#acutely feeling the weight of all this wasted TIME

[bloomburnburial]

what am I to do with all this sorrow

[ronearoundblindly]

I have an idea for “how would…” !

It comes from a prank I’m seeing on tiktok lately of couples staying in a hotel room with 2 beds.

How would the guys react to reader saying they can sleep in separate beds tonight? 😆

Inspo: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP81dBS8k/

That's freaking hilarious, the link, but we've got lots of babes to cover! (Also...guess who realized Jake was missing from the banner? 😳👈 This doof.)

Warnings for, well, discussing couples and bed/bedtime activities but it's not real bad. MINORS DNI to be safe!

James Mace

You know what's tiny? A space bunk. He will starfish like a mothaf**ker on that queen size, and you gotta just give him that from time to time. If the stay in the hotel is just one night (and there's been no other time away from you recently), absolutely he will stretch out, pillows everywhere, each limb under a separate layer,--seriously though why are there nine layers of blankets and sheets? that's nuts--and no alarm if at all possible. However, if the stay is longer or the hotel is for a specific couple's vacation thing, then no, he would never spend a whole night outside of your bed. Maybe a nap after too much sun, or likely some space if he (or you) is feeling ill, but otherwise, Mace is very good at sharing resources with people he likes.

Curtis Everett

Oof. I really had to think about this guy. Some of Mace applies here, too, but Curtis likes the idea of having extra room far more than he likes using the room. I think he would try to fall asleep in the other bed for whatever reason, and then inevitably just crawl back in with you. He has never made it a whole night away, even if he falls asleep on the couch at home. He always has to be within arm's reach by the time you wake up.

Jimmy Dobyne

No. Nope. Not in the slightest.

He doesn't particularly like waste, so he might call down to see if there is a room with just one bed available, in case some other guests could use the two. Jimmy also hates the fuss of cleaning. He's acutely aware of how much effort would go into remaking the second bed (washing, etc) and won't even put things on top of the unused bed for the whole stay. Not your bag. Not your butt. Not a towel. Nada.

Johnny Storm

Few quick questions: this hotel is fireproof, right? The bedding, okay, but what about the carpet? The curtains? Are the headboards made of wood? Is the varnish flammable? You don't know? Shit, well, he needs to know.

I feel like Johnny has to have like a special tarp thing to lay over normal bed linens, but honestly, I can't really see how he's ever safe to sleep outside of his own customized bedroom. People do not have complete control while they are unconscious. That's super dangerous for folks like Johnny. Reed's fine because what's the worst that could happen, his foot actually hangs off the edge of the mattress? If we were talking about Ben, the weight-capacity would be a concern, too, so even if you are fine to sleep in the same bed as Johnny and sometimes get burned a bit...I...I'm just not convinced a hotel would want extraneous furniture in there.

That's not a sexy answer, but it's the one you're getting.

Jake Jensen

Dude can fall asleep any. where. any. time. However, if he is lucid enough to pick where he'll fall asleep, it will always be with you...

...after hysterically jumping around like a kid on the extra bed.

I'll just, yeah, leave you with that image. Have fun. Stay weird, Jake.

Lloyd Hansen

If you two are actively doing something--yes, of course, I mean sex or sexual acts or whatever nasty word Lloyd wants to call it--then you are in the same...general area. That's not limited to a bed.

For sleeping, real sleeping, separate beds are 99% of the time a must. There is one exception to this: if Lloyd has been worn out or injured badly on a job--which is so rare--and if it's not quite bad enough to be in a hospital hooked to machines to keep him alive, then he becomes a sort of energy leech and keeps you very close all the time. This is Lloyd's vampire phase. As you can probably deduce, it is not about you, but he will take whatever he can from you.

Ari Levinson

50/50. Ari is moody. He changes with the wind (not in a bad way but for all the small, subtle stuff), and he sometimes just fancies a bit of something different. Take that as you will--and by that I mean run with it because I am totally talking about all sorts of different things to do in bed. He's the type of man who does better with a bit of alone time, too. Never means any offense by it. Just has spells of needing socializing and needing quiet.

Ransom Drysdale

Literally, I feel like I always have the same answer for Ran: it depends on when this is in your relationship and what the hotel stay is for.

Early on in dating, he aires on the side of caution and goes by his mood and yours. If there's been frustration in the day--due to his family or work or anything--then maybe you need some space. When Ransom is in a relationship, for real, he's actually very attuned to the tone of sex--which, of course, will happen no matter the mood of the day--so a lot of connection and intimacy will tell him it's good to stay close while a simpler, transactional need to get off tells him the other bed might be best.

Ran, however, would not get--or enjoy--the 'prank' of this challenge, and stop goddamn filming him for tiktok!

Steve Rogers

Pardon my language, but are you fucking kidding? The look on Steve's face if you so much as hinted... His head would immediately be spinning with 'what did I do wrong?' and 'what romantic gesture can I make right here right now to fix it?'

He's a simple man, and that is a simple no.

Bucky Barnes

Trickier. Much trickier.

Hmm. How to explain...

This feels like a whole season of 'What If...?' but I'll try to simplify.

Are you an Avenger or agent? Are you two on a mission together? I think Bucky is hardcore about keeping sharp and professional during those times. Sleep shifts. Minimal touching. The whole nine yards because safety is paramount. Is there some reason there could be surveillance of you two and you're supposed to be a couple? Bucky can put on one hell of a show like that. Just saying. I doubt, however, that he would mix business and pleasure unless absolutely necessary.

Are you a civilian? Is he a civilian now? Then no, he's in that one bed holding you until the second (maybe third) snooze cycle rings on his alarm. He's notorious for giving himself cushions of time, so it's never him needing to rush out on the average day. It took a while to adjust, but Buck can now also vacation with the best of them. Takes advantage of all the bells and whistles: minibar, room service, and the 'do not disturb' sign. Champion vacationer, he is, of this I have no doubt.

Thank you for asking!

A/N: Mace is a sleeper fave of mine, and I would do anything for that man, I swear... Also, would someone like to tell me why Bucky gets soooo 🥵 in all of these. My god, what am I feeding that boi?

[Main Masterlist; Who Would...Asks; Ko-Fi]

[heich0e]

bittersweet - vash the stampede/f!reader (trigun stampede): 7k, listen there's only been 2 eps and i don't know the lore so i am loudy and emphatically declaring creative license, in my mind this is set before the start of stampede but not by much, heavy on the wild wild west core here, light angst, smut, fingering, needy vanilla sex, domesticity, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, boot-throwing related violence. 18+ NSFW MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

The desert smells bitter.

You wouldn’t think that sand would smell like much at all, but the fragrance that hangs perpetually in the air is heavy, singed, and acrid with the heady scent of life and its misery. Waste and runoff make their unpleasantness acutely known on the hottest days, and the fumes from old machinery that’s barely functioning thanks to age and disrepair—that no one can afford to fix, so they have to hold out hope it keeps running—clogs up the already noxious atmosphere as it rattles on throughout the day. 

Mama used to tell you that outside of Jeneora Rock, the world smelled different. There’s somewhere else past the walls that mark the edge of the only town you’ve ever known, even past the wastelands—a place where almost no one ever goes, but that your Mama saw once. Or at least she said she did.

She told you it smelled clean. Sweet. Untouched by anything but the sun’s heat and the five moons’ glow. 

Mama’s gone, has been for a long time now, and even though she never had much to give to you in the first place, that story is the most precious thing she left behind. You think about it almost as often as you think about her. 

The end of another long day is marked by a familiar heaviness to your bones. Between the suffocating heat that makes you groggy and a hard day's work, there’s a palpable weight that bears down on you as you climb the never-ending metal stairs to your front door—your feet drag a bit more with every step.

The lock to your home is getting hard to turn. You’ve noticed it a few times now: a resistance as you slip your key into the keyhole, a pressure as you urge the mechanism to turn and let you in. There may be sand built up in there to clean out, or maybe it needs some oil.

But oil costs money, of which you don’t have much, so you really hope that it’s the former rather than the latter. 

You examine the keyhole once you manage to force the lock open, dropping to your knees outside your door to peek into the narrow opening on the tarnished face of the lock. It doesn’t do you much good because the sun’s already dropped dark, and even if the light of day still hung overhead you doubt it would be enough to make the issue any clearer. You drag your thumb idly along a little scratch beside the keyhole that's probably been there for years; the metal is still warm to the touch from the heat of the day that still hasn’t quite broken, the surface a little rougher where the score is chipped in.

You sigh, picking yourself up off the ground and dusting off your skirt, and turn the knob into your home. 

It’s dark when you get inside, but something feels wrong.

You shut the door behind you as you enter, pressing your back flat against it as your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. Your home, like every other one in town, isn’t really much to look at even in the plain light of day. You’re luckier than lots of people though, you’ve got a couple rooms all to yourself where some families have no choice but to cram many people into just one. Papa left you this house, cause now he’s gone too just like Mama, but not much has changed since the day he left it to you—except now there’s less empty bottles rolling around underfoot, and you get to call the little bedroom off the main room yours.

It takes a second for your eyes to get used to the dimness with the door shut tight behind you, so you blink hard to make it happen faster. You see the rickety little table against the wall near the door, and the chair on the other side of the room where you sometimes sit by the window to mend your skirts when they wear and tear—but only when you get home early enough to catch the last few moments of sun, cause Mama always used to warn you about sewing by lamplight. The shutters on the window are closed and locked now, but there’s no light outside them to let in anyway. 

Something shuffles in the dark.

Papa left you a gun, too. Even taught you how to shoot it. Mama hated that. She hated how good you were at it even more. She used to say that shooting was gonna be your husband’s job someday, and that even in a world this wicked Papa was teaching you things you didn’t need to know.

But now Mama’s gone. And Papa’s gone. And the world is still wicked. And you’ve got no husband, but you have a gun you know how to shoot.

You keep it and a little stash of 7 bullets underneath your bed where you can get to it quick, but it’s on the other side of the house, and even though that’s not very far away you don’t know what’s waiting for you between the door and your bed. You don’t know if it’s faster than you are, either, so running for it would be a fool’s errand. 

Inside your chest, your heart starts pumping a little harder, ‘til you can feel the wet thump, thump, thump right in the back of your mouth.

You know you need light. You need to be able to see. You can’t make any decisions until you know what’s between you and your Papa's gun tucked up safe underneath your bed.

Slowly your eyes flicker over to the lamp on your table, just within reach. 

You suck a little gasp into your lungs to steel your nerve. The air is less sour in here—more familiar, a little more comforting—but the acrid scent of the desert still lingers on the edge of each breath. Slowly you reach towards the lamp and flick it on.

“PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME!”

The frantic plea frightens you so terribly that it sends you tumbling to the hard floor, landing flat on your ass with your back thumping painfully into the wall beside your door. In front of you is a face that has no right being as familiar as it is; eyes wide in panic beneath a round pair of glasses, blonde hair tousled in disarray, two hands (one flesh and one crafted) lifted in innocence. 

Your heart is beating even faster now under the tight pull of your laced waistcoat. 

“Are you an idiot?” you hiss, instinctively tugging your boot off your foot and lobbing it forcefully at the unexpected intruder. “You scared the daylights outta me!”

The man sidesteps the projectile easily, and it clatters to the floor. The expression on his face morphs from one of panic to something a little more chagrined.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, drawing out the word. His tone sheepish, and his lips pull into an apologetic little smile.

You place a trembling hand on your chest, pressing down on the spot where you feel your heart thumping the hardest and willing it to slow. You stare at your scuffed floorboards and take a few breaths to ease the frenetic beat of your pulse, and feel yourself begin to wilt as the adrenaline in your veins starts to fade. 

“How’d you get in here, Vash the Stampede?” you ask, looking up again at the man in front of you from your place on the ground.

“I knocked first,” he says with a grimace, “but you weren’t home and I…”

“Broke in because you’ve got someone looking for you?” you finish his explanation for him, your tone flat and entirely unsurprised.

He sighs, shoulders slumping dejectedly as his head hangs forward. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He lifts his chin only enough to guiltily meet your gaze.

“It’s just for one night,” he murmurs the plea, his bottom lip weighed down by a pout.

You shut your eyes tight, hands balling into fists over your skirt to hide the way they tremble.

“Fine.”

Vash falls to his knees in front of you, hands pressed to the floor as he gets right up in your face with a wide, cheerful grin. He’s almost nose to nose with you, the light of the lamp glinting in his glasses.

“Thanks so much! I promise I’ll be outta here before you know it!”

He doesn’t need to tell you that, because the pang in your empty stomach tells you that, even unspoken, you already knew it to be true. 

Vash is travelling light again, just like the last time you saw him. He’s only got one bag that he begins to unpack onto the rickety table in your kitchen, leaving you to quietly go about your own business like you would if you hadn’t found him in your home that night. On the other side of the kitchen you unpack the meagre amount of food you’d managed to buy for yourself that day from little satchel you carried it home in. It’s barely enough food for one, and now you’ll have to stretch it between two. 

“Where’s your father?” Vash asks as he fiddles with his gun at the table behind you. “I thought it was him coming through the door, and I thought for sure he was gonna blow my—“

“He’s dead.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Uncomfortable, even. Vash’s hands still even as yours keep quietly peeling the sad, withered skin from the vegetable in your hand with the blade of a half-dulled knife. 

“I’m sorry,” his next words are quiet. “Your father was a nice man.”

“My father was a drunk who got himself shot in a bar fight with a merchant who came to town and was talking big. He just worshipped you because you saved the plant.”

That same uncomfortable silence creeps in again in the wake of your words, but after a few moments you hear Vash pick up his tools and start tinkering away at whatever he’s working on once more. 

“Is the plant still running?” Vash is the first to speak again, though a fair amount of time passes before he risks another attempt at conversation.

“More or less,” you remark, setting a little pot on the stove to boil with whatever ingredients you’d been able to scrounge together into a meal. You watch the flame of the element burst to life as you flick the switch, a little hiss as the fire licks at the edges of your only copper pot. “Some days it’s more reliable than others. But whatever you did seems to be holding up all right.”

“Good!” Vash says behind you. “That’s good.”

You turn to face him, the unevenly mended hem of your skirt swishing around your ankles. You lean against the little countertop behind you, with your arms crossed behind your back.

“I’ll pop by the plant before I leave town—” 

You watch as Vash’s fingers nimbly fiddle with his gun, broken down into its component parts to be cleaned and maintained. You’re sure it doesn’t need it—are certain he’s fired less shots from that gun in the two years since you’ve seen him than you’ve heard in town this week alone—but it’s kind of nice to watch him work, to appreciate how certain and precise his every move is, and to see how concentrated he is while he goes about it. 

“—just to make sure everything’s still in good shape.”

He looks up at you, like for the first time he feels your gaze as it traces the lines of his profile. He smiles again, that same wide, willful expression of cheer that he always endeavours to wear even though he might be the person least entitled to it.

You hum. “I’m sure everyone would appreciate that. You should stop by to see Rosa too, she’ll box my ear if she finds out you blew though town and didn’t go see her.”

The two of you eat across the table from one another in silence. Just the scrape of cutlery and the occasional loud swallow passing between the two of you. Vash seems hungry, but appears to be trying his best to be at least a little restrained as he eats with you. Even though you’d given him the larger of the two portions, he’s still finished his plate before you’ve finished yours, but he sits patiently across from you waiting for you to swallow your final bite.

“I’ll take these,” he jumps to his feet before you have the chance to even push your chair back from the table, snatching both of your dishes up into his hands. “I’ll clean up, since you’re letting me stay.”

You don’t deny him, and instead slump back into your seat, dragging your wrist along your forehead. Your skin feels grimy from the hot day and the filth outside. Normally you would have bathed before you cooked, but you hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day—and Vash looked like it may have been even longer than that. 

“I’m gonna wash,” you say, standing from your seat. You pause, your fingertips tracing against the rough, rutted surface of the tabletop. You know you don’t have enough water for two baths in your tank. You used to bathe with your mother when you were little, then once you were older and Mama was gone, you got the bathwater first and Papa would get in after you were done. It’s never been an issue until now. “Er—Vash?” 

At the sink where your uninvited house guest is scrubbing at the dishes in the washbasin that you’d filled ahead of time, Vash pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. He’s taken off his familiar red coat, left hanging off the chair he’d been seated in at the table, and the black turtleneck he wears beneath it stretches taut over the musculature of his back as it faces you.

“The bath… there’s only enough water to fill it once. I don’t…Do you want…?” you aren’t sure what you’re even trying to ask him, but whatever is coming out of your mouth is even less clear than the thoughts running through your head.

“I’ll bathe second, don’t worry about me.” 

Vash’s smile is gentle and obliging, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they narrow into little crescents. You nod stiffly, feeling heat flush through you at the softness in his expression, and shuffle off towards the other side of your home while avoiding his gaze.

The walls of your home are paper thin, and you’re certain that Vash can hear the splash of water in the tub as clearly as you can hear the scratchy, garbled sound of his radio from the other room. Once your skin’s been scrubbed clean of the day, you sit in the water with your knees pulled to your chest and your chin tucked between them. You strain to try to make out what’s being broadcast, but it’s difficult to hear since the reception in town is always so piss poor, and whatever coherent bits of news you manage to catch are just as abysmal as always.

It’s strange, hearing someone else in the house. It’s something you didn’t realize had become so foreign to you in the time you’ve learned to live alone. The idle puttering in the other room is a sound you didn’t realize you had missed. You lean back and dunk yourself into the water, where everything goes quiet. 

The bathwater never gets very hot to begin with—tepid at the best of times, which seems unfair given the climate—but you know it’s not fair to waste time in the tub when someone else is waiting for it. You pull yourself up out of the metal basin, careful not to disturb the stopper in the bottom of the tub, and dry as much water from your skin as you can. Once you’ve deemed yourself sufficiently towelled, you pull on your nightdress and a threadbare housecoat overtop.

Vash looks up from the chair in the corner by the window when you emerge from the bathroom, and he meets your eyes so unwaveringly it feels decidedly like he’s trying hard not to let his gaze wander elsewhere. You fidget under his stare, fiddling with the fraying ends of the towel around your neck that’s catching the droplets that fall from your hair. He must realize that he’s unnerving you, because he averts his eyes to a point on the wall over your shoulder after a moment. 

“My turn?” he asks, his tone chipper but polite.

“All yours,” you nod, stepping into your bedroom and leaving him to his business.

There’s an old trunk at the bottom of your bed where you keep some of the things your father left that you haven’t yet been able to sell or make use of. You find an old shirt of his near the very bottom, soft and worn-thin from years of washing. It’s something you could have easily sold or traded by now, but that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to part with—though you’re certain the day will inevitably come when sentimentality can no longer outweigh your basic needs.

You stand outside the bathroom door for a moment, your father’s shirt clutched tightly in your hands. You can hear the splash of bathwater you’re sure has gone cold from where you stand, only a few feet and a thin door between you.

You muster your nerve and tap your knuckles lightly against the door.

“I have a shirt if you need something to—“

The door opens, and you find yourself unexpectedly facing the bare chest of your one-night housemate, still damp and glistening from the bath, lined with silvery scars that the low light catches on.

You toss the shirt at him unceremoniously and turn quickly away, and Vash himself makes a little sound of surprise.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect you to be—“

“It’s fine,” you answer before he can even finish his apology, still refusing to meet his gaze. You gesture vaguely over your shoulder without turning. “Just take that.”

The bathroom door clicks closed again, and you clutch the belt of your housecoat over your diaphragm. 

You need a drink. 

You cross your home to the cabinet in your kitchen, reaching to the back of the nearly-bare shelf and pulling out a dusty old bottle that’s been there since your father died. It wouldn’t have lasted a day if he were still living, and you’ve made it years without ever so much as cracking it open. 

Today however, you feel it’s well-deserved. 

The dust caked on the bottle smears against your palm as you open it, and you wipe the grime furiously against the material of your housecoat as you pour a long glug of the amber liquor into a waiting glass. It’s vile, lukewarm from the constant heat of your home, and burns every inch of the way down—but as you set the empty glass back onto the counter, you still find yourself grateful for it. 

You pour another drink. 

“Take it easy,” you hear a voice say behind you, accompanied by a breathy little laugh.

You turn and see Vash hovering not far from you, his black turtleneck folded over one arm and your father’s shirt over his no-longer-bare chest. His hair is wet, a towel draped around his shoulders just like yours, and he’s taken off his usual eyewear. The mole underneath his eye seems more prominent now that he’s scrubbed himself clean.

Your empty glass dangles from the tips of your fingers, the acerbic taste of the liquor lingering on your tongue. You hold it out to him in offering, and he scrunches up his nose a little bit. 

“I really shouldn’t—“

“It’s rude to turn down a drink your host is offering you, y’know.”

Things like rudeness don’t mean anything to anyone these days, least of all yourself. Decency is a luxury few people can afford. 

Vash sighs, still smiling, and takes the glass from you. Your fingers brush as it passes from your hand to his, and then you take the bottle and pour another healthy splash into the waiting cup. He brings it to his lips, wincing against the fumes alone that waft up from the glass. 

“It’s better if you don’t sip it,” you offer him, though even then you know the guidance doesn’t help much.

He tips it back and drains it.

Two drinks were enough to have you feeling woozy, but you pour yourself a third for good measure. You spare Vash the pain of another, much to his apparent relief, and let him off with just the one before tucking the half-drained bottle back into the cupboard you’d dug it out of. 

When you turn around again, Vash is crouched down, examining something on the ground. 

Your boot. The one you’d thrown at him earlier. 

He peers up at you from the floor, he lifts the shoe slightly. 

“It broke again.”

A memory floods back to you then, unbidden. 

Sitting side by side with Vash on the edge of the steps outside the same house you live in now, but when the way you lived was different. The plant had just been repaired, and there was a palpable feeling of effervescent joy sizzling through the town around you. An uncharacteristic camaraderie amongst the people of Jeneora Rock as the celebration of Vash’s handiwork spreading through the narrow, grimy streets. The two of you were away from it all, sitting quietly together in a strange sort of celebration of your own.

You were less a woman than you were a girl back then, but still somehow neither. He’d patched the sole of your boot back on when it had ripped loose. And you’d laughed when he handed it back to you with an endearingly clumsy flourish, the sound as high and bright as the sun that hung in the sky overhead. You still remember the way your laughter had made his smile grow.

The patch job had lasted a year. You’d sobbed the day it came loose again, just shortly after the death of your father. You’d been using twine tied tightly around the toe of the boot to hold it together ever since.

Vash blinks up at you from the ground as you stare down at him with what you’re sure is a vacant look in your eyes. 

“I brought you something,” he says, hopping up and skittering over to his rucksack with your boot still in his hand. He rifles around in the bag for a moment, his mechanical arm shoulder deep as he roots for what he’s looking for. His eyebrows shoot up and he grins when he locates it—a wide, brilliant smile splitting across his face as he pulls his arm out. 

He holds his find up in triumph. 

You look at it with narrowed eyes.

“What… is it?” you ask, after a moment of trying to identify the small, relatively unremarkable little container in his hand.

“Boot glue!” he says excitedly, waving it in front of your face. “I thought of you when I saw it! The merchant wanted an arm and a leg for it but I managed to—”

Tears have sprung up in your eyes against your will, and you quickly turn away from him to hide them from his sight. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Vash’s voice is softer now, less enthusiastic and more concerned. 

That softness is what upsets you more than anything. Tenderness is a foreign thing in the desolation of the wastelands.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, scrubbing your hand over your stinging eyes. 

For thinking of me.

For knowing that you’d come back.

You leave that part off, but you feel it just as much as what you say.

You drain that third glass that’s been sitting on the counter waiting for you, hoping the burn of the liquor as it sloshes down your throat to your stomach will give you something else to focus on. Or, if nothing else, that it might numb the sudden pain that’s laid roots down in your core.

Vash sits at the table as he patches up your boot under the lamplight, much like he had the first time. You watch him from the chair in the corner, under the shuttered window, with your knees drawn up into your seat with you. You’re more shameless now than you had been while he cleaned his gun, observing him keenly as he scrubs your boot with a rag and leftover water from the dish pan. He makes sure no more grime clings to it before he carefully smears a thick layer of the glue along the sole, pressing down firmly to make sure the adhesion takes. He holds the boot up in front of him when he’s done, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, eyeing it from every angle to survey his own work.

You watch him just as raptly. 

He turns in his seat once he’s satisfied, holding the boot up. 

“All done!” he says, hopping up to his feet and shuffling towards you. He crouches down in front of you and holds out his hand expectantly. Slowly, you stick your foot out, and he cradles it gently in his roughened palm.

Carefully he slips the boot onto your foot, tightening the laces once it’s fully in place. 

“How’s it feel?” he asks you, peeking up at you from his place on the floor. 

“Feels good,” you reply, with an equally breathy tone. 

The lamplight doesn’t reach this corner of the room quite as brightly as it does at the table, but you can still make out a blush that sits high and pretty at the top of Vash’s cheeks. You wonder if he’s starting to feel the flush thanks to the liquor, or if maybe it’s something else entirely. 

“G-good!” he stammers a little, fiddling with the laces at your ankle. “I’m glad!”

“That glue must have been expensive,” you say. “Thank you, Vash.”

He shoots you a smile as he loops his fingers through the laces. “It's the least I could do, especially with you putting me up for the night.”

For the night. 

Just for the night. 

The reminder makes you ache a little.

Vash helps you slip your boot off again, carrying it over to the door and setting it down beside its mate.

“I’ll leave this here for you, in case you need it again,” he says, screwing the top back onto the little pot of adhesive at the table. “There’s not much left, but there’s some.”

You nod from your seat in the corner, one leg up and one leg still down—your nightdress drawn up to your knee from when he’d helped you into your boot. 

Vash ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck, dry now after his bath. Yours remains a little damp, but you’re sure it won’t last long as the residual heat from the day still hangs in the air even though the sun has long set. 

“It’s late,” he finally says after a moment. “You should sleep.”

You hum in agreement, moving to stand from your chair. The room spins slightly around you, those three glasses you’d knocked back sneaking up on you while you’d been sitting down. Your foot hooks in the hem of your nightdress because of the way you’d been sitting, but before you can stumble theres a strong arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. A warmth pressing into you as your face meets a heaving chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Vash murmurs, his grip on you tightening for the briefest moment. 

Your hands clutch at his shirt, and you don’t meet his eyes as you nod, letting him lead you towards your bedroom. 

Your hands fumble at the belt of your nightdress, pulling it off and tossing the garment across the end of your bed as Vash helps you onto the mattress. You tuck your feet under the thin sheet before leaning back against your pillows, and Vash is quick to turn and head towards the door after helping you pull it up to your waist.

“Wait,” you call to him before he can retreat. He pauses in the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Where are you going to sleep?”

You hadn’t thought much about this, and you ought to have considered it earlier. You only have the one bed, but you have two pillows you can share and a spare blanket in the trunk at the end of it that you could offer him if he wants to sleep on the floor. 

But you don’t want to tell him that.

“I’ll just take the chair,” he says with a blithe smile, jutting his thumb towards the armchair in the other room. 

It won’t be comfortable. You know that from experience, having fallen asleep there a few times yourself after a particularly gruelling day. The stuffing is lumpy and the springs are painful if you press against them the wrong way. You know he won’t complain about it. You even know that it’s probably still more comfortable than lots of other places he’s rested his head over the past two years. 

But you want to be selfish.

For once you don’t want to be alone. 

“Vash,” you say quietly, and you watch his entire body go rigid at the sudden bare vulnerability of your tone. “Please stay with me.”

You’d asked him the same thing once before, but different. The words once murmured desperately against his lips as you clung to his red jacket. Staring at him with eyes full of hope and a freshly patched boot on your foot. 

He’d looked at you the same way back then too. That smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. As gentle of a no that he could ever offer you.

“I know you have to leave,” you murmur, eyes downcast to your hands as they rest atop your lap. “I don’t expect anything like that from you. I know it’s just for tonight.”

“Please don’t cry.”

The bed dips beside you, and Vash tilts your face up towards him. He looks troubled when you meet his gaze, even in the dim light of your bedroom you can make out the conflict on his features. It’s strange to see him not smiling, wrong almost.

But your eyes are dry.

“Stay,” you repeat yourself, meeting his gaze resolutely. You swallow hard over the lump in your throat, bracing yourself for the impending sear of rejection. 

Vash cups your cheeks in his hands, and you can’t tell if it’s your cheeks or his touch that feels so warm.

“You deserve someone that can say yes to that and mean it properly,” he says ruefully, not dissimilarly to what he’d said the first time you’d asked the very same thing of him.

“I’m not asking anyone else,” you whisper, “I’m asking you."

You wonder if your mouth still tastes like liquor as Vash’s tongue dips inside of it, hovering over you as you lay sprawled across your bed. 

It didn’t start like this, of course. The first kiss had been gentle, hesitant even—like Vash wasn’t quite sure if he was going to see it through at all, poised to flee at any moment. But neither of you could deny how right it felt when his lips brushed yours, an immediate wash of relief and of unadulterated want inundating you all at once. You’d been the one to crane up and bridge the gap, but soon Vash was crawling into your bed overtop of you, easing you back to lay flat as he succumbed to the same need you felt thrumming through your veins.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now—a gesture that earned you a pitchy, needy little groan from him as your fingers twisted through the blonde strands. It only seemed to make him more eager as he parted his lips against your own in a deeper kiss.

There’s something a little clumsy about it all, an eagerness and inexperience to every touch and graze. But it’s not the same as it was at first, no longer hesitant or wary—his reservations have been peeled away as surely as the clothes the two of you are wearing, until you feel nothing but his skin against your own.

Vash’s hands are as greedy and rapacious as his mouth; touching, grabbing, grazing anything he can reach. His calloused fingers cup themselves around the swell of your chest, squeezing lightly, and when you reward him with a little moan it stokes the flames of his curiosity, and his touch moves to the pebbled bud of your nipple next. He rolls it tentatively between his fingers, pinching ever so slightly, and when you gasp against his mouth, arching further into his touch, he makes his own little pleased sound of surprise before lavishing your other breast with equal attention. 

His metal hand touches you more gingerly than the other, and he tends to favour the one made of flesh and bone. The contrast in sensations is a little disorienting—smooth, hard metal versus the life-roughened heat of skin on skin. It’s dizzying. You want more.

“Vash,” you murmur against his mouth. 

Your lips are stinging now from the constant kissing. He’s scarcely left your mouth uncovered by his own since they first connected, but at your hoarse whisper of his name he pulls back slightly, watching your face for any sign of reproach. 

“Touch me more, please,” you say to him, cupping his cheeks as he presses his forehead into yours, both of you sharing the same breath in the little space between you.

He makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a hum, nodding a little, and kisses you again as his hands slip further down your willing, waiting form.

If he’s surprised by the wet wet heat he finds between your legs, it doesn’t stop him. One finger and then two find their way inside you slowly; he moves in gentle thrusts and scissoring motions that have your jaw going slack. His palm presses against the swell of your clit, and each time your hips jump it grinds into the heel of his palm, earning a keen from the back of your throat.

“Feels good?” Vash trails kisses up the top of your cheek until his lips are by your ear. His breathing is laboured and the air of each breath is hot as it ghosts across your skin. Your tongue feels leaden, but you nod repeatedly, wrapping your arms around his neck and keeping him close.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to breathe out, “’s good.”

It’s even better when you feel the stretch of him pressing himself inside.

The sound that’s pulled from the depth of Vash’s broad chest as he carves his way into you makes your toes curl—high and sweet and desperate.

“’S hot,” he slurs, his hips giving a shallow, desperate thrust.

He’s needy, pulling you closer as he moves you how he wants you. He loops your knees up over his elbows, his mouth frantically finding it’s way back to yours as the weight of his entire body bears down on you. 

The next thrust is harder, deeper. And the pace only increases after that.

The rickety headboard of your old bed knocks against the wall each time he brings his hips down against yours. It’s loud, but so is the sound of skin on skin, and you have the distant thought as the bed frame creaks that it sounds like it might splinter underneath you—but you don’t find it in yourself to care as the pressure in you core steadily builds, threatening to burst. It blinds and deafens you to anything but the pulse that pounds in your throat. It makes your fingers curl against the skin of Vash’s shoulder blades until your nails dig into skin.

He’s still kissing you, wet and messy and noisy as his tongue presses into your mouth. He never stops kissing you.

It's nice to be with someone. To be touched. To feel wanted and needed.

Especially by him.

Your eyes flutter open, and as though he can sense your gaze on him Vash’s do the same. His expression is heavy-lidded as he pants, a little drop of sweat sitting high on the edge of his blushing cheek. He smiles a little, a soft, gentle expression you’ve never seen before.

A tenderness in his gaze unlike any you’ve ever experienced.

The pressure in your core comes undone.

He takes your face in his hands as pleasure rips through you like a sandstorm, blistering and unescapable. He’s still kissing you. Keeping you so near. In the haze it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins, everything clouded into something thats both and somehow neither. Something new.

“Close,” Vash whines, grinding his hips down against your own.

Your muscles ache, the pleasure has worn you raw, and your lungs are pricking with the need for a full deep breath you haven’t been able to draw into them now for some time. But even so, you don’t want it to be over. Can’t bear the thought of being apart.

The headboard rattles a few more times, and then the pressure between your legs is gone as Vash pulls out and spatters his spend across your stomach with a long, low groan.

It’s hot. The mess on your skin, the sweat that clings to you, the paltry breaths of air you draw into your lungs. Even the sheets of your bed have absorbed the heat from both of your bodies, sticking to your skin as you collapse into them in boneless heaps, chests heaving and hearts racing side by side.

You tilt your face towards the boy crowded into your narrow bed beside you, and find him watching you expectantly.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a piece of hair away from your eyes.

You hum, leaning into his touch.

Vash’s gaze travels down your body, eyeing the mess he’s made of you with wide eyes. He pops up suddenly, clambering out of bed and tripping clumsily over the sheet that’s fallen half-way off the mattress as he skitters out the door. You’re not too worried that he’s going far, considering he’s still stark naked, but you watch the doorway curiously as you wait for him to return.

When he does, he has a cloth in hand—still damp from your bath earlier in the evening. As gently as he can, Vash cleans you up; the cloth cool is against your sticky skin, and feels nice. Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he presses a kiss to the valley between your ribs, lifting his face to smile up at you.

You shoot him a feeble smile back.

He slips into bed beside you once more, crawling up towards the pillows and pulling the rumpled sheet up to your chins as he goes. He settles in, and with one sweep of his arm he tucks you safely against his chest, with your ear resting over his heart. His hand pats gently along the back of your hair down your spine, keeping you close to him.

Vash smells good. Clean and comforting. It makes you think of the place your mother told you about once. You wonder if he smells like that place, or maybe even better.

You wonder if he’s ever been there before.

You wonder if he’d tell you if you asked.

You open your eyes, though the effort pains you in your exhaustion, and you see him peering back at you. Vash’s lips pull into a smile, but it's one of the ones that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. An expression that you know is more for you than it is for himself.

You think the two of you have a lot in common, then. That maybe the two of you understand the same loneliness. The same feeling of being haunted.

Your ghosts live on in the trunk at the end of your bed and at the back of your cupboard, covered in dust, tucked away out of sight. 

Vash’s live on inside of him, and it’s where he seems determined to keep them. 

In that moment you know that even if you were to ask, he’d tell you nothing—and he’d do it for your own sake.

Tomorrow you’ll wake and the air will smell bitter and burnt, and he’ll be gone, but your boot will be mended, and the little pot of glue will remind you he was there. But tonight you’ll dream about the place your Mama told you about, and tomorrow you’ll still have the smell that clings to your sheets. So for now, the world smells different. 

And that has to be enough.

[himluv]

Reunion

Just a little (incomplete) exercise in what I think Solas and Riallan's reunion in Veilguard might look like...

If you like this, read their entire story Inevitable on AO3.

“Solas.”

He flinched at her voice, even though he knew she would come. He knew the moment she entered the Crossroads, felt the echo of her footsteps the instant she set foot in the Lighthouse. And still, he could not bring himself to face her.

“Inquisit–”

Trembling arms wrapped around his torso, Riallan’s face pressed between his shoulder blades. A shuddering breath and then, “you’re safe?”

Solas gripped her wrist, not to remove her arm from his chest, but to anchor himself in her familiar warmth. He’d been such a fool, in so, so many respects.

“I am safe,” he promised, and it was the truth. While he might be frustratingly trapped in a prison of his own design, he was safe in this corner of the Beyond. Of course, as real as their shared dreams always were, Riallan was not there physically with him now.

She was safe with this Rook and their companions in the Lighthouse. The lancet of pain at the thought of Riallan in his home, perusing his books, eating at his once lonesome table brought a sting to his eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

She heaved another sob, her ribcage expanding against his back, but she nodded. “Me too.”

They stood like that for a long moment, Riallan crying against him and Solas holding her hand firm to his chest. Slowly, her breaths evened out and that familiar determination steeled her voice. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

Solas turned to face her. “Vhenan–”

He had not looked upon her face in so long. Too long. Long enough that the creases at the corners of her eyes startled him. He stood dumbstruck by the evidence of their years apart etched on her face. The creases yes, but also the laugh lines around her mouth had deepened, promising years of smiles and laughter he would never know. But the most stunning change were the threads of silver in her hair, now long and curling, tamed in a thick braid down her back.

His hand shook as he cupped her cheek. “Ria.”

Fresh tears pooled in those emerald eyes and she gave him the softest little smile. “You haven’t changed,” she said.

He brushed a thumb under her eye, tracing her cheekbone to reacquaint his fingers with the feel of her skin. Still soft, but not as smooth as the last time he’d been permitted to touch her this way. He blinked, surprised by the wetness that spilled onto his cheek.

She shushed him, wiping away his tears. But somehow that only made it worse. Even after more than a decade in this world he could not comprehend the passing of time. He’d misjudged the weight of years on mortal bodies and with every reunion he felt the cost of his failures more acutely. First Varric, and now her? His heart?

“I’ve wasted so much time,” he whispered.

Riallan shook her head, though he knew she didn’t disagree with him. “That doesn’t matter now,” she said. “All that matters is that you’re safe and that we find a way to get you out of here.”

Solas’s stomach dropped, his jaw clenched, and it was enough for her to notice. Those emerald eyes bored into him, demanding answers once more. “Ria…”

“You can be released,” she said, as if simply claiming so would make it true. “If you can enter this cage then you can be released from it.”

“Yes,” he said, but there was no hope in his voice.

“Then, what?”

He swallowed against a fresh wave of emotion that swelled up from his chest. “The only way to release me back into the physical world–” he took a deep breath and looked her in the eye “–would be to destroy the Veil. Completely.”

[redivia]

'You'll get sick' Ghost x Reader

Summary: Simon took pride in his outstanding immune system. But it has failed him this time.

Authors note: Heyy, this is some sort of continuation of my previous work but can be read as a stand-alone. This has been sitting in my notes app for quite some time and I never really got around to finishing it, but I finally did it! Also on Ao3. Enjoy! <3

Lying in bed next to him you could see his slow and deep breaths making his chest rise and fall and consequently moving the blanket in the same rhythm. Simon’s presence in your bed always improved your sleep, and you like to think it’s vice versa. After having to basically drag Simon to bed yesterday, you weren't too surprised that he was still asleep. He truly must have been exhausted.

Outside the safety of your bedroom, the rain hasn’t stopped yet from what you could tell. Slowly but surely the rain droplets were making their way down your bedroom window, and you knew they would eventually find their way back to earth. Where they would nourish plants and animals alike.

Some people don’t like the rain, but you never understood why. Even if the rain may seem dark and gloomy to some, it only gets us to appreciate the sunny days even more. After all, there would always be sunshine after the rain.

You wouldn’t let a beautiful rainy day like this one, go to waste by decomposing in bed all day. One downside of being a grown-up is that there are always chores waiting to be done and no one else was going to do them for you. So, begrudgingly, you tried making your way out of the bed as quietly as you could manage. Cringing at any small creak and groan the bed made because of the changes in weight distribution as you pushed yourself up. Planting both of your feet on the cold floor didn’t aid in motivating you for your day but there was no backing up now. Your steps were still causing small creaks of the floor as much as you tried to avoid them. Moving forward your feet made quiet pitter patter sounds against the hard wood floor. Small noises were coming from Simon but nothing that would suggest he was awoken by you sneaking out of the bedroom.

Pride swelled in your chest that you had managed to avoid disturbing his sleep for the most part. You figured you might as well start going through your daily routine, maybe then you would feel a bit more alive. First things first, you visited the bathroom to freshen up a bit and maybe try and breathe a bit of life back into your sleepy face. After finishing up in the bathroom you moved to the kitchen. Mentally you could already picture exactly what breakfast you were in the mood for. You were acutely aware of the fact that you recently bought fresh fruits and now the time has come for them to be the main act of your first meal of the day. Together with some yoghurt they would fill that hole in your stomach that has been evidently created by the however many hours of rest you managed to get and has now been pestering you ever since you got up. Opening the fridge, you looked for that yoghurt you had purchased a little while ago-

Your thoughts were abruptly cut off when a sneeze that came from just across the room made you jump. Only after turning around, to try and identify where this sneeze suddenly could have come from, did you notice Simon standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He had always been able to be more silent than you were, always sneaking up on you, but this time it seemed like his body was set on betraying him.

But to be perfectly honest he looked a bit worse for wear. He was slouching slightly, doing very little to actually make him any smaller, he was still towering over everything as per usual. His face was undeniably flushed, and something told you it probably wasn’t because you were the first thing he was seeing this morning. He had eyebags under his eyes that made him look like he pulled an all-nighter rather than sleeping well over eight hours. Your favourite feature of his face, his eyes, were slightly red and half lidded, not used to the light difference from the rest of the house compared to the brightly lit kitchen. With his slightly down turned expression he quietly rasped out a scratchy “g’ mornin’” followed by a few sniffles. He looked as pitiful as a more than six-foot tall, scary looking, military man could look. Poor Simon must have come down with some sort of bug.

To be fair you had heard that the flu was making its rounds and that it has been spreading like crazy, especially during this time of the year. Combined with all of the hard physical exercises and trainings they were to complete in the freezing cold, was it only a matter of time before Simon would inevitably get sick.

You liked to think he only walked into the kitchen because he missed your warmth in bed. Your theory was only fortified when he slowly slouched over to you and slid his fingers under your shirt to rest his cold hands on your back. He was mumbling something about how warm you were, when in reality he was the one that felt like he was burning up. You bounced into action and started directing him backwards in the direction of the couch where he fell asleep on the previous day. After transporting him safely to the couch you told him stay put while you would get him some blankets. You returned to the living room with your favourite blankets in arms. You draped them all around Simon and tucked the edges under him to make sure he would be as snug as a bug in a rug. Satisfied with your work you moved back into the kitchen.

There you grabbed the kettle and watched as it slowly got filled underneath the stream of water pouring out of your faucet. You asked Simon in a slightly raised voice which kind of tea he would prefer. Hardly hearing his reply, due to his scratchy voice, you prepared his tea with an extra heaping amount of honey to maybe soothe his raw and raspy sounding throat. You grabbed his mug, the one you had gifted him a few months ago.

He didn’t admit it back then, but he really liked the present, so much so that you saw him using this specific mug any chance he got. That might be the reason why there was already a chip missing along the rim of the mug. The nearly constant usage and maybe some occasional rougher handling ended in a small piece breaking off. But he obviously cared too little about such small imperfections to throw it out. After all, it still served its purpose flawlessly, and you are sure he still loves it as much as before the chunk broke off.

You set down the mug on the small side table next to the couch where he could easily reach it. Before returning the kitchen to hopefully finish making breakfast, you gently placed the back of your hand on his forehead to try and gauge his temperature. He might have a bit of a fever but to accurately determine how bad it really was you would need to get the thermometer to check. Making a mental note to go looking for the small device later, you whipped up the quick breakfast you abandoned earlier. In the other room you heard him scrambling for the box of tissues. Poor Simon really caught a bad case of the flu, but you already know you wouldn’t hear him openly complaining, not when you were the one taking care of him.

You made a quick bowl of granola with some yoghurt and most importantly some fresh fruits. Simon would need every vitamin he could get to help his body in battling his sickness and hopefully avoid getting ill as easily. You brought both bowls to the living room and sat down on the couch close to Simon and handed him his respective breakfast. Bowl in hand you watched as Simon poked around in his yoghurt but didnt really eat much of it. You knew Simon was really sick when he didn't even finish his bowl of breakfast. Once you finished eating, you sat both dishes down on the coffee table, to be dealt with later. Firstly, you needed to ensure that Simon at least got some pain killers into his system to maybe get him to fall asleep again and hopefully heal up while sleeping.

You dragged Simon onto his feet and together you slowly trudged back into the bedroom. He instantly cozied into the warm sheets, and you brought him a glass of water alongside some pain killers. Simon popped the pills into his mouth and chased them with a few sips of water. You asked him if there was anything else you could get for him to maybe make him feel better. Simon listed the box of tissues and his mug of tea, both of which were still left on the side table back in the living room. You gathered both and returned to Simons side in the blink of an eye.

When you stepped back into the bedroom Simon was staring at you with a dreamy smile on his face and a slightly dazed but all in all content look in his eyes. You sat back down at his side and heard him mutter his thanks. You once again repeated if there was anything else you could do for him. Simon only hummed in thought before he replied, “a kiss on the cheek?” with a cheeky smile plastered on his face. You slightly chuckled at his antics and gave him his kiss on the lips instead. “You’ll get sick” he argued after you pulled away. You only shrugged and as you got up told him playfully how much superior your immune system was.

As with most things Simon was right about this one too and shortly after Simon was starting to feel better, you were the one laying in bed feeling miserable. Now he was the one having to take care of you.

[y-junghyeok]

Synopsis: Something has changed about Satoru, you don't know whether it's good or bad.

Timeline: Second year, at the end of Hidden Inventory.

Characters: Gojo Satoru.

Relationship: Friends with a romantic undertone.

Your mission concludes after Satoru and Suguru's. Fighting a Semi-Grade 1 takes more out of you than you would've wanted, but at this point, if you can't handle it then the idea of running a mission alone would be out of your reach. Then again, it might not be too bad.

You haven't gotten a chance to go on a mission with any of your friends for a while. It'd be nice for a change of pace.

At least, that's what you thought before you return to school. Something has changed since you were gone and you can't even put a name to it since nobody enlightens you about what went on. Suguru was tight-lipped when you asked him, the only information you pried from him was the failure of their mission.

Beyond that, you can't surmise what had shaken both him and Satoru. Asking Shoko is an even more futile task. She wasn't there and from what you've heard, they were no more open with her than they were with you.

It is only when you corner Satoru when he sat down after practice that you have the hope to learn what happened. The two of you are alone on the field, Suguru will arrive later and Shoko would be stuck with her healing duty until the hour after. There'd be no better chance for you to talk with Satoru.

But with his glasses down and his energy fluctuating at a weird pace, you don't know if it's a good idea to have this conversation at all.

You try anyway.

"Satoru, what happened?"

"Hm?"

"Don't play dumb, you know what I'm talking about."

Satoru answers you with an exhausted smile. The absence of his vigour sits wrong with you, but you can't pinpoint what is exactly wrong with it. He looks at you, but you don't feel perceived. It is the distance behind you that he looks at, a vision far beyond your reach.

You've always wondered what goes on in that head of his. At times, you were convinced that there is nothing but circus music and clown honk going on in there. Then there are times when his eyes are too empty for you to even interpret anything coming out of his mouth without worries.

With that continued silence, he closes his eyes and opens his arms to you. For a moment, you're at a loss for what he wants, but when Satoru shakes his hands up and down, you can only sigh. The answer is obvious, but the fact this request comes from him out of anyone is strange to you.

You step into his space and Satoru wastes no time to pull you closer to him. His face is buried into your stomach while his arms cling to you tight.

"You smell nice."

"You stink of sweat."

"And now you smell like me."

You smack his shoulder to push him away, but Satoru only holds you tighter. Suddenly, you become acutely aware of the difference between this and the normal him. With another sigh, you relax in his arms. Satoru hugs you for long enough that you begin to feel the weight on your feet from standing.

You let him stay there until he's ready to let go and once he does, the smile he gives you no longer carries the earlier fatigue. His hands remain on your waist, but you say nothing about that.

"...Thanks," he says, "I need to feel human again."

Honestly, what the hell happened...

The thought rings loud but by no means do you want to push before he's ready for that conversation. In the end, all you can do is ruffle his hair and hope that would bring the energy back to his face. "Fine, keep your secret, but remember that I'm here if you need anything."

There is a smirk on his face now, one too familiar yet unfamiliar at once. "Even impromptu stinky hugs?"

You stop your lips from forming a smile. There are damp patches on your shirt because of him and you can't say whether you want to whack him for that or not.

Yet, somehow, you can't find it in your heart to say no.

"Even impromptu stinky hugs."

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

after - part twenty-three

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

shit doesn't go as planned on your way out of the QZ.

a/n: the bridge between episode 1 and 2. part twenty-four will be up this week! thank you to all of those who commented on the last two parts, I'll be reblogging/replying to those plus any comments here in the next two days, and my askbox is always open 🤍 thanks for sticking with me bbys!!! I love you all!

word count: 7.3k

warnings: canon-typical violence, you know the drill. no filth here.

✨@friskito-library for updates on new parts/works✨

“Observe mandatory curfew to fight infection and insurrection.”

God, if you had a dollar for every time you’d heard that fucking sentence. Or a ration card. You’d be set for life. You and Joel could die well-fed. Tess, too.

The rain has let up some, but still, you pull your hood up, instruct Ellie to do the same. The bat is a soft press between your shoulders, hidden by your bag, but you feel acutely aware of the weapon. You feel acutely aware of everything. Not like this is your first rodeo — this is an old habit for you, at this point — but something feels different. It is different.

Before you even step foot out of the lobby, you grab Ellie, turning her to face you. She stares up at you with those dark eyes, so full of fear you almost feel bad. “I’m gonna keep this simple,” you say to her, removing your hand from her shoulder. “You stay in between me and Joel, not behind. Between. You follow close, you keep your mouth shut, and if shit goes south, you take the easiest path, follow whichever one of us gets away, and you don’t look back. Clear?”

She just stares at you for a moment, her bottom lip almost quivering. “What if none of you get away?”

“We will. Are we clear?” When she doesn’t reply, you prompt her further. “Ellie,” you say, your voice teetering on stern. “Say it.”

The kid swallows hard, nods. “Clear.”

“Good.” You tear your eyes from her innocent face, finding Joel’s dark gaze watching you. “Ready?”

He just nods.

It’s easy enough, getting from the apartment building to the opening at Lancaster. Tess scouts a few feet ahead, signals you to follow when it’s clear, and you take one of your old routes through the empty warehouses to get where you need to be.

Ellie keeps close to you as you move through the city, just as you’d asked. At one point, your boot slips on the curb, your ankle twisting sideways, and before you can so much as flinch, she grabs your hand, using her weight to push you back onto the sidewalk. You mouth thanks and she nods, but doesn’t let go of your hand.

Finally, the storm drain at Lancaster is in view, and Tess jogs ahead, waiting for the coast to clear before she waves you forward. She and Joel lift the drain, Tess slides down first, then Ellie, then you, then Joel. He turns once he’s in, grabs the drain cover and slides it back into place with some help from you.

It’s dark inside, the walls slimy and wet and it smells fucking awful. Tess doesn’t waste any time, heading towards the other end, and once you’re almost there, Joel pushes to the front, taking the few steps up to the asphalt barrier. With a grunt, he pushes his shoulder up and into it, pauses when you hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. Once it passes, he continues to slide the asphalt piece across, another quiet grunt falling out of him. 

Joel hauls himself up and out, kneeling in the dirt, and holds his hand towards you. You take it, holding your breath as he yanks you up, jutting his chin towards your foot, the ankle that had twisted. “You okay?” he whispers.

You just nod, kneeling beside him as Ellie clambers out of the hole. Her hands press into the dirt and you grab her by the handle of her backpack, helping her out, then offering your hand to Tess. As soon as you’re all out, crouched in the dirt, you and Joel grab hold of the asphalt, sliding the piece back into place.

Ellie straightens, awe in her expression as she takes in your new surroundings. “Holy shit, I’m actually outside!”

“Oh, for the love of—” You grit the words out, grabbing the sleeve of her jacket and yanking her back down hard.

“Oh, shit,” she half-whispers, ducking down behind the abandoned bus you’ve tucked yourself behind. The unimpressed expression on Joel’s face would make you laugh in any other circumstance. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” you whisper, ignoring her apology. “We’re gonna take the left edge around the buffer zone, you know what that is?” you ask, and she nods, her lips pressed together. “You stay close, like you have been, and you follow my lead. You got it?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding more. “Of course. I got it.”

“Let’s go,” Tess hisses, and you wave her on, shooting Joel a glare as he shakes his head, nudging Ellie to follow Tess beneath the bus. He waits for you to slide beneath before following, and when you glance back, you see the FEDRA spotlights sweep across the space you’d just been occupying.

Tess takes the lead again, and Ellie pauses when you come out the other side of the bus, waiting for you to step ahead, taking her place between you and Joel. She looks at you with big eyes as you walk past her, almost like she’s waiting for your approval, and you offer it in the form of a slight nod, mouthing good call.

The rumble of a truck makes your every sense heighten, and Ellie grabs your hand. You grip it tight, pulling her to the side, ducking you both behind a car as the truck drives past. Tess looks at you wordlessly over the top of Ellie’s head, and you turn your neck to see Joel crouched behind an overturned car. You all pause, waiting for more noise, but only the thunder comes.

Your steps are a bit faster now, all of you pushed against the fractured concrete that shields you from the helicopters above. Tess keeps point, and you keep your grip on Ellie’s hand. A second truck rumbles past, and you all dive for cover. You don’t miss the hitch in the kid’s breath as she tries to catch it, and you squeeze her fingers.

“It’ll be okay, kid,” you tell her. “Just stay close. You’re doing great.”

Even without looking, you can feel Joel’s eyes shooting daggers into your back.

Another corner turned, and the gap in the fence comes into view. It’s almost comical, with the warning signs on either side of it, the chain link spread wide enough for you all to fit through. Ellie’s still holding your hand, and you make for the fence, squinting up as the rain starts to come harder, soaking your hair, making it stick to the back of your neck. Joel moves up beside you, his hand finding your side as you step forward and then—

“Hey!”

Fuck.

“Hey, don’t, don’t…don’t move!”

You all freeze as you see Sergeant Lee Evans standing against the concrete wall, re-zipping his pants, flashlight waving as he reaches for his gun. McCoy’s guy, the one who’d taken over his posts, the one you’ve been making deals with for a long time. The one who was meant to get you the truck to get to Wyoming, before you struck the deal with Marlene.

“Don’t move!”

Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles, illuminating the space you’re all standing in. Lee lifts his gun, points it at Joel, then you, then Ellie. Then he pauses, the gun swinging back to you, and lifts the visor on his helmet.

“You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Okay, Lee, wait,” you start, lifting your hands, putting yourself slightly in front of Ellie, “let’s just talk this out, yeah?”

Joel takes a half-step, doing the same, his tone sliding into something persuasive. “Hold on—”

“Get on your fuckin’ knees!” Lee shouts, pointing at Joel, the gun lowering slightly. “Get on your fuckin’ knees!”

“Now, hold on—” Joel repeats, but Lee ignores him.

“What did I fuckin’ tell you, man? I said stay the fuck home. Now, get on your knees!”

“Lee—”

“Knees!”

Tess smacks your arm. “Just get on your knees,” she says, sinking to her own. “Just get on your knees.” On the ground, she turns back to Lee, trying to placate him. Meanwhile, you sink down beside her, tugging Ellie down, while Joel takes the empty space between Ellie and Tess. “You let us do this run,” Tess continues, her voice carrying through the space, “and we’ll split the cards with you.”

“Oh, will you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so blessed,” Lee says sarcastically. “Hands on your head, eyes forward.”

You shoot a glance over your shoulder, and see the bio-scanner in his hand. Your stomach drops into your toes. Fuck. There’ve been a few run-ins, over the years, sure, but you’ve always managed to talk your way — or shoot your way — out of them.

“Hands on your head!” Lee spits.

Not talking your way out of this one.

You do as the soldier says, nudging Ellie to do the same. Joel shoots you a glance, meeting your eyes over the kid’s head, and you shake your head just slightly. What the fuck are you gonna do, what are you gonna—

“Really, man?” Tess protests as the machine buzzes at her neck.

“Yep,” Lee grits, unimpressed. “We’re doing this by the book.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tess mutters, glancing at you before looking back at Lee. “What about three-quarters?”

The screen on the bio-scanner goes green, clearing Tess, and you swallow around the lump that’s formed in your throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

“Unauthorized exit,” Lee spits, shooting you a glare. “They’ll hang you for that.”

“Fine!” Joel shouts as Lee moves along the line of you, shoving the scanner against Joel’s neck. “Everything off of this run.”

“And half off on all the pills,” you shout, trying to sweeten the deal.

Lee laughs at you. “Half off? All off. Risk my job for half off. Outta your fuckin’ minds.”

Beside you, Ellie’s breathing gets heavy. Something in you wants to reach for her, but you resist, lacing your hands at the back of your head. Lee steps towards her, and something tightens in your chest, making you—

Ellie screams as the scanner beeps at her neck, whirling around towards Lee. You didn’t notice the switchblade open in her hand, and it sinks into Lee’s leg.

“Ellie!” you shriek. Lee shoves her forward and you go after her instantly, putting yourself in front of her as Lee yanks the knife out. It clatters to the asphalt, and Tess slinks to the side, Joel standing in front of you and Ellie as Lee lifts his gun.

“Fucking bitch!” he shouts. “Get out of the fucking way!”

“Woah!” Joel shouts, lifting his hands again. “Woah!” He glances over his shoulder at you, standing in front of Ellie, your arm held out protectively. “We can fix this!”

The barrel of the gun shifts from Joel to you, the flashlight taped to it blinding you. You feel Ellie’s fingers curl in the fabric of your sleeve. “Move,” Lee spits, “or I kill your wife, and then the girl.”

For a moment, everything is eerily silent. Joel is completely still. Behind you, you can hear the hitch in Ellie’s breath, and this beast in your chest, this protective thing roars. If Lee pulls that trigger, you’ll—

“Move.”

Lee takes a step towards you, and Joel lunges forward with a yell. They both go crashing to the ground, the gun skittering to the side, but Joel has the upper hand in a moment. Over and over, his fist connects with Lee’s face, the flashes of lightning illuminating the blood on his skin, on Joel’s knuckles. Over and over and over and over.

“Joel,” you call, but it’s no use, he doesn’t so much as flinch. Ellie tries to step around you, and you try to stop her, try to shield her from the bloody scene before you, but she moves around you quickly, her dark eyes fixated on Joel’s cocked fist. “Joel!”

Finally, he stops, breathing heavily as he lifts his red-stained fist. His knuckles are probably split, maybe even broken, and your own heart is rioting in your chest. He straightens slightly, turning back to the three of you, and for a moment, he and Ellie just stare at each other. Lee lies unmoving on the ground.

Then Joel’s eyes slide to you. “Liv, I…” He trails off, but you just shake your head.

You step towards him, grip his arm and haul him sideways off of Lee’s too-still body. Bile crawls up the back of your throat. Not the first time, you know it won’t be the last. “We need to go.”

Behind you, Tess gasps. You turn to see her with Lee’s bio-scanner in her hand. The screen is red.

He’d scanned Ellie last.

“No!” the girl cries, panic making her voice climb. “No! No, I’m not sick!”

“Liv!” Tess shouts, holding the scanner towards you, the red screen too bright as it blinks at you. “Liv!”

“I am not sick,” Ellie says again, and your stomach ties itself into a knot. “I’m not sick! Look, look!” She tugs up her sleeve, offers her arm to Tess, and Joel pulls you back a step, trying to put himself in front of you. Like that matters. “This is three weeks old,” Ellie continues, her tone still dripping with panic. “Nobody lasts more than a day. Does this look a day old to you?!” Her head lifts, those dark eyes whipping in your direction. “I couldn’t tell you, you would’ve killed me!”

“We should fucking kill you!” Tess spits, and Joel puts his hand on your arm, but you shrug it off. Faintly, you can hear FEDRA sirens growing closer.

“They’re gonna catch us if we don’t run,” Ellie says, and her eyes are trained on you. Joel reaches out again, but you smack his hand away this time, crouching and grabbing Lee’s gun, shoving it against Joel’s chest. He catches it with his good hand, and you grab at his injured one, inspecting his split and bloody knuckles. He hisses when you spread his fingers, pulls his hand away.

As you drop his hand, something catches your eye. Ellie’s knife, smeared with blood, laying in the dirt. You crouch to grab it, switching the blade shut and jamming the thing into your pocket.

“We need to go,” you say, and stride back to where Ellie’s standing. You all but yank her away from Tess, pushing the young girl toward the fence. “Tess, let’s go.”

You hold the fence open as Ellie scrambles through, keep it open for Tess as well. Joel is still standing beside Lee, staring down at the soldier.

“Joel!” you shout, and his head snaps up, dark eyes meeting yours. “We need to go.”

The sirens are getting closer, but you wait for him. He offers you his good hand as he gets closer, the gun now looped over his shoulder, and you take it, lacing your fingers together and heading through the fence. Ellie looks at you with big eyes as you clamber through, Tess holding the chain link open for you both. Gripping Joel’s hand tightly, you turn her around, push her forward as you all disappear into the night, the sounds of FEDRA’s patrols getting closer and closer to the scene you’ve left behind.

+

The rain doesn’t let up. It gets worse as you move through the city, puddles beneath your every step. Your socks are soaked inside your boots, your hair sticking to your scalp. Joel’s grip on your hand is tight, his knuckles pressed to yours.

You get a few feet from the fence before Ellie turns to you, panic embedded in her face, an apology on her lips. “Liv, please, I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t tell you, Marlene said not to—”

“Shut up,” you hiss at her, forcing yourself to ignore the way she flinches at your tone. She stops in her tracks, and you pull away from Joel enough to grab her by the front of her jacket, spinning her around. “We’re not safe out here, whether or not you’re sick. Follow Tess, and keep your mouth shut.”

She does as you say.

You fall back into step with Joel, who’s now brandishing Lee’s gun, his good hand on the trigger. Thunder rumbles, and you reach for the bat, gripping the handle tightly. Being outside of the QZ is one thing, this close to the walls, but unarmed is another. Ahead of you, Tess picks her way through the rubble, heading for the closest building. It used to be a hair salon; you remember getting your hair done there, before. The memory feels strange to recall, fuzzy at the edges and almost more like a dream.

Joel nudges you with his shoulder, his voice low. “How are we gonna play this?”

Pulled out of your head, you turn toward him, your brows pulling down. “What?”

“Tess doesn’t know about you,” he whispers, his eyes searching yours. “And if this kid is—”

“Tess doesn’t know what about me?” you ask him, and you watch the realization settle on his face. There’s a loud creak, and you see Tess has pried the salon door open, waving you all in. “Can we just make it through the night, first? One thing at a goddamned time.”

You go to take a step away, but Joel catches your hand, wincing as his bruised hand closes around yours. “Liv, I…” He clears his throat, staring down at his boots. “I’m sorry, for what happened back there. He pointed that gun at you and the kid and I just…” After a beat, his eyes lift to yours. They’re so haunted, so full of emotion that your breath catches. “He pointed that gun at you, and I was right back to that night. In Austin, when Sarah…”

His voice breaks on her name. Something in your chest cracks. You honestly can’t remember the last time he said it out loud.

“Stop,” you say, moving close to him. You take his scruffy jaw in your hand, keep his eyes on yours. “You did what you had to. We had to get out of there. There was no other option. I know that, and you know that. Lee was a fucking asshole, anyway.” He huffs something like a laugh, and you press a soft kiss to his mouth. “We’re safe, okay? C’mon. Let’s go inside. I need to look at that hand.”

Stepping into the salon feels surreal, your brain wired to expect fluorescent lights and the secretary who truly couldn’t have given less of a fuck asking what time your appointment was at. You’ve walked past this place a million times on runs since the walls went up, but you’ve never once stepped back inside.

Ellie’s standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the ceiling. Nature has truly taken over, grass and moss erupting through the cracked tiles, dirt covering the rest of the floor. A lone chair stands upright off to the side, every mirror shattered to pieces. Ivy climbs along one wall, and as you walk inside, Tess shuts the door, muttering at Joel to help her move a big cabinet in front of the door.

“What the fuck was Marlene doing with an infected kid?” Tess hisses as the three of you stand near the door, stealing glances at the kid in the middle of the salon. “We oughta put a damn bullet in her head.”

“Then why didn’t Marlene do it?” you counter, and Tess’s shoulder sag. “Clearly she’s important. She said that bite is what, two weeks old? What—”

“Three weeks,” Ellie calls out conversationally, a rumble of thunder punctuating her words. You give her the most withering look you can manage.

You look back at Tess. “We’re tired. We’re scared. That wasn’t what any of us had anticipated, and the last thing we need to do is make an impulsive decision.” Joel nods slightly, his eyes glued to your face. “We sleep it off, and we talk it out in the morning.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Tess says, reaching out and taking Lee’s gun from Joel. “Tell her to pick a corner.” She looks at you. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

You nod, inclining your head towards an empty corner. Joel heads for it, and you walk towards Ellie.

Your steps are slow, the bat still held in your hand. She turns her head to look at you as you approach, and you look up a the ceiling, seeing the large hole giving way to the floor above, the cracked beams and what looks like a tree growing out of the second storey. Further up, you can see flashes of lightning, the rumble of thunder following close behind.

“So, is this the part where you kill me?” she asks, and you know she’s trying to be the tough guy, but her voice gives her away, that waver of panic still evident. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s late,” you say, shaking your head. “No one’s killing you. You should get some sleep, all right? We’re all rattled; we’ll figure this out in the morning.” When she doesn’t say anything, you say, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You got a blanket or anything in that bag?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel, heading for the corner Joel is now occupying. He’s sat on the ground, his back propped against the wall, legs stretched ahead of him. You drop your bag next to his, tapping your boot against his. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, eyes shooting open. His bad hand lifts to rub over his face and he winces before he can complete the movement. “Fuck.”

“Let me see it,” you say, crouching in front of your bag, pulling out what little first aid supplies you have left. A single alcohol wipe, a mostly-clean rag you tore into strips for bandages. “You think it’s broken?”

“Maybe a hairline,” he grunts, sliding over as you move to sit beside him, holding your hand out for his. You tear the wipe open with your teeth, spit the wrapper to the side. “It’ll heal fast.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” you mutter, shaking your head as you lift his hand for closer inspection, swiping at the blood. He doesn’t flinch, but lets out a little groan, his other hand wrapping around your leg.

You clean as much of the blood away as you can. Two of his knuckles are split, but you’ve definitely seen worse on him. And if there’s anything you’ve learned about Joel over the years, it’s that he can take the pain.

You both can.

You finish wrapping his hand, tying the makeshift bandage off in the middle of his palm. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do. The ground is hard beneath you as you settle in, Joel bunching up his jacket as a pillow for you both to share, him lying with his back to the wall, good ear up. You fit yourself against his front, draping your coat over the both of you, tugging his arm around your waist beneath it. Whatever comfort you can get, you take. You revel in it.

Every time you try to close your eyes, something pops up to haunt you, chasing sleep away before you can grab it. 

Memories of the explosions all those years ago, of hiding in the bookstore and waiting to die.

The way you’d held out hope that Joel was still alive, that he’d make good on his promise and find you, across the country, no matter how much time had passed. 

The fear that had consumed you when you were bit, the hope Joel had offered when he told you about Anna, what had happened to her, what turned out to be the same for you.

The panic you felt when Nick took Deanna and the kids away, blackmailing you into silence. 

The frustration when Tommy stopped answering the goddamned radio, sending Joel into a spiral. 

The obvious hurt in Tess’s face after she and Robin had talked. 

That sinking feeling that’s been chasing you around with every day that’s passed where you haven’t heard from Bill and Frank, not a song on the radio or a crackling message to let you know they’re okay.

The feral violence Joel had rained down on Lee, to keep you safe. To keep Ellie safe.

The sheer fucking terror in Ellie’s face when the scanner turned red.

Sleep seems to come to Joel easily, his breathing evening out against your neck, his forehead tipped against the back of your head. His arm tightens around you, and you try to replace the haunted memories with good ones, happy ones. Led Zeppelin on the radio and walking down the aisle, all the stars in the sky and the bed of Joel’s truck, the deer at the lake and your honeymoon at the cabin.

It feels like sleep has just pulled you under when Tess is waking you for the next watch. “Liv,” she calls, her hand curled around your shoulder. “Liv.”

Your eyes blink open, and it takes you a minute to realize that there’s music playing.

I’m taking a ride with my best friend.

+

Tess kicks at Joel’s boot and he jolts out of dreamless sleep. You’re not where you were, pressed against him, and he bolts upright, panic twisting his stomach when he sees you a few feet from him, hunched over something. He rubs his hand across his face and his hand aches.

“What…?”

Never want to put my feet back down on the ground.

“I can’t check the fucking book, Tess, can I?” you spit, shoving your hand through your hair. It’s the radio, Joel realizes, that you’re bent over, the music filling the quiet space between you. He glances to the corner where Ellie had sprawled; she’s still asleep, curled on her side, facing away from all of you. “I swear to god, it was 1985.”

“Sure, when you were what, seven?” Tess hisses, straightening, putting her hands on her hips. The frustration is clear on her face. “How do we know it wasn’t the nineties? Depeche Mode was still around when the world fucking imploded, it could have been ‘92, ‘93?”

“Nineties doesn’t mean anything on the code, Tess,” you tell her, your tone completely flat until you say her name, and your voice snaps in two. “Something is wrong.” You go quiet for a moment, heaving a breath, and then launch the radio across the room. It hits the wall with a loud crack, splintering into pieces, and from the corner of his eye, Joel sees Ellie jump. “I was right. We should have left days ago, we shouldn’t have waited for this to fucking happen!”

You get to your feet, storming across the salon to where he’d propped the cabinet against the door. The metal rings as your fist connects, and Tess shoots him a look. “Liv,” he calls, getting to his feet, jogging toward you. He catches your wrist before you can swing again. “Baby, stop it. Don’t—” You try to yank your hand away from him, but he tightens his grip. “Hey.”

“They could be dead,” you murmur, the words halfway between speaking and sobbing. His heart aches at the sound. “They could…” You trail off, shaking your head, tears shining on your cheeks in the streaks of moonlight coming through the cracks in the windows and doors.

“C’mere,” Joel whispers, using your wrist as leverage, pulling you against him. You go willingly, collapsing into his chest. You bury your face in his neck, and he rubs his hand up and down your spine. “There’s nothin’ we can do right now, baby. It’s the middle of the night, you’re exhausted, we all are. The moment the sun comes up, we get the kid to the State House, we get the truck, and we haul ass to Lincoln, you understand me? Computer probably stopped working, and Bill couldn’t reset the radio.” He presses his lips to your temple, his next words muffled against your skin. “It’s gonna be fine. Everythin’ is gonna be fine.”

With a soft noise something like a whimper, you nod your head, your forehead brushing his chin as you do.

“Go back and lie down,” he tells you, reluctantly detaching you from his chest. “I’ll take the next watch.”

“But—”

“Go, Liv,” he says, a little more tersely. “I’ll wake you in a couple hours.”

You’re halfway across the room when Ellie pipes up. “1987.”

You stop dead in your tracks. Joel’s watching you go, Tess also watching from her spot against the wall. “What did you say?”

“The song. It’s from 1987,” the kid repeats, rubbing at her eyes. “I had the cassette tape.”

You say nothing in response, and for a moment, Joel feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Your head is turned, he can just see your profile, streaks of moonlight in your hair. He’s never seen that expression on your face, as you stare at Ellie. He doesn’t have a name for it.

“Go back to sleep,” you say finally, and Joel inhales sharply. 

He waits until you’ve settled back in the space where you’d both been laying, your coat tugged over you like a blanket. Tess hands him the rifle, finding her own space to sprawl out, and Ellie watches before turning over herself, the room plunging back into silence.

As quietly as he can, Joel creeps across to where the radio had landed. It’s shattered, the plastic cracked, the metal antenna a few feet away from the rest of it. Sighing, Joel slides his boot across the ground, pushing the pieces closer to the wall.

+

Morning comes quick. The moment Tess and Joel wake, you’re anxious to get moving, but there’s still a conversation to be had. You barely slept, your mind racing too quickly for you to feel rested, and you know Joel stayed on watch longer than he should have. You can see it in the bags under his eyes, the groan he lets out as he peels himself up off the floor.

Joel found two more chairs, in the night, and Tess sinks into one of them while you take the other, facing Ellie’s still sleeping figure. Joel stands behind you, Lee’s rifle in his hand. “Keep it pointed at her,” Tess says, and when his eyes shift to you, you just nod.

The lying comes almost too easily, pretending you’re not the same as the girl still asleep on the floor. Three weeks post-bite versus fourteen years. You wonder, if Tess knew the truth, if she’d pull a gun on you. You wonder how deep your betrayal would cut her.

You force the thought from your mind as the building creaks above you. The rain is gone, replaced with sunlight that streams through the hole in the ceiling, lighting up the middle of the salon, the grass and moss bright green in the sun.

A loud creak echoes through the building, and Ellie rouses, rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up off the ground. You all watch silently as she wakes, patting at her pockets. She curses under her breath, and you see fresh panic on her face as she grabs her bag and wrenches it open, digging through it.

You pull the switchblade from your pocket. “Looking for this?”

She grimaces. “Morning. Can I have that back?” She gets to her feet, and Joel lifts the rifle. Guilt tugs at your stomach at the expression on her face. “Do I look like I’m infected?” 

You open your mouth to reply, but Joel beats you to it. “Show us your arm.”

With a loud sigh, Ellie tugs up her sleeve. Her bite looks similar to yours, in the middle of her forearm. The same spindly lines stretch outward from the bite that’s long healed over. Yours is just the same has been for years.

“Yeah, it’s not getting any worse, is it?” she says flatly.

Tess shoots you a look, and you inhale deeply, one brow lifting, the words silently communicated. She’s got a point.

“If we’re out in the open city, why aren’t we getting swarmed?” Ellie asks.

“Don’t worry about that,” Joel shoots back, and the kid almost rolls her eyes.

“Well, I’m gonna.”

Joel leans forward like he’s gonna say something more, but you put your hand out, your knuckles hitting his chest. “What was Marlene doing with an infected kid?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“I’m not infected,” she says quickly, and the three of you just stare back. Your brow lifts again, and she keeps going. “She found me after I was bitten.”

“And she didn’t just shoot you, right then and there?”

“Clearly not.” The kid’s gaze drops, tugging at a blade of grass at her feet. “She locked me up and had her guys test me every day to see if I was getting sick.”

“Test you how?” Tess asks, leaning closer to you.

“I have to pee,” Ellie quips, and Tess goes rigid beside you.

“Test you how?” you repeat.

“They’d make me count to ten and hold out my hand and keep it steady, but you know, I think what really impressed them was the fact that I didn’t turn into a fucking monster.” You have to stifle your laugh as the kid gets to her feet. “Now can I please?”

Joel rises as Ellie does, lifting the gun slightly. Her eyes go wide again, full of fear, and you grab the back of Joel’s jacket. “Fine,” you jut your chin toward the back of the salon. “Through that door. Pick a corner.”

“Here,” Tess calls as she walks away, grabbing a magazine at her feet and flinging it towards Ellie, who catches it easily. “Tear out a few pages.”

She turns on her heel, heading for the door you’d pointed to. “There’s not gonna be anything bad in here?” she asks.

“Just you,” Joel retorts, and you smack his chest.

“Oh, funny.”

You sigh collectively as she disappears through the door. Joel sinks into the chair you’d been sitting in, and you hold out your hand for his. “Let me see,” you say, and he lets the rifle sit in his lap, putting his bandaged palm in yours. He winces as you tug at the bandage, and you purse your lips; clearly it’s more tender than it’d been last night. “Should have brought something for the pain.”

“Didn’t think I’d be in pain,” Joel says, lifting his eyes to yours. He still has that haunted look in them, the one you’d seen when he’d told you what last night had done to him, that he’d felt like he was back there with Sarah. 

And then the way he’d held you, after the radio had gone off. This is what your lives have become, both of you cracked at the edges, the other just trying their best to keep you from shattering completely.

Over and over and over again.

You can feel Tess’s eyes on you, and when you’ve retied Joel’s bandage, your eyes slide to hers. “What?”

“What?” she repeats, shock on her face. “She made it through the fucking night, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Three weeks, Tess,” you say, flinging your hand in the direction Ellie had disappeared. “We might not like Marlene, but she’s not a fucking idiot. If the kid was going to turn, it would have happened already, and if it had, she’d be dead, and we’d already be in fucking Wyoming.”

“It could still happen,” Joel pipes in, and your gaze slides to his. His fingers twitch in your grip. This is for show. You hope. “We’re still close to the wall; we sneak her back in, we find another way to get the battery, then we go.”

“I won’t go back to the QZ,” Tess says, shaking her head. “Not now. I’m done with Boston. I can’t…” She keeps shaking her head. “I won’t. You two take her back, if that’s what you want, but I won’t—”

“What did Robin say to you?” you ask, leaning forward so you can catch her eyes. But she says nothing, and you heave a sigh. “We don’t have time. Besides, we take her back to the QZ, how long until someone notices her arm? They scan her, they kill her, and it’s just another fucking tally in FEDRA’s book.”

“We take her to the Fireflies, and what the fuck are they gonna do with her?” Tess counters.

“We take her to the Fireflies, and at least we get what we want.”

She goes silent again.

Ellie’s footsteps echo as she comes back into the main room, and Joel leans back in his chair, both hands around the rifle again. Ellie tosses the magazine back at Tess, and it skids across the floor, hitting her boots.

“We should eat something,” you say, reaching for your bag. You dig out some of the dried beef you’d collected yesterday, hand a piece to Joel as Tess takes her own out. “Ellie, are you hungry? You can share some of ours.”

“I’m good,” she replies, returning to her spot in the moss. “Marlene sent me with my own.”

Joel’s hand shakes as he tries to snap the beef into a smaller piece, and you take it from him, breaking it yourself and handing him half. His eyes flash to yours, and you squeeze his shoulder. You’re all silent for a moment, eating quietly, until something in the air makes your nose prickle.

“Is that…chicken?”

“Yeah,” Ellie says, swallowing a mouthful. “Marlene said they get it from smugglers. I guess not you guys.”

Slowly, you tilt your head to the side, tossing your piece of beef back onto the paper sitting atop your bag. “Why are you so important to Marlene, huh? That woman is stingy with her resources, but she’s pulled out all the stops for you.” You get to your feet, feeling Joel swipe at the back of your jacket as you step toward the kid. “And don’t lie to me, or we’ll take you back.”

“You take me back, and you don’t get what you want,” the kid says, a sly grin on her face.

You scoff. “Oh, you heard that? Then you must have heard the other part, too. We take you back to the QZ, and it’s only a matter of time before FEDRA gets their hands on you. And trust me, kid, they’re a hell of a lot meaner than we are.” You glance over your shoulder at Joel, his wrapped hand. “And that’s saying something. You wouldn’t last a day.”

Her throat bobs, and Joel calls your name, a warning.

You sink into a crouch in front of her, arms braced on your knees. “I’m gonna talk to you like you’re an adult, okay? The three of us? We aren’t good people, Ellie. We’re doing this for us, like you said, to get what we want. Apparently, you’re worth something, but we don’t know what you’re worth, other than the fact that you got bit three weeks ago, and like you said, you’re not a fucking monster. So answer my question: why are you so important to Marlene?”

She looks at you for a long moment before her eyes drop shut, and she covers her face with her hand. “She told me not to tell anyone,” she mumbles out, “and now I’m telling the first people that…”

You just stare at her, waiting.

Finally, with a sigh, she continues. “There’s a Firefly base camp somewhere out west, with doctors. They’re working on a cure.”

You hear the screech of the chair across the ground, and Joel gets to his feet. “Mhm, we’ve heard this before.”

Ellie shoots a glare in his direction. “And whatever happened to me is the—”

“—key to finding the vaccine,” Joel finishes, and you can hear the anger creeping up into his voice. “That’s what this is? We’ve heard this a million times. Vaccines, miracle cures, none of it works. Ever.”

“Fuck you, man,” Ellie spits, jumping to her feet. “I didn’t ask for this!”

“Yeah, you and me both!” he shouts back. “Running fuckin’ errands for Fireflies, some kind of goddamn joke.”

You know why he’s angry. It’s not the first time you’ve heard it, and if you’d stayed in Boston any longer, you know it wouldn’t have been the last. And every single time, Joel had bristled like a cornered animal. You saw the same look on his face that you had when he’d fought with Tommy, when his brother had mentioned giving you over to the Fireflies when he found out what you are. 

About five years back, some doctor in New York claimed to have created a cure using the blood of the infected. It even got to the point where people volunteered to be a part of the trial, they had so much faith in the dumb fuck. The hospital he was working out of was overrun within two days. A few months later, another doctor in another QZ had some other hair-brained scheme, on and on it went.

Hell, maybe they’re spouting the same shit in Wyoming. Only time will tell.

“All the more reason not to take her back,” you say, turning to face Joel. “We finish this. We get what we came for, and we get the fuck out of this state.” You reach out for his good hand, rub your thumb across his knuckles. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he grunts, pulling away from you. 

You gesture for Ellie to get her things, and as Joel picks up the rifle, her eyes cut to you. “Can I have a gun?”

“Pardon?” you sputter.

Joel cuts his hand through the air. “Absolutely not.”

Tess looks at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Fuck no”

“Okay, Jesus, fine,” Ellie nearly whines, “I’ll have to throw a fucking sandwich at them.”

That actually makes you laugh, and Tess shoots you a look. “What? It’s a good visual.”

Huffing, Joel moves towards the door, sliding the cabinet out of the way of the door. As it swings open, more sunlight pours in, the sounds of birds chirping making it almost inviting to step out. Joel leans out the door, looking left and right. “It’s clear.”

Tess brushes past you as she heads out the door, Joel holding it open for her. You turn back to Ellie, who stands hesitantly in the middle of the room, concern clear on her face. “C’mon, kid,” you say to her, tilting your head towards the door. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Without a word, she follows you out of the salon and onto the open street. As soon as you’re through the door, however, she lets out a quiet holy shit.

“Looks different in the daylight, huh?”

You can’t help but grin a little at the awe on her face as she takes in the half-toppled buildings, crumbled structures and piles of rubble, overturned cars and signs of destruction, but then, amid the signs of the city that had once stood, further proof that nature is taking back what once belonged to it. More moss and leaves and overgrown trees in every corner of every piece of concrete, flocks of birds flying from one building to the next. Sunlight glints off the few intact panes of glass left on a building in the distance, and it makes you squint.

Joel busies himself finding a high point, stepping up on a large piece of concrete to take a look around. He doesn’t look any more concerned than usual, but he glances at Ellie before looking to you. “We should get movin’.

You nod, falling back a step so you can move to his right side. “Let’s go.”

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[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Six: Rook Takes Knight

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter

A/N: polished the previous chapters. also if this chapter feels short it's because I split the original in half because it was getting too long, so the next chapter should come out in a day or two. thanks for reading!

chapter under the cut ↓

---

Of all the possible factors that made this match so insurmountably difficult, being distracted by your opponent was one you expected the least.

Sleep deprivation clouding your mind was taxing enough, and that was without the added burden of needing to outsmart an omnic in a game of strategy. Not just any omnic either; a Ravager, armed with unrivaled processing power and crafted specifically for tactical decision making in battle. The environment may have changed, but his approach certainly did not. Your hubris would not allow you to admit that perhaps you were in over your head.

Knowing what a considerable disadvantage you were at, you still couldn't keep your thoughts from straying from the game at hand. It was odd, though, what became the object of your focus. In the moments between your turns, you found your gaze lingering not on the board in front of you, but on your opponent’s hands.

They moved gracefully, always with purpose. When he finished his turn, they did not linger or fidget, always returning to rest on his knees. As if he refused to waste any time or energy letting them idle.

You watched his slender fingers as they picked up the chess pieces, listened to the scrape of the hinges that connected the segments together. The memory of holding his hand between yours, bending his fingers and kneading the rusted joints of his wrist and arm, resurfaced. You remembered how his thumb and forefinger had twitched when you ran your fingertips just below his wrist and up the center of his palm, so fast that you almost hadn't caught it. You had wondered after that moment if certain parts of his body held more active sensors than others, if his hands were more acutely tuned to sensation than the rest of him. His hands, cold when they had wrapped around your throat with the intent to kill. The same hands that had circled your waist and pulled you to safety.

Hands that knew the weight of a gun.

It had been a constant nagging thought in the back of your mind ever since you first laid eyes on him. As one of the few Ravagers that remained after the Crisis, he belonged to the ever-decreasing group of people that held the answers to questions you had always harbored.

What had it felt like, to be under the yoke of Anubis? Did he remember any of it, the thousands of omnics he had led into battle? Did his memories haunt him, awakened at random to remind him of what he had done, as yours did? Or was it like this, the omnics he commanded sacrificed as easily as if they were no more than pawns on a chessboard?

"Your turn."

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you finally noticed Ramattra's hand had returned to rest on his knee, signaling the end of his turn. Your eyes darted around the board, searching for any clue as to what exactly he did. After finding nothing, you glanced back up at him.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. What did you do?"

He crossed his arms and clicked in distaste. It was interesting, you thought, that for an omnic with such disdain for humanity, he adopted many of their mannerisms.

"I moved my bishop from here," he said, lifting his arm and pointing to an empty square and then another diagonal to it four squares away, "to here."

Your brow furrowed as you analyzed the move. That was not the play you expected. His bishop was suspiciously unintrusive, considering the position of your pieces. You looked to where your knight stood, having edged closer and closer to his king over the course of the game. His bishop was not even in place to threaten it, let alone any of your other pieces.

As the game continued, the bishop remained, a constant presence that confounded you, but otherwise posed no issue. It was not long before you simply assumed that he had only placed it there to take space and would never move it. That is, until you led your king away from the threatening advance of his rook, and he finally pushed his bishop two squares over.

"Checkmate."

Your eyes snapped up to his face plate in an instant. "What?"

His chin dipped down as he met your gaze. "You cannot move your king. That means you're in checkmate, correct?"

You looked down at the board. He was right—your king was completely cornered. You had lost. How did you miss that?

"Yes," you answered softly, dazed by how quickly the game had ended. "That's… correct."

"Then I assume I've won?"

Strangely, you felt no disappointment in your chest at having been defeated so swiftly. There was something else, something electrifying that rushed throughout your body and prickled in the tips of your fingers. It felt… exhilarating.

The smallest of smiles rose to your face. "Yes," you repeated, and extended your hand to him. "Good game."

Ramattra stared down at your outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure what to do with it. Then, you felt the familiar chill of metal as his fingers slid against your palm, grasping your hand in his. He squeezed your hand tightly for a moment before quickly loosening his grip, as if he had only just realized your hand was not as sturdy as his.

You brought your joined hands up and back down in a curt motion, before releasing him and immediately reaching toward the pile of discarded pieces. "Shall we play again?"

He watched you silently as you reset the pieces. Then, he collected the significantly smaller pile of discarded pieces on his side into his palm and began placing them on the board after you, mirroring your movements.

"Fine," he said brusquely, his tone contrasting with the gentle way he handled the pieces. "Perhaps this time you will not be so preoccupied."

Your face warmed, and you sincerely hoped his words came from coincidence and not observation. "I'll try my best."

---

"Ah, a Sicilian defense."

Ramattra paused, hand hovering over the piece he had just moved. "What?"

Your head popped out from behind the book in your hand, titled 100 Chess Openings for Amateurs. After your seventh consecutive loss, your ego had been bruised enough to finally consider assistance from accompanying literature.

"What you just did."

His tone was one of disbelief. "You have a colloquial term for this move?"

"Well, how else would you remember it?"

"It is the most advantageous move for my position," he answered curtly. "I do not require a nickname to recognize that."

Sometimes you wondered if he was being rude on purpose. It wasn't as though it would have been out of character for him. For the week that you had continued this routine, the few times you dared to ask Ramattra to explain the strategy behind his decisions were shut down immediately. Usually, it was because he had ignored your question entirely, but the few times he did answer, he would say something along the lines of It was the correct move or I had no use for that piece anymore, with little regard to how vague and entirely unhelpful his explanations were.

Though, you supposed you couldn't hold it entirely against him. From the many, many games you had played and, subsequently, lost against him, it seemed that no matter how hard you tried, outmaneuvering you would always amount to little more than child's play to him. For someone to whom tactical precision was second nature, trying to explain decisions that were made on instinct would likely be difficult.

On some level, you could relate to that. As an engineer, you'd had your fair share of situations where someone had asked you to explain why you did this or that, and you found yourself searching for the words to explain something that had no explanation. Only that it felt right, so you had done it.

Following the steps outlined in your book, you expanded out with your knight. Ramattra reacted instantly, placing one of his pawns two squares forward. Oddly, it was at this moment that you truly felt the cosmic unfairness of this matchup.

You had not imagined that playing chess against Ramattra would be a walk in the park, but some part of you (an extremely naive part, you now realized) thought it would have at least been manageable. But the rapidness of his movements, the split second it took for him to reach decisions that would have taken you ten times as long…

Ramattra was more than just calculating. He was creative.

He adapted on the spot, molded his approach based on how you were playing. His moves, once defensive, could switch seamlessly in an instant, putting you on the backfoot without a single moment of hesitation. And, perhaps most aggravating of all, was how incredibly fast he learned. Not only were you fighting against his own mind, but all your previous behaviors compounded.

The engineer in you felt the urge to applaud Anubis, to acknowledge how incredible the intelligence forged within its omnium was. But every cursory glance you spared at the omnic sitting opposite from you only served to remind you what he had been created for. Any praise you could have lauded Anubis vanished like smoke in the wind at the thought of what such an extraordinary mind had been wasted on.

A click rung in the air as Ramattra moved his rook, its quartz base tapping against the smooth surface of the board. You glanced back at your book, an idea forming in the corners of your mind.

Holding your chin in your hand, you fixed the Ravager with a look of faux concern. "What an odd play. Are you sure about that?"

Ramattra said nothing. His face remained expressionless as always, but you felt his scrutinizing gaze pierce through you. "How so?"

You hummed, pretending to scan your book closely, before shrugging your shoulders. "If you think it's fine, then I suppose it doesn't matter."

He fell silent again, folding his arms across his chest as he considered you. You fought every instinct you had to break as you met his gaze, lifting your chin in a show of confidence. There was the telltale hiss of air from his vents before he spoke again.

"You are trying to mislead me."

His instant identification of what you were doing rattled you a little, but you put on a show of innocence as you asked, "What gave you that impression?"

He tilted his head down at you. "You are not a convincing liar."

As if to prove his point, you scowled and dropped the act immediately, letting your book fall in your lap. "Fine, you caught me." A wry grin made its way onto your face. "I should have known better than to try to trick you."

"Yes," he said coldly. "You should have."

Your face fell. There was a harsh bite to his words, almost resentful. It was so unexpected that it slammed you back to the present, and you were suddenly reminded of the reality of what you were doing.

This was not a casual game of chess between companions. You were not doing this for fun. The only reason you were doing this at all was to stall for Winston until he found some leverage that could convince Ramattra to cooperate.

He had no interest in you or the outcome of this game. The only reason he had even agreed to this was because he had nothing else to do on account of being imprisoned. Because of you. Because he was the leader of Null Sector, and you were an engineer for Overwatch.

You cleared your throat, avoiding looking at his face plate as you reached toward the board.

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the game.

---

Ramattra watched you leave, chess box tucked under your arm as usual. You lingered by the closed door until the sound of multiple automatic locks clicking into place resounded in the quiet. Your footsteps echoed behind you as you walked to the other end of the hall faster than usual, before silence settled around him once again.

Only once you were fully out of his sight did he allow his shoulders to fall, bringing a hand to his face plate as his vision blurred with static. The same red warning message blared on his HUD as it had for the past week, signaling his lack of power. It had been at a manageable level for a few days, but it seemed he was finally reaching his limit.

He relied on his ship's circular power relay for recharging, but it had been… How long had it been since his power cores were last at full capacity? Before he met you, certainly, which had been after his attack on Gothenburg. That was several months ago.

He had started entering brief rest periods in your absence to conserve what little energy remained in his power cores, but it would not last forever. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed how weak he was, and there would be little he could do to resist whatever Overwatch decided to do with him.

Ramattra cursed his lack of foresight. Rarely did he ever allow the periods between recharges to lapse this much, but with the responsibilities of leading Null Sector falling solely on his shoulders now, it was difficult to dedicate time to maintaining himself. Not for the first time, he felt the overbearing weight of his solitude. He should have let Talon find you, and he would have never ended up here.

You, who he had initially thought of as nothing more than a human engineer who reserved a moment of kindness for a Ravager, had now become a constant that his days revolved around. To his surprise, your presence had actually grown to something he looked forward to.

The hours spent in your company, playing a simple game in the quiet serenity of the conference room… Yes, he supposed he had come to enjoy it, if only a little.

He could not help but be impressed by the rather stalwart defense you put up against him. Even during you first match, what he expected to be a relatively simple defeat took him longer than he anticipated. Learning from your moves, planning several turns ahead how to outmaneuver you… it was almost fun.

But with that thought came the ever-present feeling that he was wasting time. Every day that passed with him still caged in this room was another day he could have spent rebuilding his forces, planning his next invasion. He still needed to consult with Talon about retrieving his drowned ship. Even partially destroyed, it was still better than having to build another from scratch. But instead, here he remained, no further along in his plans than he was the day he woke in your workshop, mangled and half-functioning.

Perhaps that had been your intention. To waste his processing power on something so trivial, so he would not have the wherewithal to think of anything else. You claimed your motivations were innocent, but what reason did he have to trust you, someone who had betrayed him once before without a second thought? If you saw him in this state, what reason did he have to assume you wouldn't take advantage of his weakness?

When once you so fiercely guarded your thoughts from him, now you spoke to him casually, almost familiarly. You spoke to him, smiled at him, even dared to joke with him at times, as if you were simply two acquaintances catching up over a game of chess. As if you were not an agent of Overwatch, and he was not the leader of Null Sector. As if you were not a human, and he was not created to kill you.

When he escaped this place, and he would escape, did you think he would change his mind? That he would abandon his righteous cause, simply because one human spared him from their hatred?

You should have known better than to be friendly with him. You should have known better than to speak with him, to take pity on him, to thank him, to betray him.

In the end, he would be your destruction.

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

I recently received an ask containing some concerns the asker had about medical fatphobia. That ask is not posted, because the asker requested that it be answered privately, but I thought it was worth making a list of advice for those of you who are facing fatphobia and are trying to access medical care.

Some of you may feel too triggered, scared, or frustrated to speak up for yourselves when you feel your doctor isn't taking care of your needs. If you're concerned about your ability to do this throughout your appointment, consider bringing along a trusted individual who can serve as an advocate. A family member or friend might be able to do this for you if you have anybody you trust enough. Make a plan with this person beforehand, keeping your specific concerns and triggers in mind. Doctors may be more concerned about showing you respect if they're aware that their interactions with you are being observed.

If you've come in to be seen about a problem and you're concerned it's not related to your weight, but your doctor assumes that it is, try asking them what advice they would give to a thin patient who was struggling with the same symptoms.

Doctors may suggest weight loss as a first course of treatment, and assume that failure to lose weight means you haven't tried. This means you can wait and wait to get your problem addressed, only to have them refuse to address it at all. Some health problems cannot afford to wait that long. Get a second opinion. And if they refuse to pursue further testing, say you want it noted in your chart that your doctor chose not to test further.

I know it's so frustrating and triggering to go through the effort of getting an appointment, only to have your concerns dismissed. This piece of advice is going to be frustrating, because the last thing you'll feel like doing is attempting to speak with more doctors, but keep trying. The financial and emotional impact, not to mention the wasted time, may put you off medical services in the future, but you deserve a practitioner who takes you seriously.

If you feel triggered by being weighed, you can ask them not to weigh you, or not to tell you what your weight is.

Use your community! Ask other fat people who've had success getting real medical treatment how they found their doctor and what techniques they use in medical settings to ensure they get results. Ask them how they manage their triggers in medical settings. If you are diagnosed with a chronic health condition, seek advice from others who have the same condition. Learn what works for them, and how they got diagnosed.

You are not obligated to prioritize losing weight, but if you're fat, you might have better luck with your doctors if you offer a justification for that. Yes, that sucks and no, you shouldn't have to, but if you really need answers/support unrelated to weight loss issues, try saying "I am not prioritizing weight loss at this time. The issue I came in for is impacting my life more acutely just now, and I want to focus entirely on addressing that." (Again, if they insist on adding weight loss into the conversation, or if they refuse to test until weight loss has happened and not fixed the problem, find a different doctor.

Feel free to reblog and add on!

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Hi! Can I get poly Blu Heavy and Medic with their cute fem S/O on a romantic valentine's date night? Perhaps with just a smidgen of dollplay sprinkled in?

"First Valentine's" Poly Blu Heavy and Medic x F!S/O (Valentine's Event 2024)

I SUPPOSE SO. You're just so tiny and lovable, they gotta be careful with you tho! This ask is for the ongoing Valentine's Day Event!

TW: suggestive, doll play

Valentine's Day isn't a big holiday in Germany and it's still rather new in Russia. However, being amongst their American peers and now their little partner from the United States- Ludwig and Misha understood the importance of it's celebration. The two brainstormed ideas. From paper hearts to actual hearts to attempting to bake goods... While they could seek out Spy for advice, it wouldn't be as special as them putting things together.

While some may picture a fancy restaurant or outing, the two figured their plans would be better suited with privacy. A rarely used section of the base, the insurance that none of the numbskulls they worked with would bother them- Ludwig already has your measurements. Misha picked out the dress itself, knowing the doll-like frills you enjoy. It reminded him of the chocolate boxes with reds and deep browns that would compliment your eyes.

You would wake that morning with the dress in a box in front of your door in the base. A note to be ready to be picked up for dinner. This was the sort of thing you'd discussed in passing fancy, along with more... intimate aspects of being dressed up. That was for later. For now, you got to marvel at the way this dress hugged your curves and made you feel delicate. If nothing else came from Valentine's Day, this would be more than enough.

When the pair came to pick you up, Misha would quite literally sweep you off your feet, "Dolls deserve to be carried, da?"

While you were acutely aware of how strong the Heavy was, implied by the name, the way he lifted you like you weight nothing... Sends a streak up your spine.

"He's been waiting all afternoon you know." Ludwig teased, "And now we've come to take you away~ The scary men and their evil machinations!"

"Personally, I could think of several evil machinations I'd like you to put me in!" You pretended to go faint and limp in Misha's arms with a heavy sigh. The Russian man let you bounce in his arms before kissing your cheek. You could feel the light stubble against your skin.

"Little minx." Ludwig leaned to you, clicking his tongue, "Whatever will we do with her, Misha my love?"

"Dunno, Doctor... Keep her forever for us! We might have to eat her for rations in the winter. So sweet!" He mocked as though he was going to bite into your neck, causing you to playfully shout. They were definitely your dorks.

You noted as you walked that the hallways had become more twisting and long. Unfamiliar. It wasn't surprising, the base was still so new to you overall. Yet you were feeling further and further away from everyone else. It was exciting given how little privacy there could be at moments. No one could hear you scream, so to speak.

Misha gently allowed your feet to touch the ground as you entered what appeared to be a private office. It was a reasonable size, cleared out save for a table, chairs and decorations. Red and pink hearts had been crudely cut out of paper and posted to the walls. A cheesy cupid in the corner. It was... goofy. And so, so genuine. Chocolates and smaller meal pieces had been placed out over the table. All things you liked.

"All this for me, boys?" You twirled your skirts in a flourish, "You shouldn't have!"

"You like the dress, I take it?" Ludwig was already taking the opportunity to put his hands to your waist. Physical affection was a love language you they showered you with constantly. He leaned to kiss your cheek, mischief in his eyes, "All this food and suddenly I want something else-"

Misha wasted no time in clapping his hands over his doctor's shoulder, "Not yet. That is... later." He wasn't going to pretend his intentions were utterly pure himself. Already in his mind he'd been thinking of different positions to have you in between them...

Yet you were already flush and fumbling, "Yes- I- Uh-huh, the dress!" They both thought it was just so cute how confidently you could speak until push came to shove.

Next Misha looked to you, a hand under your chin, "How is this?" You knew what he meant. How did they do?

A smile, "It's perfect. This is... This is so nice-" You could feel yourself getting a little emotional. A deep breath. No crying today. Your hands went to the hem of your dress and you swished back and forth.

"You are beautiful, like always." Misha complimented.

Ludwig was already eating a piece of chocolate, "Tell her something she doesn't already know! But, yes, you are always beautiful. This merely acc-sentuates it. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day, both of you."

[marc--chilton]

okay Yes big big fan of house nesting when he’s sad/lonely but also finding it demeaning. like he just HAS to make himself miserable it’s his fav hobby.

what iffff during a particularly bad time (bad pain day, case gone awry, etc etc.) house shuts himself up in his apartment & nests, because all he wants is to be curled up with wilson but he figures this is as good as he’ll get. but then wilson (sensing that something is off) comes to check on House and finds him curled up in his nest,,,,, like would he comfort house & try to look after him?? if so would house let him?? or would he just pretend he never saw it (even though he reallyyyy wanted to intervene) so that it didn’t cross any boundaries?? what if house heard him come into the room & then leave?? what if house whined & asked him to stay in the smallest saddest voice?? what if house tried to push wilson away and wilson refused and said he’s not going anywhere????? !! ??

i’m in desperate need for some hurt comfort hilson omegaverse angst 😔🤙🏻

KILLING ME SOFTLY WITH THIS ONE BESTIE

____________

In the burrow of dirty laundry and throw blankets, the sound of gentle knocks hardly came through. Faintly, he heard his own name being called from the hall. House didn't move to answer but the whine that left his dry throat came out unbidden anyway.

Go away, he wanted to growl. Isn't someone's home supposed to be their sanctuary?

Even if that were true, Wilson always had a spare set of keys.

The traitorous lock giving way still managed to be deafening even when House went the extra mile to crush his head under the pillows he'd stowed away in this shitty little stress-nest. He pressed it harder against his ear the closer those Oxfords came, biting back another whine when Wilson beckoned again. The bedroom door opened wider, silent except for the one spot in the hinge where it creaked softly.

"I saw your bike, I know you're h-- oh."

As if it couldn't get any more mortifying. House couldn't see him, buried as he was, but he could practically feel the mild concern, already picturing the little furrow on thick brows. He didn't dignify him with an explanation, even a fake one. It had been a long day.

Footsteps came even closer and House curled up tighter, warm with shame.

"This is.... a bit much, don't you think?" An opening, the words light enough to allow for an out.

House, dehydrated and voice unused -- if one doesn't count involuntary whines, whimpers, and growling -- since he left the hospital who knows how many hours ago, could only croak back, "Get out, Wilson."

It was met with a sigh so heavy he nearly flinched. "There wasn't anything you could have done for that boy, House."

His eyes wrenched shut. That boy, his last patient. He hadn't even been old enough to drink yet. Brought in after collapsing at the park while watching, not even participating, with a basketball game among friends. Innocuous symptoms turned acute, false leads meant useless test, meant wasted time. What was initially brushed off as low blood sugar and heatstroke turned out to be an incomplete fetal rejection; a mark from the alpha girlfriend he cheated on combating the pregnancy from the affair itself leading to a malformed embryo literally killing him from inside out. If only he figured it out sooner that kid could have been getting dumped instead of chilling in the morgue.

So deep in his head he hadn't noticed Wilson leaving and coming back in until a cold water bottle was slipped in through the slit in the weave he had been using to breathe through. "Sit up so you don't drown." A bitchy suggestion from a friend, not a command from an alpha. Commendable when sometimes the voice was the only thing that could push through House's contrarian attitude.

"Why are you here? I'm not gonna kill myself because one patient died." Water after days of hospital coffee might as well have been ambrosia. "You've done your good deed, you're free to go now."

The bed dipped under Wilson's weight as he settled in close by without invading the nest itself. He spoke easily over House's warning growls. "No."

"No?"

"No. Glad to know you're not gonna off yourself, but I think you forget you're in a nest right now. You're not in heat," damn him for catching the excuse House had locked and loaded, "and you're sure as hell not pregnant, which can only mean you just feel shitty for your patient dying anyway. It's almost sweet how hard you take it sometimes."

House's growling took on a dangerous tone.

"My point is," the stupid, beautiful, sickeningly perfect alpha continued with placating gestures House could not see, "if you feel bad enough that you need to do all this, then I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone."

"Go away, Wilson." They were equally stubborn at times so House knew he was probably wasting his breath, but whatever.

He was met with the sounds of shoes slipping off socked feet and the rustle of an ugly tie being loosened. "Okay, well, what if I told you I'm staying to make myself feel better? To... satiate my savior complex or whatever."

Growls tapering into a sigh, the fight in him gave way. When life gives you lemons.... House snaked a hand out of the nest, palm up, whining in such a way he could only manage without the added stress of eyes on him. Begging.

With a snort, amused and surprised, Wilson folded his tie into House's hand. Nice, very nice, he'll be taking that, thank you very much, but not quite what he was asking for. Pianist fingers wrapped tightly around Wilson's wrist, tugging in demand. Wilson hesitated for barely a second before he cautiously let his arm be tugged into the ramshackle nest. The tie was extricated carefully from between them to be tucked under House's cheek, to be nuzzled into, a token of comfort for an omega soaked in the scent of an alpha.

Then, gently, with a touch so light it tickled, delicate fingers traced along Wilson's hand, from fingerprints to forearm where his sleeve was rolled up. He shivered when a thumb pressed softly into the gland on his wrist, then again at the sound of House's deep inhale and sigh. Bravely, Wilson started to purr, a wordless reassurance that what was happening was okay.

To his immense delight, House purred back. It was going to be okay.

[pb-dot]

The Sisypheanism of Self Care

I don't know if the title is strictly accurate or uses words that are actual words, and neither do I care. Today's been a rough one and I'm granting myself license to be a little extra.

In the last year or so I've become acutely aware that the various mental health care I've been receiving hasn't really been hitting the mark. The talk therapy fails to function as much more than a pressure valve, although it in fairness has been a great pressure valve when I could get it. The problem is that we, that is to say, I and my doctor, former therapist, and social services caseworker haven't really made any inroads into making my life any better or breaking me out of my depression, or this spiral of unemployment, taking a job that doesn't fit my strengths, working until I have burnout and quit - repeat that I have been caught in for most of my adult life.

I was hoping there was an end coming to this time of faffing about with common sense cures for depression, my doctor currently suggests I lose some weight (I know, you're shocked) and take cold showers. In fairness, treatment-resistant depression probably isn't her field of expertise being a GP and all. Anyway, the reason why I hoped this was because I've recently been referred to the public psychiatric center that I know takes a somewhat more clinical approach to treatment, so although I wasn't holding out hope of being "cured" anytime soon, I was kind of hoping this would land me with a treatment plan of some sort. Maybe some different meds? A supplementary diagnosis of some sort? Who's to say, but a fella can dream, can't he?

So far I've talked to two separate mental health professionals who both seem deeply unsure about what to do about me. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, there were also some blood tests as I expressed I was a bit uncertain whether my antidepressants were, in fact, doing anything. I suppose that is the first thing you do in that instance, but I'm just expecting to hear that my body is treating the meds right, and the question if it does do something remains kind of floating in the air. That is, if it doesn't turn out I'm secretly immune to these as well.

Anyway, it's impatience on my end, and I'm fully aware of it. Diagnosing mental health conditions and neurodivergence is tricky and the consequences for making the wrong call can be pretty bad. That said, I'm just tired of getting mh treatment that I can't actually tell if does anything at the same time as I'm getting help getting back to work that I can't tell if does anything, and every time I talk to anyone in my life about this I can't but shrug and go "it'll pay off eventually... I hope."

It's all just such a waste. I was such a bright child in school, and although I wasn't quite as much of a standout during university, I did ok considering I was heavily depressed at the time. Hell, I'm still smart, pretty darn smart in certain fields, I would suggest, and my last formal test of my mental capabilities would agree. And yet, here I sit. Unemployed, frustrated, depressed, a walking pile of anxiety and dark thoughts so robust they almost, but thankfully not quite, should count as a philosophy by now.

Where did I go wrong? There are probably a bunch of things I could have done differently, but frankly, I also feel like Society, that old villain, has failed me in some rather profound ways. It's not just how difficult it has been getting mental health help that actually does something, or how absolutely debilitating being unemployed can be, although these certainly do contribute. My problem isn't just that my life is being made measurably worse by our old foe Late Stage Capitalism, although most of these are just made worse by that cancerous corpse of an ideology. The world seemingly has no place for me it feels like. Loneliness pushes in around me from every conceivable angle, dating is a nightmare, every job requires multi-year experience or specialized education I hadn't even heard about before reading about them, there seems to be no thought put into how exactly anyone not fitting into this cripplingly overspecialized work market is supposed to live their godfuckingdamned life, and that's not even getting into the climate shit.

I honestly hate how easy it is for me to pivot from talking about depression to unemployment. I hate how employment has to be a factor in my mental health. I hate how approximately nobody I've talked to about it, on the professional side, seems to get that I wasn't less depressed back when I was working. I hate how I can't get a job because it feels fucking impossible to be enough of a "go-getter with can-do attitude" to even make it to the interview stage when nothing feels good or worth it. I hate the fucking catch-22 of it all, and I hate that neither psychiatrist nor doctor nor case worker can even begin to unravel this Gordian knot for me, or even tell me where in the good grace of fuck I might begin pulling.

It's like they're saying "Sorry, your depression is untreatable and although we won't say it to your face, the labor market's general indifference to you should tell you that you have no place in it which in the current order of things means you have no value. Shame about that, someone probably should've told you all this before you did your best in school and endured the social ostracization that followed with being a kinda weird kid that loved books, all fueled by the fucking lie that it'd get better once you were done with school."

So yeah. I'm not having a fantastic day today, but I think getting some bile out of my system might have helped me feel a little less terrible? Better days than this will come, I'm sure. I'll try doing nice things for myself the rest of the day, although I'm not quite sure what they were. If I shitpost or rb more saucy art than usual today, that's probably what I ended up with

[aetherceuse]

The convenience store’s air was humid and balmy, all too common for the Alolan climate. There were no patrons, which meant that the tired, underpaid cashier at the counter was given the chance to open a window and stand in front of the desk fan. Black hair sticks to his forehead, sweat beading from his forehead.

The hum of the television mounted in the corner, just above a shelf of various bagged snacks and sweets, catches his attention as he hears a very familiar voice speak. Propping himself on his elbow, he lazily turns his attention to the screen, tuning in to what looked like a daytime interview with the president of the Aether Foundation.

“— Which is a very simple problem to solve, if more attention was given to the water quality off of Hau’oli Beach. Revitalizing the local ecosystem is a matter of cooperation between the governing bodies and the scientific community,” she speaks slowly, calmly, formally.

An interview with Madame President was not easy to obtain, but when the Hau’Oli News was granted permission, they wasted no time in sending one of their best journalists to the Aether Paradise. They were set up in her presidential office, their representative— a middle aged man quite round in the face, dressed to impressed— sitting across from the illustrious woman.

“I would love nothing more than to see invasive species removed from Alola’s waters, a shame that it is the local government that has to bear the weight,” Lusamine punctuated her thought quite— bluntly. One leg crossed over the other, eye contact never breaking with the journalist— a hand brushing through the pewter fur of her Alolan Persian, who sat at her side, the other hand folded neatly in her lap.

She was known for intimidating reporters with her no-nonsense responses, and lack of give in her conversations.

But, the briefest of smiles is granted as another thought comes to mind, expression kind, without giving up any of her presence.

“We could begin a dialogue on international relationships for conservation sake, but I am afraid that would start a more—“ she exhales through her nostrils, fingertips scratching beneath her Persian’s chin, “controversial conversation.”

The reporter nods, nearly forgetting to speak, for he had been stuck in a state of stupor by the president’s demeanor. Yes, talking about the condition of Alola’s endangered species was the main focus of this interview, but the station had requested that he pry into a subject that the masses were dying to hear more about.

He clears his throat, nods and smiles, shuffling his papers.

“Thank you, madame, your input is valuable,” he answered.

And the president’s eyes soften some, pleased.

“It’s clear that you’re continuing to maintain the ah— prestigious reputation of the Aether Foundation through all of the major events going on globally, including the ones that have popped up in your personal life.”

The hand scratching Persian’s chin stops.

“Now it’s— mhm,” he clears his throat again, “been almost a year and a half since your husband has disappeared on his exhibition at sea. There’s no doubt that this has been— has been disrupted not only to the foundation, but to your family unit. How do you think you’ve been able to maintain your health during this time?”

As every word came from the journalist’s mouth, Lusamine’s lips slowly curved downwards, that pleasant expression in her eyes vanishing almost immediately. Silence stings the air, and she does not reply.

The man sitting before her becomes acutely aware of her presence, and shuffles uncomfortably in his seat.

“Ah— I— Mh, I apologize if that question was too—“ he begins to trip over himself in an attempt to mend the mood, but he is cut off by the slightest of chuckles from Lusamine.

Her eyes, however, remain rather. . . Lifeless.

“My husband’s disappearance is still a source of grief for me,” she answered, fingertips slowly brushing through Persian’s neck. Lusamine lifts her head some, and states plainly, “it’s a shame that you feel so comfortable asking about this during a publicly televised interview.”

There is no answer from the journalist, but there is a motion from the employee manning the camera that their broadcast time was coming to an end.

All the while, Lusamine turns her head away, closes her eyes, and smiles quite condescendingly. Mh Mh.

“. . . Again, my apologies, Madame President. That— concludes our interview today, thank you so much for giving us time in your busy schedule,” he smiled, somewhat uncomfortably, and extended his hand out.

“Likewise,” Lusamine responded pleasantly, and reached to shake his hand.

Once the camera was shut off, the public broadcast killed, her grip on the journalist’s hand intensifies, her expression flattening into an icy stare.

“If you do not want your news station to lose credibility, I would suggest that you properly draft your interview questions before presenting them. You failed to mention that my husband would be brought up,” Lusamine uttered, displeasure VERY evident in her eyes as her steel grip on the man’s hand remained.

She releases his hand, stands up from her chair, and turns around, dismissive hand waving, signaling for her associates to escort the television crew out of her office. Hands folded behind her back, Lusamine’s gaze flickers down to the regal cat who followed her step.

“Oh Euphrates,” the smiled some, and pat the Pokémon’s head, resulting in a rumbling purr.

“Madame President! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know the news station would be so invasive,” one of her employees stammers with apology, hands balled into fists as she lowered her head with shame. “We all— we all know how much—“

Lusamine turns around, looks down to the young woman, and shakes her head slowly.

“It is not your fault, you did not know,” she assured gently, hand patting the trembling associate’s shoulder. One finger links around a strange of brunette hair, before she pulls away.

Euphrates flicks his tail, and meanders away, blue gem upon her head catching the sunlight pouring through the window.

“It is about time you return to your work though,” Lusamine instructed, dismissing the associate; one by one, her office was cleared of all of intruders.

( 🎶 )

“My poor, lost Mohn. . .” Lusamine sighed, hands linked together behind her back once more as lidded eyes gazed through the window, out to the sea, shimmering with Alolan sunlight. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or a reflection off of the chandelier hanging over head, but it almost appeared as if Lusamine herself was also giving off some of that shimmering splendor, her skin shining ever so subtly, like crystal, or glass.

“They just cannot find you out there.”

Incredible, how such a sight can bring back so many memories.

The sea salt on her lips, in her hair, tempest winds ripping across the water.

How the choppy waves of the ocean rocked the boat, and swallowed up the innocent Mohn Delacroix, who had so desperately reached and begged for help from his wife and the crew on their boat. Not one body had moved to made the initiative to rescue him from waters as the sea swallowed him into the depths.

They were ordered to remain still.

His last, dying sight would be the frigid, piercing gaze of the woman he had pledged his life to.

She s m i l e s, and turns her head up, eyes scanning the ceiling, adorned with classical paintings of horrific, lovely creatures that she had visions of, entities that lived in a world beyond their own: truly beautiful monsters, in her eyes.

“They miss you so much.

. . . Such a shame.”

[tocontinue]

  —Is next year the one?

  It’s an idea he hasn’t humored in so many years. De-weaponization. The chance to finally shed the mantle of Mega Man and return to his roots, his purpose, his function, as Rock. The lab assistant Doctor Light wanted in his second foray into the Robot Master.

  The idea was attempted before, to some extent. If they had followed through with it, it may have cost countless people their lives. Rock would never consider a Robot Master attack to be a blessing, but... well, thank goodness Cossack hadn’t delayed his uprising any further. If he had to be re-weaponized, the delay... well, he tries not to linger on the what-if.

  It’s selfish, but he can’t help but particularly wish it on himself this time. Wily’s last attack hadn’t just seen him donning the blue armor once more; Rock was weaponized even further, outfitted with the Double Gear System of Wily’s own design. Sure, there was technically nothing inherently... weapon-y about it, and Rock had found plenty of other uses for it in the aftermath of that attack. But that was why it was installed into his systems. To fight. To stop Wily.

  It had been a long time since the last attack. Maybe, just maybe, Wily was down for good this time. Run off to some hidden bunker to waste away, ensuring everlasting peace. And yet...

  ‘Remember this! Doctor Wily always strikes again!’

  ...There were too many risks. It was unlikely Rock would ever be able to retire the title in his lifetime.

  A door opens behind him. In that moment, Rock becomes acutely aware of how sad he must look, gazing out of the window of Light Labs so... well, sad-looking. He turns to greet Doctor Light with a smile, but it’s painfully clear to both of them how forced the gesture is. The facade is abandoned almost immediately, with blue eyes turning to the ground below instead.

  “You know, Rock,” he begins, pulling up a stool and sitting across from him. “...you would be terrible at poker.”

  The comment catches him off-guard. He turns his gaze back to Light, a curious frown replacing the forlorn expression there a moment prior.

  “I’m... not sure I understand.”

  “You really haven’t heard of a poker face?” The realization earns a chuckle from Light. “Poker is a game of lies, above all else. Knowing when to hide your look of disgust, or your joy upon seeing a good hand, is all part of the basics of the game... hence the term.”

  A slow nod of understanding follows, though Rock doesn’t look happy about it. He supposes he’d rather be bad at a game all about lying, all things considered... still, he can’t help but feel like he’s failing something. Even if it is really as simple as not hiding his emotions well.

  ...Proving his father right, it’s clear that Light takes notice of it.

  “Now, I never said it was a flaw.” Light tries again, leaning forward and placing a hand on Rock’s shoulder. He can’t help but find some comfort in the action, and visibly relaxes, if only a little.

  “Most men would have crumbled under the weight of your responsibilities. To stand up, time and time again, to stare danger in the face...” Light shakes his head. “Honestly, Rock, I struggle to keep my head up sometimes, and I’m not even the one to face Wily each time.”

  “But I’m not keeping my head up.” Rock interrupts, shaking his head as well. “I’m... sad. I’m always sad. I wish... I wish it would all be over already.”

  There’s a pause in the conversation. If Rock were to look again, he’d see his father thinking his next words over very carefully.

  “...It’s true, you may be sad now. And I can clearly see that you are.” He adds with a chuckle. “But your emotions are not just limited to despair, and I can see that as well.”

  Rock shakes his head yet again... but doesn’t interrupt, instead looking up at Light once more.

  “I designed you as a son. A child, meant to experience the world with the same sense of wonder a human child would.” He stops briefly to clear his throat... it’s clear he’s getting a little emotional, too. “With each time Wily comes back, I... worry you may lose that.”

  A pause, as Light takes a deep breath.

  “Yet, after over a dozen times of saving the world from destruction... you haven’t changed, my boy.” There’s the faintest threat of tears welling up in his eyes, but the smile below them is warm and genuine. “When you help me in making new Robot Masters, or when you go out to help your brothers... even when you spend time with Roll, it’s clear to me that you’re having fun, Rock. The same fun a child like you should have.”

  Another lull in the conversation, but this one falls on Rock. He sits there for a moment, mulling his father’s words over. Thinking back to exactly what Light described... helping him make the new Robot Masters of tomorrow, or showing up to a work site to use his Copy Chip to double manpower on a Robot Master’s project. Even just helping Auto with the reconstruction of the 11s...!

  A laugh actually slips out. The sound even catches Rock himself off guard. Light can’t help but laugh as well.

  “I don’t fault you for wanting this war to end. We all wish it had ended a long time ago.” Light says with a pat on the shoulder. “But you are more than just this war. You’re a beacon to the world in so many more ways than you realize.”

  Rock nods his head with the smallest smile on his face. Thanks to that awful poker face of his, it’s easy to tell this one’s actually genuine. It only takes a moment for the boy to jump off of his stool and run in for the hug.

  “...I do this all the time, huh?”

  “All part of that terrible poker face of yours.” Light says with a chuckle and a ruffling of Rock’s hair. After only a moment, though, his tone becomes genuine once again. “There’s no need to stress over how you feel. We’ll always be here to help you.”

  Rock nods again, then pulls himself out of the hug. His joyful expression has returned in full!

  ...And it vanishes almost immediately to a look of panic.

  “The fireworks.” He looks to the door, then back to Light. “I’m not late, am I?”

  “What? No, that’s not for another...”

  Wrong answer, apparently. Rock bolts through the door without waiting for Light to finish, his voice echoing through the halls of Light Labs.

  “Rush! C’mon, boy, we’ve gotta hurry!”

  “Uh, Mega Buddy? I dunno how to tell ya this, but set-up isn’t for another--”

  Ruff, ruff!

  “Alright, finally! Let’s go, boy!”

  The sound of the door opening and slamming shut, and Roll’s complaints about the noise ringing through the halls a moment later...

  “Please, never change, Rock.”

[bea-l-zebul]

I’m bearing my soul for a second here.

Body Positivity is a good thing, you’ve got one body so you should do what you can with it, you should appreciate it no matter where you are right now, i get that

But as someone with multiple physical disabilities, that cause chronic pain, fatigue, and a plethora of other problems, its sometimes so hard to actually appreciate anything about yourself, because you inherently feel like you can’t do anything

It’s even worse when your already big, i had lost some weight and was getting a lot of praise from my doctors, and then i had my first (potential) MS/ autoimmune flare and gained 17 pounds back, and suddenly that praise stopped and it turned into ‘you need to loose weight’ lectures all over again, as if i wasn’t aware.

Ignoring the fact that I don’t need more stress right now, nor can i really move, I’m in pain constantly so movement is anything but “joyful” for me, and on top of that i have ocular nerve damage from the flare, and during the flare i was extremely dizzy and motion sick and fatigued from the acute onset of nystagmus.

Im on medications which can cause weight gain, I have PCOS, my DMM for whatever autoimmune condition i have (they haven’t figured it out yet, but they are working on it) will also probably cause weight gain since it is steroid based.

And the doctors who tell me this just, don’t take that into consideration, like at all. Im not going off a med that works because it caused me to gain weight, that’s ridiculous (But its the suggestion that every foundation for MS or my other conditions suggests you do, its not like treatment is a strategic thing or anything/s)

And then the messaging you get from other people “submitting to ‘fat logic’ is bad and means you gave up on yourself”. Really? Well what do you suggest i do? My doctors just tell me to “loose the weight” and then are baffled when my weight fluctuates because of medical issues and treatments? This is a loose loose situation, either i keep on attempting to loose weight just to loose weight, or i try to focus on other things for my health and get called a looser and a waste of space because of my weight by society, and get told I’m using my very real medical conditions “as an excuse to not eat less and move more”

Im not even that fat according to their flawed BMI shit, according to them i just fall into the “obese” category.

It’s hard to value yourself or what you can do when society tells you thats off limits both because of your weight, and because of your disabilities.

Anyway, im hoping to learn a little more over time, and maybe see a HAES nutritionist (my new insurance possibly will cover it 100% so, yay for that) because i need help navigating this with as little stress as possible.

[clowndensation]

inesca's opinion on his comanions pre-skyhold. btw.

s tier:

vivienne holds a position that he respects immensely, and who treats him as someone worth knowing/who has the potential to be someone great, which has a HUGE impact on how he develops in the beginning in embracing his own agency as someone people will actually listen to. her opinion holds a lot of weight with him, and he's acutely aware she has her own agenda that she's attempting to "coach" him into (which he's actively attempting to encourage, for psychological reasons we can't get into right now), which also adds a very weird tension to their relationship, since he flips a coin every day on whether he feels validated or demeaned by being manipulated. she's easily one of the people he talks with most.

solas and inesca take turns being passive aggressively condescending to each other. inesca about solas's opinions on the dalish (gen z voice okay boomer flat ear <- used to be a flat ear himself), and solas just. in general. <3 but inesca is also really difficult to offend in a way that will lead him to escalating a disagreement, so a lot of their conversations have a lot of really charged wind up, before tapering out into an actual academic debate that they both end up enjoying (helped by the fact that inesca is 1. a history nerd so their conversations divert into weird directions 2. great at conceding a point.). a lot of their relationship is actually built on the fact that they're both very aligned in regards to priorities in the field. inesca's a bad fighter but a great healer, and his emphasis on helping out individuals wins him solas's respect, which in turn changes how academically removed inesca keeps himself in his debates. probably the slowest rise to s tier of the four in here.

cassandra he liked almost immediately, because she was willing to concede doubt over her own actions to him. this circles back to respect again, in that people valuing how he might view them is foreign to him, and he values them immensely in return. she's probably the first person he has a legitimately vulnerable conversation with, because she's so blunt it sets him at ease. he also just trains a lot with her, because he's Not A Great Fighter. camaraderie in getting thrown on your ass 8000 times a day 👍

josephine is niceys to him and also coaches him on politics :) he has absolutely no clue if she's being nice because she's a diplomat, or because they actually have some sort of bond, but having someone in the group of advisors who's main goal is facilitating relationships among fractured groups is huge for him. plus in the lead up to cotj i do think he goes through a decent amount of prep work on how to be a facilitator himself with the templars, and while ALL the advisors help with that, josephine is the only one inesca actually feels comfortable around.

a tier:

leliana could be s tier, but she scares him in a way that makes him uncertain where they stand with each other 😭. he respects her immensely, is uncomfortable with how blithely she views murder, and doesn't know how to have a conversation with her that doesn't serve a larger purpose for the goals of the inquisition, because anything else makes him feel like he's wasting her time. "coworker i would do anything for" vibes.

varric's also niceys to him :) he likes hearing his stories, and thinks he's good at easing tension, but they've got a more surface level relationship at this point in the story, because inesca hasn't reached his breaking point yet. he feels like he can trust and rely on varric, so he's high on the list, but it's a purely vibes based relationship atm.

b tier

cole was in his head while envy went through inesca's memories 👍 that's scary and offputting when you're hyper repressed and have a complicated relationship with your own self worth, but you can't help but trust a man who's been inside you and still calls you the next morning. you know how it is.

cullen is cassandra but a man, so inesca likes and trusts him less (#misandry). they've got a business relationship, but inesca's personal templar experience makes him hesitant to actually warm up to cullen atm.

c tier

sera he WANTS to be friends with. he likes her! he agrees with her overall viewpoint! or if not agrees, at least doesn't disagree. she just makes him feel the most self conscious of all his companions, because he's constantly saying things she seems to find offputting. he's used to people arguing with him when they disagree with him, but she basically just calls him names and shuts the conversation down, which he doesn't know how to recover from. two people who have absolutely no idea where they stand with each other. </3

iron bull he's neutral on. he doesn't know him well enough to really have an opinion, because he's the newest recruit inesca brought on (after cole, who was In His Head, so that's different). he SEEMS nice enough, but also he's a qunari spy who keeps asking follow up questions to things inesca would prefer remain unspoken. uneasy relationship.

blackwall he also doesn't know very well. i think they end up bonding over woodcarving later, but as of right now blackwall is a hero-figure who inesca doesn't really know what to do with. he's doing grey warden favors for him, but doesn't know him personally. distant coworker.

misc

dorian i didn't put on the tier list because he's not a companion for inesca yet. their first meeting inesca doesn't like him. too prone to showboating and theatrics in a way inesca finds offputting. doesn't understand how his meeting with fiona turned into talking with a bunch of guys from tevinter (#misandry take 2). unimpressed. would be d tier if i were to place him, but it's simply not a fair ranking because inesca Does Not Know That Guy. although considering dorian greatly disapproves if you do cotj instead of ihw, i do think they mutually start off on the wrong foot with each other.