#TRULY VOMIT WORTHY

[carmenized-onions]

Do the Thing! | Toilet Repair

logline; Today's itinerary: Fix the toilet, catch up with Syd, try not to cry when everyone asks you where you've been.

series history; Previous Chapter

portion; 7.1k+ (this shit got away from me man, idk what to say)

possible allergies; Negative self-talk (It's the Bear, babe, everyone's sad). I did no research on plumbing and am truly making it the fuck up-- I know for a fact I'm not using any word correctly and I simply will not be fixing it. Reader eats meat!! Specifically pork!! Your 'name' is 100% just Tony now.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns, but 'handywoman' and 'Miss' are said. Plus a chest reference).

you ever start writing and you just cannot seem to find an end so you keep going forever? yeah.

“I think my name is just Tony now.”

You sip your overpriced orange juice. You really have to fucking savour it, now a days. That’s like 25 cents a sip, and Syd’s treating you to this breakfast outing, so it’s not even your own wallet on the line here.

“You lose all sense of identity, in a restaurant.” Syd straightens her back, mocking her very own mechanical movements of whenever she steps in a kitchen. “I am Chef.”

This diner isn’t more than two blocks down from The Bear. It was probably your second favourite spot in this neighbourhood. Probably still is. Sitting in the back corner booth (your favourite) with Syd is nice but distracting. She’s been updating you on everything since the catering scene and her botched credit, and you’re absorbing all of it, you swear, it’s just hard to not remember why this was your favourite booth.

Not because it’s seats are the least worn in, not because it’s got the right amount of sun through the window without blinding you, but because of the company you kept here. You’re trying to not notice your own name carved into the table. Especially since it’s not your handiwork.

You laugh at Syd’s joke on time, thank God. No awkward pause. “Yeah, you fuckin’ are. Head, right?”

She nods. “It’s cool. It’s like, vomit-worthy stressful but also…”

“You wish you were dead when you’re there, but you’d rather be dead than do anything else?”

“Yessir.” She nods again, digging further into her pancakes. “I really fucking owe you, by the way.”

“You’re paying me off through breakfast.” You wave her off. “Plus, I was available and it was like maaayybe 5 minutes of manual labour, it’s nothing.”

“Y’know what?” She hums, “I think actually, you owe me.”

“Yeah?” You grin.” Please, let me clear my debts, Syd?”

She smiles, pointing her fork at you. “You owe me the fuckin’ Beef background I’ve apparently not unlocked. Everyone was talking about you after.”

“Good things?”

“Vague things. Shit made me even more curious.”

You laugh. No shit they’d be vague. What can they say? “When my dad was running the repairmen gig, Cicero or Fak would call him in—”

“Oh fuck.” She snaps her fingers, seemingly in realization. “Your dad’s the connection!”

“The connection?”

“Fak said he had a connection for our fire safety test shit, and then said he didn’t—”

“Ah.” You nod knowingly. “Dad cut the cord on his business phone when it transferred to me, didn’t really keep people updated. Whoops.”

She nods, taking another bite of her pancakes, speaking mid-chew. “You could’ve saved our asses way faster, and I’ll-I'll never forgive you, but continue.”

Snickering, you continue, “Well, they’d call my dad in, and then my dad would call me in as his like, like his fuckin’ Sous of Repairs. And shit broke all the time at the Beef, as I’m sure you’re well aware, so I hung out around Mikey and everyone a lot.”

“Ah. N’ then…”

“He fuckin’ died.” You laugh, because there’s no way to say it smooth, so you might as well say it bad. You stretch out your arms and lean back in the booth. “I kinda took a step back, after that, so we didn’t manage to crossover ‘til now. S’ironic that you’re the one that brought me back instead of an oldie, honestly.”

She desperately wants to ask more about Mike, but she can tell now is not the time, so she just lets it lie and moves on. “You stopped being an EMT to take up the handyman shit, then?”

“Yessir.” You nod, finishing your straggling home fries. “Just kinda made sense to trade off, and I didn’t want to see the family bizz die. Do I have to occasionally pick up shifts bartending to make rent during slow months? Yes. But I also don’t watch people die anymore, so that’s a win.”

“In a way, you’re watching people die still, just slowly.”

You bite down hard to stifle any semblance of a smile or laughter, deadpanning, just to see her squirm in awkwardness for a moment. It works with flying colours, of course it does. It’s Syd. She’s still Syd. You speak at the same time.

“Cause of the alcohol?” “Cause—Cause of the alcohol.”

You both break into laughter, she throws her napkin at you. “Can’t stand you, oh my god. Let’s go clock in.”

She pays your bill before you can try to sneak your card in, which feels all too familiar, and you’re off.

Off to fix an exploded toilet.

“How the fuck do you fix an exploded toilet?”

Your hands rub over your face, lifting your safety goggles for a second. Too fucking foggy. Too fucking sweaty. Plumbing never really was your biggest strength. You’re staring at the bane of your existence, and it’s the latrine. How far we fall.

“You good, Cousin?” You hear from behind. You don’t need to turn to know it’s Richie in the doorway. It’s a fair question, you’re sitting criss-cross in front of a toilet, head in hands.

“Yeah, Cousin, I’m good.” Your words are muffled by your hands. Fully not cousins. For the record. You would argue you're not even that close, but he'd slap you upside the head. You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Can you like, get me a pen and note pad? I need to like, strategize an attack.”

“It’s not that bad, Cousin—” “It’s that bad.” “Just tape the—” “Fuck off with the tape!”

You click your teeth, staring at the gurgling porcelain before you— At least it’s clean, it’s just fucked. “I shut the valve and it didn’t do shit. I think I have to remove it entirely so I can see what’s going on with the underground pipe.”

“Heard.” Richie and you both know that his hotfix handiwork has absolutely contributed to this penultimate mess you’re in now, but you’re both letting that go quietly for now. “You charge by hour or service?”

“Service flat rate and then after two hours it’s by hour.”

He hums, knocking his fist on the doorway a few times before walking away. “Pen and pad, Chef.”

“Not a Chef!”

“Term of Respect, Chef!”

You tap your leg incessantly, groaning like you’ve got an 80-year-old body as you stand to your feet. Richie’s grown a lot. He wears suits now. Hasn’t even poked at you for vanishing. Though you have a feeling it’s coming. If not from him, from someone.

You step out into the hall, leaned against the wall with your arms crossed as you wait for your pen and pad. And now you just have more time and a better view to take in how much has changed.

Gutted. A few walls gone. Makes sense, you told Mikey he was getting a mold problem. He never listened. Seats are new. The booths are the all-around style ones now. Ritzy. It’s too good for this neighbourhood. Is that a good thing? Yeah, right? Despite the fact that The Bear should feel out of place, you feel out of place being in it. Could you afford to eat here? Could the people who work here afford to eat here? Syd said she’s not getting paid for the next few months, so at the very least, the Head Chef can’t.

“Strange?” Tina sidles up to you on the wall, wiping her hands on her apron. Completely knocking you out of your dissociative fugue state.

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly, that felt judgey, you correct, uncrossing your arms. “It’s daunting, I think; to see it all at once rather than slowly built in. Like, I know objectively this is very cool, but—”

Tina hums with understanding. “Feels gutted?”

“Was gutted.” You nod. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just, I dunno. Adjustment period, all that.”

“I needed a second too, but Jeff is good. Change has been good.” You nod like you know who Jeff is. “Carmen, I mean.” Your nod is now significantly more understanding. She smiles, you’re a little surprised to see Tina’s got a lot more insight than she used to. She pulled the thought of Carmen right out of your subconscious before you even detected it for yourself. “He’s good. You’ll see.”

You nod. You know the good she means is not Michelin Star Good. You already know that. He’s Mikey good. Person good. You clear your throat. “How’s Louis?”

“Good. Y’know, he’s getting to that age, getting in trouble. S’been a while since he’s had a good influence.” She nudges you. There it is. There’s the poke. The ‘where have you been?’ The ‘it’s been a year’. The— “Y’know, Chef didn’t come to the funeral neither.”

That one you didn’t expect, your head swivels to her hard. “Carmen didn’t go?”

His brother didn’t go? Oh, who the fuck are you to judge...

She nods, practically with her whole body, she looks more amused than anything. But like, mom amused. The worst amused. “You’re both the sensitive type.”

You cock your head at her, raising a brow. Smirking slightly. “Wow, Tina, I thought you changed too but you still talk your shit, eh?”

“I’m not talking shit!” She laughs, hands up in defence. “I’m just saying, you’re alike.” You hope that the laughter makes her forget the topic but it doesn’t.

“Where have you been?” She softens. She’s not asking to be mean, she’s asking out of concern. Why does that make it feel worse?

You tuck your hands in your pockets and retrain your eyes on hers, even if it feels bad. “Thought time and distance would heal all wounds.”

“Did they?”

Before you can answer, “Pen delivery, cousin!” Richie returns, triumphantly, with a pen and pad held high in the sky. He makes you jump for it. You elbow him in the gut, not hard. “Fuck off, Rich…” He keels over enough for you to grab it. “Thank you, chef.”

You turn back to Tina, who you now realize has spent half her smoke break on you. She nods to you, and then the bathroom door. “I’ll let you get back to it.” You nod in return. When she turns to walk away, you grab her shoulder.

“Tina.” She turns again. You should say something. Something vulnerable and thankful. Words of affirmation are not your thing. But maybe they could be, “If you end up with a dead plate—” Or maybe not.

She grins, and part of you is concerned by this, but she waves you off, giggling like she knows something you don’t. Already walking off. “You’re gonna be taken care of, Terry, don’t worry.”

This is a bad new nickname scheme. The fridge guy is just gonna end up being called ‘fridge guy’ if you take all his names.

It’s maybe three hours later. 11 am ish. You’ve finally put the toilet back in place, the pipes fixed underground— Which is a huge win of progress, the problem is, it’s just seemed to open the toilet’s ability to have other problems that need to be addressed. There’s a strong chance you’ll be here until you die. And even after that, this stupid toilet will still be gurgling, outliving you.

But you seriously have to eat something, so you scrub yourself clean, set your safety equipment down, and head out of the bathroom for a much-needed stretch of the legs— And to hopefully get a plate from Tina.

On your way to the kitchen, you’re stopped and walked backwards to a booth in the corner by Richie. “Hey, Miss, happy to serve you today, my name’s Richard but you can call me Richie, how’re you doin’ this fine morning?”

They’ve yet to open front of house, so you play along, taking your seat with a laugh. “I’m doing perfect, Richie, how are you?”

He nudges the air . “Ey, better now that you’re here, ah? Can I get a drink started for you?”

“Really gonna practice your set on me?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

You hum, then rub your temples, the headache is setting in— Not cause of him, just been a tough morning. “Just your coldest fuckin’ glass of water, Rich.”

“Right away, Cousin.” He slips off into the kitchen.

When the door swings open again, it’s not Richie coming with your ice water, but Carmen— It’s your first time seeing him since the walk-in. When you came in this morning with Syd, it was Nat that gave you the quick briefing on the schedule and goals for today.

“Tony.” He hums, corners of his mouth just slightly upturned. The nickname has stuck. Goddamn. He sets the water down in front of you, along with a plate— Covered by a cloche—Or the silver lid thing, whatever.

“Carmy.” You only mean to mimic his tone, but then cringe. “Is Carmy fine?”

He pauses mid slide into the booth, sitting across from you. He seemed all cool and collected and is now suddenly extremely caught off guard. Already sweaty. “Y-yeah, I’m better, thank you—”

“No, I meant—” It is so difficult to hold back laughter. You deserve an Oscar.

You’re not doing great to be fair but like, still, Oscar worthy attempt.

“I meant like, like is the nickname okay?”

The horrors just keep piling on his face, and you can’t help but feel guilty. No shit he feels like he’s starting on a lower playing field here. You knew his dead brother, you know his Head Chef, your first time meeting him was at quite possibly his lowest moment and biggest mistake— Of which you had to coax him out of, and now he’s misunderstanding every innocent question you have for a inquiry into his psyche.

He clears his throat for objectively too long of a time. “Carmy is fine. Tony is fine?”

“I’m doing okay, yeah.”

Thank God, he laughs, awkward sure but objectively amused.

You nod down to the covered plate, smiling, “Fuck is this?”

He leans forward in his seat to get a hand over the lid. “I, uh. Made you a thing. As thanks or like, an— an apology.”

Ah. That’s why Tina was laughing about you getting taken care of.

He lifts the lid, and what is revealed, if you weren’t careful, would be enough to make you cry. Thankfully, the shock registers as uproarious laughter, one that Carmen cannot help but join.

“What the fuck?”

Pork brisket sandwich. Something that Mikey made for you, specifically. Because you said one time you were more of a pork fan than beef and he absolutely lost it. In a cute way, though. Said ‘Oh, I’ll make you fuckin’ pork, alright?’ You’re not sure if he won or lost the argument, because you did find it better.

“I, uh, we had some cuts left over that we weren’t gonna be able to fuckin’ use, and uh, Tina showed me this, this recipe card, last night.” He slides over the very same brisket recipe Mikey had written down. Little doodles of angry faces and Xs over pigs in the margins.

“He was so fuckin’ mad.” You snort, looking at it. “All I fuckin’ said was I had a preference!”

“In The Beef!”

“He asked!” You quickly defend, through laughter. “And it tastes fucking good. All he did was prove my fuckin’ point— And spent hours doing it. Were you here overnight for this, slowcooking?”

He shakes his head, though there’s a hesitation in it— So you’re not privy to completely believe him. He sniffs, swiping at his nose “I, uh, just came in early. Had to fix some shit anyways.”

He’s staring at the sandwich, then occasionally you, expectantly. You look at him with equal expectance.

“Well?” You start.

“Well?” He astutely adds.

You nod down at the dish. “Do the thing.”

“The thing?”

You pick up one half of the sandwich, but you’ve got no plans of eating until he satisfies this craving first.

“The thing Syd does where she explains why she’s proud of her dish and why I should care. I know it’s Mikey’s, but you clearly made changes.”

“Oh. Uh…” He was both expecting and not expecting this soap box. “So, followed the rub to a T— Well, with a salt bed, this time. Put it on brioche instead of the old shit. And I uh, added uhm—” He snaps his fingers, staring at the sandwich in your hand. “Added pickled red onion, for acid and sweet, and garlic confit. I’m—I’m happy with my spin on it.”

You whistle as a form of praise, he flushes with a glow of pride and is desperately trying to not show it. He’s proud because it’s curated, personal. Ah, he is Mikey good. You nod and take a bite, trying to control your reaction. Worst part about having Artists as friends (especially chefs): They fucking stare so hard when you’re taking in their work. And they’re over analyzing every micro expression. He’s no different.

Fuck. It’s fucking good. Is it bad that it’s better than anything Mikey ever made? Nah, that’s how he’d want it.

“Ah fuck, that sucks—” Is the first thing you say, and his face falls, “Expensive food is worth it.” Right back up. Easy to please. “It’s really good, Chef. Thank you. Did you try it yet?”

He shakes his head, so you push the plate with the other half of the sandwich— It’s brisket, anyways. You’ll be full by the end of this one. Portions generous. He looks momentarily hesitant, which is cute, but inevitably leans forward and takes the sandwich. He nods with each chew.

He hums when he finishes chewing, pointing emphatically at you, though his voice is neutral. “You don’t like something, though.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with it?” He stares at into the cross section of his bite. “Chewy? Texture?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” You’re quick to deny.

He shakes his head, hand over his mouth to hide the sauce on his mouth. “M’not gonna be hurt.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the dish, Carmen.” You take another bite to prove your point. Also you’re hungry. Two things can be true.

He zones in on the emphasis immediately. “It’s the plate, isn’t it? I told Syd—”

“Your tables aren’t bolted.” You interrupt, swiftly. Mouth semi-full.

“Huh?”

You put your sandwich down and swallow, taking your time with it. “Your booth tables.”

You knock on the pristine wood with the joints of your left hand. You swivel your body to look under the table, he follows suit, meeting you there. His left leg has been violently shaking, but he’s thought you wouldn’t notice it until now.

You put a hand on his knee to stop the shaking. He bristles, slightly, but you’re not even doing it on purpose. Your focus isn’t on him. It was making the table imperceptibly shift— Which, of course, you clocked. You tap your foot to the bottom of the table leg. No screws. “They aren’t bolted down.”

You lift yourself back up, moving your hand back to yourself in tandem. He stares at it for a little longer. How you noticed that, he will never know. Repairmen are a different breed…

“I just thought it was a weird choice. Nothing wrong with it, per say. Maybe you wanna test different layouts.” You shrug, taking another bite.

“The booths aren’t bolted either.” He adds, lifting his head up above the table, finally. “I don’t— we’re not gonna fuck with the layout, I don’t think.”

“Should get Fak on that, then.”

“Fak’s big-timing us.” You cock your brow, mid chew. He explains. “He’s focusing on hosting, f'now.”

You nod, swallowing, hand in front of your mouth so you can lick the sauce off your upper lip in non-humiliated peace. “This another job for me, then?”

“If you’ll take it.”

“If your fuckin’ toilet doesn’t kill me, I will.”

“How’s that going?”

You shake your hand so-so. “Ask me in two to three hours how it’s going.”

“Heard.” He sighs, leaning back in the booth. The stress is too apparent not to ask.

“How’s the second day open going?”

“I’m not in a fuckin’ freezer, so that’s a win.” Oh-ho, he’s acknowledging it. You were very comfortable forgetting that moment for his sake. “Thanks, uh, f’ that.”

You shake your head, shrugging off the thanks. You lift your last few bites of the sandwich to him. “You’re good. You’ve gifted me brisket. You relax since?”

“Not really.” He replies bluntly, taking a deep inhale. He pulls at his face from the top down, with both hands. Oof. Bad sign. “I think I’ll be good by tomorrow. Gonna get off early, tonight.”

“You don’t seem happy about that.”

“Ask me in two t’ three days if I’m happy about it.”

Back to work and this is taking so much fucking longer than it needs to take. Why is there tape there? Fucking Richie. Fucking Fak. Fucking Mikey. Godssake. Pipes are fixed. Water pressure is fixed. What the fuck is still wrong with it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Everyone is going to hate you if you can’t fix this. You’ve been here for like 5 hours and you can’t figure out what’s fucking wrong here? You’re nothing. You’re—

The toilet does you the favour of knocking you out of your episode by spraying you in the fucking face, soaking through the top of your jumpsuit. With a groan, you unzip the upper half and tie the wet sleeves around your waist. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

Maybe you just need a change in task for a second. Also, a new t-shirt, because your tank did not survive the waterworks either. This room isn’t the thing you need right now. You slip down the hall to the kitchen. “Who needs a coffee? Or water?”

There’s a chorus of orders, all of which sound like you’ve just asked ‘who wants a gift from God?’, which, you might as well have. This is what you like about being a handyman. The relief you bring. You just need a smidge of praise to get through the rest of this job. You’ve got this.

The small, but serviceable coffee machine in very back of the kitchen calls your name, but Richie sticks his arm out, blocking you from walking past expo up front.

“Hol’ up, Cousin, you look like a fuckin’ wet dog.”

“Well, what ‘ya gonna do about it?” You retort, despite the retort not honestly making any sense, you put your hands on your hips. “Do you want a fuckin’ coffee or not?”

He rolls his eyes, falling back onto the balls of his feet before walking off. “Ey, Sug, are those shirts still in the basement—”

You’ve won for now. You scrub your hands clean before getting to work. This is good. Oooh, Marcus has fresh coffee beans (that he’s willing to share!)— This is easy. You can already fix most broken things, but a machine that actually fucking works? Baby, you can make that sing.

Plus, the bartending gigs you’ve done don’t make you a barista by any means, but they certainly don’t hurt. Oooh, Marcus has syrups! Fuck it. Steamed and frothed milk. That toilet has you on your ass, you need to go above and beyond here. Make each cup personal. You need a win in the form of admiration.

You gather a tray of coffees (and a water for Sweeps, who is too fucking sweaty for a hot drink right now, so fair), all varying in milks, sugars, syrups, intensity. “Coffee run, I hand ‘em out, don’t just take! Corner!”

Ebra, to no one’s shock, likes his coffee black— But, and he’ll tell no one this, you just know it on instinct— He likes it a little too watery. “Good.” Who are you to judge? He likes what he likes.

Tina would take hers black for simplicity, if you let her, but of course you don’t. 2 sugars, foamed milk, chocolate and cinnamon syrup. “Too good to me.” It’s too worth it, when she says it like that and slaps your cheek. Balm of the soul.

Marcus, who watched you make these, did opt to let his imagination run too wild and added one of every syrup to his own cup, wanting to experiment with you. It doesn’t taste good. You switch it for a spiced coffee when he’s not looking. He’s silently very thankful.

After handing out a few more to the new cooks, you come up to Syd. “Take this one, take this one.” Then whisper, so no one knows you are displaying supreme favouritism. “It’s the one oat milk latte I made.”

She turns to you from her station, then darts looks over her shoulder like she’s making an under the table deal before grabbing it from you. She takes a delighted sip, eyes rolling just slightly in the relief of caffeine, she nods. “Fire, Chef.” Ah. This will get you through the day alone.

It also gets you through the willpower it takes to ignore Fak running by you to steal a coffee off your tray. Out of the corner of your eye, you point to the one meant for him— As if you didn’t make it for him, c’mon…

“How’s bathroom?” Syd asks, taking another long sip.

I’m going to fucking explode, not unlike your drainage pipe. “Needed a thinking break, but I’ve made a lot of progress. How’s kitchen?”

“Made a lot of progress. Auto-piloting through this prep.” She looks down at her cutting board, cracking back to it. “Latte helps, a lot, thank you. You should join for family, if you’re still here for it. Unless you don’t want more brisket.”

Fuck. She doesn’t think you’re so slow that you’re gonna be here until family, does she? “Yeah, maybe.” You look around, three coffees still on the tray. “...Where’s Carmen?”

She grimaces. Uh oh. The tension she glossed over at breakfast is still definitely there. She nods her head to the back door. “Smoke break. Or temper tantrum. I don’t fuckin’ know. Don’t tell him I said that.” You laugh, nodding. “You think a coffee would help—” “Please.”

“Corner!” Yells Richie, returning to you. He silently flicks out a shirt for you, holding it up proudly, ‘THE BERF’ stares back at you. You give it a solid five seconds to process before you say anything.

“Collector’s item...” You nod, tone sarcastically impressed. You pivot your shoulder for him to throw it over, hands too busy.

“That’s what I fuckin’ said!” He throws it over your shoulder. “No one fuckin’ listens, these days.”

You bite back laughter and nod, handing him his coffee. Hot. Dark. Two sugars. And, to his delighted surprise, a touch of cinnamon syrup. “Oh, fuck, missed your twists, Chip.”

You wince at what was a long-forgotten nickname, and so does Richie. Funny how remembering origins can do that to you. He’d just said it so instinctively, really. “My bad—”

“Chip is good.” You interrupt, rolling your shoulders back. And it is good, really. “It’s kinda—It’s kinda comforting.” It’s nice to not forget. He nods, and you give each other the ‘we are still so fucked, eh?’ smile before lovingly bumping shoulders as he returns to expo and you head to the back alley.

Carmen’s squatting, cigarette in one hand, creating a halo of smoke around him, and his phone in the other. He snaps out of his mental fog when the door opens, slipping his phone into the pocket of his apron like he’s got a secret to hide.

You hesitate at the doorway, maybe this is not the moment. “Sorry, Chef, I just wanted to offer a coffee? If you need air alone—”

“No, no, I’m good—” He’s quick to correct, then even quicker to correct himself. “I— I’ll take a coffee, I mean. You can stay, s’fine.”

He reaches for it when you sit next to him, but you pull the tray back to hand him the correct one. “Sorry, I—I like, did a thing, for yours. I dunno how you take your coffee, so I thought I’d do it weird.”

He takes the cup, eying it curiously. “Do it weird?”

“Do it like, like a Chef. Can’t make anything fuckin’ simple. The lot of you.”

He hums, amused, staring at the cup, then looks at you expectantly. “Well?”

“Well?”

“Do the thing.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Oh, fuck off.”

“C’mon, tell me why I should care.” He teases.

“Ah, fuck.” You sniff, oh to have your own words turned on you. Looking at the coffee in his hands, “I figured you’d like strong black coffee, but like, complex. So, it’s got like, cardamom and lavender n’ maple syrup. Shout out Marcus.” He smiles. “And then, I know I did just say black coffee but I wanted the aesthetic so I spooned foamed milk on top and sprinkled on some dried lavender.” You take your own cup in hand, putting the tray down. “If you hate it, we’ll trade.”

He pays close attention to your explanation. Man, his eye contact is simultaneously so soft and so scary. He takes a sip. Let’s it sit in his mouth for a second. “Excellent, Chef.”

Oh, if Syd’s ‘Fire’ could get you through the day, Carmen’s ‘Excellent’ will get you through the week to spare. You hide the way you beam by drinking your own coffee.

“How’re you doing?” It’s far too obvious that he’s had something heavy on his head all day, but you’re not going to say the quiet part loud, yet.

He takes a long time to respond. “I, uh…” And when he does, it’s weak. “I’m alright, yeah. I’m alright.”

You nod repeatedly, digesting the huge lie. “Ask me how I’m doing.”

He squints. “…How’re you—”

“Fuckin’ terrible, Carm.” You cut him off, putting your cup down next to him, standing up. You speak emphatically, gesturing with your whole body.

“I’m at my wits, Chef. Completely out of my depth. I fix the main pipe, I fix the water pressure, I triple check the tank, I fuckin’ power cycle the valve— I’m absolutely at a loss as to why it’s still gurgling— Why it shot water straight at my tits— Close your eyes, if you care, by the way.”

With barely any warning you peel off your tank top, you’ve got a bra, it’s fine. It’s very cute that he still looks away. You slip the new shirt over your head as you speak, muffling the words.

“—I’m wearing a shirt that says Berf, and the only way I can feel any semblance of not being utterly useless is by making coffees so good everyone has to praise me for them. And now I’m telling the fucking owner, my boss for the day all this.”

He nods, slowly. There is perhaps, not a single person in his life that has ever been this forthright. Someone he hasn’t had to over-analyze or dig into to figure out what’s actually going on. It is refreshing, terrifying, and for some reason, removing your walls have completely shattered his.

“So.” You lower your head to his level where he sits. “How are you doing, Chef?”

He takes a long sip of his coffee. Stews on the question before he spills his guts, calmly. “I’m sitting outside of the restaurant I started that I own, and my brother should be here, but he’s not and— And I was locked in a fuckin’ freezer on my opening night, which was my own fuckin’ fault— And the tape is wrong and the painting is stupid and that new hire did meth so now we’re down one.” He takes a deep breath.

“And we have Heinz instead of Frenchies, and it’s fine. That’s the fucked part— It’s fine. The ship did not sink without me— It went fine. Better, maybe. My problems aren’t fuckin’ problems. I’m just making it worse for myself— everyone. And I know Syd is mad at me, and I know my— My girlfriend? Is mad at me, and I know that I’m gonna break up with her tonight because I’m not meant to be— that.” He says the last part fast, more to himself than you, really. And then he finally looks back up at you.

“And I’m telling all of this to the person who saved me from hypothermia and a fuckin’—Fuckin’ meltdown, who probably thinks— knows that I’m a psycho.”

You take a beat before nodding, sitting next to him again, arms crossed. Silent. Contemplative. “I have thoughts.”

He nods, taking a drag. “Don’t pull punches.”

“Well, to start most honestly, we must remember, I love Syd. So, I’m not gonna mince about her.”

“Heard.”

You recall everything Sydney had told you at breakfast. The recap of how she got to this point. “Syd isn’t mad at you, she’s disappointed and distrustful.”

He grimaces. “That sounds worse.”

“It is.”

“Oh.”

“But in a way you can fix.”

“How?”

“Handle shit different. Actually show up to shit and make calls. Manage your priorities by urgency— Not by favourites. If I broke my fuckin’ arm and your ‘girlfriend’ had a runny nose, who are you taking to the hospital?”

“You can’t take yourself?”

“Bitch?”

“Kidding. Heard. What else?”

“You’re not gonna tell her I said this because she would rather die than tell someone she wants something.” You lean closer to him, peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one’s secretly come from the kitchen. You knock into his knees.

He takes another drag, short, choked. “Sure.”

“You were kind of a bitch about the menu.”

“The chaos menu? She said—”

“She fucking lied. She lied when she said it was fine, Carm, it does not take a psychic to read Syd’s mind.” You interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “She was so excited to get to build a menu, especially with—” you, “—a partner, and then you completely ditched her. And then you just made your own! Total control freak shit! Cut her out of the fun part of being head chef completely! You get to invent masterpieces and she picks out the best cheap plate? Fuck is that?”

He nods contemplatively, poking his inner cheek. “Yeah, that, that makes sense. That’s shitty.” He turns his gaze from looking ahead to face you, hand over the bottom half of his face. “What else?”

“You’re reactive.”

“No shit.”

“How long do you think you were locked in the walk-in for?”

He swallows, thinking. “Like… an hour?”

“It had been 23 minutes.”

“Oh.”

“You catastrophize, it’s a fancy therapy word,” You cannot help but be impressed by this white man writing down the word in his phone for later. “It means, basically, when something bad happens you blow it completely out of proportion into something it isn’t. Your opening night was definitely a bummer from being in a freezer— But be honest with yourself, would you have let yourself have a good night if you weren’t in there?”

“…No.”

“No. Which is also bad. Which brings me to my key point.”

He tenses up, preparing for you to rip into him further.

“You’re doing a good job, Carmy.”

He immediately swivels back to you, almost dropping his phone. Knee knocking into yours. “Fuck off.”

“I will not.”

“You just said I was a catastrophe.”

“Fully not what I said.”

“I read between the lines.”

“Carmen.”

You take a breath, putting your arms on your knees, bent over. “The restaurant is beautiful, your cooks are talented and they’re prepared— So prepared that they can handle 23 minutes without you. That’s a good thing. You’re threaded into The Bear— The ship didn’t sink, not because you weren’t there, but because you had been. Everyone had the tools they needed to succeed, even with Heinz, a Mid painting, and torn tape. And listen—” You take one last sip of your coffee. “You need to check your ego if you think you’re the first man I’ve coaxed through a panic attack while doing a repair.”

He laughs, half-heartedly. He scratches his nose. “Heard. Yeah, thank you, Chef.”

“I don’t know shit about the meth thing though, I really couldn’t tell you.” You smile when this coaxes a better laugh out of him. You’re considering a career in stand up exclusively for him because it feels like such a reward to hear it.

“And the girl?” He asks. Amusement tinging but leaving his voice.

You click your teeth, shrugging your shoulders at him. “Based purely on your hesitation to say girlfriend, I’d say yeah, probably not ready for a relationship.” You reach your hand out to his shoulder when he flops his head down. “But, just asking, is this your first relationship?”

He thinks for too long before nodding slightly. “First one.”

“First restaurant too?”

He nods again.

“Yeah.” You pat his shoulder before letting it go, opting to hold your cooling cup. “I know you’re a Michelin star fuckin’ big deal but like, me personally, I can’t name a thing I got perfect the first time I did it.”

There’s something in his eyes, when you say that. Something wistful, nostalgic, hurt? No. Something different.

“It’s not that I didn’t do perfect—”

“You’ll do better next time.”

He wrings his hands together between his knees. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Carm.”

“You’re good at that.” He sniffs, head down, scratching his nose.

“At what? Self-help?”

He exhales what just barely sounds like a laugh. “Kinda. S’just, when you say it, you say it in a way where I actually believe it.”

You’re getting the fuck out of here before they open for dinner. You’re not letting anyone down tonight motherfucker. The Berf shall prevail. Maybe a win here will feel like a win for Carmen, too.

You run the sink to wash your hands, as you’ve done before here— But since fixing the pipes and the pressure… Something’s… different. You pause your scrubbing, listening closely.

…

When the sink is running, the gurgling flow of water from the toilet stops. Huh. You stop and start the faucet a few times to verify this. Yeah. You stare for a long moment before connecting the dots, then punch the sink in realization.

“Fucking Mikey!”

“What’d he do this time?”

You twist around. Ah, other sibling. Natalie. Clipboard in hand, business ready. You take a beat before remembering to smile, nodding to the sink behind you. “He connected the tank flow to the toilet and the sink with one wire.”

She tilts her head, squinting. “Why would he do that?”

“I suspect to save water?” You spin around, kneeling down to look behind the sink. “I think the idea was to have the sink not function when the toilet is flushing. But, it uh, well, did the reverse, kinda. Toilet doesn’t function when the sink isn’t running.”

“Oh.”

“So uh,” You shut the valve under the sink. “Your water bill should go down a little after this, since it won’t be running into what is an essentially a second trap pipe.”

“Oh!” Did she get what you said? No. But she doesn't need to. She heard ‘bill should go down’ and that’s really all she needed. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem. S’my job.” You stand, shutting off the valve to the toilet as well. As you kneel down to work again, you feel her gaze burning into your back. You don’t turn to face her. “You have questions.”

“Oh, ah… Am I so obvious—?”

“Yes.” You’re too quick to answer, unbolting the wires where it attaches to the toilet and the ground. You sniff with a panicked, “Ah, uh, it’s endearing.”

She’s quiet, for a moment. She doesn’t ask you what she actually wants to ask you, and you know that. “Well, I’ll need to exchange info for your invoice.”

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout that, your brother already covered it.” You stand once more, before going to the sink to undo it’s valve, you fish through the deep pocket of your jumpsuit, pulling out a crumpled business card and handing it to her.

“But it’s good to have my info on hand, for sure. It’s ah… Kinda old.” Kinda is an understatement. Your dad’s name is still on it, scribbled out in pen and replaced with yours. The dead business line is also scribbled out in exchange for your personal cell.

“It’s uh… I usually only work for friends and family, these days, so I’ve kinda stopped trying to keep up appearances.”

She smiles at it. Thank God, she finds it charming and not sloppy. She tucks it into the clasp of her clipboard. “That’s fine, we are friends and family.”

All you can do is nod, pivoting to the sink. There's a beat of peace.

“Didn’t see you at the funeral.”

Ah. There it is. For a Bear, she sure knows how to poke one. You stutter in unscrewing the bolt.

“Would’ve been nice to meet you, then.”

You clear your throat, it's strangled. “Yeah, I think I was trying to avoid introductions, honestly. Grief comes in different ways, eh?”

“Does it?”

“Mine does.” You swallow, unbolting the wire. With it free, you can just yank it out of the wall. God, forgive your brain, but Mikey was right, she does like to fight. Too bad you don’t.

She just hums in reply, watching you pull the wire from the wall. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Fuck. Fuck. Lifesaver? Is she fucking with you?

“That toilet sprayed me right in the face, yesterday. And you saved Carmen.” There’s an amused lilt to her voice. She’s not fucking with you. “There’s something about a handywoman that Fak cannot match.”

You can hear a faint ‘Hey!’ through the walls. You laugh through an exhale.

“Again, s’my job. I do my best. Did uh, what was it, Terry come by for the walk-in? I wasn’t looking when I was there.”

You sort through your tools, deciding caulking the holes closed is probably the best option.

“He came over basically overnight to fix it, bless him, still don’t know his name.”

You laugh, it’s a little strangled. So Carmen did stay overnight. He must’ve. You smooth out the caulk with your thumb and a palette knife. Blending it into the grout as best as you can. “Good. Good.”

You dust yourself off. Standing. “Well. That’s uh. That’s my job done. Carmen asked me about—”

“Bolting down the booths?” She nods, checking the time on her watch. There’s not enough time before lunch to do it now. Plus you don’t have the screws. “You’re free to come by in the morning tomorrow—”

“But?” You interrupt, throwing your tool bag over your shoulder.

“But?”

“You said free like you’ve got a preference, what do you prefer?”

She chuckles, slightly. There is something about you that feels familiar. “If you could come after close tonight around 12, that would be nice—”

“It’s done. I’ll be there.”

“Lifesaver. I'll give you the code.”

Fuck.

Always gotta give the reader/mc some sort of mysterious background that even you don't have all the info on. Always.

Hehehehe, again, we're slowing this burn so much. Strangers to Friends to lovers but they're both so comfortable in friends it's hard to move !!

Forewarning, btw, if you've already sunk 10k worth of words into your brain for me (thank you!! I hope you've enjoyed!!), I've never written smut before and I feel like I probably will not build up the courage to do so by the end of this series, but I could prove myself wrong, I dunno. But warning in case that's your thing!! I might blue ball you babe!!

Pretty please tell me your thoughts or I'll eat my Berf shirt. Collector's value!! Thrown away!!

Next Part

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (ii)

SUMMARY: When Soldier Boy doesn’t return from Nicaragua, Vought creates a bullshit lie, talking him up as a hero who died in a devastating, world-saving accident. You’re handed down the mantle of leader as Payback, and spend your time trying to live up to how Ben had lead them, while also attempting to figure out what truly happened to him.

WORD COUNT: 2945

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Vought’s corrupt behaviour, typical Soldier Boy behaviour, death, gore, vomit, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, sexual content, smut; descriptions of sex.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Ben didn’t come home from Nicaragua.

Blown to pieces by some Russian laser weapon (what the fuck?), the.. chunky remnants of his body were taken away in a helicopter. Presumably to be experimented on.

It made you sick. Ben might’ve been an asshole, a deep rooted cunt, but he didn’t deserve to have his corpse be defiled like that. Maybe you’d just gone soft for him, that’s all. Maybe his hushed, sweet words and gentle touches, in his last few days, had softened your heart.

But you spent nights grieving your loss, hyperventilating in your room as you felt his fingers tracing your hips again. If you closed your eyes tight enough, you could see him.

You’d never planned for Ben to die. Hell, he hadn’t even planned to do. He was supposed to be ageless; a man who didn’t die. Vought would hide him away when it became suspicious, and he’d live peacefully… as peaceful as he could get, anyway. That was what was supposed to happen.

But his guts were strewn across the base camp in Nicaragua, and you’d never see him again.

It only took Vought three months to create a bullshit cover story.

After all, they couldn’t tell America their beloved Soldier Boy was actually at the site of a cocaine smuggling operation when he was blown to bits. No, that’d taint his image that Vought had spent literal decades moulding. He needed to die a hero. A man that would live gloriously in textbooks and stories.

A nuclear reactor meltdown is what they came up with.

Fucking bullshit, really.

The man was practically immortal (which did raise the question of, how the hell did the Russians kill him in the first place?). Some radiation wasn’t going to take him out. You’d watched him take two full magazines from an assault rifle, and get back to his feet like nothing happened.

And now he was dead. You didn’t know how. You wished more than ever that he’d let you accompany Payback on this godforsaken mission. Because you were utterly clueless as to what had gone down, and no one was answering your questions, tearing up whenever you mentioned the place.

You wanted — needed — to know how this was possible.

You knew Ben, better than anyone else on the team, even Crimson, who stood up on stage, talking about how good of a man Ben was.

Ben was a good man — to those he thought deserved to see that side of him. He was reserved and harsh and rude. And, yes, he was naturally an asshole. But, there was a part of him capable of respect and kindness and love. It was just stuffed deep within.

You’d been drawing it, slowly and carefully. You’d dug your hand in and grasped onto it, worming that side of him out of his heart with every night you’d spent cuddled into his chest. And he’d been warming. His touches had been gentler, his words softer, his eyes more admiring. You’d made him that. You were the only one he’d deemed worthy of his love and trust and respect.

Crimson had never seen that side of him. She’d never even come close to opening him up, seeing who he truly was.

As she talked fake stories of their blinding romance, about how he was such an incredible boyfriend, you just rolled your eyes in the audience. The only time Ben spent with Crimson outside of the public eye was when he was balls deep inside of her. And, even then, he liked to say she was a terrible fuck.

He also liked to say you were a good fuck. It was his favourite compliment; as funny was that was. As he railed you against his mattress, his hands keeping you firmly where he wanted you, he muttered praises.

That was different to the Ben the other women got. He’d degrade them: call them every name under the sun as he practically broke their pelvises. With you, sure, he was rough, but he complimented you; whispering and grunting softly, making sure you felt pretty and loved as he violently fucked you into unconsciousness.

And he always made sure you were okay afterwards. Ben giving aftercare was not something you’d expected, but he was damn good at making you feel safe and secure. He was a man of many talents.

The country was honouring him, as you begged for any kind of rational answer from Payback, from Edgar, from Vought. You were close to falling to your knees and pleading. But they didn’t care. Too busy basking in the boost of popularity that came from Ben’s death.

So, they upped their game.

And, when Vought erected a statue of Ben outside of Vought Tower, you threw up in the bathroom. The night you were named the new leader of Payback, you threw up again.

Apparently, it’s what Ben wanted. Which was bullshit. He wanted you in his kitchen with a dinner plate (lovingly, he’d told you that night. How could something like that be a compliment? You didn’t know, but it was Ben, so you guessed it was possible). But, you couldn’t fight it. So, nearly exactly three months after the last night you saw him, you took his place.

It felt wrong, and disrespectful, and you were lost and out of place. You had no knowledge on how to lead a team of asshole supes, that didn’t respect you or really like you that much.

Ben did this so easily. He lead Payback like a natural born leader. You lead like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

But you did it anyway.

“Soldier Boy was a national icon.” You held the microphone with shaking hands, willing them to stop, staring out at the gathering of civilians. It was wrong; America was mourning a death they’d all been lied to about. You swallowed your bile and pushed on. “And I am honoured to be taking his place as the leader of our brave and dedicated superhero team, Payback. I will be leading in his image, and his honour, and I hope that my work would make him proud.”

It was all bullshit.

You hadn’t written a word of this shit.

Edgar had shoved it into your hands and pointed you onto the stage. No warning. No cooperation. No opinion. Just… here you go, now go put on a show.

But, the audience was eating it up, and Edgar and your PA were giving you a thumbs up from backstage. They liked your performance. Ben, however, would be gagging in his mouth hearing this. He’d probably mock you, and claim you’d be better off just blowing his dick. He’d be right. Every word that was coming out of your mouth was corporate propaganda.

Your hands curled tighter around the microphones, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be home, as far away from Vought and these grieving people as fast as possible. “Soldier Boy was a respected, beloved hero, within your hearts, and Vought’s.” God, what cliche, sappy horseshit. “He was a good man, who lost his life saving millions.” You held back your scoff. “Vought will forever live in his shadow. We ask that you give us time and space to grieve our loss. Thank you.”

The audience applauded, loud and roaring, as you walked off stage.

The rage bubbling up in your chest was ready to burst, overflowing. This was all fucking sickening. No one was telling you anything. And they expected you to get on stage and do these speeches? To sit, cry and look pretty as you grieved the mighty Soldier Boy?

Fuck that. You were going to get answers.

There was some dark shit happening behind the scenes, and it had Vought’s grubby handprints all over it. The cover story. Payback’s silence. Edgar’s lack of care. None of it was adding up.

The moment the audience could no longer see it, your mouth curled to a scowl, heels clicking as you stormed up to Edgar. You were going to get answers, even if you had to physically get them. You’d find out what happened to Ben in Nicaragua, even if it cost you your head.

Stan Edgar, despite knowing he was now on the receiving end of your anger, stood tall. Cocky bastard. You could kill him with ease. But, of course, he didn’t care. There was only one person you’d ever seen Edgar cower from — Ben. To be fair with the guy, though, anyone would cower if Soldier Boy was screaming at you, inches from your face.

“What is going on?” Despite your rage, you kept your voice to a low hiss, not wanting to attract attention to your anger and frustration. “Can someone fucking explain to me, what is happening?” He began to walk away, and you followed. your words still flying out. “Why am I taking Ben’s place? How did he even die? You were in Nicaragua — what happened? Why did it take you so long to come up with that shitty reactor meltdown story?”

He turned to face you. You abruptly stopped, almost smashing into his chest with the suddenness of it, taking a stumbling step backwards. “I understand you’re upset.” You rolled your eyes at his professional tone, hands linked behind his back. Typical. “But I cannot answer those questions.”

“No, I deserve to know” You demanded. It was a losing battle, and you already knew that, but it doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try your hardest. “What. Happened?”

You weren’t getting an answer from Edgar. And that became clear when he turned his back to you, engaging in a conversation with his secretary, and leaving you in the dust. Glaring at the back of his head, you muttered obscenities.

If you weren’t getting it from Edgar’s lips, you’d get it another way.

Namely, breaking into his office that evening.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

Now, you weren’t a seasoned criminal, but Ben had taught you a thing or two. He was, very much, a criminal, and knew things you were never too curious to ask about. Like picking locks. Which was the most normal of his odd knowledge. (The fact that man has known the recipe to make a bomb was… terrifying.)

Picking a lock wasn’t in your expertise, but you remembered enough from what he’d shown you. Enough to kneel down in front of Edgar’s office door, and use a bobby pin to turn the lock until it clicked.

You grinned, internally thanking Ben for his… strange teaching techniques. Glancing down the hallway, both ways, you ensured it was empty; that no one was about to see you going against every rule in the book. Once it was cleared, you slipped inside the door with practiced ease, and shut the door behind you.

The sun was setting over the horizon — the golden hour hue lighting up the room enough for you to make your way over to Edgar’s shelves. You were determined to find something. Anything.

Something was going on. Something sketchier than Vought’s usual dirty work. And you were going to figure it out.

Your index finger skimmed the folders, peeking at the names. Until you found Ben’s — a cream folder with ‘SOLDIER BOY’ written across the front. Pulling it out, your eyes locked onto the bright red ‘DECEASED’ stamped under his name, your heart squeezing.

Swallowing thickly, uncertain, you flipped it open. Reasons over the contents, your eyes narrowed in concentration and then narrowed further in frustration.

It was nothing you didn’t already know. His past. The human trial experiment. Comp V. Ben had already told you all of this.

You glared at the deceased marker on the front of it, and then slid the folder back into the right spot. Alphabetical order, you noticed. You continued flicking through the files, trying to find something that could be labelled as suspicious.

Your ears perked at the sound of sudden buzzing from across the room. Like a dog to a squeaky toy, you rushed over, watching a piece of paper print out of the fax machine.

You snatched it up the moment it came out.

BCL-RED was the title word.

What the fuck was that?

You’d never heard of it before. It had to be an acronym, but your mind came up blank, as you racked it for any familiarity. Cursing internally, you scowled — damn fucking code words.

Before you could read ahead, a voice floated into the office from outside.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, suddenly very panicked. Returning the paper to the machine, you dashed for the door, poking your head out just enough to peek down the hall. You spotted Edgar just a ways down, facing away from you, talking to Black Noir. Quickly and silently, with expertise learnt on the field, you crept out of the office, taking off down the hallway in the opposite direction.

All the way back to your room, you muttered the words to yourself.

BCL-RED.

… BCL-RED.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

It wasn’t in any folders documents anywhere. Not even your PA knew what a BCL-RED was.

You felt like a dog chasing its tail. Going in circles, trying to find any clues as to what happened to Ben. Every day your suspicions rose. Something wasn’t right. Edgar was having hushed conversations. Payback was having meetings that excluded you.

Your trail lead you to Grace Mallory.

The young woman handed you a cup of coffee, hands scarred and calloused from her days at war. Quietly, you thanked her, sat comfortably on her sofa, cradling the coffee. “I have to respect your strength. Putting up with Soldier Boy every day.”

You cracked a smile, sipping the steaming coffee. “He was a… acquired taste.” Your laugh was breathy and quiet, thinking back to Ben and his unique personality. “What happened in Nicaragua?”

Grace sighed as she settled back. She was pretty. No doubt Ben tried to get in her pants while he was there. “It happened quickly.” Your brows furrowed, sitting forward, elbows on your knees. “We were ambushed. Your team couldn’t find their guns from their asses.”

“Sounds about right.” You murmured. “I told Ben he needed me out there. The stubborn dick wouldn’t listen. Looks like it bit him in the ass, eh?”

“Big time.” Grace agreed. “There was an explosion. It knocked me out.” You listened attentively, frequently sipping the coffee. “When I came to… your team were in ruins. Half of ‘em were dead, the other half injured.”

You chewed your lips for a few beats. “Black Noir still hasn’t recovered. Doctors said he’ll never be able to talk again.”

Solemn, she nodded. “Not surprised. His face was more hole than it was skin.” You grimaced at the imagery. “Crimson Countess told me Soldier Boy was dead. He’d been killed by some… laser, his body taken by a helicopter.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You sat back. “Huh.” You murmured. “She’s lying.” You decided. The story wasn’t right. Sure, it was feasible, under different circumstances. But, in battle? When Ben was on his A-game? No way.

Grace looked confused. After all, why would Crimson lie about something like that?

You didn’t know.

But you were going to fucking find out.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

That night, you didn’t return to your room. Instead, you slipped into Ben’s in the dead of night. It hadn’t been touched since he left for Nicaragua. Since he’d railed you against the mattress and left you bed-bound for two days.

The air was musty, with dust covering each surface. Crawling onto the bed, you tugged open the curtains, letting sunlight in for the first time in months.

Every surface was covered in dust. And there were still drugs laid about. Half snorted lines of cocaine on the coffee table. Empty pill bottles decorating the floor. An ash tray that reeked of marijuana. God, this man had been like a teenage boy.

Flicking on the light, you gathered your bravery, and spent a few hours cleaning his room up. You didn’t know why. Maybe you wanted to feel closer to him. Feel like you were doing something for him. Ben hated it when things were messy. And he loved it when you cleaned up after him. You hated feeding into that old, sexist mindset he had.

But, god, you’d do anything right now to hear him demand you fetch him a drink.

After you cleaned his room, you stripped his sheets, gagging at the old stain. Definitely your cum. And his. Gross. You stuffed it into a basket, kicking it away from you.

Okay… remember to not touch that again without gloves.

As you finished the last, final touches, a glint of metal on his bedside table caught your attention. Curious, you padded over, expecting a pistol.

Instead, you found a chain.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Delicately, you placed the necklace in the palm of your hand, brushing your thumb over the metal surface.

His WW2 dog tags.

Swallowing thickly, you blinked back your emotion. Why the fuck were even so sad? You weren’t even dating the man. Sure, you’d been his friend for years. You’d been protecting him. He’d been protecting you. You’d been his right-hand man practically.

But, still!

With a lump in your throat, you carefully placed the dog tags over your head. The dog tags were cold against your chest. You tucked them under your shirt, inhaling shakily.

With one last look around the room, you turned around and walked out, with a basket of laundry balanced on your hip.

You weren’t going to rest until you found out the truth. That was for sure.

A/N: sorry for the lack of soldier boy in this chap :( he makes his grand return next chapter !!! in all his sexist glory lmao. he’s so fun to write, tho i do feel like a horrible person writing some of the shit he says. definitely fun to explore this universe and all its fucked up possibilities. thank you guys for the support on chap one :’) <3 next chap will also be longer promise

banners in use by @cafekitsune

TAGLIST: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity @mostlymarvelgirl @aaronhotchnerlover @delaynew @let-me-luve-you @yvonneeeee @livsh20 @thej2report @lostin-jensenseyes

[justwinginglife]

The Ending Sunrise & The Never-Ending Sunset

This is my birthday present to @amaturesposts, I LOVE YOU, HOPE YOUR IS BIRTHDAY FABULOUS.

You didn’t usually worry about the future, you didn’t usually have to: not when the present was so wonderfully all-consuming, not when the puzzle pieces of your life were finally fitting together so comfortably, so perfectly, and certainly not when you had the most doting, most loving, most amazing boyfriend you could ever hope for. 

You had always been ambitious and if you were honest, you’d demanded a lot from the universe already -finishing top of your class, getting into the JAKDF on your first try, being promoted to Vice Captain when you were barely 20- but even with all your ambition, you never could’ve expected that you’d one day earn the attention of the Captain of the 1st Division let alone his love and adoration. 

Even at your best, you sometimes wondered if you were truly worthy of the enchanting way in which Gen called your name, or the way the familiar sound of his footsteps quickened slightly when he saw you down the hallway because he was eager to fill the empty space beside you with his presence, with his love, or the way he’d absentmindedly play with your hair or rub circles into your thigh because even when he wasn’t entirely aware of his actions, every fiber of his being was still brimming with affection for you. 

Even when you’d fight, it was hard to stay mad at him. Around everyone else he was blunt, he was harsh, he was rough around the edges. When Hoshina and Narumi fought it was all snarky comments and cheap shots, it was brash, it was boisterous, it was butting heads and clawing throats. When Narumi and Hasegawa fought, it was like the wind and the waves, it was tempestuous, it was tumultuous, it was loud versus louder, it was strong versus stronger. And those were people he respected. God forbid anyone had the nerve to get on his bad side without the safety of his respect. But you were different, you had more than just his respect- you had his love. And he knew you’d been told all manner of things in your life, he knew your ambition came from a place of insecurity, he knew your power came from hard practice and even harder days, he knew you’d been doubted and dragged through the muck, and he could be seething at you, he could be fuming, he could be furious, and he’d still die before he let his words brand themselves beside the other emotional scars you bore. He’d be different for you, he’d be better. So how could you chastise someone who chose their words with care, someone who promised never to raise their voice at you and kept that promise everyday, how could you rebuke someone who took your criticisms to heart, who made adjustments -big or small- to the way he treated you if it meant you’d be treated better? Even if he was sulking, even if he was simmering, he was still thinking of you. And at the end of the day, if he was still mad, he could always just take it out on Hoshina.

So you felt your future was secure. You felt there was no need to worry, no need to wonder what tomorrow would bring, as long as he was by your side, as long as he was happy, you had no fears or qualms. 

But the feeling of staring down the drain of the toilet, as your sides quaked from exertion, as your throat stung with acid, as your insides emptied themselves violently, made you revisit the concept of fear. You clenched the test in your hand tightly as though brute force could command one of the lines to disappear, as though you could un-vomit your future away. 

Gen had goals, Gen had dreams. He might not have been extremely vocal about them, but he did. You knew him too well at this point to not know that. And you had goals, you had dreams. What were you supposed to do now? Were you supposed to put your career on pause, to put his career on pause, just to have a child that he might not even want? Would he still love you if you kept the child? Would he still love you if you didn’t? Would you even know how to be a mother? You’d only ever known a treacherous mother, were you doomed to mirror her actions? Were venomous tongues and harsh hands genetic? 

The weight of your future -or lack of a future- sat heavy on your shoulders, threatening to snap you in half with one wrong step. Your indecision choked your lungs. Your insecurities crippled your legs. You were drowning and it still wasn’t quick enough. 

Somewhere, a door opened, somewhere knees were hitting the floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pry your eyes away from the swirling waters long enough to notice your surroundings. You were lost on your own plane of existence, alone in the void. Alone in the world. Alone with your thoughts. Alone with your fate. Alone. 

Your trance broke when you felt a hand to your forehead and a cool towel around your neck. 

You vaguely glimpsed shattered glass in the hallway and realized Gen must’ve dropped his gaming device when he dove for you. 

It took you a moment to realize that he was on his knees beside you, that he had sloppily thrown your hair into a bun just to get it out of your face, that he was gently wiping your mouth with his thumbs, that he was pressing kisses to your sweat stained temple, that he saw the test in your hand and he was still yours and he still loved you. 

If anything, he was more in love with you than he had ever been before.

When you finally found the nerve to meet his gaze, you found his eyes were lit with so much fondness, with so much fierceness, with so much love, with so much passion than you’d ever thought was possible and it was all for you and for the chance to have a future with you, to have a child with you. 

You started crying and he didn’t miss a beat. His arms were around you in an instant and he held you until your sobs subsided, until your shaking stopped. He held you until you felt whole, until you felt happy. He held you until you had no doubt in your mind that he was happy, that he wanted this. 

And he didn’t have to say a thing. 

He didn’t have to tell you he loved you, because it was a fact that he did. He didn’t have to tell you he had been dreaming of having kids with you because it was a fact that he had. He didn’t have to tell you that everything would be okay because sometimes it wouldn’t be, but it was a fact that it would get better if he was by your side. And he didn’t have to tell you that he would never leave your side because you already knew, deep in your heart, that he was yours for life. 

And when he finally did speak, when he said “So I was thinking maybe Ryuji if it’s a boy and Himari if it’s a girl,” you knew you were his for life. 

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Author’s Note: I imagine him picking Ryuji because it means dragon and I bet he would think it’s so badass, and then when you ask him why he picked Himari and if it also means something equally as strong and powerful, he blushes and mumbles abashedly that it means sunflower. He just picked it because he thought it was pretty. He wasn’t thinking of anything else but his pretty lil princess. 

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The months passed and the evidence of his love and adoration blossomed in your stomach. 

He couldn’t stop touching it. 

He’d pretend he was asleep and he’d roll over in bed and casually toss an arm over your stomach. He just wanted to feel the baby kick. He used to stand behind you while you cooked with his hands around your waist, but now he placed them firmly around your belly as he nestled into your neck and hummed happily to himself. 

Even in the first few weeks of your pregnancy, he’d find himself touching your stomach, and when you’d laugh and say there’s nothing there yet, he’d shush you and tell you not to talk that way in front of his baby. And then he’d pepper your stomach with kisses. 

It became more and more obvious to you that you had never had a reason to worry in the first place. Gen was going to be a great dad. He started hanging out with the kids in the neighborhood more often, playing football with them and teaching them how to play games (you had to buy him a new console- you felt bad that he’d broken his last one trying to tend to you), just so he could have more practice with kids, just because he was so excited that one day his kid would be running around right beside them. 

And he even stopped spending so much money on random junk so he could afford a house for the three of you. You insisted that his condo had more than enough space, but he’d already made up his mind that you needed a house and he was going to give it to you. 

When he finally did buy you a house, you’d wake up every morning to find that the nursery was painted a different color because he couldn’t make up his mind and it just had to be perfect. Your baby wasn’t going to grow up strong unless the color was just right. Or so he told you when he rambled about some parenting book he’d read. And he read a lot of parenting books. In the transport, going to battle. In the transport, bloodied, coming back from battle. On the toilet. In the shower, with one hand holding it out of the water. He wanted to be the best dad he could be and nine months wasn’t nearly enough time for him to prepare; he needed every second he could get. 

You didn’t think he needed a single second more; he was already perfect.

If you were his whole world, he was your sunrise, and his love lit the skies like you’d never known darkness. 

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Author’s Note (again): Stop reading right here. They all lived happily ever after. The End. 

Mochi. Rye. Maru. I’m looking at you. Do not read past this point. I warn you. I beg you. 

This is your angst warning. Mentions of depression, physical violence, and suicide. Some angst supplied by @minasfwoopyponytail because I myself am unable to think up such atrocities alone without encouragement and thank god this isn’t a Hoshina fic or I’d die. If you’re still with me, you shouldn’t be, but sure, continue on then.

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Everything was perfect.

You had taken time off of work a long time ago -Gen had practically forced you to, even when you were barely showing- and now all you did was lounge around in your new home, taking up new hobbies and enjoying your free time.

Everything was perfect.

Gen would come home early, even going so far as to let Hoshina win his battles for him so he could make it home safe to you (and when Hoshina rubbed it in his face, Gen made a mental note to punch him later), and he’d shower you with love and affection.

Everything was perfect.

Gen started realizing that he always passed a toy store on the way home from work so he would come home every single day with a new toy to fill the nursery. When you’d joke that he was supposed to be saving money for important stuff, he’d whine that this is important stuff. And when you had learned that you were having a girl, he spent even more money on sunflower-related gifts for his little Himari. At one point, he filled the whole nursery with sunflowers and you had to start spreading them throughout the house, throughout the yard, throughout your neighbors. He’d become obsessed with the sunflower theme. 

Everything was perfect.

Gen was terrible at telling jokes but he learned on the internet that once you became a father, you had to start mastering your “dad jokes” so he’d practice a new one on you every night over dinner. You’d wrinkle your nose at his terrible punchlines and his terrible delivery of them. But he was so cute that you had to give him pity kisses afterwards. Then he’d go sulk in his room and practice again on the bedroom wall.

Everything was perfect.

You knew you weren’t supposed to go near the base. You knew if you even dropped by for lunch, Gen would scold you. You knew if you even mentioned stopping by the base, he’d cross his arms and give you a stern look, “Not with my baby in tow, you’re not.” He knew you missed shooting, he knew you’d see the practice range and be unable to resist firing off a shot and the one shot would turn into hundreds. He knew you’d be drawn back into the line of fire because the thrill of battle and the promise of adrenaline was so tempting. So you stayed home. You promised him you wouldn’t visit the base. You promised him so much you thought your throat might go numb, and it was still hardly satisfactory to him but he loved you so he let a hundred promises be enough. 

Everything was perfect. 

And then you started to lose it. 

After being cooped up for months, after you’d begun to memorize every chip in the paint, every dent in the walls, every creak in the floorboards, you knew you just had to escape. Even for a day. You knew you had promised Gen that you wouldn’t visit the base, but you never said you wouldn’t visit the city. Maybe you could buy yourself some nice lunch, go for a nice walk, and then be home, sitting nice and pretty, by the time Gen strolled through the doors. 

So you made up your mind. You left the house.

Everything was perfect. Everything was going according to plan.

You stuffed yourself full of gourmet food, to the baby’s delight (after this outing, she was sure to have a refined -more like expensive- palate and it was completely your fault), and then went for a stroll. 

The sky was a deep shade of blue, the sun was blindingly bright, there wasn’t a kaiju in sight, and you were enjoying yourself immensely. Everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t- until you heard someone screaming. 

A gunman had taken control over the nearby mall and warning shots pierced the windowed ceiling, raining bullets of glass down on the crowd as he barked his commands. 

It was second nature to help. You wouldn’t have made Vice Captain if you didn’t have an intrinsic need to help people. But today, as you marched towards the source of the trouble, Narumi’s voice in your head slowed your every step.

“Baby, I’m begging you. Don’t go.”

You groaned and took another heavy step.

“I’m serious. The cops will come; let them take care of it. I need you to stay safe.”

You shook his voice off and kept going.

“You’re 8 and a half months pregnant, dammit! I said stop!”

You hesitated. Only for a moment. 

And then somewhere in the crowd, a child started crying. And you thought to yourself, what if that was your child? What if one day, your child was trapped, if one day, your child was scared? Wouldn’t you want someone to help them, to save them? If someone could’ve spared them at least one more minute of fear, wouldn’t it be worth it? 

So you made your silent apologies to Gen and engaged the target. 

You circled the area, scanning for a weak point, for a moment to take him by surprise, using the crowd as cover. Then, when he had his back turned, you lunged at him, knocking his gun into the crowd. The victory at wrestling his weapon away from him was short lived. 

Now you found yourself in a one on one fight, in hand to hand combat. And he was surprisingly more agile than you’d assumed him to be. And you were surprisingly less agile than you remembered yourself to be. You’d almost forgotten how cumbersome your belly was, how swollen your ankles were. You’d attacked him as the Vice Captain of the 1st Division, not as a woman on the verge of childbirth. Your miscalculation was a grave error. Your miscalculation was to his advantage.  

You might’ve had more luck fighting a Kaiju. Fighting a brainless beast with nothing but a primal urge to kill. Violence for the sake of violence made it easier to predict their movements. But humans were different. Humans were vile for any number of reasons, humans had the capability to assess strengths and weaknesses, and humans played dirty when it benefited them. And this man- he knew from all the posters, from all the propaganda, from all the paparazzi, that you were the Vice Captain of the strongest division in Japan. He knew he wasn’t walking away from you if he didn’t use every advantage at his disposal. So his movements were quick, his movements were brutal, and they were directed towards your unborn child. You caught on to his schemes and dodged as best you could, but after a few rounds of labored movements, one sharp kick to the stomach was all it took to send you flying. And though you were down, he didn’t assume victory quite yet. He pounced on you, pummeling you with vicious attacks. You could only block so many. Eventually, your training kicked back in and you did get him into a headlock, but by the time he passed out, by the time the cops arrived, by the time he was dragged away, you’d already stained the ground with your blood. 

By now, Gen had been informed of the situation and he raced to your side, thunder pumping in his ears, flames roaring in his lungs. His emotions raged inside of him, anger, confusion, despair, anxiety, all pounding and pulsing in the caverns of his chest, threatening to consume him, but he quelled them for the moment. For now, all that mattered was you and the baby; he could worry about his whirlwind later. 

When he arrived at the scene, when he rushed to your side, when he dropped to his knees, when he desperately searched for a pulse, when he desperately willed there to be a pulse, he suddenly found that for all his combat experience, for all those times he’d spend bathed in blood on the battlefield, he was now entirely, immensely averse to the image of blood when it was your blood, when it was soaking the ground, when it was drenching his knees, when it was dashing his dreams. 

Eventually, you came to, jostled awake by the movement of the ambulance speeding down the streets, and his breathing evened ever so slightly, though his grip on your hand was so tight you thought he might be trying to meld himself into you. The flutter of your lashes was enough for him to hope, was enough for him to dream that maybe one day this whole incident could be put behind you both, without so much as a scar to remember it by. 

But when you were rushed into surgery, when he was pacing the halls so restlessly that his feet scuffed trails into the tiles, when you were brought out of surgery, when he flew to your side, anxious for an update, anxious to confirm your well being, when his eardrums shattered from the news of your baby’s death, he knew his hopes of putting today behind him had been crushed to a pulp, he knew his life would forever be scarred by what was supposed to have been and now could never be. 

Where was he supposed to go from here?

The thought of going back to his house, the thought of seeing the nursery again, of seeing the sunflowers, of being suffocated by the emptiness, of being tormented by the remnants of his broken dreams, overwhelmed him and he found himself orphaned again, with nowhere to run, with nowhere to hide, with nowhere to call home. 

You’d always been his home. He found refuge in the walls of your heart, he found strength in the curves of your smile. But now, seeing you all bruised and battered, seeing your hollow shell of a being, splayed across the hospital bed, he found himself completely alone. 

As you laid on the bed, your face worn from exhaustion, your breaths labored and uneven, he tried to remember the depths of his love for you, tried to will them to the surface. But he faltered. 

Even if you made it through this, how was he supposed to look at you again? He imagined silent dinners, he imagined separate beds. How was he supposed to touch you again? He imagined himself kissing you, himself taking you, and he almost threw up. How was he supposed to love you again?

He’d asked one thing of you. He’d asked you to stay home, to stay safe. He’d buy you anything you wanted, entertain you anyway you so desired, all you had to do was protect his child, all you had to do was remain unharmed. And you couldn’t be bothered to listen. So, in that cold, hospital room, he laid to rest any semblance of a future you might have had together, along with his child. 

And even as you recovered, even as you braved each new day, you found him slipping further and further from your grasp. In his mind, every breath you breathed was a breath stolen from the lungs of his child. And he couldn’t forgive you for that. 

At first, you gave him space. It killed you, but you did. You limited your interactions to woeful glances and whispered regrets. But days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and the ache in your heart turned into agony. And the agony was all-consuming, was all-despairing, was all self-loathing. 

So you’d reach for him, like a balm for your wounds, like the good old days. You’d call for him, you’d beg for him. But he brushed you off. He claimed not to know you. If he saw you down the hall, he’d turn around and go the other way. If you were getting in his transport, he’d switch vehicles. If you were having lunch in the cafeteria, he’d take his meals to his office. If you touched his arm, he’d scrub the skin clean. It was torturous and it was all your fault. 

One day, you couldn’t take it anymore. You trapped him in his office, blocking the only exit. He would face you, you would make him face you. Even if he screamed, even if he wailed, you would make him acknowledge you. 

“Soldier, remove yourself from my office. This instant.” It was the first time he’d spoken to you in months and though his words stung like frostbite, searing ice through your veins, you were glad for a response from him. 

“No. We’re going to have it out now.”

He glared at you, and somehow the storms in his eyes did nothing but make you love him, but make you miss him. 

“This is the last time I’ll repeat myself. Leave. Now.” 

You shook your head again. “No. Gen, I’m not leaving until you tell me how you’re feeling. You can’t avoid me anymore, I won’t let you. I love you. Please talk to me.”

He straightened, cracking his shoulders, and somehow the small movement made your nerve falter, just for a second. But he was still the man you loved. Some part of him still had to be yours. Right?

Wrong. “You lost all right to call me that, to say that, when you disobeyed my orders. When you… when you killed our child.” His tone was ice cold but his words stumbled out of his throat, like it pained him to revisit the harshness of his new reality. 

You bit your lip so hard that it drew blood and it still wasn’t penance enough. “I… I know. I know it’s… it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left the house. I’m so sorry I left the house. More than you know. I’m eternally sorry. But please. I’m hurting too. I miss our baby too. I miss you. Please don’t let me suffer through this alone. Please come home. Please be mine again.” 

Something in him shifted at your words. “You’re… sorry??” He barked out. And suddenly the man that you once knew, the man who never raised his voice to you, the man who loved you at your worst, who loved you at your best, who supported you, who comforted you, who was always kind and considerate, who was always yours, died before your eyes. 

“You’re sorry??” He repeated again, his tone harsh and his volume elevating. “You don’t have a RIGHT to miss our child! You don’t have a RIGHT to be mine! You’re SUFFERING?? GOOD. You SHOULD be suffering. THIS. IS. ALL. YOUR. FAULT!!” His fury plummeted his fist through the wall beside your head. And when he kept punching at the plaster, when he kept shaking with rage, when it took several soldiers to restrain him long enough so you could escape, you felt the broken pieces of your heart crumble into dust. 

It was hard to fight a battle after that, let alone fight the demons in your mind. You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep. You just mourned. You just ached. You just lived everyday, wishing for peace, wishing for respite, wishing to join your child in death. You hadn’t wanted to go back home either, so after retrieving one sunflower charm from above the cradle in the nursery and being unable to stand being there long enough to retrieve anything else, you moved into a dorm on base. You spent your days rotting away in your room (after all, no one felt safe with you on the battlefield any longer, because how could they protect themselves if they were always making sure you didn’t purposely wander into the line of fire). So you continued leeching off of Defense Force resources to keep your pathetic existence afloat, lamenting at the waste of perfectly good living accommodations on your wretched self when it could be used for someone with the actual will to live. 

One day, the First Division couldn’t keep you benched any longer. The fight was too tremendous to go on without you, even as pitiful as your help was, it was better than nothing. So you found yourself suiting up again for the first time in months. The fabric against your body felt foreign, the gun in your hands- a relic of the past. But, to your surprise, you made yourself somewhat useful. Your reflexes that you’d long honed to the point of perfection kicked in, knocking your depression to the side, and before you knew it, you were sprinting beside your fellow officers, offering aid where you could, providing backup as was needed. It was almost as though you needed the thrill of battle to drown out the raging of your demons. Like you needed the splattering of organs, the spray of blood, the stench of death to bring life pumping back into you. You almost felt like you used to. Almost.

And then Narumi saw you.

Blaring over the comms, he barked out, “And who let the useless, waste of air back on the field, WITHOUT. MY. PERMISSION??”

When no one responded, he made his rage clear by obliterating half the Kaiju. “You’re not needed here, you’re not wanted here, go home.” He ordered, still unwilling to meet your gaze. 

For a moment you stumbled. You hesitated at his words. Were you just causing more trouble by being here? But then you saw more soldiers fall to their knees, you saw more death erode their lives away. You had let your baby die, what good would you be if you let them die too? So you defied him. You plunged on. 

If he was pissed, he didn’t have the time to show it; if he was grateful, he’d never say it.

As you fought by his side, as you proved your worth, he fell silent, engaging the enemy with your support and protecting your rear. You knew his silence, his lack of retaliation, was the only respect you could ever hope to gain from him going forward, but it still wasn’t enough for you. Not when you’d finally found purpose even if it was just for the duration of this battle, not when you’d finally found strength even if it was only a result of adrenaline. And certainly not when he finally needed you. His protection of you might’ve been a figment of your imagination but it gave you enough daring to dream. 

So you found your voice. “You know, we were together a long time, Gen.”

He stabbed through another beast, disgusted by its foul form and disgusted by your sudden speech. “You can not be seriously trying to have a conversation with me right now, what kind of an idiot are you??”

You disregarded his insults. “I don’t think you can just ignore all those years that we loved each other. I don’t think you can just throw them away like they meant nothing.”

He scowled and decimated another Kaiju. “I can and I will.”

You shook your head, determined. “Gen, we’re both hurting, but wouldn’t we hurt a little less together? Can’t we just be together again? Can’t we just love each other again?”

And then his eyes locked on yours for the first time this whole battle. And they were lifeless and they were colorless and they were ruthless. “No. We can’t ‘love’ each other again. Because I hate you.”

Suddenly the way he’d yelled at you in his office all those weeks ago didn’t seem so bad. Suddenly you’d kill to have him yell at you again. But the way he’d coldly and simply stated that he hated you, that was worse than anything you could’ve ever imagined. That stopped your breath in your lungs, stopped your heart in your chest. 

And when he pushed forward into battle, unbothered by the effect his words had on you, you knew all hope was gone. Your child was gone. The love of your life was gone. Any semblance of a future you might have had was gone. You had nothing left to live for. 

So you joined him in the center of all the action. Without a weapon.

You walked right past him, dazed and devastated, right into a Kaiju’s arms. And you surrendered your life. 

When he saw you being clawed and torn apart, screaming and writhing, but non-combative, he knew he’d made a mistake. He knew he’d sent you to your death.

You’d wanted his love. You’d wanted his attention. You’d wanted his humanity, his forgiveness, his consideration. The only thing he could give you now was his speed. So he shot you in the head and ended your pain. 

And when the battle was over, he ended his own career. 

He knew he couldn’t continue like this anymore, not when he couldn’t even touch his own weapon long enough to lug it off the field after it’d stolen your life (even if it was a mercy killing), and certainly not when he couldn’t save the life of his child, the life of his once love, and now he believed, the life of anyone else. 

He didn’t even have enough of you to bury. The damn kaiju had already consumed most of you before he blasted it to bits (and then kept blasting its bits into atoms, out of pure rage). All that was left of you was a sunflower charm that had fallen from your neck. When he recognized it from its home above Himari’s cradle, he had to bite back his sobs. He strung the charm around him and never let it leave his skin from then on. 

Then he retired to the countryside. To his broken home. To be alone like he deserved.

He spent most of his days in the nursery, hallucinating you singing his baby to sleep. He spent most of his nights, haunted by dreams of you being ripped and ravaged to pieces. If he was honest, his days and nights had started to blur, had started to morph into one never-ending sunset; the moment when day met night was the moment when the light of his hopes were snuffed out by the dark of the horizon.

When he’d have the energy to roam the halls in a daze, he’d think of you even more. Remembering the way you’d fold laundry in the living room, the way you’d hum to yourself in the kitchen, the way you’d dance in the parlor. Remembering the way he used to love you. 

How could he stop loving you? Loving you was as easy as breathing air. And he’d just stopped. He’d been stupid, he’d been selfish. You had been suffering just as much as he had, if not more, and he’d let you suffer alone. He’d done worse than that; he’d promised never to raise his voice at you, and then he’d yelled at you, and then he’d told you he hated you. And it was the last thing he ever said to you. He didn’t hate you. He could never hate you. He was just hurting and hurtful and it was the biggest regret of his entire life. 

If he could do it all over again, he would’ve rooted himself by your hospital bed that first day, instead of leaving you to wake up alone and confused. If he could do it all over again, he would’ve held you, would’ve cried with you, would’ve stayed with you. You’d be broken together, but two broken halves could learn to become whole. And maybe, one day, you could’ve tried again for another child, maybe you could’ve tried again for your happiness. 

If he could do it all over again, he would’ve gone back even farther than that. He would’ve never bought a house in the countryside. He would’ve kept you close to him. He would’ve made you feel loved, made you feel seen, made you feel heard, so you would’ve never felt lonely or bored so far away from him. Maybe he would’ve kept you on base, kept you safe, kept you armed, kept you entertained. Maybe he would’ve paid more attention to you, maybe he would’ve noticed your needs. Maybe he could’ve protected you. 

But he couldn’t turn back time, he couldn’t undo his mistakes, he couldn’t do anything but live out his days in misery, in repentance, in regret. 

And when it was finally his turn for death to claim him, he spent his last moments dreaming of you in a field of sunflowers, praying you’d made it to heaven, praying his sins would be pardoned so he could be by your side, so he could be yours, so his never-ending sunset would find its end at last. 

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Last Author's Note: If you're wondering why the fuck I posted the worst angst I've ever written in honor of someone's bday, it is literally her favorite genre. It is not my fault, the girl wants what she wants. And what she wants is Gen Narumi and sadness. Okay, back to my regularly scheduled program of never doing this ever again.

[offtorivendell]

On Elain, Gwyn and their apparent romantic worthiness.

TW: mentions of death, violent or sexual assault, infertility and pregnancy/childbirth related trauma. Please do not proceed if these topics bother you.

Disclaimer: please, please engage with this post with kindness. I promise I am not writing it to stir the pot, but because I - and many others - are fed up with seeing hurtful and harmful rhetoric spewed by the fandom, yet having no back up when dealing with it. Word vomit incoming, I'm sorry. This has been bothering me for a while.

My love to everyone who has been hurt by things they've read in this fandom. 💜

It's 2024 and I cannot believe we are still seeing posts, almost daily, about both of these women; all giving reasons why they cannot possibly be with Azriel. And I don't mean the debatable but utterly harmless discussions about Elain not looking good in black or Gwyn blabbing to Merrill when asked not to. Whatever, go nuts. I mean the truly horrific takes based around things these two women have had no control.

Now, my post history makes it very obvious where I stand in terms of ships, and yes, I'm well aware I've spoken before about the inherent power imbalance - that I perceive - which would exist if Azriel ever became involved with any of the priestesses in the women's shelter he is charged with protecting (to be clear, that's not me suggesting that Gwyn and her story isn't powerful, or powerful representation to those who see themselves in her, nor is it personal to Gwyn, or indicative of any of the sheltered priestesses and their ability to heal; it's purely a function of Azriel's position of authority over their sanctuary). I want to reiterate that my stating my feelings about this was never done with the intent to shame people who do ship them; we all ship who we like, and real world ethics should rarely come into it.

That being said, the following, in my opinion, is one of those times.

Firstly, I just want to say that lived experience informs how we interpret fiction, so please let me clarify something: the people who have said that they don't think Gwyn is ready for a relationship yet, and that NSFW fan art of her with anyone makes them uncomfortable, are not in any way in the wrong. They're simply the other side of the coin to those who find it empowering, and both are valid responses, often related to personal trauma. The problem lies with those very few who say that Gwyn could never have a romantic relationship, and call those who talk and/or post about it "gross." Some have called her "damaged goods." This is absolutely wrong and whoever is doing it needs to stop.

The entire fandom, even those who find romantic or NSFW content involving Gwyn uncomfortable to consume, frequently acknowledges that her trauma doesn't define her, and of course she should be able to enjoy love whenever she feels ready for it. Those who say otherwise are readily condemned from all corners. I've seen it happen and called the people out myself, as have many other Elriel shippers when necessary. However, Elriels are still very regularly and very publicly blamed for the actions of a few (some of whom I truly believe are burner accounts wanting to cause chaos, with their Elriel themed usernames and no post history), despite our largely collective action to call them out when we see it.

Could we do better? Absolutely, but so can you!

Because, on the other hand, I've noticed that, whenever I or others have tried to explain why the pliable bones "theory" - which attempts to reason that Elain could never be endgame with Azriel, as she and any baby would die during the course of pregnancy or childbirth - is equally as harmful, we are met with people publicly and wholeheartedly refusing to understand why (especially recently). Some horrific comments have been made to my friends, not to mention all of those I see well after the fact, which are never widely condemned by any but us. People will argue back that we're wrong, and have even suggested we're weaponising infertility! On Mothers' Day, of all the fucking painful days to say that.

Some of the push back I've seen recently includes:

"Nobody has said Elain is infertile."

No, nobody has, and that's not what we're saying or have ever said. We know you don't think this, as the Elucien fandom loves to write and draw Elain and Lucien's hypothetical future children (which is super understandable, as this is a romantasy fandom after all - no shame, enjoy your warm fuzzies).

What we are saying is that, if it's true that Elain's anatomy wasn't changed as Feyre and Nesta's was - and to be clear I cannot stand that entire plot, I wish SJM had chosen literally any other reason why Feyre's pregnancy was dangerous, as it is simultaneously degrading and doesn't fit with her previously established lore - then Elain and Azriel, together^, would be functionally infertile. Yet it's only ever framed as Elain's body not being able to work with Azriel's, never the other way around.*

^Why didn't the bat boys have to sacrifice their wings to keep their wives/mates safe? Why did the women have to change their anatomy? Because it would make it harder for them to be all powerful? Well Nesta sacrificed her powers! Why not just have Feyre be cursed by an enemy or something, and Nesta found a way to use the Dread Trove to save them all. Ugh. I love SJM's books, but this was such a miss.

*HOSAB/HOFAS SPOILER: funnily enough, this was never said about Ruhn and his eventual mate, even though he actually did think he may be unable to father children, thanks to the Oracle's prophecy. People shipped the hell out of him and a couple of different women throughout the CC series, despite the chance he could never get them pregnant.

"People haven't called Elain damaged goods, so it's not the same. We're allowed to not like her."

My faerie porn* lover in christ, what the fuck do you think the pliable bones "theory" is actually doing? It is suggesting that Elain's hypothetical inability to survive having children with Azriel, and for those children to also survive childbirth, is impaired. Ergo, she's damaged.

We don't care if you don't like Elain, we're allowed to have different preferences in characters and ships. That has never been the problem.

*I use this term with affection as a great lover of the genre.

But "damaged" vs a functionally "impaired" uterus? It's the same damn thing, and sorry, it's misogynistic af, not to mention ableist and homophobic at a minimum. In the same breath you are also reducing your favourite to her apparently functional uterus (even though the pliable bones argument is medically inaccurate, by the way - this is really damning of the state of health education across so many countries).

"Hahaha/lol."

Yes, I have seen people laugh and treat this as a joke. As recently as tonight, in fact. It's disgusting.

Regardless of your lived experiences and shipping preferences, both of these takes about Elain and Gwyn are equally degrading and horrific and need to stop, but if you're only calling out the comments that hurt you/your friends/your ship and not the others, then you should maybe attempt some basic self reflection and analyse those double standards you're carrying.

This entire fandom needs to do better. I'll say again, for the umpteenth time, to any of my fellow Elriels that if you think mocking Gwyn's past is funny, then you're not mature enough to read an adult series. But this works both ways, and if you think mocking infertility is funny/use it as a win, then you're just as immature. I would really and truly appreciate it if we were not left alone to argue over and over again why discriminating against someone who couldn't "have a man's children" is wrong, and why many, many people in this adult fandom - that is largely comprised of women! - might find such a theory, and the resulting discourse, incredibly upsetting.

Infertility hurts; not having a kid when you want one can be viscerally painful. Besides that, I know very few people who have given birth who don't carry around some sort of emotional or physical trauma from doing so. Treating a character's hypothetical infertility with one man as a joke is gross.

Please don't call Gwyn "damaged goods" or suggest that Azriel would choose somebody else over Elain because she couldn't have his kids.

They are the same thing.

It's not hard to be kind. Pain is not a competition.

We should all do better, and take care of each other.

[nijigasakilove]

It’s finally here, the long awaited water city arc. Whatever you thought you knew about re zero or how good you thought the previous two seasons were, forget it. This is where it truly becomes one of the greatest fantasy stories ever told. The fact we’re getting arc 5 and 6 back to back is just incredible.

Yea, White fox nailed it. They got all the little details, the subtle hints, the intimate character moments that’ll make some of the big reveals and set pieces in this season hit hard, bra fucking o. Could not ask for a better start to this season. The animation quality, art, direction all top notch and really feels as polished as the season 1 director’s cut. If they can keep this up for 38 episodes we are in for an all time great season of anime ladies and gentlemen and I don’t mean that hyperbolically.

So many great moments I could talk about this episode hours, but just highlighting my top 3, the Van Astrea family reunion was so good. You really feel the regret and pain in Wilhelm’s voice. Like my mom always says, sometimes you can be apart for so long that it’s hard to reconnect with people. Wilhelm clearly wants to be close to at least his grandson again, but he knows all the cruel shit he said to him and just doesn’t know how to move forward.. if only he knew Reinhard is dying to have that family connection again.

Garfiel seeing his mom again, wow. Just as he’d kind of began moving forward sbd learning to cope with the pain, she pops right up in front of him with a whole new family. His seiyuu sold the hell out of that scene.

Priscilla literally stole the show in the last 35 minutes or so. She’s such a dominating presence and I can’t wait to see her shine this season.

And of course that ending, wow. The whole crowd cheering for and gassing Sirius up as she’s about to kill an innocent child is killing me tho man 😭 you just knew from the jump that situation was going to go horribly. Subaru’s seen a lot of shit, but something like that is definitely vomit worthy. Hell of an ending and speaking of which, Myth and Roid back with another banger.

We’re officially back boys. Can’t fucking wait

[tasha-writes]

A Stitch in Time - Part Two

Alicent dies and finds herself in the past. She sets out to right the wrongs of her past and more importantly, save her children.

Part 1 linked below

https://www.tumblr.com/tasha-writes/758631118332411904/a-stitch-in-time?source=share

A late night in the nursery discussing when to begin Aegon’s lessons, led to a late morning for the queen. As much as Alicent would like to say she woke peacefully in the rays of the sun, she in fact violently out of sleep thanks to a particularly nasty dream. The night the war truly had started, though no one knew at the time. When Aemond lost an eye but gained a dragon. The fear, the blood, the anger. That night had been a driving force for much of Alicent’s adult life, and it left her feeling more exhausted than when she had fallen asleep. 

Alicent allowed herself to lay in bed for a while longer before dragging herself to her vanity and beginning the process of styling her hair for the coming day. From high in the sky she heard Syrax screech, Rhaenyra must be taking her out for an afternoon flight, something she had dwindling opportunity for if Alicent remembered correctly. Soon Rhaenyra would be with child, the bastard Jacaerys, and Alicent herself would be carrying Aemond. A year after Aemond would be Daeron, and then finally Alicent would be done bearing children. Rhaenyra still had many more to go. 

By the time Alicent finished brushing and braiding her hair, it must have been close to noon. She and Rhaenyra had agreed to lunch together, which meant Alicent couldn’t hide in her rooms and remain in her dressing gown. The first trunk Alicent opened was bursting with the green dresses she had favored since Rhaenyra’s wedding. A wave of nausea came over Alicent and she slammed the lid shut. Absolutely not. 

The queen stood straight and place her hands on hips to survey the room. She knew the servants hadn’t discarded her red and black dresses despite her demands, it was just a matter of where they had put them. 5 trunks of dresses and color induced vomit session later, Alicent had selected one of the simpler designs gifted to her upon her marriage. Pure, Targaryen red, full sleeves and cut close to her throat, with a black belt pulling it in at the waist. More suited for a woman that looked older than Alicent currently did. 

After deeming her appearance acceptable for the queen of the realm, Alicent exited her rooms only slightly after the clocks had chimed noon. It had been years since Alicent had been to the library, not since she had married Viserys and taken up more useful tasks like plotting to usurp the throne with her father. Alicent grimaced, the man had been removed from court for now, but he would be back with the death of Lord Strong. Until he returned, Alicent would weave her and her children’s defenses. 

When Alicent arrived at the library, Rhaenyra was already seated at a table in the back. Aegon was bouncing on her laugh and pawing at a history book while Rhaenyra muttered to him in High Valyrian. “I think this might be the first time anyone has spoken to him in that language.” Alicent said quietly. 

Rhaenyra looked up at her, brows furrowing in confusion. “Has my father not taken the time with him?” 

Alicent shook her head and sat down across from Rhaenyra. Some remaining part of her heart ached at Rhaenyra’s claim. Her father, just hers. Not Aegon’s, not Helaena’s, as it had always been. “His Grace does not deign his second or third born worthy of his time. He treats them as they are, spares to your heir.” Rhaenyra had the humor to look slightly alarmed at this claim, and maybe even a bit pitiful. Alicent turned her eyes to her wrecked fingers and continued to pick at them. She could hear her father scolding her as if he were truly there. 

“I wish I could say that I am surprised,” Rhaenyra said, sadness tinging her voice, “but father paid me no true mind until he made me his heir to spite my uncle. He has always been single minded. And although I am not surprised, I am sorry. Your children deserve a father.” Rhaenyra reached across the table, but Alicent did not reach back. It was too soon. 

Rhaenyra seemed eager to repair their relationship now, but what if it was all fake? Could she trust this kindness, or was the princess just drawing her in to betray her once again? Was it even Rhaenyra who had begun this feud between them? When had this madness begun? Alicent couldn’t even remember anymore. The beginning of the antipathy the girls held towards each other too far buried beneath murdered kin. 

“I admit,” said Alicent, “I saw how your father behaved with you in your childhood, with your mother. I don’t know why I expected any better. Why I let my father convince me that it was worth it. I find being queen is much too tedious.” She laughed self deprecatingly. 

“And what of your father?” Rhaenyra asked. Alicent raised a brow at the blonde. “How was he as a father?” 

Alicent shrugged, “When he was not occupied with guiding your father’s judgment, he was molding my future. In some ways I think he might have been too attentive to me,” Alicent ripped part of the nail off her left pointer finger, leaving it down to the quick, “I often feel the Kingdom would be better served with my father leaving me in Oldtown, rather than my brother.” too much. She had said too much, but with the shadow of their old relationship looming over them, with Rhaenyra’s purple eyes looking at her with

Rhaenyra barked a short laugh, “Yes, perhaps then he would have schemed for me to marry Gwayne rather than you my father.” The giggle that bubbled up out of Alicent almost sent her into a state of shock. How long had it been since she had been gifted genuine laughter? 

“Laenor is lovely, but I must admit, you would be lucky to have Gwayne. My brother is almost impossibly kind, and,” Alicent wanted to stop talking, she was approaching something adjacent to happy, but some angry piece of her heart refused to stop, “much fonder of women than your lord husband.”

The merriment washed off Rhaenyra’s face as quickly as it had come. “You should have more care when speaking of the prince. Someone might overhear and take your words the wrong way.” before Alicent could protest it was joke or some slip of the tongue, Aegon was in her arms and Rhaenyra gone from the library.

[silentglassbreak]

Fragmented

Noah Sebastian x OFC

Just having a lovely good time with this. We are getting there, I swear it. 😘 (I promise there’s method to my madness.) Also HEAVILY recommend listening to the chapter song title - especially toward the end of this chapter. Levitate by Sleep Token.

Warnings: No smut today. But I fucking cried writing this chapter, and I hope you do too (I'm so sadistic). Sadness. Graphic descriptions of vomiting and overall being sick. Fluffy, heartache chapter. OH and graphic depictions of violence and blood (in a dream setting, don't stress).

+It goes without saying. This is a work of fiction. My words are mine. Plagiarism is a crime.

Taglist: @flowery-mess @lma1986 @myownthoughts12 @poisongirl616 @missduffsblog @reidsblessing @malerieee @jilliemiw86 @thisbicc @knivesforapro @diabolicdiatonics

Part 7 - Levitate

At what point do you start drawing lines in the sand? I asked myself that question over and over the past several weeks since the party. Who was fucking with who anymore? I'm certain neither of us really knew the answer.

Mileena was still seeing Justin, our mishap in the bathroom on the 4th being unspoken of again. It never happened. I kept trying to remind myself of that, each time I saw her, the only times our paths crossing being during pick-ups and drop-offs of Addison.

I had fully expected her to become scarce, but to my surprise, she was letting business go on as usual. Even being around more often. Part of me wanted to hope that meant she was slowly inching her way back to me, some undying need inside of her not being capable of keeping a distance. That thought was shut down, however, when Nick mentioned that he was asked to go on a double date with her, Laura, and the Ken doll (my favorite nickname for him).

That came about two weeks after the party, and I just shrugged it off, assuming that meant Mileena had truly forgotten about the bathroom, or was forcing herself to.

Still, she showed up, sometimes spending half an hour or more at the house when dropping off Addie, making small talk with me, once in a while even flirting. It was casual, comfortable, and for some reason, it didn't bother me to know that she was likely fucking that other guy. Something in my gut just told me to be patient. Good things come to those who wait.

So that is exactly what I did. I gave her room to exist, letting myself exist somewhere near her being good enough for me most days. In all honesty, the lack of pushing made some space for a very good friendship that we never gave the chance to grow before. Sure, the attraction was clear, but she started telling me things; things that I didn't get to hear before.

'Nick and Laura are gag-worthy. It's honestly kind of annoying.'

'I'm going to go back to work soon. I got a job offer, but the last two years off have been so heavenly.'

'I miss Washington. We need to take Addie up there to visit Dad.'

She kept throwing that word around. We. I never wanted to bring it up. Never wanted to spook her. Rather, I stood there and listened to her most times, smiling softly at her, loving the way the light filled her eyes when she was excited, or she came in close for a hug whenever she was sad. I took every second. I accepted it graciously, happy to exist.

Today, however, was not a good day. Today, I felt like a bin of hot, rancid, putrid garbage. We were stood in the green room of a venue in Buena Park, getting ready for a pop-up show, when I felt an overwhelming sense of nausea hit me. All day, I had felt off, but had brushed it off as the heat, stress from the show, and exhaustion hitting me all at once. I had slept most of the day, working to get myself out of the funk, trying like hell to prepare for the show, but I couldn't shake it.

Now, feeling my insides threatening to make their way out, my eyes darted around the room frantically, eyes falling on a nearby trash can. I bolted for it, collapsing onto my knees before emptying everything in my stomach into the bin, heaving painfully.

After successfully spitting out the last of the vomit, I sat back on my heels, trying to breathe deeply. My episode had caught Jolly's eye, and he ran over, face cringing at the sight.

"Dude, what the fuck?" I pointed at a stack of napkins on the table behind him, and he handed me a few. I wiped my mouth.

"I don't know, man. I was good, and then I just had to hurl." I was trying to determine if I was done puking, my stomach still rolling around.

"Eat something bad?" Nick had joined us now, hands in his pockets.

"Fuck, man, no idea. I guess." I shrugged, tossing the napkins in the can.

"Do we need to cancel? If so, we need to let Matt know now." Jolly's voice was concerned.

I shook my head. "Nah, I'm good. I just need a minute."

"You sure?" Nick raised a brow at me, and I stood up.

"Yeah. You guys got any gum?"

Four songs. I made it that far. I worked so hard, swallowing all of the saliva building in my mouth, keeping my face even. But as soon as we hit Glass Houses, and I had to start screaming, I had to run off stage, emptying my stomach once again into a trash can off of the side. I had thrown my mic hastily on the stage, making it clear that my abrupt exit wasn't planned.

Jolly, still vigorously playing the music, repeating the same riff, stepped off to the side and gave me a glance. I was kneeling, gagging dryly into the can. I saw him motion for everyone to stop. The music and lights cut sharp, and I leaned my head on the cool rim of the metal can, breathing heavily.

Folio stood over me. "Noah?" I looked up at him.

"I can't. I'm so fucking sorry."

He was shaking his head. "No, bro. You're fucking sick."

My body was covered in a slick, disgusting sweat, but I was still shivering profusely. "I'm freezing, dude."

Folio looked up. "Uh, hang on." He jogged off to the side of the stage, returning with my coat that I had discarded after the first track. "Here."

I stood up and pulled it on, not feeling much relief, my skin screaming as the fabric brushed over it. I took a moment to calm my body before walking back out to the stage, the crowd cheering as I did.

I picked up my discarded microphone and waved. "Well," I put a hand on my hip and huffed a laugh out. "I'm so sorry about that, guys."

The crowd cheered for me, but I was still fighting the feeling of another impending puking spell.

"So, I think I'm sick." I chuckled, and I saw the guys shaking their heads, smiling. Nick was already taking his bass off, and Jolly was walking over next to me. "I'm so sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to finish the show tonight, folks."

It was met with cries of sadness, and I frowned. "We're so sorry." Jolly's voice came through his own mic. "But we will schedule a make-up show. We've just got to keep this guy away from the gas station sushi."

Nick and Folio laughed with the crowd, but I just gagged, pressing it back down. Jolly slapped me hard on the back, which made me flinch.

"We're going to get this guy into bed, guys. But, before we go, we thank you all for being here!" Jolly hollered, and the crowd cheered.

"And can we give it up for Noah, guys?!" Nick hollered out, causing the venue to erupt. I just gave an embarrassed nod and began stalking off stage, feeling another wave oncoming.

-

Nick drove me home last night, walking me inside to make sure I got into bed properly. I only managed to get my pants, shoes, and shirt off before I folded into bed.

"Alright, bro, I've set a bowl on the nightstand, in case you don't make it, and I've got a water bottle next to you." But I was already half asleep when he left.

I was awoken to the doorbell going off, and I groaned, my back muscles screaming at me, and my stomach rolling inside me when I swung my legs off the bed. My head pounded hard at the sensation of sitting up. I felt truly horrific.

I stepped downstairs slowly, my body aching with each drop of my feet. I rubbed at my eyes against the sunlight, opening the front door.

Mileena stood in front of me, grocery bags in hand, and staring brightly at me, her faced etched with worry.

My eyes widened when I realized. "Oh, fuck! It's Sunday!"

She shook her head. "Oh no, I didn't bring Addie. I didn't want to risk giving her the plague."

I rolled my eyes as she walked past me into the house, closing the door behind her. "Then why are you here? Don't you not want to get it?"

She waved me off, heading for the kitchen. "I'll be fine."

She was back after a second, and I hadn't moved from where I stood by the door, focusing on staying upright as the room started to spin. Her eyes examined my face, a look of sympathy on hers.

"Oh Noah," She rubbed a hand on my shoulder. "you look like shit."

I smirked, my eyes nearly closed. "Thank you for noticing, I feel like it too."

I yawned, stopping it short when I felt as though I may gag again.

"How'd you know I was sick?"

"Nick called Laura last night. Told us about the show. I almost came over then, but Nick said you knocked out pretty quick."

I opened my eyes, then, giving her an inquisitive look. "So, you're here because...?"

She huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "To make sure you don't die?"

Leena was trying so hard to be convincing, but I still smiled playfully at her. "Oh sure. You're just here cause you couldn't stand the thought of not seeing me."

She rolled her eyes at me, smacking a hand gently on my chest, which made me whine, rubbing the spot. My skin was so sensitive.

I saw her face flinch, realizing I was tender. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry." Her fingers rubbed the spot she hit, but I wiggled away, the contact uncomfortable.

She then pressed her palm to my chest, scrunching her brows. "Jesus, Noah." Mileena grabbed my face and pulled me down, pressing her lips to my forehead - something she always did when checking for a temperature. "Fuck Noah! You're burning up!"

Scurrying into the kitchen, then back to me in a flash, she had the thermometer in her hand, brushing it across my forehead. Everything was happening in slow motion for me, the room still threatening to turn on it's side at any given moment.

"Fuck! 104.9 degrees!" I just nodded dryly, not fazed. "Noah, you may need to go to a doctor."

I groaned, walking over to the couch and sitting slowly. "I just want to sleep."

She followed me, pulling my legs up to stretch on the couch. Her hands grabbed the blanket I kept on the back of it, stretching it out over me. "Fine, but I'm staying with you a while. I don't like that fever."

I scoffed. "I'm not too fond of it, myself."

She grabbed the remote and turned the television on. "What do you want to watch?"

I moaned, absolutely suffering. "Don't care. Whatever you want."

She took up space on the other end of the sectional, tucking her feet underneath her and scanning to Hulu.

"Just nothing about food." I felt my face begin to turn green, and she noticed. She ran to the bathroom, grabbing the trash and placing it near my head on the floor. "Thanks, babe."

I watched her still, glancing at me, wanting to correct me. It was a reflex that I hadn't meant to say, but in my current state, I couldn't find the willpower to care.

She must've known, because she just turned up her lips, and softened her eyes. "Of course."

I let my eyes fall closed, my head calming while I heard the opening to Grey's Anatomy play.

I woke up to a lurch in my stomach, my eyes flying open, and my hand instinctively grabbing the trash, retching hard into it. Not much had come out, mostly bile, as I hadn't held down anything for about thirty-six hours. I opened my eyes, bleary with involuntary tears, and saw the end of the couch empty, but the TV still playing.

"Oh, Noah!" Her feet tapped the floor softly as she ran into the living room.

She circled the coffee table, and sat next to me on the couch, her hand rubbing small circles on my back. Setting the can down, I leaned back on the couch, fighting to get air in my lungs.

"What the fuck?" I grit through my teeth. Her hand was now on top of mine, her thumb massaging into the tattoos on my skin.

"I know. Must be a bad bug."

I leaned down, grabbing the edges of the bag in the can, preparing to get rid of it. Her hands came in, shooing mine away.

"I'll get this. Go brush your teeth."

I stood, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, and realized I was still in just my boxers. It hadn't even occurred to me, too sick to realize how gross I must look.

"Sorry you have to see me like this."

She snorted, tying the bag up. "Noah, you watched me give birth. I think we're okay."

I smiled at her tiredly. "You don't have to stay. What about Addie?"

She walked to the front door, slipping on my slides so she could walk outside to the can. "Uncle Jolly and Uncle Folio took her out for the day. Laura told me to stay as long as you need."

I was sick, exhausted, and half-dead, but I couldn't help what came tumbling out of me.

"And what if I never let you leave?"

Her hand hovered over the door knob, her neck twisting so she could look at me, a sad expression on her face. "Go brush your teeth. Your breath is rank."

I smiled. It wasn't a 'no' or a 'shut up', so it was progress.

"I think I'm going to shower, actually."

She just nodded before disappearing outside to dispose of the garbage.

I climbed the stairs carefully, lightheaded. I walked straight into the bathroom, turning the water to scalding, and stripped off my underwear. I glanced in the mirror, cringing at the sight. My eyes held dark, grey circles around them, my hair was visibly greasy, and my lips were pale and chapped.

Real sexy, Sebastian.

While I waited for the water to get hot enough to melt my skin, I brushed my teeth, working hard not to gag again. Once I spit the last of the toothpaste out, I stepped into the hot water and took a moment to adjust. I had a feeling my fever had broken, as my skin didn't hurt quite so badly.

I took time to scrub my body, letting my body calm as I felt the previous day rinse off of me. I quickly washed my hair, not even bothering with conditioning or anything extra. Then, I just stood there, letting the warm water wash over my back, my forehead leaning against the cool tile, zoning out while I breathed deeply.

"Hey." I heard her voice, which I didn't react to. "You alive in there?"

I flipped the handle, turning the water off. My hand grabbed the towel on the hook, pulling it in and wrapping it around my waist before opening the curtain. She stood in the doorway, and I heard her inhale a sharp gasp when her eyes caught me standing, my hair dripping down my face. I flipped it back and eyed her.

"I feel like death."

Her eyes were blown wide, and her lips parted slightly, not responding. Normally, I'd be taking full advantage of the moment. However, I was sure my stomach couldn't handle any sudden movents.

"I, uh," She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. "I brought some Zofran. We need to get you to hold something down."

I stepped out of the shower, sighing. "If you think it'll help."

She held a hand out, a small white pill in the palm. I walked over, picking up the tablet and holding it on front of me.

"How do I know you're not drugging me?"

She pursed her lips, smirking. "You don't."

I shrugged nonchalantly, and dry swallowed it.

Standing inches from her, smiling mischievously. "How's my breath?"

Leena grinned earnestly, then. "Better." She lifted a hand to the back of my neck, pulling my forehead down to her lips again. She hummed in approval. "That's better too. Now c'mon," She tugged at my wrist, pulling me out of the bathroom. "let's get you dressed and into bed."

I took note of the sweats, underwear, and t-shirt laid out on the bed. I also noticed the blanket being fresh.

"I changed the sheets for you. They were still damp from you sweating all night. I set up the trash can next to the bed, water on the nightstand. You need to drink it." She was using her Mom voice now, which had me staring at her, amused. "When you're ready to try eating, I've got Saltines, cheese, and a few different soups."

Eyes boring into her, I couldn't help but grin. "I appreciate you, Mileena."

The look on her face told me she was not troubled by any of her efforts. "You know I don't mind." She scanned the room, and began turning around. "I'll let you get dressed."

"Are you leaving?"

She stared at me, her eyes sparkling. "Do you want me to?"

A tinge of red crept up my neck, suddenly shy. "I mean, no?" Breathing out a chuckle, I picked up the underwear, letting the towel drop. Her eyes only flashed down to me for a split second, her throat swallowing hard. "But I get if you need to get back to Addison."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "No," She had her lips held tight together. "I checked in with Laura. Addie's fine. She said I can stay however long."

I nodded. "I've got pants on now." My words were lighthearted, finding humor in the fact that she was trying to preserve my modesty, as if she hadn't seen it all before.

"I figured I'd start disinfecting the living room while you napped."

I sat down hard on the bed, slipping the shirt over my head and wincing, the sensitivity coming back.

"Or, you could watch TV with me."

She stared at me, as if I was insane. "Is that such a good idea?"

I leaned back, pulling myself under the comforter and sinking down into the mattress.

"I mean, if you don't want to catch this crap, I don't blame you."

Sitting next to me on the edge of the bed, she laid a hand on my stomach softly. "I told you I'm not worried about that."

I laughed. "Well, you don't have to worry about me trying to come onto you. I get nauseas just breathing. I couldn't imagine what having sex would do."

She let out a hard cackle, smiling with all of her teeth. It was a nice sight to see, even on the brink of death.

"Well," I could tell she was weighing her options. "I guess it's fine. Mind if I borrow some pants? Jeans aren't exactly comfortable."

I just gestured to the dresser. She knew where to find everything. She slipped a pair of joggers out of the drawer, stepping into the closet to change. After, she came over to the bed, her side, and sat on top of the blankets, pushing her pillow up against the headboard, and flipped the TV on.

"Still no requests?" I just shook my head. She started Supernatural, picking up where her and I had left off on the last season, sitting back and watching the screen intently.

After a few minutes, I rolled onto my side, facing her, in a desperate attempt to ease the hard ache in my diaphragm. My body felt sore from dry heaving and the virus that crept through my veins. Eventually, I grew frustrated with the uneasiness each position had me in, growling.

"Come on." She motioned for me to scoot closer, pulling her legs under the covers and half-laying on the pillow. I moved myself to lay my head on her stomach, arm draped over her middle. Her fingers began running through my hair, nails scraping gently over my scalp the way she knew would have me snoozing quickly.

I buried my nose into her shirt, breathing easily. "Hey Leena?"

"Hmm?" She was into the show, but I still couldn't help myself.

"How would Justin feel about us just cuddling?" I smiled, reminiscing of the first time we cuddled on her couch, two years ago.

She snorted, clearly remembering exactly what I was referring to.

"He'll live. You may not. Priorities."

"So I take priority, huh?" My voice was slightly muffled against her, but I was warm all over thinking about it.

"You're the father of my child, Noah. And my best friend. Of course you do."

My hand squeezed her side in a sad attempt for a hug. She gripped my hair a touch tighter at the root, earning her an appreciative moan from me. So fucking relaxing.

"You should get some sleep."

"Are you and him still...a thing?"

I felt her chest heave. "Is that really a good conversation for right now?"

I raised an eyebrow she couldn't see. "We're best friends, right? Just pretend I'm Laura or something."

She laughed at that. "No can do, babe. Laura's prettier than you."

I waved a finger in the air in front of us. "Nuh-uh."

Her body shook with laughter.

"Ah Noah, insufferable as always."

I could only hum at her, my arm falling back to her side.

"You can tell me, Leena. I won't get mad."

Her voice was careful. "Kind of."

"What does that mean?"

"It means exactly that, Noah. Kind of." She sighed. "I like him, but..." She trailed off.

"But what? He’s not as dreamy as you had originally expected?" I smirked at my words, which came out in my voice.

But her words were somber.

"He's not you."

My face fell, processing what she had said.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Her fingers pet my hair softly now, smoothing it down. "Get some sleep, babe. I'll be here."

Even with the firecrackers exploding inside of my chest, the overwhelming exhaustion was taking over, blurring my vision. Sleep overtook me quickly, my eyes closing while her hands soothed me into oblivion.

-

"I don't love you, Noah. I don't think I ever did."

"She's never going to be with you again."

I pulled at the metal shackles around my wrists and ankles, screaming at the top of my lungs behind the leather bound around my mouth. My skin burned from all over, unable to breathe in enough air to fight any harder.

"This is how you die, Noah. Alone. No happiness. No dignity. No family. You're pathetic." Leena was stood inches from my face, Justin just behind her, staring wickedly.

"She's mine now, bitch."

The veins in my neck strained as I tried to bite down on the bind in my mouth, my flesh bleeding as I pulled against the steel holding them to the table I laid on.

Justin picked up an instrument off of the tray, a long, razor-like blade that looked medieval.

"You deserve this, Noah. For being such a fucking failure." The laugh that pressed out of her was maniacal, bouncing off the hard walls of the dark room. "Addison will never have to see how fucking sad and horrid her father was."

Justin stepped over to me, using one hand to rip the tank top I wore. I pulled harder as he lowered the blade over my stomach.

He smiled at me. "I hope you didn't pay much for these tats, dude, cause they're about to come off."

My eyes bulged, my chest heaving as I shook my head hysterically.

The blade sunk deep into my skin, a sharp, piercing burning flashing over me as I watched the blood pouring out of me.

My screams were wet and desperate, tears flowing down the sides of my face into my hair. I stared at Mileena, begging her to stop this, but she just smiled at me, her yes dark.

"Oh Noah! You're doing great!" Her words were all venom, and I couldn't breathe now, a weight pressing on my chest. I looked up to see Justin pressing his palm down as he dug the blade in deeper, piercing my organs.

Blood pooled in my throat, and I tried spitting it, only for it to fall back down into my mouth, making me choke.

"Noah!" Mileena clapped, smiling wildly. "C'mon Noah!"

"Noah! Noah, wake up!" I felt my body shaking. "Babe! Wake up, honey!"

I startled, my eyes snapping open, and sat up abruptly. My eyes scanned for the trash can, grabbing it and lifting it into my lap, violently throwing up into the bag. I could feel the tears coming out of eyes, and I lifted my head, my body still shaking with sobs.

"Baby," Her hand was on the back of my neck, her voice calm in my ear. "it's okay. Let it out."

Heaving again, I ejected any stomach contents I had before taking a few deep, hard breaths.

"Done?" After a few seconds, I nodded. "Okay, let me take this."

She grabbed the can and stood off the bed, walking back into the bathroom. Returning with toilet paper in her hand, she tore some and handed it to me to wipe my face.

She crawled into my lap, pulling my face into her chest, as I cried hard.

Usually, I try to be masculine about it, crying quietly, privately. However, I was still so shaken by the nightmare, that I let myself wrap my arms around her, wetting her shirt with my hot tears.

She shushed me, rubbing calming circles on my back until I was able to breathe evenly again.

"Bad dream, huh?" I only nodded in response, unable to speak. "Yeah, fever dreams are the worst."

After several long moments, I shifted so she could scoot off of me, standing and heading into the bathroom, running my toothbrush over my tongue and teeth again, washing the taste of stomach acid out of my mouth.

I came back to the bed, pulling her back into me.

"I'm sorry."

We were laid together, tangled on top of the blankets, and she giggled.

"Don't apologize for having a bad dream. You can't control that."

"It was so bad."

She reached a hand up under my shirt, splaying her fingers out on my chest. "Sounded like it. You started screaming."

"Ugh, I'm sorry."

Rather than lecturing me again for apologizing, she just hummed.

"I've got you, babe."

I noticed Supernatural was still on. "How long was I out?"

"About two hours. I think I dozed off a little, too." She traced my skin with a fingertip. "You think you want to try munching some crackers? You're dry heaving so bad because you don't have anything to throw up."

I sighed hard. "I guess."

Another hour, and I was sitting up on the bed, breaking the crackers into four and taking at least fifteen minutes to eat each one. My stomach didn't like it, but needed it. I had earned a love/hate relationship with a sleeve of Saltines, and that's just fitting for my whole fucking life, isn't it?

Mileena was eating a sandwich she had ordered from her favorite spot, pulling pickle slices off of it and popping them in her mouth. We both watched the screen intently, making odd and end comments about the movie we watched.

"This isn't nearly as good as the first one." She spoke around her bite of food.

I shook my head. "Nah. The first Nun was actually a little creepy." I pointed at the TV. "This one is kind of boring, actually.

"Agreed." Leena popped another pickle in her mouth.

I smirked at her. "I still don't get that. Why not just eat them on the sandwich?"

She stuck her tongue out, a perfect round pickle slice sat in the center, and crossed her eyes at me. I stuck my fingers out to pinch her tongue, but she sucked it back in quickly, giggling at me.

Although my stomach still hurt, and wasn't pleased that I had filled it with six crackers and a half of a water bottle, I felt a slight energy surge, so I didn't want to try falling back asleep yet. Not after my last nap. I shuddered at the thought.

Her eyes fell on me, noticing my shiver. "You want to talk about the dream?"

I shook my head, looking down at the cracker I was breaking. "It's fading anyway."

Mileena raised an eyebrow at me. "Mkay, well you let me know if you change your mind." She turned her attention back to the movie.

"What time do you have to go?"

She stood off the bed, balling up the paper from her sandwich, and tossing it in the trash can. "I called Laura after you woke up, and she told me I was fine to stay over if needed. Addie has been really good today, and tomorrow her and Nick are taking the baby to the aquarium."

Expressionless, I tried not to let the hope swell too much in my chest.

Still, I croaked out. "Slumber party?"

She laughed, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door. "Oh sure! We can paint nails and have a pillow fight!" She hollered from behind the door.

"I'm into it!" I yelled back.

"Yeah, well I'm all yours, then."

I smiled triumphantly. If I had known this was how to keep her around, I would've been licking doorknobs ages ago.

She returned, perching back on the bed. Her eyes glanced over to me comfortably, a smooth smile on her face.

"Leena?" She looked back at me over her shoulder. "Seriously, have you told him you're here?"

Her face fell, her gaze dropping to the remote in her hand. "I haven't."

I huffed, leaning back. "Maybe you shouldn't."

Her eyes looked up at me from under her lashes. "Can I be honest with you, Noah?"

My face twisted into a frown. "I expect nothing less."

She turned completely, facing me, and her legs crossed underneath her.

"I'm not good at this." She gestured between us.

I raised a brow. "What do you mean?" I looked over to the nightstand and down at my crackers. "Being a doctor? Could've fooled me."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "No, dork." She looked back down out her hands. "Being broken up."

My head leaned back against the headboard. "Ah."

"I just," She pressed her lips together. "I miss you. And that makes it so hard, because I know you miss me too. You tell me all the time."

I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest. "I do."

"I want to be with you all the time. I think about it all day, every day."

I wouldn't dare interrupt, despite the increasing surge I had to kiss her, touch her, hold her. Anything.

"I damn near talk myself into coming home every day, Noah." Her eyes were getting wetter, and I just wanted to press my lips to her forehead. "But then I remember. Being alone."

My heart twitched.

"I don't know. Justin is...good." Ouch. Didn't need to know that. "He has a good job. He likes me, so much." She rolled her eyes. "He's good-looking, funny. He likes everyone. He respects the hell out of you." Shocking, truly. The feeling wasn't at all mutual.

"But," Her hands fell flat on the bed, a deep breath filling her. "I don't feel what I do when I'm with you."

My face was curious. "And that is?"

"Alive." She stood up then, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the bed. My eyes followed her every move.

"Noah, I spent a long fucking time just...breathing." She stopped, eyes boring into me. "But then I met you, and I felt like something inside me woke up. Like I had been on autopilot, but then, suddenly, I was driving again. At a hundred miles an hour."

I smirked.

"Even now, after all this time, I feel so drawn to you. Like a magnet, or gravity? Maybe that's the same thing, I have no fucking clue."

"It's not. Continue."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but continued pacing. "Either way. I can't find that feeling with him."

She sat on the bed then, right next to me.

"It's like that feeling of being on a roller coaster, when your blood is on fire, and your heart is racing? But then you get off of it? And everything goes back to normal? Do you know what I mean?"

"I do."

"The second I left your hotel room that night, it was like I stepped off the coaster. And for a while, I loved that. It was relieving, not knowing when it was going to drop. It was nice to know that I finally had control." A tear rolled down her cheek. "But then...I hated it. I felt like I was at a standstill."

I lifted my hand, wiping the tear from her cheek, using the other to rest on her shoulder.

"But every time I saw you," Her voice cracked, wet. "it was like I was awake again; alive."

She shook, a cry breaking through her. I pulled her, then, bringing her in close to me. I held one arm around her body, locking her in close to my chest. My other holding the back of her neck, squeezing gently to comfort her as she cried.

"I got you, Leena." I whispered in her ear. "I'm right here."

Her hands gripped my shirt tight, legs pulled up underneath her.

"Babe," I pulled her up so I could look into her eyes. "I know this is so hard. But it's truly whatever you want. Whenever."

I pulled her back down.

"I'm always here, just for you."

She laughed then, a sarcastic sound. "Noah, I can't ask you to sit around and wait for me to figure my shit out."

"You don't have to."

This made her cry harder, and I squeezed her tight.

"I love you Mileena. More than life itself."

Her voice was strained. "God, I love you so much, Noah." She cried between her words. "I miss you so much it hurts."

I felt my own tears brewing. "I know. I do too." I inhaled hard, trying to hold my own hurt back behind my hard exterior. "Every day. Every moment."

"Can we just pretend for today? Can we just act like nothing ever happened? And be us? Please, I'm so fucking tired. I just need one fucking day." Her hands were pulling at me, desperate to get closer.

I wrapped both arms around her in a tight grip.

"Of course we can, baby." I spoke into her hair. "Anything you want, my love."

[scekrex]

Could you do an Adam x Angel Reader where their relationship is toxic(?) based on a song called 'Love Me Dead' but instead of female pronouns it's replaced with male pronouns? The song has female pronouns so I'm just imagining it with male pronouns.

Gosh I love that song so much! Gimme more song fic requests guys I love writing em ueuch

Love me dead

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language, toxic relationship, irresponsible use of alcohol

note: not beta read bc fuck you

Love me cancerously/Like a salt-sore soaked in the sea/High-maintenance means you’re a gluttonous king/Narcissistic and mean

Adam. The first man was quite the complicated topic to talk about, not only when you were talking to him but also when you were talking about him to your friends. Never in your existence before had you met a person as selfish and self-absorbed as the so beloved first man. You couldn’t understand how so many people liked - let alone tolerated - him, you couldn’t understand why so many people were attracted to his disgusting and truly rotten character. And yet you were one of those people who found him attractive - that was the thing you hated the most about yourself. You loved this man with your entire heart while at the same time every single cell of your body held hatred for the brunette man sitting on the couch in your living room.

Kill me romantically/Fill my soul with vomit then ask me for a piece of gum/Bitter and dumb, you’re my sugarplum/You’re awful, I love you

With a deep sigh that left your body in frustration you grabbed yourself a drink - it wasn’t something hard, just a light drink that would make it just that much easier to have him around. You weren’t quite sure how you did it, but you had managed to charm the angel up quite well, you had him wrapped around your finger while at the same time the both of you were very aware of how much you hated each other - because one thing was for sure: the hatred you felt was mutual, the brunette on your couch hated your guts just as much as you hated his and to that very day it amazed you that he was still willing to call himself your boyfriend - fuck it wasn’t even a private relationship, Heaven knew you were dating and in public he seemed so proud and prideful of it. In private, when it was just you and him in your shitty apartment things were different though.

He moves through moonbeams slowly/He knows just how to hold me/And when his edges soften/His body is my coffin

You emptied the glass in your hand, watching the man from the counter of your kitchen as you refilled your glass. Adam looked beautiful, just sitting there in the dimmed lights of your living room, watching whatever the fuck it was that he was watching and sipping on the can filled with beer in his hand. A shiver ran through your body at how disgusted you were by your own thoughts, you knew you should throw him to the flames, forget about him and move on to either live your best single life or find someone worthy of your love - because Adam deserved many things in your eyes but none of them were positive or even slightly nice. And yet there he was, hanging out at his boyfriend’s house, sipping a cold beer, seeming quite happy with the situation. The glass in your hand was empty again before you even knew it and you decided to simply grab the bottle instead, there was no use in refilling the glass over and over again. There was not enough alcohol in this house to numb your feelings for Adam anyway.

I know he drains me slowly/He wears me down to bones in bed/Must be the sign in my head, it says:

“Love me dead,” you mumbled to yourself as you took a swig from the bottle and headed over to the disgustingly small couch. With yet another sigh you sat down next to Adam, trying to bring as much space between the two of you as possible. The brunette turned his head to look at you for a moment, his eyebrow raised, he asked, “What was that?” But you simply shook your head as you tilted your head back, resting it against the shitty backrest of your shitty couch and took another swig from the bottle, “Nothing.” That was seemingly enough of an answer for the first man because he shrugged and returned his attention back to the TV, which caused you to sigh again. All of this felt so wrong and yet so right and perfect. You wanted to kick him out and pull him close against your chest at the same time so the only logical choice was to lean your head against his shoulder, eyes roaming over the TV to figure out what sort of trash the first man was watching.

You’re a faith healer on TV/You’re an office park without any trees:/Corporate and cold, gushing for gold, leave me alone

You noticed how Adam watched you out of the corner of his eyes for a moment, his body felt tense against yours before he exhaled loudly and wrapped the arm in which he held the can of beer around your shoulders, pulling you in a little closer. Being able to see him up close you realized how tired the first man seemed and you couldn’t name whether it was from Sera’s demands or from your relationship - it was most likely both though. Your body shuddered in surprise as the gleaming golden feathered wing next to you was stretched by Adam and curled around you in protection, giving you the false feeling of comfort and love. It wasn’t that the brunette didn’t love you, he did. But he didn’t love you like normal angels loved, he hated that he loved you, no one else did that. Well no one except for you.

You suck so passionately/You’re a parasitic psycho, filthy creature finger-banging my heart/You call me up drunk, does the fun ever start?/You’re hideous and sexy

You leaned up a little, careful not to spill any liquid from the bottle in your hand or from the can in Adam's and pressed a kiss to his jaw in return of having the golden feathered wing wrapped around him. The brunette grabbed the seemingly empty can with his free hand - the one that was not wrapped around you and had just been resting on his thigh - and put it on the dirty little coffee table in front of the couch. Then he turned towards you, his touch was so gentle, so caring and if you would be unaware of how much he hated you deep within him, you would’ve thought of his touch as sincere. But that wasn’t the world you were living in and yet you decided to lean into his touch and let him guide you closer to him. In the meantime he grabbed the bottle from your hand and put it down on the coffee table right next to his can.

How’s your new boy?/Does he know about me?/You’ve got the mark of the beast/You’re born of a jackal, you’re beautiful

Gently his lips brushed against yours, starting a soft and slow kiss as the hand that had been resting on your shoulder due to how his arm was wrapped around your body trailed down your body to grab your hips in stark contrast to the soft kiss. His touch was firm, demanding and maybe even a little possessive - though that could’ve just been your imagination. The brunette growled against your lips as he pulled you flush against his body before he effortlessly lifted you up and placed you in his lap, keeping you close against him. The soft fingertips on your jaw slid down to your throat and you felt how his entire palm pressed against it - the touch itself remained soft though.

He moves through moonbeams slowly/He knows just how to hold me/And when his edges soften/His body is my coffin

Adam’s wings closed around your body, trapping you against his body and if you were honest you didn’t mind it at all, you liked the way his soft feathers tickled your neck, the way his fingertips pressed into the skin of your waist, holding you firm enough to make it bruise and in God’s mighty name, you even liked the thought of carrying bruises caused by the first man on your body. The pace of Adam’s lips against yours grew a little hungrier, a little rougher and slowly started to match the tight grip on your waist - a soft groan fell from your lips and bled into the steamy growing kiss.

I know he drains me slowly/He wears me down to bones in bed/What ‘bout the sign on my head? It says:

“Love me dead,” Adam growled against your lips, causing your body to vibrate quite violently.

[death-limes]

fuck v*vz*epop, i am the ceo of alastor hazbin

here are some True facts about him, ignore the show it was made by idiots who don’t know him like i do:

-he has ibs (all sexy ppl have ibs in case you didnt know)

-the voodoo stuff is actually just normal demonic magic, but he makes it look like stereotypical voodoo on purpose to take advantage of ppls’ racism and freak them out (in my perfect world he wouldn’t do the voodoo stuff at all, but this list is meant to be canon-compliant)

-he has a tail. 100%. let no one tell you otherwise

-as a Deer Man™ he has the ability — nay, the instinct — to chew his cud. he resists this urge constantly because ick. it’s one of the major contributors to both his anxiety AND his ibs. cmon Al youd be much happier & healthier if u just regurgitated ur food a couple times, its a natural part of ur digestive system

-^^^ regurgitating is a bit different from full-on vomiting, however. he has never properly puked before, in life or in afterlife, and if/when he ever does he develops severe emetophobia. this does not help the aversion to cud-chewing.

-part of why he refuses to show any skin with his clothing choices is bc he has quite a bit of fur, in a distinct pattern all around his body, and it makes him look more animalistic than he would like. notably: he has a mane going down his back, tufts of fur on his shoulders kinda like loona, and his leg fur starts mid-thigh so it looks like he’s wearing thigh high socks

-along with being a weapon, his cane is also a mobility aid. he doesnt ALWAYS need it, and when he does he often uses magic to walk normally bc he doesnt wanna look weak. but if his magic ever fizzles out or something then he’ll use the cane as an actual cane. it’s hell, of course the gout is gonna follow you

-he’s demi but doesn’t know it, since he’s never been close enough with anyone to actually develop those kinds of feelings for them. closest is rosie, but she’s more of a motherly presence. if/when he finally does get close enough to develop ~Intimate Feelings~ for someone, he has a bit of an existential crisis

-as mentioned by fizzypoop or whatever her name is, he does have a moral compass, and part of it is that he only hurts/kills people whom he believes “deserve” it in some way. he justifies his wanton violence in hell by reasoning that, it’s hell, no one there is truly innocent. it is for that reason that a) he doesn’t believe in charlie’s idea, and b) he’s in denial about the fact that some ppl end up in hell bc of s*icide. both of those things imply that there are in fact some people in hell who are not worthy of his wrath.

-he would never admit it willingly, but he has a soft spot for truly innocent/“pure” cinnamon roll type people — not because he wants to corrupt them, but because even he gets tired of all the debauchery sometimes. (again, would never admit it willingly.) he thought of charlie as one of these people when he first met her, but overtime he began to just find her annoying.

this has been true facts about alastor hazbin by the ceo of alastor hazbin. thank you for coming to my tedtalk

[carnivorousyandeere]

ASSASSIN’S INQUIRY

(Link to Part One)

CW: reader death, speculations on life and death, not directly suicidal ideation, but if you’re sensitive to that I can’t recommend this fic either. Please proceed with caution and take care, even if you think you aren’t worthy of it.

The assassin had never been one for funerals.

They’d always felt that openly mourning those they’d killed would be rather gauche. Besides which, their work drew attention— there’d surely be police and government agents crawling around, looking for evidence of guilt or triumph in the attendees’ faces.

But just this once, among the crowd of the grief-stricken who once knew you— and poorly disguised investigators; the bulk of bulletproof vests and silhouette of handcuffs in their pocket always gave them away— they stood and watched as people who knew you talked about you. The guests said every good thing about you that people say at funerals, from what the assassin remembered from the few they’d attended as a child— “lit up a room,” “made everybody’s day bright,” “loved life.” A bright, cheery child’s bandaid slapped over a festering wound.

Impersonal and clichéd. Had any of them truly known you? The assassin had heard not a one defining trait about you from any of the teary faces crowded around your coffin like so many maggots. Were you outgoing? Shy? Hard-working? Playful? The assassin frowns. Without knowing any of your positive traits, how should they go about figuring out the less savory? After all, that would likely be key to figuring out…

After all, it was considered rather unprofessional to ask a client their reasons, unless it would impact methods needed for the job. It didn’t seem like you were particularly dangerous, or hard to find, so they hadn’t felt the need to ask.

Many clients, overcome with anxiety, shame, rage, would vomit up unnecessary personal details without prompting. Things the assassin didn’t need to know. Things that would run through their mind as they completed their mission, reminding them that the life they were about to take was real. But when that certain client came in to negotiate your death, the assassin had been rather relieved at how brief and to-the-point they were.

It was only afterwards, sitting in the stiff and unforgiving chairs of the funeral home, remembering meeting your eyes that once, that the assassin truly regretted their initial lack of interest.

[savanaclaw1996]

The Birth of Richard

Just a little story about life after Sariphi's coronation as queen, the stages of her pregnancy with Richard and Richard's birth. To be honest, I've got quite a fetish for fpreg and birthing stories, and it's kinda embarrassing to even mention it, hahaha...😅 Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 2,916 words.

Warnings: pregnancy, morning sickness, swollen breasts, lactation, childbirth, episode 12 spoilers.

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

Shortly after Sariphi was crowned the official Queen of the Beasts, life in Ozmargo had never been the same. Some of the beasts were still skeptical of having a human woman like Sariphi be their queen, but her kindness and sweet disposition quickly won them over.

Leonhart was happy that Sariphi had proved worthy enough to rule by his side. Then again, he had always known that she was worthy to be Queen of the Beasts.

After their marriage, everyone carried on with their lives as usual. But then, one year later, some changes had slowly begun to materialize. It all started one morning when Sariphi suddenly felt sick and threw up in a basin provided by the maids.

Sariphi tried to focus on her queenly duties, but she would often get dizzy and nauseous in between them. Cy, Clops, Amit, and Lanteveldt would often worry about how pale her face looked, and how she would sometimes pause her duties to throw up.

Eventually, Leonhart took notice of her getting sick and expressed his concerns. "My queen, are you ill?" he asked. Sariphi's shoulders shook as she panted, leaning over the vomit in the basin.

"So-Sorry, Leo," she sighed as she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. "I just got a bit nauseous." Leonhart frowned. If Sariphi is sick with something, then she'll need to rest. "Sariphi, I'll have the Head Priest look after you tomorrow." he said.

"I'm sure it's nothing serious." Sariphi said with an assuring smile. "It's probably just the flu or something." Despite seeing her smile, Leonhart couldn't help but worry about Sariphi's condition. "Don't take things like this so lightly, Sariphi." he said firmly.

"I do not intend to lose my new queen any time soon. If you truly are ill with something, then it's best that you get some rest and take better care of yourself." Sariphi nodded. "Okay, Leo." she said.

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

And so, Sariphi was examined by the Head Priest. After a thorough medical examination, the Head Priest nodded. "It seems that your body is undergoing some changes, my queen." he said. Sariphi tilted her head in confusion. "What does that mean?" she asked.

The Head Priest smiled. "It means, my queen, that you are..."

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

"P-PR-PREGNANT?!?!" Amit's screech echoed through the air. Amit has been worried that Sariphi might be suffering some sort of illness since she was constantly nauseous, but to hear Sariphi announce that she was actually pregnant... she was not prepared for that at all!

Neither were Cy and Clops, for Cy's eye was wide and Clops' mouth hung open. Even Lanteveldt was flabbergasted.

Sariphi nodded. "Yep. I was worried that it might be the flu or something, but the Head Priest said that I was actually suffering morning sickness." she replied. "And my body is preparing itself for my baby to develop."

Amit, Lanteveldt, Cy and Clops said nothing as they all stared at Sariphi with wide eyes. Sariphi looked at her friends with concern. "Guys, what's wrong?" she asked.

Then Amit burst into tears as she wrapped her arms around Sariphi's torso. "SARIPHI...!!!" she wailed joyfully. "Congratulations!!! You're going to be a mother!!!" Cy and Clops were equally as excited as they hopped up and down.

"Congratulations, Sariphi! We're so happy for you!!!" Clops cried. "Happy!" Cy squealed, tears streaming from his eye. Lanteveldt just scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Congrats, I guess?" he said.

Sariphi beamed. "Thank you!" she said. If she was being honest, she was excited to be a mother, but at the same time, she also felt pretty anxious. To actually be pregnant for the first time ever... that feeling felt very weird to her.

"I wonder how Leonhart will react to the news...? Would he be happy or... shocked?" she wondered. Most likely the latter. No doubt that Leonhart would be speechless once he finds out he's going to be a father.

She remembered their talk back at the waterfalls during their visit at Sarbul. Leonhart told her how since he was king, he was duty bound to produce an heir to the throne.

He also told her how his dying father, or rather, uncle expressed his deep loathing towards him because of his half-human blood and how he was terrified of passing on the same burden of his cursed blood towards his future offspring.

He even expressed how he was not confident that he could love a child born from his blood. Leonhart once loathed that weak and inferior human side of him. How it was a troublesome curse he didn't wish to pass on to his future offspring if he were to take a queen.

But Sariphi also remembered the next words he told her that night: "No matter what predicament my blood places my heirs in, if they are the children of our union, then I swear on my name, Leonhart, to defend them with all my body and soul."

She had prayed that that curse of his would one day be a blessing. And seems that day finally came true. Even after his whole kingdom discovered his human form, he fought hard to reclaim his kingdom and won back his people's trust.

Now he no longer held any fear of burdening his offspring with his human blood. Sariphi smiled. "I can't wait to tell Leonhart the wonderful news." she thought.

"Oh, Lady Sariphi, does His Majesty know about the wonderous news?" Amit asked. "No," Sariphi replied, "but I'll tell him tonight."

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

Later that night, Leonhart returned to his bedchambers, exhausted from a day of work. Sariphi was sitting on the bed, smiling. "Good evening, Leo." she greeted him.

Leonhart noticed that Sariphi was smiling from ear to ear, which was rather strange. What did the Head Priest say to her to make her smile like that? "Sariphi, you look rather joyful tonight. What happened?" Leonhart asked.

Sariphi giggled. "Well, sire. The Head Priest told me that I'm going to be a mother." she said. Leonhart stiffened as his ruby-red eyes widened. Did he just hear her correctly? Did she say what he thought he heard her say? "Sariphi, repeat that one more time." he said.

"I visited the Head Priest, and he told me that I was actually suffering morning sickness, which is normal during the first stages of pregnancy." Sariphi replied joyfully. "That means I'm pregnant! Isn't it exciting? You're going to be a father, Leo!"

Leonhart said nothing as he stood still in his spot. His fur bristled as thoughts rushed through his mind. Sariphi looked at her husband with concern.

"Leo, are you okay?" she asked. "Are you...shocked?" She started to worry. "Oh, no! Was it too soon? I should've been more subtle on letting him know about my pregnancy. Maybe I should..."

Sariphi's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Leonhart suddenly approached her. Sariphi looked up at her large husband, seeing the unreadable expression on his face. "Leonhart...?" she asked. Leonhart said nothing as he tenderly embraced his wife's small frame.

"Sariphi..." he whispered as he rubbed his furry cheek against hers tenderly. "Leo...?" Sariphi asked as she looked at her husband's eyes. It was sometimes difficult to understand his facial expressions, but the look in his eyes told her that he was smiling with elation.

"Sariphi, I cannot tell you how deeply happy I am to be a father." Leonhart said. "I look forward to meeting our child when it is born." Sariphi smiled as she wrapped her arms around Leonhart's neck.

"I have no doubt that you'll be a wonderful father, Leo." Sariphi said. Leonhart nodded.

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

Ever since Sariphi's pregnancy was announced, Sariphi had gone through many changes. Besides her morning sickness, she sometimes went through certain mood swings like crying over the littlest things and craving certain foods.

With each passing week, Sariphi's once-flat belly started to noticeably round out. As her belly grew, so did her breasts. They would get big, swollen and tender as they were filled with milk for her baby.

Poor Sariphi would moan in pain as she massaged her sore breasts. And since she started to lactate, she has to hold a large bowl under her breasts as the milk dripped down into it.

Ever her faithful friends and attendants, Cy and Clops stood by her side and tended to her. They even held up the bowl for Sariphi whenever she was lactating. Little by little, the bump on her belly started to grow bigger and bigger until she looked big and gravid.

She couldn't even count the times the unborn baby kicked and moved in her belly. Sariphi smiled. If the little baby can kick her, that proves that the baby will be born healthy.

Sariphi sometimes had trouble walking around the palace grounds. With her gravid stomach, she would only waddle short distances and get tired quickly. Carrying around a growing baby in your belly was certainly no easy task!

Fortunately for her, she wasn't alone. Cy, Clops, Amit, Lanteveldt, Anubis and even Leonhart himself kept constant watch over her and her unborn baby.

One day, Sariphi was in the gardens with Cy, Clops, Amit and Lantevelt having a little picnic. Little Tetra was there with them, enjoying her day together with her companions. Sariphi rubbed her round belly, smiling contently as everyone ate and talked.

Tetra looked at her round belly curiously. "Can I touch it?" she asked. Sariphi nodded. "Of course. Go ahead." she said. Tetra gently placed her little paws on Sariphi's gravid stomach.

When her mother Calra was pregnant was Calcara, she never had the chance to rub her stomach or listen to her unborn brother inside the womb. Now that she was able to listen to Sariphi's unborn baby inside her womb, it felt weird yet also exciting.

"Sariphi, how does it feel to be pregnant?" Tetra asked curiously. Sariphi let out a sigh. "Well, it's pretty difficult to explain. It feels really strange carrying a new life inside you." she said.

"But it's also exhilarating because I get to meet my child after it's born." Tetra tilted her head. "Really?" she asked. "I wonder how I would feel once I'm married and pregnant." she thought. Then suddenly, Sariphi let out a pained gasp.

Everyone stopped chatting and saw Sariphi clutching her gravid belly and groaning in pain. "Sariphi? What's wrong? Are you alright?!" Amit asked worriedly. "Sari!" Cy and Clops yelled, also feeling concerned.

"Lady Sariphi?" Lantevelt asked with wide eyes. Sariphi didn't respond. She started to pant laboriously before she turned to face her friends. "Sorry, guys." she apologized, trying to manage a smile, even though she was obviously in pain. "My stomach hurts..."

Amit then gasped. If Sariphi was in pain, that could mean only one thing... "Don't tell me...! Are you...?" she asked. As Sariphi tried to respond, there was a sudden loud pop!, and water spilled between Sariphi's legs. Amit gasped. "Sariphi, you're...!!!"

Sariphi groaned before she gasped as a painful contraction coursed through her. Amit immediately stood up. This was it! This was the time! "Sariphi's going into labor! That baby is coming!" she announced.

As soon as she said those words, Cy and Clops immediately started to panic. "WHAT DO WE DO?! WHAT DO WE DO?!" they cried as they ran in circles. Lanteveldt, however, remained calm.

"Calm down, you cannonballs." he said. "We'll get her to her bedchamber." Amit and Lanteveldt quickly but carefully helped Sariphi stand up and guided her towards her bedchamber. The trek was difficult, but they've managed to place Sariphi on her bed.

Amit then quickly summoned the priests and the midwife who was hired to aid Sariphi. Once everyone got into position, the labor process began.

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

Leonhart was sitting on his throne when one of the palace vassals, a cat, quickly approached him. "Your Majesty! I bring urgent news! Lady Sariphi has gone into labor! She's giving birth to her baby right now!" he yelled.

Leonhart's eyes widened and he immediately stood up from his throne as soon as Clops' words reached his ears. He wasted no time as he rushed towards the bedchamber.

"Sariphi...!" he whispered anxiously, silently praying to the gods that she'll be alright.

Meanwhile, Sariphi panted and gasped in pain as she lay on her bed. Her forehead was wet, and her hair was sticky with perspiration as she struggled to push the baby out from her womb. The midwife was tending to her, wiping her forehead with a cold washcloth.

Another contraction shot though Sariphi's body, making her squeal with pain. She had never known that childbirth could be this painful. She had heard some stories about pregnant women going through painful labor, but never thought much about it since she was to be sacrificed.

Now that she was Queen of the Beasts, she's going through that exact moment of labor. And it was more painful than she had ever imagined it would be!

"Ohhhh, it hurts!" Sariphi cried out in pain. "Please hang in there, Sariphi! I'll be over soon!" Amit said, gripping her hand tightly. "You're crowning, Lady Sariphi! I can see the head! Push!" the midwife said. Gathering up reserves of her strength, Sariphi pushed.

Meanwhile, outside the bedchamber door, Lanteveldt leaned against the wall while Cy and Clops paced by the door nervously, listening to Sariphi's cries of pain.

"Oh, I hope she'll be okay! I wish we could help her in some way!" Clops said anxiously. "Help Sari." Cy added worriedly. "Chill out, you guys. Sariphi may not look it, but she's a tough woman." Lanteveldt said. "I'm sure that she'll tough it-"

A loud, shrill, agonized scream coming from the bedchamber quickly cut him off. Cy and Clops grew even more anxious. "SARI!!!" they wailed, fearing the worst.

Then they noticed Leonhart marching down the hallway towards the bedchamber door followed by Anubis. "Your Highness!" Lanteveldt exclaimed before he quickly bowed before Leonhart. "How is Sariphi?" he asked.

Cy and Clops approached him. "Your Majesty! Sariphi is still in labor!" Clops said. Leonhart didn't want to waste another second longer as he headed towards the double doors.

"Sire, wait! You mustn't! Men are forbidden to enter the birthing room!" Anubis said. Behind the bedchamber doors, they could hear Sariphi gasping in pain. "I must tend to Sariphi! I cannot stand idly by while she's in pain!" Leonhart said as he pushed the bedchamber doors open.

As he entered the room, the sound of an infant's wails reached his ears as he stared at the sight before him.

The midwife was carrying a crying white bundle in her arms. Sariphi was lying in bed, her pale face dotted with drops of sweat and panting heavily. "Sariphi!" Leonhart exclaimed as he quickly rushed to her side. "Sari!" Cy and Clops cried as they followed suit.

Sariphi didn't respond to their cries as she was too exhausted to lift her head. Leonhart knelt beside his queen and gently held her hand. "Sariphi?" he asked.

Sariphi wearily opened her eyes. "Leonhart?" she asked. She tried to get up, but she felt too tired to move. Leonhart gently helped her sit up. All the while, the little infant continued to wail. The midwife turned her attention towards Sariphi as she walked over towards the bed.

"Congratulations, Your Highness." the midwife said with a smile as she placed the swaddled infant into Sariphi's outstretched arms. "It's a boy. You have a healthy son."

Sariphi gently removed the blanket, revealing the baby's face. The little baby beast had soft fur as white as clouds, the same color as her hair, a tiny wet pink nose, soft tiny fluffy ears and two tiny little bumps on top of its head. The newborn beast waved its little paws as it wailed.

Sariphi smiled as joyful tears rolled down her cheeks. Her baby son was simply the cutest little thing she had ever seen. A symbol of her and Leonhart's love, a perfect mixture of both her and him.

Sariphi held her newborn son close to her chest. Hearing his mother's heartbeat, the baby beast's wails softened into whimpers. He then reached his tiny paws out to her. Sariphi gently pressed her thumb against her son's little pink paw pads.

Soft and squishy, just like Leonhart's, she thought. Leonhart gazed down at his newborn son with a mixture of curiosity, pride and joy. He could hardly believe it. He was now a father. A father.

Leonhart knelt beside Sariphi and his newborn son. "Isn't he beautiful, Leo?" Sariphi whispered. "Indeed he is. I'm so proud of you, Sariphi." Leonhart replied. He then gently pressed his snout against his son's furry cheek.

Sariphi wanted to squeal at such an adorable sight, but she didn't want to wake her son. As Leonhart looked at his son, the words of the vow he made years ago rang in his mind:

"No matter what predicament my blood places my heirs in, if they are the children of our union, then I swear on my name, Leonhart, to defend them with all my body and soul." And he will see to it that his vow will be fulfilled.

"What should we name him?" Leonhart asked. Sariphi smiled. "I've already thought of it. From now on, our son's name will be Richard." she replied.

"Richard?" Leonhart asked. Sariphi nodded. "Since you've taken Leonhart as your name, we should name our son Richard." she said. "Richard. I think that name suits him." Leonhart said. "Welcome, Richard, our son."

[the-s1lly-corner]

I love your work so much aaaaaAAAAA!!!

Ok so imma be straightforward, this is straight up me coping with irl stuff and reading your work makes me forget the cruel outside world so HERE WE GO!

Caine and Kinger x S/O who hides who they are out of fear of negative responses. Bottles it all up until they can't handle it anymore. Like, the reader is very much used to being the therapist/caretaker and is often very happy and doesn't hesitate to help others but silently they think rudely of others, holding their tounge constantly and even mutter under their breath about others being annoying. Ofc they don't want others to see who they truly are, in fear of rejection or their worst fear, isolation. They hate this part of themselves, like why do they have these horrible thoughts about others? It even borders on abstraction.

They can only feel comfortable around their partner and try their best not to vent too much but Caine/Kinger can sense something is wrong and even see their S/O glitching a bit and ask what's wrong and say its ok (in their own special ways!) and the reader just finally cracks, and in their glitching voice is sobbing on how much of a terrible person they are and how they deserve to be in this digital hell for being so horrible.

Im so normal about this. And just so it's not so hard to think of a title, I recommend "Caine and Kinger x reader who pretends!" you don't have to use it but it's there!

Unsavory thoughts (Caine and kinger x reader)!

UEAAA THIS GOT BURIED IM SO SO SO SORRY ANON!! I truly did not mean to take this long to get to your request :(

That said I'm so happy to hear that my silly writing has a positive impact on people.. please remember to drink water and get plenty of rest, remember that there are people that care about you

Hands you a glass of juice

I got silly with Caines piece

CAINE:

KINGER:

Between the two it takes him a little while longer to realize that something is wrong with you. I mean hes still trying to learn all these emotions that make people.. human

Absolutely panics when he sees you glitch out. I'm talking his eyes fly out of his jaws as they hang open panic. Rushes to you to see if you're okay... god forbid youre abstracting... maybe he can help ground you, or something?

Listens to you talk, for once the ringmaster is quiet. Rubs your back

You... have mean thoughts about people...?

Is it not okay to dislike people? Is it not reasonable to be irritable in a new environment? Is it not normal to have at least a few terrible thoughts about others? Are you any less worthy of support or love because you're not a ray of sunshine?

Is this not what being human is about?

Of course he wouldnt say it exactly like that, but he would carry the same message, I think. Is what you're experiencing not a natural part of the human experience?

Yes, you can argue that caine is an AI and he has no place to speak on matters like these, but as your partner he wont let you go without comfort and reassurance

He let's you talk and let it all out. I think going forward he makes it a point to make sure you get time alone, and time with him... makes IHAs more "non intrusive" so you can opt out if you dont want to interact with the others

Very accommodating, I think

Unlike caine he catches on really fast that theres something wrong, something even larger than you're letting on. But still, he let's you do your small but rare vents... until he returns to you after briefly taking some time away from you for one reason or another to find you having a melt down. He thinks you're abstracting, and you probably are. Honestly I can see kinger doing the grounding technique (the 5 sense thing) and he tries to guide you through it to help calm you down enough to pull yourself together just enough to stabilize. Listens to your word vomit as you spill your guts out to him. While I domt think he would be as.. profound as caine... he carries a comfort only sweet old people can possess. And it calms you down. It's not an immediate solution, but its comforting nonetheless. He let's you sleep in his arms. He goes on to stand between you and others to try to keep you from getting too irritated or overwhelmed by the others; however he will stand to the side if you ask him to

Very protective of you but even more so after this

[trexalicious]

Truly vomit worthy considering some of the charges...🤢

[somaspice]

Disillusion, an Oneiric Dungeon Crawler

Disillusion, and its sequel DisillusionST, are games I've been following intently, ever since I found out about them on a niche vaporwave forum three years ago.

The sequel is still in the works, but recently has garnered quite a bit of attention as Vinesauce played it on stream. Such attention is well deserved, as the dev's artstyle has come into his own, and the game showcases many extremly charming vingnettes reminiscent of early 2000s point and click games.

However, for this post, I'd like to focus on the original work. While Disillusion is much more primitive in every aspect compared to the demo of ST, it still manages to be a very worthwile experience.

As flawed as it might be because of it's janky combat and color-vomit art direction, the execution of it's main concepts is still very worthy of praise.

In the original game we play as Golem, an amnesiac soul climbing a tower with the intent of achieving either nirvana or reincarnation.

(My interpretation of the MC, made in Blender)

As it turns out, there are many wayward souls in the same journey. Most of them, however, have become lost and succumbed to insanity, as the more time one spends in the tower the more one's memories begin to meld with everyone else's.

In our travels we meet and become allies with Melpomene, the muse of tragedy. She asks for our help in defeating Mara, the buddhist version of the devil, who has perched itself on top and trapped all of the wayward souls. She intends to use the tower to transform itself into a god and remake the universe in it's image.

As for the game itself it is mostly a silly, psychedelic romp through a kaleidoscopic dungeon. Even though it's main themes are spiritual and introspective, the game is mostly meant to be fun and light.

For example, there is a sidequest where in you have to smuggle sweet corn for the obese monarch of a fish kingdom.

Because of this, the game can go from an off kilter-joke to something quite somber in the span of minutes.

It's definitely weird, but it adds to the experience in my opinion.

Wanting to truly immerse myself (and make some fun content), I asked the dev the recipe for one of the game's healing items, a PBJ sandwich. PBJ stands for pickled pork, beans, and jelly. It's supposed to cure poison.

I cooked it up and felt a bit poisoned afterwards.

In any case, if you want to hear my full thoughts and see my culinary experience, you can check it out in the video review on my youtube channel.

See ya next time.

[bitchspaghetti]

about current events

this is me respectfully voicing my opinion and I would love to hear what you all have to say about this. Once again this is my opinion and I’m not trying to call out or offend anyone.

this is addressing the email that Neal Shusterman sent out on Thursday

he’s getting some backlash for what he said about the Palestinian situation going on. But imo he didn’t say anything  worthy of being offended or upset about.

“When asked about it, I tell the truth.  And the truth is, I am not qualified to spout my personal opinion.  I am a Jewish American.  I am NOT an Israeli citizen facing the murder and kidnapping of loved ones by Hamas.  And I am also not an innocent Palestinian facing Israel’s massive and deadly response to that attack.  Just because I have a microphone and a platform doesn’t mean that I have a right to vomit forth an opinion on a situation that’s so complex and so deeply rooted.”

he’s saying that he doesn’t have the experience to speak on the subject so he’s choosing to opt out. I personally don’t see a problem with deciding not to voice his personal opinion. Neal seems frustrated that he’s even be asked or involved with something that has little relevance to him. I see people saying that they plan to boycott or lessen their involvement with him, which doesn’t bother mean. That’s your choice and right to stop being involved with something that upsets you. But what does make me sad is seeing others say that they won’t reread or follow the fandom. This deeply upsets me because aoas is my favorite book series and it truly made me love reading. So I ask why people want to stop reading his work? I love Shusterman’s writing because it has made my life better. I see active members of this small fandom cutting back because of the current events, and I want to know your opinion as to why you feel this way. Hate the creator not the creation. 

Reminder: I’m not trying to offend or upset and I truly want to hear your side. 

this is all genuine and this is how I feel.

I love this fandom and the people in it. I care about what you have to say

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 23: "It's gonna get me by the end of the night" + Shadows

Continuation of Day 22

Read it on Ao3

- Legend & Sky

- Summary: Held captive and helpless in the Shadow's grip, Legend and Sky try to find a way to escape

CW for blood and injury; broken bones; electrocution; torture; brief mentions of vomit, possession, and death; and captivity

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

“Vet. Vet! Wake up!”

Legend blinks his eyes open with a groan. His body protests its journey back into consciousness rather loudly and he can’t help but swat at the hand gently shaking his shoulder.

“‘M up, ‘m up,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. By Hylia, why does he feel like he jumped into a lightning storm? 

He blinks a few more times, trying to bring his blurry surroundings into focus. But his pounding head makes that rather difficult and it takes a couple of good, hard tries.

It’s dark in the room where he sits, slumped against Sky’s shoulder. Lanterns lend some light along the far wall, casting shadows everywhere else. They illuminate a deadly sheen of crimson splotched sporadically along the stone floors. A heavy door blocks the exit. No windows are anywhere Legend can see.

They’re all but locked in. A cell that was never truly meant to be.

“Where…” He swallows, grimacing at the harsh bite of it. “Where are we?”

Faint memories are stirring now as consciousness slowly regains a full grip on him. But they are still hazy at best. It’s hard to focus on anything with the phantom pain of electricity in his veins. And of course the telltale ache of using too much magic. Whatever happened, he had practically bled himself dry trying to stop it.

“You don’t remember?” Sky asks. Something in the way he says it makes Legend turn to look at him. The Skyloftian is unnaturally pale, even in the near darkness. Blood darkens his tunic in multiple spots and dribbles down from his nose and mouth. A gash runs along his forehead, dipping down to hide along his left eyebrow. And on his cheek there is a cluster of angry, red lines branching upward and out almost like…

Legend draws in a breath. It all comes rushing back now, bringing the incessant ache of his body and mind to a nauseating fever pitch. He swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

“No…no I remember,” he grits out. “Not-you lured me here and shot balls of electricity at my face.”

Sky chuckles, hoarse and breathless. “Yeah. That’s the…that’s the gist of it.”

Legend shifts and immediately regrets it. The room tilts and his stomach lurches as pain spikes up like shards of glass through his body. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting not to vomit.

“Are you alright, vet?”

He nods. “Yup. Great.”

Focus on breathing. In and out, in and out.

After a moment, he dares open his eyes again. This time, the room stays level and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Okay, so maybe no sudden movements for a bit.

“I’m guessing the Shadow isn’t here yet,” he says. “Otherwise this experience would probably be a whole lot worse.”

Sky is quiet for a moment. When he speaks his voice is even more hushed and broken than before.

“No, he hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I can tell. But that monster…it said it was going to bring the others here too.” Legend looks up at him, but Sky doesn’t meet his gaze. He is staring at the door as though through will alone he can move it. “If we don’t get out of here soon they’ll have to fight it same as we did.”

“And just like us they’ll likely lose,” Legend finishes, bitterly. “Yeah, okay, so we’ve got to figure out how to escape this place before the Shadow arrives, probably kill the monster that took us both out, plus whatever else has revived in the meantime…while wounded and weaponless. Should be a cinch.”

Sky opens his mouth to reply but before he can voices filter through the walls, harsh and echoing. Both heroes tense.

“Two. You caught two heroes out of the nine that I tasked you with bringing me. Tell me, what makes you think that that is a worthy haul to summon me to see?”

Legend swallows down his rising fear. The Shadow. The Shadow is right outside and they don’t even have some half-baked plan started yet. 

“But Master, they aren’t just any two heroes.” It’s the blind now, sounding almost groveling in comparison to the Shadow’s sneering growl. “These ones wield the Master Sword. As you said, they are capable of…”

“Don’t!” The shout is sharp and commanding, like a slap across the face. Beside him, Sky flinches slightly. “Don’t speak the words. They will not defeat me, no matter the weapons they wield. I will make certain of that.”

The voice grows louder, closer. Legend tenses further, steeling himself for what is to come. 

“You will remain here. I have work to do and have no wish for you to interfere.”

“What of the other heroes? Do you not want…”

“Leave them for now. These two will suffice.” Legend doesn’t need to see the Shadow’s face to know he is grinning. “Perhaps, once they see their mutilated corpses, the others will simply give themselves up.”

“You know magic, right?” 

Legend startles slightly, glancing at Sky. The knight’s soft voice is so different from the domineering, sinister tones just outside.

“Yeah,” he says, slowly, muddled thoughts struggling to catch up with everything, “but I used it all up while trying to fight that stupid monster.”

Sky’s eyes narrow and he gnaws his lip. “Can you get it back?”

“I mean…it replenishes itself eventually.”

“How long does it take?”

Legend thinks for a moment. “Without the help of a potion? Ten minutes at the least.”

The darkness in the room begins to bend and twist, heralding the approach of their captor. Legend’s heart climbs into his throat.

“Okay,” Sky murmurs. When Legend spares him another glance he can see the fire burning in his eyes, determination in his stance. “I’ll buy you all the time you need.”

Legend’s mouth falls open, an indignant squawk escaping. “What? Sky…no!” 

They both know what the Shadow wants, they both know what his entrance means. And ten minutes is more than enough time for him to accomplish his purpose here, even with his preferred method of a slow, agonizing demise. 

But crimson eyes are gleaming in the shadows now and his chance to argue is gone. A wide mouth stretches into a grin, soft footsteps bring the monster closer. He is in his Hylian form this time and even with his charcoal flesh and demonic gaze, Legend is struck by how similar he looks to Time.

It’s strange staring into a twisted, mirrored image of his brother. Sickening.

“The Chosen Hero” – His eyes find Sky and hold there for a moment, then flit to Legend, pinning him like a bug on a stick – “and the Hero of Legend. How wonderful to have you both here.”

“Your accommodations are definitely not wonderful,” Legend snaps, ignoring the uncharacteristically sharp look Sky sends his way.

The Shadow merely chuckles. “Well, prisoners cannot afford to be picky, unfortunately. Not to worry, though. You won’t be here for too long.” His grin widens, teeth glinting stark white against a backdrop of gray and black. “I would say your prayers to that precious little goddess of yours. Otherwise, your future accommodations may not be too inviting either.”

“So, that’s what you’re here to do,” Sky says before Legend manages to spew another dry comment. “Kill us.”

The Shadow quirks an eyebrow. “You sound displeased with that. Would you rather that I did something else? Possessed you perhaps? Used your body as an unwilling puppet to torment your brothers with? Or perhaps merely toyed with you, causing immense pain but never enough to allow for sweet release? Would that please you more?”

Sky clenches his jaw, eyes flashing. But Legend doesn’t miss the way his face pales further.

“Do whatever you want,” he retorts, tone as sharp as the weapon he wields. “It won’t work. Light always triumphs, no matter how long it takes. Hylia ordained it so.”

“Hylia is dead.” The Shadow spits the word. Sky flinches, noticeably, garnering another harsh chuckle from the monster. “Whatever I inflict upon you, keep that knowledge in your mind. Your beloved goddess is gone. She is nothing more than a girl now, helpless and useless and utterly incapable of coming to your aid.”

Sky’s eyes suddenly blaze with a dangerous light. Legend has never seen that look on his face before. Honestly, it makes him a bit uneasy.

“How dare you!” He growls, leaning forward, heedless of his proximity to the monster. “You don’t know Zelda and you have no right to speak of her in such a way, you pathetic–”

Legend has a feeling the Skyloftian was about to rattle off enough insults to make even him impressed. But he never gets the chance. His words break off into an agonized scream instead, so sharp and terrible that the veteran jumps back from him, vision going spotty from the quick movement. 

It only lasts a moment, but it’s long enough to ring in his ears and leave Sky breathless. The Skyflotian sags forward, blood dripping from his lips. 

“What was it that you were saying, Chosen One?” the Shadow purrs. “That I shouldn’t insult your little Zelda so? That I was pathetic?”

Sky drags in a trembling breath and lifts his head. That fire is still there, turning the sky blue of his irises dark.

“That’s right,” he grits out, “you’re pathetic. If Zelda were here you would already be long gone.”

The Shadow’s eyes glint. “Is that so?”

He doesn’t move a muscle, not even a twitch of a fingertip. Yet, Sky reels back as though hit, back arching, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. He screams again and blindingly white lines begin to snake up his neck, crawling toward his face. Legend can see them beneath his tunic too, their unnatural light crackling and bending along his body. Heat emanates from him.

Legend’s eyes widen and his stomach drops. It’s…it’s almost like the Shadow is pouring lightning into his body.

Another moment and it’s over again. Sky slumps, coughing up more blood. His bent form trembles and twitches.

“If you recall, you sustained quite a few injuries while fighting for the girl you now so bravely defend.” The Shadow walks forward. With one, delicate finger he lifts Sky’s chin. “Do they still ache – these wounds Demise bestowed upon you? I am certain that they do now.”

Sky drags his gaze up to the Shadow’s. “You…you plan to kill me by reopening ol-old wounds? Get more creative.”

The Shadow smirks. “I underestimated you, Chosen One. No wonder you were the one who faced the Demon God himself. Your heart is strong.”

For a split second the very air reverberates with tension. Then, Sky’s eyes blow wide as his skin lights up again. His scream is more hoarse this time, cracking and broken. His body trembles and jerks of its own accord as though trying to escape the agony inside of it.

And it’s too much, too much.

Damn buying time. Damn his slowly rejuvenating magic. Legend can’t take this any more.

(He hates himself for enduring it this long. For allowing fear and pain to constrict his throat and paralyze his body while his brother suffers.)

“Stop!”

He scrambles between Sky and the Shadow as though that will do anything at all. Behind him Sky continues to cry out.

“Stop hurting him you sick bastard!”

“Do you wish to die first?” The Shadow asks, a bit of sadistic humor in his tone. “Because that can be arranged.”

“N-no!” Sky heaves a breath. He is shaking more than ever now from the effort it takes not to scream. “D-don’t you dare t-touch him!”

The Shadow looks between them both, a smirk playing upon his lips. 

“I will do whatever I please. But since this is such a wonderful show, I will grant your wish just this once, Chosen One. You will have the privilege of dying first.”

Legend gasps. Tears are welling in his eyes now despite his efforts to hold them back. His hands fall, trembling onto his lap. Useless. 

No.

He lunges, a cry on his lips, fist outstretched to collide with the Shadow’s face. Agony explodes in every part of him, taking his very breath away. But when his blow hits, he no longer cares. It’s worth it to see the Shadow’s head snap back, blood spurting from his nose.

Then, a smile stretches his lips. He catches Legend’s wrist as he tries for another punch and twists. A loud crack echoes through the room. Legend chokes on a cry.

“Though, I suppose that is a mercy, really,” he purrs, deadly and sweet. “You will be gone long before I begin torturing your little friend. The Hero of Legend, however, has no choice but to watch me tear you apart.”

His grin grows as blood dribbles down to his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he has a good seat.”

A blast of energy slams into Legend’s chest, sending him hurtling sideways. He hits the ground with a shout, pain exploding up his arm. Seconds later the floor itself lifts, wrapping around him and pinning him there. He thrashes, desperately, but the cold stone merely constricts further, snapping his bones like twigs. Blood fills his mouth and he gags on it.

Sky’s screams echo through the space once more, bouncing around in his aching skull. Laughter mingles with it. The air stinks of bile and blood and desperation. Dark magic blankets everything. The flickering lights of phantom lightning illuminate the room. 

He is suffocating in it all. And still, his magic crawls upward, lazily filling his veins. He curses it for its slowness. 

Horror and bitter regret creep into his chest as his ears ring with the sounds of his brother’s agony and blinding light blurs before his eyes.

Sky had never talked much about his adventure. They knew he hadn’t fought Ganondorf like the rest of them and they knew he had plummeted to the Surface to save Zelda. They knew he had known the spirit within the sword. But that was the extent of it. 

Battling a Demon God with the power of lightning, gaining painful scars from it…Legend could never have guessed. 

They all have their secrets – that is an accepted thing amongst them all. Some will never be told. But Legend had always thought Sky had held the least of all of them. Besides, Wind, that is. And now that that assumption is shattered, now that he is forced to watch the repercussions of the horrors his brother hadn’t seen fit to share…he feels an odd sort of remorse. 

He should have done more. He should have at least asked.

To hold knowledge like that is torture in and of itself. He knows that more than anyone.

Well, it’s too late to change that now, he chastises himself, harshly. So, stop moping and figure out how to get the both of you out of here before it’s too late.

It’s nearly impossible to focus with the pain coursing through him and Sky’s yells still splitting his skull (though they are growing weaker now…dangerously so; in fact, he would say they’re more akin to whimpered sobs). Legend squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe past it all. He needs to think, he needs to clear his mind enough to do something, anything to make this all stop.

Sky’s cries may be dwindling, but they are still sounds. They are still evidence that the knight is fighting and alive. 

Legend intends to keep it that way. 

That cursed blind took his pouch and his sword and shield with it. Hylia only knows where they are now. He has other items at his disposal, however.  

The medallions he obtained so long ago are stowed away in his pouch. But the spells that power them are safe in his mind. Using any of them is a gamble with his magic as low as it still is and at least four floors of stone above him…one he’s willing to take. 

He has no other choice.

Legend takes a deep breath and begins to whisper the incantation. 

Magic gathers at his fingertips, tearing at his body as it drags him to past the limit. Blood bubbles in his throat and his ears fill with an excruciating ring. Consciousness threatens to slip away but he grasps ahold of it, wrestles it down.

He can’t let go now. He refuses to.

The last words leave his lips on the tail end of a pained whine. There’s a second in which he is lost within the drifting waves of agony and exhaustion, unable to hear or feel or see anything. And then, the world explodes.

Crackling, white streaks of electricity zip across the room, bringing with them the sound of thunder and pouring rain. They charge toward their target and in an eruption of light and darkness, collide head-on. The Shadow lets out an agonized screech.

Legend’s own scream joins his as the spell drags the rest of the magic from his aching body, lighting his very veins on fire. His vision blacks out and the back of his neck prickles dangerously, body threatening to give up and drop into the oblivion it craves. But then he’s back, gasping like a fish on land as the spell sputters and dies out.

He can only lie there for a few moments after the room goes quiet, shuddering and trying to breathe through the pain. It takes all of his strength and then some to push himself upright. The room dips and dives beneath him as he crawls to where Sky lies. Every breath is gravelly and hoarse, every movement agony.

But he makes it. Somehow, miraculously, he makes it.

…and with a pitiful groan, collapses right beside the Skyloftian.

Sky’s hand finds his, still trembling and twitching slightly, but comforting and warm. Legend gives it a weak squeeze.

“Some…some escape plan, huh?” he slurs, blinking up at the ceiling. “We’re both…both over here half-dead.”

Sky huffs a shaky chuckle. 

“He’s gone though,” he whispers, every word drenched in pain. “It…it worked well e-enough.”

Legend hums. He’s right. The Shadow is gone, likely fled to some far corner of the earth to escape injury, and the blind with him. So, though neither of them have the strength to drag themselves out of this place at least, for now, they are safe.

And…now that he listens a bit more carefully, Legend swears he can hear a wolf howl.

A small smile lifts his lips. Maybe, they’re even safer than he thought.

“Hey, Sky,” he manages, even as he begins to drift away to the sound of salvation.

Sky makes a small, tired sound. His breath hitches slightly and Legend tightens his hold on his hand.

“S-sacrifice yourself like that again and I-I’ll take out your kneecaps.”

Sky only laughs.