friends!‼️ (oh my god I’m gonna lose my mind for fucking real—)

All the dialogue in the orange bubbles + Tory himself of course belong to @fenixethekid , hiatused, once again trying for real to kill me im pretty sure.Maci & all pink and green bubbles are mine; EeL is mine too idc; do NOT tag this with the m word; I hope this has been worth the hype (and I’m pretty sure I was EXTREMELY obvious about hinting at this so?!?!?! GOLD STAR IF YOU’D ALREADY GUESSED THIS NEWS!)

POPS CHAMPAGNE STAY TUUUUNEDDDDD