#and i'm already chewing concrete thinking about it

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Writing Echo being a little shit is so much fun :D

Also Hunter is so goddamn tired of being in charge of a load of gremlins. Someone give this man a break

@saturn-sends-hugs @inkstainedhandswithrings

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა WAKE UP CALL ! — bucky barnes

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. following a spontaneous lead from valentina's assisstant, bucky calls you to let you know he’s driven halfway across the country and picked up a few strays.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. written as f!reader in mind but can be gn!, phone call, thunderbolts era, established relationship, takes place right before the scene in the gas station, pet names, veryyy light angst, steve mentioned — 1.4k words

𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. this is just a little practice fic i wrote post-thunderbolts! it's based loosely on my oc, who was in the og avengers, so there are references to that and her fighting/having powers. but feel free to imagine it however you want <3 can be read in the same timeline as this fic, but it's not necessary to read.

The phone rings once, twice, then a third time, before Bucky’s apologetic, softened voice runs down the line.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he starts off gentle, before his words are coming out in one barely coherent string, like he can’t get them out fast enough. “First of all, I’m sorry. I should’ve — I should’ve told you I was leaving. It wasn’t — Well, I was gonna stay out of it, but the whole thing with Valentina…” Bucky trails off. His voice grows quieter, like there's someone else in the room with him, before he picks back up again.

For a few seconds more, he babbles, almost like he’s afraid to let you speak. He sounds slightly flustered, and more than exhausted — but that’s evident only to you, who has known him so well, for so long. 

Then, he concludes his little speech, less than eloquently. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I should’ve called earlier. I’m sorry.” 

You pause, letting your spoon rest against the side of your coffee mug, trying to make sense of all the words he's just said. The coffee swirls inside the cup, shading a lighter color of brown, before it settles, stilling completely.

Outside, the sun is already beginning to beat hot on the concrete, though it’s not even noon. Which tells you that sometime between the gala last night and the crack of dawn, Bucky had already gotten himself into some sort of trouble. 

“It’s nine, Bucky,” you say, taking a long sip of your coffee. You’d only just brewed it, but you’d used enough creamer to cool it to a drinkable temperature. “I wouldn’t have answered had you called any earlier.” 

He exhales on the end of the line, and says nothing. You can’t tell if he’s relieved or not. 

“When's the last time you slept?” 

“Doesn't matter. I'm fine," Bucky says. You can hear him shifting, his jacket rustling as he brushes up against something. He changes the subject quickly, going back to the matter of calling, which is more than enough to have you worrying. “Listen, I meant to call last night when I got back, but they gave me all these packets to read and—”

“Bucky,” you cut him off, before he can launch into another disgruntled tirade about all the paperwork he hates reading. “What’s going on?” 

This time, the pause on the other line lasts a few moments longer. 

While Bucky never lies to you about anything, he struggles, sometimes, when it comes to communicating. Occasionally, he omits the truth, or says nothing at all, because he wants to keep you safe, and he knows you’ll drag yourself into the danger with him. 

Despite all the years you've been together, Bucky still can't quite fathom that someone would put themselves in the crossfire because of him. He always accused Steve of having something to prove, and he thinks the same of you, when the truth is, you both just love—loved—him enough to put your lives on the line. 

Bucky hesitates on the other end before answering, his voice hushed, growing quieter again. “I don’t know everything, yet.”

You close your eyes, lean your head against the wall. For all the shit he gave Steve for jumping head-first into things, Bucky’s never been much better, in your opinion. “Bucky—”

He doesn’t let you interject, insistent on regurgitating all his words before you can chew him out. “Remember Valentina’s assistant I was telling you about?”

You wrinkle your eyebrows together. “Yeah. Did she actually give you something?”

Bucky exhales as you take a seat on the couch, curling your legs up into your chest. It’s been over a week since he’s been back home, and you miss him already, even if you’re used to being apart. 

He explains, briefly, about the people involved in Valentina’s dirty work, ones he can use in the trial against her. You’ve heard of them all, infamous in your line of work, including John Walker, who you’ve had the displeasure of meeting before. 

Bucky’s story is finished up quickly, a messy wrapping, tied up in nothing more than a knot. You can’t tell if he’s leaving out details, or if he really just doesn’t know them all. 

You purse your lips, pulling at a loose thread in your sweater. “You should’ve taken me with you,” you say, before falling back into the couch, your eyes glued to a spot on the ceiling, where the paint looks off. The longer you gaze at it, the more it starts to look like a discoloration, one you’re not certain is real. Maybe your imagination is just desperate for something to fixate on. “I could’ve helped.” 

Bucky’s smooth, silky tone soothes the aches in your heart and mind. “It was nothing.” He sounds louder, then, as if his mouth is leaning closer to the microphone. “Besides, you told me you wanted to stay out of all this.”

A frown takes over your features. You had said that; it was the entire reason you hadn’t moved to D.C. along with him, and sometimes, you wonder if he thinks you hate him for working in Congress. “It’s still your career. I don’t want to be completely uninvolved.”

“I know."

You’re grateful for the sincerity in his voice. You’re not a fan of most politicians, but you hope he knows that you'll support him, love him, no matter what.

“If I really needed your help, I would’ve called.” He laughs, then, a small sound. “I just didn’t. This time.”

You can picture his small smile on the other end, can envision the lines forming tighter around his eyes. In the near decade since he’s regained his memories, he’s only aged a couple years. Oftentimes, you wonder if you’ll ever catch up to him, if one day, you’ll look older than the man who has lived through more than a century. 

It’s a strange thing to think about. 

“Will you be home soon?” you ask, softly, surprised by how vulnerable your voice sounds. 

The house feels colder without him there, empty. It had been your choice to stay in New York, but sometimes, you wish you would’ve just moved with him.

There is evidence of your life all around — books you love, pictures of friends you still have, and those that are gone. Your favorite restaurants are still just a walk away, memories of your existence on every avenue. 

It’s home — it just feels less like one without Bucky Barnes in it. 

“I’m not sure. Maybe sooner than expected. I don’t think they’ll want to keep me in Congress for much longer, now.” Bucky goes for humor, but you don’t laugh, and neither does he. “Are you okay?”

Things haven’t been bad, lately, but you’re tired. It’s been one thing after another after another, after another, for years. 

The world just won’t let either of you rest.

“I just miss you.” Too much emotion seeps into your voice, and there’s a cloud settling over your heart that makes you want to cry into the phone.

You don’t, though. It would just make him feel bad, and make you feel worse, and you’re more than old enough to handle being alone for another week, even if you don’t want to.  

Still, he sounds even more apologetic on the other end. “I miss you too. So much.” There’s a sound behind him — it’s faint, but it sounds like a groan. One of the hostages is waking up, it seems. “I have to go, sweetheart — I’m sorry.” 

He’ll never stop apologizing, even if these things are out of his control. Sometimes, you feel selfish for wanting so much of his time when he has the heart and the strength to save the world. 

“It’s okay,” you say, even if the words sound a little dull to your ears. “Promise me you’ll call when you get the chance?” 

“I promise. I love you.” 

The words make you smile. It is, perhaps, the first genuine one you’ve had since he answered the phone. You lean your head back in the cushion, settling into it, before repeating the words back to him. 

The line goes dead. 

thank you so much for reading! please consider leaving a or reblog if you enjoyed ❤︎ black divider by k1ssyoursister

[dailymanners]

I get my ideas for posts from a lot of random sources. Some of them are from doing research, like articles / books / etc. about different manners. Some of them are from suggestions people have sent to me or asked me about on this blog. Others are based on experiences.

The doing research is one of my main sources. But I don't think I've talked about before how I don't just post any and every manner I find, I put some effort into curating them, because not all the manners I find make the cut. Some just seem like bad ideas, some are hyper specific to one region or culture and would be considered rude in many areas outside of this one region or culture. Some have no good reasoning other than "this is just what's been considered polite for centuries so do it."

But in case anyone has been curious what are some of the ones who haven't made the cut, here's some of them and why:

If you're scraping ice off of your car, scrape off your neighbor's car too. I've come across this one a few times and have never posted it for a reason. It's a nice thought, if it was icy and my neighbor had scraped off the ice from my car without damaging my car at all, I would personally be grateful. But the problem and why I've never posted it is because of the risk you run of damaging your neighbor's car in the process. If you damage someone else's property while doing a favor they never asked you for, you bet they're going to be really unhappy with you and likely make you pay for damages. Now I have posted about shoveling your neighbor's driveway or walkway, because the risk of damaging a driveway or a walkway while shoveling is much much lower, if anyone has ever managed to damage a concrete driveway or walkway while shoveling please let me know how you managed that. But I also imagine it's less of a problem than a damaged car.

2. Calling service workers by their first name if they're wearing a name tag I worked the service industry for many years, and was lucky enough to never have to wear a name tag. It was already unpleasant enough getting hit on by people three times my age, or getting yelled at and chewed out by strangers daily, and I'm grateful I was afforded some anonymity. The last retail job I had we didn't have name tags, but for some reason beyond me the receipts would print the name of whoever did the sale, and I personally hated it when people would look at the receipt then call me by name and go "that is your name, right?". You encounter a lot of creeps and hostiles in the service industry, so many people prefer feeling anonymous. To each their own, maybe some people in the industry like it when customers use their name, but I never posted this because I know it's not universal.

3. Take off your hat while you're inside The reason is because I have never been able to find a good and logical explanation for this one, most of what I can find is based on outdated concepts like "back in the era of knights it showed trust and vulnerability for knights to take off their helmet while in someone else's residence" or "back in the day women wore huge and elaborate hats that would block the view for others" but nothing on why I can't wear a simple plain beanie indoors. Maybe I'm just personally salty on this. I have a skin condition that causes scalp issues for me, and I find wearing simple and breathable hats like beanies helps me. But when I was an au pair many years ago the host mom would scream at me and call me rude if I wore a beanie indoors because I was "setting a bad example for her children" by doing something so rude as wearing a hat inside. But I never did get a good explanation on why it was so rude and such a bad example for her children. I just wanted to ease my scalp problems. If you have a good reason, please do let me know because I would like to know. I'm sure there's more, but these are a few I can think of off the top of my head that I've encountered a few times but never posted. In case anyone was curious about what does or doesn't make the cut.

A few others are things that are more etiquette that manners like "make sure that x utensil is always to the right of y utensil" and I don't want to dunk on anyone who is big on etiquette rules and finds them fun or interesting, but it's the same problem as the hat problem. The focus of this blog is manners that have meaning and I can give a good logical explanation for how/why it benefits you and others.

And to be perfectly honest, sometimes I post things and later go "Actually, I don't fully agree with that now that I think about it more." But also, I trust that all of my followers are able to think critically on their own, so if they come across a post of time that's actually kinda unnecessary or they just don't agree with, they can think for themselves "actually, I don't want to do that or think that I need to" or even just "this might apply to other people but doesn't apply to me or my circumstances."

[rainstormies]

firestarter | eddie munson

its my birthday today so heres a lil gift from me to you<3

pairing: eddie x r!cheerleader

fandom: stranger things

word count: 2,4k (oneshot)

synopsis: when the pressure breaks her, she ends up at his door. and he doesn't turn her away.

song aesthetic: war of hearts by ruelle

content warning: super mild smut

You don't cry at school.

That's the rule. The only one that's ever really mattered, ever since you first zipped up that red and white cheer uniform and figured out how to smile on command. There are cameras in every hallway, even if they're just eyes. Eyes with claws and voices sharp as teeth.

But today?

Today, you break the rule.

It happens somewhere between Tiffany rolling her eyes and saying, “You've been weird lately,” and another girl whispering something behind her palm about “the freak” and your “late-night van rides.” Your skin burns under the fluorescent lights. You laugh too loudly, too fake, and say you're going to the bathroom when really, your hands are already shaking.

You make it to the back of the school before the tears fall.

It's golden hour — that time when the sun hits the cracked concrete just right and makes even Hawkins look soft, like a memory instead of a town. Your sneakers crunch over gravel as you head to the back parking lot where the record store glows like a secret. It's quiet here. Nobody follows you here.

Except him.

Eddie Munson leans against the wall, arms crossed, black jeans ripped at the knee and guitar pick chain swinging against his chest like a promise. He doesn't say anything when you walk past him, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket like it's nothing.

You don't make it ten steps before his voice breaks the quiet.

“Didn't peg you for a Mazzy Star girl.”

You turn, startled. His hair is a little wild from the wind, shadows tucked under his eyes like secrets he hasn't slept off yet.

He's not smirking. Not this time.

You almost laugh. “You've been watching me?” you ask, trying for playful. It doesn't quite work.

He shrugs, pushes off the wall. “You always come straight to the sad stuff. Not even a pit stop in the pop aisle. It's kind of impressive.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “And let me guess — you're here for the loudest, weirdest vinyl they have.”

He grins, that crooked little thing that makes your ribs tighten. “Guilty. But I like your taste better. It says you've been through something.”

You glance down, suddenly shy. “Maybe I have.”

He steps closer, voice gentler. “Yeah. I know the look. It's the one you get when you've learned to keep quiet.”

You don't say anything. Not right away. Just cross your arms and shift your weight from one foot to the other.

He softens a little. “Rough day?”

You nod. “They think I'm... changing. That I'm not playing the part right anymore.”

“And the part is...?”

“Perfect girl... I guess. Loud laugh. Thin waist. Small brain.”

Eddie snorts. “God forbid you have thoughts of your own.”

You're too tired to laugh. Instead, your voice is small when you say, “They're not wrong. I have changed.”

He doesn't ask how. Just walks up to you, close enough that you can smell the faint cigarette smoke on his jacket, the leather, the mint gum he's probably been chewing since third period.

“I think,” he says, “you're just starting to like who you are.”

And maybe, you think, I'm starting to like who I am when I'm around you.

His fingers brush your wrist — barely there. You don't pull away.

You end up in the van that night.

Not for anything wild — not yet — just to sit. Just to breathe. Eddie pulls a blanket from the back and throws it over your legs. He offers you a mixtape he swears was made for someone else but you know was for you. A voice you don't recognize sings low about love and bruises and forgiveness.

He doesn't look at you when he says, “I know they talk. I know what they say about me.”

You whisper, “They talk about me too now.”

“I'd take it all if it meant you didn't have to hear it.”

That's when you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you — it's hard to tell, the moment catches like a match and burns before you can stop it. His lips are rough, a little chapped, but the way he touches you is gentle. Like he's scared you'll run.

You don't.

Your hands end up tangled in the front of his shirt. He groans softly against your mouth, thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing it.

And when you climb onto his lap, straddling him in the dark, neither of you says a word.

Your thighs bracket his hips. His hands slip under your cheer skirt, just barely — resting, not rushing. The air is heavy with heat, the smell of dust and rain and pine-scented air freshener.

You can feel him, hard beneath you, and he looks at you like he wants to give you the world and ruin you in the same breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice ragged.

You don't.

But you lean forward until your forehead touches his, and whisper, “Not yet.”

You stay like that for a while — tangled, burning, not ready to go all the way but too far to pretend it's nothing.

It's everything.

And it's terrifying.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

You don't remember walking to his trailer, only deciding to. The party was too loud, too polished, too much. Glossy girls with brighter smiles than hearts. Boys with beer and boredom in their eyes. The kind of party that tastes like cherry lip gloss and leaves you lonelier than when you arrived.

So you walked.

Now, you're standing outside his door with your pulse in your throat. You don't knock. You just open it.

Eddie's on the couch, legs kicked up, half asleep in his faded Metallica tee. His hair's loose around his shoulders, and the room smells like incense and motor oil. A movie hums quietly on the TV — something old, black and white, warbling in and out of focus.

He sits up when he sees you, a little too fast. “Hey.”

You shut the door behind you, leaning against it like you're not sure how to stand anymore. “Your uncle's out, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

“Good.” You step forward, just a little, the quiet click of your shoes sounding loud on the floor.

He notices. He's looking at you like he's trying to figure out how much of you is here and how much of you is still wherever you came from. “You okay?”

You don't answer. Not at first.

You sit beside him, slower than you walked in. “I'm tired of pretending,” you say, so softly it sounds like a secret.

Eddie tilts his head. “Pretending what?”

You look at him, eyes a little hazy, voice steady. “That I don't miss you when I'm not here. That I don't think about this — whatever this is — when I'm stuck with people who only like the version of me they understand.”

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Too quiet. Then he says, “That's a dangerous thing to say. Especially when you smell like cheap vodka and cherries.”

You laugh, and it breaks the tension like glass.

He's watching you, but not like the others do. Not like you're a prize to be won or a name to be whispered behind backs. Like you're a riddle he wants to take his time solving.

You lean in, close enough to feel his breath. “I'm not sober enough to lie.”

There's a silence.

Then his hand is on your thigh — not rushed, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Warm.

“You've been gone,” he says, voice low. “I figured you were over it. Over me.”

“I was scared,” you admit. “Of what they'd say. What I'd become.”

Eddie shifts closer. “You mean what you already are?”

You nod, throat thick. “Yeah.”

His touch trails up, over denim, to your hip. “You're here now.”

“I am.”

The air is thick between you. Not heavy — just full. Like something about to happen. Like thunder waiting to break.

He leans in, his nose brushing yours. “Say it again. That you missed me.”

You don't hesitate. “I missed you.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

It's not soft. It's not rushed either. It's just real. His hands slide up your back, grounding you. Your fingers find his shirt, curl into it like you've been needing to hold something solid all night.

He pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and you let him. You're straddling him now, your knees digging into the cushions, your hands buried in his hair. He tastes like cinnamon gum and the end of a long night — sweet and a little wild.

The kiss deepens. His hands press into your waist, fingertips memorizing every inch like he's trying to carve it into his skin. You feel weightless. Reckless. Free.

Your lips part for air, and he's looking at you like you hung the stars. “God,” he breathes. “You drive me insane.”

“You like it,” you whisper.

His hand tightens just slightly at your waist. “Too much,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, his nose brushing yours again like he can't help it. “Too fucking much.”

You stay like that, suspended in the hush between heartbeats. Kissing in the dark. The TV behind you flickers in a wash of silver and shadow, forgotten. The only thing you hear is your breath, tangled with his, and the thrum of your pulse like war drums in your throat.

Then he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, callused fingertips brushing the bare skin of your lower back. You gasp, barely audible, the contact sending sparks skimming down your spine. He moves upward, inch by inch, like every patch of skin is sacred.

And you let him.

His other hand finds your thigh, grips it just above the knee, then slides upward with the same unhurried patience, anchoring you tighter to him. Your body curves instinctively into his, hips pressed together, and you swear he curses softly against your mouth.

Your lips find the curve of his jaw, warm and sharp beneath the stubble. You kiss him there, once, then again, then again — slower. Lazier. Like you're staking a claim.

He lets out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whisper, low and broken. His hands are moving now, one mapping the small of your back, the other ghosting beneath your skirt, bold but reverent. Like he's worshipping, not wanting.

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach.

“Say something,” you whisper against his throat.

“What do you want me to say?” he murmurs, his voice gravel and silk.

“That this means something,” you admit, because the words are already there, too big to swallow.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes are wild and open, like he's showing you every part of himself he's never let anyone see. “It means everything.”

Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter this time — messier. Less careful. Like he's unraveling right beneath your hands. You kiss him like you're starved for it. Like his mouth might be the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Your hips shift. He grips tighter.

His thumb brushes just beneath the band of your panties — nothing more — and yet it's enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your whole body goes taut, electricity singing in every nerve.

But he doesn't push.

Instead, he stills, forehead resting against yours again, both of you trembling under the weight of everything you're feeling but haven't said.

“You wanna stop?” he asks, voice barely there, like he's scared even the question might push you away.

You shake your head, slow but certain. “No.”

His eyes search yours a moment longer, making sure. Always making sure. But then he exhales like he's been holding his breath for days.

You're both breathing hard, the air between you gone heavy and warm, saturated with tension and everything you haven't dared to say. The room suddenly feels too small for all this want — too full of heat and moonlight and everything he makes you feel.

So you reach for him.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and lift, and he lets you, arms raised as you pull it over his head. The fabric falls somewhere to the side, forgotten. His skin is warm beneath your touch, dusted with freckles and old bruises, the kind of soft that hides strength.

Then your shirt is gone too, slipped away like a secret in the dark, and suddenly there's nothing between you but breath and skin and the electric pull that's always been there.

His hand comes to the back of your head, gently, like you're something precious — and he guides you down, slow and careful, until you're lying on your back, looking up at him.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and when he settles there, chest against chest, mouth just hovering above yours, it's like everything clicks into place.

It feels right. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just right.

Moonlight spills through the window, casting the room in silver shadows. It touches everything — the curve of your cheek, the slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes drink you in like you're something holy.

He undresses you like that, moving your legs for just long enough to get his pants off, in the quiet glow of night. Patient. His fingers careful, never greedy, brushing your skin like he's learning it —memorizing the shape of your ribs, the dip of your waist the places where you shiver under him.

Your hand finds his chest, palm spread flat, feeling the thud of his heartbeat under your skin. It's fast. Just like yours.

And then his lips are on yours again.

Slower this time. Deeper. He kisses you like he's got all the time in the world, like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. Every move is unhurried — the soft grinding of his hips, the gentle drag of knuckles across your jaw, the sigh he lets you when you pull him closer.

His mouth trails lower — jaw, throat, shoulder — and every press of his lips leaves a mark, not on your skin, but in your chest.

And not once does he let go.

His hands stay on you, steady and warm. Guiding. Anchoring. Holding you like he's afraid you might disappear if he stops.

And you don't move away either.

You don't want to.

Because for the first time, you don't feel like you're pretending. You're not the girl everyone thinks they know. You're just you, and he's just him, and there's nothing else here but the quiet promise of something real.

The kind of real that lingers.

The kind of real you don't forget.

icl i've never written smut before so pls forgive me if it's shit. lmk if you guys have any suggestions or stuff u want me to write. enjoyy<3

[heartfullofleeches]

I imagine that werewolf bodyguard reader has a big appetite so I'd like to think they'll cuddle up to anyone that offers them food, may i please request an affectionate wolfie reader?

Skipped lunch again... Something you shouldn't with strength being your most contributing factor, but with so many prying eyes recently you were dedicated to your post. You eventually crawled away with your tail tucked between your legs as the howls from your empty stomach alerted your fellow guards. You'd serve no use to the team in this state and thus you excused yourself to scrounge around for something quick to hold you off until you got off. You could probably eat an entire city with how your hunger pains clawed at the lining of your stomach - but a sandwich would do for now.

"Y/n! Come here for a sec, we got something for ya!"

The smell hits your nose before their whistle catches your ear. Mouthwatering chicken, hot out of the fryer. You sniff around, following your keen sense of smell to the bed of a truck where two of your coworkers sat with a large plastic bag between them. The bag was tilted on one side and you could see the bucket full of golden chicken within. You wipe the corners of your mouth as you address them.

"Need me for something?"

"Guess you could say that. We were just on break and saw this local joint was still open at this hour so we stopped by for a bite. Noticed you'd been on your feet all day and brought you a treat for your hard work."

The non-speaking party pulls out the bucket and places it on the floor of the trunk. It pains you to tear your eyes away. If you had one, you'd need it all. "Maybe some other time. I don't get off for another hour."

"Aw, don't be like that! Our wolf needs their strength. Just a couple bites, yeah?" The guard grabs a drumstick and waves it at you. You will your eyes shut, but the smell lingers and takes pilot of your feeble mind. You climb aboard the truck bed, squeezing between the two as you hold their wrist steady. You strip the bone of its meat in the matter of seconds, setting your head on the lap of its giver as you chew. Your arms hook around their leg; teeth snatching the bits of chicken they offer as their companion rubs your back; gently reminding you to chew before swallowing with a tap to your shoulder blades.

You swore you stop after one more piece. You had a post to return to and a boss depending on your loyalty. One turned into three til you'd eaten three quarters of what was intended to feed a family of six. You lay between the pair sluggish and a sponge for their soft pats and praise. It reminds you of being the runt of the litter being given extra attention - something you hadn't been in a long time. Couldn't say you didn't miss the treatment despite being bigger than most humans you'd met thus far.

When a hand comes to stroke your jaw you find yourself leaning against it as your head hangs from the weight of fatigue. Your lips rest on their wrist and you instinctively nestle into their warmth as your breathing slows. The heavy bounce of a heel on concrete drags you from sleep and towards the unamused, jealous gaze of your boss.

"Evening, Y/n. You two."

Crumbs fall off your face as you sit upright. "Evening, boss...."

"I believe I've told you before about spoiling them with junk food. In the car, Y/n. Now."

Expecting to be chewed out for abandoning your post you're surprised to end up at a fancy steakhouse after a silent drive. Sitted at the table already stacked with nearly every meal on the menu, the waitress sets a fork and knife in front of your boss while leaving you with no utensils.

"Um... can I get a fork too?"

Your boss cuts a piece of meat and holds the fork to your lips. "No. This is your punishment for skipping lunch and not asking me to bring you food first. You are not leaving this table until these plates are licked clean."

Your stomach grows. "I'm not sure if that will really be a challenge..."

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch14

Description: we get taken to Mexico and thrust into the Action!! Let’s go find Hassan and meet Graves in the next chapter!! Whoop!!

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

I'm sitting in the meeting room, my leg bouncing up and down due to anxiety. I start chewing on my finger nails. Laswell's voice crackles over the computer. "Captain, good to speak again. I've spoken with Shepherd. He wants your team in Las Almas by tonight. They are to link up with the Mexican Special Forces. He is sending his own Shadow Team with Commander Graves. They have air support and any further assistance will be at your disposal. This is important, Captain. Lieutenant - I trust you will be able to get results. Don't let me down. I will send through further details as soon as I am off of this call. Thanks for your assistance once again. It is much appreciated" and with that, she signs off.

Everything seems to move in a blur from there on in. The next thing I know, I'm sat beside Johnny in a helicopter, the lieutenant standing near the pilot. I had packed my bags in a rush - I hope I had remembered everything but it was too late now.. we are already in the air. I had made sure to tie my hanky securely around my arm. It was tradition at this point. My lucky charm. Kyle joked that he felt the same way about his baseball cap.

I close my eyes and count for the rest of the journey, starting again at zero every time I lost my position. Johnny speaks with Ghost, who still hasn't looked at me. I was worried about this trip - how long would we all last together without John and Kyle. Would Ghost try and kill me before they join us? My hands start tapping on my thighs, nervously.

All of a sudden, there is a crash and jolt and within seconds, the side door of the helicopter opens revealing a concrete landing pad with three black jeeps parked waiting for our arrival. I freeze when I see him and tuck myself behind Johnny. I don't look up from the ground. Johnny and the Lieutenant stride ahead, down the ramp of the helicopter.

"Alejandro!" Johnny shouts, over the whirl of the blades.

"Sergeant MacTavish" - the Mexican Alpha replies - "Call me Soap.." Johnny greets, confidently and with respect, shaking his hand. Alejandro nods once.

"Lieutenant - Laswell says they call you Ghost?" - "Actually, I believe he prefers to be-" Johnny interrupts before Ghost snaps over the top of him -

"That'll do!" he barks loudly at Johnny. Johnny slams his mouth shut so quickly, like a child being scolded.

"And you - Garrick, is it?" oh shit..oh shit.. he's talking to me. He must have read the name on Kyle's hoodie. I'd forgotten to change before we had arrived! Stupid, stupid mutt!

The silence stretches on for too long and Johnny cuts in, answering for me as I just stare wide eyed at the dark haired Alpha. He is the one I'd almost shot when I was still with the Russians... Him and his omega.. the one that had died in that mission. I swear he looked at me. What if he recognises me?! Ghost narrows his eyes at my, obviously terrified, reaction.

"This is Laika - or Y/N.. I - I don't actually know what she prefers..." Johnny thinks aloud.

Alejandro squints his eyes at the strange interaction but then shrugs. "Welcome to the city of souls.." he says, turning to walk back to one of the black jeeps.

"I've never been to Mexico.." Johnny says - god, how was he so friendly and confident with everyone he has just met..?

I notice that Ghost is striding slowly behind me - probably keeping watch that I don't run off. He had clearly clocked my reaction to Alejandro when stepping out of the helicopter.

"This isn't Mexico.. This - is Las Almas.." The Alpha corrects Johnny.

Ghost then starts talking Lieutenant jargon - something about weapons and backup from Graves - Alejandro replies "my base is your base.."

"Good - now, where is Hassan..?" Ghost asks in that gruff, aggressive voice of his. I had gathered from the intel sent over from Kate, that Hassan is an Iranian terrorist who had been dealing American missiles with the Cartel. We had to catch Hassan who had outran the Mexican Special Forces - they needed to catch him before he crossed the border.

"At a safe house, holed up - it's about ten clicks from here - now, get in" he gestures to the jeep. Johnny walks around the back of the car to get in from the other side. Ghost nods for me to sit in the middle and then he squeezes his massive body in last. I still hadn't looked up.

"This is my second in command - Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra" - I glance up to see the Omega. The one I thought was dead.. I tense up and gulp audibly, and Ghost looks at me again with a look of confusion. Even Johnny looks unsure.

"tengo miedo de los fantasmas.." Rodolfo murmurs to his Alpha. Alejandro smirks before turning to face us from his seat - "You know Spanish..?" Alejandro asks.

"No" Johnny replies on behalf of all of us - "you will.." Alejandro chuckles..

I don't say anything to correct the assumption that I don't know Spanish - I mean - I know very limited Spanish, but enough to get by.

I feel a bit of warmth towards Rodolfo in that moment. For, I was also afraid of Ghosts...

*Ghost's POV*

The girl is acting oddly - ever since we stepped foot off of that helicopter she has been skittish. I hope she isn't going to be a liability. Even Johnny is giving her weird looks, so it isn't just me picking up on the weird vibes from her. Not to mention that she fuckin' reeks of anxiety and fear again, not that anyone else seems to be able to smell her properly yet..

I get the feeling that she is contemplating fleeing. I remember Laswell mentioning that she might try to go back, if the Russians came for her... does that mean she is a flight risk? I wasn't sure. All I know is that I have to keep a close eye on her.. I stay behind her in case she tries to dart off. I can feel her hesitation when Alejandro tells us to get in the car.

Her scent is rolling off in waves of sour fear. I try not to touch her but it's near on impossible with all three of us squeezed in the back like this. My legs press up against hers, she is trying to shrink - or disappear. Rodolfo says something in Spanish that none of us understand. The two men were a bonded pair. Alpha and Omega. I can smell it on them...

Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

Rodolfo - or Rudy - as Alejandro calls him, drives us through the streets of Las Almas. Some of them look eerily familiar from my last visit here - I try not to remember. Thankfully my memories of those days are fuzzy, thanks to the high dosage of drugs I'd been on. A white pick up truck drives by with several men and guns loaded on the back. Johnny immediately alerts Alejandro of the threat.

"Hey, hey! Tranquilo! Easy, that's normal here.." the Alpha replies with a heavy accent. The Alphas then begin to discuss the Corruption of the Police and Army in Las Almas. Alejandro tells Johnny that the locals call them 'Los Vaqueros' - the cowboys..

I remain silent for the entire drive. We slow due to a traffic block up ahead. I look the the right and see two dead bodies laying in a pool of blood, covered in the flags of the Cartel. I feel sick, but try not to show any reaction, I had seen this before when I last visited Las Almas, I heard the locals say it was how the local crime gang 'marked their territory'.

Alejandro instructs Rudy to go around the traffic block. The road was being blocked by the Mexican Army who were in the pockets of this 'El Sin Nombre' Cartel leader.

The car pulls into a smaller hidden area - Alejandro steps out and slams the door. "The Cartel are hiding Hassan in the village across the river. Get ready - we leave in five, amigos". I swear he eyes me with suspicion.

*Alejandro's POV*

I hadn't been told that the Brits were bringing a girl with them. A strange, shy girl. She had little to no scent, I assume she uses blockers. She seems familiar. I wait until the car pulls up at our storehouse and whisper to Rudy "vagila a la chica" - he nods, agreeing to keep and eye on the Garrick girl.

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

I quickly strap on all of my holsters, belts and put the heavy tactical vest over my head, clipping it tightly around my waist - I hate it when it is loose, I find that it throws my aim off. I follow Johnny to the car with all the weapons John had sent over for us.

I see the familiar case of the sniper rifle with a small ticket of paper sticking out of the lid. I furrow my brows. Johnny throws me an assault rifle. This would be the gun I use most - I then spot a smaller gun that I recognize from my time in Russia - some sort of pistol. It's labelled as a TYR, I make a grab for it and holster it, feeling pleased that I'd found a gun that I'd at least be familiar with using.

"The Captain said you'd want this.." Ghost grumbles, handing me the case. I look between him and the case, unsure. "Take it.." he growls. I do as ordered and quickly take the case.

How the fuck was I supposed to carry this fucking beast of a sniper?! I quickly kneel to the ground and assemble the scope and sights, making sure I take enough ammo for all of the guns. I stare at the Rifle for a few seconds, pondering how to carry it. I attach a leather strap to it and sling it around my back so that it settles between the rear pockets of my tac-vest. I shrug my shoulders and jump and crouch a couple of times with all of my gear to test that I could still move unrestricted with everything. It wasn't perfect, but it'll work. The last thing I do, is tie my hanky around the strap on my outer thigh. I glance back to the boxes of weapons and at the last minute, take a knife. I don't like using knives - always trying to stay far enough away to not engage in close range scraps.

I feel utterly terrified but fall back from the cars and stand behind the two familiar Alphas. Johnny glances back to me and for the first time in ages, speaks to me.

"You alright, Lass..?" - I just nod. He sends a tight lipped smile my way before we load back into the car and drive to the village.

The drive is short lived - we arrive within a couple of minutes. Soldiers leap from the surrounding cars. I just copy. I'd never actually worked on a team before - let alone a trained military unit like this. I hope I don't majorly fuck this up. I sense someone staring at me. I follow my instincts and look around, meeting eyes with Rodolfo. He doesn't look away, just raises an eyebrow.

"Weapons hot, Vaqueros!" Alejandro shouts at his men.

"Where are they hiding Hassan?" Soap questions, "White two-story building, back of the town" Alejandro says before fist pumping his Omega and splitting up to infiltrate one of the entrances to the village. I follow behind Johnny and the Lieutenant, assault rifle raised with the hope that I wouldn't have to use it.

I overhear Johnny asking about civilians, thankfully Alejandro responds saying that they'd all left when the Cartel took the village as a hideout. At least no families would be caught up in the fray. I sigh in relief.

We round another corner when the pop of gun fire erupts. A couple of houses' doors open and armed men start firing at us. I immediately take cover - hiding behind a wall. I take three or four deep breaths before popping back up to check beyond the wall. As I break cover, a bullet whistles past my head. I gasp and duck back down. FUCK, Careful mutt - that was almost a bullet to the brain..

The main group of Vaqueros, Johnny and the Lieutenant push forward up the middle of the street. I stay back trying to think about how to help. I couldn't just cower in fear. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, MUTT!

I turn sharp left and flank the group. I make sure I keep pace but on the opposite side of the village. I follow the gun fire and somehow manage to skirt around the village undetected. I reach the white two-story house. A ladder is leaning against the wall, just underneath the window. That'll do!

I quietly climb the ladder and enter silently through the upper floor window. I slowly work my way around the house, it was heavily guarded. I shouldn't have arrived here alone but I felt like I had something to prove. I pull the knife from my thigh holster and stare at it, turning it slowly, watching how the light flashes off of the blade. I have to be quiet so I will have to use the knife. I shiver slightly but concentrate on the task. Get Hassan.

I silently slice my way to the final back room on the upper floor. Dropping three bodies and dragging them to the side.

I move toward the final guard, not making a sound. I throw a piece of fabric over his head and then wrestle him down to the ground, straddling him before slicing his throat. Just as I finish clearing the upper floor, a huge ruckus sounds from downstairs. SHIT, they're here! I quickly notice that I'd been very stupid. If they see me, already in the house, they'll shoot before they realise that I'm on their side. I make a rash decision and elect to leap from the shot out window, rejoining the back of the team from downstairs - hopefully they think that I've been there the whole time. I can only hope nobody has noticed my absence. Hassan isn't even in the fucking house..

I quietly slot between two Mexican soldiers that I don't recognise - they line me up and down quickly with their guns, my eyes widen before one of them speaks "es solo la chica del británico" - I don't quite understand but gather that it's something along the lines of 'British girl' so I assume they know I'm on their side.. I smile nervously and wave. They just look at me as if I'm crazy before moving forward with the others.

As we begin to move forward, I eye the bodies I'd left in my wake from just five minutes earlier. I cringe slightly at what I'd done. I hear the Lieutenant's voice bellow from up ahead. "No Hassan.. Negative on Hassan" - "They must have moved him.. recently" Alejandro speaks.

I finally step into the room that I had already been in, Johnny notices me first and strides over to me quickly "I didn't see you for a while there, Lass - thought you'd done a runner!" he jokes, slapping me twice on the arm. I huff a soft laugh and look at my feet, what he doesn't know, can't hurt him... "Y'alright though..?" he asks, eyes trailing down my body, checking for any marks. His eyes hesitate on my legs before moving back up to my eyes.

I quickly glance down to check my own state - my eyes settle on my knees. They were covered in dark red - where I'd straddled the last guard and knelt in his blood. I feel like I'm going to hurl but keep an even face on in front of Johnny. "Not mine.. just slipped when coming up the stairs.." I lie through my teeth. Johnny laughs and accepts the lie instantly. I feel awful... guilty..

All of a sudden, a loud roar of engines sound from outside. "Commander! The Army is rolling in!" one of the Vaqueros shout to Alejandro. He curses and growls angrily, Johnny, confused, says "we've got reinforcements" - "Negative, Soap - we engage, cover my men" - "what? you want us to engage the fuckin' Mexican Army..?" Johnny replies, completely shocked.

"No, these men are paid by the Cartel - they are helping the Cartel protect Hassan.."

We all take position at the windows. I consider using my sniper but decide it is still too close range for that. "Wait until my men are clear before engaging!" Alejandro shouts.

I watch several Army vehicles roll down the hill towards the house. We are substantially out numbered. A gun fires and then all hell breaks loose. Grenades and flash-bangs are thrown back and forwards - they have light machine guns firing up at us but we eventually manage to gain the upper hand. Alejandro's radio crackles - it's Rudy. "Alpha, we are clear" - "Copy, rally at the safe house!" he shouts back before ordering us to fall back.

A grenade comes flying through the window, thankfully blowing on the opposite side of the room. It still causes Johnny and I to get thrown. I hit the wall hard with my shoulder, but quickly recover, ignoring the pain shooting up and down my arm. I whimper as I regain my footing. "Quickly lass, they're going to flatten the place.. the window! Follow Alejandro and Ghost" he gasps between coughs, pushing me back towards the window. The same window I'd already jumped from. I can't stop coughing and my arm is slowing me down, not to mention the pain that fires from my shoulder every time that I raise my gun.

I glance back to Johnny who shouts "Faster!! The Army is right behind us" - "Fan out! We will lose them in the mountains!" Alejandro shouts over his shoulder.

I wince again when I raise my arm. Fuck! Think Laika Think! I turn a sharp left and once again, flank the main chase. The Mexican Army run past my position as I use the trees for cover. I cover Johnny with supporting fire, although I can tell he thinks it is the Army shooting at them.

"Fuck, they're on us!!" Johnny shouts, loud enough for me to hear from where I was trying to find a good spot to cover them from behind.

Alejandro's men turn and set up positions to fire back at the quickly advancing Army. I quickly swing my sniper rifle from my back to the front and watch through the scope. Aim, one - two - click.. HIT. I hit four men cleanly, remembering to aim two marks to the left on the scope to make up for my slightly off aim thanks to my old rifle. It seemed to be working. The Army seemed to be thinning quickly. I throw the rifle back over my shoulder and lift the assault rifle, ready to try and rejoin the group without getting hit by friendly fire.

Alejandro's men start to move towards the cliffs while the remaining members of the Army look to regroup before giving chase. I try to sprint down the hill but the terrain is difficult. I manage to catch up to about fifty meters behind the main group. "Laika!! Where is she?!" Johnny shouts - "move sergeant, she'll catch up!" The lieutenant barks back - yeah.. he probably hopes that I'd been shot down...

"We need extraction - we can't take on an entire army.." Ghost shouts to Alejandro. "Copy that - Call for Extraction, Rodriguez!" Alejandro agrees.

I finally manage to rejoin the others and slide beside Rodriguez, who is madly trying to contact the extraction team. "The mountains are blocking comms.. we need to move!" He shouts, panicked, as the Army catch back up and start shooting at us again.

I run beside Johnny and squeeze his hand quickly before slotting behind him. He glances and smiles - "Lass, you've got to stop disappearing on me" he chuckles.

Alejandro leads us to some precarious looking rocks and cliffs. "What's the plan?" Johnny asks as we regroup at the edge.

"There is a bridge at the river - extraction will be there.." Alejandro explains.

"CONTACT - RPG" Ghost growls as a huge boom explodes a few yards to our left. I jump backwards into Johnny's chest. "We need to get away from here.." I whimper

Alejandro suddenly breaks cover - "Fall back! This way.." He runs towards a huge cliff. "WE HAVE TO JUMP THAT?!" Johnny shouts.

I stop dead in my tracks - there is no way I will make that...

"Do or die, Hermano!" Alejandro shouts back, leaping and easily making the distance.

Ghost jumps next and makes the leap, so does Johnny.

My eyes dart from left to right. There is no other way out. I hear the crashing of the Army gaining on us. "FOR FUCK SAKE, GIRL - MOVE!" the Lieutenant bellows from the other side of the gap.

Johnny steps forward "Lass, jump! I'm here, I'll catch you! C'mon - you need to move.. NOW".

I scream and sprint toward the gap. I feel my toes teeter on the edge, trying to get as close as possible to the edge to give myself the best chance of making the distance. I push off and close my eyes, still screaming. I feel arms grab me. I wince in pain, flinching away as the pain blinds me - my injured arm was carrying mine, and all of my gear's, entire weight. But at least Johnny had caught me..

"Argh Put me down, put me down NOW JOHNNY" I scream. He pulls me to safety and then drops me suddenly to the ground. I try to scramble back to my feet to keep running, but I stumble slightly. He quickly reaches to my painful arm and I flinch away. His eyes widen, is that sadness or pain I can see in his expression..?

"Don't touch me - don't Johnny.." I pant, stressed and in pain.

I clamber to my feet and we keep running. Alejandro tells us to push forward. The Army are trying to surround us so we have to go through the middle of them to find the river.

What feels like hours of excruciating pain, finally comes to a head when we reach a cliff edge overhanging the river. We have fought our way through hundreds of Army troops and what? Now Alejandro expects us to jump from a cliff into a fast flowing river. I give up...

"Extraction ahead!" Johnny shouts, spotting the vehicles in the distance.

Alejandro leaps from the cliff confidently, clutching his gun tightly. I wince and whimper. The lieutenant obviously notices my hesitance and fear because he unceremoniously lifts and throws me from the cliff and into the water below. I scream the entire way down until I hit the water.

I splutter and inhale water, weighed down by my guns. I'm fucking drowning. I start splashing and convulsing. What I think is my final thought is ' I knew Ghost wanted to kill me' - all of a sudden, I'm scooped from the water and pulled to the surface, getting dragged down stream. It's him. The lieutenant. I manage to catch my breath, coughing heavily. My lungs on fire.

He pushes me towards Johnny and tells him to keep me near.

I feel like I cough the entire way to the bridge.

"Vehicles on the bridge" Johnny shouts in my ear. "FUCK" Alejandro sounded pissed off "They aren't ours!!!"

"Hold the position, we will wait for extraction here" Alejandro instructs "We can't do shit against all that armour!" Johnny growls.

I notice that the water is shallow enough to support my own body weight again. I lean against the rock in front of us and test my arm by raising my gun towards the bridge. I wince but the pain is bearable. Suddenly, an American voice speaks smoothly over the Lieutenant's radio "This is Shadow-1, engaging the bridge North of your position. Sit tight, danger is close!" - he sounds all too calm for the current situation, i think to myself.

"Who the hell is that?!" - "Commander Graves - Shadow Company, he's with us.." Ghost replies to Alejandro's angry question.

Then, as if from nowhere, several airstrikes hit the bridge, destroying it. Whoops and cheers sound over the Lieutenant's radio. "Good to see you boys!" The American jokes.

We run for the car parked on the river bank, all of us climbing in, absolutely soaking wet. I start shivering despite the moderate heat from the Las Almas sun.

"We have a possible hit on Hassan two clicks north of your position" The American sings through the radio, joyfully.

I roll my eyes, not mentally - or physically - prepared for another fire fight..

Here we go again, I guess...

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[karliahs]

For the character ask game, Chihiro??

chihirooooo <3 <3 <3

favourite thing about them:

kindness. not a novel trait for a protagonist I know, but something about the way his is depicted really gets me. the fact that it's one of the first things we learn about him, right after the Unimaginable Violence - how gentle he is with char. the concrete evidence of him driving to three different places to get her the food she wanted.

and I feel like a lot of the time a heroic character expresses their kindness by wanting to save people - but chihiro always seems to want more than that. with hakuri, he says he wants them to be equals - he doesn't just want to help hakuri, he wants to give hakuri the chance to not have to feel helpless and at everyone's mercy anymore. same with iori - he doesn't just want to protect her, he's the one who advocates for her autonomy in getting to make her own decisions about her memory and her father

he passes on the gifts of kindness he received - his dad who always believed in him, and he tells off kyora for not believing in hakuri - and he tries to give people kindnesses he didn't get, like giving iori the choice between worlds he never had

I love him so much...

least favourite thing:

I have...nothing

favourite line:

I love this both because of how much he clings to the things kunishige taught him, but also because it expresses one of my other favourite things about him: how much he wants to understand the world, how willing he is to listen & change his mind even about things that are painful & deeply felt.

we see it really early on with sojo - chihiro doesn't want to consider his perspective at first, but then he does & concedes that he's not the only person who gets to decide what his dad's work means. and then again in this scene when he's asking to hear the truth about the war no matter how painful it is.

for a grieving teenager on a revenge quest, it just really struck me. that thoughtfulness, that desire to understand. bit by bit you have to learn by seeing things with your own eyes...

brOTP/platonic relationships I like:

everyone...but especially I could chew on his dynamic with shiba for days, and I am really excited to see more of his interactions with iori! especially now she has her memories back. and I've been thinking on childhood friends au for them also...

OTP/romantic relationships I like:

hakuhiro...though as usual I'm really happy with them as friends also

random headcanon:

do you ever just think about all the things chihiro has never done/experienced, going right from isolated bubble to revenge quest? one random one: I feel like he spent most of his life with every haircut being done by his dad over a sink. maybe shiba tried to take him to a barber on a trip out once, figuring it might be a nice thing for him, but quickly discovering that strangers that close to him is Not Okay.

so post-kunishige he clumsily cuts his own hair over a sink instead. (someone write a nice fic of one of his friends giving him a haircut. someone who isn't me, who has too many things to write already)

unpopular opinion:

I don't know what the chihiro popular opinions are. uhhh...I think he will be okay. it'll never heal over all the way, he'll never get back what he lost, but one day he'll look in a mirror, face softened by time & rest, and still see the same scar. still not want to forget. but there are so many things he would have missed out on if his life had ended when it felt like it had, at 14.

I think this because Protagonist Armour, because of the flexibility & willingness to consider new ideas discussed above, and also because I am MANIFESTING

song I associate with them:

I don't have chihiro songs but I wish I did! tell me chihiro songs...

favourite picture of them:

rghghgh so many good chihiros to choose from but I have been thinking about this one of him carrying char so so much

[tinfoil-jones]

For Your Own Good: Intermission

Askbox? Open

If you don't know what this post is about, "For Your Own Good" or tagged as "Early Amnesia AU" on tumblr is a dialogue-only Gravity Falls fanfiction I've been working on that kinda-sorta follows a Mystery Trio -esque timeline, where Ford doesn't build the portal. To sum it up, the whole fanfiction boils down to:

Researcher Ford: I told you I never wanted to see you again.

Mullet Stan: Dude, I don't know who you are or WTF you're talking about right now, but I'm leaving this town and never coming back. You are never seeing me again after this. I'm probably going to forget you in like five minutes.

Researcher Ford:

Researcher Ford: *immediately kidnaps him*

You can consider chapters 1-10 to be Act 1 of the fanfic, and I’m taking a break for at least a week, most likely longer. The chapters so far were already written out in advance, and so was a huge reveal, but I still need to tie things together.

Here’s some authors notes/extra stuff about it, some of it might have already been put in the AO3 before or after notes. These are in no particular order:

This takes place 10 years after Ford and Stan were separated, currently they are both 27 about to be 28. Fiddleford is slightly older than them, being in his early 30s.

Ford is unironically the only person who finds Stan’s really dumb jokes funny.

Ford is the one who displays the most behaviours that would be seen from Mabel and Dipper decades later. Like Dipper, he views washing clothes as a waste of time, and like Mabel he ate an entire tube of toothpaste (granted, it was on accident)

While Ford is the more likely of the two to display traits that later present in Mabel and Dipper, it still happens with Stan as well. Stan has a similar nervous-chewing habit that Dipper displays in the OG series, but his only comes out when he’s particularly anxious. In this case, it was because he had nicotine cravings.

The 'That motherfucker is ugly' line that Stan used on Ford can be considered extra ironic because of how much the Stan Twins look like their dad.

Bill Cipher was originally supposed to speak in Times New Bastard (which is Times New Roman except every 7th letter is jarringly sans serif, a meme from tumblr), but AO3 and tumblr don’t let you change the font.

Stan goes out of his way to avoid using Ford and Fiddlefords given names- but this isn’t because he doesn’t know what they are. In the few times he has used their names, it was a sign that he was being sincere.

If you want to wonder whether or not Fiddleford likes Stan back, consider the fact that he could have walked away at any point, and either washed his hands of the whole thing, or just outright reported Stanford to the authorities. 

Bill is more like Discord from MLP - he’s just chaotic, often to the detriment of others, but he isn’t outright malicious (anymore), and he’s too busy SIMPING to cause any real harm. Basically, Bill is Fords patron for studying weirdness - he helps Ford in his research, but the cost that Ford pays is that Bill is able to possess him when he sleeps, and has unlimited access to his brain.

If Ford knew Rick Sanchez, why didn’t Rick see how similar Stan looked and put 2-and-2 together? Easy; Rick didn’t give a single shit about Ford, so he never committed his face or name to memory. Ford himself only remembered Rick because Rick was such a massive, egotistical asshole. If anything, Rick would think Ford is the lesser version of Stan.

Chapter 10 was the first concrete proof that the Stan we’ve been following likely is Stanley Pines and not some similar conman named Stan Malone. The last time Ford saw Stan would have either been when they were teens, so other than Stans commercials for his failed products there’s no way Ford would know what an adult Stan would even look like, and he’d have to use himself as a reference.

Stan has given some insight on his Thalassophobia (fear of the ocean / large bodies of water). In Chapter 10, he told Ford a number of things he escaped, including the trunk of a sinking car, and cement shoes. Cement shoes are either when you tie someone to a cinder block and throw them into a body of water, or when you literally incase their feet in cement, wait for it to dry, and then toss them into a body of water, so they’ll drown. Presumably, these are still things that would have happened to him even if he didn't lose his memories, so why would it give him a fear of the ocean now? Stan Pines in the OG still had a lot of positive memories associated with the ocean - he grew up on the coast, and had a lot of his hopes and dreams tied to the ocean. But without his childhood memories, he has no positive associations with it, only memories of times he almost drowned. 

Ford himself is not a touchy guy. The reason he hugs Stan even though it isn’t reciprocated is because from his perspective, this is his twin brother who is in pain and has been suffering all by himself for a long time. And Stan - at least how Ford remembers him - had a very touch-based love language. Fords doing it because he thinks it’d comfort him.

Stan seems pretty calm and chill for someone who’s been kidnapped by a ‘stranger’. This isn’t because he’s an overall chill guy because of amnesia, no he’s super pissed and the second he knows he’s free he will let them know that with his words, and incredible violence. He’s remaining calm because he’s been imprisoned and kidnapped enough times to know that pitching a fit or lashing out at his captors won’t do him any favours.

Fiddleford is still married to Emma-May and they do have Tate. But it's one of those lavender marriages (they're both gay and mutually bearding each other)

[xamiah]

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 – 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦

𝐋𝐲𝐝𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

"𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭," 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬. "𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧."

___

By the time the dinner bell rings, the sun is bleeding low over the trees, dragging shadows like claw marks across the gravel paths. The air feels thick, burnt gold and heat-strained; like the entire camp is holding its breath.

I barely made it through the day.

Arts and crafts. Trust activities. Relay races with smiles so wide they cracked. I moved like I was on strings, nodding, smiling, saying the right words in the right tone. But inside, I was already gone. Already packing. Already in the back of that truck.

Tonight isn't about escape. It's about erasure.

The food hall's half full, bathed in the rust-orange dusk. Kids shovel Gumbo without looking up. Camp Leaders stir their coffee like it's the only thing tethering them to consciousness. I keep my pace steady, eyes low. I know how to move like I belong.

But I still feel the eyes. Could be paranoia. Could be the way my backpack sags just a little too heavy under the table.

Jackson slides into the seat across from me without a sound, like he materialized from shadow.

He doesn't speak at first. Just tears a roll in half and eats it like he's got nowhere else to be. Then, leaning in with his elbows braced on the table, he speaks low.

"You all set?"

I nod once. My heart's beating in my ears. I try to chew a bite of something, but my throat's gone dry.

"Dad pulls out at six. You'll have fifteen, tops, once the engine's on. Be fast… invisible, even."

I glance sideways. "And you're sure he doesn't know?"

Jackson snorts softly. "Nah. Thinks I'm helping him haul junk. Long as I lift the heavy stuff and don't ask questions, he doesn't either."

I breathe in. The air tastes metallic.

He shifts and reaches under the table, sliding something toward me. It's wrapped in a hoodie, the shape unmistakably wrong for clothes.

I hesitate, glance down. "You brought me... a sweater?"

"Not exactly," he says, and keeps chewing his trail mix like this is any other night.

I unwrap it just enough to see the neck of a bottle gleam back at me.

"Jesus. Vodka?"

"Unopened," he says. "For the road. You're gonna need it."

I look up. My smile comes without effort, but it's not sarcasm. It's real.

The memory that the bottle's not just comfort... it's a blanket for a park bench, enters my mind. Then that smile fades fast. The drink is fire when the night turns to concrete. It's a last resort when there's nowhere to land. I've done this before. I know exactly how cold the dark can get.

I take it, tucking it deep into my bag like it's something sacred.

"Thanks Jack," I say "Really- I mean it."

Jackson doesn't reply. Just gives me that sorrowful smile, one that tells me he might be regretting helping me with this escape. Though it's my only option at this point.

He stands first. Hands in his hoodie. Quiet.

"Ten minutes. Janitor's shed. Don't be late."

I nod. He's gone before the sentence finishes.

Soon I'm back in the cabin, glancing at a digital alarm clock aside someone's bed that reads : 5:53 pm.

My hands are quick, practiced. Hoodie. Socks. Toothbrush. The vodka's nestled in the hoodie like a secret. I zip the bag slowly. Quietly.

There are no goodbyes in this bag. No keepsakes. No breadcrumbs.

I'm not running away. I'm vanishing.

Outside, the light's dying in layers, bruised purple and terracotta bleeding through the trees. The air feels charged. Electric. Like it knows.

I shoulder the bag and walk soft, every sound amplified. Gravel under my shoes. A screen door creaking open somewhere behind me. Laughter in the distance, fading.

Then quiet.

I slide behind the janitor's shed.

Jackson's already there, pacing with his hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth tight like he's chewing words he doesn't want to say.

"You good?" he asks, eyes locking with mine.

"Yeah."

Then, the sound we've been waiting for - the low growl of a truck engine coughing to life.

It shoots a bolt of lightning through my chest.

"This is it," he says, eyes on the corner of the shed. "When I open the tailgate, climb in fast. Keep your head down."

I nod. But I don't move yet.

I look at him one last time.

"Thanks," I say. "For everything."

He exhales sharply, like holding it in was starting to hurt. "That's what friends do, right?"

There's a long pause.

"You'll be okay." he says. Not a question. Not a guess. A decision.

"Yeah." I reply. And this time, I almost believe it.

He grips the strap of my backpack and gives it a quick tug, like he's checking if I'll hold.

Then he lets go.

"Go."

I throw the bag in first, then scramble into the bed of the truck. The metal is warm from the sun and stinks of rust and old oil. Jackson tosses a sheet over me - faded, scratchy, familiar.

No words.

Just motion.

It happens all too quickly for me to process any ounce of fear or secondary thoughts.

The truck jolts as his Dad climbs in. Doors slam. Voices. Casual.

Then we're moving.

The ride is brutal at first - gravel knocking into my spine, knees biting into the metal. I keep still. Keep small. The sheet clings to my skin. My breath fogs beneath it.

But I don't move.

Not even when my foot cramps. Not when the air shifts and I know we've passed the outer fence. I only peek when I feel it - the cool bite of freedom pressing in.

Trees race by. The camp is behind me now.

Gone.

I close my eyes. Inhale once. Sharp.

This is it.

Perfect.

Eventually, the truck slows. Gravel crunches. The engine dies.

I wait.

Voices murmur. Then footsteps. A door slams again... fading.

I move.

Fast.

Peel back the sheet. Grab the bag. Drop to the ground with a grunt muffled by adrenaline.

We're pulled over outside a worn-down bar. Flickering neon. A crooked bus stop sign beside a rusted-out bench. Beyond that, a convenience store that looks half-abandoned.

I approach the stop. No schedule. Just a warped metal sign and a few faded numbers like ghost instructions.

Great.

I duck into the bar. The door creaks like a warning. Inside, the air is stale beer, grease, and ghosts. A jukebox murmurs something old and twangy. No one looks up. Or maybe they do, and they just don't care.

The bartender's cleaning a glass, arms thick and tattooed, face unreadable.

"Bus schedule?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

He chuckles. It's a low, gravelly thing. "Bus? At this hour? You're joking, right?" He shakes his head. "Ain't no bus till Monday."

My stomach drops into my shoes.

"You stranded?" he asks, half-smirking.

I hesitate. "I'm... uh... figuring things out."

He squints at me, then shrugs. "Mystery girl. I like it." He taps the counter. "First one's on the house."

I should say no. I know I should.

But my hands are still trembling. My brain is racing. The world feels like it's tilting off its axis.

"Sure," I hear myself say.

He pours something clear and sharp into a glass and slides it over.

I take it.

The vodka burns on the way down, but I don't flinch.

Outside, the neon stutters, casting my reflection onto the window: a girl alone, with nowhere to go but forward.

I grip the glass like it's the only solid thing left.

I breathe.

I'm not safe.

Not yet.

But I made it out.

And that has to count for something.

___

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝟏,𝟑𝟎𝟎

___

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

[passthe5sos]

F I VE ; B A R

"The knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark, frightened by the bite, though it's no harsher than the bark, the middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start."

Rory

Giselle and I have been cooped up in our bedroom all weekend, thinking. Neither one of us has come up with a concrete plan. We cannot scope around or try and infiltrate the same way that Ruby and the other eight people did, or else we'd get killed. We can't call for backup, cause her mother would kill us. We were kinda at a stand still, which is why I liked coming back to classes on Monday. It was unfortunate for Giselle cause she has no classes on Monday's, but she decided she was going to stay in our room and watch true crime documentaries and spy movies until I got home. 

Mondays I have my hardest subject, history. It's a two hour class, and the topic we're currently discussing is ancient Rome. It's giving me ideas incase the gang finds out about Giselle and I's plan, then I understand Rome so we can hide out there. At least I'll be able to see Giselle during cheer practice. Out first football game of the season is this Friday. My first ever college Friday Night Lights, it's actually kind of crazy how soon it's come up. It makes me feel sad that I really only have one more year until Giselle graduates, and I'll have to battle my final two years of college alone. Unless I find other friends during my time here. Everyone really keeps to themselves, their own friend groups here. Nobody really wants to chat around in fear they'll run into the wrong crowd, me on the other hand, I'm actively searching for it.

History was the longest two hours of my entire life. I finished my caramel macchiato, opened my snack of cheez-it's (finished them) and maybe set up my computer when everyone was working on our project to hide me napping. It honestly was the first time in two days where I felt safe sleeping and my mind wasn't reeling. After I finished with class, I headed down to the locker room. I took my time getting ready, girls began to trickle in slowly. I stood in the bathroom where we had a shelf, kind of like a vanity, and fixed my hair into a high ponytail. By the time I was done with that, Giselle was already walking in, fully dressed in her cheer uni, and with a small smile on her face. I narrowed my eyes at her. I haven't seen her smile since Friday. "What's up with you?" I asked, nudging her side as we walked to the gym. She shrugged as a couple girls set up our stretching mats. Giselle just shrugged, rocking back and forth on her heels. "Do you remember how I told you about my ex?" 

"How could I forget?" I teased. "You wear his sliced up jersey all the time." I chuckled. "Please don't tell me you're getting back with him Giselle." I stated, suddenly turning very serious. Giselle burst into laughter, shaking her head no. We sit down when all the mats were finished being placed, and begin with our stretches. "Well he used to be on the football team right, and when everyone found out what he did, he got beat up and kicked off the team." she grinned down at her white cheer shoes. "Come on Giselle, just spill already!" I shoved her shoulder making her lean in the opposite direction. She laughs and swats my hand away, sitting up again. "Okay, okay. Do you remember Louis, from the party, who gave you the blunt?"

"Yeah... Don't tell me that was him?" she shakes her head no. "It was a different guy, he's gone now by the way. But Louis was one of the guys who beat him up. I just ran into him before practice and he invited me to another party." she chewed on her bottom lip, hiding her smile. "He wants to go to a party with you! That's so cute." I grinned, switching the stretching position to start on my splits. "Yeah. I just, I didn't say yes yet. You and I have some serious thing's to get planned out. And, I'm not sure I'm up for another party after what happened last time?" she's not spoken once about that night, and I have no idea what set her off, or why she didn't ask me if I wanted to leave sooner, but I never once pushed her. When she's ready, she'll tell me. "Honestly, you should go. He'll be by your side all night. He's really nice, I think you'd like him." I nodded encouragingly. "Plus, maybe a party is exactly what you need. You can talk to people in a casual setting, gently bring up the... You know what, and no one would think anything of it cause you're all drunk." I shrugged. Giselle nodded, deep in thought. "Except, I think you should come too." she pleaded and I shook my head. "No way! I've already had enough of Niall Horan to last me a life time. I genuinely would rather die than see him again. He embarrassed me."

"It wasn't that embarrassing Rory, you're a sweet girl and he took advantage of that. But I promise, if it's me and Louis, you won't have to see Niall, we won't let him come near you." Giselle promises earnestly. Coach blows her whistle, signaling for each of the girls to line up on the side of the mats so we could practice our tumbling passes. "Still, what if you leave me alone again?"

"Look, I take full blame for what happened last time, and leaving you unattended during your first party was a total dick move on my part, but I promise, I won't let myself get distracted again." Giselle grabs both my hands and squeezes tightly. "Please say yes, I really like him Rory." Giselle begs, pouting her lips in a way I can't refuse. I scoff lowly. "I don't want to be a third wheel." Giselle squeals and wraps me into a hug, "So that's a yes?" she giggles and I nod. "Yes, I guess we can go to another party." I sighed. I'd do anything for Giselle, I'd give her the cheer bow off my head if she asked. "But, I don't want to be a third wheel, and I wear what I want this time." I pointed out. Giselle nods, she's ahead of me and the girl in front of her already did her roundoffs across the mat. "No third wheeling, and you can pick your outfit." Giselle agreed, before bounding off after her prep. 

After we practice our tumbling, we pack up the mats to head to the bleachers for a short break while we wait for the boys to finish practicing. I still think it's insane that football players get more recognition than cheerleaders do, but we've been practicing a lot longer than they have, and we stay out later than they do. Every Friday night, we also have a theme that the college kids can dress up in, just an excuse really, but I think it's fun. The theme this Friday's is a beach theme, considering it's still sweltering out here, even in the middle of September. Giselle and I sit alone, the other girls surrounding us and gossiping about the latest party, or something that happened between them and a football player. Football isn't the only sport, but it is the most popular. We also have baseball, basketball, and soccer. But soccer and baseball don't start until after Christmas break, and basketball runs from homecoming weekend until we leave for Christmas break.

"How has the newspaper been coming along?" I ask Giselle. She twirls a strand of her hair, staring at the field. "It's been going good. I won't be cheering our second football game cause I need to get the pictures done for football season. Coach isn't gonna be thrilled about that." I sucked in a breath and sighed. "No she isn't." We already have about four dances choreographed for the next four games, we don't make up new routines for every game, we just pick whichever one is the best the practice before and roll with that one. 

When the guys finish practice, we move down to the field to start, a couple of the boyfriend of the girls on our team, who are football players, stay behind to watch. It makes me a bit nervous when Louis come up to Giselle, Niall Horan and the Harry guy a few feet behind him. "Hey." Louis calls, catching her attention. Giselle looks up from where she'd kneeling, tying her shoes and stands up quickly. "Hi Louis." I stare at her incredulously. She's nervous? When in the three months have we known each other, she's ever been nervous? Louis has had to have cast some sort of spell on her or something. Who are these guys? "Did you think about coming to the after party?"

Giselle nods, her ponytail bouncing. "Yeah, we're both in." Louis smiles and nods. "Good, and I promise I won't fall asleep on you this time princess." Louis nods at me before walking to the bleachers with the Harry guy and Niall. Giselle whips her head around once there out of earshot. "He's calling you princess?" I shrugged, rolling out my shoulders, a little sore already from tumbling sequences. "I bet it's a nickname that's gonna last a week."

"But why princess?" Giselle quirks an eyebrow. "Cause we introduced each other and I told him name is Aurora, and he was like oh, like the princess," I mocked his accent, terribly might I add, but it made Giselle chuckle. "And I was like, yeah exactly like the princess. I'm sure he'll be so focused on you he won't even remember my name." I winked at her. Giselle pushes me and I laugh, but coach interrupts our fun and starts yelling at us to get into our places. 

When we finally finished with cheer, most of the girls literally just layed down on the floor to catch our breath. "That was rough." Giselle groans, rolling onto her stomach. I flip over a few seconds after her, breathing in the scent of the grass. I think my lungs might give up from how many deep breaths I'm taking. "I just cannot believe Tracy is getting point for the first half. She's not even that good." Giselle whispers and I chuckle. "She's a senior, and this is her last homecoming, let her have it." she rolls her eyes. "Apparently she's going on to work as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, she's already conditioning for tryouts. She does not care about being point for the first half. Plus, coach literally had me choreograph the first part." Giselle grumbles. "Just leave the poor girl alone, next year I bet one of the junior years are gonna complain." she shrugged. "I wouldn't care." her logic sometimes is so frayed, but I love her anyway. 

We leave the field finally, heading off to the locker rooms to change back into our regular clothes, but since Giselle came in her practice uni, she doesn't change. "I am going to take the longest, hottest, shower ever." Giselle groans, rolling out her shoulders when we finally left the locker room. She wrapped her arms around me, practically dragging us to the floor as we walked. "Our water bill is gonna go so high, the company is gonna feel bad for us and won't make us pay." I wrap an arm around her waist, helping her stand. I know for a fact we're going to be dead tomorrow morning. As I lead her around the building, a deep voice calls out to us. Mostly Giselle though, but since I'm with her, me too. We both turn our heads, finding Louis with Harry and Niall. Giselle and I split apart and flip around completely, giving him our full attention. "Me and the lads were gonna head out for a beer at the bar, you want to join us?" Louis walks until he stands a few feet away from us, keeping a rather safe distance. "Oh I'd love to, but I need to make sure Rory gets home safe." Giselle lays a hand on my shoulder, getting ready for the both of us to walk away but Louis stops us again. "She can come too."

"I'm not old enough to drink." let alone be in a bar. Neither if Giselle honestly. She turns twenty one in May, maybe he can wait till then. But instead he just waves it off, "You don't have to drink. There's food, water, I'm sure you're both hungry. I can pay." Giselle and I look at each other. "We'll need a moment to discuss this." Louis nods, backing away and Giselle and I flip around so whisper so he can't hear us. 

"We cannot go to a bar with these people, we don't know them!" I whisper shouted. "I know Louis, we have two classes together. Plus, he got pay back on my ex. He seems like a good guy to me."

"Something doesn't feel right. Plus, I thought we were gonna make a plan or something to find out about the you-know-what!" I continued rambling but Giselle shrugged. "We have time."

"And when someone else dies?" Giselle doesn't say anything about that, just gives me her best puppy dog eyes and a pout. "It's a free dinner." alright, she's got me hooked on free. "You owe me big time for this." I huffed and Giselle squeals, turning around and nodding. "We can totally come."

If she gets food on her practice uniform, she's so screwed.

R I V A L R Y

[purrincess-chat]

Adrien Agreste's Road to Recovery Playlist CH2

Surprise~ Sorry it took so long to upload this. School is an unforgiving mistress, but I'm off for the summer now, and I want to tackle this fic more aggressively. I came up with an idea for this fic in the interim, so I tweaked one minor thing in chapter 1, nothing you need to completely reread it for unless you just want to, but I will say moving forward to pay attention to the details in this fic ;) The first person to figure everything out will get brownie points. I am about halfway through chapter 3, and my goal is to have that one ready to post by my birthday in a couple weeks. I don't have a lot going on this month, so I'm going to try and hold myself to that. Anyway, enjoy~

**Also as an aside, another character you should know about if you didn't read MDCSPR is Danielle, Marinette's assistant who was hired after her fashion brand took off. She's not majorly important, but she is in this chapter, so just to avoid any confusion on who she is XD

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Chapter 2

♪♫ this is me trying ♪♫

“I’ve been having a hard time adjusting.”

- - -

When Adrien woke a few hours later, he jolted upright, eyes flicking around the unfamiliar room, but memories of the previous day followed by a few deep breaths slowed the hammering of his heart. Marinette was gone, likely back upstairs to her room to avoid a lecture from her father about sharing a bed with her boyfriend. The digital clock on the small desk an arms-length away from his bed read 5:23AM, but his mind was awake and racing, making any hope of falling asleep again pointless.

Swinging his legs around to the floor, Adrien stood up with a pained hiss as his knee twinged in protest, still sore from his fall on the concrete. He hobbled over to the bathroom where he found some lidocaine cream and rubbed it onto the forming purple bruise. It helped, a little anyway, and he continued upstairs. The lack of loud snoring coupled with the intensifying scent of fresh bread as he climbed the stairs signaled that M. Dupain was already awake and hard at work in the bakery downstairs.

The living room was dark and still, and Adrien paused at the base of the stairs leading up to Marinette’s room, tugging at the hem of his shirt. It was way too early to wake Marinette up, and after chasing him around in the cold for an hour, he doubted she’d be too happy if he did. He could see if M. Dupain needed any help in the bakery, but he didn’t know the first thing about baking. Actually, he’d probably be more of a hindrance than a help… Maybe he could make breakfast?

Adrien maneuvered his way to the fridge in the dark, wincing against the light when he opened it, and as he scanned the shelves, it dawned on him that he also didn’t know the first thing about cooking. He’d always wanted to learn, but his father forbade him from using the stove, a memory that brought with it flashes of dark grey he’d rather not think about, so he shut the fridge with a huff. Breakfast was off the table until Mme. Cheng woke up, he supposed.

He could go for another run, but his knee throbbed at the very thought. Video games? He wasn’t in the mood, besides he didn’t want to wake anyone up, which also ruled out TV. School was out for Christmas, all of his friends were probably asleep, he didn’t see his therapist again for a few days, and there were no lessons or photoshoots scheduled for him. There was no schedule for him. The thought made his pulse race. Although part of him had known having a packed daily schedule organized for him by his father’s assistant wasn’t normal, in a strange way, he relied on it. For so long it had been his normal, and without it…

Adrien sat on the couch quietly, chewing the inside of his cheek and curling and uncurling his fingers. It was all he knew how to do in the moment. Sit. Wait for instructions. Wait for permission. Gray eyes. He sighed. He couldn’t take his anxiety meds for a few more hours, besides he needed to take them with food, which he didn’t know how to cook. Gray eyes. Deep breaths.

5:38 AM according to his phone. It wasn’t the slowest time had ever moved for him, but he did find himself wishing someone would wake up to keep him company. While he had his phone out, he clicked the icon for Instagram, and Marinette’s private page popped up with a picture from their homecoming party the day before. In it, their cheeks were pressed together while M. and Mme. Dupain-Cheng held up a cake in the background. There were several messages from their friends, expressing happy sentiments at his return to the outside world and wishing him well. He smiled, liking several comments before continuing to scroll. He’d missed a lot in a few short months — birthday parties, sporting events, charity drives, plays. His friends had kept busy while he was away, not that he expected any different.

He kept scrolling and liking posts, doing his best to avoid any mentions of the incident, but it was only a matter of time before he stumbled across news footage of his father’s mugshot. He closed the app and tossed his phone to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. Grey eyes, hard and cold. He wanted Marinette.

Before he could jump up and run to her room, the light clicked on over the stairs leading to down to the rest of the apartment, and tired footsteps made their way up. Adrien’s heart pounded nervously, and he did his best to mask his anxiety as Mme. Cheng appeared.

��Oh!” She startled, clutching her chest when she saw Adrien sitting awkwardly in the living room. “I didn’t know you were up. Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I didn’t want to wake anyone up…” he said timidly.

“Oh, dear.” Mme. Cheng placed a hand over her heart. “You’re very thoughtful, but I’m not sure you could wake Marinette if you tried. It’s why she’s always late to school.”

She flicked on the light in the kitchen, and Adrien squinted as his eyes adjusted.

“Are you hungry? I can make some breakfast. Marinette won’t be up for a while, so don’t plan to wait for her,” she said.

“Yes, please.” Adrien shifted his weight as Mme. Cheng moved about the kitchen with purpose. “Can I help with anything?”

“Sure, dear. You can fill the kettle with water for coffee.” She nodded to the electric kettle.

Easy enough. Adrien carried it to the sink and filled it to the line with water. Once that was finished, he stood and patiently waited for his next instruction, and after a moment Mme. Cheng flicked her gaze between him and the kettle. He offered her a small smile, and she pointed to the warmer on the counter.

“Set it there and press the button on the side.” She retrieved the leftover bread from the previous day and sliced it to make toast.

“Right.” That felt obvious.

She moved about the small kitchen with ease, knowing exactly where everything was. Adrien, by contrast, didn’t know where anything was, and stood awkwardly by the fridge while she worked. Feeling in the way, he opted to set the table with two plates and mugs. He sat quietly and watched her work, taking mental notes of what was in each cabinet and drawer for future reference. If the sleepless nights continued, he didn’t want to wait for someone to wake up every time.

“Did you sleep alright?” she asked as she set butter and several jams on the table in front of him.

Adrien didn’t have the heart to tell her what transpired after she and her husband went to bed, so he simply said, “Yeah.”

Mme. Cheng gave him a knowing smile. “It will take some time to adjust, but we hope that you’ll be comfortable here.”

“Thank you — for everything,” he said.

He watched as she pressed the coffee, which she seemed to notice because she held up the kettle and asked, “Would you like some?”

“Uh, sure!” He averted his gaze, cheeks hot after being called out. “Sorry, it’s just that… you do everything so effortlessly, and I can barely figure out how to work a kettle. I’ve always had someone to do everything for me, and being here has me realizing that I don’t know how to be a regular kid.”

“Well—” Mme. Cheng filled his mug — “there are no maids or personal chefs or assistants here, despite Marinette begging to hire someone to do her laundry for her now that she has money to spare. It’s important that we all learn how to do things for ourselves. It’s how we learn to be responsible and appreciate what we have. You’ll learn with time.”

Adrien stared at his reflection in the cup and pursed his lips. “Could you teach me how to make breakfast?”

Mme. Cheng searched his expression, then nodded him over. “Of course.”

Adrien had been taken care of his whole life, or as he’d come to realize through months of therapy, he’d been managed his whole life. Never allowed to make his own decisions. Never allowed to have any kind of independence. Instead, he was expected to perform under a spotlight he never asked for, a pretty show pony in a cage. His father had treated him more like a pedigree poodle than a son.

The Dupain-Cheng’s were different. Marinette knew how to do everything her parents did around the house, and even now, she was expected to. A normal girl with a normal life. Or mostly normal anyway. And for the first time in his life, an adult was treating him like a normal kid. Mme. Cheng was patient and kind as she explained each step to him. Sure, making coffee and toasting some bread wasn’t that difficult, but it was a step. And to him it meant the world.

After breakfast, Mme. Cheng retreated back to her room to dress for the day, and Adrien was left alone again. He tried not to pace, but after several minutes of silence, he couldn’t fight the twitch in his legs. The living room was bigger than his bedroom, but it still wasn’t enough. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the details of the room in an attempt to take his mind off things. Old family photos from Marinette’s childhood were scattered on the walls and bookshelf. She was cute and smiled so freely, unlike the portraits that adorned the walls of his childhood home that bore more somber expressions. He curled his hands into tight fists and resumed pacing.

Mme. Cheng emerged again after a while, but she headed down to the bakery to help her husband open for the day. Adrien flopped back on the couch and picked up the latest issue of Audrey’s magazine resting on the coffee table. Marinette’s brand had a center spread, unsurprisingly. He’d been out of the loop for so long, the designs were foreign to him, contrasting the closeness they’d shared last summer. She used to show him all of her designs excitedly before sending them to Audrey. A chill pricked his spine, and Adrien shivered. He tossed the magazine back on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch.

Snow flurries drifted in the breeze outside, and Adrien rested his cheek against the pillows, watching white flecks out the kitchen window and picturing the bygone summer when things were simpler. Back then, their problems seemed so large. Adrien knew now just how tiny they really were. Lila’s meddling seemed so trivial now.

He closed his eyes, imagining the warm summer sun on his bare shoulders while they lounged by the pool at the Grand Paris. The gentle pressure of Marinette’s lips on his own and the soft curl of her fingers around his hand. He’d never been happier.

Lost to his fantasies, he must have dozed off because the windows were brighter when Mme. Cheng returned to the apartment, the smell of fresh croissants wafting in with her. Adrien blinked a few times to reorient himself. She offered him a smile, setting a plate of buttery pastries on the kitchen table.

“I brought up a snack if you’re still hungry,” she said. “You can turn on the TV if you’d like. There’s not much on this early other than the news though.”

“I’m okay,” Adrien said.

Mme. Cheng clicked on the news anyway before retreating down to her bedroom.

The ceiling creaked above him, sluggish footfalls thudding against the hard wood floor signaling that Marinette was awake. He traced her steps all the way to the trap door, which opened as Marinette emerged in the same fluffy pink pajamas she’d been in when she rescued him. Her hair was frizzy and poked out in places, and she descended the stairs with a yawn.

“You’re up early,” Adrien remarked.

“I have a job now,” she grumbled.

He stood up to greet her with a kiss, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

“How did you sleep?” she asked.

“Better,” he said. “But more importantly, I learned something new today.”

“Oh?” 

“Your mom taught me how to make breakfast.” He grinned. “Would you like some?”

A smile curled on her lips, and she stretched up to kiss him again. “I’d love some.”

Adrien moved to the kitchen, clumsier and less refined than Mme. Cheng, but he was able to produce two pieces of toast and a fresh cup of coffee for her — two creams and one sugar, just how she liked. He presented it to her with a proud beam that earned him an affectionate hair ruffle.

“Thank you, kitty,” she said. “Will you get me a yogurt from the fridge?”

“Of course.” He handed it to her with a bow.

The doorbell rang as Adrien sat next to Marinette at the table, and Mme. Cheng emerged from downstairs to answer it. Heels clacked against the wood floors as Marinette’s assistant approached, dressed in a tasteful Marinette-branded pantsuit with her nose buried in a tablet. Adrien recalled Nathalie doing the same to him every morning, but the thought brought with it flashes of things he was trying not to think about, so he shifted his gaze to the table.

“Morning, Danielle,” Marinette said.

“You have another long day ahead of you, Marinette. You’re presenting your summer collection to be carried in several boutiques around Paris, then you have a magazine interview, lunch with Audrey and a couple investors, plus you promised to make an appearance at the De-akumatize foundation,” Danielle recited.

“Right.” Marinette sighed. She shoved a large spoonful of yogurt in her mouth, then retreated back upstairs to get dressed.

Mme. Cheng offered Danielle a cup of coffee while they waited, and she helped herself to a croissant. Adrien drummed his fingers on his thighs, watching Danielle expectantly.

She offered him a smile and asked, “How are you, Adrien?”

“I’m…” He would spare her the details. “Adjusting.” That seemed safe.

“Good.” She nodded, taking a sip of coffee.

She and Mme. Cheng struck up a conversation about Marinette’s work, and after a couple minutes, Adrien cleared his throat.

“So, what’s on my schedule today?” he asked.

Mme. Cheng and Danielle eyed him a moment, the same crease bending their brows. It was a look Adrien knew all too well at this point — the look of pity. Every time he saw it, his pulse quickened, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  

“Well, dear, you can do whatever you want,” Mme. Cheng said finally.

Adrien pursed his lips, mulling that statement for a moment. “Shouldn’t I accompany Marinette?”

“It’s best if you stay behind today,” Danielle said. “You haven’t been officially reintroduced into the public yet since your release, and we’ve already been getting phone calls from reporters who want to hear your side of the story. If you’re seen publicly now, the press will have a field day, so it’s better if you lay low until we can discuss how to navigate your…circumstances.” She said the last word delicately, almost as if she were apologizing.

Adrien turned to Mme. Cheng, who offered him a similarly apologetic wince.

“So… What? I just stay inside all day?” His stomach churned at the thought.

“I know it’s not what you want, but it’s not forever.” Mme. Cheng moved to cup his cheek. “You can do whatever you want in the apartment. There’s games and books, you can watch TV or a movie or anything you want.”

Adrien lowered his gaze, tears burning in his eyes, but Marinette’s return shifted everyone’s attention. She descended the stairs in a long pink trench coat that covered black dress pants and a pink blouse, a pair of black heels in her hands. Adrien shoved his dejection down and offered her a smile as she trotted over to kiss him goodbye.

“I’m sorry we can’t spend more time together this morning, but I’ll be back this afternoon, okay?” she said.

“Kay.”

“Tom and I will be downstairs in the bakery if you need anything,” Mme. Cheng said.

Adrien nodded, painting on a smile as everyone left him alone, but once the apartment door shut behind them, he deflated. He thought things would be different here, but so far, it was more of the same. Everyone had places to be without him, and as usual, he was left alone, unable to go out or do anything that wasn’t contained within four walls. He shook himself and took a deep breath.

Mme. Cheng was right. It wouldn’t be forever. No one had any intention of locking him up for long. They just needed a few days to sort some things out. He could totally survive a few days. Afterall, he’d survived 15 years already, and technically one of those years he was allowed to go outside and meet people… It sounded sad, now that he thought about it. But the Dupain-Cheng’s weren’t like his father. Everything was new for them too, and in time, they would all adjust…

Adrien resumed pacing the living room. It was bigger than his small bedroom, but the arrangement of the furniture made it difficult to keep a steady pace. After a few loops, he determined it wasn’t as satisfying and retreated back downstairs. Although the rigidity of his daily routine had been monotonous and grating at times, he missed the structure. Even in the hospital, he had a fixed schedule. What did one do with free time? His muscles were twitchy, and he couldn’t bring himself to sit still. What would he normally have done before?

Well, most of his mornings started with some kind of workout, though the Dupain-Cheng’s didn’t have a personal gym to use, let alone any equipment. Then again, he hadn’t had any in the hospital either, but that didn’t stop him then. He didn’t need weights to work out. A treadmill might have been nice for some cardio, but he supposed the previous night counted enough for that. He did pushups, stretched, completed a few sets of crunches, he even used Marinette’s loft to do some pull-ups, but all of that only took him about twenty minutes.

What was next? A shower, usually, but that only lasted another thirty minutes because the water got cold. He wasn’t used to the water getting cold. Did other people live like this? Were they really walking around with limited hot water? Was this normal? Ugh, he was starting to sound like Chloe, but seriously, only thirty minutes of hot water?! How did anyone wash anything?

Contemplating the complexities of social classes only lasted twenty minutes before he started to feel guilty for all of the things he took for granted, and the anxiety made him want to pace again. In an attempt to take his mind off of things, he cracked open his school notes and tried to study while he paced, but it got boring quickly. He’d studied on his own for years, and it wasn’t the same as being in a classroom with other people. At least in the hospital, there was a tutor to review with him.

Adrien flopped onto his bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling again. His vision blurred, and a hot tear sliced down his cheek. It had taken several months of therapy for him to come to terms with events from his life, and even now, he was still processing a lot of things. He was still feeling a lot of things. Too many things.

Everyone was treating him the same way his father had, locking him up and hiding him from the world. No, this was different. They weren’t controlling him; they were protecting him. Isn’t that what his father used to say? It was different this time. But how could they leave him alone knowing what he’d been through? Didn’t they realize that he’d spent his whole life locked away and alone? Why would they leave him?  

The burning tightness filled his chest, leaving Adrien gasping as if there wasn’t enough air. He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball, his ragged gasps and whimpers echoing in the barren room. Hands shaking, lungs burning, vision blurring. He needed to calm down. Marinette loved him. M. and Mme. Dupain-Cheng loved him. It wasn’t their fault they had things to do. They just needed to find where he belonged. If he belonged. He was still bothered about the shower thing. On second thought, maybe a cold shower would shock his system.

He returned to the bathroom and flicked on the shower again. The cold water felt like needle pricks on his skin, but it did snap him out of his spiral for the moment. What was wrong with him? Aside from the years of pent up daddy issues and the psychological control he’d endured. Actually, no, that was exactly what was wrong with him. He wished he could call his therapist… He could call his therapist!

Adrien turned off the shower, shivering as he grabbed another towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. Once he’d warmed up a little, he dried off and dressed again before heading upstairs to retrieve his phone. It took a few rings, but finally, his therapist answered.

“Hello, Adrien.” 

“Hey, sorry, do you have a minute?” Adrien had resumed pacing the living room’s unsatisfying loop.

“I have an appointment coming in a few minutes, but I can spare a moment. Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Well…” Adrien explained his struggles, and she listened, just like always. “I guess, I just can’t figure out why I feel this way. I’ve wanted the freedom to do whatever I want my whole life, but now, in a weird way, I find myself feeling envious of my girlfriend for having a schedule. I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“So, you’re struggling to adjust?”

“Yeah…” Adrien shifted his gaze to his feet.

“That’s normal.”

Adrien stopped, eyebrows knitting together in bewilderment. “Normal?”

“Well, normal for someone with your experiences,” she said. “You’ve never been allowed to make your own decisions, and that is damaging, but when it’s all you’ve ever known, it can also feel safe because it’s familiar. And now, you’ve been pushed into unfamiliar territory, and it’s going to be scary and uncomfortable at first. You may even find yourself craving the old ways because it’s what you were used to.”

Adrien was amazed at the ease with which she recognized exactly how he was feeling. “So, what should I do?”

“Tell you what, I have to go, but we will do more occupational therapy next time you come in and explore what Adrien likes. Until then, I’ll send in an adjustment to your medication now that you’re back out in the real world. Hopefully it will help with the pacing,” she said.

“Okay,” Adrien said. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I was actually expecting to hear from you before our next appointment.” When he remained quiet, she added, “Adjusting will take time, Adrien. You’ll get there.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“I’ll see you next week, okay?” she said.

“Yeah, see you then.” Adrien hung up.

He felt a little better, but being alone in the apartment still made him anxious, so he headed downstairs to the bakery. Marinette’s parents were hard at work preparing more bread and pastries for the displays. It made Adrien feel bad for interrupting, but when M. Dupain saw him, he flashed Adrien a smile.

“Getting lonely, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Adrien rubbed the back of his neck guiltily.

“Why don’t you invite someone over, dear?” Mme. Cheng suggested.

“Uh, can I?” Adrien asked. “I’d hate to let people intrude in your home.”

“It’s your home now too, you know,” Mme. Cheng said.

“Alright.” He shifted his weight. “Um, also I called my therapist, and she’s going to adjust my medication. Could you pick it up when it’s ready?”

“I’ll add it to my to do list.” She nodded.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Here, take a pain au chocolat for a snack.” M. Dupain bagged one up for him.

“I can’t pay for it…” Adrien curled his shoulders.

“Family doesn’t pay in this bakery,” he said.

A small smile curled on Adrien’s lips, and he thanked them both before heading back upstairs. The croissant was still warm when Adrien bit into it, the chocolate melty and delicious between the buttery layers. He’d definitely get used to living above a bakery. While he ate, he scrolled his contacts for someone to invite over. It was winter break, but everyone was always so busy. Plus, he couldn’t go anywhere. What he wouldn’t give to go see a movie with Nino or to play tennis with Eliott and Martin.

Marinette’s picture flashed on his screen, and Adrien swiped the green icon to answer.

“Hello, my kitty!” She sounded so cheerful, and Adrien had never been happier to hear her voice.

“Hey, buginette. How’s work?”

“Busy,” she said. “Very busy. I’m sorry I had to leave you today, and I know I promised we’d spend time together this afternoon, but one of the investors had something come up, so we had to reschedule lunch with them for another day, but now there’s a problem with a sample, and we have a show coming up in a month, and-”

“No worries. I get it. I’m actually doing fine on my own,” Adrien said. He had a lot of practice masking his disappointment.

“I can tell when you’re lying, Adrien.”

Not enough practice apparently. There really was no hiding anything from her. She knew him so well, and although it was working against him in the moment, it felt good to be seen by someone.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, but until then, I’m sending in some reinforcements to keep you company in my absence,” she said.

The doorbell rang, and on the other side stood Nino, Eliott, and Martin with two boxes of pizza.

“Bro, you’re finally free!” Nino hugged his neck.

“Marinette told us you were in need of some guy time,” Eliott said.

“We brought pizza and games,” Martin added.

Tears welled in Adrien’s eyes, a smile stretching over his lips. It was the first genuine smile he’d had in a while.

“Have fun, kitty. I love you,” Marinette said in his ear.

“I love you too,” he said.

Nino draped an arm around him as they moved to the living room. “It’s been forever since we’ve seen you. I missed you, bro.”

“I missed you guys too,” Adrien said.

“Isn’t it so nice now? We can just hang whenever we want, and we don’t have to worry about your dad breathing down our necks,” Nino said.

“Yeah…” Adrien glanced between them, the weight of those words sinking in.

Nino was right. He was free. His father was locked up, and from the sound of it, wouldn’t be getting out anytime soon. All of his earlier frustrations seemed to melt away, and the worries he’d held seemed so obviously false. Things were different now. No one wanted him to be alone. Everyone loved him and would do anything for him. Perhaps he’d felt so anxious because his father had always limited anything good in his life, and maybe in a way, he had felt like all of this would go away too. But as he settled into a board game with his friends, the looming feeling of dread on the back of his neck eased. This was his life now. He could have friends over whenever he wanted, and soon enough, he’d be able to go anywhere he wanted. And one day, his father’s shadow would stop looming over him for good.

[falling-star-cygnus]

HI HIII HELLO!!! -> your request has been moved over here, and i sincerely hope you enjoy!!

and i really like these ideas!! so thank you ever so much for the request, dear anonymous

i toyed with an idea like this before in my head, but i couldn't quite figure out how to articulate it ~so~ hopefully this'll help me out with Nekomata's characterization more

Spending so much time in Hollows, it's easy to forget that Billy can be harmed by things that aren't Ethereals.

Badly harmed.

Nekomata hadn't been a member of the Cunning Hares' for long, hardly long enough to be allowed into the tightly knit circle shared between the two Demara's and the android, but it's almost like that didn't matter. Especially not to Billy.

Even before she was a member, it was like he had already decided she deserved his kindness. It was a sort of bright-eyed, literally, brand of naivete that infuriated her. How dare he be so nice to her? How dare he show such kindness to the thiren that was leading them to their deaths.

How dare he make her feel so guilty, when he- when the Hares'-

Except it wasn't really the Hares' that had killed Miguel in the end, was it?

It was PubSec. And every drop of guilt Nekomata had felt was well deserved.

"Nekomata-!"

Back in the present, nowhere near a Hollow this time, she remembers being bodily shoved aside. Remembers clearly the choked down sound of pain and the crunch of metal that happened all in the blink of an eye.

Billy stood tall in front of Nekomata, stance squared as the jaws of this- yellow mutilated construction vehicle clamped around his left arm. It shook with the effort of keeping the thing from throwing him around like a chew toy- but he didn't falter.

"Kitty- you okay?" the android calls over his shoulder, his voice tight with strain and worry, "I didn't push you too hard, did I?"

"M-Me? What about you-?"

At worst her palms were a bit scraped up from hitting the asphalt, but that was more a result of the thiren's instinctual flailing than his protective insert. And he was the one in the jaws of the beast! Literally!

Care about yourself first, dummy-! Nekomata thinks venomously, shooting up to her paws as the mechanical thingamajig nearly throws her new teammate to the ground. She doesn't know what she was planning on doing, exactly, but Billy takes the decision out of her hands anyway.

He lines up a shot, somewhere between the shoulder and the armpit, and fires!

The bullet pierces the joint in a clean arc, and removes the limb with a sharp 'ting!' and a 'thud!' as it hits the concrete! It's jaws- is it the jaws? It looks more like a hand now that Nekomata isn't fearing for her life- they don't release Billy's arm until he's been nearly dragged to the floor with it.

Foolishly, the thiren had been hoping that the crunch of metal she heard was the teeth breaking on the android's build.

It wasn't.

It most definitely wasn't.

The plates of the android's arm tear like butter under the drag- ripping his red sleeve to ribbons and causing sparks to fly in firework-esque bursts. Billy brings his other hand up to one of the deeply bit teeth and tries to wrench it out without causing more damage.

Nekomata leaps to help, finally shaken out of her stupor by a startled mip of pain that Billy looses when one of the clamps catches on some wiring.

"Wait- Nekomata, your hands-"

Ah- right, the scrapes. She'd honestly forgotten about them, her gloves had absorbed most of the damage, after all- even if they'd been torn to shreds in the process.

The android tries to gently guide her hands away by the wrists, but Nekomata bullies her way closer with a hiss.

A familiar rush of anger clouds her head. His damn- friendliness. Why couldn't he just be mean?

"Billy, your arm," the thiren snaps back, tails lashing to better show her infuriation, "What're you worrying about me for, huh!? Look at you!"

"Wh- huh? But I'm fine," he exclaims, like a liar, "This can be fixed no problem! You can't!"

"That's not the point, dummy!"

Seriously! Not! The! Point! Nekomata punctuates each thought with a bap to his fluffy hair. How dare he! How. Dare. He! How dare he imply his injuries mattered any less! The nerve!

...huh. It was surprisingly soft.

Before she even realizes what she's doing, her hand simply- ruffles it from side to side. The android sputters in confusion under her ministrations.

"Nekomata!?"

"Shut up!"

Billy shuts up.

The two stay there in silence for a few more minutes, and eventually the thiren moves back to help him free what's left of his arm. He doesn't push her away this time, even though he's clearly not happy with the agitation of her scrapes.

He could be missing a limb- and he's worried about her. Her, who hasn't even been a member of the Hares' a full three months!

Stupid, big hearted, stupid android.

"You know," Nekomata starts, even though she doesn't really know where she's going with this, she just wants him to get it already, "it doesn't matter that you can be put together again. It still happened."

Billy stills under her hands with a surprised little noise, but she just tightens her grip and barrels on.

"You'll still remember it happened."

The last clamp finally gets pulled free, but it snips right through a wire on it's way out, and the android bites back a yelp as he stumbles forward. Nekomata is quick to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold tight- half to keep him upright and half to keep him close.

"So please," she begs, burying her face into his jacket collar, "Please don't pretend that it didn't."

She can feel him jolt in her impromptu hug, and for a terrifying moment she's scared he might pull away and brush it all off again, the thiren couldn't really stop him if he truly wanted to- but Billy just brings his arm up to hug Nekomata back.

His grip is so unbelievably soft- feeble.

"...okay." he says, not a promise but an acknowledgement, "okay."

[aihoshiino]

Now that the series is ending and we'll never hear a word from Hikaru ever again, I'm very curious to know what Aka would say to describe Hikai's entire dynamics like towards each other, feelings, thoughts etc...even from Takahashi I'd like to know what Aka specifically told her for that one payphone scene.

I know we all already have figured it out (using whatever brainpower left after this shit storm that the latest chapters have brought) and tried to stitch together a cohesive outline(?) to everything hikai related, but hearing the official people speaking on it always adds a nice bonus to everything.

Any thoughts on this? Do you think everything we mostly came up with upto now are all correct and Aka had the same ideas back then? (I say back then because clearly idk tf he did to Hikaru in the recent chapters, Onk ended back at 155 for me.)

Honestly I'm so keen to know how Akasaka described the HKAI dynamic to Takahashi but also just kind of wtf he said to her in general? I'm not sure when she would have been doing her recording for episode 1 but it would have been around the same general timeframe we were getting the first Hikaru lore drops and appearances in the manga, so Akasaka would've at least had a broad idea of who he was supposed to be as a character... But at the same time, the Kamiki we get is SO inconsistent on the page, I think I'm kind of just desperate for some confirmation of wtf even the authorial intent was in that regard because I can't make head or tails of where it all ended up.

I do think for HKAI's dynamic specifically he had a pretty clear image in his mind, though, because a lot of what the fandom predicted and how he was broadly characterized even prior to the Movie Arc getting into the specifics was pretty on point for what ended up being in the manga. Obviously some of the granular details were off, but his deification of Ai, his sense of longing towards her even after her death, the idea that he was trying to preserve her legacy and that the relationship they had was probably extremely codependent were all takes that the fandom largely agreed with on both sides of the language barrier, at least in the spaces I was in.

I do also remember specifically predicting that they broke up over the pregnancy which I still feel quite proud of calling LOL. I remember getting really in my head about it when the Movie Arc was ongoing because the chronology got so penised so having that concretely confirmed and WHY it caused their breakup was nice to chew on during that stretch.

I think the only thing we were wrong about is that the fandom tended to make him a little more, like... proactively possessive/yandere for her and that her death had been a sort of "if I can't have you, I have to kill you" vibe. But the Kamiki we actually got comes across as way more fragile and hollow and even passive in a way I think is really fascinating.

That said. I DO really like yandere freak Kamiki and I'm so glad people still draw it in fandom. Every time someone posts HKAI fanart where Kamiki is looking at her with a facial expression that is at the exact midpoint of "brainmeltingly horny" and "ravenously hungry" my HP gets maxed out <3

[theramseyloft]

Construction Update

We finally got the buildings moved here in mid January, but we are still paying off the credit card we had to use to move them, so we have not been able to take any further steps towards setting them up to move the flock into.

For the moment, we are prioritizing the larger building which will be the new breeding loft, and I am in talks with a contractor to work out the list of steps and estimate the cost of each as we come to them.

Here is the 10 x 12 ft Crescent building.

Swept out and ready to begin construction.

The outside will need to be carefully sealed. There are several places at the floor and ceiling where daylight can be clearly seen.

The contractor said we may qualify for spray foam insulation.

More 2x4 framing is needed after that.

Then the wiring for extra outlets we'll need for the vent fan and climate control will go in.

Once wiring is done, FRP will go up on the walls and ceiling.

Then LVP flooring.

Other than furniture, the inside will then be ready to house the flock, and all I will need before they move in is enough concrete pavers and a sturdy enough frame for hardware cloth that I can safely open the door to the building without risking an escape.

Eventually, I would like to have a full covered front and side patio, enclosed in a combination of chain link, hardware cloth, and mosquito netting.

But the house we live in still doesn't have central climate control or even ground wiring, so we have to focus on bare essentials right now.

Last year, my dear Husband took an unexpected paycut, just after we moved into the house.

And just after we relocated the buildings and were able to stop paying rent at the house where we used to live, our mortgage payments went up by almost $200 a month.

Saving isn't nearly as easy as it was when we lived in the trailer park, so things are moving agonizingly slowly.

I know things are hard for everyone.

So I'm so grateful for what my wonderful supporters already do via Patreon.

$74.50 of the monthly donations averaging $93.00-$99.00 go to our monthly 0rder of 100lbs of Verselle-Laga classic blend.

What ever is left over is presently being saved towards vaccines and other meds we keep on hand that can be administered in house.

Dear Hubby suggested I set up a Go Fund Me to get the loft and quarantine building ready for use sooner, and I am leaning strongly towards doing that.

I just don't know how that works, and would like to look into it carefully before I do.

Eventually, along with setting up the quarantine building, I would like to set up an aviary for rescue birds, to minimize exposure risks and social issues for my breeding flock.

But I will have to take some time to seriously consider how intake is managed, so I can avoid biting off more than I can chew.

Lots to think about.

Thank you all for your support.

As there are updates, I will pass them on.

[plantsjustwannahavefun]

Theories on how Izzy lost his leg

Okay so we're all very interested in Izzy's leg, obviously, but so far everyone else seems to assume it was caused by his toe getting infected. I don't buy it, though, for several reasons.

For one thing, I'm not a doctor but is this really how infections work? How would a toe infection spread so far and so quickly that they had to cut his entire lower leg off? Yes, we know Izzy isn't inclined to accept help or allow himself to appear weak or sick, but he's not stupid either. He's an experienced pirate, he must have seen enough amputation or deaths from infections to know what's at stake. He's much too practical to let it get this far without seeking medical help or at least getting it amputated sooner so that he only had to lose a foot and not his entire calf or even his knee (can't tell from those few frames in the trailer yet).

And besides, we already saw his foot get better at the end of S1, it seemed like several weeks had passed and he was walking just fine, wasn't even using his cane anymore. From what I know, if a wound gets infected, it typically happens within the first few days of an injury. In several weeks it would either have got infected already or healed enough not to be a problem anymore. For much of the S2 trailer Izzy is seen taking part in attacks, with his leg still whole, so it seems like he only lost his leg in the second half of the season. We don't yet know what sort of timeline the season follows, but it's safe to say it's going to take place over a period of at least 3 weeks. So that's several more weeks. That makes it even more unlikely for Izzy's toe to suddenly get infected towards the end of the season after all this time.

And secondly... it would just be a bit boring from the narrative perspective. Losing the toe was already punishment enough. Even if it had healed fully with no physical consequences at all, the whole experience of being woken up in the middle of the night to the pain of having it sheared off and then forced to chew and swallow it is was definitely traumatising enough not to be forgotten that quickly... This show doesn't shy away from graphic injury and violence, but it's never gratuitous. That's why that toe cutting scene was so powerful - it already stood out as one of the most seriously violent moments in the show. Adding more to it would only diminish its impact rather than strengthen it.

Now you might want to mention Lucius losing his finger, and the way it didn't happen immediately and went from a minor injury played for laughs to a serious infection with a significant time gap, but that's a very different case. There was a comedic contrast here, a very minor injury that happened in comical circumstances (Buttons accidentally biting Lucius's finger) unexpectedly turning into something serious. But Izzy losing his toe was taken seriously from the very start, there was nothing comical about it. There already was an expectation that it could turn into something worse... but it didn't. And Lucius having his finger cut off wasn't portrayed as a punishment, just bad luck, a realistic moment on a 17th century pirate ship. It led to a cute and significant moment between Lucius and Black Pete, but other than that it could have happened to anyone. And he only lost that one finger. If he got a finger bite and ended up losing his whole forearm, that would have been way too cruel and out of character for this show.

So, what's my take then, you ask? Well, I don't really have anything concrete. Except, we know that the real Blackbeard shot Izzy in the knee. I know OFMD isn't trying to be historically accurate, not when it comes to the characters at least, but they could still use that bit for inspiration. Maybe Ed does shoot at Izzy. Or maybe Ed tries to shoot at Stede, but Izzy gets in the way. Or maybe Stede does something really stupid and Izzy gets shot or injured trying to protect him - no really, think about it, they're practically glued at the hip in the trailer. They're having a friendly banter. They're gonna be friends. Getting himself injured while trying to protect Stede would be a major milestone in Izzy's redemption arc. It would even explain that bit in the trailer where an already peg-legged Izzy punched Stede in the gut. It wasn't a hateful punch, you could tell he wasn't really trying to hurt Stede. It looked more like punching your buddy out of anger when they did something really, really stupid that got both of you in trouble.

Honestly, I'm open to pretty much any theory, except the toe infection because it's boring af and makes no sense.