#and I tell you: Bones get stiff need crack or else moving them is hard

[sunrisepapersheets]

Al Haitham doing this to crack Kaveh's back after he fell asleep on the desk

Kaveh being like "I do NOT trust this you're going to break me" at first but then it's actually so good and useful it turns out he asks for it every time he feels a slight discomfort.

Additionally: Them waiting for their morning coffee to be done while Haitham cracks Kaveh's knuckles gently (Kaveh is eepy and keeps his eyes closed through it until he's had some coffee in his system)

[unknownjpegs]

home

He collides into Sergeant Tillman with enough force it almost knocks both of them to the ground.

“Christ! Baby! Fuck!” The older mercenary has a hand around his bicep, gripping him hard. Keeping him upright, because his legs aren’t working properly. Burning, with pain from the way he’d been running. Like a coward. He’d been running. Away from—away from…

Don’t call me that, Xavier thinks, but can’t say. His tongue feels numb, his jaw unhinged and his bloody hands scrambling over Tillman’s tactical vest. He grips into it hard as his arms vibrate, as his shoulders shake—his whole fucking body’s doing it. Head to fucking steel toe and he can’t control it. Feels outside himself, distant and above and untethered ad scared.

“This your blood? You injured, operator?” He gets patted down, hands crawling over him and making Xavier nauseas. Not just—he throws up, Tillman immediately backing away from him with raised palms. Xavier’s entire stomach empties, one hand gripping into his old rib injury as he does. Shoulders heaving with the effort as water and MRE spills out of him. He stumbles toward a tree, bracing against it as he breathes. As he tries to breathe.

“N-Not mine,” he whispers out. “Not mine.”

“Where’s Wilson?”

“Blood,” he whispers again, “not mine.”

The woods come alive with birds, a flock of them lifting up into the air and calling out loudly as they slide through the dull sky. Xavier’s eyes lift up toward them, dizzy as spit runs down his chin. His bloody hand sticks to the tree bark as Tillman approaches once more. He still has his rifle. Slung across him, easy access and for some reason, he thinks about pointing it at his sergeants chest.

Thinks about pulling the trigger.

Instead, Xavier looks up at him and his face crumples. He cries boyishly, with pinched brows, open mouth as he gestures to the blood on himself. Help me, he wants to ask. Please.

“Not mine,” he repeats.

Tillman presses his comms on his shoulder and barks an order for retreat, “Baby’s not alright. Pulling back with Unit Two.”

—

Lark visits him in medical, even though he’s not really hurt at all.

They’d cleared him, but he doesn’t move from the gurney, even hours later. A medic had cut through the outer layer of his tactical gear and it had been so stiff with blood, it had crunched when it was removed. Had made Xavier laugh, so wildly and so loudly that the medic had slipped a hand over his mouth. Stared at him with big, sad, almost knowing eyes. Xavier had let himself be examined in silence after that.

No head wounds, no broken bones, no hidden cuts. All the blood had been from—been from—

He sits there, with his still red hands dangling between his knees. Lark stands in front of him. And Xavier wants to tell him, you and Benji are the same height. He feels a hand slip into his hair and it makes his bare shoulders hunch up hard. He tilts his head, back and forth, feeling Lark’s fingers move through his dirty hair. Blood build up, sweat, dirt and grime. You are the same height as Benji, he imagines himself saying.

Just to say his name out loud. Are the same height, are because still. Because Benji survived that—Benji survived that, he did.

A cavern opens in his chest. It cracks open inside him and yawns, large and unfilled and screaming.

Xavier’s hand loops around Lark’s wrist and slips to hold his palm. He brings his friends knuckles to his forehead, bows forward as he holds it. Cannot look at him. Cannot withstand seeing someone he loves, right now, when he is still covered in the blood of someone else he…His shoulders hunch harder and harder as he feels himself sucking in desperate, painful breaths. His ribcage expands painfully, reminds him of the broken ribs he’d gotten saving this man. Of the hole inside him now.

“I need your help, Lark,” he whispers.

** SEVERAL MONTHS LATER **

“How much of this do I have to give you so you don’t tell anyone you saw me?”

Xavier spreads the notes across his palm, holding it out to the cabbie from the backseat. You give him a tenner? Benji’s smile fills him for a moment, blinding and warm and making his heart shiver and he tells himself, soon. So fucking soon. He can’t think of Benji yet; hasn’t really let himself, even when all he wants to think about is the medic. He has a ten mile walk after this.

They’re stopped in the middle of a road and the cabbie stares at him with tired, lazy eyes. Big bellied man, with thinning hair and a picture of his family tacked to the dashboard. A little girl that looks just as tired and lazy and a wife who looks, if possible, even more so. Xavier would really like to not have to resort to violence. Sighs with relief when he reaches over and takes everything out of Xavier’s hand. For a moment, he thinks to argue, but he’s too tired himself.

The plane ride had made him so nervous (sweat, pouring over him, so bad he thought the black hair powder he’d used to conceal his red was going to run, jumping every time the stewardess stopped to ask if he wanted a soda) that he has no more energy to spend. And there’s still the ten mile walk.

Instead, he mumbles a thank you and steps out the car. Slugs the giant duffle bag over his shoulder as he does and watches the cab slowly rumble down the dirt path. It’s just about to be night time, so he slings the maglight out from the bag. Clicks it a few times, feels the heft of it. Good weight—nice for breaking cheekbones, or jaws if he—Xavier shivers and turns to the woods.

No more violence. No more—we’re done with violence.

He’d been here, not that long ago. Had met Benji’s sister—who looked so much like him, looking at her had made him momentarily light headed. Had also, scoped out the trail he was going to take to that old, historical home tucked into the woods. Xavier needed something by foot—didn’t trust the cab to take him all the way there like the last time. He needed near total anonymity.

Because, no more violence from him. They, however—the Shadows, if they found him. If they traced him here. Xavier shivers, tucks his jacket around himself tighter. Then hefts the bag a little more, tries to space the weight over his shoulders evenly because the walks going to be agonizing.

—

“These will work, yeah.”

Xavier takes the manila folder, immediately tucks it underneath his arm, tries to obscure it. Nomi looks at it and then up to him before her eyes skitter away. This could get her killed, he realizes. If they figure out, this could get her worse than killed—and she’d done it for him. Had done it because Lark had asked her to, but also, this is really for him.

Could get Lark killed too. Could get his girlfriend killed. All of them killed. This folder filled with a fake passport, fake birth certificate, fake records of an Xavier that had never actually existed before. Or maybe one that would have existed, if he’d never joined this fucking company. His eye twitches a little, his hand running back through his hair.

“You’ve lost weight, love,” Nomi says quietly. He glances at her, his hand still in his hair as he does. She’s pointedly staring at his torso, instead of him, because she never looked him in the eyes. He swallows and drops his hand.

“Thanks for this.”

“Well, m’bit of a romantic underneath it all. Hope he’s worth it, s’all.”

He is, Xavier doesn’t say. Cannot even entertain it out loud, he’s so scared.

—

It’s real night by the time he gets to the house. The lights are on in the downstairs, little yellow windows that make him feel like he’s walking up to a dream. His shoulders burn, from the weight of the duffle. And his feet are aching—an ankle is rubbed raw and bleeding, but he hadn’t stopped walking to check on it. Had felt compelled only to move forward. Months of only moving forward. He looks at the windows, and he feels…He feels like…

He feels like he’s—he’s home and—

—

“You goin’ somewhere, Baby?”

Tillman’s voice makes his body flinch on reflex, all his muscles spasming like he’s touched a live wire. His throat bobs, his eyes lifting up at the man in the hallway.

You’re not being fucking subtle, Lark had told him, seething it in a whisper. You’re so fucking bad at subtle, he’d said with a hand in Xavier’s shirt, twisting it and holding him close. And Xavier knows. He has never, ever been good at hiding anything in his life. His face has displayed every emotion he’s ever felt. He’s tried, so hard, to make sure every plan he’s made in the last few weeks have been done as quietly, as secretively as possible.

Yet.

“No, sir,” Xavier laughs, leaning against the wall, that folder tucked between his body and arm and the bricks. “Was headin’ in for the night. Long day tomorrow.” He hasn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares. A lot of them. All of them a coalescence of blood and Benji’s curly black hair, and the rifle in his face, and that SAS soldier who let him go. Wilson, killing people and Lark’s missing teeth. His broken ribs. Tillman, when he’d told Xavier, you’re not special, kid.

The sergeant steps closer. Lifts a hand to run the back of his knuckles down Xavier’s sternum. They press in hard at the base and he sucks in a little breath. Those pale eyes assess him, cold and clinical.

Xavier’s hand slips up to brush over his hard forearm, tilt his head and smile. Took him weeks to get all of Benji’s blood off his cuticles. His fingerprints feel ingrained with that blood.

“C’mon, Till. I’m a good dog, gotta go to bed.”

Their shoulders crash together as Tillman walks by him. The folder burns against his ribs, that old injury a heartbeat throb inside him.

—

Xavier stands on the door steps. The key is in his hand. That little, beautiful gold thing. It’s replicated on his rib now, in a small, black outline. The only treat he’d offered himself during those long months of trying to find his way out the snakes pit. This one, promised, soon.

He fumbles the key, because his hand is shaking. Manages to catch it before it drops. Leans one hand on the door frame. Sweat had built up from the hike, but it’s cooled now from the night air, making him tremble. His ankle burns with the pain of his boot rubbing layers off his skin. His heart slams inside his chest, the giant crack inside him feeling deep and serrated and it howls. He wants to shove his hand in there to quiet it, to stop it’s screaming, because he’s right there. He is right there.

The lights are on. Benji is home.

Xavier shoves the key in, has to work it, because the door is old and it sticks a little until he’s pushing it open and stepping inside.

There’s foot steps, a terrible Liverpool accent going, “What the fuck?”

Benji is home.

The bag slides off Xavier’s shoulder. It lands with a heavy sound. The sounds of his boots are heavier as he crosses the hardwood floor.

“Xavier?”

His name is only half out Benji’s mouth before Xavier is cupping those warm cheeks and crashing down to him. Their mouths come together instantly. He feels Benji sway, stumble back before he also feels hands shooting into the fabric of his jacket. Feels them yanking, pulling, desperately holding. Xavier kisses Benji, so hard, their tongues finding each other—and they kiss like they have kissed a thousand times. Like their bodies are instantly remembering this. Where to hold each other, how to stand. How to place their bodies.

Xavier’s arm slings around Benji’s shoulders, brings him closer. Closer, closer. He pants between each movement of their faces, as they kiss with painful hunger. I have missed you so much it’s made a part of me split open and bleed. He hears the sound Benji makes when he is devoured like this and shivers bone deep. Cradles his skull with his hand, feels the brushing softness of his curls. I walked away from that clearing with no fucking injury, Benji, but I have been bleeding for days. I have been hurting without you.

They part, but only their mouths, because Xavier is still holding him. In his hands, real, alive, there. His nose touches Benji’s. He’s smiling, so wide, so hard that his cheeks hurt.

“I thought—” Benji starts.

“S’pose I’m interruptin’ something?”

Xavier blinks at Benji, those giant brown eyes up at him. I dreamed these eyes. Dreamed them every night. His head turns to the side slowly. In the living room—where just weeks ago, he’d laid on the floor, soaking in the sun and imagining those rays were Benji’s hands—Lieutenant Simon Riley stands.

A tether snaps loose inside Xavier. His hands drop and he steps back from the warmth of Benji’s body.

Ghost looks casually dressed. A short sleeve black shirt, acid washed jeans. He looks comfortable. There’s wrinkles on that shirt. It makes Xavier feel a ticking inside himself. Still has that stupid mask on, though. Pale white skull bone—Xavier’s fingertips twitch. He’s a hulkish presence that fills up the room. He walks forward, heavy sounding as he approaches. Xavier doesn’t move as he passes by him and picks up a jacket that’s slung across a chair.

I sat there. When I visited, I sat in that chair. And you interrupted then too. Didn’t you?

Benji has backed up as well, one hand tucked around his ribs, the other hand brushing up behind his neck. He’s staring at the ground, at neither of them, thick brows pinched together on his beautiful face.

“Thought you were a red head, Corporal.” Xavier looks up, that one inch difference in their height. His hand brushes up into his hair. The hair powder he’d borrowed from Matilda to tamp down his wild, fire color comes up slightly from the sweat.

“Temporary,” he mumbles, staring at his hand. It’s shaking. Or, his vision is going fuzzy. He can’t tell which.

The door opens and closes, but the heaviness of Ghost lingers there still.

Xavier thinks he should have been scared. That Simon Riley is an SAS soldier who is fully aware of who he is; who was definitely armed, who could take him, in hand to hand, easy. But instead of fear, there is a hot, burning painful sensation named anger crawling over his entire body. His shoulders tighten with it, his breathing coming hard and fast from his nose, his teeth ground together so hard, his fucked up canine almost cuts his lip.

“I thought you were dead,” Benji finally finishes the sentence. Xavier cannot stop his foot from crashing against the chair, sending it clattering backward against the wall. The sound is so loud in the deafening silence. His hands shoot into his hair, his head rolling back on his shoulders as he barks out a laugh that is furious and wet. He’s holding himself together, with his hands there. Holding himself from splitting apart.

“Oh, I fucking knew it—I fucking knew it,” he’s speaking to the ceiling because he can’t look at Benji when all he wants is to look at him. He wants to notice those mismatched socks. He wants to look at that threadbare shirt he has on, wants to see him dressed down and comfortable. Soft, in his home. But he looks at the ceiling. “I knew it,” he seethes in vindicated, poisonous fury.

“Knew fuckin’ what?” Benji snaps and Xavier is so thankful he can hear anger there. He needs anger. He can’t do this without anger, it is his only comfort from the screaming inside his heart.

“You and him—Christ, I knew it—but I thought—”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Xavier snaps forward, a hand to his own chest as he bears over Benji. He uses every inch of his height then, staring him down with his lips curled back over his teeth. But Benji doesn’t move back—is not intimidated in the fucking slightest. Tucks his chin down, stares back at him, in icy anger of his own. That hand on his neck squeezes hard and Xavier is thinking of it, wrapped around his bicep. Holding him—how it feels sliding across his side. His fucked up ribs feeling healed by that palm.

“Callin’ me stupid?” Xavier sneers. “Think I’m some fucking idiot?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Benji clips out, in such an even tone it makes all the hair on Xavier’s body stand. “I’d never fuckin’ say that—”

“So you thought I was dead and went on to just fuck your lieutenant?” He snarls it out so viciously, both his hands come up to flatten on the wall behind Benji. Trap him there, against the battering ram of his rage. And he regrets it, because for one moment the mans anger flares up from ice to pure acidic fury—he wants that, wants to see that anger pour out of Benji because he’s so angry it’s making every bone in his body hurt. It’s making him want to tear things to shreds. But that anger is replaced by something so desolate in Benji’s eyes that Xavier flinches back from it.

Something so pure in it’s pain flashes over Benji’s face, so wholly and utterly full of hurt that Xavier’s hands lift from the wall a few inches as they stare at each other. I’m sorry, Xavier thinks. I should take that back. I should stop. I’m so sorry.

But he’s remembering Tillman’s knuckles digging into the soft part underneath his sternum. Remembering Lark’s terrified face as he drops him off at the train station. Him saying, tell the medic I said hello in a funny, thick voice, like he might cry. Remembers thinking, I’ll come back and get you Lark, I’ll get you out too and I’ll tell Benji you said hello and tell him every single thing about you too.

And he can’t pause the train of his anger then, because he is so fucking hurt and he is also so fucking scared. And he has run off that fear for months trying to get to this little house in the woods, and it’s been ruined by Simon Riley.

“God, you smell like him.” It cracks out of Xavier, like it hurts and fuck it does. It hurts so deep, like a muscle bruise, like an old wound that didn’t heal right. Like it’s his rib all over again, cracking outward and he’s standing with it anyway, sitting up and walking around, a snapped in half wound. Irreparable fucking damage because Benji smells like him—and it doesn’t matter that Xavier doesn’t know what Simon fucking Riley smells like, it’s that Benji smells like someone else.

“You’re bein’ fuckin’ dramatic,” is how he replies, shoving himself out from under Xavier and into the living room.

I talked about you to Saha, for hours here. She told me funny stories about you, and I got to imagine what you looked like as a kid. Sullen. Melancholic and avoidant. Sweet. Before this all ruined both of us. I got to hug her and be held by her and think things would be okay.

“What are you being?” Xavier laughs, throwing a hand toward him as it comes out snarling and harsh. “Mature?”

“Not a jealous fuckin’ prick, that’s what I’m not bein’.”

“I’m not jealous!” He screams it, hands clawed and furious and gesturing with all the fucking anger of a city boy being threatened. Face red, spitting, bowing forward with his motions as he stomps into the living room. Closer. Feels the gravitational pull of Benji, even then. His body confused by all this fighting. His chest, wanting to be to Benji’s, even now. “I’m not jealous—I’m fucking angry! I’m fuckin’ angry, Benji!”

And he wants, so badly, to make him understand this. Because he isn’t—oh, fuck, he isn’t jealous. He wishes he was. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?

“You think I’m jealous—” He swallows down the word, passes over it, blinks rapidly to get his throat unstuck. “I can’t think of it—someone touching you. Knowing their hands are on you. They’d do it wrong.” His knuckles are white and covered in scars. They have minute fractures that have built up over the years. Breaking, and re-breaking your hands is one of the only ways MMA fighters get so good at throwing punches. They never stop hurting in the winter. It’s a reality for all fighters.

His hand fists into Benji’s shirt then, shivering. Trembling like a scared dog.

Benji’s chin is tilted up; his brown eyes all black from the dilation of his pupils. He breathes hard, like he’s been the one screaming, but he hasn’t. Benji’s anger meets Xavier’s in the middle—his fury is wintery. But he looks like there is something so wild behind that anger. Not pain again, but something else; like fear. Like what Xavier is saying is scary.

The living room smells wrong too. Like Ghost had been there for a while. Xavier’s hand tightens in the fabric of Benji’s shirt.

Do you wear this to bed? Do you sleep like how you slept in my apartment? On your side, tucked in tight? You’d sleep differently, if I slept with you. Because I wouldn’t let you sleep curled up. I’d make you sleep with your back to my chest, I’d make you let me hold you. I’d make you, Benji.

“Do you think about it?” he asks, his voice still shivering around the anger. “Do you think about why we haven’t yet? All the times we could have. Me here, or you at mine. All those fucking times, Benji.” Presses forward. Wants, so badly, to touch him without this slice of fabric. To feel him. “Do you think it means something?”

Benji’s head rolls back, so similar to how Xavier had looked away to avoid him. A mirroring of gestures. He’s sucking in air, hard. His hand slips up to his rib and Xavier remembers holding a hand there, while all his blood spilled out of him. Don’t hurt there forever, Benji. I know what that’s like and I can’t think of you, waking up to that pain. Not being able to run as hard, because of that pain.

“You come all the way out here to yell at me? Accuse me of fuckin’ someone and then ask me why—why we ‘aven’t—” He’s speaking to the ceiling. They are so close and yet neither look at each other. Xavier stares at that lingering hand on a wound he’d known as a hole in his side. Is it a scar? Did it heal badly? I wish I had been there, I should have been there. Benji stares at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

“I came here because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Benji’s hand rises, cups under Xavier’s elbow. He feels it, through his jacket, through the shirt underneath that. He feels like his body would recognize that hand with his eyes closed, with every sense of him stripped but touch.

“The fuck are you sayin’, Xavier?” His voice is tight, held in his throat, punched out of him like he’s forcing every word. His head still hasn’t bowed forward. Xavier is looking at his throat, watching as it bobs. He steps back, but Benji’s hand tightens on his elbow. His hand gestures behind them, at the duffle bag on the floor.

Inside is everything he has owned in the last six years. It is a sad collection of clothes and a picture of a dead man—and the drum stick that he’d found one day, tucked inside his tac vest that has lived with him ever since.

He pictures himself saying it differently. Pictures himself saying, I spent every day for the last few months getting myself here. I have abandoned everything I have been since I was eighteen, because I wanted to be here. Because I am in love with you—because I wake up and think about you, because I go to sleep wanting you to be there. Because I was going to die as a Shadow, as some lowlife mercenary, I was going to make it a few more years and die bloody and unimportant. And you made me not wanna die, Benji, you made me want to be here. Because I think you love me too.

“I left,” is what he says instead, in a wavering, unsteady voice. “Left the Shadows, Benj.”

He looks back at the duffle bag. Feels Benji’s hand tighten harder and harder on his elbow.

“Don’t,” Benji whispers. His voice sounds thick and wet. Xavier feels crestfallen for a moment, feels that cavern in him mourning, wailing, longing to feel a soothing touch. His eyes tremble on that duffle bag. The only thing he’d been able to smuggle out. The only thing he even had. All of him fits in a duffle bag. “Don’t—Don’t lie to me. ‘Cause if you are—Xavier, if you’re lyin’—”

He snaps his head back and finds Benji staring at him, no longer leaned back to look at the ceiling. His eyes are wet, tears sliding down his face. His face is openly vulnerable in a way that makes Xavier’s heart sluice open. His hands grasp that face, unable to stop himself.

“No, I’m not. Benji, I’m not—I left, I did. I’m not going back.” He cries, in that shuddering way, that holding it barely together way. His hands clench into Xavier’s jacket, shaking furiously. He’s breathing in hard, fast. “For you. I fucking left for you.” Benji draws in a hard breath and—and the fight ends because it has to.

Xavier’s hand tucks behind Benji’s head and pulls him, holds him, close as he shrouds over the shorter man. He tucks himself around him, long arms enveloping. Feels Benji cry with his entire body; this giant wellspring of painful, overwhelming relief. Xavier’s face buries into those black curls, his lips brushing across the crown of his head.

He means to say, I did it for you and instead he says, “I love you.”

[pikapeppa]

Garrus Vakarian x f!Shepard: Crick

Hello friends and loved ones: I am dipping my toe into Shakarian fic. Haven’t quite decided yet how much to commit to writing this pairing in detail, so here’s a little oneshot set just after the Horizon mission in ME2. ~2400 words. (Tumblr only for now, but I’ll post on AO3 if I decide to write more.)

******************************

Garrus sighed as he made his way to the main battery room. There was a stiff feeling in the left side of his neck and shoulder when he tilted his head, and he was annoyed by it. It was his own fault, really; he’d fallen asleep at his weapons modification table again last night and woken with this crick in his neck that wouldn’t go away.

It was one of those times when he really wished he could get a proper hammer massage. There was that one place on the Citadel that did real Palavenese massage, the good kind that you really felt vibrating all the way through your carapace into your bones, but Garrus wasn’t sure if Shepard would be ordering them back to the Citadel anytime soon.

It’s just a crick, he reminded himself. It could be so much worse. The fight they’d just gone through on Horizon had been… a tough one, to say the least. Any fight with an unfamiliar new enemy could be unnerving, but seeing that Harbinger thing jumping from body to body during the fight had almost been enough to make Garrus pause.

Almost, but not quite. Archangel never hesitated or missed his shot. 

He stepped into the main battery room and took a deep breath, then released it in a satisfied sigh. The air in here smelled like clean plastic and a hint of metal, and he savoured the relaxing smell just as he did every time he stepped into this room after a hard fight. 

He flicked on the monitors and cracked the joints in his fingers, then started his usual routine of checking the gun settings – a routine that was more for comfort now than necessity, if he was being totally honest. Cerberus might be a pack of crazies doing their twisted human experiments, but they sure made a mighty fine canon. 

He finished up his calibrating routine, and he was just about to move on to studying the Collector particle rifle that Shepard had salvaged when he heard the distinct beep-and-shunk of the door unlocking. A second later, the doors slid open, and Shepard stepped through. 

She nodded briskly. “Garrus. Just checking in. You doing okay after that fight?”

“I’m just fine, Shepard,” he assured her. “I was about to start looking at your new toy here, actually.”

“That’s great,” she said. “It looks like a powerful little piece of tech. Something we can turn to our advantage, you think?”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “There’s nothing I find more satisfying than using the enemy’s own weapons against them.”

A small smile crossed her face, just as he’d hoped it would. He hadn’t seen a smile on her face all day, not since the Collectors had gotten away with the population of Horizon’s colony. Kaidan’s angry lecture probably hadn’t helped things, either. 

She huffed and leaned an elbow on the weapons mod table. “That’s pretty bloodthirsty of you, Garrus.” 

“Bloodthirsty? Me? Never,” he said. “Thirsty for justice, on the other hand…”

She laughed — a husky rolling sound that always reminded him, for some reason, of brandy-filled chocolates. “What a line. Did your time on Omega inspire you to dip your toe into writing noir mystery novels?”

“What if it did?” he said playfully.

“Then I’d tell you stick to your dayjob,” she replied.

It was Garrus’s turn to chuckle. Shepard smiled at him once more, then straightened up and nodded at the particle rifle. “I know you just got started here, but I’m interested to see what you find. Mind if I watch you working for a while?”

“No problem,” he said. “Might ask you to throw up a barrier for your own protection, though. This thing doesn’t use conventional heat sinks. I’m not sure yet if it can even be fully turned off.”

She nodded and cast herself a barrier with a quick clench of her fist, and Garrus got to work studying the Collector rifle. He scanned it to build a schematic and explained the exploded view to Shepard, and she frowned thoughtfully and asked questions about the weapon’s uses and disadvantages, and all the while, as he often did, he wondered what she was really thinking. 

By any objective standards, it had been a bad day. They’d just watched most of a human colony get taken away by the Collectors. Her former lieutenant had accused her of crimes against her race right after a really tough fight, and when they’d boarded the Normandy once more, the Illusive Man had told her that he’d actually incited the Collectors to target Horizon. 

If Garrus was in Shepard’s place, he’d be vibrating with anger by now. But here she was, watching him dismantle a gun with the calmest look on her face. 

A solid half hour later, when he’d finished thoroughly surveying the rifle, he tapped his visor from its analysis mode back into its resting mode and looked at her. “I think that’s about all I’m going to do with this rifle for today. You need me for anything else?”

“Nothing else for now,” she said. “Thanks for the demonstration. I’ll talk to you later.” She stepped back toward the door. 

On a sudden whim, he opened his mouth. “Shepard, hang on a second.”

She turned back to him. “What is it?”

He hesitated. Now he was wondering if the question at the tip of his tongue was too personal. He and Shepard were friends, sure, but his question might touch a bit of a sore spot, given what had happened today. If Garrus knew anything about Shepard, it was that she wasn’t much of one for talking about her feelings when missions didn’t go as expected. Not that Garrus was a talky-feely sort of guy, either, but still… 

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he shook himself. He’d called her to turn around; he had no choice but to ask now. “Are you doing okay?” 

Her eyebrows rose higher. “Sorry?”

“This whole Collector business on Horizon,” he clarified. “I know it didn’t go down the way we wanted, and then with the Illusive Man being, you know… illusive.” He lifted his shoulders. “It can’t have been easy.”

Her blue-black eyes crinkled at the corners. “You worrying about me, Vakarian?” 

“A little, maybe,” he said. “You’ve only taken a dig at me once today.”

Another smile flashed across her face, but it was gone a second later, smoothed back into her usual businesslike expression. “I’m all right,” she said. “It’s a hit to have lost the colony, but we’ll save the next one. I’ll make sure of it.”

He nodded. “Seeing Kaidan was a bit of a shock, huh?”

She huffed and folded her arms. “It wasn’t ideal, but that’s the way it is. He’s got his mission, and we’ve got ours. We can’t lose our focus over personal feelings.”

Garrus nodded again. Everything she was saying was reasonable and true, and her calm attitude was envious, really. If Garrus was able to keep his calm like Shepard did… well, he’d tried to channel Shepard’s calm while he was on Omega, but it had only gotten him so far. Garrus had never known anyone, human or otherwise, who kept their cool all the time quite the way Shepard did. 

And yet, for some reason, he just… he wasn’t sure. Her manner struck him as a little bit off, somehow, like the feeling of the crick in his neck.

She lifted her eyebrows. “Anything else?”

“How do you do it?” he said bluntly.

She blinked. “Do what?”

“Keep it together all the time,” he said. “You never seem uncertain. You always seem to know what you’re doing, even if you can’t possibly know. I have to admit, I envy you,” he admitted. “How is it that you always manage to keep it together?”

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she just stared at him without speaking, and Garrus started to feel a little awkward. It was hard to tell from the look on her face, but he thought that maybe she was… was she angry? Surprised? Bored, maybe? He couldn’t quite tell. Human expressions were usually easy to interpret, with their fleshy lips stretching and pouting and their eyebrows leaping up and down. But when Shepard was in her ‘commander’ mode, she could be so damned hard to read. 

She glanced at the closed door. Then, to his surprise, she walked over to him and sat in his chair. 

She raked her long black bangs back from her face and looked up at him. “You want to know my secret?” she said.

“Secret?” he said blankly. “To what?”

“To staying calm all the time,” she said. “Can I tell you my secret?”

“Um, sure,” he said. 

She leaned toward him, and he instinctively stooped down a bit to hear her better — a good thing that he did, since her voice was low and conspiratorial when she spoke. 

“I cry in the shower,” she said.

His guts twisted in a funny way. “What?”

She leaned back in his chair. “I cry in the shower,” she said. “When something really fucked up happens, I get in the shower at the end of the day and I cry like hell.”

He stared at her wordlessly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t this. 

A little smile curled the corners of her lips. “What’s wrong? Not the answer you were hoping to hear?”

“It’s — it’s not that,” he said. “I’m just, uh, surprised. You cry in the shower?”

“Yep,” she said. “Not bullshitting you, I promise. This is not a bet with Joker or anything like that.”

He tried to gather his wits. “So… what, you cry in the shower, and then you just… get back to being Commander Malin Shepard, saviour of the Citadel and resident Reaper conspiracist?”

She chuckled. “Exactly. It’s like a purge. Works perfectly every time.”

He nodded slowly, feeling like he needed some time to process this, and Shepard huffed and punched his arm in a friendly manner.  “Not so impressed with me anymore, huh?”

That wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t that he was unimpressed. But now he was actually worried about her. In all the time Garrus had known her, he had never once imagined her crying about anything. If what she was telling him was true, though…

Hang on. How often did she cry in the shower, exactly? No, he couldn’t ask that — it would definitely be overstepping. 

He scrambled to find a clever reply. “It’s not that,” he said. “Actually, I’m jealous.”

She laughed. “Jealous? Why?” Then her eyebrows rose. “Wait, can turians cry?”

“Sure,” Garrus said. “But we don’t do it often.”

“Is it hard for you to cry?” she asked.

“Well, the turian military doesn’t exactly encourage you to curl up in the corner for a little weeping time,” he said dryly.

She snorted. “Not what I meant. I was more wondering if, uh, since you have deep eye sockets, maybe your tears collect in there somewhere…?”

He flared his mandibles in amusement. “Tears don’t collect in a little reservoir under our eyes or something, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he drawled. “But yeah, we can cry. It just doesn’t happen much. Which leads me to the jealousy,” he added. “You get to sit in your shower crying whenever you feel like it? Forget the private cabin: that’s the real luxury of being the commander.”

She laughed again, more heartily this time, and the husky warmth of her laughter was such that Garrus could almost taste the sweet bite of brandy and bittersweet chocolate. “Well, if you ever want to try it sometime, let me know.”

“Try what?” he said. “Crying in the shower?”

“Yep,” she said. “You can borrow my private shower instead of using the shared showers down here, if you want. The walls are soundproof, so nobody can hear you wailing.”

For a split second, an image flashed across his mind: Shepard’s private shower. No, not just Shepard’s private shower: Shepard’s private shower, with Shepard in it. Shepard naked in the shower — what did her body look like under those clothes, he wondered? — and he, Garrus, joining her in the shower —

Wait. Wait a second. Why was he thinking about that? He shouldn’t be thinking about that. It was Shepard, for crying out loud: his friend and his CO. Who did he think he was, to imagine his human female CO naked in the shower? 

He scrambled to get his thoughts back on track. “I’ll, uh, let you know,” he said. “Might have to train my eyes how to cry, it’s been so long.”

She smirked. “Nice try, Vakarian. Something tells me you’re not quite that heartless.”

He chuckled — a little weakly, to be truthful, but Shepard didn’t seem to notice; she was rising from his chair with a smile. “Well, I should go. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” he echoed, and he watched her surreptitiously as she left the room. Once she was gone, he sat in his chair and closed his eyes. 

Crying in the shower… he honestly wouldn’t have guessed it. He’d expected her to give him some kind of encouraging advice or bolstering words of wisdom, like the sorts of things she said to the team before they set off on a mission. But somehow, hearing her say she cried in the shower was… interesting. It made him think about her in a different way. He was worried for sure, but also… comforted, somehow, to know that even Shepard got overwhelmed enough to cry. It seemed that under all that heavy N7 armour, she really was a regular person, too. 

Under all that heavy N7 armour… A flash of a thought projected itself on his closed eyelids: Shepard stripping off her armour, her slender human fingers raking her sweat-dampened bangs back from her face, the small bare patch at the nape of her neck where her short spiky hair faded into light golden-brown skin… 

He snapped open his eyes. Was he drifting off? He must be more tired than he thought. No other reason that he’d keep thinking about Shepard like this. 

He rose from his chair and rolled his shoulders, then clicked in his mandibles in annoyance as the crick in his neck announced itself once more. “Really could use a damned massage,” he muttered. Well, he’d just have to suck it up and wait until they got back to the Citadel.

In the meantime, he’d just have to cope with the strange nagging feeling of the crick in his neck.

[love-and-monsters]

Vampire Squid Octomer

GN reader X M monster, 6,943 words

Happy Mermay everybody! In celebration of this wonderful time of year, here's a story about a human breaking out of containment with a octomer and some telepathic chicanery.

Your stomach rolled slowly, like a ship tossed in an ocean. The floor was, you were pretty sure, stable, but your head was spinning. As tentatively as you could, you planted your hands underneath you and sat up.

The room was pitch black. Closing and opening your eyes made no difference. You kept one of your hands on the wall as you clambered unsteadily to your feet. Keeping in contact with the wall, you paced around the perimeter of the room.

It was small, barely more than four by four feet. Even the ceiling was close to your head. You weren’t in danger of hitting your head on it, but you couldn’t extend your arms over your head either.

Where were you? You tried to go back through your memories, but they seemed distorted and uncertain. You had been… outside? Walking by the sea? And then… Nothing. You didn’t remember getting drugged or hit by something or blacking out. One minute you were walking on the beach, the next minute you were waking up in a pitch black, tiny room.

It felt like a cage more than a room. You did another pass around it, running your fingers along the walls. They were perfectly smooth, expect for a thin seam that outlined the shape of a door. It was too thin to get your fingers into, and you couldn’t feel any hinges or latches. There was no way to get out.

You were also wearing a skintight wetsuit, one that only really covered your torso. You hadn’t been wearing it before you blacked out. The idea of someone having to strip you down and shove your limp body into it was unsettling, to say the least.

The cage rattled. You stumbled and fell on your butt as the entire thing jerked, swaying back and forth. It swayed precariously, like it was dangling on a single tether. You could feel the cage lifting into the air.

“Hey!” Your voice came out oddly rusty. God, your mouth was dry. How long had you been out? “Hey! Let me out!”

Your voice didn’t carry and you didn’t have much hope that anyone was listening. If you were in this cage, it was probably because someone wanted you there. Still, you slammed your fists against the walls. They were unyielding. The cage swayed again, sending you sliding to the other side. It felt like it was suspended from a crane. Your mind pulled up images of crates being stacked on cargo ships. Were you being shipped?

The cage dropped. Your stomach leapt into your throat as it plunged. For a split second, your terrified mind wondered if you were on some horrifying version of the tower of terror. Then you hit the water.

It was water the cage landed in. You could hear the splash and felt the slight bob of the cage before it drifted downward far more slowly.

The box must have been sealed against water because you saw none of it leaking in through the seam. If it was watertight, it was likely airtight as well. You tried to slow your panicked breathing. You needed to conserve air and you needed to get out before you sank too deep to make it back to the surface.

You slammed one of your feet into the wall. Again and again, you struck, trying to focus on the little cracks of the doorway.

There was a faint noise, a sort of sucking pop, then thin jets of water spurted in through the crack. The seal was broken! You slammed your shoulder against the door, but it only made a metallic clang. Your shoulder throbbed. You threw your weight against it again, but the door was unyielding. Already, you were splashing about in the water of the floor. It made your feet skid. The water was brutally cold. Already, you were having trouble feeling your toes.

Growing more desperate, you slammed your shoulder against the door again and again. The seal budged more, sending more thin streams of water flowing into the box. Water sloshed around your calves. It was approaching your knees. Your teeth chattered. Still, the door refused to budge. If there was a piece of metal blocking the door, you were never going to get out. Regardless, you slammed your shoulder against the door again and again. You had to try.

Something slammed back.

You staggered, falling again. The cold water shocked you into stillness as something on the outside slammed again and again. The door shuddered. More spouts of water appeared on the seam. The water inside your cage rose faster. Already, it was at your waist.

Another slam. The door jerked and, with an almighty pop, the seal fractured. Water gushed in, pumping through the doorway. Stumbling to your feet, you slammed your body against the door once more.

There was a pop once more and the door shifted. A wave of water dumped over you. The shock made your muscles seize, but you ignored it. You needed to get out, you needed to get out!

Blinded by the saltwater stinging your eyes, you kicked once more at the door. It jostled aside, leaving a hole just big enough for you to squeeze your way through. Just as your cage was fully submerged, you slipped out into the open water.

And then something grabbed you.

For a moment, you thought it was an octopus, or some other tentacled sea creature. Thick, muscular tentacles wrapped around your waist and legs, the suckers popping against your skin. Filaments brushed against your skin, tickling and making your flesh crawl. You thrust out your hands, fingers too stiff to even grip the tentacles, much less untangle them. The grip tightened. Already, your lungs were screaming for air, but the creature had you and it was going to drag you into the depths to drown you and pick your soft meat apart with its beak-

And then hands settled at your waist.

You started. Even if you couldn’t see them, you knew the feel of human hands and fingers. One hand shifted upward, taking a firm hold of your arm. The tentacles unwound from your leg, though you could still feel them brushing against your skin.

The hand on your arm squeezed tighter and then it was hauling you up at quite a quick pace. Or, was it hauling you up? You had no way to tell which direction it was pulling you in. Perhaps it was dragging you deeper, pulling you into the depths and drowning you.

Your lungs were screaming for air. It didn’t matter which direction you were going. If you didn’t get there soon, you were going to start compulsively gulping water into your lungs. Furiously, you started to kick, trying to swim in the direction you were being pulled in. You were just going to have to hope it was trying to save your life.

Your head broke the surface of the water. You had a split second of overwhelming, blissful relief, then the top of your head slammed into a hard metal wall.

Stunned, you dropped back into the water. Stars blinked behind your eyelids. You’d been moving at a fairly quick pace when you’d emerged from the water, so you’d slammed into the metal at speed. Dim, dazed thoughts drifted through your mind. What was happening? Where were you? Your lungs burned. You needed to breathe. You moved to inhale-

Your head broke the surface of the water. One hand was wrapped around your waist. The other was holding onto the back of your head, pulling your head back so you could breathe without bonking your head on the metal above you. You gasped and gulped air. You could still feel the tentacles brushing against your legs, but that was a secondary concern to just stopping the awful burning in your lungs.

As you were struggling to breathe, you felt something nuzzling at the back of your head, right where you’d smacked it. It felt like nuzzling, anyway, though you couldn’t see what was touching you. You could feel something snuffling at your hair, nosing at you. The tentacles in the water wrapped around your legs again, holding you still.

Now that you were breathing again, your concern shifted to the thing that was holding you. It had human hands, a human face, and tentacles like an octopus. Some sort of merperson? Octomer, were they called?

The creature released your head. You felt the tentacles on your leg release as well, drifting away from you. Slowly, you lowered your head, moving tentatively to avoid hitting it again. You tried to peer into the water, but there was no light in the tank. You couldn’t see anything.

Something splashed next to you. The water grew choppier, like something else had broken the surface. Before you could move to investigate, a pale blue light blossomed from next to you.

There was a person in the water next to you. They were terribly pale, almost ghostly, though that may have been a trick of the blue light that gleamed from patches on his skin. The glowing blue lights glowed under his eyes and across his forehead, following the bone structure of his face. Only his head showed above the water, his eyes glittering in the light that he gave off.

“Hello,” you said. Your voice was raspy and weak, and you sputtered as little waves of salty water flowed into your mouth. “Can- can you tell me where I am?”

The octomer stared at you. Something brushed against your leg and you went still. Did it speak English? Maybe not. Probably not. Why would an undersea creature speak English? It seemed to be more interested in looking at you than helping you do anything. Cautiously, you drifted back away from it. It followed you, though it kept a certain amount of distance between you.

You had only been floating back a few feet when your back struck a wall. You stopped, sputtering. The octomer drifted closer, blinking its large, inky-black eyes at you.

Arms stretched out, you drifted from side to side, trying to touch the walls. By your best estimate, the container was at least ten feet across, probably ten square feet, though it was far deeper. It was a cage. You had escaped from a cage into another cage.

Despair rose in you in a terrible tidal wave. Your limbs felt too heavy to keep yourself up anymore. This cage was much bigger, much stronger, and full of water. Already, you could feel your limbs going numb and heavy with cold. You couldn’t escape and you couldn’t keep swimming forever. Eventually, you would drown.

Sobs burst out of your chest. It was stupid to cry, it used up energy and air you didn’t have, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The octomer drifted away from you, eyes wide. You kicked your legs furiously, but you could already feel yourself starting to drift underwater. Your chest burned, but your legs hurt from trying to keep yourself above the water.

The light dimmed. The octomer had darted under the water. Had it lost interest? Or was it just waiting for you to drown so it could easily pick apart your corpse?

Hands touched your waist. They were firm, strong, and they hoisted you effortlessly out of the water. The octomer’s head appeared in the water next to you, dark eyes blinking up at you. Its filament hair drifted against your skin, tickling faintly.

You sagged in relief. The octomer’s hands kept your head above the water, even when you stopped kicking. Your entire body felt heavy. Where you weren’t numb, you were in pain. Muscle cramps seized through your legs, and the tingling pain of cold was burning at your fingers and toes. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, but you were still alive and you were breathing.

The octomer abruptly leaned forward and nuzzled its face against your stomach. You froze. The way it was holding you meant that its head was roughly level with your torso, and it was simply nuzzling and sniffing the area that was easiest for it to reach. The touch was… curious? It didn’t seem to be trying to do anything to you. It was just nuzzling.

You shivered. The creature pulled its head back, eyes wide as it stared up at you. The lights along its body pulsed, dimming and brightening in a rhythmic pattern. It seemed to be assessing you. Perhaps it was trying to figure out if you were going to attack it. You shivered again. It was so cold. Even if you were no longer in danger of drowning, you were in desperate danger of getting hypothermia.

When it realized that you weren’t going to attack it, the creature leaned back in to nuzzle you again. The tentacles wrapped around your legs again, suckers popping against you skin. The long filaments of its hair wreathed outward, touching every bit of exposed skin they could find. You held as still as possible. The creature didn’t seem to want to hurt you. Maybe it was better to just let it explore.

The filaments touched their way across your face. You closed your eyes as they twitched around your eyelids. Gradually, the filaments settled, though they were still resting on you. There was a faint buzzing sensation, like they were mildly electrified. The hair on the back of your neck stood up.

There was a sudden, unpleasant feeling in the back of your mind. Something was rifling through your memories like it was going through a filing cabinet. You could feel it, rustling around in the back of your head.

Just as you noticed this, the rifling thing turned its attention to you. A wave of calm flowed from the presence, giving you the impression of someone walking toward you with their hands up. The octomer’s hands shifted against your head as it nuzzled you again.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Your voice echoed a little in the confines of the container. “You’re doing this?”

You had no idea if the octomer could understand you, but the nuzzling at your stomach stopped. The presence in your mind kept sending out waves of peace toward you, but you could feel an underlying sense of curiosity. Tentatively, you closed your eyes and focused on the presence.

There was one curious moment where your mind approached the other one, then, like two drops sliding together, you merged.

Everything was confusing for a long moment. A blur of colors and sounds rushed through your mind, flickering too fast for you to latch onto. Flashes of feelings and fragmented ideas tore at your mind. Swimming through blue water, tangling in a great web, being hauled up and dragged into a cage, prodded and poked, and the hunger. A great, yawning hunger that grew and grew and was unsatisfied by any of the fish or feed the captors shoved into the cage.

A heavy sensation formed in the pit of your stomach. A few other memories surfaced from the other mind related to the hunger- great fangs, red blood gushing out in the water, slurping and drinking and… Cold terror shocked through you. A man in a white coat bleeding into the water and drinking and drinking deeply of the rich red liquid until it filled the great maw inside.

Blood. This creature drank blood. And you were trapped with it.

Your first instinct was to try to fight off the creature. But the fact that it was holding you made you pause and take stock of the situation again. It hadn’t tried to eat you yet, even though you could feel the burn of hunger in the back of its mind. It was still supporting you above the water. And the tone of its thoughts seemed far more curious than aggressive. Tentatively, you reached out with your own mind.

Your attempts to do so were fumbling. Clearly this creature was far more adept with telepathy than you were. But as you struggled to reach out, you felt a returning rush of delight. The creature’s mind surged around yours, interested and eager about your attempts to reach back.

The telepathic communication was both rudimentary and somehow far more complex than using words. It took you a few tries, but you managed to communicate how you’d ended up trapped in a cage. The creature’s mind hummed with sympathy, showing you its similar story. It also communicated, however vaguely, that you were safe from it. Images of the scientists were always tinged with red anger, but as it showed you an image of yourself, the tone shifted to curiosity and interest. It was even tinged with affection, the sort of way you would think about something cute.

Water sputtered into your mouth. You coughed frantically, kicking your legs. They were so heavy, so tired. Everything below your knees was numb. A flutter of concern pressed against your mind. The creature shifted, lifting you further out of the water. Apparently, holding you up was starting to tire it out too.

Despite your relief that the creature with you was on your side and not going to eat you, it didn’t change the situation you were in. Even with help, you couldn’t stay above the water forever, and it was cold enough that you were going to get hypothermia and die anyway. How long could the pair of you hold on?

The creature rested its head against you again, making soft, mewling noises. A flicker of protectiveness moved through its mind, along with anger. It took a moment for you to follow the direction of its thoughts. The creature was angry that the scientists were trying to sacrifice you to it, angry that they thought it would be so cruel.

You reached out carefully with your mind again. This time, you focused heavily on only one thought: escape. How do we get out?

A flurry of uncertain thoughts came back along the connection to you. Sometimes the scientists came into the tank or opened it up to run tests, but there were always too many of them to try and escape through.

You pressed for more information. The scientists. Where did they come from?

Up. Above. You extended your numb fingers to brush them along the wall a couple of inches from your face. The ceiling was removeable. That made sense. It was likely locked, though, or at least too heavy to move on your own.

You considered your options for a moment. All right. You couldn’t open the cage on your own. But you did have one advantage: the scientists threw you in the cage as food. Which meant they were expecting you to be dead. There had to be a way to use that to your advantage.

You asked the creature when the scientists were coming back. Soon, apparently. The creature sent back images of it eating, then the scientists coming back not too long after.

“Then we need to be ready,” you said out loud. Slowly, carefully, you outlined your plan to the creature. It was difficult to do so while also keeping your jangling nerves from startling it Luckily, the creature was accepting and quick-witted enough to understand and accept your plan.

You floated at the top of the tank. It was less convincing because you had to float face-up instead of face-down, but you had to hope that the scientists wouldn’t be suspicious. And you only needed them to be fooled from a distance.

The creature bumped at you from under the water. You could feel his (it felt weird to keep referring to him as it, and his mind had indicated male) worry bubbling at the back of your mind, making a pit of anxiety twist in your own stomach. He kept nudging worriedly at you, hovering only inches away. Eventually, you had to tell him to swim away, lest he look suspicious when the tank got opened. You could feel him pouting in the back of your mind as he obliged.

It took all your willpower not to open your eyes when you heard the scrape and groan of metal being shifted. You made yourself go as limp as possible. You just needed to look dead. Hopefully the hypothermia you were experiencing would assist in that.

Light shone against your closed eyelids. Water lapped at your ears, but beyond that, you could hear the murmuring of voices.

“Didn’t eat the solids, I guess,” a rough, masculine voice said from somewhere above you. “Hal, you owe me twenty bucks.”

“Fish out the body, first. Maybe he took a few nibbles.” There was a splashing noise and something metal poked your side. Worry fluttered in the back of your mind, almost frantic. The creature swam toward you. You warned him off, but he was only barely held at bay by your warning.

The hook caught around your waist. You remained as still and limp as possible as you were hauled up on some kind of observation platform.

“Hey, hold on,” a third voice said. “I think this one’s still breathing-”

Okay, time to go. You launched yourself up, seizing the man around his neck with your elbow. You weren’t much of a fighter, admittedly, but you had the advantage of surprise and a slippery working platform. You managed to knock him off balance and dunk him into the water.

He sputtered, scrambling frantically. Blue lights illuminated the water around him as the creature surged upward. The other two scientists scrambled, trying to get a hold of you. Luckily, one of them was clearly off-balance and you managed to dodge him. The other one seized your arm, twisting it around. There was a pressure on your shoulder as he jerked it, threatening to pop it out.

Furiously, you twisted at him. You couldn’t remember any of the fighting and self-defense techniques that you had seen on the internet, but you didn’t care. You just lunged at him, clawing and snapping your teeth and just trying to hurt in any way you could. The man yanked your arm more severely and something tore. Screaming pain lanced across your shoulder, up your neck, and down your chest.

The other scientist screamed. The one holding you twisted to look and his grip loosened in shock.

The creatures had managed to clamber out of the tank while the scientists were distracted. It was bigger than you’d realized. Even its human part seemed unusually large, but the surging tentacles that made up its lower half took up a great deal of the platform. One of them slammed into the scientist not holding you, pressing him into a wall. The creature barely paid him any mind. Instead, the creature’s attention was fixed on the scientist holding you.

Out of the water, clearly visible, the creature’s sharp, bony features were thrown into a strange relief. His upper body was skinny, though his tentacles looked powerful and muscular. The long filaments that covered his head like hair shifted and twitched, raising like a halo. Dark eyes glittered in his face, reflecting his bioluminescence. And his teeth… they were all sharp, like a slightly narrower version of a shark’s tooth.

The scientist dropped you. Trying not to land on your injured arm made for an awkward fall, where you smacked your chin on the ground instead. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.

A tentacle reached over your head and, with a violent motion, sent the scientist who had been holding you tumbling into the water. The creature bent over you, making soft, trilling vocalizations. His filaments tickled over your skin, worry bubbling up from his mind.

“I’m fine,” you said. “Oh, oww…” The worry pressed against your mind with more intensity. The creature took a gentle hold of your arm, probing lightly at it. His mind reflected your pain, adding sorrow and concern to the mixture. “It doesn’t feel good,” you reassured him, “but I can manage it. Ugh.”

The creature kept making soft, worried noises as it helped you to your feet. “We need to find a way out,” you said, trying to focus your mind around the pain.

The little sounds of concern became more intense. The creature butted his head against your good shoulder, nuzzling you furiously. You absently patted his head as you looked around the room. None of the scientists had managed to raise the alarms. Everything was still and silent. Ahead of you, there was a heavy metal door. Slowly, you approached it.

The creature followed you as you stopped in front of the door. Taking a deep breath, you put your good shoulder to the door, turned the doorknob, and shoved.

The door slid open more easily than you were expecting. The hall beyond smelled faintly moldy. Puddles of damp covered the floor. You lifted your hand to your nose. “Ew.”

It seemed like you were in some kind of cave. Everything was uneven stone. There were only a few lights scattered throughout the hallway, so you relied mostly on the glimmering light of the creature crawling along next to you.

An unsettled feeling was starting in your stomach. This wasn’t some kind of military-grade lab. It was made to sort of look like it, but the cracks were there. It was made by someone with money, but not enough money to make it all official.

Poachers or smugglers. Some group selling endangered creatures for money. Which meant the creature beside you was either rare, endangered, or both. And you were technically robbing people who would probably be able to make your life a living hell.

You were so lost in that thought, you didn’t notice when the creature stopped dead, back going stiff. You paused and took a few steps backward. “What’s wrong?”

The creature’s mind touched yours again. You got a vague sense of salt and ocean air, the rush of waves. “The ocean is nearby?” The creature made a soft, trilling noise. He scanned the wall for a moment, then pointed up toward the ceiling. There was a small opening in the wall, faint beams of white light streaming through.

Images of swimming, sliding free through the water hit your mind with such force it almost bowled you over. The creature reached out with his tentacles and started to heave his body up toward the opening.

There was no way you were going to be able to climb up and follow him. When he realized you weren’t following him, he turned to look back at you. Concern fluttered against your mind.

“I can’t climb like you can,” you said. “Especially not with my arm. I can keep going. There must be some other way out.”

The creature tilted his head at you, still partially hanging off the wall. Two of his tentacles detached from the wall and slithered around your waist. You could feel the muscular strength rippling through him, but the grip on you was gentle. The creature’s mind pressed against yours soothingly as he pulled you in close to his body. Swiftly, he turned and pulled himself through the hole, taking you with him.

The hole was barely big enough for the two of you to fit through together. Stone scraped against your arm, one particularly sharp one cutting a thin slice through your skin. Your physical proximity to him seemed to be enhancing whatever connection had been established between you. You could feel faint prickles of discomfort against your skin where he was scraping against the stone. There were even odd phantom pains whenever stone pressed against his tentacles.

After a few moments of careful wriggling, the creature heaved himself out of the tunnel and onto an outcropping of rock.

You looked around. The location was unrecognizable to you. Sea spray filled the air along with the crash of the waves. You were seated on top of some kind of rock formation at the edge of a beach. The open ocean stretched out in front of you.

“Hurry,” you said, nudging him toward the water. “You need to go. Get away!”

The creature made an anxious mewling noise and twisted back toward you. He butted his head against your chin like an affectionate cat. Worry fluttered against your mind once more.

“I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine! I can get down to the beach and-” You stopped. What were you going to do? Where were you? How far away was civilization? Your shoulder throbbed again, reminding you of your injured state. The people who had captured the octomer were going to be looking for you. How long did you have until they found you?

The creature mewled once more. His tentacles twisted around you, coiling around your waist and your legs. The worry pressed against your mind again, this time far stronger. “You can’t take me with you,” you said. “I can’t breathe under water, I’m hurt, I-”

The tone of his mind against yours shifted. You trailed off. His eyes had shifted from your face down to your stinging arm. Blood welled up from the shallow cut and slid in warm dribbles down your forearm. And as he watched it, the thoughts against yours took on a tone of hunger. That great, gnawing emptiness inside him was rising.

Fear jolted through you and through your connection. The creature blinked once, twice, then the hunger was fiercely restrained. You could feel him fighting against it through the bond. He dropped low to the rock, making soft, soothing noises.

“You need to go,” you said. “Hurry.” You pushed against his mind again. He pushed back. His thoughts whirled against yours, trying to sort out some kind of a solution. You had a hard time sorting out any specific thoughts, since his mind was moving so fast, but you noticed when he settled on a path. With a new determination, he leaned toward you, one arm extended. His mind projected soothing, gentle thoughts into your own. Trust me. Listen to me. I will help you. Just go with what I am asking for.

You had only just allowed your feeling of acceptance to come forward when he took hold of your arm. His fingers were tight on your wrist, though not uncomfortably so. The soothing feeling pressed against your mind as he lowered his head to your arm. He sniffed at the rivulets of blood that were seeping from your skin. Then his mouth opened and a long, slithering tongue emerged.

The tongue slipped down and lapped at your arm a few times. It was slightly rough, not barbed, like a cat’s tongue, but distinctly textured. There was almost no pain, just a faintly uncomfortable prickling. As his tongue ran over your arm, the blood stopped weeping. By the third lick, the cut was nothing more than a faintly pink slice in your arm.

You pressed at it as he leaned back, tongue slithering back into his mouth. There was no more pain. The wound was gone, as if it had never been there. “Ooh,” you muttered. “I can see why they tried to poach you. That’s a handy skill.”

The creature slithered closer to you and bumped his head against your shoulder. The hunger in the back of his mind had faded, if only slightly. “You still need to go,” you told him. “Hurry. You healed me. I’ll be fine.”

The creature sent back an image of your shoulder. You sucked in a breath. You hadn’t been looking at it, but apparently it was starting to swell and turn a nasty purply shade. “Don’t suppose you can do anything about that?” The creature sent you a complicated series of images and emotions that boiled down to the idea that he couldn’t do anything if it wasn’t an open wound. “Rats.” You glanced back toward shore. “Well, it won’t stop me from running. I’ll just have to move fast, try to get to the nearest town. Hopefully I’ll be safe there.”

Worry pressed against your mind with more force. The creature made a high keening noise, nuzzling close to you. You absently stroked his head. The filaments that made up his hair wrapped around your fingers. “It’ll be all right. They’ll probably want to go after you first. Which is why you need to go!” You gave him a shove with your good arm. He slid back a little way on the rock before pulling himself closer to you.

The creature considered you for a moment longer, then he reached for you. His hands came down on either side of your face. His thoughts sent soothing messages to you before he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

His filament hair twined forward, wrapping around your head. You were barely paying attention to that, though. His mouth was working against yours, his tongue tracing against your lips. The more he touched you, the more his thoughts slipped into your mind. Feelings of pleasure and concern and comfort mixed together until you couldn’t remember exactly where he ended and you started. Your thoughts just merged. There was no thinking about running or safety. There was just the Experience, the Moment where you were together and kissing.

The creature pulled back. You blinked. There was a moment of raw, cold emptiness in your mind, a hole where his presence had been seconds earlier. Your own mind adjusted after a moment, filling the gaps, but there was still an odd sense of loneliness. For a just a moment, you had been… understood. Known. And cared for. Losing that was disorienting.

Chirping quietly, the creature nuzzled his face into the crook of your shoulder. The touch made you jump. His mind reappeared in yours, pressing gently against yours for a moment, like a goodbye, then he twisted away from you. There was a splash and a spray of seawater as he slipped beneath the waves. For a moment, you saw brightly-colored tentacles flash by just under the surface of the water. Then he was gone.

You waited for a few moments longer, staring out into the ocean. Nerves jangled wildly in your mind, but there was an odd, alien sense of peace as well. Of course. He was safe. You would Know if he wasn’t.

It was a weird sense of certainty, but its weirdness didn’t diminish the feeling that you would know if he was hurt. The confidence buoyed your spirits. You turned and picked your way carefully across the rocks until you made it to shore.

As it turned out, you were quite a ways from civilization. The sun was setting when you came across a tiny, rustic-looking town. Fortunately, someone stumbling into town absolutely soaked and rumpled-looking in a wetsuit garnered enough concern from the locals to get you a bed for the night.

Apparently, if you lived in a tiny town on a relatively rural stretch of coastline, a shivering person with no provisions but a wetsuit wasn’t entirely weird. You managed to spin some story about walking along a cliff and accidentally falling into the ocean, losing your bag of possessions in the process. No one seemed to question it. The next morning, you were provided with clothes and a ticket home on the closest train.

The next few days were a rush of both trying to get all your lost objects back, mostly your phone and your wallet, and being overly suspicious of every person you didn’t recognize. You weren’t sure how much effort was going to go into finding you, or if they even cared. You considered going to the police, but you weren’t even sure what you would say. That you’d been kidnapped and almost fed to a merman? You didn’t have any identifying details. In the end, you decided to just keep your head down.

It worked, or at least, it seemed to. After a week, you were no longer jumping at shadows, and you had gotten a handle on all your important documents enough for that stress to be diminished.

Of course, that was when something else started happening.

Your emotions were going absolutely haywire. Initially, you thought it might be something to do with the stress of being kidnapped, but it didn’t feel like a stress response. Instead, you would get strange bursts of happiness out of nowhere, or odd surges of melancholy. The emotions were never congruent with the situation, and had no discernable triggers. They just simply appeared in your mind, as overwhelming as if they were in response to something.

Before bed was the worst. Every time you drifted off to sleep, your mind was full of the sound of crashing waves, the feeling of drifting through the waves, and the strange surges of emotions that were definitely not your own.

As the emotions grew stronger, so did a sense of calling in your mind. It tugged your feet when you weren’t paying attention to where you were walking. You woke every morning with a sense of longing at your heart. Come. Come! Find me. I miss you. The thoughts echoed in your mind louder and louder until they drowned out your own thoughts.

Driven by the calling in your mind, you headed down to the shore. Nerves pricked along your back as you walked along the beach. This was where you’d been kidnapped last time. But the feeling of safety surged through your mind, so you headed down toward the edge of the beach regardless. By the time your feet touched the water, you had entirely stopped trying to keep yourself above the waves of emotion that lapped against your mind. Your body was pulled into the waves, automatically following the pull.

You had always been a reasonably strong swimmer. Within a few minutes, you were out in water high enough to cover your whole body. The calling took on an excited tone, like an eager puppy. Come! I am here! Come!

Something slammed into you from underneath the water. Strong arms wrapped around you first, followed by a tangle of sucking tentacles. A head pressed into the crook of your neck.

The joy that flooded through your mind was almost the emotional equivalent of a bomb going off. It was stunning, rendering you insensate to anything else. If the creature hadn’t been holding you up at the surface, you probably would have forgotten to breathe.

“It’s you!” you yelped, startled. The creature nuzzled at you, making excited chirping noises. “You’re… you’re here! Why?”

Ideas and images flooded your mind, overwhelming until the creature calmed his mind enough to give you a coherent story. Missed you. Worried. The creature showed you an image of his body and your body. There was a bright line connecting them.

Comprehension flooded you. “When we kissed. That we you connecting our minds?”

Needed to make sure you were safe. The creature butted his head against you again. Safe! Safe. Both safe.

You ran your hand over his head. His filament-hair twisted and tangled around your fingers. “You haven’t seen the people who trapped you again?”

He gave a rapid shake of his head. The filament-hair swirled around him in a long mane. “That’s good.” You looked out into the sea, at the endless blue waves that faded into the horizon. “Are you… do you have somewhere to go? Family or friends?”

The answer popped into your mind within seconds. No. You got vague images of family, but he had separated from them before he had been captured. There was a pause, vague concepts tickling at your mind. The creature seemed to be trying to communicate something complex. You took a deep breath, relaxed, and opened your mind.

The images that came to you were complicated, overlapping, and not in any precise order. You had to take a minute to sort it out in your mind. There were images of creatures like him tangling their tentacles together, swirling in odd dances. The same shining connection he had showed you between you and him gleamed between the two bodies.

There were more images of the creatures swirling together, then some images that definitely made you blush. The creature showed them to you perfectly matter-of-fact, perfectly nonchalant, though you felt its curiosity at your embarrassment. The connection was still there between the two creatures in every image he showed to you. The connection was important. It was something he was trying to convey to you. His tentacles wrapped around your legs, clinging tightly.

“Oh!” Something clicked in your head. The connection. The way he was rubbing against you. The images he was showing you. “This is… that’s… you do that for your mates?”

You felt his joy at your conclusion. Yes! Yes. Mine. Under his affection, you sensed a slight streak of possessiveness. He nuzzled against you, lips tugging delicately at your skin.

Perhaps you should have been surprised or reluctant. But you weren’t. You could feel his affection surrounding your mind like a hug. Your minds touched, mingled. Already, you knew him better than you knew anyone else. Almost better than you knew yourself. And he knew you in the same way. And he loved everything he knew, a deep, abiding caring that filled your entire body from your head to your toes. You wrapped yourself around him as he supported your head above the water.

His tentacles wrapped around you, tugging your body against his. The connection between your minds, already fuzzy, blurred into nonexistence. There were two bodies working against each other, but only one mind, humming with heat and love and joy.

[grumpyhedgehogs]

Rose Colored Glasses

Summary:  Ethan sacrifices everything for family. Then, with help from a familiar face, he moves on.

Notes:  Just a little something brought on by me lamenting the fact that there aren't enough fics out there that just have the Winterses and Bakers being normal friends and family.

AO3

The third time Ethan dies, he wakes up warm.

It’s a large step up from the frozen wasteland Eveline greeted him in, but the process of coming back is still just as painful. This time, it’s not his chest feeling hollow or his ribs burning as they scraped together after being shoved into the cavity where his heart was supposed to be. Now it’s mostly a full body ache; for a moment, before his thoughts reorder into some semblance of sense, Ethan thinks wildly that he has the flu, that everything since Mia had finished making dinner had to be a fever dream. She made soup--maybe because he’s been sick? She was always better at noticing when something was wrong than Ethan was. She probably put him to bed after dinner, gave him a cold compress maybe, and he’d passed out and thought up the entire nightmare because of that stupid children’s story.

The ache eases, though, almost immediately, leaving behind the warmth sinking into his bones. Ethan sighs but doesn’t open his eyes. It was all real--he knows that. He died--again--and now he’s...somewhere else. But the air isn’t cloying in his lungs, and he doesn’t hurt anymore, and it’s so, so comfortable, so he doesn’t suppose he minds too much. Rose is safe, Mia is safe, even Chris is safe. Hasn’t he earned a little rest? Hasn’t he earned the right to close his eyes for a while?

Sensation filters back in gradually, and Ethan realizes all of a sudden that he isn’t wearing his jacket or hoodie anymore. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow. He doesn’t feel the heavy weight of his hiking boots on his ankles. His pants feel clean and unwrinkled, rather than stiff with bloodstains. There’s a constant pressure at his back holding him up, like lying on a brand new mattress. Then sound fills his ears; rain against a windowpane, his own soft breathing, the far-off sound of pots and pans and a stove turning on. His nose twitches when he smells something spicy and full-bodied, a good home-cooked meal. But Ethan still does not open his eyes. They’re too heavy. The ache has passed, but Ethan’s body is so very heavy.      

Even when a hand passes over his brow, Ethan can’t seem to find the strength to open his eyes. The fingertips are square and blunt, the skin worn from hard work. The palm rests gently over his brow before moving on. Ethan thinks of Mia, running her fingers through his hair every time he’d get sick, and cannot keep in a tiny, miserable noise.

“Shh, you're alright, son,” says a familiar voice. It’s less rough now, less demented than Ethan remembers it. Kinder, definitely. “You’re alright now. You’ve gone through enough pain to warrant a little rest.”

Ethan murmurs incomprehensibly, even to himself, and drifts.

When he wakes again, he is still warm. It makes him sigh and settle before finally, finally, opening his eyes.

The room he is in is rustic, with old, worn carpets and wooden furniture. The bedframe is wood too, and his blanket a deep blue, obviously hand-knit. The rain still patters away at the window above his head, but it's gentle and calm. A pair of loafers he recognizes as his own wait at the foot of his bed.

Sitting at his bedside, his glasses slipping halfway down a sloping nose, is Jack Baker.

“Hello, Ethan.”

“Hello, Jack.”

Ethan sits up, scrubs a hand through his hair and over his eyes. A phantom pain twinges through his wrist and he hisses, but it’s gone the next second. Jack hums and nods. “You’re feelin’ some pain?”

“Just the old ones,” Ethan tells him, letting resignation drip from his words. Waking up to a dead man-turned-monster after his own death is just par for the course at this point. Somewhere between getting his hand chopped off by a monstrous version of his wife and realizing that Mother Miranda ripping his heart out was not, in fact, the first time he died, Ethan stopped trying to make the world make sense. Jack Baker waiting for him in the afterlife? Fine. Sure. Why not?

“That’ll happen for a while,” Jack tells him, still gentle as a lamb. “The older they are, the more the pains stick around. They’ll leave you eventually. Just takes some time.”

Ethan nods and swings his legs out of bed. He looks up, considering, and at the openness of Jack Baker’s face, quirks the corners of his mouth up. “This is it then, huh? This is the end.”

Jack smiles too, wider than Ethan thinks he could manage. “Don’t know ‘bout that--but this is what we have for now. Reminds you of old times, huh?”

“Just not the good times,” Ethan says.

“No,” Jack agrees tiredly. “Not the good ones.”

His companion is silent as Ethan slips on his shoes and, after another pause, clumsily folds the blanket he has been given. Afterwards, he has to admit he can’t prolong the inevitable any more. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack seems to take him at his real meaning, take his words for what are you doing here with me, Jack? “You remember what I told you the last time we saw each other, son? What I asked you to do?”

“‘Free my family.’” Ethan repeats. Those words have haunted him for longer than he’d have thought possible. All that death and the blood resting squarely on his hands--could it really be labeled as freedom?

Jack leans forward and, telegraphing his movements, slowly places his hand over one of Ethan’s. His fingers are square and strong and soft against Ethan’s reflexive fist. He finds himself relaxing far more quickly than he’d have expected. “You did as I asked you, Ethan,” Jack tells him. “Even though it pained you, even though it was the most difficult thing in the world for me to ask of you, you helped us. You didn’t have to.”

Ethan stares at him blankly. “Sure I did.”

“Oh?” Jack smiles, leans back and crosses his arms. His rocking chair is more stable than the one they’d had Eveline’s old body stored in back in Dulvey. It creaks with his movements. “You could’ve broken a window and run for it. You found your wife and could’ve gone off into the woods instead of facing Eveline. But you stayed, and you helped, and now we’re here instead of stuck in that mold.”

“Well--but--it wasn’t like I had a choice--” Ethan tries, his tongue feeling thick and strange in his mouth. No one has ever actually sat and talked with him about what happened in Louisiana, never acknowledged what he’d had to sacrifice before Ethan himself brought it up. Even Mia shied away from it. Taking a deep breath, Ethan tried again. “It was just the right thing to do.”

“But you did it, Ethan. No one else. So thank you.”

And well, that is true, so Ethan keeps his mouth shut. He shrugs, feeling awkward and embarrassed and not sure why. Jack Baker takes pity on him after a silent moment. “Since you helped us, we decided to wait for you. To make sure y’all are safe and sound when it came to be your time.” Jack looks over the rim of his glasses at Ethan, and for a second Ethan feels like a little boy about to be scolded. “We thought it would be quite a while before you showed back up, son.”

Ethan snorts. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don't see why you should apologize for saving your daughter. There is nothing disappointing about you, Ethan.”

That warmth increases in Ethan’s chest. “Who else is here? Marguerite?”

Jack nods and softly claps his hands on his thighs. “She was fit to be tied when you showed up so unexpectedly. She’s downstairs now, getting some supper ready. We figured you’d be a bit peckish.”

For how well his last dinner with the Bakers went, Ethan feels considerably less apprehensive at the smells wafting upstairs. “What about Eveline? Lucas?”

“Lucas comes and goes,” Jack tells him. “He’s--he’s Lucas. It’s been harder for him than the two of us. He’ll come around.”

Ethan privately thinks that is the absolute last thing Lucas Baker will ever do, but keeps it to himself. “Eveline?”

“Nowhere we can see.”

He thinks of the cold, the snow, the mud and dirt and loneliness he woke to when he died at Miranda’s hand. “She probably doesn’t like company these days,” Ethan mutters.

If he hears Ethan’s comment, Jack doesn’t react. He stands then, and cracks his back, letting out a loud groan. Ethan smiles a little more at the humanity in the action. This is who Jack must have been before--well, before everything. Perhaps, if he and Mia had met them under different circumstances, they'd have been friends with the Bakers. Perhaps neighbors. Perhaps they’d have let the Bakers babysit Rose once in a while.  

“Zoe is the last one we’re waiting for,” Jack says. “She won’t be here for a long while, God willing. You’re welcome to wait with us for as long as you like, of course.”

“I’ll need to stay for Mia and Rose.”

“Of course. Would you like some company?”

Ethan blinks before taking Jack’s offered hand, letting the older man pull him to his feet. “You’d wait with me? Even if Zoe comes first?”

Jack claps a hand to Ethan’s shoulder and lets it rest there, warm and reassuring. “For as long as you’ll have us, Ethan, it would be our privilege.”

The gorge in his throat swells, his face grows tight and his eyes prick. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack inclines his head and leaves the words hanging in the air between them, comfortable and knowing. As he turns to lead Ethan out of the room, Jack pauses. “Oh, you got any good stories about little Rosie? I’m sure Marguerite would love to hear some. Been such a long time since we had a baby in the house.”

Ethan smiles, and nods, and lets the warm glow of the home beyond his doorway guide him out.

[ushidoux]

He, Hercules - Ushijima x Reader

Summary: What is Ushijima if not strong? (~2.0k words)

Warnings: accident, temporary disability, implied depression, some suggestive themes, hurt/comfort

A/N: I have limited experience with athletic injuries and mental illness so bear with me. If there is anything you find inaccurate or insensitive in my depiction, don’t hesitate to pm me! <3

---

“Mr. Ushijima?”

You perk up when you hear the secretary’s voice call out your husband’s name, only realizing now that in your long semi-long wait you’d ended up dozing off, resting your head against his shoulder. Clearly, you must have been exhausted, because it takes you a moment to remember where you are, and why you’re here.

There are very few others in this small office aside from the single middle-aged man in the corner who you realize is staring quite hard at you, and you wonder briefly if it’s because you somehow looked inappropriate or acted inappropriately while you were asleep. There shouldn’t be anything very noteworthy about a young couple inside a therapy practice.

You glance at Ushijima who is barely moving despite the fact that his name was just pronounced. He’s as still as a statue and his expression is neutral as is typical of him, but you still perceive the lack of intensity behind his eyes, a constant reminder that no matter how much he acts as though he’s fine, he’s not.

Why else would you be here in the first place?

You nudge him gently.

“Love, they called your name. It’s time for your session,” you whisper into his ear.

He had been staring off at a fixed point across from him, but he does still respond to your nudges. When he rises, it’s done slowly, and he walks besides you with a slight limp in his left leg. He doesn’t wince with any step but the arm you hold onto as you walk with him through the hallway down to the provider’s office is stiff. You wonder if he resents how clingy you’ve gotten since his injury, handling him with kid gloves as though he were the most fragile of glass. You can’t help it. You’d almost lost him.

The office is open when you arrive, and a man who looks only a few years older than Wakatoshi is seated in a cream armchair, waiting, a measured smile on his face. Ushijima doesn’t smile back but he doesn’t frown either. 

“Welcome! Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” the man says without missing a beat, rising to shake his hand. He also shoots a glance at you, but before he can ask you to introduce yourself before politely shooing you out of the room (this is not couples’ therapy after all, even if it will help the two of you), you squeeze your husband’s hand before quickly exiting.

“I’m his partner, I’ll see myself out, thank you!”

You worry slightly about leaving him alone in this stranger’s care, but Ushijima is not a child and this isn’t the first day of kindergarten, he’s a man recovering from a life-altering injury and has finally agreed to go to therapy. 

You’re not sure how optimistic to be, but you’ve done an extensive amount of research and this particular therapist boasted credentialing in sports psychology, was highly recommended and had worked with a lot of current and former athletes alike. 

Of course, this would all be meaningless if Ushijima refused to talk, but as you started your car to pass the next hour at a nearby mall, you gave yourself a little bit of hope.

---

“Tell me about yourself,” is the first question the therapist asks, after offering not much more than his own name, and Ushijima is slightly annoyed by the question.

He does not want to be here in the first place, he doesn’t need to be here, and now he’s asked a question as vague and audacious as ‘tell me about yourself’ like he’s expected to pour out his feelings to this stranger from the very second he sits in this admittedly comfortable couch.

He pauses. He’s not sure exactly what he would say. 

He’s nearing 30. He’s married, no kids. If it’s not obvious, he’s from Japan. He plays volleyball professionally… well, played, up until recently. 

He frowns. That’s why he’s here. Because you don’t think he is okay, even if all of his injuries have essentially healed aside from this annoying limp that makes it obvious that he’s in some way not in optimal shape, broken, vulnerable. This  limp is the reason why he can no longer play even if he feels fine otherwise, and why he’s not exactly sure what to do next. 

But that’s beyond the point. The question is about himself.

What else can he say? How would others describe him?

His friends call him serious, just as the media describes him. Quiet and serious. Dedicated. Strong. 

Maybe he’s not that last thing anymore, but that too is beyond the point.

You think he’s sweet; you say this repeatedly. You tell him that he’s kind and considerate.

He thinks for a moment that maybe he was too kind. Kindness is what got him in this predicament in the first place, isn’t it?

A moment of compassion - a likely exhausted mother whose eyes leave her child for a split second to rummage through her purse, a little girl whose tiny legs take her just a bit too far out into an open intersection, a speeding car that shows no signs of stopping…

He remembers the exact moment he is no longer jogging but sprinting to take the child out of harm’s way, as well as the exact moment he hears his bones snap on impact, and he’s too shocked initially to feel pain, eyes frantically searching for the kid who now is standing on the opposite side of the street, looking at him in curiosity because the toddler is too young to understand what it means to see a body crumple. She’s unharmed, so he’s successful.

A woman screams and she sounds nothing like you. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

The car speeds on.

---

You sit in a food court, poking at some fries, but you’re not exactly hungry, just anxious. Is the session going okay? 

Even if the man is a professional at getting people to talk, Wakatoshi is a hard nut to crack. You could envision him sitting silently until the hour passed completely, before getting up to bow and exit stage left. It had taken you months to get him to agree to go to anything other than physical therapy.

You hope this is not an exercise in futility.

---

“I’m fine,” he grunted, just a couple days out of the hospital, once you’d started nagging him for weight-bearing on the leg that had just been operated on.

“Your leg was literally shattered!” You shouted. “You’re lucky they didn’t amputate!”

He gave you a mildly fatigued look. All he’d wanted to do was walk to the kitchen by himself, without crutches in his own house, and he’d barely made it a couple of steps before you were standing in the bedroom, looking all sorts of stressed and concerned. 

He figured your concern was temporary, so he attempted to quell his stubbornness. He had already been benched for the season, possibly to likely forever and pouring out his frustration on you wouldn’t be helpful.

“What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”

He frowned but he let you help him anyway.

---

“My name is Wakatoshi Ushijima. I moved here several years ago from Japan to play volleyball professionally. I was in a bad car accident a few months ago and my wife is concerned that I’m not adjusting well.”

The therapist offers a small smile again.

“Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Ushijima tilts his head slightly. He does disagree… he doesn’t? He’s not sure. He’s frustrated of course, who wouldn’t be, he had just been in the Olympics after all, but he’s fine. He’s strong.

He’s strong.

---

“We just wanted to thank you again.”

Wakatoshi glanced at the gifts the couple before them had brought,  a bouquet of flowers and stacks of cookies and pastries in boxes on the living room coffee table, before looking back at you. Your face remained polite and smiling but you were clearly uncomfortable from the way you were perched on the seat, nodding carefully as you listened to your visitors, your arms crossed over your midsection as you leaned forward in your chair.

He knew you wanted to be angry at them, well, her, the mother who looked at him pitifully initially then averted her eyes out of shame. But it wasn’t her fault but yet, it was her fault and still, it wasn’t. It was very complicated. No one was at fault. Her daughter was safe.

Everything was fine.

---

You’re back in your car again, ready to drive to pick up your husband from therapy. Things should get better from here on. 

Maybe he will no longer shut down like a brick wall when you suggest that now is a good time to start transitioning away from sports for the future. Maybe he’ll be less upset with small things like not being able to run as far, or lift as much or please you as much in the bedroom as he used to. 

They’re small things compared to losing his life.

---

“I would like to go back to playing but I’m told at every turn that it’s too dangerous, maybe even after a year of healing.”

The therapist nods, and scribbles something on a sheet of paper.

“How does that make you feel?”

The therapist notices even through Ushijima’s accented Polish that he’s naturally eloquent, but regardless he still lacks the words to appropriately talk about his feelings. 

His hands grip at his knees, the good and the bad one. The word ‘useless’ comes to mind but he can’t bring himself to say that to this stranger, even if these four walls come with the promise of understanding. 

For once, silence is uncomfortable for him, and the therapist is surprisingly good at staying quiet. They sit in silence for moments longer and surprisingly, Wakatoshi speaks up first.

“Weak,” he ekes out in a voice that is so small he barely recognizes it.

To that, the therapist leans just slightly forward, focusing his eyes on the man’s restricted range of motion and slightly hunched shoulders. It’s the posture of a man who’s normally stoic and confident, now made uncertain about the future.

“What’s wrong with weakness?” He says quickly, and Ushijima is somewhat stunned which then lends way to a small measure of anger.

Everything is wrong with being weak. Weakness was for other people. How could he protect himself, his livelihood, his team, you?

What is he if not strong?

---

“I love you.”

He says it less often than you do to him, but every time he does, he means every word. You shifted beneath him, weary from the lovemaking of just prior but still nevertheless craning your neck up to reach his lips. 

Your hands traveled down his shoulders and along the length of his bulky arms, playing with his biceps, drinking in the sight of his muscles flexing as he moved. He smiled and wrapped his arms tight around you, laying his head on your chest. 

“Aww, Toshi, you’ll crush me if you hold me so tight. You barely know your own strength,” you teased with a laugh, prompting him to loosen his grip ever so slightly, and lift up his head to show you the smallest of pouts.

“I love you more,” you added, giggling.

Pleased, he lay his head back down on the softness of your bosom, clinging to you more. He’d protect and take care of you forever.

---

You hold Ushijima’s hand tightly as you walked out of the building to your car, holding in your curiosity about the session the entire time. 

Would he go again?

He gives your hand a squeeze suddenly which surprises you, and when he turns to you, there’s a small upturn in the corner of his lips that approximates more of a smile than you’ve seen in recent weeks.

You’re elated enough that you immediately give him a hug, and maybe you’re a bit overzealous about it, but he stops and holds you close for just a moment.

“Thank you.”

There’s a lot in the thank you, and you shed a tear.

---

Strength is relative and inconstant, so our first task is to work on your definition of strength. 

But I would say, coming here in the first place is already evidence enough.

[remuscore]

I'm enjoying this au too much lmao I'm sorry for the person I have become but since I cannot draw for awhile, y'all are gonna get small oneshots of them instead.

Warnings: Descriptions of a dead body, a little bit of body horror?? Idk what else. Oh yeah and since pronouns don't matter in this au, I used mostly she/they for Janus just cause that's what I ended up writing

_____________

Virgil remembers little of his rebirth.

He remembers sitting and waiting in a small dim room, filled with sheet covered science equipment and dusty glass tubes. He didn’t have the best hearing after it all― they always felt clogged― but he remembers hearing that smooth voice from the other side of the door talking about things he couldn’t understand. He remembers Janus coming in and wiping their hands on their pants despite their gloves, shaking them out to release some buzzing excitement. They had smiled at Virgil and said it was time to show him off.

After that was a blur of yelling and hands trying to grab him and suddenly Janus had grabbed their arm and they appeared in a little old cabin in a forest.

Virgil had a lot of nightmares of hands and tearing after that night. He would trace the missing fingers that someone had stolen when they grabbed his hand. Now, Janus had gotten him some form of prosthetic so that he could still use his hand, wooden joints and bones melding into the taunt flesh. Virgil often got stuck staring at them, just trying to bend the bark.

“Good morning, Virgil,” Janus said, descending the rickety steps of the cabin. Their cape dragged on the floor and trailed soft yellow petals with it. They didn’t need to step over any loose rocks or twigs, the objects simply moving out of the way when she came near. She smiled at their experiment as they put in their earrings. “How did you rest?”

Virgil kept silent like usual. Talking either caused black gunk to spit from his teeth or was just useless babbling. Most of the time it was both. It was hard to talk when all your muscles were only strong enough to hold your head up. He wanted to talk. It felt like hell not being able to say a single word since he had been awakened.

“Not going to try today?” they asked. Once their earrings were all on, they sat on the steps besides Virgil. She had made some furniture out of wood, but they weren’t the best. Her magic was more about science and spells than making things, hence why Virgil was such a disaster. “Do you want to try a ‘hello’ or maybe a ‘hi’ at the very least?”

Virgil didn’t care about those things. He just wanted to ask one thing. One syllable.

Why.

It was a long struggle on the ‘wh’ just trying to get past that point. It was already gathering spit and falling from his lips, but this is the farthest he’s gotten so far. Janus was grinning nonetheless, pointed teeth barred. Virgil had the sudden thought that maybe Janus thought he had said ‘hi’ but just a really messed up one, so he tried again. Repeating the word with more strength to his broken voice to make it more obvious. Janus just nodded in delight.

“That’s very good, Virgil,” she praised. Their hand came up to wipe away a bit of sludge that had dribbled down his chin and heading towards the stitches in his neck. “I know it must be frustration now with having to relearn these skills from when you were a child, but you’ll get there in―”

“Why?” Virgil interrupted angrily. He jabbed his chest with his stiff fingers, hitting the large stitches in his chest from where his organs had been taken out and put back in. He jabs the same hand into Janus’ chest too, making her pull back in surprise and rub the spot. “Why? Why?”

“Why?” Janus parrots, ears lowering. Her expression turned sad as she looked at how hard Virgil was hitting his chest (he didn’t have any control of his strength now that his nervous system wasn’t working. He was completely numb). “Why… why what?”

“Why!?” Virgil shouts in a volume that shocked even him. His body really is all out of control. He pushes Janus' chest this time, shoving her back against the banister. “Why me? You? Why you— to me?”

It was so humiliating how hard it was to get those words out. He had to swallow pointlessly against the gunk under his tongue. It was pouring out his mouth now. He brought up his hands to try and wipe it away, but he still couldn’t make a fist or turn his wrist to use his palm so all he did was smear the gunk on his fingertips.

Janus gets up suddenly and Virgil doesn’t watch to see where they’re going. He felt like he wanted to cry in anger, but didn’t know if he even could. He hasn’t drank or eaten anything since he was alive. Janus returns to the step and reaches out to him again, wiping away all the drool with a cloth. Virgil let them just because he didn’t feel like trying to do it himself and risked humiliating himself more.

“Why did I bring you back?” Janus said, clarifying that that was what Virgil was trying to say. He nodded with a sharp jerk up and down with his head. They sighed softly. They folded the cloth over to the dry side and continued cleaning his face. “To tell the truth, you were the freshest body on such short notice. They haven't cremated or buried you yet, so it was easy for me to just take you and bring you back. And I know stealing a body isn’t exactly ethical, but I was saving a family from the heartbreak of identifying your body. Sure, it was probably frightening to hear your son died and someone had stolen his body and next thing you know, you’re watching the news and hear about a local manic that had—”

They stopped themself and shook their head, laughing faintly. “Anyways there was no significance on why I chose you. You died from the drug I needed and were healthy enough to keep all original parts. I’m sorry I don’t have a better reason.”

She pulled away finally and took Virgil’s messy mistake, wiping at his fingers. The black sludge was stubbornly sticking to his wooden fingers and Janus had to adjust their grip on it to wipe more furiously. They sighed again in frustration.

“I didn’t expect anything like this,” they said, their normally smooth and controlled voice was now bitter and imperfect, a small lisp slipping through. “I thought my notes would at least be taken into account. They were all so impressed by the doll and yet when I showed them you, no! That is sick and disgusting! I brought a man back to life using the same drug that killed him and that was all they had to say about my findings? It’s ridiculous!”

They stop. Virgil still has stuff in between the cracks in the wood. Janus’ thumb brushes against what would be the nail and Virgil could almost feel it. It was a weird feeling. He wonders if he’ll ever forget what it’s like to feel.

“I’m sorry,” Janus gasps and Virgil looks up. Her eyes are screwed shut and they rub their forehead, mouth pulled down into a harsh frown. “God, I’m so sorry. What have I done?”

Virgil wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t know Janus, they were just forced together now. Janus was a big question mark in the beginning but now they’re an even bigger question mark with how their morals kept switching around. Just seconds ago she was boasting about what she did and now she’s apologizing for it? And Virgil couldn’t bring himself to be angry either way because on one hand they had brought him back to life which was honestly amazing because Virgil distinctly remembered not wanting to die when he was dying, but on the other hand Janus had stolen his body from his family and he is practically a prisoner here because if he were to go back to human society, he would probably be euthanized or worse; dissected and studied like a rat, never to die because his existence is revolutionary.

That’s another reason why Virgil couldn’t bring himself to be mad at them. She practically saved his life.

She was a weirdo freak, but Virgil guessed he was now too.

So he brought up his hand and placed it on their head, making them stop. He dragged his hand slowly through their hair, combing through any small knots and petals stuck in there. They opened their eyes and they looked so sad. Virgil didn’t understand why, but maybe she just felt guilty. Maybe she should be, but Virgil still didn’t want them to be.

“Don’—” spit flew from his mouth and his lip twitched into an annoyed scowl. “Do… no’ cry.”

“I’m not crying, dear,” Janus awed, bringing up her now empty hands and holding Virgil’s face in her hands, pressing against the stitches. He knew she wasn’t crying, but it was easier to say than don’t beat yourself up about it. “At least you’re nice. I don’t know if I could handle a mean little monster.”

Virgil grunted. Guess he was a monster now.

[evak-fic-rec-turtleanon]

Evak Fics - Pining

I’m posting half of this list first because I started it a long time ago and it’s taking me a while to go through all the fics. So I will update with more later. 

*** Mutual Pining *** Pining - I might put mutual pining under pining if we don't see much of the other person pining. *** Bonus - The pining is not between Evak 

For the anon from this ask.

I will try my best to separate out the mutual pining fics but I think it will be tricky if it's not tagged as that. So bear with me and let me know of any mistakes or fics I missed out on.

. First Posting : 11 July 2021. Under 15k fics.  .

******* Mutual Pining *******

Even the Illustrator by eavk (SERIES, 3 fics) - An AU where Even’s an illustrator who draws what kids describe to him for YouTube, and Isak is the smitten father of a six year old with a wild imagination.

Postcards by HedwigsTalons (1k words) - Isak's wall is covered in postcards. Isak is supportive of Even's career and he cherishes every postcard but the long distance relationship hurts.

Feelings Come and Go, But Not With You by ultimatelawrence (1.9k words) - It was meant to just be a holiday romance. A fling. Nothing like love. But now it was six months later and Even was still pining over the angel he had met in Paris.

let's pretend into forever by Bellakitse (2.3k words) - “Let me get this straight,” Even starts. “You lied to your boss about having a boyfriend, told her it was me, and now you need me to go with you to your science nerd dinner?”

i will love you until the very, very end (and you were my best friend) by traumatic (2.4k words) - Isak and Even share something in the cool waters of a spring fed pool that no one, not even their fiancées, could ever understand.

Breathe Me by photographer_of_thoughts (4.5k words) - A high school reunion brings Isak and Even together after ten years, and neither of them can forget what happened when they were both seventeen.

Everything comes back to you by MermaidsandMermen (4.8k words) - Light pining. A dribble oneshot for Halloween, full of fluff and Even and Isak and a tiny pinch of angst. Because we need some Halloween fluff. That's all.

Fuck Tha Police by MacksDramaticShenanigans (5.2k words) - “This,” Eskild said, spinning the photograph around so everyone could see it, “is a picture of the latest piece of vandalism from our favorite little street punk.” he finished with a heavy sigh. They are both cops.

i tried to be strong but i lost it (i knew it was wrong, i’m beyond it) (6.3k words) - Even has a thing for his intern, Isak has a thing for his boss, they're both a bit clueless and their friends just want them to get their shit together.

all I see is you by littlemovie (Lejla) (7.4k words) - “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m a bad person?” Isak somehow whined and demanded at the same time. Jonas blew out a breath in amusement, which made the dark curls on his forehead move with his breath. “I’m guessing it has something to do with that guy, Even, from the coffeeshop?”

Addicted by endlessandinfinite (8k words) - They’re both completely, overwhelmingly, and incredibly...addicted. Best friends to lovers.

Calleth You, Cometh I by Kollakolan (8.4k words) - “Isak!” Mikaels pipes up. “Didn´t you two have a thing?” he turns to Even. A thing, Even thinks to himself. Yes, Isak and him definitely had a thing. They actually had a low-key thing going for years, but it never really turned into something more. The timing was never right.

In Vino Veritas by Sabeley (9.9k words) - After seven years apart, Isak wakes up to find Even in his bed and a wedding ring on his finger.

Let Me by GayaIsANerd (10.6k words) - Summer brings a lot of things. The smell of sunscreen. The sound of children playing in the shallow part of the lake. The taste of cold beer. The sweet tang of weed. But most importantly, summer brings Isak.

Something Borrowed, Something Blue by BluebeardsWife (10.8k words) - Fake dating AU, you know the drill. Even hires Isak to pretend to be his boyfriend at his ex's wedding. This Means Nothing to Me by cuteandtwisted (10.8k words) - Isak and Even are friends and roommates who don't believe in love anymore (after they both get dumped by other people) until they do. Aka the Friends/Roommates-To-Lovers Don't you let me go by solarpower21 (12.2k words) - In this universe, Isak and Even are roomates and nothing more. Except that there is something more between them and they both know that but are too stubborn to admit it. Too bad it takes a very unfortunate event for them to face the truth. Burn Down The Disco by TheGirlNoOneKnows5 (12.2k words) - A 'Black Mirror: Hang The DJ' AU in which Isak and Even decide to rebel against a futuristic dating system that pairs users up with various people in order to find their perfect match.

La Petite Mort by EvenbechNeiheim (13.4k words) - Even Bech Næsheim is one of those cool and very hot media students at Uni who might just got the task to make a film project. Eskild is the best wingman and things like accidently falling in love with an asshole media student happen. Based on the FIRST KISS YouTube video that gave the internet an entire meltdown. 

when your heart is bleeding, i'm coming to get you by orphan_account (13.5k words) - Isak doesn't exactly expect his hookup from last week to be the love advice columnist at the school newspaper he's working at. He also doesn't expect to fall even harder for him than he already has, which is a shame, really, since Even's crushing on someone else. 

Heal My Heart for Christmas by iwritetropesnottragedies (recklesslee) (13.5k words) - It’s been ten years since Isak left his small town for the big city of Oslo with his father. He hardly even thought of his time there anymore. Until he received a letter from his mother asking him to come home for Christmas for the first time since he had left. 

Love in the Time of COVID: Battlestar Edition by sweetasmaple (14k words) - Isak and Even find each other again during the COVID-19 lockdown, one Battlestar Galactica episode at a time. 

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******* Pining *******

never seemed so alive by retts (1k words) - Nothing special, just four letters strung together to spell out E V E N but they made Isak's heart race and his face blush and his hands tremble.

Hopeless by waitineedaname (1k words) - Light pining. There was no way in hell Isak would be able to talk to Even. He was tall and cool and handsome, and Isak was pretty sure talking to him would make him spontaneously combust.

i could probably just curl up in you. by milominderbinder (1.3k words) - Isak is away at a cabin with the guys when he gets a text from Even. 'hey, babe, did you take my favourite hoodie?' He is, of course, outraged that Even would accuse him of such treachery. The fact that Isak is wearing the hoodie at that very moment has nothing to do with it.

stuck on you (what did i do?) by itjustkindahappened (1.8k words) - It’s not that Even doesn’t try to be friendly with him—Isak just makes it so hard. Whenever Even approaches, Isak either makes up a fumbling excuse to leave, or just becomes really stiff and refuses to acknowledge Even’s existence.

now and forever (i will be your man) by thekardemomme (2.2k words) -Warning for pain. 3 times isak kisses even +1

i be up in the gym just working on my fitness by orphan_account (2.3k words) - Even knows that he's quite literally going to die when he finds his crush sweating on an elliptical, reading a book with his glasses slipping down his nose.

You know where I stay by nofeartina (2.4k words) - Warning for pain. Isak is so beautiful first thing in the morning. When he still has creases in his face from the pillow, when his face is red and puffy from sleep, his hair all messed up and curly. Even prefers this Isak. This is his Isak, this is only for him.

won't you be my livewire by itjustkindahappened (3.2k words) - "i've been tryin to grab your attention in class for over half an hour by poking you and throwing things onto your desk and you're refusing to acknowledge me and gdi all i wanted to do was tell you that you look cute and now it's gone too far and i can't go back"

Cookies and Cream by GayaIsANerd (3.5k words) - Isak has a crush on the barista. He's too scared to do anything about it, but luckily there's a blizzard coming up.

i can feel the weather in my bones by EvenbechNeiheim (3.7k words) - Isak and Even are childhood friends. There’s a boyfriend sweater and Isak is just desperate to wear it.

On the silver screen by Lokkanel (4k words) - Isak was really not in the mood for this. He had a long week at work, and all he wanted was to relax with his friend, drink a few beers, maybe even smoke some weed and just chill. But no. When Jonas called him to say that he won tickets to the coolest indie film festival in Oslo, Isak knew he could forget his plans for a quiet and simple weekend.

I want to love you (in my own language) by fauu_stine (4k words) - “Okay. Maybe I’m not happy,” he admits in a resigned whisper. “Do you need a shrink discussion or a best friend discussion?” "I think- I think it’s more of a friend with benefits kind of talk."

Don't be an ass by Julieseven (4.1k words) - Even really tried to forget about him. It started out as a harmless little crush, really. He saw him at the karaoke bar SYNG one night, singing "I don't want to miss a thing" at the top of his lungs, clearly drunk out of his mind, but looking like an angel with his messy dark blond locks and crooked smile.

Little Black Book by Laika (4.3k words) - Isak Valtersen is studying his third year at the University of Oslo and having the time of his life. Enter Evy Bech Næsheim, straight out of Nissen, in his stockings, mini skirts and bubblegum scented lip gloss.

cracks in our foundation by towonderland72 (4.8k words) - “You know, like a thousand years ago, men used to wear makeup?” Even asks, as Isak gapes at himself.

Safest With You (Green Curtains) by eavk (5.3k words) - Isak keeps staying up too late studying at the library, but luckily there's an escort service that gives students a buddy to walk with to keep safe at night.

the one with the prom video by thekardemomme (5.5k words) - Even has been in love with Isak since they were younger, but he never intended for Isak to find out this way.

Senses by Lokkanel (5.5k words) - Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste… Or Even falling in love with Isak, one sense at a time.

you're the one i wanna grey with (5.6k words) - They've only been dating a month, so Isak shouldn't be pathetic enough to miss Even this much when he's only gone for a weekend.

Orion's Nebula by thekardemomme (5.6k words) - Light pining I think. Even Bech Næsheim was enrolled in an astronomy class for one reason and one reason only: the cute ass boy he saw standing in the registration line.

with the taste of a poison paradise by chasingflower (6k words) - It’s routine by now. Isak hangs out with his friends during the day and at night he kisses the Dream-Even that lives on the other side of the door in his living room, and basks in the warm fuzzy feelings he gets as a result of the attention. Coraline Au.

How to Get Your Man - A Plan By Even Bech Naesheim by Evakkk (6.1k words) - When Magnus drops a big secret in front of Even... Even comes up with a brilliant plan to get Isak to reveal his true feelings. All it takes is one little lie, and one crazy family reunion.

To Burn With Desire by photographer_of_thoughts (6.1k words) - AU in which Isak and Even are neighbours and Isak's father has a secret job that unintentionally helps Isak realize he's in love with his best friend.

Watermelon Sugar by MermaidsandMermen (6.6k words) - A little tribute to fruit and touching. To sex, and friendships and finding what you were looking for all along. And of course inspired by Harry Styles latest video offering, just because.

The Fake Boyfriend App by Crazyheart (7.2k words) - AU where Isak is desperately pining for his flatmate Even, and downloads a fake boyfriend app to get over him. When he discovers that the Fake boyfriend is a human, and not a bot, he is sceptical.

That look you give that guy by Lokkanel (7.4k words) - Isak and Even love each other in secret. It is almost thrilling at first, but when hiding and lying to their friends begin to take a toll on Even, Isak decides to end it all. He thinks he has taken the right decision, until Even eventually moves on with someone else.

my longing drives me crazy for you (7.7k words) - Isak's mum worries, Isak makes bad life decisions and Even loves Isak. It's a fake dating au.

I'm Always Here by nofeartina (9.3k words) - “Did you know that Even is working this summer? At that pool at the Plaza?” Jonas says. Isak actually sits up in excitement at this. “Fuck yeah!” Oh, a pool. Actual water they could go swimming in and cool down. And also, Even.

a garden for your love by eggsntoast (9.3k words) - He’s learning to breathe with them, even if he ends up with a floor full of violets by the end of it all. They remind Isak of him, and that’s all that matters. That’s what makes it worse. or: a Hanahaki au ft. Isak heavily pining after Even. Lots of angst.

I wrote an angry letter to the void, and the void responded (9.5k words) - Monday comes, and the book is still there. Isak looks around, content to find the floor practically empty, before giving the book the finger. Fuck that book. - a book finds it's way to Isak's sacred study spot. this proves to be a major distraction.

a constant state of closeness by chevythunder (9.7k words) - “What is it about this dude, anyway?” Elias asks. “You’ve barely even talked to him, right?” “I don’t know,” Even says. “I just got this feeling, you know? Just- I want to make sure he’s okay and safe and… stuff.” - It starts with a hug.

Is This Our Time? by Evakkk (9.9k words) - This is a world where everyone is born with an indistinguishable soulmate mark... it only changes into something recognizable, once you have physical contact with your soulmate, and it's always something meaningful to the relationship. Both partners will bear the same mark. Isak is about to turn 18... and he's the only one in his friend group who still hasn't found their soulmate. But what happens when he goes out one night, gets drunk... and wakes up with his soulmate mark?

Is This What You Wanted? by cuteandtwisted (9.9k words) - Isak is filthy rich and Even is a hardworking male model who just got signed to his father's agency. Even gets an awful offer from Isak: one night with him in exchange for money, and begins to despise him. Little does he know that everything he thinks he knows about Isak is wrong.

Just like in the movies by Lokkanel (10.5k words) - As he began taking in his surroundings, Isak realized he was in one of those small theaters that programmed independent and artsy movies, even old black and white films. He was ready to turn around and walk away when he heard a deep voice say, “Halla.”

my tiny heartbeat in his ear by riyku (11k words) - Now, about a week after the longest day of the year, the empty house across the street has stopped being empty. most beautiful things by scarletbluebird (12.7k words) - This fic is a whole ass journey. Warning for pain. This isn’t a fairytale, Isak tells himself. Even is standing at the bend in the road. He looks like a metaphor for immortal life: the youth a god would kill for. Ambrosia eyes, the universe trapped in the curve of his mouth. He looks like every warning from his mother about strangers you run into after dark. 

One week by Lokkanel (12.8k words) - This thing going on between Isak and Even, whatever they called it - fuckbuddies, friends with benefits - was simple, fun, nothing more. They were friends, they were both free to do whatever they wanted with other people. They’d just meet and have sex whenever they felt like it. Simple. Until what was bound to happen eventually did and Even fell for Isak. 

Plum by Jamz24 (13.2k words) - Femme!teacher!Even asks masculine! plumber!Isak to fix a broken shower on a scorching hot summer day...And if you think it sounds like the start of a porn film you're absolutely right! There's LOADS of smut but ... with LOTS of feelings 

Never be the same by nofeartina (14.2k words) - It starts with a bet - one of those really stupid ones: can they last an entire month without any kind of sex?It’s been 22 days – and Even is dying. 

Somewhere I’ve never been by MinilocIsland (14.6k words) - The first time Even meets Jonas' best friend, nothing goes according to plan. 

If I Should Fall Behind by MinilocIsland (14.7k words) - The plan for tonight had been crystal clear. Stay close to his best friend, and steal her away if needed. Hold her hand through the ordeal of meeting Noora again for the first time in years. Then Even shows up – and suddenly, nothing goes the way it was supposed to. 

All I Ever Wanted by MinilocIsland (14.8k words) - Isak is such a good friend. Probably the best there is. How else could he explain that he's agreed to join Magnus to this place deep in the woods for six full days of silence, meditation, and utter boredom? One thing, he knows. There's nothing exciting for him there. Right? Or: the silent retreat AU. 

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******* Bonus *******

Season 3: Jonas by Laika_the_husband (WIP, SBB 2021 fic) - There is a scene in the end of the script for season 1, where Jonas and Isak kiss each other on a dare. This story is a retelling of season 3 in a universe, where that kiss happened and completely changed the way Jonas sees Isak. Written in Jonas' POV, the story examines sexuality, love, friendship and coming to terms with never getting the boy you shouldn't have fallen for in the first place.

What the fuck is wrong with me? by notanugget (11.6k words) - The five times isak felt guilty for being in love and the one time he didn’t 

thanks for the weed, thanks for everything by evak1isak (13.1k words) - Jokael. Jonas' dealer has moved to Denmark, and Even recommends his friend's weed. What Jonas didn't expect, though, was to develop a crush on a boy, on Mikael. 

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******* WIP *******

Baby, why do you have to shine so bright? by Lilacpotter - Even knew he was radiant, and he was used to people always wanting to be around him, enchanted by his captivating words and glowing smiles, as if he was the tantalising sun. But then one day, he comes across someone who shines much brighter than the sun itself in Even’s eyes.

Lonely Hearts Club by EndingsNotTheStory - The Hearts Club. A show run by Isak and his 3 friends. He's kind of had enough with hearing about people's relationship issues and giving advice. Until the guy from his theatre class and Isak's totally not crush Even calls, dealing with relationship issues. pining

[m0srael]

For @hp-fearfest’s day 2 prompt: From Beyond the Grave. Thanks 4 the beta @corvuscrowned. CW: spooky vibes and graphic depictions of corpses.

(on Ao3 | T | 2.5k)

Making a Family Makes a Home

“Happy anniversary, love,” Harry pants into Draco’s wet, open mouth. He thinks he can make out the chirping of morning birds over their slowing breaths, and the warm lamplight in the room is slowly being suffused with cool grey from the dawning sun. They hadn’t slept at all that night.

Harry has never felt happier. He’s loved Draco for so long, and now, finally, he’s allowed to show him. The fact that Draco loves him back makes him feel incandescent, like he’s flying.

Draco hums tiredly in response, hands stilling in Harry’s hair. “‘Spose we can tell everyone to settle their bets on whether we’d make it to a year or not. I think Longbottom is the only one who went in our favor.”

Harry laughs gently and captures his boyfriend’s kiss-swollen lips in his teeth. “Fancy shocking everyone even more?”

“Always.”

“Let’s move in together…” Harry whispers into the dip between Draco’s collar bones, where sweat has pooled and started to dry. He darts the tip of his tongue out to capture the salty tang.

Draco goes stiff underneath him and says nothing.

Harry pulls back to gauge his expression. It’s firm, unreadable. “It’s just, we’ve been dating for a year and you’re here just as much—if not more—than you’re at home. We don’t have to stay here, we can find a place we both want to live, somewhere new. You talk all the time about how much you hate still living with your parents. We could… We could really start our life. Together. The way we want.”

Draco’s enigmatic expression breaks a little. “Oh, Harry, love. You know I want that. Of course I want to build a life with you. It’s just… I know I complain about mother and father, but they’re getting old. They need me. I’d… I’d worry about leaving them all alone in that big old Manor.”

“Yeah. I get that, I do. But…They have house elves, don’t they? To look after them? It’s not like you couldn’t visit whenever you want.”

“We couldn’t afford to pay the elves, after the trials. We had to let them go.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Well, I don’t want to pressure you into anything, so—”

“Harry. I… Want to. I do. Just. Let me think about it a little?”

“Yeah. Of course. Of course, love. Take all the time you need. I’ve already got more of you than I ever thought possible. I’m happy.”

“Sap.”

*

“You promised you weren’t going to pressure me, Harry,” Draco snaps as he drops their dinner plates into Harry’s sink with a clatter.

“I know, I know, and I don’t mean to. But we’ve been together for nearly three years, Draco, and you still refuse to even stay the night half the time you’re over here. Is it… Do you not love me anymore? Has something changed, have I—”

He watches the shutters fall behind Draco’s eyes, like they always do when they have this conversation. He’s tried so hard to respect Draco’s request for time and space, but lately it’s like a chasm has opened between them, and Harry doesn’t know how to bridge it. His gut reaction to the feeling of impending loss has always been to hold tighter, to grasp and pull. He knows how suffocating that can be for some people, but he can’t help it.

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Harry, no, of course not. I love you more every day, you know that. It’s just... not that easy. My parents—”

“Oh, sod your bloody parents!” Harry bites back, sharper than he intended. “I mean—I’m sorry—but I feel like you’re sacrificing your own happiness for them. Again! I know you love them, but after everything they’ve put you through. Everything they asked of you. You deserve the chance to make your own choices and live your own life, Draco.”

“I… I know that. I do. I just feel so guilty, sometimes…”

“Look. We can look into some care homes, maybe. Neville says his Nan loves her community. Or—” Harry raises a hand to cut off Draco’s interjection, “—we can interview some live-in Healers. I can help you, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Draco’s face twists into an ugly frown. “No. How dare you—I’m not dumping my parents into some disgusting care home to be ignored and overlooked by overworked nurses. And I’m certainly not allowing a stranger into my home, Harry! Haven’t you heard of elder abuse? How could I do something like that to them?”

“Your home…”

“What?”

“You just called the Manor your home. I thought… I’d hoped you considered this your home.”

“Oh...well I—”

“Forget it. Look, I just need some space. I don’t want to say something in anger that I’ll regret later. Your feelings are valid, I just...feel a little hurt right now, to be honest. I’m going to Ron and Hermione’s for the night. Feel free to stay. Or not. Merlin knows you never do.”

“Harry—” Draco pleads as Harry turns toward the Floo.

*

“What do you want, Potter? I’m terribly busy.”

“Pansy, you don’t have a job.”

“And?”

“Nevermind, look. It’s about Draco…”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Please, Pansy. You know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t serious. I...need your help.”

Pansy sighs, settling herself and her glass of scotch on the chaise in front of her fireplace, which Harry had just tumbled out of unannounced several minutes earlier.

“Fine. Make it quick.”

“Right. Well. Draco won’t move in with me.”

“Mm,” she hums, taking a drag on the cigarette in her other hand. “Sounds normal to me. I don’t see why anyone would want to live with you.”

“Fuck’s sake—” Harry hisses, beginning to pace across the hearthrug. “I know you don’t like me, you wish Draco were with someone else, whatever—can you please just take this seriously for like, one second. Please.”

Pansy exhales an exasperated cloud of spicy smoke into Harry’s face and sits up straight.

“Potter. Draco’s relationship with his parents is… complicated.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Pansy eyes him sharply over the rim of her rocks glass for a long moment. “No, I don’t think you do, really. Not the whole of it, at least.”

Harry throws his hands up, frustrated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A series of emotions passes over Pansy’s face as she eyes him. Amusement, then scorn, then sadness, and finally pity.

“Pansy,” Harry says, slumping down onto the chaise next to her and letting his head fall into his hands. “I love him so much. I…want to marry him. But, I can’t if he won’t be honest with me about why he won’t live with me. I’ve done the best I can so far, but I can’t envision a future where my husband won’t even stay the night with me, let alone share a house with me. And I definitely can’t envision a future where we move into the Manor together.” He shivers involuntarily.

“No, I don’t think that would do anybody any good. Harry… I can’t say any more. I know, I’m sorry, but I just can’t. If you really need to know why Draco won’t move in with you, and he won’t explain it himself, you need to go see them. Lucius and Narcissa. I think you’ll find your answers there. I just hope you’re prepared for them.”

“He’s never asked me to go home with him. I haven’t… I haven’t been to the Manor since the War.”

“Mmhm,” Pansy hums, lips pursed condescendingly.

Harry stands and takes a palm full of Floo powder, gut twisting and thoughts racing.

“Harry—” Pansy says, stopping him as the flames flare green. “If you really love him—”

“Pans—”

“—You’ll let this go. You won’t go to the Manor.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can do that, Pansy.”

Pansy draws her worried eyebrows down between her liquor-glassy eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

*

Harry never received a reply to his owl to Lucius and Narcissa asking if it’d be alright to visit that afternoon. He isn’t surprised; he knows there’s no love lost between them even now, even after he’s been with their son for years.

He’d considered sending owl after owl until one of them responded—even if it was just to serve him with a restraining order. In the end, he knew he would never be at peace if he didn’t talk to them face to face. He needs to settle this once and for all, so he can move on. So he and Draco can move on, and move in, together.

After deciding that he’s given them enough warning, he apparates to Wiltshire.

When he lands outside the Manor, he’s confused. For a minute he thinks he’s apparated to the wrong location. The once-gleaming gates are rusted and bent, hanging from their hinges. Ivy creeps across the damp stone pillars and flagstones, eating into every fracture and crevice. The footpath beyond the gates is thickly overgrown with weeds and brambles, as though no one has walked it in years.

He pushes past the gates and begins fighting his way through the underbrush. His breath catches in his throat when he comes around the final bend in the path. There’s no way Draco has been living here for the last six years. There’s no way anyone has been living here in a long time.

The entire house seems to sag. The stone walls are covered in a thick layer of black muck. The same ivy that threads through the front gates has all-but consumed the lower half of the building, making it look as though the Manor is scrabbling up from the depths of the earth. All the windows Harry can see are coated in a thick layer of dusty grime; some are broken and grimace at him like mouths full of jagged, glass teeth. The once-resplendent gardens are now buried under thick snarls of thorns and wild, venomous tentacula that wave menacingly at Harry, welcoming him. To what, he doesn’t know.

Dread settles into the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone. His breathing becomes sharp and ragged, and he knows—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that something is very wrong.

When he finally picks his way up the crumbling front steps, he finds that the stately front door is cracked open. From the look of it, the lock fell from the moist, rotting old wood at some point.

He pushes the door open more fully and is hit with a wave of the thick, sickly-sweet scent of decay. His shocked brain finally jumpstarts into action. He jogs into the foyer, the clacking of his dress shoes muffled in the thick layer of dust on the floor. Despite the blood rushing in his ears and his short, wheezing breaths, he can hear the sounds of voices coming from a door down the hallway to his left. He recognizes one as Draco’s.

He moves quickly but cautiously toward the sound, pausing just outside the open door.

“Mother, I’ve told you a hundred times, you can’t have milk in your tea anymore. It upsets your stomach for days. Here, let me—”

“Oh, stop fussing, Draco. I’m an old lady I can do what I like,” comes Narcissa’s high-pitched, croaky voice.

Draco chuckles warmly, and Harry can hear the clink of teacup on saucer.

“So, Draco, my boy. How is your Mister Potter?” Lucius asks. Harry had forgotten how alike he and Draco sound, though Lucius’s voice is a touch deeper.

“Oh, well. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think he’s going to propose soon!” Draco replies, sounding genuinely pleased.

Harry’s stomach flips, despite his overwhelming unease.

“Oh, my love, that’s wonderful. I know you love him very much. Perhaps now you can invite him to come live with us? We’ve got more than enough room, you know,” Narcissa’s reedy voice cracks a little, and Draco clears his throat.

“Mother. No,” he responds sternly, almost shouting, “We’ve talked about this many times. You know I can’t bring him here. As much as I would love—” Draco sniffs wetly, as though he’s crying, “—to have all of my family together, he would never want that. He could never understand. He’s not...not like us.”

Draco sobs, then, and there’s a clatter of china as though he’s shoved his teacup away from himself.

Harry can’t take it anymore. He takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and moves around the doorframe to face them.

Draco glances up from the opposite side of the small table, startled. He looks like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a hungry dog--hunched and shivering, eyes wide and darting erratically. But then a smile cuts across his pale face. His pink lips curve up at the edges, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, Harry. We were just talking about you. You’ve come just in time for tea. Sit.”

It’s then that Harry looks to Lucius and Narcissa, seated in chairs on either side of Draco.

Neither of them move, and it takes Harry longer than he’d like to realize that’s because they can’t.

Their bodies are stiff and cold-looking. Their skin is waxy and grey, and both of their skulls are swathed in wisps of white-blonde hair that looks to have been tacked on with a hasty sticking charm. Harry shifts one step to the right, enough to see that Lucius’s eyelids are gone and his eyes have been replaced with shiny, black marbles.

He cuts his eyes frantically over to Narcissa, whose ivory teeth look too huge in her face. Harry realizes on a wave of nausea that her lips have rotted, exposing fleshless gums.

“Yes, Harry dear, Draco has told us so much about you, please sit. There’s so much we need to talk about. To clear the air.”

A manic laugh rips from Harry’s throat as what he thought was Narcissa’s voice drips out of Draco’s mouth like the chime of discordant bells. He takes several stilted steps backward toward the door.

Draco shoots to his feet, a soft, pleading look on his beautiful face. He moves toward Harry carefully, extending pleading hands until he can grasp Harry’s shoulders.

Harry wants to scream. He wants to run away from that place and never look back. But here’s Draco, his Draco, jarringly pretty among all this rot. Draco places a soft kiss on Harry's trembling lips.

“Harry. Please. Join us.”

The snick of the door echoes in his ears as it’s spelled shut behind him.

[ill-skillsgard]

Another goth out here - Can I ask for hc's of all the Bill boys you write for with a goth girl, please?

Why, yes! I’d love to. After all... Everyone needs a cute goth GF, right? You know it’s true.

Axel Cluney

He steals her fishnets. They just look good on him. Axel likes to show some skin and he’s not a fan of real shirts. Only garments with holes in them, and she happens to have a lot of those. Axel will convince her to do a clothing swap with him until she gets fed up sacrificing her clothes and brings him to a goth market where he can buy his own stuff.

They compare tattoos. She has some meaningful and dark tattoos and Axel is covered in ink he let his friend put on him as “practice”...That friend is now in jail tattooing convicts, but Axel insists they’re not prison tats.

He shows her new music. Everything she loves, Axel loved when he was a  kid, and makes it a point to remind her of his refined taste by bringing her mix CDs which she can’t play because who even owns a CD-player anymore? (He buys her one from the local pawn shop so they can listen to Smashing Pumpkins together.)

Axel contemplates dying his hair black. He loves hers, so why not his?

Roman Godfrey

She has a crush on him first, thinking he’s the closest thing to the local “goth” boy, then realizes he’s not goth at all. She might think he’s a poser. After much back and forth, she decides he’s just a fashion guy, but he already has his sights set on her. He wears all the black in his closet and then buys more to assimilate.

Roman’s idea of a first date is bringing her to a forest where he smokes cigarettes and talks about being an outcast. She makes fun of him only a little bit, then steals his scarf. He lets her keep it, saying it looks better on her anyway.

He asks her if she knows any witchcraft or spells; if she believes in spirits and all that. It surprises her to hear these questions and she answers, “why? You wanna put a hex on someone?”

Roman has found a match for his attitude. He thought he was the world’s biggest brat until he meets her. It’s a huge turn-on for him to have a girl that doesn’t put up with bullshit.

Henry Deaver

She scares him. Like a lot. But it’s hot...Right? He doesn’t know if she hates him or not, but he’ll find out once he summons the courage to talk to her.

He’s wildly afraid of coming off as unimpressive, but he doesn’t know what these kinds of girls like. So he buys up a bunch of old-school horror movies, some of them truly god-awful, and hopes she’ll want to watch one of them. Oh, and he has to keep the lights on, and no, he won’t explain why. He just likes to watch movies with the light on. Yes, there’s a glare on the screen, and no, it doesn’t bother him.

She figures out Henry is jumpy and will lurk in the shadows to pop out at him at any chance. He screams and clutches his chest the first couple of times, then spends the rest of their time together peering around corners and assessing where she is at all times.

He will not make the first move. She kisses him first, under a full moon, and Henry practically melts.

The Kid

He’s the only man that kind of freaks her out. He’s tall, dark, quiet, and not in the typecast way. This guy looks like a dead tree. He kind of sits there all stiff and wide-eyed like ghosts are talking to him. Until he cracks his first gentle smile, she’s not even sure he has a pulse.

The Kid knows all the best scary movies, and we’re not talking Friday the  Thirteenth and A Nightmare on Elm Street. He has a stash of the freakiest underground film that makes even her feel uncomfortable watching, and she grew up on this shit.

She likes to wear dark lipstick, and he’s the only one who doesn’t make snide or “clever” comments. He likes the way she dresses and does herself up. It reminds him of a little porcelain doll. A cursed doll, but cute nonetheless.

To her surprise, he kisses her first. He’s not the most vocal guy, but he can read body language, and he knows it’s the right time. When he pulls away, the smile on her face turns his icy insides to liquid.

Henry Pearl

They meet at a midnight art showing in the middle of the town’s square. Her booth is set up with her spooky dolls and sinister paintings, sculptures and metaphysical crafts of bone and crystals. Henry gravitates toward her when he hears people whispering about her weird art.

She begs him to teach her some painting techniques, as she’s intrigued by his skill, and he obliges, but only later at night.

He makes her breakfast at night, explaining that nine PM is the perfect time for pancakes. She doesn’t mind since she’s a night owl by nature.

After they see each other for a few weeks, Henry paints a portrait of her and gets his first kiss as a result. It rocks his entire world. After the kiss, all he ever wants to paint is her face.

Mickey

He tries a little too hard to get her attention at first. She doesn’t know whether she finds him pathetic or if it’s kiiinda cute how he follows her around like a puppy.

They bond over music one day in Mickey’s car, which is NOT the car she first saw him driving. He lights up when metal plays, croons to power ballads, gets emotional over the break-up songs. She can see he’s a genuine dude who wears his emotions on his sleeve.

Mickey brings her flowers he stole from various gardens. He had a vision of buying her a bouquet of black roses, but they wanted 60 bucks at the store, so he improvises by prowling the garden district with a pair of shears.

Her black collars excite him. He asks if they mean anything or if they’re just fashion. She teases him and tells him if he wants to find out, he’ll have to prove himself. So he spends the rest of the week acting like the perfect boyfriend, though they’re not “official”, they are in his mind and he doesn’t have eyes for anyone else.

Merkel

Maybe the only guy who might be more goth than her. He likes black, wearing make-up and knows all the best underground clubs where they play dark industrial and everyone dresses like her.

He asks if he can dress her one day. To her surprise, Merkel has trunks of clothes he’s taken from fashion shoots. He styles her and stages his own photoshoot with her as his muse. The pictures are strikingly editorial, and she has the best time.

Merkel talks about hanging out with all her idols. She listens with heart-eyes and a smile to rival a sunrise to the stories of Gordon’s travels through Europe.

Invites her over to his place one night for wine and black-and-white movies, but all she wants to do is check out his handcuff collection and put them to use. With a coy look, he escorts her to his studio apartment, asking, “do you have your own safeword, or should we decide on one now?”

Willard Russell

He doesn’t understand all the black, but he wants to because he thinks she looks beautiful. He’s never seen a girl like her before. Maybe she’s an angel, maybe she’s the opposite... All Willard knows is he wants to talk to her.

She understands his melancholy, and he doesn’t feel like he needs to put on a happy mask when she’s around. It’s a breath of fresh air to feel like he can be himself in front of someone who doesn’t try to change him.

Her intelligence baffles him, and she doesn’t speak like the folks he grew up with. She’s different in every way, and he falls in love with her quickly.

Willard makes her a tree swing in the forest where they like to go to be alone. She finds this incredibly sweet and kisses him on the cheek before taking a seat on the wooden plank. His skin heats from where her lips touched, and he spends the rest of the evening with her in a lovestruck daze.

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Happy Interruptions

Pairing: Ezra x fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Slightly sub!Ezra, Sorta Daddy kink but it’s an inside joke, Fluffffff, Language, Little editing

Word Count: 1.4K+

Summary: Ezra has a happy ending. 

A/N: I lied it’s more than a drabble. This can be read as a standalone or a drabble off of “Still the Same”. This idea randomly came to me and I wanted to get it out there before responsibilities swept me up.

“Ouch!”

“Sh—I’m sorry! Scooch over.”

“Where?” You grunt. 

Ezra guides you to the middle of the small cot, chuckling to himself despite the fact that his hard cock has been resting in between your bodies for a good five minutes now with no form of relief. You squirm as he grips your hip and tugs you towards his; your juices smear on his bare stomach, glistening in the dull light of your little home. 

“Right here Blue,” he hums, fingers digging into your skin. “C’mon now, my beautiful flower, we do not have much time before the beast awakens.”

You giggle but quickly stifle it with your fingers, looking back as if the ‘beast’ will come walking through the door any second. 

“Blue,” he groans beneath you, tilting his hips up as a reminder. “Please. I need to feel that delicate heat now.”

You moan at the low gruffness and hurry to line yourself over him, the feel of his red hot tip sliding through your folds already making your core quiver and with a deep breath you slide down—oh it’s been so long.   

“Fuck,” he voices tightly, neck straining at the feel of your slick walls stretching around him. “Oh I missed this.”

“M-me too,” you stammer; you feel so full. “I’m not sure if I’m gonna last long, Ez.”

“I’m with you,” he grunts. “But it will help if you move, Starlight.”

His eyes show a glint of teasing and you grin. Leaning down to give him a kiss, he immediately shoves his tongue into your open mouth, not wasting any time in tasting you. Breaking the kiss, you lift your hips up until the tip remains and sink back down, starting a slow and leisurely pace—it won’t last, but you really missed just the feel of him, sitting so heavy inside of you, nudging at your cervix and every soft spot inside you.   

It’s even harder to stay quiet. Stars it’s difficult. You want to let out every moan and whimper he takes from you, want to hear his own equally, but he finds ways to make it up by burying his face in your chest, licking and biting at your full breasts; his lips wrap around a perk nipple and sucks on the sensitive areola. 

“Shit,” you whine, moving your hips faster now, desperately chasing a release long overdue. “Ezra it’s too—baby it’s too much.”

His mouth pops off obscenely. “My apologies, moon.” He sighs when you bury your face in his neck instead of answering him, licking and biting at the pulsing veins and to the juncture underneath his ear, earning a throaty moan that goes straight to your fluttering pussy. 

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Give me more, give me more of that sweet essence—fuck—”

“Shh,” you remind him gently. “I got you, daddy.”    

The whine that tears from his throat is enchanting—no, it’s more than that, much more, because you love every little noise that passes that delicious pout; a reminder than, after everything, he’s still here.    

The claps of your hips clashing together echoes softly in the room, as does the squelches of your arousal. Ezra withers under you, wrapping his arm around your back to keep you bowed down, back arched and taking his cock with every deep thrust; you thrust down, he thrusts up, messy and a little uncoordinated but fuck if you still don’t have that spark. The curls of his air leading to his pubic bone tickles your clit until the roughness of it causes you to shudder above him—you plant your hands by his hand to gain more leverage and griiiind just the way he likes it in a slow, taunting circle.   

“Oh shi—” he chokes on the rest of the curse, moving his hand up to your head close to him; he likes the feel of your breath against his hot skin, the drag of your tongue along every contour, every scar he wields with pride now.     

You start to feel that familiar tightening in your lower stomach, pushing you towards the edge of absolute euphoria and you can feel by the quick pulsing of his cock that he’s right there with you. 

Suddenly he sits up and pushes up into you hard, nearly knocking you off and without thinking you squeal, failing your arms around his shoulders to keep yourself upright. The crinkles around his eyes tells you that he’s taking joy in your flabbergasted state, continuing the spear into you as hard and deep as he can go. 

He leans up and captures your lips in a sweet, sensual kiss. “I’m almost there,” he pants against your mouth. “Gonna cum with me, Blue? Hmm? Want me to fill that delectable cunt until you’re dripping with my seed?”

The words make your eyes roll in the back of your head, your pussy clenching around him and your thighs trembling—from both the strenuous workout and the drag of his thick girth; in out in out in out snapsnapsnapsnap—  

“Fuck,” you scrunch your eyes shut and do your best to keep up with the brutal pace, all else forgotten…

“Fuck Ezra I’m cumming.”

Your cunt clenches hard around him and he snarls, “Do it.”

And just as you feel your body stiffen and a wave of white hot pleasure wash over you, a shrill cry resonates from the room next to yours. 

Close. So close. 

Ezra stills and sighs, slouching until he’s lying on his back; still stiff and throbbing in your soaking heat. 

“I’ll get her,” you exhale. 

Before he can respond you slip off him with a low whine—Ezra matches it with a thump of his head—ignoring the stickiness between your legs as you stand on wobbly limbs and slip a simple robe—the one he quite adores on you—over your shoulders. 

You tiptoe to the room where the cries continue, quieter now, and step through the cracked open door. 

“Hi babygirl,” you coo softly. 

Your little girl brightens as soon as her eyes spot you—Ezra’s eyes. She reaches her grubby little hands towards you, babbling away as if you can understand her. 

“Oh yeah?” You pretend, reaching down into the crib to pick her up. “Is that why you had to interrupt mommy and daddy?”

You cradle her to your chest and delicately rock her. This precious life you and Ezra created. With her dark brown eyes, soft curls that match her fathers, nose that resembles yours; part you and part Ezra, which makes her the most lovely creature in the galaxy. 

“My favorite girls.”

She immediately perks up at the sound of his voice, searching for him. You chuckle and turn so she can see him and the brightest smile graces her lips. 

“Hi little moon,” Ezra chirps sweetly to her, reaching his arm out; her hands follow after. 

You help him place her comfortably in his arm and take a step back, soaking in this beautiful, wonderful, spectacular image of the two people you love most in this world grinning down at each other like there’s no one else; just a father and daughter—unconditional and an unbendable love. 

You’re so fucking proud of him. He is no longer that angry, lonely man with dark clouds that once plagued him—not reborn, but risen from the ashes like a phoenix, overcoming all odds and obstacles to get to this moment, and you’ve been with him every step of the way. 

A deep glow in your chest draws you towards them so that there’s little to no space between your chest and his, your daughter bundled snuggly; her eyes droop, fingers latched on to his thumb, mouth hanging slightly open with a small spurt of drool pooling from her mouth—it’s the most adorable sight. 

“I’m proud of you, Ez,” you whisper as to not disturb her. “I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You do,” he hums, not looking away. “All the time, actually.”

You smile. “It’s my job to. And I mean it, every time.”

He finally looks up at you and you see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. It pulls at your heart. 

“And she’ll see that, too. She’ll know how much her father loves her, how strong you are, how kind you can be and—hmgh.”

The rest of your sentence is muffled by his lips, clashing teeth and bumping noses; it’s perfect. He doesn’t stop until you have to pull back with a laugh, breathless and beaming. 

“I love you,” you tell him. 

Ezra thinks about how lucky he is, like truly lucky—the kind of luck people would kill for and he thanks you everyday for giving him something he’d never thought he would have in a million years: a family. 

“And I love you.”

With that, there is happiness. There is closure. Love. There is peace. 

  Tags (if I’m missing any I’m sorry! you can check out my taglist through my masterlist):  @talesfromtheguild​, @absurdthirst​, @chews-erotically​, @hiwelcometochillys​, @legally-a-bastard​, @bluengrayfox, @pascaliprincess​, @oloreaa​, @thisis-theway​, @jaynoellef​, @ben-is-a-hoe, @hayley-the-comet​, @pascalisthepunkest​, @kenedyybrooklin​, @paintballkid711​

[shadeofazmeinya]

Relatively Unharmed (Rewrite)

Summary: Jeremy gets Gavin home from a deal gone wrong that left a bullet lodged in Gavin's arms and fear of how the other Fakes are going to react. Sure Jeremy's chest hurt from the fight, maybe enough to leave them just barely able to catch their breath, but Gavin is surely what the focus should be on here. To make sure the others aren't going to be mad at this new crewmember they've added in not protecting their own.

Prompt fill: One of the crew is in a bad way healthwise for whatever reason but hides it so no one will worry, but its worse than they thought and the other have to find them passed out and nurse them back to health.

A/N: Rewrite of an older fic to remove a certain character. Also to have nonbinary Jeremy with they/them pronouns because Rimmy Tim is canon, baby! Let me know if there are any parts not edited properly. And as always comments and reblogs are supper appreciated!!!!

Jeremy grits their teeth as they push forward, Gavin’s arm thrown over their shoulder as his feet drag out of the elevator floor. Gavin shakes with a wet cough that chills Jeremy’s heart, blood dripping and spilling. Just a little longer, Jeremy thinks, their own chest tight under their body armor, where growing welts stretched with every shift. Making every step and breath ache, burn. But it doesn’t stop them, as Gavin was drifting in and out, body heavier in their arms. Jeremy punches in the security code of the penthouse door, pushing inside to meet the startled and worried eyes of the other Fakes as they stumble and all but collapse inside.

It wasn’t often that trade deals went south. Especially ones that were supposed to be easy, ones with people they’ve dealt with before. But it happens. This might not be the first time. But it is the first time it was Jeremy’s fault.

They shouldn’t have shot first. They shouldn’t have sparked it all going down. Because of them, Gavin was just barely conscious on his feet, the others catching his broken body as they pass the threshold of safety.

“What the fuck happened?” Geoff’s angry face is on them. Michael and Jack were carrying Gavin away, relieving Jeremy of his weight and it takes everything not to fall down after him. They watch him go as Geoff steps even closer.

Jeremy knows, deep down, the anger is only stemmed in worry and fear at Gavin’s state. It still makes Jeremy flinch back.

“T-They pulled out a gun. I didn’t know what else to do, so I shot them. But there were too many and one of them got Gavin in the shoulder. H-He fell so hard. I got him out of there as fast as I could, I came straight back –“

They’re interrupted by a howl of pain from Gavin as Jack and Michael work together to try to set and disinfect Gavin’s shoulder. Jeremy pales at the sound. Geoff gives them another angry glare before rushing over to Gavin’s side.

Jeremy wants to go to Gavin too, heart wrenching at another scream ripping from his throat. But with the others already working over Gavin, there wasn’t room for Jeremy to go to his side. The rest probably wouldn’t want them to either. Not after they were the reason Gavin was screaming, crying in pain, so much blood dripping down, spilling onto the floor.

Jeremy slowly leaves the room, moving further back into the penthouse, away from the wailing. As the adrenaline drains, as the panic of getting Gavin home, getting him to safety drains, they can start to feel the ache in their chest worsen.

They nearly double over in pain when they reach the bathroom, bending over the counter, clutching their chest. Taking off their armor nearly makes them collapse, hissing and cursing the strains pulling every muscle. There were two bullets stuck in it, one right over their heart. At least Jeremy did one thing right remembering to wear it.

Despite it being off, Jeremy still feels like they can barely breathe, chest on fire with every heaved breath. They glance to the mirror, looking at their now bare chest already molting into purple and black. It looks hideous under the harsh bathroom lighting, the pristine mirror missing none of it. Jeremy tries to feel around their ribs, tries to feel the damage, but all they can do is hiss and wince in pain the second their hand touches sensitive skin.

They start to reach for some painkillers in the medicine cabinet but then stop. There was only one bottle. Only one pill bottle left and Gavin needed it more than them. Gavin was hurt more. Sure Jeremy’s bruised, maybe bones even cracked, but that’s nothing compared to a bullet ripped into one’s shoulder. So Jeremy sighs, dropping their arm away from the painkillers. They grab their shirt to slip it back on, which proves difficult but they manage, sliding back out from the bathroom to see how the others are doing.

Gavin’s unconscious as Jeremy walks back to the living room. His shoulder was wrapped up but everyone still looked worried over him, fussing around him. Jeremy doesn’t blame them, he had lost a lot of blood. They’ll still need to keep a close eye on him even if the wound was closed.

Geoff turns to Jeremy as they come back in, eyes narrowed and it makes Jeremy freeze and their heart sink.

It was their fault Gavin got hurt. It was because of them that they could have lost him. It’s grounds enough for Geoff to want them gone, want to kick them out or worse. Jeremy swallows under his gaze, starting to shake, in fear or pain or both they can’t tell.

But before Geoff could say anything, deliver his sentence, Jack appears, eyes knit in worry as she looks him over. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, the lie slipping past their lips before they can even think to stop himself. Relatively they’re fine, they tell themself. Compared to Gavin, they’re fine.

Jack doesn’t look convinced, not completely, but Jeremy still hides their stiffness, hides their labored breath as they go over to a chair and carefully sit down. “How’s Gavin?” they ask quietly, getting the focus away from them.

Jack sighs. “He’s going to be alright. The bullet didn’t hit anything major. Just barely missed breaking his bones.”

There’s an awful silence after that, as they all glance at Gavin. Watch his chest move up and down, slow. Quiet. “I’m sorry,” Jeremy breathes out.

“What do you mean?” comes Geoff’s gruff voice, piercing eyes to them. Jeremy has to look down, speak to their knees.

“I shot first,” they admit. “I know I wasn’t supposed to. They didn’t even have their guns fully out yet, were only just reaching for them and I… I panicked and shot. I started the shootout.”

“From the sound of it you had plenty of reason to,” Michael speaks up. “If they were going to shoot one of you, better you don’t give them the chance to.”

“I didn’t know for sure they were going to shoot,” Jeremy mutters. “I just saw one of them raising a gun and I shot. We were outnumbered, but I still did it anyway.”

“What happened after that?” Geoff finally speaks, making Jeremy shrink back more, even if Geoff’s tone was even.

“I kept shooting, but one of them hit Gavin in the shoulder. I got as many as I could before dragging Gavin out with me to the car. I’m not sure I got them all…”

Geoff sighs, a sound Jeremy is sure in disappointment. They should’ve tried to not let any survive, but they needed to get out of there. Needed to get Gavin somewhere safe.

The room fills with awful silence. Something strained in it as they watch Gavin breathe, body too pale, so much paler than he should be.

Jack finally moves, hands stained with blood that she goes to wash off. Jeremy can’t look at it. Instead, they sit back against the chair, trying to keep their breathing even, but it’s hard as the pain seems to only be increasing. A rib has to be cracked, there’s no way it hurts this much and it isn’t. Maybe Jeremy should find some bandages later and wrap it up. But they’re not even sure if they can get themself back up off the chair.

The others all start shuffling around, getting some food started and wrapping Gavin up in blankets on the couch. Then Jack comes back, footsteps pounding on the floor as they all see her pulled face.

“Is this your body armor?” Jack snaps, voice sharp but strained. Worried. In her hands she holds up Jeremy’s armor, bullets stuck in it, shining under the living room lights. Jeremy realizes they had just left it on the bathroom floor after changing out of it.

“…yes…” Jeremy mutters in response, hurting too much to shrink back from Jack’s intense gaze.

“What the fuck Jeremy?!” Comes Michael’s shout as he sees the bullets, knowing they would at least cause major bruising, if not worse. “I thought you said you didn’t get hurt!”

“I said I was fine!” Jeremy shouts back but then winces. Screaming was not helping their state.

“You’re not fucking fine!” Michael hisses, storming up to them and lifting their shirt up to see their chest, to expose the horrible bruises to the others. Jeremy tries to bury into the cushions of the chair as they all gasp.

“It looks worse than it is…” they try, but the others can all tell they’re lying, as their voice shakes and body grow paler.

“You’re supposed to tell us when you get hurt!” Michael retorts, dropping his shirt.

“I didn’t want to worry you, Gav needed to be helped first –“

“And exactly how long after Gavin being helped were you going to tell us?” This time Geoff’s sharp voice, again glaring at him.

“I don’t know…” Jeremy mumbles.

“Did you at least take some painkillers while you were in the bathroom?” Jack says as she digs around for more bandages.

“No –“

“What?!” Again Michael’s loud voice cuts through. “Have you gone completely fucking stupid on us? They were right there!”

“Gavin will need them more –“

“We have plenty to spare,” Jack says, pushing Michael aside and sitting besides Jeremy, bandages in hand. “It takes five minutes for us to get more. Michael, grab the idiot something for the pain. I’m going to make sure they didn’t break any of their ribs."

“Did you drive all the way here with your ribs hit like that?” Geoff says as Jack works on getting Jeremy’s shirt off, Jeremy hissing through their teeth.

“Had to get home –“ Jeremy utters, falling back and gritting in pain as Jack starts poking at their chest.

“You should’ve tried to call us to pick you up! It’s a fucking miracle you didn’t break a rib into your lungs!” Michael yells.

Jeremy can’t even retort, just groaning in pain as Jack continues to try to examine their chest and then more for any wounds she needs to wrap.

“Can’t fucking believe you!” Michael continues his rant, as he disappears into the bathroom, voice and stomping feet heard as he continues to his spew of curses. He returns moments later to hold out a pair of pills to Jeremy. Jeremy doesn’t refuse it this time, immediately taking them and swallowing them dry.

“There,” Jack says as she’s done examining them. “We need to get you laying down. And no more moving around. We’ll get the Docs in here later to properly check it out. But for now nothing seems broken.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Michael grumbles, but he leans over and presses a kiss to their forehead, showing the more worried side of the anger.

“Next time, tell us when you’re hurt,” Geoff says, his face softer, eyes less intense.

“I’ll do my best,” Jeremy says, giving a small grin despite the pain.

Geoff sighs, shaking his head, but the small smile return tells enough. And Jeremy knows all is forgiven. “Let’s get you in bed,” Geoff says, pressing a gentle kiss to their cheek. “I think we all need a rest from the excitement of the day.”

“Next person who hides being hurt is getting fucking shot, I swear to God!” Michael says, regaining his rant as Geoff and Jack help Jeremy up.

Jeremy can only just smile, feeling better knowing their family isn’t that angry with them. Knowing their family is going to take care of all of them just fine.

[tailorvizsla]

You didn't think I wouldn't ask for some Boba Fett though now did you? (Of course not, he is the new shiny for me iuwhei) ✨ HC Of my Choice... What about having your first kiss with Boba and he doesn't #know it is your first one till part-way through or after? Am I projecting? Yes, yes I am.

Title: HC – Boba Fett and First Kiss Pairing: Gender neutral Reader x Boba Fett Word Count: ~1700 Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Boba Fett is a grumpy bastard, but you hold your own against him. Boba also gets injured, but there aren’t any graphic descriptions of the injuries. Author’s Notes: Okay, my Angle, I’ve been thinking about this one for as long as it’s been sitting in my inbox. I’m not familiar with Boba Fett’s character, so I wanted to make sure this was good for you. So, without further ado, here we go with the Big Green Grumpy Jerk who has somehow inexplicably charmed his way into my heart with a few gruff comments.

Tagging @princessbatears because chaos? :>

📚 My Master List 📚

Boba Fett isn’t a man of many words. It’s not that he’s shy or anything – he just doesn’t like talking to people beyond what is necessary. He has worked alone his entire life, so the sound of others’ voices just sort of grates on him. He especially does not like being crowded by people.

So, one day, while doing his thing, he ends up injured. It’s not even due to combat. His jetpack just…sputters out. His beskar’gam turns what should have been a fatal fall into a very painful one. He knows he has broken a lot of bones, but Boba refuses to die like this. He crawls his way back to his bike, calls for medical aid, and prays to the Maker that someone in town will come help him.

You are the only person who does come to help him. Most other people are too afraid of the Imperial remnants to work with a Mandalorian. Others are too afraid of Mandalorians to work with a Mandalorian. You? You are not afraid of much. He is not sure if you are brave or stupid. After splinting the worst of the damage, you get him onto the bike and get him back into town. It is at this point that Boba finds himself leaning toward thinking you are stupidly caring and trusting.

You inject him with bacta – the good kind that makes him giggly, sleepy, and numb – and get to work. When he wakes up, he’s wrapped in an annoying number of casts and splints, but at least he’s still alive. However, you then give him the bad news: the fall has damaged many of the delicate nerves in his back. If he fails to undergo physical therapy, there is a real chance he may never walk again. He’s no medical expert, but when he looks at the scans you took, he knows you aren’t lying.

So, Boba resigns himself to having to deal with you on a regular basis. The first physical therapy exercises are simple, yet they exhaust him to the point where he just passes out. As the days go by, he starts putting up the walls to keep you out. (Spoiler alert: you manage to find your way through the cracks in the wall, annoying him with barely any effort on your behalf.)

Now, under ideal circumstances, this shitshow would end with Boba Fett getting back on his feet, paying you handsomely for the amount of time you have spent getting him put together, and going back to bounty hunting, never to think of you again. But of course, the universe throws an even bigger wrench into his carefully thought-out plans. Someone finds out that you’re taking care of him and a whole bunch of angry townspeople converge on your little clinic. He grabs you and the two of you run. The last thing you see is your clinic going up in flames. (Boba can’t believe the shortsightedness of these people – they’ve driven off their only competent medical professional. What are they going to do next? Kill their only competent mechanic? Di’kute, every last one of them.)

And so, the two of you go off on a merry adventure, annoying the absolute shit out of each other on a regular basis. Boba especially is concerned at how easily you have managed to find every single weak point in his defenses – physical, mental, and emotional. You are a fair shot with your blaster, so when he got fresh with you that one time, telling you that your ass looked downright edible in the trousers you had borrowed from him, you drew your blaster and fired a shot off at his feet. He laughed so hard his bucket nearly fell off. (You are not sure if you are disturbed that he finds being shot at amusing. He does scold you a bit, but you do notice that he does not talk about your ass anymore.)

With your knife? You’re lethal, and he learns that the hard way when he fails to announce his presence behind you. One moment Boba is reaching to touch your shoulder and the next moment, he’s got your elbow in his face and your penknife embedded in his flak vest. Fortunately, the blade’s too short to cause serious damage, but he does not let you forget that you kriffing stabbed him when he was only trying to ask you what you wanted for dinner.

Even though Boba would rather cover himself in tiingilar sauce and crawl back into the sarlacc pit headfirst than ever admit it, the two of you make a damn good team. He goes off to hunt bounties, you stay in town to provide your medical services for a fair fee. Sometimes, when your services are not needed, you’ll hang back at the ship and do some basic accounting to keep him within his budget.

Boba grumbles when you ask to accompany him on a hunt, but he figures you really do need to learn how to defend yourself if anything should happen to him. When the two of you were surrounded by goons, you naturally fell into place behind him, your back to his, covering his shebs while he provides the heavy firepower. When the numbers are thinned to something more manageable, he sets you loose on them, letting you practice your knife skills. And by the Maker, he is impressed with how much you have improved since the last time you stabbed him.

Between hunts, you get his shebs back into fighting shape. Hell, he thinks he’s even better than he was before. The exercises you insist on forcing on him have made him more flexible than he was before, and his bones no longer creak first thing in the morning. One particularly hot, muggy day, you try to make him drink that vile green vegetable concoction you call a smoothie. Smooth his shebs, there are chunks in that liquefied animal feed. Sometimes he wonders if you’re trying to kill him on purpose.

(You don’t know this, but Boba has already arranged for everything in his possession, ships and banking accounts included, to be transferred to you in the event of his death. Hell, he has even started negotiating with a friendly Tribe to make sure you have a home to go to and your pick of their warriors for marriage, should you be interested. Boba justifies it this way: the last time his jetpack mutinied, he ended up several hundred thousand credits in debt to you by his estimation. By ensuring you have a safe place to go, and a family ready to welcome you, he can offset the immeasurable debt he owes you. It hurts to think of this, but Boba genuinely cannot bear the thought of you being alone in this cruel galaxy, the same way he had been when he was a child. So, if he ever does piss you off to the point where you off him in his sleep, you’ll be fine.)

You keep pushing and pushing, insisting that he needs B-vitamins or some other bantha-shit he’s sure you’ve made up for the sole purpose of annoying him. When you start going on about macronutrients and essential vitamins, Boba loses it. He tosses his cutlery down and goes stomping off toward the cockpit. You follow him, blathering on and on about the last blood panel you had pulled – HDLs, LDLs, and a whole slew of acronyms later, he loses it. Rather than snap at you, he shuts you up the only way his poor sleep-deprived brain can come up with.

Boba pushes you up against the wall, gently to avoid hurting you. You don’t seem at all phased. In fact, you start waving the paper at him as you try to draw his attention to his sodium levels. Boba leans in and presses his lips to yours. You finally stop talking, your entire body going stiff in response. He takes a moment to nibble along your lower lip before parting your lips with his, tongue probing a bit deeper in, and you still aren’t responding. Boba draws back and stares down at you. You’re wide-eyed and clearly in shock.

He leans in again. This time you respond clumsily, your hands clutching at that stupid piece of paper. He gently wrestles it out of your grasp and crumples it up. Then he tosses it over his shoulder, not caring where it lands. He cups the back of your head and deepens the kiss. Still, you’re not responding the way he wants, so he draws back.

“What, never been kissed before?” he asks.

Before he can say anything else, he realizes that that was your first kiss. While Boba has never wanted to be anyone’s First Anything, he realizes that he wants to make an exception for you. There’s no one in this entire galaxy who can annoy the shit out of him in one breath and then worry about his health in the next. You are his little baar’ur. After you have wormed your way under his plating and so selfishly made yourself a fixture in his life without his permission? Oh, no, no, you are not going anywhere.

He cuts off your stammering with another kiss. He takes this one slow, moving your hands to where he wants you to touch him – one at his nape, the other at the small of his back, right over that spot that makes his knees weak.

This time, you respond. Slowly, hesitantly, but as you grow more confident, your hands begin to stray. You worm your fingers up the back of his shirt and dig your nails into the sensitive skin there, making him gasp in pleasure. Then you dig your fingers into his long hair and tug lightly, earning a low growl from him. You freeze and stare up at him with wide eyes until he leans back in.

Fortunately, your big smart science brain learns his likes and dislikes very quickly. When he finally pulls away, he finds that he really likes what he sees – your shirt’s rumpled, your hair is sticking up, and your lips are red and swollen from his kisses. Then and there, he makes a vow to make sure you always look like a mess.

(Spoiler alert: quite a few more of your firsts happen right here in the cockpit.)

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Ours

Extremely late and I’m EXTREMELY sorry!😭 @bluboothalassophile happy belated EVERYTHING! And just thank you so much for being the incredible friend that you are!!!! 🥰You know what this is 😏and I hope you enjoy because this is the first of three parts. Three just seemed to fit... I had a ton of fun writing it and hopefully it’s not rubbish.

-----------

It took time and patience with an unpracticed key guided by an unsteady grip. A petite, pale girl caught her lip between her teeth, a tiny grunt escaping as she finagled with the door.

"Raven, is that you?"

But she was starting to get used to this.

There was a concluding click as the key's metal ridge caught the groove in the last lock of the six panel apartment door. When it opened, in wandered a wearied Raven Roth.

And Raven would have liked to think she wandered in gracefully, but she knew she was dragging. It was impossible not to while wearing shoes so abhorrently impractical they should have been illegal. So violent was the aching in her heels, that by the final stretch of half-block, they were nearly numbed. Gods and her back—it was practically killing her.

If she was being honest, Raven felt like something one of those city sweeping trucks scraped off the sidewalk at four-thirty in the morning. One could only hope she didn't look like it.

"Roy," Raven winced, eyelids squeezing shut as she spoke. "I'm alive—but barely."

"Jay?" Roy called out from somewhere in the foreground. "Where are you?"

As expected a low, disembodied grunt ushered out in lieu of a response.

"Didn't you hear—Raven's back!"

The door slid closed and a gust of air entered the foyer behind her, carrying with it the heady notes of brown sugar, nutmeg, and melted butter. And like a Pavlovian response, she forgot the discomfort and led herself up by the nose. Spine straightening, legs lifting, then posture rising. It was like her whole being had been revitalized in an instant. Who knew the promise of a home-cooked meal could do that? A wistful smile steered into her face as Raven thought about how evenings after work used to transpire.

Weeks ago, one foot in the door usually meant bra optional. And flattening into a decompression on the couch was a non-negotiable.

Needless to say, a welcome like this one would never not catch her off guard.

"Something smells like you've outdone yourself again," Raven spoke loudly over the faint sounds of sizzling, curiously craning her neck and sniffing the air distractedly.

And then Roy appeared. He was peering out into the foyer, red hair bleeding out against the backdrop of a white walled interior. "Dinner will be ready soon," he supplied and beamed at her. The brightness faded in increments as his deep pine eyes floated downward and he took what she was holding.

"Again?"

"Yep." Raven gave a single solemn nod and Roy let out a dramatic sigh.

"But it's Friday. Those bastards..." he muttered in disbelief and Raven smirked. Suddenly, he inclined his head toward the other room and inhaled suspiciously. "Do you...smell that?" Roy went rigid in realization. "It smells like I forgot the flip."

"It smells like...that one's Jason's," Raven corrected.

Red eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Right." He marched back briskly toward the kitchen, only pausing to point at the heavy bag full of file folders teetering on her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me and Jaybird all about...that."

"Yes, please." Raven let out a huff, lower lip quivering. "You're an angel..." Roy winked at the pout topped by pleading purple and disappeared.

"The irony," a low drawl called from just around the corner. "Are you always such a sight for sore eyes?"

It was Jason walking over with arms out as wide as his grin. Even without the sarcasm, his aura and footsteps were distinct—a dead giveaway. They were oddly as heavy as they were silent.

"Whoa…" he looked as concerned as Roy had moments ago. "Or are you just sore?" Strong, steady hands removed her bag from her shoulder. "That's better." Raven rolled her stiff arm muscles.

It was a relief, to hand off her burden for a moment, to no longer be dragged down by the weight of her work—and the world.

"How was our day?" he pressed like a man who knew the answer.

"Rough—and long..."

Quickly Jason knelt down, hand reaching out for her calf. "I've got you, Princess." And Raven placed a balancing hand on his shoulder while he undid her shoes, a grateful half-smile stitching across her face.

"Come, come."

He took her hand, twirling her around past the living room to deposit her right onto a stool next to the island. "Sit. Harper's making crepes." Jason pulled her stool close and spun it around, so he was faced with the back of her.

"Take it from me, they'll help with the tension. Of course... I also believe in a hands-on approach." Jason then cracked his knuckles—mostly for effect, because boy did he know what he was doing. His hands slid up her arms, to her shoulders and worked them over, then dug into the surrounding muscles with his fingers and kneaded hard with his thumbs.

"Mmm..." Raven's tension began to ebb and wane. "Well, that helps a little..." Jason turned up the pressure a few more degrees while his breath grew heated on her neck.

Aroma clouds were wafting around their heads, while Roy flipped another crepe in slow motion. And in an instant, Raven was transported to some sort variant of a Jason and Roy spa she didn't know she needed.

"Okay, that helps a lot." And she moaned in spite of herself. All her stress was melting away, turning into liquid and evaporating off of her, faster than the French butter Roy was melting on the stove. He tilted the bright red crepe pan in all directions, getting an even gloss of sweet, golden goodness in every crevice. And Jason's hands continued to manipulate each one of hers, until all the tightness in her upper body unknotted itself.

"Hmm, where else—where else? Ah." Jason's rough hands took hold of the chevron patterned lace covering her ankles and he began to massage away. "Did I tell you, how much I like these stockings?"

Raven seemed not to hear him. "Harder," she whispered. His knuckle pounded gently down her arches, then ground fixedly into her heel and, painstakingly along the sides. By the time he took her other foot into his lap, she was practically cooing. "Did I tell you how good you are at that?" The tip of Jason's tongue edged over the corner of his smile.

Gods.

"That really is a shame..." he said and Raven lifted her head towards him in question. "About your day? How rough and hard it was..." His hand was lowering, slowing, but lingering. "Normally when you put those two adjectives together... It could be a good thing."

"Okay...!" Roy had come over suddenly with his spatula proffering a piece of crepe, still steaming hot from the pan. "I'm testing something out tonight, so I've added a special ingredient to this batch."

"Oh good. Raven did have one of those days. She could use some..." Jason pantomimed a flippant gesture. It could have been taking a long drag or it could have been—

"Not that kind... A different kind of special..." Roy shot Jason and Raven a long once over. Something in the way he said special made the air around them begin to bristle with titillation, anticipation. "A few drops of...lavender extract..." His voice dropped another octave. And he began to blow on the bite while Raven and Jason watched his full lips. It seemed cooling the steam from the crepe had an opposite and equal reaction. As if each breath was fanning the flames rising between them, like a bellow into charred embers in the hearth of a fireplace.

"Let me know what you think of it." Gently, he fed her piece from his fingers and Jason leaned his face close to hers, like he was attempting to steal it straight from her lips. Just before the point of contact, Roy clicked his tongue playfully.

Almost like he was calling him off.

"If you want some you'll have to wait." Dazedly, Raven blinked at Roy. He shook his head of chin length crimson hair, half of it was up in a bun with the rest hanging in his face. "I'll be back with the rest." Teasingly, Roy waved the spatula like a stake to ward off his dark-haired, undead roommate.

"Jason..." The brunette inched nearer to her at the sound of his name. She kicked his stool with her foot so it swiveled further away. Ultimately, it only caused him to move even closer. "Aren't we in rare form tonight?" she sighed.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jason insisted bemusedly, doing his best to appear impassive. "I'm always like this." He examined her wrist with his forefinger and thumb. "As for you... That office of yours must be working you damn near to the bone. Did you somehow manage to get tinier, Raven?" The left corner of his lips curled up.

She tore it away and glared at him, aghast. "Insufferable, patronizing," Raven muttered under her breath, nursing her wounded forearm. "Ass."

"But this ass speaks the truth," he raised an eyebrow loftily. "If you would just join our firm..."

"Your firm?" Purple orbs narrowed to slits. "Just because you guys are mercenaries for hire—"

"Mmm... We really prefer the term 'vigilantes,'" Jason punctuated with air quotes. "Actually, from a branding perspective, it's Heroes for Hire™—Roy's got a whole...thing..."

"Whatever you're calling your 'backwoods operation'." Raven's air quotes didn't disguise the disdain in her voice. "The point is, I like my non-profit just fine... And I am not tiny."

"Alriiight." Roy arrived with a huge ceramic serving dish full of crepes with powdered sugar dusted on top. "Eat them while they're hot. Raven..." He slid a plate over to her. "Eat up."

"I thought I would always get the first bite," Jason teased. Then quickly lunged forward, stopping short of Roy's smirk, hip cocked toward his. "What've you got for me, Harps?"

On a delay, the redhead drew back, as if he just remembered Raven was in the room. "Don't be greedy, Jay," he said at last.

The ebony haired man, raised an eyebrow, but began to unload fresh food onto his plate. Once every inch of real estate was covered in crepe, Jason started to attack with his fork.

"So, when have I ever been greedy?"

Was that besides the fact that his plate was loaded up with most of the food the archer had just cooked? And besides the fact that he hadn't really helped?

But then... neither had Raven. Unless licking the batter and 'testing out' a crepe or two counted.

"Well, Raven's barely eaten a crepe and you're drifting into seconds. Where's your hospitality? Shouldn't you share with our guest?"

"I can be hospitable..." He chuckled. "I'd rather just...share our guest."

Roy shot him a warning glare on his way back to the stove. Jason shrugged before closing in another crepe and filling his mouth with another forkful.

"You're amazing," Raven deadpanned.

"Aren't I? But I've got nothing on the food. I have to say, this is the best batch by far," he announced. "Roy, do you have any more of those blueberries you got from the farmer's market over the weekend?" Jason started to smirk at Raven. "Or strawberries? I know how much you enjoy them."

"Try the table," Roy yelled over his shoulder, mild irritation edged in his tone.

"Well..." Raven shrugged, her expression coy as she reached over for the blue container. "They are in season..." There were few things that could enhance Roy's crepes, except fresh berries. Raven puffed out her cheeks as she rifled through an almost empty berry basket. "And... there are only three left... You sure helped yourself," she accused heavily under her breath.

"I didn't see your name on them," Jason returned. "So it was fair game, like anything else in this apartment."

Raven folded her arms. "I thought Roy got them for me, didn't you Roy?" He glanced up at her as he moved around the open kitchen.

"Sorry, we're low, Rae," Roy said regrettably. "I should have picked up more. You'd think after a couple weeks, I wouldn't still be acclimating to having an additional mouth to feed. What can I say?"

"Yes, we're very sorry." Jason pinched her stocking-clad leg, eliciting a gasp.

Raven cut knife-sharp purple eyes at him before the redhead came around to her stool. Roy wiped a hand across the words Banging Redheads & Banging Brunches printed in a large black font on the apron.

Probably a Christmas gift.

And one for which Jason must have been responsible.

He ruffled the purple strands at Raven's crown with his spatula free hand. "I hope that's okay."

"Don't be ridiculous." She brushed the strings fastening the charcoal colored apron and tugged. "Now go take that off and come eat with us." Roy planted a kiss on the top of her head, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"Hmm...I guess I could have blueberries..." Raven mused. "Now that I think about it, they'd really compliment the lavender. I don't know that strawberries would in the same way."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Jason took a small sip from his cup, eyes trained on her through the glass. "Or have you ever considered...both?"

With a startling scowl, Raven looked up from the melted whipped cream atop the remaining crepes on the granite counter. "Have you ever considered why I like Roy more?" She retorted. "It's this."

"Really?" And Raven pushed his stupidly handsome, smirking face away from her own. "Little bird, don't tease," Jason moaned, dragging out the last syllable. "I promise to be good, I'll share—I certainly don't mind sharing with Roy." She rolled her eyes, popping a blueberry in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Jason was mostly euphemism on a good day, but this was different. He'd been dropping these odd hints all week. But Raven told herself it was another unexpected caveat about living here. She didn't think she should breach the subject or even read too much into them.

After all, she was only crashing with Jason and Roy for a little while longer.

This was purely temporary, until the super in her building got around to fixing the circulation unit in her water closet of a studio. Or that was what she told herself at first. She was quickly growing accustomed to the perks of living with them.

Being spoiled was... Well, it was nothing short of wonderful.

Gone were the days of scrounging up sad boxes of cereal for breakfast, schlepping together leftover takeout for lunch, or unearthing bags of nearly expired popcorn for dinner. Roy and Jason worked out a ton and ensured their fridge was always stocked. Even on the off-chance that it rained and the farmer's market wasn't open in the park so they could do locally-sourced organic.

That, and they could actually cook.

At a moment's notice, Roy could whip up an amazing French toast, or a hearty stew. If they were feeling wild he'd make them breakfast for dinner or vice versa. Even Jason's most experimental chili recipe could be redeemed by a few generous grates of cheese or a dollop of sour cream.

And clearly business was great, because their apartment was fantastic. It was spacious, but had all these homey touches, like a handcrafted breakfast nook Roy and Jason built together.

But tangible things aside, Raven found she actually didn't mind the company. So gone were the days of being alone.

The moments where he wasn't an insufferable tease, Jason loved attending their two person book-club. They talked books, trashy to classic and everything in between, often punctuated by an impromptu neck or foot rub.

When Roy wasn't working out, planning a job, or doling out heaps of domesticity onto her and Jason, he was a hopeless romantic. He reinvigorated Raven's secret love of rom-coms. But he also liked to learn from her. So he played chess, scrabble, even backgammon, and once in a while they were able to rope in Jason for monopoly. Roy was a very graceful loser at board games, but he was amazing when he got his hands around a deck of cards. And Raven was finding, she had a lot to learn from him.

But Raven's favorite nights were the ones where they could all just be. Listening to something old or indie in the background and talking until the three of them simply passed out.

The apartment just felt full—of fun, of food, of friends. Of laughter and love.

It was a wonderful life, but it was a shame it wasn't her life. Raven was a realist, she knew she'd have to go back.

But for now, she was going to enjoy every single second of it.

[goldenlaquer]

Hey, can I ask for some headcanons, please? For Gin, Toshi, Sougo and Kamui. About how they were in a fight, separated from their so and something happened like an exposion or whatever, anyway the main point is that they thought that their so have died but later they see her alive and relatively unharmed. So the headcanons of them when they thought they lost their so and when they see that she is ok. Sorry, this is so specific and long, I'm just a slut for some angst and I love your writings

Thank you for the support and sorry for the wait! I don’t know if I’m that much good at conveying angst but let’s bring on the feels! 

Gintama Headcanons: 

Hijikata Toushirou: 

Hijikata stands on top of a pile of rubble, and surveys the destruction around him. 

His hands don’t shake. His feet are firm against the ground. His shoulders are straight and rigid against the fleeting wind. Smoke escapes him in steady stream, and when he inhales in, the dust and fire of the air sticks to the walls of his lungs like sludge. 

To the men who stop to look at their vice-commander with their ugly concerns plastered on their ugly mugs: He’s fine. 

To the Gorilla who can’t stop asking him the question every ten minutes and that, he really should take a break or else at this rate, he’ll collapse: He’s fine. 

To the brat who stubbornly stays by his side like spit-up gum on the sole of his shoe: He’s fine, damn it, so go do your job and leave him alone. 

For once, Sougo doesn’t have anything clever to quip back at him. He doesn’t need to-- the silence between them speaks better than words. And Hijikata hates what it says, so he turns back to the grey landscape, eyes darting and sifting through the mangled and charred parts to see something, anything that is you. 

Nothing. 

He reaches for a cigarette, pulls it out of his pocket like second nature. The lighter is the trickier to work. The blasted thing refuses to flicker on. Oh, the cigarette falls down. Hijikata bends to pick it up. He tries again. The cigarette falls down. He stares at it. His shoe crushes it. He’s stomping down hard. Sougo is still silent, watching. Hijikata doesn’t care. 

The facade of normalcy is gone. Here he is: Taking his frustrations out on a sad little cig, like it’s the cause of all his fucking problems, like it’s going to bring you back. Harsh pants come out of his mouth, and in another series, they’d sound like something akin to sobs, but his face is dry.

“Hijikata.” He ignores Sougo. The cigarette is reduced to paper and dry leaves scuffed against concrete. “Hijikata.” He doesn’t answer.

Okita, with an eye-roll, kicks Hijikata square in the back and knocks him off the pile. 

Sougo, what the fuck? He. Is. Mourning. Hijikata has always known Sougo to be insensitive, but this is blatantly crossing several lines and he clearly doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with. 

But if it’s a fight that bastard wants, Hijikata will give it to him. He leaps up from the ground, ready to hand Sougo an express ticket to hell, misty eyes narrowing in anger as he looks up

and the breath is knocked out of him in a way that years of chain-smoking had miraculously failed to do 

Standing before him, white particles clinging to your clothes, hair, and eyebrows, is the damn most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. The feet move faster than he can process, and by the time his arms are around you and he’s breathing in the scent he thought he’d lost forever

“Fuck.” Because that’s the only appropriate response he can say without his voice cracking. “Don’t do that again.”

Kamui:

Loss is not a new thing. It was in the labored rise and fall of his mother’s chest, the pallidness of her white skin. The feel of his sister’s small hands, fisting in his clothes and pleadingly tugging back, her blue eyes wide and wet. It was in the looming shape of his father’s retreating back.

But there were other, worthier things to focus on. The pain in his knuckles slamming against bone and muscle. The taut stretch of his lips as he licks his wounds, tasting metal and victory. The title of ‘Universe’s Strongest’ nearly within his grasp. He didn’t have time for the weak. Didn’t have time to be weak.

Loss is not new, and yet there is something about this loss. Now, Loss is a sentient being, latching to his throat and squeezing as he grapples through the mud.

Abuto’s face is too blank and too careful. His voice is low and calm and reasoning, and he is saying things, but Kamui doesn’t listen. The words ‘she’ and ‘gone’ don’t mix, they don’t make any sense, so why should he listen? He digs and digs and digs, not hearing, he can’t, his ears and eyes are filled with the same muddy brown that must also be filling yours. Kamui works even faster, his nails splintering against the rocks embedded in the wet ground.

Hair released from its braid, trussed and caked in dirt. Pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. His face abnormally slack as he claws in frenzy, in desperation at the ground like a wild animal.

There are few things in this world Kamui can’t fight. No matter his strength, one cannot simply beat Mother Nature into submission. But there is no excuse. If he cannot save one woman from something as stupid as dirt, then what is the point? What use is his strength? He didn’t leave that tiny, rainy planet, ignoring all the things left behind with it, to become this weakling who couldn’t even manage to keep you by his side like he promised.

He’s a young brat again, helplessness coloring every pore. A damsel in distress. Someone who can’t save, but needs saving. He is no different than the baldy. Unable to keep promises. Unable to protect. Unable to do anything. Was he always this fragile? Pathetic.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. The word is a punishing mantra in his mind.

Something crashes into him. It’s not near enough to make him pause in his digging, but the something is tugging on his clothes. Incoherent, muffled shouting in his ears. He doesn’t pay it any mind because mud keeps slipping back in place despite all his useless strength and you’re still trapped, waiting for him--

“KAMUI!”

He blinks in surprise, snapping from the heavy cloud covering his mind. He’s flat on the ground, staring up at you. How he got there, he doesn’t know, but you are here in front of him, covered head-to-toe in mud and crying.

He is silent, watching as you blubber concerns and curses. A curious hand reaches out to your face in wonder, carefully tracing the path that a salty tear had made down your cheek. The familiarity of your soft skin warms his numb body and a small smile emerges from his lips.

As you sit on top of him, crying not because you are scared but because he’s such a stupid idiot, he realizes that that he isn’t all alone just yet, that there’s one thing that refuses to leave him. 

Okita Sougo: 

It’s happening again. And it honestly makes him want to laugh. 

He doesn’t believe in it, karma, but when you think that you’ve gotten used to the pain of losing someone you love, his rotten, black heart has to go and get ripped out for the second time as if he forgot, as if he needed reminding that there’s no way someone like him deserves something as good as happiness. There’s no other explanation to this shit luck other than that, for the accumulation of every filthy deed he’s done with his filthy hands and every fucking sin he has committed once and twice and will most definitely commit thrice, someone has to pay for it. 

And because Karma is two bitches and a half, that someone wasn’t him. 

There it is. The laughter finally comes out as he looks at the torn fabric in his clenched fist. It comes out harsh and hollow and, if you listened hard enough, choked, but who’s checking? Not him. Not Mitsuba. And certainly not you. 

He reported it to the vice-commander himself, voice robotic, telling how he was walking front of you when it happened, how the enemy somehow managed to predict your movements and ambushed the both of you on a bridge, how he had been unable to react in time to stop the silver flash of a knife and how the world tilted, too fast and too slow, and that there was a piece of hanging rope that he managed to snag on to with one hand and when he blindly flashed out the other to grasp at you, reaching through free air and snatching at cloth, it ripped from his fingers, and you fell to the chasm below.  Deep enough, Okita said as he looked straight into Hijikata’s eyes, that death would be quick and painless.

If nothing else could go right for him, then at least for this, he hoped, even fucking prayed, that it was painless.

Hijikata doesn’t react to the report with anything unnecessary, just a stiff upper lip and an “okay” before he walks off to stand somewhere far enough, yet close enough. For all their differences, Hijikata knows. He understands losing youthful love, and that the pity that comes with it is nothing more than steaming trash. In this way and other ways that he’d sooner eat shit than to admit aloud, Okita is grateful for him.  

He stops mid mirthless chuckle to shove the hand holding what’s left of  you up to his eyes, slanting his head downwards so his bangs cover what he doesn’t want the world to know what he’s somehow still capable of. Hijikata is tactfully looking away. Over the distance, Kondo is bellowing orders to his men who keep a wide berth from the spot where their 1st Division Captain stands. This is the only opportunity he can afford to be an eighteen year old again. Sougo swallows thickly, feeling the roughness of fabric dampen against his eyelids. 

Acutely, he hears the sound of footsteps. It is slow and steady and he thinks that they belong Kondo at first but the weight of them is too light for a gorilla. Before he can process this information further, the steps halt for several long seconds before starting again, this time faster and more urgent, lurching in his direction. Hijikata mutters an astounded “shit” but  for whatever reason doesn’t move to intercept. Okita really isn’t in the mood to deal with dumbasses but the sword by his side is already unsheathed and he’s aiming his red eyes to glare at whoever the fuck--

Arms wrap around his waist. A face burrows into his chest. His knees almost give out, but his name is Okita Sougo and he has already maxed out his whiny bitch points for the next decade. Instead, he drops his sword to cup the back of your very-much-alive head, caressing the wet silk of it before threading his trembling fingers through the strands to

sharply tug you from his chest and grasp your cheeks with one hand, squeezing your expression to that of a startled fish. 

“Now,” Okita murmers, the smirk on his lips at odds with how fucking great it feels to see you again. “What should I do with you?”

Sakata Gintoki:

Before they say anything, he knows. 

He has seen that type of expression too many times to ever forget the set jaw, the horrible attempt at stilling a trembling bottom lip, the unshed tears of eyes that can’t seem to stop roving, unable to face the recipient of bad news for more than half a second, and the pallidness of knuckles straining against skin, holding onto their clothes like a lifeline. 

He knows this expression so well he can gaze down at Shinpachi and Kagura with well-placed apathy, perfectly appearing as if his lungs aren’t threatening to collapse on itself when he notices who is not there with them, and tell them in his same old way to stop sucking on their teeth and finish what they can’t seem to get out because he has an appointment at the pachinko parlor at four and if they don’t finish up this job by three-thirty he is going to dock their nonexistent pay by 80%. It hides the rising nausea and stone weight of the stomach well. 

This time, however, his casual rudeness doesn’t make them react the way he wants them to, it only makes them fold into themselves even further. 

The thing is, no matter how many times you see it and know better than to entertain it, there’s always this one glimmer of hope, so ridiculously strong that you’d gladly pray to anyone and everyone, even if you don’t really believe, because if anything is possible then it better be possible that this isn’t bad news, or that even if it is bad news then the worst of the pinched expression is just a by-product of eating food gone bad or the pain of an ingrown toenail, that it isn’t about someone dying or dead. 

But life rarely goes like that, and Gintoki lives in an extra-shittier life compared to most people. 

When you stumble across them, hair singed and smelling of gunpowder and smoke, there is something so thick and so wrong with the air, something that makes you stop from crying out in elation at seeing the people you love most. Shinpachi is fastidiously rubbing his eyes and Kagura has her face buried against Sadaharu’s fur and Gintoki

Gintoki looks alone. And you don’t think you have ever seen him look like that, so withdrawn into himself that even if he is surrounded by people, there’s nothing that can come close to him, nothing that can ease the dull bleakness of his eyes and the defeated hunch of his shoulders. He looks like a single thread worn too thin, on the verge of snapping. He looks like nothing matters anymore. Nothing. 

You dislike it. You hate it. You hate it so much, to see this man turn into something so unfamiliar and terrifying and gut out. You don’t know this Gintoki. You want the other one back, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to smear dog shit and boogers on the back of your jacket and the one who doesn’t really mind it when you take a sip of his spoiled strawberry milk. 

So when you shout out loudly, so loud that vibrates the space, that you’re here and alive and that you didn’t, couldn’t die because how could such a measly explosion off you when there were idiots waiting back home for you, to see Kagura and Shinpachi fly to you, screaming and whooping as they open their arms wide for your hug, snot running down their noses, and Gintoki snap his head up, disbelieving at first, yet searching your form with a speck of hope that brings life back to his dead eyes, and when he finds whatever he was searching for, he goes to you on steady feet, folding his arms around the group, gaze still drinking your form up as he leans across Shinpachi’s and Kagura’s heads to bump his forehead against yours, his breath sighing out something like relief-- it almost makes you cry, or maybe it does because you can feel something wet trailing down your face.

Gintoki is silent for the most part, because Kagura and Shinpachi are doing most of the talking for him, but when he does speak, it is to say: 

“Damn, there goes the life insurance money.” 

[sarah-sandwich]

ooo “will you still be here tomorrow” with whatever marvel ship ur heart desires pls and thank you 🥺 (-thompsborn)

Thank you @thompsborn!! This was a toughie to figure out what to write about but I ended up going a little angsty followed by good old fashioned comfort 💖

11. Will you still be here tomorrow? - parkner

Read on AO3

It’s cold. That’s the first thought Harley has as he wakes up. The second is pain. Deep in his bones, aching and stiff and forever. He’s always felt like this. He was born in pain and he’ll die in pain. Alone and cold in the dark.

He groans as he sits up, cringing at the scrape and clatter of his chains as they drag on the concrete. He wiggles his fingers but he can’t feel them—whether because of the cold or how he was laying, slumped at the base of one of four walls that makes up his cell, he doesn’t know.

It’s only a matter of time now. He can feel himself slipping. He’s spending less time awake and what little time he has been is jumbled and fuzzy. Soon. Soon he’s going to close his eyes and forget how to open them again.

Soon.

Soon…

…Soon…

With a gasp, he resurfaces from the black to the clanging of his chains. They’re so loud. He wants the noise to stop. Stop. He grabs at them with hands he can’t feel, attempting to still them, to quiet the racket, but it persists. Crashing! Booming! They’re oddly still despite all of the—

The wall at his back shudders and his chains— No, not the chains. Something else is making the noise, far away but drawing closer. A battle maybe.

He wishes he knew the ending. The heroes ought to win. The best stories end with the heroes winning, even if they lose some things.

He wishes that…

He wishes…

Wishes…

A series of pops, harsh and forceful, bring him back this time. They’re close now. Much closer than before. His heart swells with hope for the first time in… a long time. It’s hard to track time here. Time doesn’t exist in this cell. Only dark and cold and pain.

Once more is all he needs. Just once and he can rest. Once and he’ll go quietly. Just so he knows what happened. One more time so he can tell him that’ll he’ll survive this. It’s all he asks.

Bang!

He blinks blearily at the open doorway across from him and the figure in white scrambling towards him with a gun across its torso.

“No,” he mumbles. No, this is all wrong. The good guys are supposed to win. This isn’t right at all. Don’t they know anything?

The figure grabs his arm and yanks, babbling something too fast for him to follow. He jerks back and cracks his head against the wall. He cries out. Pain. It’s all he knows. It’s all he’s ever known. He was born—

The white figure vanishes and in its place is a different figure, a familiar figure made up of red and blue.

“Harley?” He drops to his knees and takes in the manacles around his wrists and the chains embedded deep within the wall.

“Hey baby,” Harley croaks. He tries to smile but it hurts. Everything hurts.

“Oh my God, Harley,” Spider-Man gasps. Peter. That’s his Peter under there. “Can you stand? We have to get you out of here.”

Harley hums. He’s not sure if he has legs. He used to. He used to have them, but that doesn’t matter now.

“Naw. ‘S okay though. I only asked for one.”

“What? One what? We only have a little time to get you—,”

“One more. Kinda stupid now that I think about it,” he slurs. His tongue is like a block of wood in his mouth but slippery. “M’be shoulda asked for two.” He forces the corner of his mouth to shift up into an almost smile. He wishes he could see better. He wishes Peter wasn’t wearing the mask, but he can’t complain. “Just glad I got the one.” He puts a numb hand over Peter’s and pats it while his chain shriek at him. “You’ll be okay, darlin’. You’ll be okay.”

Then he stops fighting the darkness like he promised he would and it takes him.

~*~

The first thing Harley feels when he wakes up is surprise. This wasn’t part of the deal. The second is a familiar warm body beside him and he thinks, ‘Screw the deal.’

Moving still hurts but not as bad as before. The soft mattress certainly helps and there are at least ten pounds of blankets keeping the cold away from his bones but he can turn his head freely and when he does he finds Peter curled beside him scowling at his phone. Harley doesn’t say anything, he only drinks him in, but Peter must feel his gaze because he looks up and their gazes meet.

Two. He got two after all. At least two, he tells himself, joy swelling in his chest like a balloon.

“Hey,” he croaks when Peter fails to speak. First time for everything, huh? It takes an insane amount of effort but he manages to free an arm from under what he now sees is only three blankets. He brushes the back of his fingers against Peter’s cheek and is surprised when the chains don’t make a sound. Right, because they’re gone. He feels weird without the weight of them pulling against his every movement. “Missed you,” he tells Peter. It’s the understatement of the century but he doesn’t have a speech prepared considering he didn’t think he’d get this far.

“I—,” Peter clears his throat but his voice is still tight and for the first time Harley notices the red around his eyes and his pale pallor. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh?” he asks with a levity he doesn’t feel. He wants to wrap Peter up in all of these blankets and never let him out of his sight again. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Peter glares, eyes glassy, then hides his face by pressing it against Harley’s chest. He says nothing.

That’s okay. He rests his hand on the back of Peter’s head and comforts himself by playing with the over-long curls at the nape of his neck. Talking this much has already taken a lot out of him. He doesn’t want to sleep yet. He wants to stay here with Peter at his side, basking in the warmth of him, the novelty of getting to hold him again after he resigned himself to never having this again. To never having anything again.

Despite all of his determination, he’s on the brink of sleep when Peter says, “You gave up.”

He hums in agreement and Peter sits up, propping his elbow on the bed so he can look Harley in the eyes as he says, “I saw you give up.”

He takes Peter in. Three. He got three more when he only asked for one. At least three. “I know,” he says.

“You know?” Peter sits up fully. It’s a tight fit in the bed but Harley isn’t going to complain about all the ways Peter is shoved against him, even if his knees are bony. “That’s all you have to say? Why didn’t you fight, Harley?”

He shakes his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal? What are you talking about?”

“You know, the deal. I… It was to see you one more time so I could make sure you knew what happened to me and—,” He swallows, recalling the relief he felt when he realized Spider-Man had arrived. Not for himself. Not for rescue. “And so I could tell you that you would be okay.”

“You almost died, Harley!” Peter exclaims, tears pooling in his eyes.

“I know. Why d’you think I made the deal?”

“No,” Peter says emphatically. “No, not there. Here. You had hypothermia and you were dehydrated and— and— bruised all over but you wouldn’t wake up. You should have but you wouldn’t and you know what the doctors said? They didn’t know I could hear them but they said that sometimes when someone goes through a trauma like you did, they don’t want to come back. They don’t want to fight anymore. You— You quit on me, Harley.”

He lets out a shuddering breath and the tears break loose, running down to his chin before dripping free.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t think he can sit up or he would and he’d hold Peter the way he wants to. “I didn’t think… The deal was—,”

“The deal,” Peter spits. “What a garbage deal. Seeing me one more time? That’s it? What a waste of a death wish.”

“You think I started with one?” Harley demands, his temper cresting to meet Peter’s. “You think I didn’t run the gamut on everything else I thought I couldn’t miss out on before I settled on the single most important thing I absolutely couldn’t bear to leave without doing? I was dying, Peter.

“I could feel my body shutting down with me stuck inside it and all I could think about was what if you never found me? I can’t tell you how many times I woke up surprised I was still here and thought, I need to hang on a little longer so Peter knows. So he doesn’t have to wonder. Peace. A little peace of mind was all I had to give and it cost me everything to get it to you. So don’t—don’t call me a quitter. I would never quit on you.”

A sob bursts from Peter’s lips and then another. “Harley, I was so scared.”

His flash of temper vanishes as quickly as it came. “I know. Honey, come here. I’m sorry. For all of it, I’m sorry.”

Peter curls over him, burying his face against his neck as he shudders and gasps.

He presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek and clings to him as tightly as his fatigued muscles can manage. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths silently. He thought it was a deal with the devil but either that wasn’t the case or the devil is a hopeless romantic.

The adrenaline rush he got from arguing is fading quickly and taking his remaining energy with it. As Peter’s sobs subside and his eyelids grow heavy he says, “Sweetheart, I’m gonna sleep again. Will you still be here tomorrow?”

Peter sits up and mops his cheeks roughly with his shirt as he says, “Of course.” He threads his fingers through Harley’s hair and leans close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harley stares up into his warm dark eyes. Four. Wow, how did he get so lucky? At least four, he reminds himself. At least. “I’m expecting number five now.”

“Five what?”

“The fifth time I get to see you again.”

A funny look graces Peter’s face. Like he wants to laugh but it hurts. “You’ve been counting?”

“Yeah. All of them.”

“Oh, your count might be a little off then. This is the fourth time you’ve woken up.”

“Wha— Really? I don’t remember anything.”

“It’s okay. You were pretty out of it. It’s been a long… Well a long two months, I guess.”

“Two months?” Harley echoes. “That’s how long they had me?”

Peter’s expression pinches into a very familiar one. “I’m sorry it took so long. We had to—,”

“Hey, let’s not go there, okay? I know how you are, Pete. You did everything you could and you got to me as fast as possible, probably faster than what should be possible knowing you. I’m just surprised is all.”

“How long did you think it was?”

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to remember the way it felt. As though no time was passing at all. Like he’d always been there and always would be. Life before was less memory and more dream.

He shakes his head. “It felt like years,” is all he says. The need to sleep nags at him. He refocuses. “Tomorrow, or whenever I wake up, it’ll be eight times?”

“Yeah.” Peter smooths his hair from his forehead. Harley closes his eyes and basks in the gentle touch. “See you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” Harley murmurs. He drifts to sleep to the feel of Peter’s hand in his hair, anchoring him, reminding him of what he needs to come back to.