#and it's my last event ever with this group

[enemiestolovershoe]

can you write one were reader is matts sister and Noahs best friend and the band always tease the shit out of them when their glued together? thank you:)

Subtle’s Overrated

Noah Sebastian x bsf!dierkes!reader

Summary: Y/N and Noah’s friendship sparks teasing and undeniable chemistry on tour, but when feelings finally surface, nothing—especially their bandmates—can keep them apart.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Teasing, Friends to Lovers, Use of Alcohol, Mention of smoking weed, I din't proofread it so maybe there's gonna be mistakes. lmk if i forgot something.

Disclaimer: While the characters in this story are inspired by real people, the events and interactions are purely fictional and not reflective of reality.

The airport was buzzing with early morning activity, travelers pulling their luggage through the terminal, announcements echoing overhead. You were leaning against one of the sleek chrome pillars, your carry-on by your feet, scrolling through your phone to pass the time.

Noah was right beside you, as usual. He had his arms crossed, a hoodie tugged over his messy hair, and he was squinting at the boarding pass in his hand like it was written in hieroglyphics.

"I swear they make these things harder to read every year," he muttered, flipping it over like the back might offer some hidden insight.

"It’s not a riddle, Noah," you said with a laugh, reaching out to snatch it from him. "Gate 22. Terminal C. You’ve been doing this for years, and you still act like it’s your first time at an airport."

"Not all of us are travel pros like you, princess," he shot back, smirking as he leaned casually into your space.

Before you could reply, a loud wolf whistle interrupted the moment.

"Ah, look at ‘em! Joined at the hip, as always!" Nick Folio’s voice carried across the terminal as he walked over, balancing a precariously large coffee in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. "Should we just start planning the wedding now?"

"Shut up, Folio," you groaned, rolling your eyes, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed your nonchalance.

"Yeah, shut up, Folio," Noah parroted, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. "Jealousy’s a bad look on you."

Nick feigned hurt, clutching his chest. "Jealous? Me? Never. I just think you two make a cute couple."

"Do you ever let up?" Jolly chimed in as he approached, his bag slung over one shoulder. "I mean, they’ve been attached at the hip since day one, and nothing’s happened yet. Maybe they’re just... eternal besties."

"Or they’re both in denial," Matt teased, appearing out of nowhere and clapping Noah on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Classic slow burn."

"Right, because you’re such an expert on relationships," you shot back, raising an eyebrow at your older brother.

"Hey," Matt replied, grinning. "Just calling it like I see it. And as your big brother, it’s my job to keep the guy glued to your side in line."

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, shaking your head as the rest of the group laughed.

"Big brother or not, you’re still a pain," Noah quipped, though there was no malice in his tone.

"As if you’re one to talk," Matt retorted, pointing at him. "If I had a dollar for every time you’ve mooched off her snacks, I’d be retired by now."

The group chuckled, and even you couldn’t help but crack a smile. This was the usual routine, and as much as you liked to complain about it, it was comforting in a way.

As the teasing died down, Nicholas Ruffilo joined the circle, pulling out his phone. "So," he began, "who’s gonna be the one to lose their luggage this time?"

"My money’s on Noah," Jolly said without hesitation.

"Why me?" Noah protested, looking genuinely offended.

"You lost your passport twice last year," Jolly replied flatly.

"That’s different!"

"How?"

"Uh, it just is," Noah said, his argument faltering as you snorted.

"I’ll help you keep track of your stuff this time," you offered, patting his shoulder mockingly.

"You’re a saint," he said, putting a hand over his heart. "An angel sent to save me from myself."

"Don’t encourage him," Matt groaned, shaking his head.

The overhead speakers crackled to life, announcing the boarding process for your flight. Matt immediately took charge, ushering everyone toward the gate.

"Alright, lovebirds, let’s move it," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"We’re not—"

"Save it," Nick interrupted, throwing an arm around your shoulders as the group started walking. "We all know it’s just a matter of time."

You exchanged a glance with Noah, who shrugged with a small, amused smile. It was the same old joke, but this time, there was a flicker of something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

As you reached the gate, Noah fell into step beside you, close enough that your arms brushed. "You ever feel like they know something we don’t?" he asked quietly, just for you to hear.

"All the time," you admitted, your voice just as soft.

The moment hung in the air for a beat too long before Matt’s voice broke it. "Hurry up, or we’re leaving you behind!"

With a shared smirk, you and Noah picked up the pace, falling into step with the rest of the band.

The plane was relatively quiet as everyone settled into their usual spots. You slid into the window seat with a satisfied sigh, propping your backpack under the seat in front of you. Noah dropped into the middle seat beside you, and Folio followed, plopping down with a dramatic groan.

“Man, who made planes so cramped?” Folio grumbled, stretching his legs as far as they could go without hitting the seat in front of him.

“Quit complaining, Folio,” Matt called from his aisle seat, shooting him a look over Ruffilo’s head. “You know it’s worse on the tour bus.”

“True, but at least I don’t get stuck in the middle of these two on the bus.” Folio gestured to you and Noah. “You’re like magnets, always leaning into each other.”

“Jealous you’re not in the middle?” Noah quipped, earning a snort from Jolly.

“Nah, man. I just don’t want to be collateral damage when this whole slow-burn romance finally combusts,” Folio said, winking at you.

You groaned and shoved his arm lightly. “You guys really need new material.”

“Maybe we’ll stop when you two finally admit it,” Jolly chimed in, earning a chorus of agreement from the others.

Noah just smirked, leaning back in his seat. “Keep dreaming, guys.”

As the plane took off and the initial excitement of the flight settled down, everyone fell into their own routines. Matt pulled out his laptop, muttering something about emails, while Ruffilo popped in his earbuds and started sketching on his tablet. Folio tapped away on his phone, and Jolly was already half-asleep, head tilted against the window.

You glanced at Noah, who was scrolling aimlessly through his phone. “What are you looking at?” you asked softly.

“Nothing interesting,” he said, tilting the screen toward you briefly before locking it. “You thinking of sleeping?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a yawn, leaning your head back. “Flights always make me sleepy.”

“You always knock out within the first hour,” he teased, grinning.

“Can’t help it,” you murmured, already feeling the pull of sleep. Without thinking, you shifted slightly, leaning your headagainst Noah’s shoulder. It wasn’t the first time, and judging by the way he didn’t even flinch, it wasn’t a big deal to him, either.

Time passed, and you drifted off, your breathing evening out as the noise of the plane faded into the background.

It wasn’t long before the teasing began.

“Look at him,” Jolly whispered from across the aisle, his voice low but just loud enough for Noah to hear. “He looks like he’s holding his breath.”

“I think he’s afraid to move,” Ruffilo added, smirking. “Wouldn’t want to wake her, huh?”

“I’m not afraid to move,” Noah said defensively, though he kept his voice quiet so as not to wake you. “I just don’t want her to wake up cranky.”

“Oh, sure,” Matt interjected, leaning forward to get a better look. “That’s a real heroic excuse. But let’s be honest, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Noah shot him a look. “You’re her brother. Shouldn’t you be discouraging this kind of teasing?”

“Should I?” Matt said, feigning deep thought. “Nah, this is too much fun.”

“Careful, Noah,” Folio added, nudging him. “You keep letting her nap on you, and the next thing you know, you’ll be the designated human pillow.”

“Already am,” Noah muttered, but there was no real annoyance in his tone.

The ribbing continued for a bit longer before everyone settled back into their respective distractions. Noah shifted slightly, trying to keep his arm from going numb under your weight. Despite the teasing, he couldn’t help but smile faintly at how peaceful you looked.

As the captain announced the descent, Noah gently nudged your shoulder. “Hey, we’re landing soon. Time to wake up.”

You stirred, blinking sleepily and taking a moment to realize where you were. “Oh, sorry,” you mumbled, sitting up and rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” Noah said, his voice soft. “You looked like you needed it.”

From across the aisle, Jolly piped up, “Did you get any drool on him this time?”

“Jolly!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as the rest of the band burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Jolly said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Noah just smirked, grabbing your carry-on from under the seat. “Ignore them. They’re just mad they don’t have someone to nap on.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as everyone prepared to disembark.

The airport was bustling with activity as you and the band made your way outside, your bags in tow. In the bus parking lot, your familiar tour bus stood waiting. Its sleek exterior and logo had become a second home over the years.

As you approached, Folio let out a dramatic sigh. “Ah, the tour bus. Where dreams of legroom come to die.”

You climbed aboard with Noah right behind you. As expected, you both took the booths across from each other—the same ones you’d claimed on every tour since your first. He threw his backpack onto the seat before flopping down, stretching his long legs.

“Surprise, surprise,” Matt said as he followed behind. “You two gravitate toward each other like it’s magnetic.”

“Yeah, we get it, Matt,” you replied, rolling your eyes but smiling. “Maybe we just like consistency.”

“Consistency, huh?” Jolly drawled, sliding into a booth further back. “Sure it’s not because you two can’t go five minutes without making googly eyes at each other?”

Noah shot him a look. “You’re projecting, man.”

“Yeah, totally projecting,” you chimed in, grinning.

“Call it what you want,” Matt teased as he threw his bag into the seat beside him, “but it’s only a matter of time before we’re writing ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ on the bus windows.”

Ruffilo smirked. “Or printing it on the next batch of merch.”

“You guys are insufferable,” you muttered, trying to suppress your laughter.

The drive to the venue was filled with similar banter, the kind that made the long hours on the road bearable. When the bus finally pulled into the lot behind the venue, everyone piled out, stretching and groaning after the ride.

Inside, the band got straight to work setting up for soundcheck. You wandered into the sound booth where Matt was stationed, helping coordinate with the crew.

“You’re still gonna be my unpaid assistant this tour, right?” he asked, grinning as you leaned against the console.

“Of course,” you said with mock enthusiasm. “Living the dream.”

As the band began their soundcheck, you couldn’t help but watch Noah. He was in his element, mic in hand, his voice effortlessly commanding the space. The way he moved, the focus in his expression—it was mesmerizing.

“Subtle,” Matt said dryly, breaking your trance.

“Huh?” You turned to him, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

“Your staring,” he teased. “You’re not exactly sneaky about it.”

“I’m just watching the sound levels,” you lied, feigning nonchalance.

Matt chuckled. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

The band wrapped up soundcheck, and everyone took a break before the show. Back in the green room, the teasing resumed as everyone grabbed snacks and drinks.

“Are we gonna have to peel you two apart again tonight?” Jolly asked, smirking as he sipped his water.

“Not unless you want to lose a limb,” Noah shot back, earning a laugh from Folio.

“Relax, man,” Folio said. “We’re just pointing out the obvious. You two are like those couples in rom-coms—everyone knows what’s coming except you.”

“We’re not a couple,” you said, exasperated. “Can we change the subject?”

“No,” Ruffilo replied immediately, earning a high-five from Jolly.

As showtime approached, you found yourself backstage, the energy in the venue electrifying. The band took the stage, and you couldn’t help but sing along and dance to every song, caught up in the moment.

From where you stood, you could see Noah glancing your way more than once, a small smile tugging at his lips when he caught your eye.

When the show ended, the crowd’s cheers still echoing in your ears, you were more than hyped. The moment Noah stepped offstage, sweaty and flushed from the performance, you ran to him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

“Y/N,” he laughed, his voice still rough from singing. “I’m literally soaked in sweat.”

“I don’t care,” you said, grinning as you held on tighter.

“Aww,” Jolly cooed from behind you. “A post-show love fest.”

“Jealous?” Noah shot back, his arms briefly tightening around you before he pulled away, though his smile lingered.

Before you could respond, Matt approached, crossing his arms as he looked at the two of you. “Still hugging, huh?”

“Don’t start,” you warned, though your tone lacked any real bite.

“I’ll start if I want to,” Matt said, smirking. “But I’ve got a better idea. Drinks to celebrate the first show?”

Noah glanced at you, his brow quirking. “What do you think?”

“Sounds perfect,” you replied, still buzzing with excitement.

“Great,” Matt said, clapping his hands. “Let’s pack up and get out of here.”

The bar was dimly lit, buzzing with music and chatter as you and the band made your way to the VIP section. The staff had cordoned off a cozy corner for you, complete with plush leather couches and a low table littered with menus and coasters.

Matt was quick to take charge, ordering the first round of drinks. He came back carrying a tray with an assortment of glasses, grinning like he’d just won a prize.

“To the first show of the tour!” he declared, raising his glass.

“To surviving another tour without killing each other,” Jolly added dryly, earning a laugh from the group as everyone clinked glasses.

The night unfolded in a haze of laughter, stories, and an ever-growing pile of empty glasses. It wasn’t long before Folio and Matt were deep into their cups, leaning heavily into their drunken states.

Folio slumped back into the couch, a lazy grin on his face. “Damn, I’m so drunk,” he mumbled to himself, chuckling. “Shouldn’t have smoked that joint during the show.”

You and Noah, seated next to each other on the crowded couch, exchanged amused glances and laughed quietly at Folio’s confession.

“What’s so funny?” Folio slurred, his glassy eyes focusing on the two of you. Then he paused, squinting as if his vision had just betrayed him. “Wait a minute… are you… sitting on his lap?”

Your cheeks immediately flushed as you realized he was right. The couches were too crowded, and at some point, you’d perched yourself on Noah’s lap to make room. It had felt casual—comfortable even—but now, under Folio’s scrutiny, it was anything but.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, trying to play it cool. “There’s no room.”

“No room,” Folio repeated, his grin widening. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

“Here we go,” Noah muttered under his breath, his arm resting lightly around your waist to keep you steady.

Folio leaned forward, as much as his inebriated state allowed, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’re awfully cozy for two people who are ‘just friends.’”

“It’s practical,” you countered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Practical,” Matt chimed in, sliding onto the couch beside Jolly with his drink in hand. His face was flushed, his grin even wider than usual. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

“No, no, let’s explore this,” Matt said, clearly delighted. “You’re telling me, out of all the space in this VIP section, the only place you could sit is on Noah’s lap?”

“Exactly,” Noah said with a straight face, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s basic physics.”

“Physics,” Matt repeated, laughing. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Better than whatever logic you’re using to justify that shirt,” Noah shot back, gesturing at Matt’s garishly patterned button-up.

“Deflection,” Folio sang, pointing at Noah like he’d cracked some great mystery. “Classic deflection.”

“You two are unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Unbelievable? No, no, no,” Matt said, his voice full of mock indignation. “What’s unbelievable is that you’ve been in each other’s pockets for years, and you’re still pretending nothing’s going on.”

Folio nodded vigorously, almost spilling his drink. “They’re like… like one of those slow-cooking stews. Taking forever, but you know it’s gonna be good when it’s done.”

Noah groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I think it’s time to get these two to bed.”

You nodded, standing up and grabbing Folio’s arm. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go.”

“I’m fine!” Folio protested, though he made no effort to resist as you and Noah guided him out of the booth.

“You’re fine, huh?” Noah said, steadying him when he stumbled. “Tell that to your liver.”

Behind you, Jolly and Ruffilo waved lazily from the booth. “We’ll hang out a bit longer,” Ruffilo called. “Good luck with those two.”

The walk back to the bus was anything but quiet.

“You two looked real comfortable back there,” Matt teased, slurring slightly but still sharp enough to make you groan.

“It’s not like that,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time, focusing on getting him up the bus steps.

“Sure, sure,” Folio chimed in, leaning heavily on Noah. “Bet you’re just gonna sit on his lap the whole tour, huh?”

“Folio, shut up,” Noah said, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Once you got them into their bunks—after much coaxing and a few more poorly aimed jokes—you and Noah retreated to the living room section at the back of the bus. It was quiet now, the gentle hum of the bus’s engine filling the space.

You sank onto the couch, exhaling a long breath. “Well, that was… something.”

“Every tour starts like this,” Noah said, sitting across from you. He leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the couch. “It’s like a rite of passage.”

You laughed softly, running a hand through your hair. “I’m surprised they didn’t start singing wedding bells on the way back.”

“Oh, give them time,” he replied with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. A comfortable silence settled between you, and when you glanced up, you caught Noah watching you, his head tilted slightly, a faint smirk on his lips.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” he said, though the look in his eyes suggested otherwise.

“Come on,” you pressed, leaning forward slightly. “What’s that look for?”

He shrugged, his smirk deepening. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You,” he said simply, his voice low but teasing.

Noah’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze steady and warm as he leaned slightly closer. The faint hum of the bus seemed louder in the quiet.

“What about me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper, curiosity and nervousness mingling in your tone.

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully, and then his lips curved into a gentle smile. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

Your breath caught for a second, and you blinked at him, taken off guard. “What?”

He chuckled, the sound low and almost shy, a stark contrast to his usual confidence. “I’m serious. You are.”

A flush crept up your neck as you tried to find your voice. “Noah…”

“What?” he teased, leaning his elbows on his knees, his body angled toward you. “Can’t I say something nice without you getting all flustered?”

“I’m not flustered,” you shot back, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Right,” he said with a knowing smile, his eyes sparkling.

You folded your arms, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Why now? What’s with the sudden compliments?”

He shrugged, his expression softening. “Maybe it’s not sudden. Maybe I’ve always thought it, but I’m just bad at saying it out loud.”

Your heart thudded in your chest at his words. “You think… you think they were right all this time? About us?”

“No,” he said firmly, his voice steady and leaving no room for doubt.

Your stomach dropped a little. “Oh.”

He tilted his head, studying your reaction, and then his lips quirked into a small smile. “I don’t think they were right. I know they were.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in closer, his hand lightly brushing against your knee. The air between you felt charged, the space too small yet not enough.

And then he kissed you.

It started slow, tentative, as if testing the waters. His lips were soft, warm, and they lingered against yours just long enough for your breath to hitch. When you didn’t pull away—when you leaned into him, your hands instinctively finding his shoulders—it deepened.

Noah’s hand slid to your waist, guiding you closer as the kiss grew more passionate. The world outside the bus seemed to disappear, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine and the racing of your heartbeat.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled you onto his lap without hesitation. The moment felt electric, the years of teasing, tension, and unspoken words finally snapping into place.

His lips moved against yours with a fervor that sent your mind spinning. You shifted slightly, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands rested firmly on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

It was as if nothing else mattered, just the two of you finally crossing an invisible line that had been drawn so long ago.

And then—

“Damn, I’m wayyy too dizzy to sleep in that tiny bunk—” Folio’s voice cut through the haze, slurred but loud enough to make you both freeze.

Your head whipped around, your eyes wide, as Folio stumbled into the living room. He stopped mid-step, his eyes blinking rapidly as they focused on the scene in front of him.

“Oh,” he said, his tone laced with a mix of shock and amusement. “Ohhhhhh.”

You scrambled off Noah’s lap, your cheeks burning hotter than the sun as you tried to compose yourself. Noah, on the other hand, stayed seated, though he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and bemusement.

“Folio,” you started, your voice a pitch higher than normal. “What are you doing up?”

He pointed vaguely in the direction of the bunks. “Too dizzy. Needed air. Did not expect to walk into… whatever this is.”

“This isn’t… it’s not—” you stammered, flailing for words.

Folio smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “Nah, don’t stop on my account. Just… maybe put a sock on the door next time or something?”

“Go to bed, Folio,” Noah said, his tone exasperated but still holding a hint of a smile.

Folio gave a mock salute before stumbling back toward the bunks, muttering something about how the tour was going tobe very interesting.

As soon as he was out of earshot, you buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Noah chuckled, his hand reaching out to tug gently at your wrist, pulling your hands away. “Well, that wasn’t exactly how I imagined this going.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though your face was still flaming. “So much for subtle.”

“Subtle’s overrated anyway,” he said, his smirk returning as he pulled you back down beside him.

Taglist: @courta13

A/N: Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Let me know if you'd like me to continue this as a mini-series. Also, my asks are always open—feel free to request anything!

[eliza-and-her-monsters]

begging anyone for Vi x reader x Ellie

ANYTHING.

PUH LUH EASE

WUH LUH WUH

i’ve got you bestie you just might wanna have that therapist on speed dial, okay? soz… 🫣

death doesn’t discriminate

Vi x reader x Ellie

Summary: you were never jackson’s best fighter, you never had to be. you were of course taught the basics of self defense, and if you ever were being attacked and it was between you or them it had to be you… every single time. you just never expected to ever have to put those skills to use… unfortunately though whenever patrol goes awry and you encountered a group of bandits you had to, making your very first kill. obviously after the event you’re left traumatized, and its up to your girlfriends to pull you from the aftermath.

Contains/TW: takes place in the tlou-verse with arcane crossover characters because obviously, innocent and super sheltered reader, i’ve seen the discourse but i AM making it to where ellie CAN pick the reader up (because fuck you that’s why! 💜), told in 1st person, polyamory, set in jackson post-joel death HOWEVER obviously ellie didn’t decide to hunt down ms. girl again. mentions of murder, blood, and just gore in general and HEAVY implications of suicidal ideation. ((this is not meant to romanticize suicide in any way, i’m writing from my own personal experiences. if you or someone you know is struggling please get help. you are loved 💜)) Heavily based off of the song listed below including its lyrics that are obviously not my own creation but def wish they were 💔

WC: 2.2k

You think at some point you would grow used to death, it was always leering. Either a subtle shadow hanging by the back door or growing to overtake the whole compound. In some cases it was merciful, swiftly ending your pain through broken pleas or just pure exhaustion. But in other cases, and the ones I found to be most common, it was known to be rather violent.

I was surprised I even remembered what to do whenever the time came. A dreaded audition it felt like as I slowly trailed Ellie’s gaze to the switchblade in my back pocket, the cold press of a gun against my temple. I don’t think I even processed what had happened until I was backing away, staring at the dead body before me and the still warm blood now coating my hands. My breathing came out in startled gasps, shrieking in traumatized fear the moment I felt her arms wrapping around me from behind.

“It’s me, baby, it’s just me.” She whispered, taking me into her soothing arms even though I tried like hell to fight her off at first leaving streaks of blood in the shape of my hands against her shirt. She only held my trembling body to her chest as I tried to hold back the sobs.

‘You made one kill. Everyone here has at least made one kill. It shouldn’t affect you this much. You’ve lived your whole life letting other people do the dirty work for you, you should be able to make one kill. One measly little kill of a man who would’ve killed you had you not acted so fast.’ I guess I was the only one left who didn’t think the world was that black and white though.

~

I felt catatonic as we made our way back to Jackson, Ellie’s arms holding most of my weight. I half wanted her to leave me there, leave me there to bleed and be ravaged by whatever found me first. She never would though, even if it did mean she’d have less deadweight.

Vi never was a fan of the two of us going out on patrol without her. She always considered herself our guard dog, even over Ellie who could no doubt hold her own at this point. Many nights we still spent dozing off against her while she whispered to us that we were ‘her girls.’

“Vi, emergency.” I heard Ellie speak, my head a dull weight against her chest as she carried me through the front door.

“This is the last time the two of you go on patrol without me, I mean it this time, Els.” I heard her seething as her heavy boots nearly shook the whole house. “Is she hurt? Are you hurt? What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine but she… she had to-” Ellie held the words back, not wanting to speak them in front of me as I felt my body being placed on one of the old ratty recliners. Dead eyes staring forward, like every ounce of light had been winked out a long time ago.

Vi’s own soft blue eyes drifted downwards to the dry blood coating my still shaking hands, the quickest moment of understanding filling her expression. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She murmured, the sentiment enough to bring forth a cascade of tears that I had been holding back until we were safely concealed in the walls again. “You did good though, doll, I need you to know that. You did amazing. Remember what we said, if it’s them or you it has to be you every single damn time.”

I sniffled through the ugly sobs with a shake of my head, I disagreed though I suppose I would always disagree. “She should’ve left me out there.” I finally spoke again after I had what felt like the inability to.

Quickly and without hesitation I could feel Ellie’s hand wrapping around my chin, gentle but firm as she turned my head to face her. “No, you aren’t allowed to say things like that.”

“Why not?” I shook my hand, eyes stinging and burning with tears as I watched her kneel in front of me with what looked like a wet washcloth.

“Let me get you cleaned up.” She didn’t answer me, carefully dabbing at my bloodied hands to wash all of the evidence away. Even though part of me wanted it to stay, tattoo the remnants of blood on my hands until I remembered who I was.

“Tell me why you shouldn’t have left me.” My voice shook as I repeated the question. Push until they finally said the truth. Push until they finally agreed to throw me to the wolves. Push and push and push… “I’ve been nothing but deadweight since I got here.”

“No.” Vi almost growled next, wrapping her own larger hand around my chin this time while I only stared back in defiance. “You are not deadweight, you are valuable and needed and- and we need you alive! I need you alive!”

“Darling, you don’t have to be a fighter to be important.” Ellie spoke next, much gentler than Vi had but still stern nonetheless.

It was hard to find a purpose to live in the apocalypse, I wasn’t sure where everyone found one. I knew Ellie had always had some terrible sense of self importance with the immunity. I guess over the years she had tried her hardest to transfer that to me. Some days it worked. Some days were good, amazing even. Gentle and soft days where I could dream about a world before the infection. A world I’m not sure I or Ellie ever remembered. Some days though, days like today, being reminded of that thought really changed things.

Vi had always been an ‘alive out of spite’ kind of person. Then one day Ellie and I rolled up into Jackson and turned her world upside down and shifted things for the better… that’s how she would tell it at least. She was slightly older, tougher, rough around the edges, but deep down I think she was secretly just lonely. She took us underneath her wing just as quickly as we arrived, all too happy to open her doors for us and things grew and built from there. But no amount of love or care I was given from the two was enough to cover up the fact, if I went outside of the walls something disastrous always managed to happen.

I was just simply deadweight. A bad luck charm if you will. These things never ended well.

“Baby, you’ve just had a bad day.” Vi shook her head as she took my own into her calloused hands. “That’s all it is, my love. We’re in the times of survival now, it’s kill or be killed and… I’m not losing either of you.”

I choked on another pathetic sob, hating myself more and more for every single one. Nevertheless though Vi pulled me into her, muffling the sounds of my cries into her shirt. Traumatized and shaking cries that I rarely actually allowed myself the luxury of, so whenever they came, they came all at once.

~

I fell asleep early that night. Vi running Ellie and I a bath to wash all of the dirt and grime from the disasterous patrol from our bodies. At some point I lost the strength to cry, but I felt like I had lost the strength to do most things. At some point over my sleeping body I had heard Ellie whispering to Vi though, to hide all of the guns, knives, switchblades, anything that could ever be used as a weapon. A mental patient in the middle of the apocalypse. Oh the irony.

“You think she would actually do something to herself?” Vi whispered in her hushed tone while Ellie gnawed anxiously at her already chipped nails.

“Yeah, I do.” She answered with a shuddering breath. “This is worse than Seattle and I- I already thought I was gonna lose her then- Vi, I’m not taking anymore chances.”

“Hey, listen, we’ll take care of her, okay? We’ve got her. We always do.”

“I hope so.” I could hear the rustling of clothes, no doubt an embrace she probably needed. An embrace they probably both needed. And I hated that I was the one who brought them there.

A moment passed and I had nearly managed to doze off again somehow in in the midst of it all just before I could feel the bed slightly dipping behind me. “Just me, you’re safe.” Ellie warned, waiting on my already exhausted muscles to relax before she slid her arms around me from behind. “I need to talk to you, okay?” She whispered against the back of my neck, my heavy eyelids fluttering open for a brief moment. “It’s okay, you can close your eyes. And you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to just… just listen, okay?”

Her fingers gently stroked soothing lines along with arms, the sensation only making my eyelids want to droop even further. “I’ve always had a- a really strong urge to protect you, Vi and I both have. A-And I think you know that. So if you wouldn’t have killed that man I wouldn’t have hesitated. He doomed himself. The moment he laid a goddamn finger on you he doomed himself. And Vi would’ve done the same thing and I think you know that too. Hell, he wouldn’t have even gotten the chance to if Vi was there.” Her fingers slid through my own, a soft yet possessive grasp.

“I know you think I gave up looking for Abby because you were reckless a-and you got hurt and you ruined things. And you were reckless, and you did get hurt but… you didn’t ruin things. You- You just changed things, for the better.” Her lips brushed against my neck, an innocent gesture though had me tilting my head to grant her more access all the same. “You saved me, baby.” She muttered, burrowing her face right into the crook of my neck as she pulled my back in closer to her chest. “I- I could’ve spent my whole life hunting that girl down, because- T-Tommy did ask me to, you know?” Her voice cracked, the feeling of small tears dripping onto my skin, a very simple way to get them to spring up into my own eyes all over again. Just whenever I thought I had been all cried out.

“You- You actually told him no?” My bottom lip quivered as I slowly twisted around to face her, just to feel her own calloused hand against my face. “But I thought you- you promised-“

“It’s not going to bring him back, love.” She shook her head, glancing downwards as if in mild shame. “But whenever you went after me in Seattle and- you got hurt…” she brushed her fingers along the jagged scar slashed into my arm that she was more or less cradling. “I know you were knocked out and you don’t remember a lot of it but… i-it really scared the fuck out of me, y-you know? Like I could lose you. I-I could really honestly lose you and… nothing is worth that, baby. Not a single thing is worth that.”

Tears swam in my eyes as she pressed her lips to the wet streaks that stained them. “You’re an angel, my love. An angel on this absolute fucked up planet and I-I pity every single person that doesn’t get to know you like Vi and I do, you know?” She briefly disconnected her hand from my face to brush away her own tears only to let it snake through my hair as she tugged me back into her chest. “You’re innocent, and you’re kind and you didn’t let any of this take it away and- I hope you never do, honestly.” I felt her chest sinking as she took in a heavy breath and held me to her almost for dear life. Like she was afraid I’d slip away the moment I let go. “No amount of self-sought fury will bring that back… I’ve tried. S-So please, I know it’s hard to find a purpose in this life but… please baby, please stay with me. With us.”

I curled up to her side, resting a heavy head right against where I could feel her heart thumping so softly. The other side of the bed dipped and while I might have flashed back to that moment briefly Ellie’s arms wrapped around me so protectively were enough to pull me back down to earth. At least for a moment.

“My girls.” Vi’s voice followed next, her arm nearly long enough to stretch over the both of us as she brought us close to her with ease. I felt my back pressing against her muscular chest as she settled down next to us, taking her usual trusty spot closest to the door as always.

It was hard to promise survival during the end of the world, even safe within the walls of a community. But for that night I at least promised I wouldn’t do it on my own accord. Someday, somewhere, something would kill me, but it wouldn’t be at my own hand.

No amount of self-sought fury will bring back the glory of innocence.

Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

[bokutosbabe]

Omg I love love love your writing sm 🙏💕💕 and the new event is such a good idea I literally wanna eat your writing 😞

Could u request Shidou Ryusei with the emojis 🍉 and 🍭 please?

awee tysm!

a shidou ryusei watermelon lollipop

જ⁀♡⊹｡° it can't last

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event!

♡ content — shidou ryusei x gn! reader, gn! reader, nicnknames of 'baby' and 'sweetheart' used, shidou thinks this is funny, reader dislikes shidou, fake-dating

♡ synopsis — shidou ryusei isn't meant to be a settled down man, but this simulation with you may change his mind.

“Of all the people I could’ve gotten paired with, it just had to be you.”

You stood at the threshold of the shared apartment, glaring at Shidou Ryusei as he lazily leaned against the doorframe. His signature smirk was already in place, like he was thoroughly enjoying your misery.

“C’mon, you know you’re thrilled.” He winked. “Who wouldn’t wanna fake-date me? I’m the total package, baby.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Or the best time of your life.” He stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

And you couldn't help but be annoyed by the display of your points going from '0' to '10' before you could even step into your new space.

From the beginning, Shidou made it clear he wasn’t going to take this seriously.

“Why bother?” he’d said with a shrug when you tried to go over the program’s guidelines. “This whole thing’s a joke, anyway. Just play along, and we’ll ace it.”

Playing along, as it turned out, meant Shidou being as over-the-top as possible. He’d drape an arm around your shoulders during group activities, call you ridiculously embarrassing pet names in public, and find any excuse to pull you close.

It was all a game to him—a way to keep things interesting. But for you, it was exhausting.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he teased one afternoon after you shoved him off for the third time that day. “You don’t like my affection?”

“It’s not affection if it’s fake,” you snapped, brushing past him.

“Fake?” He tilted his head, his grin turning sharp. “You wound me. I’m a method actor, you know. I don’t fake anything.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

Despite his antics, there were moments when Shidou surprised you.

Late at night, when the apartment was quiet, he’d drop the act, his usual bravado replaced with something softer.

“Don’t you ever feel like this whole thing is stupid?” he asked once, sprawled on the couch with his arms behind his head.

You glanced up from your spot at the kitchen table. “What do you mean?”

“This simulation crap.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Pretending to be someone’s perfect match. It’s all so fake.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I guess… it’s supposed to teach us something. About relationships, or compromise, or whatever.”

He snorted. “Relationships are a waste of time.”

“That’s a pretty cynical take.”

“It’s realistic,” he said, turning his head to look at you. “People just screw each other up. Why bother?”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

As the program went on, you started to notice cracks in Shidou’s façade.

The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when he played the role of the perfect “husband.” The way he’d get quiet when the instructors praised other couples for their “genuine connection.” The way he’d occasionally look at you like he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

One night, after a particularly heated argument about how to divide chores, he blurted it out.

“You know, you’re not half-bad at this whole fake partner thing.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… thanks?”

“I’m serious,” he said, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. “You’re… easy to be around. Even when you’re nagging me.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you pushed the feeling aside. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Shidou.”

He laughed, the tension breaking as quickly as it had formed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

The final week of the program arrived faster than you expected.

By then, you and Shidou had settled into a strange rhythm. His over-the-top antics had toned down, replaced with something almost… comfortable.

But you couldn’t ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of your mind. For all his moments of sincerity, Shidou was still Shidou—chaotic, unpredictable, and impossible to pin down.

And you? You were starting to forget where the line between fake and real was supposed to be.

On the last day, as you packed up your things, Shidou lounged in the doorway, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“So, what happens now?” he asked casually.

You paused, your hands stilling over your suitcase. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us. Fake-dating or whatever.”

You swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. “The program’s over. I guess we go back to normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, his tone unreadable. “Yeah. Right.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence stretched, heavy with things left unsaid.

Then he pushed off the doorframe, his smirk back in place. “Well, it’s been fun, partner. Try not to miss me too much.”

Before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you alone in the empty apartment.

You didn’t know what to make of the way your chest ached as you watched him walk away.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Shidou was right—relationships were a waste of time, and pretending could only get you so far.

But a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if things had been different. If the line between fake and real had blurred just a little more.

As you closed the door behind you, you told yourself it didn’t matter.

But deep down, you weren’t so sure.

they could never make me hate you shidou

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[tainbocuailnge]

thinking about the terrible victoria arc and how it could be less terrible. taking chapter 14 as premise & reverse engineering how to better get to that emotional payoff (namely the babel squad finally getting closure for theresa's death and babel's downfall & the fate of the sarkaz being severed) without throwing the base concepts of the other chapters out completely i think for starters the entirety of chapter 9 should just be an event instead. so much of the dublinn plotline was in an event already (what the firelight casts) and ever since ch9 most of "the dublinn plotline" has just been eblana ominously hovering in the distance, its just bloating things with no meaningful contributions. that does mean taking horn and bagpipe out too, much as I like them, but I think they can shine better when they're not competing with so many other white women for empty screentime anyway.

then you want the victoria arc proper to have you meet the self salvation corps asap after sneaking into the city and the core tension is going to be between siege and her gang as face of the nobility even if they individually might not agree with that label, the self salvation corps as representative of the common people of londinium who may hate the nobles but still have their own unsustainable british nationalism to work through, and rhodes island as altruistic outsiders whose reasons for getting involved don't actually have to do with victoria itself. clovisia was obviously supposed to be an amiya expy before she got forgotten almost immediately after her debut, but keeping the focus on these three groups would ideally also get some use out of that.

I said in a post i made after i read ch11 that it really isn't hard to see what siege's gang and the steam knight are supposed to represent, the symbol of victoria's honor and glory was betrayed by the greed of its nobles and its rightful heir is running a street gang, if you want to save victoria you have to decide what kind of "victoria" is worth saving to you. so in the victoria arc that doesn't suck these three parties are gonna have to actually talk about and contend with their inevitably clashing images and visions of victoria, and steam knight is gonna have to be a mandatory boss.

I also feel like manfred was fought too early for how much backstory weight he has to the babel gang and how long he sticks around after that. as if in ch10 they straight up didn't know yet that victoria arc was gonna end in being about babel, which might genuinely have been the case. so in the better victoria arc im making up in my head his bossfight is gonna get pushed back a few chapters.

like i'm thinking first victoria chapter you fight steam knight, it starts with meeting the self salvation corps and has you quickly throw everything on that gamble of getting siege the sword because both the glasgow gang and the corps buy enough into the idea of a past glorious victoria that can be brought back to try that only to have to face the decrepit husk of that glorious past in order to get it. siege can be passive in this one still, because her doing basically nothing is going to last only one chapter here instead of two and a half and it's going to serve a point.

so now you have the sword but both the gang and the corps are quite shaken about how they obtained it, and in the second chapter tensions between the three factions begin to rise when the obvious ideological disagreements about where to go next become impossible to postpone. you fight damazti here because the cluster is gonna be an awesome plot device for pushing mutual distrust and paranoia. honestly I don't even remember what the deal with damazti cluster was or what it was supposed to contribute so in the better victoria arc they do something about that too probably. and siege is forced to form actual opinions and say them out loud, and they're going to differ from what the rest of the glasgow gang is saying.

then by the third chapter you're able to sort out that internal conflict enough to finally muster the forces to fight manfred, this is probably where you get siege actually forming the exemplars and stuff, showing leadership and ideals and all that. i think allerdale can eat shit and so can the npc members of siege's gang so I'm cutting them out, we're putting all the focus on forcing these royal fake street punks from siege's posse and plain londinium factory workers from the self salvation corps to find common ideological ground. i like delphine though delphine can stay. there was a scene in one of these chapters with siege and amiya talking about their responsibility as figureheads that i liked (because it almost did something with siege) that i think would fit here, and it's an obvious chance to do something with clovisia too. like this is a good point to talk about more abstract ideas of leadership and turning people into figureheads and the way people will turn to a single person to save them, to start making it a bit more about theresa too. so here you get rhodes trying not to drag their feet because it's the part where it starts actually getting personal for them, materially because several members have a history with manfred but conceptually because there's an incoming shift of focus

defeating manfred marks rhodes island having to admit that they're very much in it for theresa and the sarkaz and their own personal history rather than just altruism towards "victoria", vague as that concept has become these past few chapters, so you get a somewhat more natural shift into the sanguinarch and the feranmut skeleton and finally theresa because we can sensibly compare the ideal and reality of the glorious war-torn homeland between victoria and kazdel, and the more abstract throughline of where the border between honoring the past and being dragged down by it lies. logistically the manfred fight would probably be in order to get out of the city and investigate the vampire shit so he'd serve as a kind of border between this being about victoria/londinium and this being about something beyond that in that way too.

and ch13 and 14 is when things finally started picking up so I don't think they actually need all that much tweaking beyond making it consistent with the things changed in the stuff before it. and probably cutting out some more characters. because the worst part really is that the focus was just all over the fucking place so just keeping the cast more manageable would do a lot. i think that teacher woman was interesting enough to be allowed to stay and that guy who killed himself in front of the sanguinarch was fun he can stay too. but i feel like the nightingale plotline might have to go.

[mister-eames]

Secret Saito 2024

Happy Secret Saito to you all, I hope you're having a great holiday season x

This is my @secretsaito gift for @motionalocean, whose prompt was lurid. I hope you enjoy this darling <3 thank you for the prompt!

Prompt: lurid Pairing: Arthur/Eames Word Count: 5.4k Warnings: Alcohol, post-break-up, make-up, miscommunication, some angst but with a happy ending, mild drunkenness and anxiety, blink-and-you'll-miss characters and references from dated 90's movies, trust me they live happily ever after.

----

Eames tugs the lapels of his jacket and squares his shoulders, projecting an air of confidence that he isn't quite sure he really feels. Knows he doesn't, in honesty, otherwise he wouldn't be trying it on.

But it doesn’t matter, really; he can fake anything for long enough to fool who counts. Eames once convinced the Prime Minister of Australia that he was raised by a red kangaroo in the red soils of the outback after being abandoned by his mother. He once convinced a travelling group of tourists that he was the next in line for the throne. No doubt about it, if he's assured of anything, it's that Eames can convince a bunch of people he doesn't even know that he is a confident, wealthy, self-made man.

Two out of three isn't bad.

He pushes the door to the ballroom open and feels his mouth stretch into the genial smile of a man with his shit together.

---

The noise around Arthur is near deafening. A live band plays a rotation of top forty hits from the last several decades and the countless surrounding conversations of too-loud family make for an incomprehensible cacophony. He’s only been here for an hour but his head is already pounding like a pick into an ice-shelf.

The venue is noisy. The decorations are showy, a riot on the senses. It's all very gauche. Very Cohen family. Very Aunt Edith, who he must lovingly admit this is very fitting.

By means of having attended here alone Arthur has found himself in the orbit of some group of people he only vaguely recognises, three drinks in already, trying to politely refrain from checking his watch for the right time to excuse himself. Although he’s long tuned out, he’s still nodding at all the right places, interjecting with the odd "Oh, really?"

Hand to god he's not normally such a drinker in social settings, especially not the bottom-shelf spirits and wine that this bar is serving, but—well. He tips his drink back, emptying the flute in a single gulp. It doesn't bear thinking about.

"And what do you do for work?" a young woman holding a full flute of champagne asks Arthur.

"I'm a freelance consultant."

"Nice," she says, eyeing him up and down with interest. "In what industry?"

The reply rolls practiced off his tongue. "Quantum technology."

Arthur doesn't even know who he's talking to anymore. His third cousin's second born partner, maybe. Could be. Aside from his immediate family Arthur couldn't name most of the people here. It’s sloppy of him, perhaps. At least from a security standpoint, maybe. But Arthur isn’t on the job anymore, and he’s grown weary of watching all the exits and having eyes in the back of his head for events like family birthdays all the damn time. His nerves are so burned out they're beyond resurrection.

"Who's that?" someone asks.

He looks to the entrance. His stomach drops to his feet.

"What the hell is he doing here," Arthur mutters under his breath, feeling his face heat up. Someone grabs his arm and shakes it.

"Eames is here," his Uncle Sandy says excitedly. "I thought you said he wasn't coming!"

"He said he couldn't make it," Arthur says through his teeth. He said he wasn't going to be here. 

He watches as Eames takes an offered glass of an amber drink, smiling widely as he is greeted by relatives and their partners, people who Arthur, still, can hardly name. He looks hale and healthy and whole, shoulders relaxed, making easy conversation like it's his own party.

By the time he's noticed, Eames has already looked up and met his gaze.

Eames raises a toast to him.

He barely refrains from raising his middle finger in return.

Arthur is going to kill him, that little fucking liar. Arthur is going to kill him in front of everyone here. There will be so many witnesses and Arthur will go to jail but it will be so worth it. That smarmy, little prick, look at him. Schmoozing and disrupting Arthur’s entire night like the little liar he is.

He tosses back his own drink, finding it somehow already empty.

Easy fix, Arthur thinks, unlike everything else. He abandons whoever is speaking to him to march over to the bar and orders a martini.

---

It takes all of five minutes for Eames to lazily wander over and side up next to Arthur, gesturing to the bartender for a second drink. He is wearing a suit Arthur has never seen him in; something so immaculately tailored and well-made that it can't be new.

"You said you weren't coming."

"Actually what I said was that I'd rather masturbate into a cheese grater than show up, but as you would know," Eames affects an air of disinterest, "changes of heart are just so common." 

“You really should have done yourself a favor and gone with the first idea.”

“Yes, well. After very little deliberation I came to the realisation that I have as much right to be here as you do."

"It's my family."

"Funny," says Eames humourlessly. "I thought I was family too."

Arthur clenches jaw, retort dying in the back of his throat. Eames isn't wrong. Eames is practically part of the furniture at his family functions, and has been for over ten years. Up until---

"Besides," says Eames. "Aunty Edith likes me best. And I have her gift."

"Whatever," Arthur pulls the lapels of his jacket, squaring his shoulders. "Just stay out of my way."

"I intend to," Eames replies.

"You better."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

Arthur turns his body away, his skin crawling like a horde of ants were underneath it. "You can go back to your corner of the room now."

"Ta ta," Eames says, easily plucking the olive from Arthur's martini glass. "Pleasure seeing you, Arthur.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, etcetera."

"Go find yourself that cheese grater." 

Eames leaves with a satisfied glint in his eyes. Arthur sips his oliveless martini, uncaring. He hates olives, anyway.

---

“Why aren’t you here with Arthur?”

A fabulous question, really, considering no one here is a blood relative of his, or even a friend, besides the birthday girl.

"Well," Eames tells Arthur's drunk cousin, Barry, perhaps a little drunk himself. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But we had a falling out recently, see. We're not together anymore."

"Really?"

Eames nods. "Over post-it's, if you'd believe."

The crowd of four he's speaking with pause in unison, aghast, as they no longer pretend they're not eavesdropping. 

"Post-it's?" Someone repeats, incredulous. 

Emerging from the bathrooms, draped in a fabulous red feather boa is the birthday woman of the hour. Arthur’s Great Aunt Edith. She is resplendent amongst pomp and circumstance, a withering cigarette in one hand, wine in the other. She spots Eames and waves him over.

"Long story," Eames says, downing his drink. "Anyway, nice seeing you." He waves back to Edith and heads over.

"Eames, my dear," Edith embraces him. "So good to see you."

"And you, my lovely lady," he kisses her flushed cheeks, feeling a knot in his upper back come loose. "I hear it's your eightieth birthday," he pulls back, assessing her. "You don't look a day over fifty."

"Oh, stop," she swats him away. "Where's Arthur? I've hardly seen him all night."

"Ah...I'm sure he's about," Eames smiles mildly, immediately feeling the knot coming back. "You know how he is. Can't sit still, that one. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to."

As he eagerly anticipated, she puts on a show, eyes widening with all of her witnessed tales: The headliner: Distress, despair, drama. She clutches his arm, steering him away from the crowd.

"Oh, Eamsie, darling, where do I even begin."

---

It's been two whole hours. Arthur hasn’t stuck around a family function this long since his youngest cousin’s Bar Mitzvah in ‘02.

"I haven't seen you since you were this high," his aunt Michele exclaims, gesturing to her bra-line. "Still, you barely look a day over twenty, you Cohens and your genes. I'm so jealous. Who are you wearing, Armani?" 

"Tom Ford," he blinks. 

"And what are you doing here all by your lonesome, hmm? Where's your beau?"

"My ex, you mean" he says, a little more drunkenly than he intends to, wiping his sweaty palm down his tie. He turns around on his stool and picks Eames out by the far end of the room and points to him. Luckily, Eames doesn't notice, or doesn't acknowledge this.

"No. When did you break up?" She looks genuinely sad.

"Like, yesterday."

"Oh my god."

"Yep."

"You two were, like, so cute together. What happened?"

"Post-it's,” Arthur mutters murderously. “Post-it's happened." 

"Huh?"

"Pretty ballsy of Eames to show up here at a family function like that if you’re not together," Barry says, cutting in. “Y’know. Considering.”

"...He is family," Arthur says quietly, eyes sliding to the small crowd Eames has amassed, each lured and falling to his natural charm. He fits right in, he always has. Like a missing piece of a prevailingly incomplete puzzle; he's as much a branch of the family tree as Arthur is. "...Even if he and I are not... anyway. Leave him be."

He lets that hang in the air and slides off his stool, and heads to the bathroom. Eames seems to have wandered off elsewhere, Arthur notes. Not that he was looking or anything.

---

Eames has just received a dollop of fancy-smelling soap in the palm of his left-hand when the bathroom door swings open. He's lathering it over his fingers when he looks up at the mirror and meets Arthurs gaze.

A thunderous look overtakes Arthur's features as he stalks to the urinals at the far wall, looking pale and unsteady despite his visible agitation.

Well, whatever. Ignoring him, Eames waves his hand uselessly in front of the sensor tap, failing to elicit a stream of water, Eames can't help himself, Arthur is fucking swaying on the spot. "Had a bit much, have you?"

The reply is instant.

"Fuck off."

He fucking hates these things. By the time Arthur has finished taking the world's longest piss Eames is still wriggling his soapy fingers towards the sensor without success. 

It prompts a huff and a bitchy "Jesus christ," before Arthur is leaning over and waving his hand under the stupid handlebar structure that Eames thought was decorative, eliciting a stream of cold water.

"Stupid fucking things," Eames mutters, dipping his hands under the spray.

There's an awkward moment where they finish washing their hands at the same moment and reach for the same paper towel dispenser.

"New suit?" Arthur gruffs, wiping his hands roughly.

"It is actually," Eames mutters, heart drooping like a forsaken house plant. He'd bought it six months ago, intended for their anniversary next month. He'd been hoping to surprise Arthur with it. 

In a way, he supposes he has. Just not the way he'd envisioned.

He checks the state of his hair in the reflection. "Not up to your high standards, Arthur?"

In the mirror Arthur rolls his eyes as he bunches up his paper towel. "I just didn't take you for a bow-tie man, is all."

Arthurs hair is down; long and curly, just the way Eames likes it. Used to like it. Compliments and insults gather and tangle amongst themselves on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something between fuck you and you look unfairly lovely in that suit. He wants to say he's sorry, that he wishes more than anything he could reach his hands into time and reverse the clock, to go back and not say the things he did.

"You always did profess to know me better than you do," is what he says instead.

Ten years down the fucking drain. He turns then and, much like he did not so long ago, leaves. 

---

Arthur thinks his suit might be too tight.

Or maybe his tie is too close to his throat. Maybe someone has sucked all of the air out of the room, there's too many people. It's hot in here, too hot. In any case, Arthur is finding it harder to breathe than he did twenty minutes ago.

Trembling fingers worry with the knot of his tie for the nth time as he attempts to draw in a deep, heaving breath but finds his lungs refusing to expand to capacity. And it's as if someone has turned his hearing up to a hundred; the ballroom both quiet and deafening at once, he's sure everyone here can hear his galloping heartbeat, they all seem to be looking at him. Maybe he's making all the noise. He can't remember.

Maybe he has had too much to drink. 

Arthur has always been a bit of an outlier in his family. Never like his cousins. Too trapped in his own head. And now he's turned up to this party and everyone knows he's been unable to save his marriage, that it's back to baseline at his age when all of his cousins are having kids. Arthur is at one of these things alone again even with Eames swanning about, avoiding each other like they are strangers.

Intimacy has a fatal backlash, and this is it.

He has to get out of here.

Pasting on a smile, he finds Edith by the bar. She's graciously shared half of her feather boa with Aunt Michele as they speak.

"I'm heading out," he interrupts them, embracing Edith. "Happy Birthday, again. Thank you for inviting me."

"Oh, Arthur dearest," she says, her hands finding his shoulders, her rouged lips sloping into a frown. "So soon?"

"I have an early morning," he lies. "A work thing."

She shares a look with Michele. "Could you please do one thing for me before you leave?"

"Sure."

"I'm feeling a bit of a chill. Would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room?"

It's the least he could do dipping out early on her special day. "Of course."

"Number sixteen,” she passes him a paper ticket. “Lime leopard print, you can't miss it."

The cloak room, if he recalls correctly, was in the grand hall, out of the ballroom, towards the entrance.

So close, but so far, he thinks wryly, heading in.

---

It's quite stuffy in here, generously sized for a glorified closet, he has less room than he'd like, but it's hot work, rummaging around the large coats and jackets.

It's as he's spotted the lime leopard print monstrosity, way at the back, when he hears a tell-tale snick.

He drops the item and lunges for the door handle. It doesn't open. 

“No, no, no…” He jigs the handle, twisting it this way and that, bile rising up his throat. It's locked. He can't open it. Either this is a huge mistake or some fucker has just locked him in here. "Is anyone there?"

He calls out again, louder. No one answers him.

Then he kicks the door.

It doesn't budge. He pulls his phone out with nervous, shaking hands, desperate enough to call Eames to get him the fuck out of here. Not even Eames is petty enough to leave him in the lurch in a situation like this. He tries, but it goes to voicemail for each time Arthur tries.

No service. Of fucking course. Why would anything go right for him.

His eyes slip shut briefly and suddenly he is in an elevator; a tiny, cramped elevator that is going to descend and crash at any moment. A wave of vertigo washes over him so suddenly that his knees buckle, taking him to the floor.

The tie is loosened, and wrested from his person and thrown to the ground.

"Fuck," he says to himself. He buries his head in his hands and laughs, eyes burning, suddenly very, very sober.

---

If asked, Eames would generously say he is mostly a fan of Arthur's family. His mom, bless her memory, was a darling. Sandy, Michele, Edith, all gold star members of the Cohen clan, whether outsourced or made in-house. But some of them, however, are insufferable.

A dominant Cohen trait, it would seem.

He's been stuck speaking to some old fart who is drunkenly admitting to having a mistress while some other, older fart next to him nods and openly shares stories of sneaking gropes of the younger women who work in his office. 

"Well, that's depressing," he mutters, downing the rest of his champagne, skin feeling greasy simply by proximity. "Nice talk, chaps."

He leaves that circle of degeneracy to find someone more up to his speed. But as he turns, and turns, and turns, there doesn't seem to be anyone to fit that brief. He can't even see Arthur. Perhaps he left already. Without saying goodbye, or even a middle finger, that scoundrel. Not that Eames cares. 

He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt and considers that it is perhaps time to leave.

The birthday girl finds him before he finds her.

"Oh, Eamesie," she kisses his cheeks again. "You heading out, are you?"

"I am," he takes her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of each one. "Early morning, see."

"Worst news of the night! You'll come visit me soon, won't you?"

"Of course. We have to do happy hour."

"Of course! Can you do one thing for me before you leave?"

He smiles, fond, a happiness to indulge her blooming brightly in the cracks inside of him. "Of course."

Her shoulders shake with a theatrical shiver. "I'm feeling a bit of a chill... would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room? Number sixteen."

---

Arthur estimates that he's been sat on the floor, staring into nothingness, for at least twenty minutes when the door to the cloak room opens.

He's instantly on his feet, a thank god on his lips, when he sees that it's Eames who's come to his rescue.

Eames is staring at him, dumbly. "What are you doing in here?" he asks, the yellow light of the bulb above his head giving him a halo. “Did you pass out or something?”

“What?” Arthur pauses. "What are you doing here? Then it occurs to him exactly what Eames is doing in here. The blood rushes out of his upper body. Then he says, "Fuck."

Snick.

“Did—?”

Hysteria wells up where hope has vacated as he watches Eames whirl around and re-enact the same thing that Arthur had done earlier in trying to get the door open.

"It's locked," Arthur informs him.

"It's locked," Eames exclaims as if he hasn't heard him, roughly shaking the door handle. "Arthur, it's fucking locked. We're locked in." He pounds on the door and calls out, but no one comes, even when Eames resorts to bellowing for help.

Arthur sighs, head pounding.

Eames whirls around, anger writ over his face. "Are you going to fucking help or what, Arthur?" He takes his phone out of pocket, "Useless. I'll just fucking---" he taps the screen roughly. "No service? How is there no fucking service?"

"I've already tried that."

Eames rummages through the racks of coats, trying to look for something. "Surely there is something to jimmy that fucking door open." He pats himself down in a panic. "I don't have my fucking kit with me. The one day I don't have my goddamn kit."

Arthur knows. He left his lockpicking kit at their house, along with all of his other possessions.

"Did Edith ask you to get her coat?"

Pausing his assault on the door Eames sends a suspicious, caged look. "How did you know? Did you fucking plan this?"

"What the fuck?" Arthur blinks, taken aback. "Why would I plan this? Do you think I want to be stuck here with you?"

"I don't know, do you?"

"I don't want to be anywhere fucking near you," he snaps. Unbelievable. “This is the last place I want to be in." He punctuates this by pressing himself to the furthest wall, a whole four feet away from Eames. "Edith asked me the same thing," he swears. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't fucking tell her anything, just that we split up."

"And what else?"

"I didn't tell her to lock me in a fucking closet with you if that's what you're asking," Eames snaps. "No doubt this is her idea of a joke."

More like her idea of a daytime soap. "I'm not laughing," Arthur mutters darkly.

"I suppose you wouldn't be," Eames says, mouth twisted in a facsimile of amusement. "Can't run away when someone's got you locked in."

Arthur strips his jacket off in angry motions, suddenly very warm, and drops it to the floor beside his tie. Beads of sweat roll down his back as the walls seem to close in with every verbal jab. 

"Rich coming from you. I'm not the one who ran away."

"I left after you left me." Eames adds.

"I didn't fucking leave you!" Arthur snaps, wishing he were anywhere else, that the floor would open and swallow him whole. He's so sick of talking about this. "God, you're so self-absorbed! You can't ever be wrong, can you?"

“Oh, are we doing this now?” Eames' arms cross over his chest. "What part am I wrong about—"

"—All of it—"

"—was it the note you left on the PASV that said 'I can't do this anymore'? Or was it the second that said 'I'm leaving?'".

"Leaving for a job for fucks' sake!" Arthur frustratedly wipes his hands down his face. "You weren't back from Berlin yet!"

"You'd been ignoring my calls for an entire week," Eames says. “If that’s not precisely what you meant, what was I supposed to think? That you’d announced your departure for milk and eggs down the shops?"

"You were supposed to ask me! Like, 'Hey, Arthur, what's this about?'"

"So you could break up with me to my face?"

Arthur shakes his head. "You always do this. You always cut the goddamn cord when you think someone is going to let the other end go first. I wasn't breaking up with you, asshole. You misunderstood."

"Yes, well," Eames huffs defensively, "it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? It was always going to end this way. It always does."

Arthur doesn't think so, but is too angry to bother refuting him. His fingers, slippery with sweat, struggle to unbutton his cuffs. He gets there and pushes his sleeves up messily, then works on the first few buttons of his shirt. He takes hold of the fabric and pulls it away from his chest, using it to fan himself.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm--" he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's too hot. I can't breathe." The room is too small. The room is too fucking small, there isn’t enough air—the elevator is falling—

"...sit down." Eames voice is muffled. "...sit down, Arthur."

His legs abruptly collapse beneath him at the command, knees buckling like a puppet that had its strings cut. Curling in on himself Arthur buries his head in his shaking hands again so he doesn't have to see.

Several long, quiet moments pass before he hears Eames shuffle and sit in front of him, clothes shifting noisily before him.

"Do you remember when we broke up over stamps that one time?" Arthur says into his hands when it feels like he’s not going to fall anymore, when there is a little more oxygen in the room. 

“Yeah.”

"I thought that was the dumbest reason for anyone to break up and nothing could ever top it.” He huffs darkly, laughing a little. “I was wrong."

"To be fair, they were my Uncle Micks' stamps."

"Your Uncle Mick was an asshole."

"Yeah but his collection was worth a mint. Until you threw them out."

"I didn't realize what it was,” he says sadly. “I thought it was trash."

"You misunderstood."

He presses his fingernails into his hairline until it hurts. "Yeah, I guess I did."

---

Every second that it takes for Arthur’s breathing to even out Eames counts out. Each of those seconds he wishes the closet door would magically open and give them both what he can’t, a solution to everything wrong between them.

"You're never going to forgive me about following Dom, are you?" Arthur says after a long time. 

"It's not that I haven't forgiven..." Eames swallows, tracing a line over the curve of his thumbnail. "There was never... I've forgiven you. Long ago."

“Then why did you say—? Yesterday. Why did you...”

Maybe Arthur was right, that it was Eames looking for an out this entire time. Maybe he wants some benevolent force to open that door so Eames can flee for good, unable to stand this peeling back of his skin, the under surface exploration that has never become easier, even after all this time.

Finding the right words is like digging for gold in a bargain bin at a discount store. In all of the white noise he tries to find the words; but they come out clumsy; insufficient. "When you left that time. It was...it felt..." He feels stupid even saying it, "...it hurt so tremendously that I think it took out a part of me."

"Eames."

"And the only way I could cope with that was to shut off that part of myself that cares with the same ferocity. To just turn it all off. I think I never put myself back together quite right. And every time I start thinking you're going to leave again..."

"You do what you think you need to to protect yourself. "

He shrugs, profound shame heating his face. "I do it before I know I've done it. I can't feel left behind if I convince myself I don't love you anymore."

"And you don't?"

"I only convince myself long enough to get out the door," Eames admits for the first time out loud. "It's pride that he keeps me from walking back in. I don't know if I can fix it."

"I wasn't going to leave."

It’s been forty hours of the same argument. Eames is beyond tired of this. "Then what the fuck does 'I can't do this anymore' and 'I'm leaving' mean, Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur looks awful, more awful than he did when Eames walked in. Ten years older and barren of any human vitality; smaller. "I was leaving for another job. It was going to be my last because I'm quitting."

Eames blinks. "You are not."

"I'm done. No more dreaming, no more consulting. None of it."

"You wouldn't last five minutes without it."

"I knew that's what you would say," Arthur fiddles with his hands, not meeting his eyes. "But I am. I mean, aren't you tired of it?"

"I was tired of it five years ago, Arthur. Remember, before you pulled me back in for the Fischer job?"

"I wish I'd quit then. Right after Mal." He laughs, darkly. "I wasted so much time. I fucking regret it. We could have had more time; now look at us."

"I can't believe you wrote that on fucking post-its," Eames wipes a hand down his face. "Why didn't you write 'let's quit dreamshare', you stupid idiot."

"It was only a first draft. You were home earlier than I expected. You weren’t meant to find them."

A long silence passes between them, taking up all of the available space in the tiny cloak room.

"You're right," Eames nudges their knees together, heart breaking a little. "This is way more stupid than the stamps break-up. Or the time with the bagel."

"I hadn't eaten in three days," Arthur says, ire momentarily flaring like a stoked fire as Eames knew it would, bringing a bit of life back to him. "Fuck. I was so mad when you ate that. I was so hungry."

"It was a stale bagel, for what it's worth."

"...I'm sorry you found the notes like that. I didn't think-- I didn't think. I was just trying to plan what to say. I was scared it was going to be a deal breaker."

"I suppose it was, in a way."

"Yeah."

An uncomfortable silence passes between them. In the far distance the can hear echoes of the ballroom music, but no voices, or footsteps.

"Eames?"

"Mm?"

"I..." Arthur visibly appears to take a moment to measure his words. "When you said yesterday that I was a flake looking for the next out... I'm not a flake."

Regret slides down Eames throat in a hard, solid lump. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you're not."

"And I shouldn't have said that you weren't in this to begin with."

"I was, you know," he says.

"Yeah."

"But this up and down thing," Eames says, finally loosening his bow-tie, the old aches in his knees and the small of his back making themselves known. "I had it wrong, but I had it right. We can't keep doing this.” 

“No.”

An air of sadness and finality permeates the room so thickly that Eames can't take it. He isn't going to let post-its of all damn things be their end. So he does what he does best, and takes a gamble.

“...We'd need to do something different."

The dividends are paid out in Arthur blinking at him in surprise, the ghost of a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. 

"Yeah,” he agrees. “Like... not working in an industry we resent?"

"Or not getting mad over stamps."

"Or bagels."

"Or not seeing family you like often enough."

"Not explaining things clearly," Arthur concedes, inching closer. "I was wrong, Eames. I messed up, big time. I am an idiot."

"Will you write that on a post-it?"

"A hundred times over."

"I do love you, very much, for what it's worth." Eames tells him. "I can't unlove you. I've tried. It doesn't stick."

Eames did try. But in a rush of blinding colour Eames can see at once the worth of the immaterial; the cost of his own self-preservation, or the risk of further turbulence with Arthur. A lifetime of missing the shape of him, of waking up beside him. Of being known by him. No part of Eames has known or longed for another since Arthur; and he feels it still, at this moment, pressed thigh to thigh, alone together, two inches and two thousand miles apart. Eames would be okay without Arthur, but he's so much better with him.

"Me too." Fingers thread through his. Arthur’s palm is slick and his fingers faintly tremble with lingering adrenaline.

Despite all of it, this simple point of contact threads some part of Eames back together. 

"Fourth time has to be the charm, don't you think?"

"I'll do it as many times as needed," Arthur says, his other hand coming up to cup Eames cheek. 

A chaste kiss is pressed to his mouth.

"Which coat is the best to shag on, do you think?" he mumbles against Arthur's lips after a moment, dirtying up the kiss with a swipe of his tongue.

"There should be some genuine mink in here, I think," Arthur tugs on Eames' bow-tie. "It's a shame we're going to crumple this suit. It's gorgeous."

Eames doesn't think it's a shame at all. It was the purpose of him buying it in the first place, after all. It was always intended to end up in a rumpled, crinkled pile on the floor.

And it does.

---

One year later.

"Oh, don't you two look cute," is the first thing his Aunt Michele says at Edith's 81st birthday party.

"I'd prefer devastatingly handsome," says Eames, linking his arm with Arthurs.

Michele blinks. "Okay. Nice seeing you!" Then she's off, chasing another woman calling her name.

"I prefer dapper," says Arthur, looking at Eames, seemingly somewhat offended. He gestures to their suits. "This is not cute."

"Au contraire, my dear," Eames begins walking them forward, waving across the room to some of Arthur's cousins, "we are the cutest. I could pinch our cheeks."

Arthur fixes him a look that halts a hand wandering downwards that intends to do just so. Recovering, Eames only smiles placidly at him as they approach the bar, where Edith is already flirting with the bartender. This year she's in a studded leather jacket and a red sequinned dress with a dramatic, sultry slit up the side. It’s tacky. It’s as lurid as the rest of the venue. It’s perfect.

"Didn't think either of you would show up," Barry mutters into his drink, face scrunching up as if he'd just tasted something sour.

"Oh honestly, how many times must we apologise for that little incident," Eames waves him off, referring to the previous room when Barry was the one to find them in the cloak room, post-coitus, having thoroughly defiled the gaudiest of outerwear.

"You haven't even apologized once."

"Well, if we're honest, nothing about that incident was little," says Arthur.

"Right you are," says Eames.

"I'm leaving," says Barry.

"Oh, how I missed you two," Edith smiles brightly welcoming them into her embrace as Barry departs. She kisses both of their cheeks. “Tell me, darlings, what’s news?”

Arthur shares a look with Eames.

It hasn’t been a year without setbacks; to be expected, of course, when quitting dreamshare and recharting the trajectory of their lives. Not without quibbles and slammed doors, sneers and snarls and fucking spectacular make-up sex. But it’s been the best year of Eames’ life, so far, he would put good money on saying, full of making up things as they go and plain old making up and out, over and over. Growing up and older together, more stable than they’ve ever been before. 

Arthur squeezes his fingers.

Eames slips his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the folded up piece of paper he knows is in there. A post-it that simply reads I love you.

“We’re thinking of relocating nearby,” he announces. “A change of pace.”

Edith's gasp is genuine in its delight. “Oh, that is the best news of the night!”

Arthur’s voice is soft. “Yeah,” he catches Eames gaze, smiles fondly. “We’re pretty damn happy.”

They are.

[wisteria-whump]

whumpee feels like they're coming down with a cold and goes to bed not knowing if they'll wake up feeling better or worse

[heartorbit]

i want to know everything that makes you happy! 💫🪐🎇

[bogkeep]

i DO make a token effort to go to social events with people from school, because You Never Know and also it's easy enough to just leave whenever. my school has a tradition of arranging a big christmas dinner at a restaurant every year for all the students and teachers, so of course i went the first time. unfortunately my memories from that event are thus:

- i thought the cold apetizers buffet was the main meal. i had no concept of traditional swedish christmas food and it was in a separate room, far away from the warm rood buffet. it was very sad and disappointing. i had the warm food eventually, but i don't even remember what i ate. It Was Probably Just Fine

- teacher made us sing swedish drinking songs and i didn't even know how the melodies were supposed to go :(

- it was incredibly noisy and near impossible to speak to the people sitting right next to me, let alone across the narrow table. i was trying to chat with a girl in the year above me who i quite liked, except she was trying to tell me that NFTs as a concept were good actually, and it was too loud for me to do anything but shake my head at her in shock and panicked dissent...............

sooooooooo i decided it simply wasn't worth the effort. if it sucks hit da bricks. and if anyone asks me if i'm SURE i'm not coming i'm like sorrry nooo i have to catch a train, tragic i know,

[cemeterym]

i'm begging my uni to stop making every fucking student social activity something where you have to walk around a bunch if you are a slow walker who cannot help it they literally want you dead

[fanglesshound666]

sorry if this is terribly offensive but I dont get why the "men are bad" jokes (as long as they ARE jokes) are inherently bad

[neviixi]

will i finish this thesis or will this thesis finish me

[jakei95]

This will be the last update about the accusations against Nyx and me from last year and recent months.

VERSION EN ESPAÑOL:

I cannot force everyone to forgive or believe us, but I would like to provide a closure from our part on the events following Hopeless Peaches' false accusations last year, and a few more that have been reappearing this year, once more.

In recent months, we resumed communication with CrystalFlame, one of the victims of the Glitchtale server. Crystal acknowledged that the accusations against us for allegedly being sexual towards minors and bribing her to remain silent about our "crimes" were entirely fabricated by these people. It was never our intention to hide our past mistakes with money. The separate donations Nyx and I gave to Crystal were solely intended to help her.

Regarding the conversations on Skype in 2017, neither Nyx nor I ever forced the minors present to engage in sexual behavior for our entertainment, nor did we sexualize them in any way. There were inappropriate conversations between adults, in which they should not have been involved, and we recognize our mistake in being negligent and not caring enough about them. I must admit that Veir also disgusted me, and I reacted foolishly by not confronting him or by saying things he liked just to make him leave me alone. I deeply regret this. Although we have apologized to Crystal for this, I also want to apologize to the minors who were there, even if they don't want to know about this anymore, and to the entire community for this huge mistake. Since Nyx and I stopped using that chat short after our irl meeting that same year, plus our detachment to the members of GT, we have changed our views significantly both in public and in private, creating a healthy community for everyone. I will add more details later regarding my experiences with NSFW material, for which I have also been accused of being a depraved person.

I disagree with how Nyx tried to explain how these behaviors were so normalized, but he never intended to endorse the toxicity and unpunished crimes occurring in Latin culture. Nyx acknowledges this, and we discussed it again privately with Crystal. We apologize once more to our Latin members who might have been offended by this take, which could have been better explained. Nyx and I said a lot of things out of fear and frustration, which caused more harm and distress rather than solutions due to the explosive harassment we faced because of the false accusations by Hopeless Peaches and their group. I won't go into too many details because I have chosen to keep my mental health private, but this wave of harassment severely impacted my mental and physical health, and I am currently undergoing treatment to manage the aftermath.

However, I want to take full responsibility for causing Nyx to act out of emotion rather than with a clear mind in a desperate attempt to protect me, as Crystal ended up in a very complicated situation during the harassment wave created by Peaches, making her believe that our lives were in her hands and dependent on her choices. This was not only inappropriate but also unfair, considering Crystal was going through a lot at that time. Nyx and I poorly worded many things both publicly and privately. We should never have let our emotions take over while trying to defend ourselves. We could have handled the situation more maturely. None of these mistakes will be repeated ever again. Crystal has also admitted her mistakes. Many things would have taken a different path if dialogue had been the first option instead of public statements, but both sides have learned a lot.

With all this, I don't want to hear anything about Glitchtale, its creator, or its still-active members. Nor do I want to hear about Hopeless Peaches or their community, or what's left of it. My purpose on the internet is to entertain people with my art, and on the rare occasions I interact publicly, to maintain a calm and healthy environment, as I have been doing for years. My boundaries with fans are very strict and defined. It may sound ambitious or silly to many, but for a long time, I have wanted to make a difference and show that not all artists with a large audience are people who hide dark secrets and seek to harm others. I just want to tell stories and brighten people's days.

People have become used to seeing random individuals or public figures being exposed daily for horrible acts and behavior, which is very depressing. However, when those accusations are false, it is sometimes too late to undo the damage. No one likes to be pointed at and accused of something they didn't commit, especially when those accusations are serious, like harming another human being.

Some people today are confused and believe that I am actually Camila, and that Nyx is Veir, that my husband has been dating minors despite us being married, and that I defended my "pedophile" partner and protected other groomers. People are not only mistaking us for other individuals, but we also don't have anything to do with that other than the 2017 Skype chats. We have been put in some sort of black list from parts of the fandom due to misinformation or because some people seek an excuse to justify their dislike for us by wishing we had harmed real children. This is sickening, sickeing and frustrating if you actually think about the victims not only in fandoms but everywhere. So, please, I beg you to distinguish between names and what has actually happened. Even if you don't like us, don't seek or wish for us to be monsters just to feel proud of yourselves.

I feel I could regain some peace in my heart by having the opportunity to talk to Crystal about all what happened and ending in good terms. This should be the end of the whole controversy regarding the Skype Chat and the GT Server.

Now I would also like to take the opportunity to talk about other accusations still aimed at me to this day, which I once explained on a Twitter thread that was eventually deleted due to unnecesary arguments between fans. I'm being accused of being a horrible and irredeemable person for drawing a comic in my early years in the fandom that insinuated a non-consensual act between Cross and Dream.

Before any explanation, I want to emphasize that I still feel immense regret and shame for creating that nsfw comic, even if I didn't feel comfortable doing so, I still made the decision as an adult and shouldn't have done it in a space where there were minors and people who might find that material triggering. Even though it happened many years ago, it was not right, and I will apologize as many times as necessary.

I haven't had any contact with the creator of Dreamtale since 2017, so I'm unaware of her current viewpoint about this topic in general, but one thing is certain: both of us don't want to be associated with that ship between our characters and want to move on. We want it as far away from us as possible. I don't want anybody to harass her over this situation.

During that time, I was in an unstable relationship with the creator of Dreamtale, with whom I used to roleplay privately. This, along with being pressured to make the ship "canon", led me to create the comics for that ship. Among them was the infamous scene for which I'm accused of supporting rape. This content and private interactions reached a point where the entire situation made me uncomfortable, along with the toxic attitudes in our relationship, I ended up closing the blog, though not before writing a summary of what would happen next in the story -that didn't have any other sexual moments, to clarify-, simply a closure for those who enjoyed the comic. Not long after, we broke up.

After this experience, I began to realize that any NSFW content, both fictional and real, made me very uncomfortable. This is connected to future members of the fandom, like Veir, who tried to sexualize me, and later, ex-friends whom I wanted to please for their support during my growth as a content creator by drawing them private NSFW commissions. I ignored my discomfort, believing I was doing the right thing and that I could trust them, but what happened later finally made me understand that I personally cannot tolerate any of this content.

This group of people shared these private commissions among themselves. One of these people was someone I considered a close friend and was even my Discord moderator but began abusing their power towards other members, trying to escape the consequences just because of our friendship. They even tried to offer me money to remove a character from another artist who would appear in my animation as a cameo, just because they both had personal issues. I decided to end our friendship because I saw no changes or improvements on their part and I felt i was being used as a power tool for them.

It wasn't long after this that I found an alt account of them, posting these private NSFW drawings, tagging me to attract attention as a form of revenge for cutting ties with them (They also got Nyx's phone number to trying to get in contact with me despite what they were doing). These images spread last year among a few people who, unaware of the background, used them as a reason to question me as an artist. However I explained the rest of the story before it became more public, and I appreciate that they listened to me first, however, the damage was already done.

In March of this year, I made a thread on Twitter explaining this and my reason for not supporting or consuming NSFW content. I want to stay away from this whole debate. I don't want my words to be used to attack others. My reasons for not enjoying this are because I had people around me who caused me a lot of harm with this matter, it triggers me, and I don't like any sexual topics around me, even as an adult reaching my 30s. I simply don't like it, I'm not interested, and I want my feelings to be respected. I'm very aware that more than half of my audience are minors, and I know how to behave and what to show in my art, but there are still others looking for any excuse to call me or my husband horrible things. It has happened before with accusations of transphobia for making Frisk and Chara from Xtale male instead of non-binary as they are in the canon version. I have been called a pedophile for portraying Frisk and Muffet from XTale in an innocent romantic context, even though there is no age difference, just because is not following, again, the canon (which with all honesty, I'm not aware if it has been confirmed she is a child or not). I have been accused of racism because of the characters' skin color, and so on.

Being hated in a fandom as an artist with a big following is supposed to be normal, but, to what extent?

I know I should ignore those comments and move on, but I still don't understand why it hurts so much that people want to discredit my efforts as an artist and as a person by believing they have found some dark secret in me… I really can't understand, I just want to live in peace.

My art is my only escape from negative thoughts. Nyx is my only support in real life. I have been working on how to deal with online criticism and harassment, but it is really hard when people tell lies in order to ruin a life, especially when those lies try to make us look like disgusting human beings. This puts me in a lot of distress, mostly because I hate conflict and prefer to be left alone. I want to be a role model in this community by not getting involved with problematic people and toxic environments. Even if there are people who don't like my work, I want to show that there is still a bit of decency and common sense in the art community.

For this reason, this will be the last time I talk about this because I want to focus on what makes me, my husband, and my audience happy. I want to set an example, and I want people to read this, try to understand our position, and give us a chance.

Once again, we deeply regret the mistakes we made in the past.

[gudfornuthin]

All I’ve Ever Wanted

Season 4!Five Hargreeves x fem!reader

! Spoilers ahead !

Summary: six years of travelling to different timelines, and Five isn’t sure how much longer he can go on for. Until he stumbles upon a greenhouse, full of strawberries. And you.

Word count: 4212

A/N: so season 4 was a… thing that happened. This story is basically my own idea of how things should’ve gone in ep 5. Instead of the weird Lila/Five situation, it’s just Five, and his chance of living a normal life with someone new. Hope you all enjoy, and feedback is appreciated :)

Number Five was never one to back down from a challenge. Having been through a series of different apocalyptic events, transporting to a timeline where he spent 40 years alone, and dealing with a misfit group consisting of his exhausting siblings, Five was up for anything. But the current situation he was dealing with? For the first time in his life, he was at breaking point.

After another wasted day spending hour after hour searching for any clues or information on how to get back to the correct timeline, Five returns to the subway, entering one of the compartments and slumping down in the first chair he sees. He rubs his eyes and lets out a visceral sigh, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. He reaches into his pockets, pulling out a small pack of dried fruits. He rips it open and devours every last piece. He can’t remember the last time he had a proper meal. He was becoming more desperate, rummaging through trash cans and foraging in bushes, hoping anything he picks isn’t poisonous.

The compartment jolts and begins to move, making its way to the next timeline. Five wipes his hands on his already dirty pants, standing up and walking slowly to the door. He wonders whether his apocalypse counterpart will be waiting for him this time.

After several minutes, and Five almost falling over from his lack of sleep, he finally arrives, the doors opening. He steps out, immediately making his way up the stairs. No time to waste. He cautiously pokes his head out, looking around for any signs of, well, himself. Before he can move out more, something wizzes past his head. A bullet. He ducks, as more shots are fired directly at him.

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” Five mumbles, as he finally takes notices of the other him in the distance.

He sticks up his middle finger, and no soon after closes his fists, blinking as quick as he possibly could.

The Five with a gun disappears along with the destroyed world around him. Five drops his arms to his sides, turning around and admiring the new environment. Luscious, greenery surrounds him, with an array of different flowers sprouting from the ground beneath him. A small pond with fish glimmers in the sunshine, lily pads floating on top. He continues turning, finding himself standing next to a tall greenhouse. The glass was slightly foggy, making it difficult to see what’s inside. Five leans in closer, squinting as if that would help. He can barely make out what appears to be pots of fruit and vegetables, some fully sprouted and others not yet ripe. His stomach rumbles, the feeling of hunger consuming him.

A rustle sounds from behind him. He turns quickly, coming face to face with a pair of shears. Five jumps back slightly. He then spots the person wielding said ‘weapon’. A young woman, probably early twenties, wearing a light yellow dress and a pair of brown sandals. Five can’t help but admire her beauty, if it wasn’t for the fact she had a face like fury and didn’t seem afraid of cutting him in half.

“Can I help you?” Her words are kind, but her harsh tone says otherwise.

Five can’t exactly tell this young woman the truth. Showing up randomly in her back yard, covered in grime, gawking at her crops through the window. He raises his hands up in the air, trying to convey that he meant no harm.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his throat sore having not spoken to anyone in quite some time. “I don’t really know how I got here.” That’s not exactly true. “I’ve been travelling for a few days now.” Try six years. “And I could really do with a hot shower and something to eat.”

The woman doesn’t say anything, just staring, with the shears still held out in front of her.

Five puts his arms down, shrugging in defeat. “I’ll just go. I truly am sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He looks down. “Or step all over your rose garden.” He gingerly moves away from the destroyed flowers.

He turns and begins to walk away, hoping to find an exit as quick as possible. Blinking in front of this woman probably wouldn’t help his cause. A warm hand grabs hold of his wrist, forcing him to stop and look back. She has the shears loosely hanging by her side, as her eyes pierce into Five’s. She seems hesitant, words forming in her mind. At last, she speaks again.

“You’re telling the truth?”

Five nods incessantly, feeling like a child.

“And if I let you in and make you something to eat, you won’t try and kill me?”

Five holds back a laugh, knowing she’s being deadly serious. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The woman waits a beat, then huffs. “Come on, I was just about to start dinner.”

She moves past Five, walking into three greenhouse. He takes this as a sign to follow after her.

***

The young woman allows Five to use her shower, and he’s thankful for the change of clothes she provides for him too. The home is small and cosy, playing into the stereotypical cottage core of living. The lighting is soft, and the smell of pumpkin seems to waft through into every room. It’s calming, it’s peaceful, it’s something that makes Five feel on edge. He isn’t used to the domestic life, away from the terror and destruction, trying to save the world over and over. He knows he can’t stay here long, but he won’t miss the opportunity of a proper cooked meal.

After putting on the change of clothes, Five makes his way down the hall and into the kitchen, a small buffet waiting for him. He finds it hard not to drool, the potatoes and fresh pie, along with the fruit and vegetables he’d spotted earlier. It looks incredible. He takes a seat, as the woman places down a final plate of tomatoes, sitting down opposite Five.

They dish out the food, filling their plates as high as they can, especially Five. He tries not to look like a slob in front of the pretty girl, but finds it hard not to drop some things down his top. She doesn’t seem to notice, or pretends not to.

The woman takes a sip of her drink, clearing her throat. “So,” her soft voice makes Five look up from his plate. “Do you have a name or is that one of the many mysteries of the man shovelling food down his throat like he hasn’t eaten in several years?”

The woman isn’t afraid of being upfront. Five admires that. Although, it’s not surprising considering he’s a complete stranger she’s trusted in her home. He puts down his knife and fork, grabbing a napkin to wipe his mouth.

“No, I have a name. It’s Fi-,” he catches himself, unsure if his ‘name’ would just create more confusion, and unwanted questions. “Jerome. Just, Jerome.”

The woman squints her eyes, but doesn’t push further, seeming to move past his stumble. “Okay. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Jerome.”

Five shrugs, not knowing what else to say.

“My names Y/N.”

Five nods. “Okay. We’re closer already.”

“Don’t push it,” Y/N says, a small smile gracing her face. Five can’t help but pull the same expression.

***

After a hearty dinner, and some obvious awkward silences, Five insists on helping Y/N do the washing up. The sun was beginning to set, and Five knows he’ll have to leave soon, but something stops him from doing so. He doesn’t want to admit it, but this was the most relaxed he’d felt in a long time. The fear or worry of something bad happening wasn’t there, and as he stands close to the woman he had barely met 2 hours ago, he realises what he’d been missing in his 60 something years. A place to live, with a person who makes him feel safe.

“Jerome,” the voice breaks through his thoughts, as Five almost forgets the name he’d given to this woman. “I feel like we’ve skirted around the topic enough. Is there any reason you were in the state you were in, taking refuge behind my greenhouse?”

Five places down the plate he was cleaning, turning to face her fully. Her expression is calm, and her voice shows no sign of interrogation. It’s a first for Five, as he’s become accustomed to people prodding him for information only for their own benefit. No one’s ever shown true interest in him.

He shrugs. “It’s been a tough couple of years. More than that I guess.” Fives eyes glaze over. “I haven’t seen my family in a long time, and I don’t know if I ever will. And if I do, I’m terrified of the state that I’ll find them in.”

Y/N stops what she’s doing, also turning to look at Five, a look of worry taking over her face. He knows he’s said more than he should have, but he couldn’t help it. He’s not good at sharing his feelings, and when he does, he’s scared of what will happen once the flood gates are opened. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to close them.

“What d’you mean? Are they in some kind of trouble?” She asks, a slight shake in her voice. “Are you in trouble?”

Five shakes his head, not wanting to stress out this poor woman who’s been nothing but doting to him. “No! No, I just,” he sighs, knowing he’s really put his foot in it. “I just care about them, a lot. Too much. And I don’t even want to think about not seeing them again.”

A soft hand brushes against Five’s cheek, as he glances at Y/N wiping a tear away from his face. He didn’t even realise he’d started crying. He sniffles, moving away and rubbing at his eyes, fearing how red they may look. He sucks in a deep breath, calming his beating heart. Whether it’s from talking about his family, or the touch from the woman next to him, he isn’t sure. But he fears he’s overstayed his welcome.

Five moves away from the kitchen counter. “I guess I should probably go. Don’t wanna miss my train.” Although he knows they’ll always be one there waiting for him.

He heads for the door, remembering to go upstairs and collect his dirty clothes before he leaves. Footsteps are heard from behind him.

“Uh,” Five swivels back around, as Y/N hesitates over her words. “This may seem kinda forward, and a dangerous move on my part, but, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight knowing you were out there in the middle of the night, traveling by yourself.”

Five holds his breath, not wanting to jump the gun, but already anticipating the next sentence out of her mouth.

“I have extra pillows, and blankets.” Y/N shrugs. “It’s not the most comfortable couch but I’d say it’s more comfortable than the chairs on the train.”

Neither of them speak for a while. Five ponders her offer over and over, wondering if this is something he wants to decline. He needs to get back to his family. He needs to get back to help them. But so far, every option has been a bust. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on for. It could be the apocalypse all over again. Stuck for 40 years, traveling none stop, unsure if he’ll ever see his loved ones again. Could a good nights sleep really be such a bad thing?

He thinks the risk is worth it. “As long as it’s not too much trouble for you.”

***

That one good nights sleep turned into three months, staying at Y/N’s home, crashing on her couch. It didn’t stop Five from going out, back to the subway, trying to find the possible solution to his six year problem. But the more time he spent with the woman, the less time he wanted to spend away from her. They grew closer, making meals together, gardening together, watching silly romcoms together. While Y/N taught Five how to bake, Five taught her how to fight. A young woman living by herself? It didn’t hurt knowing some basic defence skills.

Five didn’t want to admit it, but his family hadn’t crossed his mind as often as it usually did before he met Y/N. He’d become soft, wanting to be around her all the time, not wanting to visit the subway as often as he should be. He’s lucky enough to call her a friend. He hopes she calls him that too.

***

It’s late, and Y/N is sat on the couch, crocheting a few pairs of gloves and a long overdue jumper. People used to make fun of her for it, calling her an old lady, but she finds it soothing. And making your own clothes is a big bonus too. Five, or Jerome as she knew him, had been out most of the day. She never questioned what he was up to, only that he returned safe, ready for whatever she’d cooked up for him during the day. She wasn’t completely naive in thinking ‘Jerome’ has involved himself in shady business. But unless he plans on telling her, then she won’t bother pushing him on the matter.

A bang echos from the back of the house, specifically inside the geeenhouse. It makes Y/N jump up from her seated position, quickly rushing out to the source of the noise. It can only be one person, or that’s what she hopes. Either way, she grabs for her shears before entering the warm glass room.

“Jerome?” She whispers, watching her step, the only light in the room coming from the moon through the windows.

A muffled groaning reaches her ears, as Y/N blindly moves her hands over the walls, trying to find the light switch. She finally does, and flicks it on. A sharp gasp comes out of her mouth, as the brightness finally reveals her new friend curled in a ball on the floor, rolling in pain.

“Shit.”

She quickly makes her way over to him, delicately wrapping her arms around his waist and slowly helping him off the floor. He stumbles, knocking into a few pots, almost making them fall off the table.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, the word slurring under his breath.

“Don’t apologise,” she says, making sure he’s steady on his feet. “Let’s just get you inside and onto the couch.”

They make their way through into the living room, Five dropping haphazardly onto the soft cushions, while Y/N finally gets a proper look at him. His clothes are ripped, the once pristine suit (one she bought for him as a gift) now in tatters. His hair is sticking up in all different directions, and he’s clutching to his side like his life depends on it. She reaches for his arm, prying it away to reveal an array of bullet wounds, still bleeding.

“You should see the other guy,” Five jokes, tilting his head back and trying to forget about the burning pain running across his body. Funnily enough, if Y/N saw the other guy, he’d look exactly like him, considering this all happened due to an unfortunate run in with apocalypse Five.

Y/N stares at him with wide eyes. “Really? Look, I don’t bother asking where you go or what you’re up to when you leave this house, but I think now’s the time you tell me the truth.”

Five moves his head back down, looking her in the eyes. She’s terrified. And he hates that. He breathes in deep, taking her hand in his.

“If you can help me patch this shit up,” he briefly motions to his wounds, “then I’ll tell you who I really am.”

So that’s what they do. Y/N retrieves the first aid kit from her bathroom, while Five opens up about his life before he met her, and how he’s not from this timeline. He isn’t sure if she’s believing what he says, as she remains quiet the entire time, only occasionally looking up at him and quickly returning to removing the bullets lodged in his side. But she listens. And allows him to pour his heart out to her.

“The past six years were torture. Somehow worse than the forty I spent in the apocalypse.” Five turns his head and stares at the woman next to him, as she finishes up her work. “But these last few months with you. I could finally be normal. I could live a life most guys would kill to have. And I’m so sorry I lied to you this long.”

They fall into silence, the pair somehow closer together than they were a few minutes ago. Both emotionally, and physically. Y/N moves her hand and takes his, squeezing tightly. Five’s heartbeat picks up speed, only now noticing their close proximity.

“So your real name is ‘Five’?” He nods at her words. She nods back. “Hmm. It suits you a lot better than Jerome.”

They both laugh half heartedly, as they stare deeply into each other’s eyes. She moves her hand up to his hair, moving it out of his face, trying to calm it down slightly.

She carries on talking. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through.” Five rolls his eyes. She doesn’t even know the half of it. “But if I can be the person to keep you grounded, for however long you’re here for, then I’m happy to do just that.”

Five smiles, glancing quickly at her lips.

She does the same. “And I hope you’re here for a long time.”

They both lean in, softly pressing their lips against each other’s. Five cups her face, deepening the kiss as Y/N rests her arms atop his shoulders. They move in sync, careful not to cause any more damage to Five’s wounds, as she somehow moves closer, one of her legs wrapping itself around his waist.

They don’t stop, clothes discarded, bodies intertwined, as their growing tension is finally broken. Five isn’t sure if he’ll ever get back to his timeline, but for now, he’s happy to call this place home.

***

Another four months, and still no sign of a way back. Although, Five can’t deny he hasn’t been trying as hard as usual. The peace and tranquillity has consumed him whole, falling into a proper routine with the woman he…

Is it love? Could he truly fall for someone like this? Someone who isn’t involved in the shit show he’s grown accustomed to? Someone who wants that quiet life, watering flowers and baking pies, with him? Maybe it’s what he needs.

Five stands in the greenhouse, picking some fresh strawberries, and trying a few to see if they were ripe. He’s already found the perfect recipe to use them in. Something he knows she’ll love.

As if reading his thoughts, a pair of arms slip around his waist. Y/N rests her chin on his shoulder, peaking over to see the basket full of fresh fruit. She picks one up, moving away and popping it in her mouth. Five turns and looks at her, smiling wide.

“They taste perfect,” she says.

Five takes her wrists, pulling her towards him and kissing her lightly. “So do you.”

She laughs, holding him close and breathing him in. “The cheesy lines don’t work on me, bub.”

“I think they do.” He mumbles, bringing her in for another kiss, sliding his hands up and down her back.

They stay like this for a while, holding each other in the warm glass room. The sun starts to set, as Five looks out and realises what time it is.

“Damn.”

She looks at him, confusion on her face. “What’s up?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, I just need to do a double check of the subway before dinner.”

Y/N tries not to show her anxiousness, but some of it seeps through. After Five explained to her what the subway is and why he goes there every day, she’s terrified at the thought of him leaving and never coming back. But she knows he wouldn’t do that to her. Not without saying goodbye.

She steps back. “Right. Promise you’ll be safe?”

He kisses her on the cheek. “I promise.”

***

Five spends some time looking around the platform in the subway, checking the lights, checking the maps, even poking his head into the tunnels to see if anything has changed. But nothing. It all remains the same. No sign of his past life waiting for him. Was that such a bad thing?

Holding a small flashlight, he shines it up and down, left and right, hoping his eyes will catch something new. A sudden pop from above startles him, the grip he had on the flashlight loosening. It falls and rolls onto the tracks. Five looks up, noticing one of the bulbs now flickering. He huffs, moving to the edge of the platform and jumping down. He retrieves the flashlight, hitting it a few times to try and get it to work again. It comes to life, flashing in front of him. That’s when he spots something.

“That’s new.”

Five walks over, grabbing the mystery object and holding it up. It’s a plain notepad. He flips it open, scanning over the messy handwriting inside. His messy handwriting. He can’t help but let out a tiny gasp, as he figures out what it all means.

“This is it.” Tears form in his eyes. “This is my way back home.”

He’s shocked. He’s elated. He’s emotionally drained. This is his chance to rejoin his timeline. To see his family after so long. To fix the mess they’ve created. But all he can think about in this moment is Y/N. How the hell is he supposed to break the news to her?

***

After another hour spent pondering this new found information, Five slowly makes his way back home. His home. Where the life he’d built was waiting for him.

He enters the house and walks into the kitchen, where Y/N stands by the stove, boiling something sweet and caramelly. Five just stares at her; humming a random tune, wiping her messy hands on the apron he bought for her when her old one accidentally caught fire. That was the most stress he’d felt since coming here. And if that was the only stress he had to deal with, he’d take it every single day.

She finally turns and spots him, smiling wide. “Oh hey! I was worried for a sec, you were taking longer than expected.”

She moves closer to him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He holds her, not wanting to let go. Y/N can tell something isn’t right.

She leans back. “You okay?”

Five doesn’t reply, only holding the notepad out for her to take. She does so, flipping through the pages just like he did, her expression perplexed.

“I don’t understand-”

“It’s the way back to my timeline.”

She looks up at him, mouth slightly open, as her words fall short. Five can swear he hears her heartbeat speed up, as her breathing becomes erratic. Five isn’t sure what to do, waiting for an explosion of emotions to rain down on him. But nothing comes. Neither of them do or say anything.

Five chooses to break the silence. “I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I don’t think I could live the way I used to live. Not after living this life with you.”

Y/N bites her lip, suppressing a sob. “You have to go.”

Five furrows his brow, hoping he heard her wrong. He tilts her head up to stare into her eyes, seeing the tears forming.

“No,” he whispers. “You’ve become the most important thing in my life. The thought of never seeing you again, I can’t do that.”

A tear falls down her cheek, as Five reaches out to wipe it away.

“I’d love nothing more than to stay in this little bubble we’ve created,” she replies, finding it hard to keep her voice steady. “But your family, your timeline, all those people? They need you more than I do. And I know deep down, you can’t bear the thought of letting them die, knowing you could’ve helped.”

Five wants to ask her to come with him. Become apart of his family. He knows she’d get on with them all. And they’d all love her, possibly more than they love him. But he knows it’s cruel to ask her to leave her life behind. The house, the garden, the home that she’s worked so hard on. And the thought of throwing her into the thick of it all. Putting her at danger? No chance.

He pulls her into his embrace, kissing her hard. They hold each other tight, their lips bruising as neither of them can stop the tears from falling.

Y/N is the first to pull away. “If you ever get the chance to come back to this timeline, you know where to find me.”

Five smiles, not wanting to let her go. He kisses her once more. “In the greenhouse, tasting just as sweet as the strawberries.”

[lightseoul]

16 please 👀

Congrats btw for your 2K milestone!! 🎉 WAHOO

number 16, coming right up! thank you for playing and for the congratulations, lovely <3 i hope this one makes you laugh!

(this is lightseoul's 2k milestone event ft. bakugou katsuki! to play, view the numbered list of prompts here, then simply send an ask with your chosen number and i'll whip something up!)

16. "I WANT TO GO HOME TO MY WIFE." (0.7k)

it’s probably by the tenth sigh of the night—not that anyone’s counting—that poor kaminari finally snaps.

“seriously, dude?”

bakugou, who’s seated across from him with kirishima and sero adjacent to the both of them, only lazily raises an eyebrow in question.

at that, the electric hero pouts. “at least try to pretend you’re having fun.”

a few feet ahead of them—the men collectively chose to be seated at the back of the small dive bar despite kaminari’s protests—the stand-up comedian currently doing a set cracks another joke. an undercurrent of laughter flows across the room, but none of the four contribute to that.

“sorry, denki,” sero starts, a not-so-apologetic expression plastered on his face. “i’m with bakugou on this one.”

the slim, ebony-haired man glances at the stage, “the jokes aren’t landing for me either.”

“aww, come on, you guys!” kirishima, the ever-unfailing saint that he is, pipes up with a borderline overcompensating grin. “let’s just stay for a while longer for denki, alright?”

sero shrugs in response, but turns in his seat toward the stage anyway. bakugou, on the other hand, only grumbles before reaching for his phone in his right pocket.

thumbing his password under the table, his fingers click on the messages app, then to his number one favorite contact.

for a second, he debates whether or not to shoot you a text. you were so excited to finally get started on that anime you’ve been meaning to watch, that you almost seemed like you didn’t care that he was leaving you home for the night to hang out with the guys.

biting on his lip, he absentmindedly goes through your last exchange before finally deciding fuck it.

while typing out a well-crafted message, his eyes dart between his screen to his friends then back down again, trying to seem inconspicuous.

the last thing he needs is for the bored tape hero to tease him with that annoying ass shit-eating grin of his.

reading through it one last time, bakugou finally presses the send button.

much to his delight, it doesn’t even take you a minute to reply.

(8:43 PM) baby 🧡: heey! i’m still watching—am on episode 5 now. hbu? aren’t you busy with the boys?

the smile he wasn’t aware he’s been sporting immediately drops when he’s reminded of the predicament he’s in. peering back up at the front, he has to fight the groan that threatens to bubble from his mouth when another performer goes up.

oh, well. at least you’re texting him right now.

he quickly types out his response.

(8:45 PM) me: Busy being fucking tortured. This is the worst night ever.

“yo, bro, who got you smiling like that?”

bakugou whips to glare at the culprit, who’s now wearing the very same shit-eating grin he’s just been thinking about avoiding a few moments ago.

pocketing his phone, bakugou snarls at the man. “shut the fuck up. all that doom-scrolling is rotting your fucking brain.”

“i think you getting the reference says something about you, too, bakubro,” kirishima offers from beside him.

bakugou shoots the redhead a menacing scowl, which the unbreakable hero accepts in stride.

“are you guys even listening?” comes kaminari’s whine.

“sorry, denks,” sero replies, before turning to regard the rest of the group. “i thought we agreed to stop doing these guys’ night outs? none of us are as good at planning get-togethers as mina.”

at that slightest bit of opening, bakugou takes the opportunity and moves to stand up, grabbing his wallet and car keys before inserting them in his back pocket, surprising the three men.

before any of them can say a single word, though, bakugou tries to shrug nonchalantly, muttering his simple explanation.

“what was that?” came sero’s teasing tone.

“i want to go home to my wife, idiot,” bakugou barks before he can stop himself.

at that, kaminari finally throws his hands up in defeat.

kirishima only shrugs himself, “that clicks.”

while the menace snickers. “simp.”

[hattiewritesalot]

Poison

Azriel x Reader

Summary: At an event hosted by High Lord Beron, Azriel's closest friend Y/N seems to be incredibly wasted. The only problem? Azriel knows that she doesn't get drunk. Ever.

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, poison, vomiting, a drunk love confession, a bit of angst but it is all in all quite fluffy

A/N: So this may or may not be inspired by the scene in Wicked King where Cardan gets poisoned... enjoy!! :3

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Y/N is, as always, on high alert as she follows Rhys into the ballroom. Something combined with her dislike for social events and her lack of trust for the High Lord of Autumn meant her eyes and ears were everywhere, keeping constant watch over everything. Azriel’s large hand gently splays over her bare back, the rough fingers a gentle reminder that he’s there, and possibly to tell her to stop being so tense. She shoots a glare at her best friend, who responds with a badly-concealed smile.

She’s dressed in black, they all are, as is custom in the Night Court. Her dress is floor length, the black satin offering a nice hold around her figure, the neckline a low plunge, and the slit on her left side allowing her some freedom. The fabric is littered with silver threads and diamonds, meant to represent constellations, and also to match the sparkly heels on her feet. She looks pretty. She feels it.

A servant welcomes them warmly, almost immediately offering the group a drink of champagne, which she takes. Cassian snorts, and teases her for taking the only glass that the poor servant had, but she rolls her eyes and takes a sip.

She rarely drinks. She doesn’t like it. She’s seen enough of the boys’ drunk shenanigans to be put off it for a lifetime. She usually stays sober, if not tipsy, whenever they go to Rita’s, opting for escorting a stumbling Rhys back to Feyre rather than being the one stumbling.

But one drink won’t hurt. Not tonight. Tonight, she’ll need it.

The Inner Circle split up around the room, Azriel hot on Y/N’s trails, scarred fingers just barely tracing her bare shoulders. She sighs, leaning against a wall, him doing the same. “Time check?”

Azriel snorts. “You’re the one with the watch.”

She clicks her tongue, and checks the time, leaning back with a groan. “Two more hours of… this.”

“Always a ray of sunshine.”

“Says the shadowsinger.” she grins. Azriel was the first person she’d met in the Inner Circle, and coincidentally, her closest friend. They’d been attached at the hip the moment she’d introduced herself. They know everything about each other, inside and out. 

She’d never admit it, but her heart longed for the Illyrian. He was always so clever, so considerate. And, not to mention, his sharp features and hazel eyes made heat rise in her cheeks; hot, blissful, lovestruck heat.

“I think Cassian wants me for something.” Azriel muses, tipping his chin towards where Cassian was very unsubtly gesturing for him to accompany him. Y/N narrows her eyes at the redhead he’s standing with, and laughs. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that were Eris Vanserra. Good luck, Az.”

Azriel groans, playfully tugging her hair as he walks over to his brother.

All alone, now. She drinks her champagne, downing it almost immediately. She liked champagne. It never got you too drunk, never made you too irrational. “Enjoying the festivities, Y/N?” Beron’s voice purrs out from behind her. She forces a smile.

“I’d say yes, but it appears I’ve run out of champagne.” The High Lord cocks a brow at her words, and offers her another glass with a different, more vibrant liquid. “Try this. It’s exclusive to the Autumn Court. I believe you’ll enjoy it, it’s not too strong.”

She eyes the glass, before taking it, taking a sip. It’s a subtle flavour - fruity, slightly bitter. “Thank you, my lord.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he walks away. 

Cauldron, this drink is good. She drinks every last drop, and places it down on the table next to her, looking for a bottle of the same-

Oh. Oh. This is fun. Fun, fun, fun!

Why isn’t she having fun! Tonight is amazing!

An uncontrollable giggle tears from her throat, the sound throwing her off slightly as wave after wave of lucid dizziness hit her. She laughs, clutching her chest. This is so fun!

Where’s Azriel? Is he having fun? Oh, she loves him. Loves him so much. Where is he!?

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Azriel cracks his neck, obviously not wanting to engage with the eldest son of the High Lord, who clearly would rather be anywhere else. Cassian is long gone, with the excuse of seeing Nesta, and now Azriel has been left to deal with Eris. This could not get any worse.

Until it does.

Y/N beams at him, tripping over her feet to get to him, stumbling as she slumps into his arms, snorting and giggling. He freezes. Eris chokes on a laugh. Her hands reach up to grab his face and tug at his hair.

“Y/N?” he murmurs, taken slightly off-guard by her strange behaviours.

“Azzy!” she squeals, laughing and kissing his cheek. Eris cocks a brow. “Looks like your little Y/N’s had too much to drink.” His words echo around Azriel’s head. No, that can’t be. Y/N doesn’t like drinking. And why would she get drunk here of all places? And why-

His heart sinks. Her pupils are dilated. Her body is trembling. Her skin is turning clammy. 

This isn’t alcohol. It’s poison. 

His eyes go wide as he pulls her form into his arms. “Y/N?” he mumbles, a little firmer now. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, silly!” she squeals. Eris laughs again, and Azriel’s head whips towards him. “What the fuck did you do to her!?” The eldest son’s eyes widen at his harsh, almost growling tone. 

“Me? I’ve done nothing. She’s just drunk, shadowsinger.” He sneers at him down his pointy nose. Azriel clutches Y/N closer, ignoring all of her babbles as she squishes his cheeks and tugs his dark locks like a child. 

“I love you!” she squeals. “I love you sooooo much. So much. I wish we were mates.” she slurs. Azriel takes a shaky breath at her words, and Eris gestures to her flailing form. “See? Drunk.”

“She’s not- she’s not drunk, she’s- fuck, where’s Rhys?” His tone is desperate as he searches for the High Lord. Y/N’s knees start to buckle, but he wraps her arms around her thighs. “Stay with me, sweetheart, you’re gonna be okay.” He manages to catch the attention of Rhys, whose eyes go wide at the sight of Y/N’s slumped form, and he rushes to them. “What-”

“She’s been poisoned.” Azriel chokes out, panic surging in his veins as he hugs his girl as tightly as he can to his chest. “We- we need to get her out.” Rhys takes a breath, and seems to send a message to Feyre, because she starts to round everyone up. “She’ll be okay, Az, just calm down-”

“I’m not going to calm down! She could die!” He snaps. Rhys backs off at the protective gaze in his brother’s eyes. “Get her back to the Night Court, I’ll sort out here.” Azriel hooks one arm under her knees and the other on her back as he closes his eyes, winnowing back to Velaris. 

She squirms, shoving herself onto the cold floor of the Moonstone Palace, and she pukes, gasping and gagging. He shushes her gently, his shadows swirling around her and stroking her hair back as she retches. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Get it all out.”

As she vomits, his mind can’t help but flick back to what she said in the Autumn Court. ‘I love you!’ ‘I wish we were mates.’ His heart flutters at the recollection, but he silently growls at it to shut up. She’s been poisoned. Her head isn’t right. She was probably just saying words for the fun of it. She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t mean it.

But still…

No, heart, stop it.

He pulls her up against his chest when she’s finished, gently rubbing her back. She sobs, slurring unintelligible words. He kisses her sweaty temple and carefully carries her up to her room, murmuring sweet nothings to keep her calm, but her body thrashes. Her eyes are rolling back. His hands are shaking. 

He just about manages to get her writhing form onto the bed when Rhys arrives, Madja hot on his trails. “She’s been poisoned?” she asks. Y/N screams in response. Rhys winces at the noise, but the expression worsens at the fury on Azriel’s face.

“Azriel-”

“Go on.” He growls. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t storm back in there and kill them all.”

“Because first of all, that’ll be a lot of paperwork for me, and second of all, I don’t think Y/N wants you to leave.”

Rhys is, frustratingly, right. Y/N has taken it upon herself to latch onto Azriel’s arm, clutching him and mumbling profusely, cheek squished against his bicep. He sighs, and gently pats her hair, shooting a glare to the High Lord of Night in the process.

He sits with her the entire time Madja treats her, his fingers tightly intertwined with hers. The healer concludes that she’ll be okay, but not without side-effects. She says he was clever to get her home so quickly. It wasn’t out of intelligence, it was out of fear.

She gives Y/N a sleeping draught, just so her aching body can get some rest, and then she leaves. Azriel stares at his best friend’s face, and figures he should do the same. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, smiles at her fluttering eyes, and moves to leave.

Standing in the doorway, however, his eyes flit back to hers, the hazel of his irises connecting with her soft hues.

And then he feels it.

Like a string pulled taut, it snaps within his chest, flooding his veins with the pure bliss of finally having something to protect, to care for, to love. It roars throughout his body, his heart burning with the golden flames of the bond.

Mate.

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PART TWO HERE!!

lol hmu I write for acotar now