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icallhimjoey · 7 months ago

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Reinvent Love

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joe are treading new waters. You’re no longer flatmates, but still close. More than friends, but nothing defined. Nothing labeled. Determined to not lose what you have, though. But, can you?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, jealousy, accusations, soft fluff, season 3 of my flatmate!joe

Author’s note: the first cracks; they're here - and, again, you don’t need to have read define close or explain us, but it’ll obviously give you backstory, which might help!

Wordcount: 3.6K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

It was silly. Joe was being silly.

He knew it, and felt so stupid for it. Like, in hindsight, the worrying felt so dumb. The constant milling shit over didn’t change anything, there was no real point to it. Although, maybe you being on his mind in this... new manner was what summoned you last night.

You just showed up, talking about a crazy day, no sad pouts, no needy touches. Just jittery movements and a lot to tell him.

Joe kind of sat back on his sofa, spread out and leaning into his left elbow and watched you pace around his lounge. Something about something a colleague had said that then turned out to be lies and you found out something by overhearing a phone call you weren’t meant to overhear – Joe was barely following along. Didn’t really try his best to, if he was honest.

He was moreso paying attention to what you were actually doing – were you even aware that you had started grabbing random things he had left lying around on his coffee table, on the kitchen island, on the counters, and one by one, put everything away where it was meant to go?

Joe pursed a smile as he realised you knew exactly where everything went. Why did that make his chest ache in the best of ways?

This new casual form of intimacy seemed so small, but Joe felt how it smothered that little grain of doubt that resided in his chest. That little grain that had convinced him that you were probably going to fall into a new routine with your new flatmate after he moved in and, then you would probably grow close to him and Joe knew how you... no.

No.

He couldn’t think that.

It wasn’t fair on you. He caught himself trying to finish the thought a lot, but he knew it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t true. He didn’t even fully believe it. It was this thing. Still, he also couldn’t help how it simultaneously made him grow a little more possessive and made him want to prepare for the worst.

But, she was here, he had to remind himself.

She’s here.

And she was wandering around his space, letting her train of thought flow freely from her brain into his living room and he used to witness this all the time when you lived together still. Joe realised he’d actually missed it a lot, and wasn’t that the whole point? That he got to miss you now?

God, Joe missed you a lot and you were right there and he could just burst at the seams at how fucking lucky he felt.

He was a just normal guy in a normal flat with a normal relationship– well, normalish relationship, anyway. Not that you had talked about anything yet. Of course you hadn’t. But it was pretty fucking obvious what this was. So he had started shrugging whenever someone would ask if you were actually together, which felt a lot better than the forever, “No, we’re flatmates, what are you talking about?” he used to throw at people, practically gaslighting them out of whatever they thought they’d witnessed between him and the girl that he used to live with.

It was working. The plan he had made, this vague idea of normalcy; it was working out the way he had wanted it to.

And yea, sure, you were getting a new flatmate and Joe had a difficult time not feeling some type of way about that, but, he had made the decision to move out and, look at you now.

“Do you think I can get a raise out of this? Or at least get a weird bonus, mid-term?”

Joe had a hard time not laughing at your question as he saw you had already mentally moved onto something else. You were stood in the middle of the room, both hands on your hips, eyes scanning the room. Everything tidy and organised.

“Joe, when did you last clean?”

Joe followed your gaze up into one of the corners of the ceiling.

“I cleaned today.” Joe said, knowing you’d likely not take it as an honest answer. You had lived together, remember? No fucking way was Joe ever going to feel the urge to maybe sometimes swipe a feather duster across the upper corners of his living room.

You shuddered at the thought of what resided behind his curtains there.

You sighed and tutted and turned back to Joe’s kitchen like you were going to start cleaning his fucking ceilings at half past ten at night.

“Hey, no. No, no. Stop. Will you come sit down a second? My god.” Joe huffed, feigning annoyance. When you turned on your heel and giggled as you scurried over, Joe let a laugh escape his throat just before you let yourself fall into the cushions next to him.

He hooked an arm around your neck to pull you in so he could press his nose into your cheek a second. You gladly let him, and when he held you close like that for longer than you initially thought he would, you suddenly realised you’d just been talking about yourself for twenty minutes straight.

Just barged in with unimportant thoughts on your mind that you just verbally vomited right into Joe’s space. You knew it was mostly nervous energy that was only there because your new flatmate picked up his keys earlier, which now meant there was every opportunity for someone to just... walk into your flat at any given time. That had unexpectedly brought on way more anxiety than you previously thought it would do.

Hence why you decided to just... escape it, and went over to Joe’s to spend the night there.

Joe was pressing his nose into your cheek and held you in place for a bit before he moved his head down, hiding into your neck a second.

“You okay?” you asked softly, head tilting down a bit.

“Mm, yea, fine.” Joe inhaled deeply, before pressing a few small kisses to the crook there and moving back to look at you the in eye. He unhooked his elbow from around your neck and placed two cupped hands on either side of your face, swiping bits of hair back in the process.

Joe was leant all the way back into the sofa, head squished in between two of the back cushions and you took a moment to look at each other. Joe studied your face and rubbed his thumbs across the apples of your cheeks until you grew shy.

“You look tired,” you softly said before Joe sat up a little and leant closer. It had you close your eyes just before scrunching up your nose as he kissed the very tip of it.

“I am tired.” He mused, copying your nose scrunch when you blinked your eyes open again, and Joe looked so soft. Sort of pleased with life, happy to be where he was and like he’d just had a really good productive day. He blinked slowly, eyes only half open, and looked sleepy enough to slip right into dreams the second his head would hit his pillow.

You loved him like this. His hands on you, all soft touches. Comfy and cosy and calm. Just you and him. No one else. No threat of someone randomly walking in.

This was perfect.

“Mmm, me too.” You smiled and let Joe grab one of your elbows to pull an arm across his stomach as he sat back again.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve just done a 5K as you tidied this room, I think.”

You huffed a laugh as you sank into Joe’s side, and then you sat like that in silence for a moment. No TV on. No phones in sight for some easy distraction. Just you and Joe and the view of his living room.

“Are you okay?” Joe suddenly asked, emphasis on the you, and you tried hiding the small, hitched intake of breath by quickly nodding and casually going, “Yea. Fine.”

You could feel how Joe tucked in his chin to look at you.

He waited. Wasn’t going to tell you, “No, be honest...”, but also wasn’t going to accept it and move on. It was still like that. He knew you were lying, and you knew he knew, no words shared at all.

So you sighed and took a second, and then said, “Josh picked up his key today.”

And you didn’t want to explain what that meant.

Didn’t want to tell Joe that, for a while, this existing-in-two-flats thing had just felt like a bit of a joke. Just the two of you playing and being silly about whatever you really were. You still sort of thought of him as a flatmate because he still came over all the time, and you went over to his all the time too. You existed in the same space almost just as much as before, sort of.

But now a new flatmate was actually moving in, and suddenly, it felt like reality had slapped you right across the cheek like it had done that day that Joe moved out.

You’d gotten to hide away for a lot of that.

And there was no real hiding this time around.

You couldn’t go home and pretend Joe was going to move back in eventually, because now Josh’s things were going to be all over the flat. Which was fine. Josh signed a lease. His things were allowed to be all over the place.

It was just... things were getting real now.

Shit was real.

“Which reminds me,” you suddenly piped up, pushing uncomfortable thoughts down, tucking those away for another time and place. “This is going to save you some money!”

You saw how Joe’s mouth slowly stretched into a smile as he watched how his own feet rubbed against yours. Then he caught himself and quickly furrowed his brow, saying, “No, I don’t think it works like that.”

You copied his expression, but were more confused than anything else.

“Of course it does. Josh signed the papers, he’s going to start paying rent now, you–”

“I said that I had taken care of things, didn’t I?” Joe interrupted you, fingers playing with the folds in your sleeve of the arm that rested over his stomach. “Can’t just not keep a promise like that.”

You blinked at him a second, then moved to sit up to stare at him harder. If both Joe and Josh paid rent, that basically meant that you... got to live for free for a while? That math wasn’t mathing. One plus one wasn’t equalling two here. You looked around Joe’s flat and tried to think of his own expenses, and... what the fuck was he doing?!

“Joe,”

“You’re not going to be able to talk me out of this.”

“Joe.”

Joe ignored you and faked a yawn, sped it up along with stretched out arms above his head and quickly said, “So tired. Bed?” before getting up and leaving you on his sofa as he left the room.

“You’re insane if you think I’m just going to accept that!” you called after him and heard him laugh from down the hall.

“Did you not just say you were after a weird mid-term bonus?”

And you hated how that made you smile. Made you punch one of the cushions and sink your teeth into your bottom lip begrudgingly as you forgot to breathe a second.

Joe smiled to himself too as he turned on the lights in his bathroom. It felt like he was winning a contest - there was no contest, no one to fight, not really, but, he was definitely winning.

“You coming?”

Breathe.

Calm down.

You could pretend to fight him on this once more in the morning.

Crawling into bed with Joe had its own little routine which was different from the one at yours. Different order of things, because the lay out of the flat was different.

Bathroom first. You brushed teeth together, always had to stop Joe when he washed his face too aggressively and then used your own moisturiser on him. “Just for your dry patches,” you’d always say, but would end up swiping delicate fingertips all over anyway. There’d be a snarky comment, of you using too much, of him feeling too greasy, of how he was going to stick to his pillow all night now, and then you’d always kiss him to shut him up before moving on to do your own skincare routine.

When you’d get into bed, Joe would already be in there, giving his phone a last once-over before he’d scoot down and get comfortable.

This time, however, when you walked into his bedroom, the lights were already off, and it looked like Joe was already falling asleep.

This soft man.

So sleepy.

He was all messy curls and bare arms, duvet tucked under them, curled up right in the middle of his bed. You slid in and cuddled up right behind him, hips against his bum, chest to his back.

You were right.

Joe was already falling asleep.

You pushed a leg in between his for warmth and snuck an arm around his front.

“You’re crazy,” you whispered into the skin of his shoulder which prompted Joe to grab hold of your hand and pull it into his chest so you were hugging him properly. The big spoon to his small one. Then he just hummed as you pressed a small kiss to his warm skin there.

“So crazy.” you nuzzled into his pillow, your nose rubbing his back as you did, and you felt how he ducked his head down to press a small kiss to your fingers.

You fell asleep warm, comfortable, and smiling.

You woke up in the same way.

Just on your stomach now, and with Joe’s heavy limbs slung over your body. When you turned over, it woke Joe up, and for five blissful early morning minutes, you tried crawling into each other’s skin as best you could. Breathed each other’s breath and tasted each other’s skin. Stroked hands underneath clothes and had fingers crawling into underwear, just to touch and to hold.

When you quietly asked if Joe wanted coffee, he groaned and told you to shut up. He was able to feel you giggle to that, and he could cry with how happy he felt in that moment. Why would you have to go and ruin it by getting up to go and make coffee?

“Five more minutes.”

“Mmm... it’s never just five.”

Joe sighed, “Just five.” speech slurring with early morning drowsiness and then burrowed himself into you even more.

And fine.

Joe could have five more minutes.

But then they easily turned into twenty, because they always did, and you had to eventually bribe Joe with breakfast for him to let you go so you could sit up.

“If you take a slow shower, I’ll have it ready when you finish.” You looked over your shoulder where Joe, still with his eyes closed, smiled widely. His nose was slightly red from pressing it into your skin, and his bedhead made you have to suppress a giggle that you hid by leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead before you got out.

Joe barely even felt that little grain of bad in his chest when he thought of how much he loved you.

Because he did.

Joe fucking loved you.

There was going to be a moment soon where he was just going to have to say it. It was going to spill out of him in some other way if he wouldn’t simply use the words, he just knew it.

Joe loved you as he watched through squinty eyes how you reached for a pair of white socks of his to borrow.

Loved you as he watched you pull one of his old sweaters over your head before you walked out, bare legs still on show.

Loved you when he stepped into his living room after his shower to the smell of burnt toast and scrambled eggs and coffee.

Loved you as he watched you step onto a chair in the corner of his room, wet dishcloth in hand to remove the strings of dust you had scolded him over the night before.

Loved you as he felt what the sight of your stretched body, your bare tighs, and the little peep of your bum did to him inside of his boxers.

Loved you as he groaned and let his head fall onto the counter, having to breathe through it, because you were just cleaning his living room, and not giving him a sensual striptease act or whatever.

Loved you as you looked back over your shoulder, raising your eyebrows in surprised confusion before accusingly asking, “Really, Joe? Cleaning?”

Loved you as he stutteringly defended the blood rush down south by saying, “You have no idea what you look like right now.” into his elbow where he had to hide his face for a second.

Loved you, loved you.

He was hardly able to deny any of it.

And he didn’t feel that he had to, either.

Because, you were there. In his flat. In his clothes. Cleaning his dusty ceiling corners. And wasn’t that just something he wanted to tell the whole fucking world about?

That small little green grain of doubt and worry and negativity dried out and got no sunshine to really grow into anything. Thank fuck.

He got to ignore it for a while.

Forgot about it entirely, and pretended it wasn’t even there for a bit.

It was easy.

Joe loved you.

He knew he did.

Would tell you soon.

Didn’t know how.

Or where.

But he was going to say it.

He was going to use his words because he was just a normal guy who loved a normal girl and you weren’t being weirdly secretive about what you got up to in private. At least, not how you used to be, anyway.

Joe loved you.

You brought Joe flowers and cleaned his ceiling and wore his clothes and cooked his breakfast.

Joe loved you, even though your new flatmate Josh turned out to be impossibly good-looking in addition to being incredibly kind as well, so Joe didn’t even get to have a real reason to dislike him at all, which seemed unfair, but, all right.

Joe loved you, even when suddenly two shiny black acoustic guitars appeared on your living room wall, because Josh worked in music, and wasn’t that just so cool?

Joe loved you, even though his very first thought after that was, well I know how to play guitar too, don’t I?! which you had never even mentioned before.

Joe loved you, even when he walked into your flat one evening and interrupted a dinner you were having with Josh and one of your friends and, look, Josh cooked for us, and for the first time ever, he felt uninvited and intruding.

Joe loved you, even when your friend jokingly said, “You’re over here at lot for someone that moved out.” right to his face, to which you then heartily laughed, because she was only joking, Joe, and then you didn’t say anything about how you were together, but, you were together... weren’t you?

Joe loved you, even when he stuck to the bit and handed you his flat key like he always did, expecting to find it in his coat pocket later, but then ended up finding both his pockets empty when he went home the next morning, which, yea actually, that made sense, because Josh lived there now, and it was a little weird to have a key still, wasn’t it?

Joe loved you, even when you had told him to come over on Friday evening because you’d had a shit day at work, and for the first time ever, he had to ring the doorbell to get inside.

Joe loved you, even when Josh was the one that answered the door, and Josh almost didn’t let him in, telling him, “Oh, she’s fallen asleep on the sofa, mate.” to which Joe just smiled as he stepped around him, because what the fuck did Josh even know about falling asleep on the sofa in this flat?

Joe loved you, even when he found you asleep on the sofa, curled up under a blanket he’d never seen before, with an empty pizza box bar some crusts still on the coffee table, and you never ate a whole pizza yourself, so that was obviously shared with someone else.

Joe loved you.

He knew he did.

But there was a playstation besides the TV now, and a cool record player on the side, pile of vinyl next to it, and, God.

Joe fucking hated this.

Whatever was inside of Joe’s chest, that thing he didn’t even want in there, was growing.

Was getting fed without Joe even fully realising he was feeding it.

He hated those guitars. He hated that he no longer had a key. He hated that stupid blanket. And he hated that empty pizza box.

Still, he sat down beside you and placed your socked feet onto his lap. Watched the last scenes of whatever film you’d put on as he slowly kneaded a foot and let you sleep, and he tried his best to not get bitten. To not let it sink its teeth in. To not let it hurt.

It was silly.

Joe was being silly.

Rational thought saved him.

Rational thought told him he still loved you.

And he hoped rational thought was going to be enough.

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

@choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn,

@dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee,

@figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4,

@hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke,

@lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munsonluvrr,

@munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories,

@phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @solzi1420,

@songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73,

@werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

#Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #icallhimjoey #define close #explain us #reinvent love

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supernovafics · 1 year ago

Text

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 4.8k words

warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol/drinking (reader and steve get drunk lolz), random guy at a bar being an asshole

summary: in which it's a halloween night full of partying, fun, and maybe one too many drinks

author's note: ohohoh this was so fun to write !! happy (almost) halloween<333

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Fall 1985

In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have laughed.

Because doing so did not help in convincing Steve that the costume he was wearing did not look ridiculous, and instead your laugh only made him frown at you.

“I’m not wearing this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was just a bit surprised to see how you looked.”

You didn’t expect the Robin costume you got for Steve to shock you as much as it did, and it was mainly because of the green pants he had on; because perhaps they were a bit too green. It confused you a bit because the pants hadn’t looked that overbearing and bright when you bought them from the costume shop— but, granted, it had still been in the bag with the rest of the clothing items for the costume, so you didn’t get to see too much of the pants. And with the red shirt he had on that had the signature “R” logo in the corner of it, for a split second, Steve looked more like Christmas personified than Robin, and that was what made you laugh. It wasn’t even a full laugh, it was more like a breath of a laugh.

“Why can’t I be Batman and you be Robin?”

“Because that’s not an accurate representation of us,” You answered him immediately. “I’m clearly the Batman in this friendship. And I’m older.”

He rolled his eyes at you and you knew exactly what that eye roll said— “You’re only two fucking months older than me.”

“Why can’t Robin be Robin?” He asked.

“You already know the answer to that. She and Vickie are doing some vampire couples costume thing.”

Robin being a part of the costume had been the initial plan— Steve would’ve been Batman, Robin would’ve been Robin, and you would’ve been Catwoman. But, when Robin bailed so that she could do the couple’s costume with Vickie, you refused to be Catwoman anymore because you didn’t want to spend the night constantly telling people that you and Steve weren’t dating and just decided to do a duo costume that looked way too obviously as a couple’s costume for “fun.”

“And we can’t even change the costumes now because we have to be at The Hideout in an hour,” You reminded him. They were having a Halloween party there and Eddie’s band would be playing at some point during the night, they were all going dressed as zombies, and a handful of other bands were going to be playing too. “You should’ve tried this on yesterday when I bought it.”

Steve only rolled his eyes at you again even though he knew you were right. You hopped off the kitchen counter and followed him as he walked back into his room. You sat down on the side of his bed and he went into his bathroom, looking in the mirror and running a hand through his hair.

“Robin’s the cuter one of the duo, anyway,” You told him. “Girls will love it.”

Steve still didn’t say anything yet, so you took that as your cue to keep going. “You should change the pants. These ones are way too bright and they kinda hurt my eyes. Maybe put on those darker green ones you have. People will still easily understand the costume, so it’ll be okay. And the rest of the costume is perfectly fine. Also, when you put the yellow cape on it’ll tie everything together.”

He still stayed quiet so you got up and walked over to where he stood still looking at himself in the mirror, and you poked his arm. “Can you please say something so I can stop giving you an ego boost by rambling about how good you’ll look tonight?”

Steve laughed a bit. “No, you should keep going.”

That time you rolled your eyes at him. “Ha ha. Fuck you.” You walked out of the bathroom and started heading to the bedroom door. “Anyway, I’m gonna put my costume on and then we should take a few shots before Vickie and Robin come get us.”

“I thought we were gonna keep things mostly PG tonight?” Steve asked as he began rummaging through his closet for the pants you mentioned. “Because of what happened two nights ago.”

Somehow you simultaneously winced and laughed at the mention of that Wednesday night. Where you and Steve sat in the living room drinking and watching random bad movies he brought home from Family Video; the alcohol actually managed to make the movies somewhat bearable to watch. It was an impulsive decision that left you both with horrific hangovers in the morning as you forced yourself to go to class and Steve begrudgingly went to his twelve o’clock shift.

“Okay, I know that we’ve still only barely recovered from that night, but you don’t have to work tomorrow, and I’m not gonna have any school shit to worry about, so tonight we can just have fun without any of the consequences of what happened last time.” You turned around and smiled at him. “The type of fun that involves a lot of alcohol. And it’s Halloween so I feel like it’s bad luck if we don’t partake in underage drinking.”

“Very solid points.”

“I’m gonna pretend that you weren’t being sarcastic right then and instead just believe that you actually do agree with me,” You said before finally leaving his room and walking toward yours.

Your costume was already lying on your bed— a black cropped shirt with the signature Batman emblem on it, a black cape, and black jeans that were probably the tightest pair of pants you now owned but they made your butt look great so you overall counted them as a win. Getting dressed took no longer than five minutes, but then you spent an extra five minutes rummaging through your closet to find your black hightop Converses until you remembered that they were probably buried in the heap of shoes that always sat by the front door. You knew that wearing anything other than sneakers would’ve probably been better for the look of the costume, but last year you made the mistake of wearing heeled boots with your pirate costume, and although they did make the outfit look great, your feet were absolutely dead in the morning and you never wanted to experience that pain again. Therefore, tonight, sneakers would be the way to go.

You noticed Steve in the kitchen— with his pants changed and the rest of the costume on— when you left your bedroom and started heading toward the shoe pile by the front door. You reached into the pile, pushing aside a pair of his Nikes and then grabbing your Converses.

Steve opened up one of the kitchen cabinets and pulled out the bottle of tequila. You stopped tying your shoes for a second and looked up at him, immediately noticing how the bottle was close to empty.

“Jesus, I didn’t think that we devoured so much of it the other night,” You said as Steve opened up a different cabinet to grab two mugs to use as makeshift shot glasses.

“I vaguely remember us saying that if we drank more, the bad movies we were watching would start to actually make sense,” He said with a laugh as he started pouring. You couldn’t help but laugh with him because that sounded exactly like the type of drunken logic the two of you would have. “Also, I really wish Robin hadn’t bailed on the group costume because you look much cooler than me right now.”

You only laughed more at his words as you went to grab two sodas from the fridge. “Next year, you can take full reign over our costume decision and I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

He smiled at you. “I will fully hold you to that.”

“I’m already scared for whatever you end up deciding,” You said as you picked up one of the mugs and then Steve grabbed the other. “But, anyway, cheers.”

“Cheers.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You couldn’t remember exactly where Steve or Robin or Vickie were, but with your slight inebriation that realization didn’t worry you that much.

You had tasked yourself with grabbing more drinks for yourself and Steve from the crowded bar, but before you could even walk up to the counter, a guy dressed as a cowboy stopped you and decided to start a conversation.

It was pretty dark and the music was loud, so you could barely make out what he was saying after he said his initial “hello,” but with the way he was smiling at you it was fairly easy to tell that he was flirting. And even though you were tipsy and he was a little bit cute, you weren’t in the mood to reciprocate.

“I should go,” You interrupted him for the first time in the past five minutes. You attempted to make your voice sound as nice as possible because it was easier to say that excuse instead of the entire truth, which was that you simply didn’t want to talk to him. “I gotta get back to my friends.”

Either the guy didn’t hear what you said or he decided to completely disregard it all because he said, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No, thanks,” You told him, making sure your voice was loud enough so that he could clearly hear your answer.

“Come on, let me be the Robin to your Batman, or better yet you be the Robin to my Batman,” He said and before you could scoff and roll your eyes and simply walk away, he reached out to firmly grab your waist.

You immediately pulled away from him and were about to say something along the lines of “Fuck you,” but you were interrupted by arms circling around you from behind; it was a touch that felt so familiar that you instinctually leaned into it.

“She already has a Robin to her Batman so fuck off,” Steve said and you had to try your hardest not to laugh at his words. It was always in moments like these, where guys were being dicks and didn’t take no for an answer, that you’d happily play the fake dating card with Steve.

When the guy walked away, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t make out, you turned to face your friend and leaned in close to him so that he could hear you over the music. “Thank God for you, Steve Harrington.”

His mouth was close to your ear. “I knew that I shouldn’t have let you go alone to get the drinks.”

“You were chatting up that girl dressed as Tinker Bell, so I thought I’d be a good wingwoman and walk away.”

“She left with her friends.”

From the sound of his voice, it was hard to tell if he was sad about it or didn’t really care. “As your wingwoman, should I help you go after her?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay, she was a little boring.”

“Got it,” You responded with a quick nod. “Can we get a drink now? Talking to that asshole sobered me up too much.”

Steve glanced at the bar. “Eddie’s supposed to be on in five minutes and the bar looks even more crowded than it was ten minutes ago.”

It was your turn to look in that direction and you immediately knew that with the amount of people surrounding the counter, you and Steve would be waiting there for much longer than just a few minutes.

“Fuck,” You mumbled and then looked back at Steve. “Okay, let’s go back to Robin and Vickie. Aside from helping to get that random guy away from me, I’m even more glad you’re here right now because I fully don’t remember where we were standing.”

“I had a feeling that would happen too,” He said with a small laugh before slipping his hand into yours and leading you toward your other two friends.

There was no way you would’ve been able to find the semi-secluded corner near the stage that Robin and Vickie were standing by if it weren’t for Steve, and you made a mental note to not leave his side for the rest of the time all of you were at The Hideout.

“Woah, no drinks?” Robin said when she noticed you two. She and Vickie were holding hands and once again seeing them in their matching vampire costumes made your heart squeeze at how adorable they were. “Are you two actually gonna be sober like us for the night?”

“I’m sorry, but that won’t be happening. But, I do promise that I’ll be the best and most functional drunk person ever so you don’t get super annoyed with me,” You said, smiling at her, and when Steve laughed at your words, you playfully elbowed him.

“I love you, truly, but I kinda doubt that will happen,” Robin responded but still smiled back at you. “Oh, also, like five minutes ago, Vickie ran into this girl she knows and she told us about this party happening two towns over. We should go to it after Eddie’s set.”

“I don’t know the guy throwing it, but apparently, his house is huge,” Vickie chimed in and you nodded.

That was probably one of your favorite parts about this stupid little holiday; how quickly plans could change or be adjusted, and most of the time it would lead to you having more fun than you had initially anticipated. And plus you’d rather have free drinks at the house of this random guy than buy more at this bar or any other one.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The time was inching closer and closer to midnight and the party seemed as if it was at its absolute peak. So much so that Vickie had to park on a completely different block because of how crowded with cars the actual street was.

Steve was carrying you on his back as you all walked to the house; he had been reluctant at first but ultimately couldn’t say no to your persistent “pleases.”

“This reminds me of last Halloween when your feet were hurting because of your shoes, so I also gave you a piggyback ride then,” He said and then glanced down. “This time you’re wearing sneakers, though, so this feels a little unnecessary.”

You smiled even though he couldn’t see you. “This is always necessary, Steven.”

Robin and Vickie were a few feet behind you two, hands intertwined as they went into a conversation that went unheard by you and Seve because you were laughing at him saying that him carrying you right then proved why he should’ve been Batman tonight.

“And they’ve never dated before?” Vickie asked and Robin immediately shook her head.

“No, it’s never happened. It’s weird. They’re weird,” She answered as she continued looking at you and Steve. Sometimes she felt as if the idea of you two dating was something that she could see as clear as day— it did seem like it would just make so much sense. But nothing ever happened, and at this point of knowing the two of you, she honestly didn’t think it ever would. “They seem like they’d be perfect together, but I also think the world would implode if they ever tried something.”

Vickie laughed a bit at her girlfriend’s words. “Aw, well, I think they’d be cute.”

It was only thirty minutes into the four of you being at the party and you could finally say that you were no longer just tipsy. You’d probably end up regretting this in the morning because of the hangover that was imminent, but right then, you were glad you were drunk because it finally made your pants feel completely bearable. And Steve was as intoxicated as you were, maybe even more so because it somehow took little to no convincing to get him to play dumb games with you.

It started out as truth or dare, but then one of the dares was to do a round of hide and seek, and then you decided to do more rounds of it because since both of you were drunk, it made the childish game even more fun to play. And since you were in a place that you two were completely unfamiliar with, it also made it funnier to play.

You weren’t sure whose turn it had been— who was the hider and who was the seeker— but you and Steve somehow ended up outside in the backyard, lying side by side on the grass and staring up at the sky. And you were laughing at a joke that you now couldn’t remember if it had been you or Steve who told it— you honestly couldn’t even recall the joke itself, but you just knew it had been funny.

You shifted and turned on your side to face Steve and after a moment he did the same.

“Thank you. For always being there for me,” You told him and then lifted your head so that you could kiss him on the cheek. “You’re quite literally the best person in my life.”

He shook his head at you, a small smile gracing his lips. “You always get so sentimental when you’re drunk.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “It’s the only time I let myself get super cheesy with you, Stevie.” Your drunkest of moments were also usually the only times when that nickname would come out. “But, I do hope you know that even though I don’t say it all the time, I always do feel this way. I always think about how insanely fucking glad I am to have you in my life.”

“Don’t worry, I know.” He nodded at you and then smiled wider. “And I’m insanely fucking glad to have you in my life too.”

He was Steve. Your Steve. Your best friend Steve. The Robin to your Batman. That couldn’t change. Ever.

So, why the fuck did you get the sudden urge to kiss him on the mouth instead of that all-too-familiar spot on his cheek again?

Of course, you didn’t do it, and, of course, neither did Steve. Instead, a silence settled over the two of you for a bit.

“Come on, let’s head back in,” Steve said after a few moments. Somehow he was always the logical one in moments like these.

Still, though, you felt the tiniest bit disappointed. But, you’d completely forget about that feeling, that fleeting thought, by the morning.

Steve stood first and then reached out to pull you up. One of your hands was still intertwined with his when you walked back into the house.

The party was still in full swing, and when the front door opened and a handful of new people walked in, that didn’t necessarily shock you. But it did make you smile widely at the people coming in because you recognized a familiar face.

“Eddie!” You immediately went over to him, practically falling into his arms as you hugged him.

Since, due to your drunkenness, you’d actually forgotten that you all told him about the party after his band finished their set and he said he’d meet you there later, it felt like so much more of a coincidental, happy accident that he was there right then. You weren’t even fazed by his zombie costume, which had freaked you a little earlier because of how good and realistic it looked.

“Hi!” He exclaimed, matching your enthusiasm while also smiling and laughing at your current antics. “You’re drunk.” He then looked at Steve who was behind you. “Wow, and you are too.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

Eddie laughed a bit. “I can just see it all over you, Harrington.”

You stopped paying attention to their conversation and let your mind wander as you looked around at all of the random people in the house that were dancing and laughing with their friends.

I should get another drink.

“That’s a bad idea,” Eddie said to you.

You laughed as you looked at him. “I didn’t even realize I said that out loud.”

“Another reason why both of you need to be cut off for the rest of the night.”

You knew that he was right, but that didn’t mean that you had to outwardly agree with him. Instead, you smiled at him and said, “I never thought I’d see the day where Edward Munson became the mom of the group.”

“Sometimes I like to turn over a new leaf,” He gave you a wry smile back and then poked your side which only made you laugh. “Where are Robin and Vickie?”

“That’s a good question,” Steve said and looked around for a quick second before meeting your eyes. “Do you remember the last time we saw them?”

“I’m pretty sure it was right before we started playing truth or dare,” You answered and tried to think about exactly how long ago that was, but failed to do so because your memory felt too fuzzy right then. “I have no perception of time right now, so that could’ve been hours ago, honestly.”

“It’s actually kind of funny how you two always somehow end up playing that game whenever we go to parties,” Eddie said.

Steve shrugged. “It’s a stupidly fun game to play when drunk.”

“We also played a lot of hide and seek tonight,” You added and smiled.

Eddie only shook his head and laughed a bit.

You placed a hand on his shoulder. “Eddie, if you’re feeling left out, we can play another round of hide and seek with you.”

He playfully rolled his eyes at you. “Don’t worry, I’ll live.”

“Oh, there they are,” Steve said, and when you looked in the direction of where he was pointing, you saw Robin and Vickie sitting on the couch in the living room and watching the movie that was playing on the huge television. The most random scene was on right then, and the sound coming from the TV could not be heard over the loud music that was playing throughout the house, but you immediately recognized the movie as Friday the 13th; which was actually pretty fitting because even though it wasn’t literally Friday the 13th, it was at least a Friday.

You then realized that the time was probably so far past midnight, so maybe it actually wasn’t fitting anymore. But, it was still a Halloween party, so technically any scary movie could work.

Your mind then started listing off other scary movies you didn’t mind watching— Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Shining— and you suddently couldn’t remember why you were even thinking about scary movies in the first place.

Eddie was definitely right; you really didn’t need another drink.

“Hey,” Steve said, pulling you out of your thoughts. Eddie was now sitting with Robin and Vickie and watching the silently playing movie with them, and you and Steve were turned around leaning back against the couch. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Batman?”

You laughed for no particular reason aside from how nice it felt to do so right then.

“I think I’m starting to hit my peak. So, I need to capitalize off of this feeling before things start going downhill and I start begging Vickie to take us home so that I can pass out in bed.” You looked up at Steve and met his eyes. “Are you down for a few more rounds of hide and seek?”

His mouth quirked upward in a small smile. “Always.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You felt like you were choking, and that feeling was what pulled you out of your sleep. Your eyes were still closed as you reached up to touch your throat and immediately felt that your cape was still buttoned around your neck, but it felt so much tighter than how it did last night.

Your eyes opened just a bit and you saw Steve sleeping next to you, and you also noticed that you were in his room. He was on top of the blanket, still fully in his Robin costume, and you were under the covers. Somehow your cape had gotten tangled up underneath the pillow Steve was laying on. You groaned as you unbuttoned it, finally breathing normally.

You shut your eyes again, trying to will yourself back to sleep because you felt like you could use a thousand more hours. But, for some reason, you couldn’t fall asleep, and instead all your mind could focus on was Steve’s soft snoring.

Anytime you two ended up sleeping in the same bed or same room, his snoring rarely ever annoyed you, but this time it managed to do the opposite. And now you also needed to pee.

With a sigh, you got out of the bed and padded over to Steve’s bathroom. You kept the light off because you refused to see how you looked right then, and also because the abrupt brightness would’ve only contributed to your growing headache.

Steve was awake when you exited the bathroom. He was on his back, eyes open as he looked up at the ceiling.

“You almost woke up next to a corpse,” You told him, your voice actually sounding much more hoarse than you expected it to be.

He turned to look at you. “I feel like a corpse.”

“You were sleeping on my cape. I was almost strangled to death.”

“Shit, sorry.”

“I don’t really understand why we didn’t change out of our costumes when we got home. I also don’t remember why I decided to sleep in your bed,” You said as you got back in bed and pulled the blanket over you again. You tried to think back to last night, when you and Steve got back to the apartment, but right then it felt too hard to put the pieces of what happened together and you felt too hungover to do so. “Where are my pants?”

“I slightly remember you saying something about how much you “fucking hated them,” so you took them off before you got in my bed,” Steve answered.

You laughed. “Okay, yeah, that sounds familiar.”

He sat up, letting out a tired groan in the process, and started getting out of bed. “I need a shower.”

“Me too,” You agreed with a nod but still leaned back and let your head fall against the pillow. “But, I also really wanna go back to sleep.”

“We can be lazy on the couch all day,” Steve suggested. “Watch random sitcoms and order takeout for lunch and dinner.”

His words were enough to get you of the bed and you smiled at him. “I love that idea.”

It wasn’t until you were in your room that you finally noticed that the time was somehow only nine in the morning. A part of you felt like it should be illegal for you to be up this early after the night you’d had, but your shower was helpful at washing away most of your tiredness and dull headache.

When you emerged from your bathroom thirty minutes later wearing your favorite hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, you smelled coffee in the kitchen.

“You’re awesome. You’re amazing. I love you. Thank you so much,” You said to Steve when you walked into the kitchen and he handed you a warm mug.

“No problem,” He told you before taking a long sip from his own mug. “Also, while I was in the shower I had a thought; no more drinking for us. Not until Thanksgiving when we have to deal with our families, and alcohol is the only thing that will make getting through that holiday bearable.”

You nodded at that. “I completely agree.”

You were about to open the fridge to grab the carton of milk so that you could add some to your coffee, when you noticed the new polaroid picture that was hanging on it, pinned up by the Statue of Liberty magnet you and Steve got in New York when you took a trip there back in June.

“When did we take this picture?”

Steve looked at the polaroid and his eyebrows furrowed. “I honestly can’t remember.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “We look so drunk, holy shit.”

So drunk but also so happy. Your cheeks were squished together so that you both could fit in the frame and happy drunk smiles took over your faces. You could tell by how much of a close up the picture was that you were the one that took it.

It was a little funny, but also sort of fitting, seeing that picture among the other ones already on the fridge— including a group photo of the kids when they spent the night over at the apartment just a week ago, and one of Eddie smiling and holding your and Steve’s shared pet hamster, Harold.

You grabbed the black Sharpie that was someohw always sitting on the kitchen counter— perhaps it was for this exact reason— and you wrote on the empty white space at the bottom of the new polaroid.

Halloween ‘85. Batman & Robin.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington series #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things fluff #steve harrington imagines #stranger things smut #stranger things fic #stranger things imagine #stranger things series

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sepublic · 21 days ago

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In further hindsight I can see the parallels in Belos agonizing over how he mistreated Caleb and Lilith agonizing over how she mistreated Eda, and both trying to make up for that. But both crucially missing the actual emotional crux of the issue, that being the people they disregarded and hurt, the people close to that sibling and their real family for accepting them.

Because even if Lilith got to explain how the curse was an accident to Eda during Agony of a Witch, so what? That wasn’t why Eda was there. That wasn’t why she was so royally pissed. It was for kidnapping Luz, which would still remain unaddressed. Not to mention how unlike the curse, Lilith knowingly refused to listen to Eda about her lifestyle and choices, she still supported the coven over her sister, she still belittled Eda over the curse and was making another decision for her.

So even if Lilith did cure Eda, if Belos could actually undo the work of an Archivist and chose to? Eda would still hate Lilith and everything she stood for. She stands down from attacking Lilith in the season finale not because Lilith didn’t mean the curse, but because King clarifies she’s actually changing her general behavior by helping him and Luz. Even if Belos could bring back Caleb, his insistence on making his clones into witch hunters, ignoring Caleb’s defense of the isles, choosing to support Gravesfield’s bigotry over a brother who’d been for him much longer and actually loved him unconditionally… Insisting on ‘saving’ a perfectly happy sibling? That will always be a problem.

Maybe Philip made an exception for Caleb, at first; He knew at least of Caleb’s first meeting with Evelyn. So even if the rest were secret due to Evelyn being targeted by the community, Philip still didn’t rat on his brother for exploring the Demon Realm. Part of it may have been the insistence that Caleb could be ‘saved’, but he did the bare minimum of not getting his brother killed for one trip.

(But then Caleb ‘went too far’ and committed miscegenation, made Philip related to a witch; A conservative shame so deep he refuses to address it when discussing a vague ‘betrayal’. Like real life families, Philip rewrote Caleb as a Black Sheep to not be discussed, for ‘tarnishing’ the bloodline; A scandal replaced, eventually lost to time with nobody left to truly mourn the person they were. Maybe there doesn’t need to be, not anymore; His wife and child remembered and maybe they didn’t mention he was a human because to Caleb, that no longer mattered and he renounced that background like many queer folk, to embrace an identity shared with others who did care. So they remembered Caleb the witch.)

Likewise, Lilith also looked the other way for Eda, ignored multiple opportunities to arrest Eda, removed wanted posters. But there was still the expectation that their ‘grace’ would be reciprocated, that eventually it would pay off in that loved one coming over. Or at least that’s what Lilith hoped, but it was definitely what Philip expected of Caleb; Because Lilith only took Luz hostage because Philip threatened to execute her otherwise. Eda’s health WAS at risk from the curse.

Philip killed a Caleb who was happy and safe when he’d been at least five years away from Gravesfield, in a world they couldn’t follow and wouldn’t be much of a threat in anyway, if at all; He did it because Caleb did not live up to that expectation. With Lilith, we know it was an accident and she did make legitimate amends to undo the curse, unlike Belos who kept killing Caleb again and again, with the Collector suggesting he’s using the Grimwalkers as a punching bag and no longer cares about saving them either.

Lilith never cared much for the (wild) witch hunting aspect of the position; She just wanted to be loved but she didn’t want people to be torn down for it. She was a teacher, a bad one but still. Even if she had yet to care about others outside of Eda and how her ideology was wrong for its harm, she at least used her love for Eda as a stepping stone; When her sister was almost executed as a wild witch, Lilith declared an intention to prevent any more petrifications, after preciously being shown looking the other way with them.

Despite her justified fears of Belos, Lilith wanted to do something because having it happen to a loved one made her finally empathize. Lilith used that love to listen to Eda and reconsider her own biases, for Eda at least. And she ended up caring for and loving Eda’s kids and friends and everything she stood for, too; She ended up doing things for them, too. Lilith cared about doing it for her sister, which is why she listened to and accepted her, instead of caring for the sake of creating an Eda that wasn’t Eda; Lilith got over her pride, that’s the difference in the end.

#The Owl House #Lilith Clawthorne #Emperor Belos #Philip Wittebane #Parallels

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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7. PROPOSITION

CHAPTER SEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter six / chapter eight ⇀

summary: a proposition is made in hope for new beginnings

mature | 4.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, apocalypses, death, decay, blood, injury, sexual tension, angst, no use of y/n notes: I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL. anyway repost lol

During the liminal period between detonation and your understanding of it, you’d been convinced of your own fatality. Dead girl walking; the shell-shocked mantra playing in an unremitting loop as you navigated the flattened planes of your once-home.

New York was a ghost town. Or – town isn’t exactly the proper verbiage, not when it comes to describing the hollowed locale. It’d been flushed of all its previous pomp; skeletal buildings with their windows blown to bits, light posts bent at the root, central park a glorified bonfire pit for skyscraping flames. In truth, when you’d awoken, you couldn’t recognise your whereabouts.

That was the basis for which you told yourself it was a dream. Everything existed as a distorted reflection of what you were familiar with, a fucked plane capable only of occuring in feverish delirium. The bite, you’d accepted – nodding to yourself grimly. You must’ve gotten sick again and passed out before the speech, transported to some stuffy hospital that pinned you with needles full of hallucinogens. How else could you have explained your occult ability to phase through walls, or the complete absence of people?

(In hindsight, it was denial more than anything.)

Yet time progressed on a tortoise’s shell, marching with all the leisure of reality. It didn’t jump like it would’ve had your consciousness been in charge, with its aversion to the mundane and grotesque. No; you’d started to see the faults in your logic when the substance that perpetually fell from the sky proved to be human ash, or when – the further down you travelled – maturating flesh increasingly marked your path. You’ve never known your mind to be so cruel.

So, dead.

If so, then you’d settled on purgatory. A state where souls atone for their unforgiven sins and are purified. It was an interim solution; you weren’t the religious type, anyway. But maybe that'd been it. Maybe you’d been given a last hope at redemption, thrust in a distinctive nightmare to comprehend how much worse hell could be. At least you lacked pain, at least you were dressed – clad in the silk of your gala gown. But the sky had been red, covered in a sheet of dismal smoke, and you couldn’t see the stars at night.

It was a sign; you’d failed at reaching them.

The notion had paralysed you for days, tearing at the false comfort you’d wrapped yourself in up to that point. You’d weeped, and tested the limits to your intangibility with lacking enthusiasm. Blotchy faced, snotty nosed – passing your arm through rubble, succeeding, then trying the same with your feet, which abraded against the rough surface instead. The inconsistency was hard to keep up with, but the task at least distracted you from a profuse existentialism.

You’d heeded no patterns; some days, you were completely nonphysical. Or, parts of you remained that way, while others shifted back to palpability. It’d been a tug of war, dependent entirely on your mood and a greater scheme you had no part of. With your limited comprehension, it’d only guaranteed the purgatory hypothesis. Not mortal, nor spirit. Stuck in a great between.

(What heaven was worth this? Who deemed it so?)

The guessing game got old. You’d needed something else – more than water, or a fresh change of clothes; good, honest science. Truth. You couldn’t move on until you’d had reason to believe the outcome could justify this.

You turned to the cosmos then, impartial as ever, despite their discernible absence. They were still there, you knew. Just beyond the firestorms, the sun burnt bright enough to penetrate smog. Its hazy glow provided an alternate reminder of something for you to still pursue – wherever it was, wherever you were. You couldn’t be sure that an afterlife meant nirvana or elysian fields, yet fulfilment looked to be the common denominator. An underscore.

To you, that would only ever be one thing.

Deep space, your stars – your Sol.

(It was hope in the one way you could define it.)

The threads started to converge in an instant of poetic cognizance. The Phoenicians had done it, and so too had ancient sailors. Stars for navigation, for reasoning. Of course. All that entailed for you was to certify you were worth it.

You’d started by cleaning. Little things, far from where you’d originated. A neighbourhood of collapsing houses, nested in beds of fine porcelain and dust. The times where you could use your hands, you’d sweep the debris onto them and deposit it in a hole, harrowed from a singed lawn at the end of the row. When you were immaterial – a state that had begun gaining rarity the better you were able to cope – you’d focus on mentally tallying inventory. Some to set aside, for whatever poor individual would visit next, and the rest for you. A diet of canned beans and bottled water was better than nothing.

Then, you’d dealt with the bodies.

There were none within the city, nor the suburbs. It was only when you’d ventured outwards did they start to crop up; thin corpses with leathery skin still stretched over their frames, starved or burnt or both. The smell had been putrid, reeking of pure rot, and you’d surmised that perhaps they’d taken too long to find salvation. It’d motivated you to keep working, burying them in marked graves with a plug fastened over your nose. You didn’t want to end up like them, as a chore for the next.

It was near impossible to keep a timeline of it all. Now, you estimate it as months, though it had felt longer. You’d gone through it with no milestones, or any inclination as to whether you were finally getting close. Cleaning the entire expanse of purgatory seemed too big a task to ask of anyone, immortal or not. Yet as the weeks crawled by, you’d started to reckon that was exactly it. You’d felt nothing special, no sweeping message from God alerting you of your success. Just more devastation, more labour.

(Were you wrong?)

You’d started to get sick again. Irritated sinuses, a scratchy throat. Every breath you took was more useless than the last, oxygen unable to circumvent your system. Smoke inhalation, likely. You’d searched for ventilators to help treat the symptoms, alongside pain relief for the sores spotting along your palms. There’d been nothing, and that wasn’t to say it had always been that way. Empty, orange bottles decorated every barren street, purged by apocalyptic gluttons.

(You couldn’t trick yourself – the dead had no use for medicine.)

Some fate must have willed it, though. It was there, in the seventh hospital you’d scavenged, that it’d happened.

A… being, no taller than five foot four, decked in a bright yellow suit and a hazmat mask. Loitering the entryway with a trash bag full of salvaged goodies. It hadn’t noticed you, preoccupied with routing the way back home – so you rushed into a nearby room to change into your gown. It was wrinkled and torn in places, having been the outfit you’d initially spent weeks in, but it was far better off than the grimy cargoes you’d adopted in its place.

You’d kept it for this; your day of judgement.

It – he, as it turns out – lived in a bunker, deep beneath the catastrophic surface of the state. You’d followed him there. A perfectly normal thing to do, candidly, for someone who’d forgone social interaction since death. It couldn’t dawn on you that he was surely in the same boat; isolated, cornered like an animal on its haunches. If it had, you would've made an effort to approach him with caution.

So, it certainly shouldn’t have come as a surprise when your ecstatic hello was met with an axe to the face. Naturally, it’d phased right through you, a feat which only furthered the old being’s terror.

God had turned out to be more skittish than you’d expected.

(“Blimey, whit the hell are ye supposit tae be.”

“I’ve been waiting so long–”

“Ye're gonnae get yourself killed wearin tha’ flimsy thing, lass.”

You’d felt so stupid. You should have surmised that the occasion called for modesty.

“Forgive me,”

“Whit is it ye want? I don’ have any food for sharin’.”

“Redemption, if you please. I promise I’ve been good, I just want to see the stars.” But of course he’d know that. “Sir. Lord, sir.”

“Is somethin wrong wi yer head?” He’d huffed. “It's tha’ radiation, I'm tellin’ ye. Or maybe I'm dead an’ seein’ things.”

Dead? Another lost soul?

“Are you not God?”

“God? Ha!” The human scoffed. “Trust that I wouldn’ be livin’ in this rat’s ass if I was.”)

It turned out that he did have food, and plenty – stuffed cans stacked in rows atop rows of nourishment. Medicine too, an age old ventilator that he’d tapped with a knuckle to spur into function. He’d agreed to let you replenish if you’d take a gander at his malfunctioning radio, of which you had limited knowledge on but were willing to give a try. You’d no idea what he needed a radio for in the afterlife, anyway.

(“The battery contacts are corroded, I think.” You had spit through a mouthful of corn. It’d tasted like pure sugar to your neglected tongue. “If it matters to you this much: baking soda to neutralise the acid, then a bit of vinegar over it to help wipe off the gunk.”

“Smart one ye are,” He’d pulled a cigarette from one of his various pockets, lip curling at your inquisitive gaze. “Don’ give me tha’ look, I ain' got none for ye.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” After a bit of deliberation, you’d added, “I’m afraid I don’t understand something.”

“Whit is it this time?”

“Why’d you set up permanent camp here? Don’t you want to leave?”

“An’ where wad I go?” His lighter had taken several starts to sputter a flame.

“Heaven. Hell – if that’s your thing. The cosmos?”

He’d barked another one of those sturdy laughs. “Ye one o’ them fanatics? That say wha’ happened wis for good cause?”

“Huh?” Tentatively, you’d placed the radio back on its rickety stool. “What happened?”

And all humour had drained from his face, his pupils hardening to flat beads. If it hadn’t been for the sudden shift in mood, you’d have gone forever traipsing on a fantasy. No; it was the tremor, the breaks in his once haughty inflection – idiosyncrasies that could’ve only been described as sympathy-triggered. It’d built upon your doubt, your already wavering faith, to strike you out of your mental regression.

“The Alchemax bomb, lassie.”)

He had a bucket for you to throw up in, slick with panicked sweat, unable to hold on to anything as your body oscillated between materialities. He’d made no comment on how your hands fell through the floor, or the knees that started to sink alongside them. Your fault, your fault. Any thought besides blame hadn’t time to develop, recycled for fuel to keep the cognition running. Your fault. Your fault. All this time.

(Who could you have turned to? You’d been praying to deities who’ve long since left.)

Night bled, and the man had retired. You’d stayed plastered to the ground, crouched over a slosh of your purged innards. The foulness hardly moved you; it’d felt good to punish yourself in that way. You’d taken to being your own arbiter, and such was one of the many reparations to come.

(You’d shunned the voice that insisted you deserve none of it. If you hadn’t been so ambitious, so blind to the flaws–)

You’d wanted to leave. So desperately that the wish had seized every cell in you, shaking them with a vigour unparallel to even celestial fury. You’d wanted to leave. There’d been nothing for you to divert your efforts to after learning the truth. Nothing you could have done to fix it. You’d wanted to leave. To anywhere but there.

Please. Please. Please.

Just this one thing.

The air warped.

You hadn’t noticed it immediately, still wrapped in your own misery. Scratchy skin accredited to grief, you kept rocking in place, bathing in muggy sobs. But it’d only grown worse, like a fraying fabric chafing along every appendage. Your dirty nails dug into your palms.

The friction peaked, rubbing you raw. You’d heaved in large gulps of oxygen, pulling at your flesh like it could’ve stopped it. Your jaw had unhinged, teeth clamping down on your thumb to muffle the overstimulated scream that’d threatened to break. Tears sealed your lash lines shut.

Almost a second later, it stopped, interrupted by the blare of car horns.

And, when you’d opened your eyes, you found that you were someplace else entirely.

Your fingers graze along something rough. At first, it’s easy to mistake as your jeans, the denim hardened in places with lack of care.

The space seems to have shrunk since Miguel fell asleep, slumping inwards, its rock walls poking your elbows and curved spine with a clinical brutality. It’s difficult to imagine how he feels; twice your size, unused to fitting those muscles through tight squeezes. Disastrous still, the low creak of the steel arch above puts a timer on your misfortune. The topic of your demise is of increasing relevance.

Perhaps he drifted off for that exact reason. To hinge on ignorance; an avoidance of this waiting game. Or, more credibly, to force you into a figurative detention. Think about what you’ve done, and what I’m asking of you.

In any case, it’s working. The trauma you’ve tried repressing thus far rushes through your conscience, carving gaping canals of remorse, lapping at its banks to keep it fresh. You’re convinced your heart could give out, wrenched in innumerable directions, the only respite afforded being the glitches that rip through you. You deserve to stay here, but he doesn’t. He’s always only sought what was right.

(You can fix it, do this one thing.

Though you can’t grasp where to begin.)

You pinch the fabric, tugging at it in a nervous tick. You don’t feel the tension across your calf, an observation that grows stranger the harder you pull. Reaching over with your free hand, you smooth over your pants. They’re still level with your shin bone, unmoved.

Huh.

There’s a mortifying moment where you fear that it’s Miguel’s suit you’re fiddling with, before taking into account that it’s impossible to twist the nanotechnology.

And it’s too close in to be a wall.

You delicately trace the surface with your pinky, searching for any discernible edge, intent on mapping out the overall shape to deduce its origins. Your arms wave about in a frantic fashion, but to your bewilderment, you find no real boundary. Weirder yet, it appears to slice through your shoe and a portion of Miguel's thigh.

Feels like–

Your stomach lurches, broiling in a bold concoction of thrill and trepidation. It throws you off guard, your brain lagging behind the reality your body already accepts. You know what it could be, having undergone the phenomena in several situations similar. An answered prayer during your lowest points – back at the man’s bunker, a few times since then.

Nerves humming with electric fervency, you tamp your hope into something more manageable, unable to handle another blow should this turn out poorly. Or – comparably – should you succeed; if this is, indeed, a portal. Your resolve trembles with the strength of a baby bird's wing, missing the survival instincts that once bolstered it.

(What would it mean for you?)

Biting your lip, you plunge your fist through to the other side.

It comes in contact with something cold, unlike anything in your little cave. Cold, glossy and… crinkly. A plastic bag of sorts, packed full of a pulpy filling. You’re tempted to draw away, disgusted, but redirect that intensity into inspecting instead.

The bag rests upon an uneven floor, marred by pebbles that lend a sense of ruggedness to the place. Outdoors. Downright filthy, too; judging by the clammy residue that sticks to your knuckles. Bile nudges up your oesophagus, inspired by the unidentified refuse you’re granted access to. Squalid; a dumpster, probably. Decorated in bursting trash bags.

But then–

Mooring yourself upon Miguel’s abdomen, you dip your forearm further in. The static off the portal’s perimeter sings with discordant vibrations, its intensity bordering on painful. It prickles the fine hairs along your limb, scouring any goosebumps raised with a grating ferocity. You stifle the whimper that arises as a consequence.

Your fingers dip under the trash, grazing something that makes you pause. Rubber. Ring-like.

The day pass?

Swallowing, you jerk it towards you. It doesn’t budge, stuck under the refuse.

(It occurs to you to give up. The moral dilemma its purpose poses is abundantly clear.)

Hooking all four digits around its circumference, you pull harder. The portal eats at you, hostile to the foreign intrusion. Any longer and you’re afraid it’ll cut your arm clean off, right under where that gutter almost did the same. Your adrenaline had been enough to numb the torturous incident then, both physically and in memory – and though you lack that direct threat to your life now, the setup is much the same. A situation where you’re finally in control, a reclamation to the morality you’ve long since lost. It’s personal – the scolding he’d given you like a knife to old wounds.

The prospect fuels the surge you need, distending through your biceps, reinforcing their efforts as you finally yank the bracelet out. The portal makes no noise when it zips back shut, but you feel the lull, its energy abandoning you to wallow, alone again. Or, not alone; you gently settle between Miguel’s legs, careful not to disturb him.

There��s a stark silence that passes afterward, a line of astonishment keeping it intact. You allow it, needing time to process the staunch implications of the day pass sagging upon your lap. Its lilac hue gives a faint light to your surroundings, illuminating the cranny you’ve only been able to picture so far. It’s about what you expected – save for the resting face of your companion.

He looks good. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t usually, but the peace that graces his features compliments him, rounding out any harsher edges. You trail your gaze up his neck, to the jaw that points to a pronounced chin. Lips that pout even over retracted fangs. An aquiline, masculine nose. It fits him, you think. Lends itself to the fluffy hair that frames his sharp cheekbones. You linger on it probably longer than you should.

That is, until you catch sight of the blooming discolouration marring his temple.

It’s partially obscured in shadow, yellowing along the ends and purple in places you don’t have the advantage of properly observing. Yet, the bruise communicates all it needs to, loud and explicit. You’re not in a position to procrastinate any longer; you’ve already spent a year running from fate. It might make you sick, your organs tying together in a nauseating knot – and every impulse in you might scream against it. To run away; to leave him here for dead. Live the rest of your life in peace – it’s only right, it’s only right.

Then, you remember what he’d said to you.

(“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

“It’s not fair.” He didn’t skip a beat, tone laced with a hard understanding. “But it’s fact.”)

You really hate him sometimes.

Bracing yourself, you shake his shoulder. He’s up in an instant, snatching your wrist in one warm palm. You wait for the tired mist over his awareness to melt, a stone lodged in your throat.

“¿Qué es?” He whisper-shouts. “What?”

“I–” Your voice warbles. Pathetic. “I have something for you.”

He squints.

(Rightfully so.)

Breathing through the hesitation that strikes the rungs of your ribcage, you hold up the day pass.

He doesn’t realise what you mean immediately, flicking back and forth between the bracelet and your furrowed brows. Realistically, his doubt can’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, yet you’re eternally paralysed within the anticipatory dread – a fossilised mosquito captured in amber. Even when he does eventually catch up, you stay still, letting him pilfer the key to your freedom and watching as his drowsiness sharpens into a pointed resolve.

And you don’t stray, not for the entire stretch during which he tinkers with its components. It’s not his aforementioned allure that encourages it, nor the sudden flashbacks to your earlier breakdown. Ridiculously enough, it’s satisfaction – a contentment at having finally defied your self-interests. You look to him like you had the sun back home. For validation on the path you’re headed towards, a small hint of a job well done. You’re too cautious of your own pride, betrayed by it more often than anyone else, but he–

He knows what it means to be a true spider-hero.

You hope that one day, you will too.

“Lyla?” Miguel demands into his watch, testing to see whether the spare parts of your contribution resolved its issues.

“You’re alive! Huh,” A miniscule projection of his LYrate lifeform approximation blinks into existence, tilting her heart-shaped glasses down as if to punctuate her disbelief.

“I came across a few obstacles, but I’ve got the Wr-” He catches your wince. “Our target. Set coordinates for 928. I’m coming home.”

“Gotcha. Can you wait until Reilly coughs up a twenty, though?”

“You bet on my survival?”

“Silver linings!”

“Lyra.”

“Okay! Alright. Home it is, boss.”

“And tell Jess to be on stand-by with an empty cell,” He adds, lowering his pitch to one more understated. You can’t lie and imply your appreciation – no matter what he does to soften your circumstance, it retains its somberness. You’re going back to that desolate wasteland, and this time, you have no will in ever leaving.

“Figured you’d want to get her in the go-home machine as soon as possible. No?”

“No.” He asserts, the decision rumbling from deep within his chest. You steel yourself against the shiver that wobbles through you. “I’m not done with her, yet.”

“Explain something to me, would you?”

You smell of lemon antiseptic and dirt, arms wrapped in fresh bandages from shoulder to wrist. It’s an unpleasant combination, exacerbating the headache that gnashes on your skull under these fluorescent lights – darkness having been an ally to your concussion. The acetaminophen they’d given you at the med-bay has done nothing to aid your pain, and you’re convinced that the only thing that would work is a long, hot bath.

That is to say, you’re not ready to have this conversation.

When you don’t respond, Miguel stands from his seat, exercising the prominent muscles in his legs. His sweats do their best to conceal them, but you’d been in close quarters with him for far too long to have forgotten the way they bulge and shift with every move. If you focus, you can sense them now, pressing against your ass, pinning you in place.

He huffs. You doubt your glassy-eyed ogle is doing you any favours.

“Can’t make any promises.” You murmur, before deciding against it. It probably isn’t the best time to test him. “I’ll try my best.”

It’s the first time you see him in casual clothing, which changes him – much like sleep does. Outside of his suit, he looks younger, on a pedestal closer to common man. A white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, loose pants. Lighter colours, in complement to his bronzed complexion.

Get a hold of yourself.

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of responsibility.” He starts. Wrong, you want to say, because your breakouts have always been based on pure luck. “You threaten falling into floors, to phase through walls. Except, when we were trapped back on 15. You silently accepted our fate, despite having every means to prevent it. It’s telling, in my opinion.”

You nod, already aware of what he’s getting at. “Sounds like you don’t need me to explain, so–”

“You can’t control your powers, can you?”

“Bit late in figuring that one out.”

“Then how’d you come about the day pass?” He presses, not so much questioning anymore.

As it stands, you have two options:

To lie. It’s easy, natural after a full year of it. Your interrogator doesn’t need to know the truth if all he’s going to do is send you back, and with his newfound revelation about the nature of your abilities, it could prove advantageous to keep their full scope from his knowledge. You don’t owe him shit.

That’s Wraith talking, of course.

The you you want to be, however, beckons for candour. There pervades the confessional once more, a box drawn around you, prompting you to relieve yourself of all your secrets so you can be cleansed. Religion – a fickle thing, but it feels right, here.

Besides, who knows when you’ll be able to talk to anyone again.

“I’m not… entirely sure.” Your frown tucks underneath your teeth, and you suck on your lip while trying to formulate a coherent answer. “It’s happened previously. It’s like a portal, except it’s invisible and appears on the irregular occasion. I was thinking of ho– my earth when it materialised by my hand.”

His forehead creases, drawing in incredulously.

“You can create gateways into other dimensions?”

“Not quite. My working theory is that, somehow, the boundaries between worlds are thinning. I think I mentioned how my intangibility works?” He gives an affirming blink. “My atoms find the quickest way through something, so maybe they’re able to do the same through, ya know, the literal fabric of space-time.”

It really does sound idiotic to put out loud.

Miguel cups his face, rubbing away the weariness gathered in his wrinkles. There’s a plaster over the contusion on his forehead, overcast by rowdy tresses of wet hair. You do your best to suppress the image of him in the shower, steeling your expression into one of indifference.

“That holds up. This started a year ago?”

“Yeah,”

“There was a thing with a super-collider.”

“A… thing.” The scientist in you cringes. Though, you have no room to talk.

“All I’m getting from this is that, if I were to send you home, you could just high-tail out of there whenever the opportunity arises.”

His distrust shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. You ponder the best way to go about this, yet your tongue betrays you, speaking before you can lasso it back under command.

“In theory, yes.” You pause, waiting for it to sink in. “But I won’t.”

Some grand gesture of faith that was, you imbecile.

“Sure.” He stresses, unconvinced.

Taking a step forward, you crane your neck to meet his eye. Patchouli catches the office draft, clouding your head until all that comes from you is unintelligible nonsense.

“I’m sick of this game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to be the bad guy any more.” Your thunderous heartbeat drowns the effect of your proclamation. It’s hard to tell whether you come across as genuine or not. “All my life, I’ve only ever done what was wrong, what was selfish.” You rephrase his earlier reproach. “Let me be right, just this once.”

Your conviction sways when he tenses. No; this doesn’t feel honest, not even to you.

You want to be good. With all the fire of every star in this goddamn universe, blazing hot and colliding to expel devastation upon its neighbours. It shrinks up in your core, skyrocketing in temperature. It verges on explosion; a supernovae, life-giving. You want. You want. You want.

But, you’re afraid you don’t know how.

“We can make a deal?” You offer, plummeting to new depths of uncertainty. A deal requires mutual credence; for every skipped vow, you’ll lose out on something too. “Let me stay, just until I learn how to be the hero you need me to be. After that, I’ll go home – I swear it. And you’ll never have to worry about me again.”

He gives no blatant indication as to whether he’s seriously considering it. His head dips, and he turns his back to you, likely calculating collective factors to form the best solution. The way you perceive it, though – this elongated reticence:

He sees no other choice.

chapter eight

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actual-changeling · 1 year ago

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Crowley watches him silently, motionless, and with his shades securely in place. If he has been counting correctly, and he rather assumes he has, then Aziraphale has been talking uninterruptedly for twenty-five minutes and two seconds now.

Three seconds.

"…so, I'm sorry, Crowley. I'm so, so sorry."

He is wringing his hands, unable to stand still, and shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, searching for Crowley's gaze and failing. The sudden silence feels almost odd, the expectation rolling off Aziraphale in waves even more so, only infinitely heavier, and for a moment, he entertains the thought playing the part Aziraphale has thrust upon him.

But only for a moment.

"Right," Crowley responds, tightening his grip on the door and pressing his other palm against the frame, effectively barring Aziraphale from entering like he has been for the last twenty-six minutes.

"Anything else?"

Confusion wrinkles his forehead, and his fingers no longer turn his ring round and round over a stretch of reddened skin. Maybe it is the utter monotony of Crowley's voice or the lack of reaction in general, but Aziraphale seems, finally, at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes a few times, his eyebrows knitting together, and Crowley allows him another thirty seconds of patient waiting, after which he calls it a day.

"Great."

He steps back and closes his front door, normally and without slamming it, locks it, and then miracles up a deadbolt for good measure, before picking up his cup of coffee from the chest of drawers (still hot if it knows what's good for it) and strolling back to the living room.

Eighteen months. A year and a half. Another apocalypse is dawning on the world, but if there is anything the last six millennia have taught him, it's that humanity will fix it anyway; they have a knack for that, always outsmarting heaven and hell alike. Well, and him, since he is neither here nor there—so, a special mention to the former angel slash demon Crowley, thank you very much.

A familiar pain tugs at his stomach nevertheless, a faded lightning bolt of distress shivers down his spine, and Crowley sinks into the cushions with a sigh, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and pressing play on Queer Eye again. The ache will never fully disappear, but it has lessened, and he has learned how to live with it, how to breathe around the crudely stitched-up black hole in his chest.

Aziraphale left, and Crowley stayed. It's really simple, in hindsight, and after weeks of moping and crying, being completely wasted for days at a time, and overall being so miserable, every single one of his plants stopped being scared and became concerned instead, Crowley had picked himself off the floor and kept moving.

Not moving on is worse, Nina had told him during one of their board game nights (none of them can resist Muriel's angelic puppy eyes in that regard, and it is, admittedly, kind of fun), and she had been right.

He still loves him, fuck, of course he does; he doubts he will ever stop. Yet if Aziraphale thinks showing up uninvited and monologuing without pause for twenty-five minutes is going to fix anything, he is sorely mistaken.

'Listen, do you hear that?'

'I don't hear anything.'

Ironic, somehow, that Aziraphale is still not listening to him. Crowley will wait because it's Aziraphale, because he loves him, because despite everything, he is fucking lonely and misses him enough to be tempted to take him back without any apologies whatsoever.

Just tempted, though. His barricades and well-practiced self-control are going strong.

He has to be sure this time. He has to be sure that Aziraphale won't break him again, because the most recent incident almost killed him, and Crowley loves earth, loves him—but he has to love himself more than he loves his angel, or it will destroy them both.

Jonathan van Ness gives some poor sod a new haircut, Crowley drinks his piping hot coffee, and Aziraphale goes home.

It's a nice Tuesday, all things considered.

i'm sorry but also not :)

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #good omens ficlet

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frosteee · 19 days ago

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"Benevolent Lord Uncle Zeus" my arse - On Prometheus and Epimetheus and Pandora

I've been following the development of Hades 2's story and, like everyone, become absolutely infatuated by Prometheus (my GOD). It also got me thinking about his myth, and that of his brother Epimetheus and Pandora.

And, very VERY happily, it reunited me with a retelling of Pandora's Box that I haven't listened to since the early 2000s - a tape of several stories by Storyteller, of which Pandora's Box is one. It's wonderfully told, very immersive and emotional. I highly recommend a listen!

Anyway, in anticipation of Epimetheus's debut in the Hades series, I've been hyperfixating obsessing thinking about how his character might be interpreted.

[Mythology splurge ahead]

Epimetheus's name means "hindsight".

THE CREATION OF MANKIND

One version of the story goes that Zeus gave he and Prometheus the task of creating life on earth. Prometheus created mankind from clay, in the image of the gods, and Epimetheus created the animals. Epimetheus was also tasked with bestowing traits of the gods upon earth's creatures, to help them survive. So Epimetheus gave claws to one creature, scales another, and so on. But when he came to give a gift to mankind, he had no traits left to give them.

This was exactly as Zeus planned. Epimetheus did not have his brother's foresight, so he did not think to prepare for such an outcome. Zeus was satisfied with mankind's eternal dependence on the gods, weak despite being moulded in their divine image.

It was in this same spirit that he gave Prometheus the task of showing mortals how to properly sacrifice to the gods - in short, reserve the best parts for the gods and leave the offal for themselves - Prometheus defied him so that mankind would not suffer for the gods to stroke their egos.

After this incident, Zeus hid fire from humanity, so that they would be cold and hungry. And because Epimetheus had not given any traits from the gods, mankind was doomed to extinction. So Prometheus took it upon himself to steal fire back, as well as teach them on all kinds of subjects (mathematics, architecture, etc.) so they could advance and build civilisations.

And we all know how well Zeus took that.

TL;DR: Zeus sentenced Prometheus to daily, eternal torture because he did not let all humanity die like Zeus had condemned them to do, out of pure spite and ego.

Now back to Epimetheus. Many tellings of the myth of creation say it was his foolishness that caused everything to go wrong for mankind, as well as dooming his elder brother to his agonising fate.

But I don't personally see stupidity in his actions. Naivete, perhaps, in trusting Zeus to give him enough godly traits to bestow on all creatures, but then, what reason did he have at that point to think otherwise? He and Prometheus had sided with the gods in the war against the Titans. The Titan brothers did not live on Olympus, choosing to live on earth, but they visited and were on friendly terms. Should Epimetheus bear the blame for everything because he did not have the power to see the future? Again, Zeus chose Epimetheus specifically because he did not have that ability.

PANDORA

Then comes Pandora. Some time prior to her creation, before his final punishment, Prometheus had warned Epimetheus not to accept any gifts from the gods. He knew that Zeus was not yet done punishing humanity for his actions. After he was chained to the rock to be tortured for eternity, Epimetheus continued to live on earth among people.

Zeus ordered Haphaestus to create a woman from the earth, a "beautiful evil" whose descendents would punish humanity forever. After she was made, Athena and various other gods dressed her and gave her speech and other attributes before placing her on earth. She charmed any man she came upon. She took with her a jar containing "countless plagues" and evils. Her target was Epimetheus, and he accepted her and took her as his wife.

What could Epimetheus do? He knew what his brother had warned, but his brother was also the prime example of what happened to those who defied the gods. If Epimetheus rejected her, the gods could take the oppornity to make Prometheus's punishment even worse. And even if they chose to punish Epimetheus directly, the people his brother had made and loved would have no-one to champion them, and would likely be punished in his absence. He had stayed among men to help them like his brother had.

Epimetheus knew from hindsight - defiance meant suffering.

Unfortunately, compliance also meant suffering. Pandora had been made by the gods for the express purpose of punishing all mankind and ensuring their subservience. Despite Epimetheus's warnings, Pandora opens the box and releases the evil, while also allowing Hope to escape as well. Hesiod closes the tale with the moral "there is no way to escape the will of Zeus".

It's clear to me that Epimetheus was damned no matter what he did. The gods were set on punishing Prometheus's beloved people either way. It was more fitting to use his brother to do it, so they gave him Pandora, knowing he would refuse at his peril. Pandora opened the box because that is what she was made to do.

Hesiod may paint her as a wicked temptress, the woman who infected mankind to cause misery for generations, but she had just been born. She could only do what she was meant to do. She likely did not know what the box contained more than Epimetheus did, she was only compelled to open it. I'm sure Supergiant would agree that she was as much a pawn and victim of the gods machinations as her husband and brother-in-law.

That's another thing about this. Pre-Pandora, humans were composed entirely of men. There was no illness or hunger, everyone got along well, there was prosperity and wisdom, all thanks to Prometheus. It was a paradise because of Prometheus. Zeus made a woman specifically to destroy all of that, and ensure successive generations would be born into a corrupted world.

I somehow very much doubt Supergiant will integrate this part of the myth in their story, but regardless of the makeup of humanity at the time, it was paradise on earth, and the evils Pandora released upon them brought misery, pain and a death.

TORMENT

Epimetheus was set up to fail no matter what he did. His feelings on all that transpired can only be seen in some accounts, where he has another daughter named Metameleia, whose name means "regret of what has occurred".

The fact that he only had hindsight to work with only makes his tragedy worse. Looking back at what you could have done better is good if managed properly. But the human mind likes to ruminate on the past, and people are so often their own worst critics. Oftentimes hindsight distorts the past and we learn the wrong lessons, if any at all.

But how can one do better against the gods? No matter what Epimetheus learned, the gods were determined to get their way. His brother had paid a terrible price for tricking them to benefit humanity. Epimetheus tried to avoid disaster by appeasing them, but there is no way to escape the will of Zeus.

But despite being placed in an impossible position, made to lose no matter what, Epimetheus still feels regret. He believes it was his own choices, lacking the traits his brother had, that led to things turning out as they did. He blames himself for everything - his brother's fate, humanity's fate. Mankind was his brother's legacy, and it was their prosperity that made Prometheus's sacrifice meaningful, bearable. And under Epimetheus's watch, all of that was taken away.

In Epimetheus's mind, he took it away. His hindsight paints him as the ultimate fool, and he cannot forget it. If he had only done this...if he had only done that...

Wracked with guilt, Epimetheus is faced with the decay of humanity, Pandora's death. Whether he blames her at all or not, ultimately he blame himself most of all.

EPIMETHEUS IN HADES 2 (THE SPECULATION BEGINS)

So what next? Well, Heracles released Prometheus from his torture, allowing him to align with Chronos. Epimetheus would return to his brother's side carrying the weight of humanity's woes, a failure in every way. He failed his brother, he failed humanity.

Perhaps, in his younger years, Epimetheus was able to be carefree and forgetful because Prometheus was there to cover for him. Perhaps because his brother was wise, it was OK to be a fool once in a while, until it wasn't. But even if it had been forgetfulness and lack of preparation that made him neglect humanity, why was the price to pay so heavy?

Did humanity deserve to DIE because he forgot to check the number of gifts he had, did they deserve to DIE because his brother would not let them give their valuables to the gods, did they deserve to SUFFER AND DIE because Epimetheus, knowing how the gods punish defiance, accept the gift they gave him?

When Epimetheus does appear, I have little doubt he will be as handsome as his brother. They are, after all, twins, Epimetheus being the younger of the two. However, I imagine the psychological toll of everything he has endured, and continues to endure, would show upon him as well, as well as in his behaviour. Broken and desperate to make up for his past "failures".

Prometheus likely forsaw everything that was to happen. It seems he can see multiple versions of the future. But he himself states that while he does not know the "why" of his many premonitions.

He may bear resentment towards Epimetheus because of this, or perhaps, knowing his brother's good heart, and knowing the mercilessness of the gods, he would know why Epimetheus did what he did, without his little brother needing to say a word. Their relationship in present time may mirror Moros's feelings about the Fates: "Maybe they knew always that I would fail them, and loved me anyway".

This may only make Epimetheus feel worse rather than better. Perhaps he would want his brother to hate him as much as he hates himself. This could be a subplot between the two of them as the story progresses.

All he would want now is to atone, to help his brother in any way he can. All he has left is Hope, which Pandora released into the world to temper the evils. He has no belief in himself, only a desperate, obsessive desire to make up for his past passivity by fighting the gods head on, for his brother. Perhaps even by his brother's side. He has given himself entirely to his brother, and trusts his foresight. Perhaps he is the only one Prometheus entrusts his premonitions with, and whatever goals he has, Epimetheus knows.

Epimetheus created the animals, and gave them their special traits, so it would make sense for him to be dressed accordingly, and maybe have some animal friends to help him. Honestly, just thinking about that gives me all the fuzzy feelings.

I hope to see him soon, though I'll try not to get too caught up with my own imaginings. I'm sure whatever Supergiant do will be awesome, as always. Prometheus is already delivering.

Oh, and Zeus is a bastard.

[RAMBLE OVER, HAVE A GREAT DAY!]

#hyperfixating again #Hades 2 #Prometheus Hades 2 #Zeus Hades 2 #Epimetheus Hades 2 #rambling #thoughts #analysis #Pandora Hades 2

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themanifestingbrat · 2 years ago

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I FINALLY ENTERED THE VOID STATE!! + TIPS

I learned about the void state in April 2022. I’ve done many methods and techniques and gotten close many times but never persisted long enough. I knew that I would get into the void eventually but I would get disappointed if I didn’t get in when I wanted to but I persisted anyways. The first couple months my void concept wasn’t that good, I definitely over complicated it and would never let myself relax enough which is literally all you have to do. I didn’t want to become obsessed so I let it go for a month or two. After manifesting various things and working on my self concept, I decided to manifest tapping into the void again. By this time, I knew my vc still wasn’t the best so I knew I had to saturate my subconscious with a new story.

That’s when I did a challenge after just one day, it worked.

So, here is how it happened:

I listened to @fleurlx ’s void state subliminal in the day time, pretty much all day and when I wasn’t listening to it, I would just affirm in my head. I did my best to not waver or think about the past “attempts.” Then at night I listened to @madebyeden ’s & @lotusmi serendipity subliminal. The first night, i woke up in the middle of the night, my entire body was vibrating heavy and I kind of had a headache. I changed my position in bed and once I was comfortable, I immediately felt super heavy and I went with it. I felt myself going deeper, everything was so dark, I was deep breathing and couldn’t hear my heartbeat or the subliminals so I started to get really freaked out because I thought I was dying lmfaoo. I moved before I could affirm anything so I didn’t manifest just yet. But ofc, I know I can get back in it so I will update with another success story.

Here’s what I was doing that obviously was stopping me from entering (I realized I was doing this in hindsight.) If this sounds like you, STOP IT IMMEDIATELY:

☁ Because of my first few attempts at entering the void weren’t successful, I developed a mindset that it was hard or I was doing something wrong which led to me doing random methods hoping it would just work or thinking maybe it could work for me. Key word: hoping/maybe …yeah that’s not gonna get you anywhere.

☁ I would affirm from lack. I told myself maybe if I affirm more than the amount of times I had doubts, my subconscious will be saturated with my favored story and I’ll just get in. But that just created more doubts, because everytime I would “decide” that I will get in the same night, immediately my thoughts were “but what if I don’t get in? What will I do then? Can I really enter it just because I said so? Noo, too good to be true!” This shows that I was in a STATE of not being a void master or a person who wakes up in the void or a person who easily taps into it.

☁ Another example of coming from lack, everytime something went wrong in my 3D, I would think “Omgggg i just wannt to get into the void to change this, or man i really need to get into the void before this happens…” For obvious reasons, do not think like this!! The void is not the only way and I’ve should’ve known better because I’ve manifested so many things this far without it!!!

☁ I don’t know if anyone else thought of this but there were times where I questioned if the void state was even supposed be part of my journey, my guides/angels don’t want me to access it just yet, or it would just happen in divine timing. Umm yeah, I easily debunked it with all the success stories I’ve read and also the fact that because I knowabout the void is proof that I’m supposed to tap into it.

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its-time-to-write · 1 month ago

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chapter 1

I’ve decided to give you the first two chapters at once, and then (theoretically) the rest daily. I’ve written through chapter 6 and idk where I’m going with it, which sounds about right, so not a clue when it’ll be done. Hopefully it isn’t too long.

table of contents bedroom eyes

It’s late, which is why you’re surprised your phone is lighting up. The initials JT are on the screen, and you wonder if you should just let it ring. But you reach for it at the last second and say, “Hello?”

“Hey,” comes Jamie’s voice from the other end. “You up?”

You roll your eyes and push yourself out of your chair in the kitchen. You’re working late yet again, trying to get ahead on a project while the world is asleep. You reach up into the cupboard for a mug as you reply, “Obviously I’m up. Wouldn’t have answered if I were asleep.”

Jamie snorts at that, but doesn’t say anything else. You’re irritated, which is to be expected, but you haven’t hung up the phone. You can hear him breathing on the other end, so you just wait.

“Can I come over?”

“No,” you say as forcefully as you can, but you’re already reaching for a second cup.

Jamie says, “I’m not trying anything,” but you know he is, he always is; and it doesn’t matter that you know. You’ll always let him come over, you’ll always let him back in.

“Fine,” you say. “One cup of tea. Then you’re going home.”

—

Jamie sits on the edge of the counter, watching you type. You’re pointedly ignoring him and his teal trackies, but it’s hard.

“I don’t got training tomorrow,” he says conversationally, and you refuse to acknowledge him even a little bit.

He slurps his tea and you sigh. You don’t have the energy to glare at him so you close your laptop and take a good look at his face.

You haven’t seen him in a few months, not since the breakup, but you’ve certainly thought about him. It’s hard not to when his face is plastered all around Richmond, and it would be hard anyway because your brain likes to replay every moment of your time together every single day.

You’d run into his teammates a few times but they never said anything about it. In a strange way, that made it feel like it never happened.

And it did.

It did fucking happen, otherwise Jamie wouldn’t be in your kitchen right now most definitely making bedroom eyes because why else would he be here? Why else would you have let him come over?

So. You push out of your chair (again) and slot yourself in between his legs. “This didn’t happen,” you murmur, but Jamie’s too busy kissing a line up your neck. You grab him by his hair and pull his head back, forcing eye contact. “Say it. This didn’t happen.”

“This didn’t fuckin’ happen,” he groans and satisfied, you let go. He hops down and grabs your hand, pulling you upstairs.

You’re not a particular fan of the way his feet skip steps, still familiar with your floorplan despite the separation. But you don’t complain when he’s undressed and in your bed, letting you release your frustrations with your work and with him.

When you’re done, you run a shower. Jamie joins, but everything has become strangely formal now. He doesn’t say much, doesn’t tease, and no sooner is he out and re-dressed than he’s headed out the door. It shuts behind him, you turn the lock, and freeze.

Is this what it’s come to? You miss him so much that you’ll let him into your house, your house, and then fuck him without a second thought?

No, you decide, enough is enough.

—

In hindsight, you should have known Keeley would be at the Prada show. It’s the exact sort of place she’d be, and exactly the sort of place you shouldn’t be. But you’re here with your friend Madeline sitting one row behind Keeley and desperately praying she won’t turn around.

Except she does, and she’s thrilled to see you (because when isn’t Keeley thrilled?) and she’s chattering on as if she isn’t dating your ex-boyfriend.

Madeline digs her nails into your thigh, reminding you that this isn’t the place to lose it. There are too many cameras. And anyway, Keeley doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s not trying to flaunt her relationship and chances are she doesn’t even realize Jamie’s your ex.

But he is, so the second it’s polite Madeline drags you by the hand to the nearest glass of champagne, which you can only take two sips of before you run to the toilets to throw up.

“What the actual fuck is happening to you right now?” Madeline asks, all concern.

You try to shrug but the room’s spinning a little too much.

“You better not be fucking pregnant,” she jokes in an effort to lighten the mood.

Your head shoots up. “Shit,” you say. “I better fucking not be.”

Madeline freezes. “I beg your finest fucking pardon? That is not how you are meant to respond. This is the part where you laugh and say, ‘very funny Madeline, there’s no possible way I’m having a child because I’ve been celibate for the past seven months.”

You don’t respond and she shrieks. “What the actual hell? When did you do that? Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been telling you for ages you need to get under someone new to get over that absolute tart of a man and when you do, you don’t even call me? Why-” she stops. “Oh fuck me. You did not.”

“I did,” you groan. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. Shit, Mads. This cannot be happening.”

She pats your back. “Children are disgusting,” she says conversationally. “But I bet yours would be cute as shit. Come on, let’s get you some tests.”

—

Every single one comes up positive. You’re half laughing and half crying on the floor of your bathroom at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Madeline sits on the counter next to the sink in her sequined black dress, hair sleek and makeup perfect except a smudge on her lips where she carelessly wiped away a spilled drink. There’s a rip in her stockings and her heels are haphazardly kicked to the floor.

You’re kneeling by the toilet, grateful that it’s clean; hair in the messiest bun Madeline could make. Your shoes haven’t been on since getting into the car to leave Prada, and your skirt is rumpled. Your jacket is in a pile on the floor and your mascara has run a bit. And Madeline is taking pictures.

“This is the day I become an aunt,” she says. “I need the bean to know how hot we look.”

You shoot her a look. “What makes you think I’m keeping it?”

She shoots one right back. “Are you fucking insane? Why wouldn’t you of all people keep it? I know you want to. You’re fucking brilliant with kids. And…” she hesitates, “well, it’s Tartt’s kid.”

You’re silent at that. She’s right. It’s Jamie’s and despite what you’ve said or will continue to say, you- well. You don’t know what you feel. Something stranger than love, that’s for certain. He’s gone and you don’t even want him back, but there’s a niggling thought at the back of your mind that things aren’t quite over.

Or maybe it’s delusion.

Whatever the case, Madeline’s right.

“Well, shit,” you say. “I’m so fucking glad I’m young, hot, and rich.”

Madeline laughs, the deep, genuine, infectious one, and you can’t help but join in.

You’ve never been more acutely grateful for your job in talent management, for clients who love you and let you charge exorbitantly, for your house that you own, and for Madeline.

“Me too, girl,” she says through hiccuping giggles. “Me fucking too.”

next chapter

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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i-dont-even-know-by-this-point · 1 year ago

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What if, after the events of TBG, Nezha builds some graves/ a shrine or something in Rin and Kitay’s memory, and every night he visits them and talks to them as if they could hear him and talk back: he tells them updates about Nikara’s ruling, the Hesperian forces, the progress he’s made and has yet to make, and sometimes he almost forgets that they’re not there and that he’s alone, and after he finishes talking, waits for their replies, or for Kitay to tell him how he’s doing something stupid, or even Venka to make some offhanded quip to make him laugh, or Rin to say anything—anything at all—because anything she said would make him smile.

Nezha feels a fool, when this happens, because of course they’re not there. Of course there’s only ever silence to meet the end of his words, and only ever will be. They’re gone, he has to remind himself, more often than he’d like to: it hurts when he has to remind himself. Sometimes it feels nice to delude himself into believing that they’re still with him, listening and bantering like they did in days gone by, before he’s forced to confront the fact, as he always is, that he’s driving himself mad by indulging in these lies.

And maybe sometimes, when he’s had a bad day or his strategies took a turn for the worse and he feels like he’s drowning under the weight of his responsibilities, he goes to the graves and breaks down. Never for long—spend too much time broken in that place and he’s not sure he’ll have the strength to pick up the pieces—but long enough to let everything he needs to out. Often, he curses them both for leaving him alone in this; more often he apologises for everything that happened, everything he did to them, barely able to form the words ‘I’m sorry’ through his tears.

It doesn’t make a difference—he knows that—but he does it anyway. In a strange way, it makes him feel like he’s mending at least something in this gods-forsaken country.

Rin would deride him if she saw him like this. Tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself, get up off his ass, and do something about it instead of crying like a child. He chuckles through his tears while he imagines it.

He breaks down less as time goes on, once he gets past the rough first few years and he gets used to bearing the burden of leadership, but he still comes to them every night and tells them updates. Brings offerings sometimes, too; food, incense, sorghum wine. Gets drunk on lonelier nights. Slips into memories about victory and a sampan and a knife in her back.

And each time he’s confronted with that deafening silence after he finishes talking, Nezha wonders.

If he could do it all again, if he had a second chance—a chance to change things, maybe even fix things—would he?

He’s thought that question over for hours, when he’s been drunk, when he’s been sober, into the latest hours of night and earliest rays of dawn.

Would he do it differently, or would he twist that knife again?

For all his contemplation, Nezha doesn’t know. Honestly, he doesn’t think he ever will. Maybe it’s not even worth thinking about in the first place, because he never will get another chance, even if he regretted it; no, even though he does regret it. He knew he’d regret it from the beginning, and what did that change? What could it possibly change in hindsight?

And so the best Nezha can do is sit by the graves of his best friends in the world when the rest of the world isn’t looking, and wonder what things could have been like.

#i did not mean for this to be this long #whoops #the poppy war #the dragon republic #the burning god #yin nezha #fang runin #chen kitay #rinezha

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polyrafe · 30 days ago

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Everything We Ever Wanted

Summary: Rafe, Topper and you finally have everything you ever wanted when your daughter is born. That is, until one of you develops postnatal depression. Warnings: discussion of drugs, mentions of past drug abuse So, this is for you, L ( @maybanksbabe ) Welcome back to tumblr! I remembered that a year ago, you really liked talking about babies, so I hope, this is still the case. i wrote this in about a day and it's not beta-ed... i hope you enjoy it anyway. xx

In hindsight, you often say, you could pinpoint the moment Rafe started to spiral. You’d seen it brewing during the last few weeks of your pregnancy, but you couldn’t put a name to it then. It was a shift, a subtle change in him, from being detached and almost in denial, to this heavy weight of fear settling into his bones. Topper hadn’t noticed it at first—he still didn’t fully understand—but you did. You always did.

Until the end of your third trimester, the pregnancy had been mostly fun for all of you. Full of light moments, late-night cravings, excitement, and sex. Lots of sex.

The baby was wanted—so wanted by all three of you—but for Rafe, it had always been a distant concept, something not entirely real. Planning for the baby had been yours and Topper’s thing. The two of you could already picture the little one crawling through your apartment, her giggles echoing through the space. But for Rafe, the idea of fatherhood felt hypothetical, something he could avoid thinking about, something he didn’t have to touch yet.

But then it got real.

The day your daughter was born, it all crashed down.

As soon as you went into labor, Rafe spiraled. He had panic attack after panic attack. You saw it but you couldn’t do anything about it. You could just lie there and watch him from across the room. You could do nothing but watch him even leave the room, over and over again.

Topper had been so overwhelmed by the chaos of the hospital, the excitement of it all, that he didn’t really see what was happening. But you did. You saw Rafe’s hands shake, his breathing quicken, his eyes widen with that deep, dark fear.

“Rafe,” you had whispered in between contractions, exhausted but focused. “It’s okay, babe, I promise. Just call your sponsor. Please. You need help, fast, and I’m a little busy here.”

But Rafe didn’t call Barry. He just sat there, frozen, not understanding how to step into his role as a father, terrified of the mess he could make. Topper—your golden retriever of a partner, always eager to help—had missed the cues, laughing nervously, believing this was all just a temporary wave of emotions. He didn’t understand how deep Rafe’s fear went.

But you did.

The days following the birth were a blur. Rafe was in and out of the apartment, never in the same room as the baby. You’d catch Topper shooting him worried glances, but Rafe avoided everyone. Not even once did he touch the baby.

“Please tell me he’s not using,” you whispered to Topper one night as you stood in the kitchen, barely keeping it together. Your body was still recovering, and your mind was exhausted from trying to juggle it all—your baby, Rafe’s unraveling, and keeping the fragile balance of your triad.

“I don’t know,” Topper replied, his face showing nothing but irritation and disbelief.

“Look after him, Topper,” you said, feeling the weight of your words. Rafe needed more than just your reassurance. He needed one of you to be there for him and right now, you couldn’t be that person.

So, you really wanted Topper to step up for Rafe, but the cracks in their relationship had started to show. Rafe was distant, closed off, and Topper was too hurt to push.

The problem was, they fought all the time.

One afternoon, five whole days after your daughter’s birth, Rafe stormed out of the apartment, when he just couldn’t take it anymore.

You didn’t know what hurt more, your body aching from childbirth and your heart breaking for him.

When he returned, he was quiet, his energy depleted.

He found you resting in bed. Alone.

“Can I lie with you for a bit?” He asked quietly. There was shame written all over his beautiful features. Shame… nothing but shame.

You nodded, already sensing something in him was breaking.

He handed you a small plastic bag with two pills. “Don’t hate me, please,” he whispered, his voice tight.

An icy shudder ran down your spine as you stared at the pills. “Rafe…”

“I didn’t take any. I promise.”

“What are they?”

“Some benzos, Ativan or Xanax, I don’t remember what I asked for.” Now that you thought about it, you didn’t really care what he’d asked for. Benzos are downers—highly addictive downers. Self-medicating was what had gotten him into drug abuse in the first place; you hadn’t been there, but you knew.

You closed your eyes for a moment, forcing yourself to breathe. This was bad, you knew. “Thank you for giving them to me, babe,” you managed to say, though inside, you were terrified. “I’m proud of you.”

Rafe didn’t talk, not even when you begged him to.

"Talk to me, baby," you whispered against his hair, over and over again. “Please, Rafe.”

He stayed curled up beside you, desperately clinging to physical closeness, as if that could keep him tethered. He didn’t move. He didn’t sleep. He just lay there.

You glanced at the clock, then looked up at Rafe, urging him, “The NA group meets at 8 tonight. You should go.”

He shook his head, his voice heavy with reluctance. “I really don’t want to.”

“And that’s exactly why you need to go,” you insisted, trying to keep your voice steady.

Rafe’s gaze fell to the bed sheets as he murmured, “I gave you the pills.”

“Yeah… still… please, Rafe,” you pleaded, but he remained stubborn.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed beside you, trapped by his own fear, too scared to leave the house and too proud to admit it to you or Topper. Tears welled up in your eyes but he didn’t even notice.

Hours later, you slipped out of bed to check on Topper and the baby. She was still asleep, so you took the chance to confront Topper in the kitchen. “You’re doing an awesome job with her,” you said softly, “but you’re an idiot for holding everything against Rafe. We're three parents, the chance of one of us developing postnatal depression was pretty high and given his history, it makes sense that it is him.”

Topper’s face hardened. “We have everything we ever wanted. Why is he acting like this?”

“He’s scared shitless,” you snapped.

“Of what?” Topper snapped back.

“Of himself!” You idiot, you added in your mind, “Jesus Christ, Topper! Since when are you so oblivious? You're usually so good at reading him.”

Topper looked guilty but he still didn’t know how to approach Rafe—he didn’t seem to want to approach Rafe at all. You felt the strain between them, and it scared you. Rafe needed both of you to pull him back from the edge, but Topper’s hurt and frustration had already built a wall between them.

“Rafe, you have to give us something,” you told him once you were back in bed with him. “This family needs you.”

“You don’t need me,” Rafe said, his voice cracking. “The baby has you and Topper. You’re both perfect.”

“Is that what this is about? We don’t even know whose baby it is, and it doesn’t matter!” you said, trying to make him understand, but Rafe shook his head.

“No, this isn’t about genes,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“Okay,” you replied gently, reaching for his hand. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Topper and I need you. If you struggle with her, that’s fine. Take your time, but we need you.”

It was as though the dam inside him finally broke. Rafe’s face crumpled, and he started to sob, great heaving breaths as though all the fear and guilt he’d been bottling up poured out at once. You pulled him into your arms, holding him as tightly as you could. "We love you," you whispered, stroking his hair, trying to let him feel how much he mattered.

Topper came into the room with the baby cradled in his arms, her small cries filling the space. He handed her to you to feed and in return, you signaled him with a look to take over comforting Rafe. It was the first time, as far as you could tell, that Topper had physically touched Rafe since the baby was born. The warmth of that touch seemed to soften Rafe even more, and his sobs slowed to quiet, broken breaths.

Once the baby was done feeding and Topper stepped away, you saw Rafe staring at her, his eyes wide and uncertain. There was longing there, besides so much fear. You swallowed hard and approached him.

“Sit up,” you said softly. He hesitated but did as you asked.

You passed him the baby, watching as his hands trembled while he held her for the first time. His whole body was tense, his breath shallow, his face filled with dread. “Meet your papa,” you whispered to your daughter with a smile, hoping to ease some of Rafe’s tension.

“I’m going to fuck her up so bad,” Rafe mumbled, his voice barely audible but shaking with conviction.

Topper, who had been watching from the corner, looked stunned. “What?” he asked incredulously.

“You’re not,” you replied calmly, meeting Rafe’s eyes. “You’re not going to mess anything up, Rafe.”

“I’m going to fuck everything up,” Rafe insisted, his voice cracking as his anxiety surged again. He quickly passed the baby back to you, his face pale. “Fuck. I’m gonna throw up.”

He stood up abruptly and left the room. This is when pure panic bloomed in your chest. You glanced at Topper, your heart pounding. “Topper,” you said urgently, “I know we are all stressed and tired but you have to take care of him or we’re going to lose him. He’s thinking about leaving us, I’m not even kidding.”

Topper’s face tightened. He didn’t argue. He followed Rafe out of the room, and you could hear the low murmur of voices from the hallway.

Rafe had always been hard on himself, always felt like he was on the verge of failure. You knew he was beating himself up for feeling so useless, for not knowing how to be a father yet. But none of this was easy for him, for any of you.

“If you want to help,” Topper’s voice rose, uncharacteristically stern, “then start by taking care of yourself first, Rafe! You’re not much help if we have to look after you all the time. Jesus Christ, you’re jeopardizing everything, Rafe, even your work!”

There was a long pause, then Rafe’s voice, so quiet that you almost didn’t understand him. “I don’t know what to do, Top.”

Topper softened immediately. “Therapy, Rafe. As soon as possible. And groups, twice a day if you have to.”

Again, there was a long stretch of silence.

“I know we have a lot going on,” Rafe admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “But… could you take me? I know I’m shit for even asking, there’s so much going on with the baby, but I’m not sure what I’ll do if I leave the apartment alone.”

Topper didn’t hesitate. You watched as he drew Rafe into his arms, kissing the top of his head over and over again. “Of course, dickhead,” Topper whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Rafe murmured, his voice cracking.

They both turned to you, and Topper asked, “Are you okay if we go to a meeting?”

You smiled at them, the weight on your chest easing just a bit. “I’ll manage two hours without you. Go, please.” You waved them out, pushing them lovingly toward the door.

That night, Topper brought Rafe home from his meeting, and you made sure to welcome him back with open arms. After Rafe showered, Topper and you sat in the kitchen, talking quietly about dinner.

“I ordered Lillo’s,” Rafe said, a tentative smile on his face. Lillo’s had always been your go-to for cozy family nights.

You stood up and wrapped your arms around his waist. “I’m so proud of you,” you whispered against his chest, feeling his body relax into your embrace. Right then, you knew you were going to be alright.

“I’m sorry for being an asshole,” Rafe said, his voice breaking again as tears welled in his eyes. “I’m so afraid of ruining her.”

You held him tighter, Topper coming to stand beside you, resting his hand on Rafe’s back. “Rafe, you need to stop saying that,” you told him firmly. “You won’t ruin her.”

Topper leaned in, kissing his temple, his voice gentle but direct. “You’re not Ward, Rafe.”

Rafe flinched at the mention of his father’s name, but Topper didn’t shy away. He needed to hear it, and you could see him start to process it.

“We’ll all make mistakes,” you added, reaching for Rafe’s hand, “but we’re going to be alright. She’s going to be alright.”

Rafe looked at you both, raw and vulnerable. “Can I hold her?” he asked, voice trembling.

Normally, you wouldn’t wake the baby, but this felt like an exception. You gently picked her up and passed her to Rafe. His arms shook as he cradled her, but you could see the awe in his eyes as he stared down at her sleeping face.

“She’s so perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

And for the first time ever, the four of you felt like a family.

In the weeks that followed, Topper stepped up even more. Aside from aiming for 'Father of the Year' by taking care of the baby as much as humanly possible, he also took Rafe to his meetings and therapy sessions and helped him with work, reminding him to check emails and take calls and do work and take breaks. How Topper did it—you had no idea.

And slowly, Rafe began to heal.

A month later, you found him taking a phone call from a client with Lila nestled in his arms, rocking her to sleep as he worked.

You watched him from across the room, and your heart swelled with love. He looked over at you and smiled, and you smiled back, knowing deep down that you were good.

You were all good.

All four of you.

You, Topper, Rafe and Lila.

#outer banks #obx #rafe cameron #topper thornton #rafe x reader x topper #poly!rafe #my work #bab writes

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selencgraphy · 3 months ago

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— 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑: man i hate this part of texas (three clicks and i'm home)

PAIRING: jake seresin x f!original character

TAGS: honestly it's just all fluff (i know, crazy, right?)

A/N: some of you might recognize some bits of this part bc they were in the original versions of the series... anyways, this part is solely dedicated to jake and jessie's history (i.e. a culmination of how they met and [some] important moments in their life). now for the 'bad' news... the next part will be the last one in the main series. i kept beating around the bush with them and now we're coming to a head! my inbox is always open for requests as well, so lmk if you ever want to see anything with them! anyways, i'll save the sappy shit for the fic and the next post's authors notes. oh, also there are some words/phrases in spanish. translations are included at the very end :) happy reading!

WORD COUNT: ~4.3k

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El Paso had been home for the last 6 years of her life. Every important milestone she could remember had been accomplished along the streets of that city. It’s where her parents decided to settle down once her father retired from the Navy. 6 years of peace. So when her parents had sat her down one random summer night to tell her that they were moving again, it had felt like her entire world was going to crumble. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been as big of a deal as she had made it. She grew up a Navy brat, moving cities was supposed to be easy. But that was ages ago for her. Her father’s retirement was supposed to mean no more moving around. Now she was going to start high school in a little over a month. That was daunting in and of itself and now her parents expected her to move to a city 9 hours from home?

“You’ll be okay, mija. I promise,” her mother reassured. The new house was similar to her childhood home, allowing her to forget where she was sometimes. But then she would suggest to her father they visit her favorite bookstore and the fantasy she created in her head, even if it was for a minute, would crumble. Even after she had unpacked all the mass of cardboard boxes and placed everything to mimic her old room, the promised feeling never came. She missed the corner of the bookstore she made hers. The street that she used to race her parents down. She missed home. Austin wasn’t home. Not yet at least.

Jessie made herself as small as possible as she made her way through the crowded halls of Westlake High School, hands gripping the paper that held her future for the next 6 months tightly. Find your class was the phrase she repeated in her head like a mantra. She had only just looked back down for a second to double check the class number. By the time she glanced back up, she had no time to react before walking straight into a backpack, accidentally shoving the owner forward. “Oh my- I am so sorry.”

While spewing apologies profusely, the person she ran into turned around to face her. A tall boy not much older than her with blonde hair that was borderline brunette and eyes her favorite shade of green. “Dios mío,” she thought, admiring his face before her eyes caught sight of his jacket. He had said something back to her, but she registered nothing, too caught up in panic at the revelation of what he was.

“Mierda, he’s a jock. Good going, Jess,” she cursed in her head. If her preconceived notion about jocks was right, which was based on films, this was the first step to living four years in absolute hell.

Her expression must’ve been extreme because now his eyebrows were furrowed. “Hey, it’s really no big deal. Are you- are you okay?”

Was he really asking if she was okay? “Am I okay? I was the one who ran into you!”

“The hallway always gets packed on the first day so it happens,” he shrugged. “Do you need help finding your class?”

She quickly shook her head profusely. “No it’s okay. Thank you though.” Just as she finished her sentence and started to walk off, the bell had rung. She was nowhere near where she needed to be. What a way to start off the first day of high school. She had taken probably two steps before her schedule was snatched out of her hands. “Hey! What’re you-”

She glared at the boy, silently begging that he gave it back as he studied it. She didn’t have time for this. After a few seconds, he started walking. Now a couple steps in front of her, he turned back around with a raised eyebrow and smirk on his face and asked, “Do you want to be late or…?”

As they walked, he returned her schedule and she asked, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but why are you helping me?”

“Because,” was all he said in reply with that smirk still plastered across his face, shrugging his shoulders.

Her face scrunched at his smugness. “Well, aren’t you going to be late now?” Right when she finished her question he just stopped walking. Quickly glancing at the class number and back to the paper, she sighed in relief. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Just try not to bump into any more people. Not everyone's as nice as me,” he jested.

“Noted,” she replied with a chuckle. As he walked into the class across the hall, he called over his shoulder, “Welcome to high school, Jessie!”

“Thank yo- Wait, I didn’t get your-” Before she could finish, he already vanished from sight and into the other room. “Name,” she mumbled to herself before walking into her own class.

The next seven and a half hours were boring as hell. Each teacher went through basically the same spiel about their class. It was the last period of the day now—English 10. It was a sophomore year class, but she had such good grades in middle school that they put her in English 9 in eighth grade. So yeah, a freshman in a sophomore year class. Having gotten there early, she took a seat in the middle of the row closest to the door, like she had the rest of the day. Nose glued to the book in front of her, she failed to notice the person who slipped into the seat right behind her. Tap tap tap.

Hesitantly, she turned to face them being met with a familiar face. “Hey stranger,” he said with the same smirk on his face.

“Hey,” she greeted back, confusion in her tone. “What’re you doing here?”

“Last I checked this is English 10 and you’re a freshman. So the real question is what are you doing here?” Leaning back into his chair as he asked—he wasn’t being entirely serious, but she didn’t need to know that. As she stammered and her face reddened, he did his best to hold in a laugh. “I’m just pulling your leg, Jessie. I looked at your schedule this morning, remember?”

Quickly, she released a breath she didn’t know she held. After taking a few seconds to recollect herself, she turned further in her chair to fully face him, extending her hand. “Jessie Rosales, but you already knew that.”

“I did,” he smiled at her gesture, shaking her hand. “Jake Seresin.”

“Jake,” she said, familiarizing herself with the name. “What sport do you play?"

“Huh?”

She quickly glanced down at his clothes. “Your letterman jacket.”

“Oh yeah, uh football.”

“Predictable,” she said with a shrug before turning back around. Realizing what she had said he lurched forward, his face now inches away from the back of her head. “Predictable? What d’you mean predictable?”

She turned her head just enough to talk to him again. “You’re a pretty white boy in Texas who plays football, Jake. It’s predictable.” Before he could say anymore, the bell rang and their teacher started to talk. One of the words she used to describe him didn’t go unnoticed though.

“She thinks I’m pretty,” he thought to himself with a small smirk on his face. But it wasn’t his usual one that he wore from his ever-growing confidence. No, this one came from the new warmth in his chest that made his cheeks turn pink and start to burn.

Out of the years of high school, sophomore year was supposed to be the most boring of the four. Freshman were the new kids on the block. Juniors had the stress of taking their SATs and getting ready to figure out what they wanted to do. Seniors were celebrating the end of their high school careers with prom and graduation. Sophomore year was the weird gap between truly leaving childhood and heading into adulthood, no large milestones to be had. So Jake didn’t expect much out of the year aside from the football season. That is until a girl came barreling into him on August 18, 1997. Yes, he remembered the exact date. How could forget?

A few hours after she had gotten back home, she sat at her desk mindlessly drawing in her sketchbook. Each page had a recurring theme, the most recent being planes. She had placed her desk to be right in front of her window, giving her a view of the street and the houses right across. A faded red truck pulled into the driveway of the house directly across from hers. She wasn’t sure what had caused her to look up at the exact moment that she did. She watched as they parked the car and hopped out. It was late and practically pitch black outside but the street light was bright enough for her to see who it was. When he tapped the top of the truck before heading into his house, a small smile grew on her face before she looked back down to continue drawing.

When she got to school the next day, her eyes searched the crowd in the hallway for a letterman—his letterman—but couldn’t find it. He probably wasn’t wearing it today. For the entire day, it was as if he didn’t even exist. Her only hope was sixth period and that was hours away. Still she waited. When she walked in, she immediately looked over to where they had sat the day before, finding him already there in the same seat, loudly talking to another boy behind him. Quickly, she slipped into her seat as quiet as possible, trying her best not to attract his attention away from his conversation. But of course, her plan was ruined by the squeak of her chair. “Look who decided to show up,” he remarked, looking down at his watch. “You know, freshman are usually the first one’s to show up? The fear of being late and all but you? Barely a minute to spare, Rosales.”

“Still made it, didn’t I?” His smile widened at her response. The sudden burst of confidence shocking even herself. “I didn’t see you this morning, did you come late? You did get home pretty late last night.”

His eyebrows raised at that, confusion and intrigue mixed into his expression. Still he remained silent as she continued. “Didn’t a new family move into the house right across from you?”

“How did you…?” The realization hit him slowly, his signature smirk returning. “You’re my new neighbor.”

“Yup,” she said with a pop.

His eyes narrowed. “Why haven't I seen you until now? You moved in like a month ago.”

“I’ve been around. You just weren't looking, I guess.” That was a lie. She hasn’t been around. She had spent that month memorizing the four walls of her bedroom. But that wasn’t something he needed to know. She was quick to leave class—the first one out the door when the bell rang as a matter of fact. There was really no need for her to be in such a rush, it wasn’t like she drove, so the traffic was the least of her worries. No, she wanted to be in the quiet of her room where she could breathe.

“Jess, wait up!” Her pace faltered at the shout of her name, rushed footsteps growing louder. “Damn, you’re fast,” he exclaimed as soon as he came to be side by side with her. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Home,” she replied.

“I can drive you,” he quickly suggested before jogging forward to open the door, waiting for her answer as he held it open. She maintained her pace as she walked through the door, making him jog again for a couple steps to catch up.

“I’m good with walking. Thank you though.”

“Come on, Jess. We live right across from each other, and you can get home in five minutes instead of roasting in this heat for thirty.”

She sighed at his persistence. “Don’t you have practice?” She didn't mean for her words to come out so harshly, instantly regretting them as soon as they flew out. “Sorry, I just have to get home.” Her voice wavered slightly causing his eyes to soften suddenly. It was so subtle that she barely even noticed but they did.

“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. Watching him as he turned to head towards his car, she looked over his shoulder to his truck. The old streetlight in front of their houses didn’t do it justice, but one thing caught her eye that she didn’t see the night before.

Rubbing her face in annoyance, she whispered to herself, “No dejes para mañana lo que puedes hacer hoy.” Don't leave for tomorrow what you can do today.

Before she knew it, she jogged up to him like he had done minutes earlier and asked while pointing towards his rearview mirror, “You like planes, too?”

The shock on his face lasted mere milliseconds before his signature smirk returned. “I do. But that’s actually an-”

Before he could finish she cut him off as she opened the door to the passenger seat. “An F/A-18 Super Hornet, yeah I know. Just wanted to see if you knew.”

His eyes softened, a small grin forming on his face at the banter before turning on the ignition.

—

“Did you do the essay?”

She jumped around causing him to jolt back in his seat from leaning forward. “Essay? What essay?”

“The one for this class, stupid. Minimum 4 pages about the last book you read.”

Her face grew redder by the second. “Jake.”

“Jessie.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

He shook his head. “I am not.”

She quickly turned to the person sitting next to her. “Hey, did we have an essay due today?” Their face scrunched in confusion. At their reaction, she slowly turned back to Jake who was now trying to hold in a laugh.

“Pinche pendejo,” she cursed, smacking his arm.

“Ahh hahah,” he whined through his laughter, rubbing the spot she hit him. “You’re just so gullible. I love seeing you get all red like that. It’s cute.”

“I hate you,” she murmured, rolling her eyes and turning back in her seat.

He chuckled at her. “No you don’t.” He tapped her shoulder to get her to turn back around but all he got in return was a huff. “Oh come on,” he whined. “Don’t be like that, Jess.”

–

"Jake's a good boy," her mother commented as she cleared up the dining table. Since becoming such close friends, she started to bring him around her house more. Her father was skeptical at first, him being overprotective and all, but after a while Jake Seresin became a part of their family. He'd come over for dinner every so often just like tonight where he was now in the kitchen helping her dad do dishes. "I know you keep insisting that you two are just friends but-"

She quickly interrupted her mother. "Mama," she whined.

"I'm just saying, sweetheart. You don't find good boys like him that easily these days. However that is, you keep that boy around."

As her mom spoke, her mind wandered back to the times when he dropped one of his teammates because he heard him talking shit about her. To when he bought her the book she had been gushing about for months. To when he dragged her out for burgers because he supposedly just felt like it. No matter if she needed or even wanted him around, he was always right there. Jake's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Jess, you okay?"

She wasn't sure how long she had been standing and thinking for. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure?" he pressed, a smidge of worry swimming in his eyes, and his hand placed on her bicep.

"Yeah," she sighed.

Just as he was about to say something Jessie's mom called from the kitchen. "Jake, honey, come here really quick!"

He gave her a reassuring squeeze before heading back from where he came. She followed him, catching her mother handing him their landline as she crossed the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. No one could hear what the voice on the other end was saying and he gave no indication of who it may be as he stood and listened. When he hung up, he looked towards his best friend and her parents, a blank expression on his face. "Is everything okay, míjo?"

"Yeah, that was the school's football coach. He said he called my house, but my mom said I was here," he trailed. "He decided the roster for the Varsity team."

Based on the look on his face, the Rosales' began to sigh, assuming that the coach had called to tell him he didn't make it. But then his face brightened once again. "I’m starting QB," he yelled, sending the family in front of him into a frenzy. Jessie threw her arms around him, spewing congratulations after congratulation.

"I knew they'd pick you, Jake," she whispered into his neck. "They'd be stupid if they didn't."

"Thank you for believing in me," he replied, loud enough that only she could hear him. "What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?"

—

Game after game, Jessie Rosales stood in the same spot, no matter if it was a home or away game, holding a sign that had his name and jersey number on it as she cheered him on. Every time he heard her scream or saw him jumping in celebration, his heart swelled.

Jake had taken his team all the way to state championships and the stands were filled practically to the brim. Jessie showed up a few minutes before kick-off, taking a seat at the top-most row of the bleachers, a newly made poster in hand. Usually she was the loudest of them all but it being the championship game, her cheers for Jake were drowned out amidst everyone else's. Before she knew it, the last play finished as Jake threw the game winning pass, throwing everyone onto their feet. So many people were congratulating him and taking pictures she wasn’t sure she was gonna get the chance to get him alone. Fuck it. “Seresin!” she yelled from across the field.

At the shout of his last name, he turned to search for her, the slight frown he had molded into a smile. It was as if he came fresh off of the bench the way he sprinted at her. “You made it,” he exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Of course I came! When have I ever missed one of your games?”

His embrace tightened and her feet lifted off the ground. “Never,” he whispered.

“Exactly,” she replied and it was like he could hear her smile. As soon as her feet returned back to solid ground, his embrace loosened, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and lowered himself so that his eyes leveled with hers. Her smile morphed into a confused frown as he stared at her for a second. “What?”

He took a beat longer than usual before answering her. “Nothing, I’m just happy is all.”

“You better fucking be, Mr. MVP,” she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug once more. “You’re the fucking best.”

“I am the best,” he agreed, his body relaxing into her embrace. They stayed like that for a minute before she pulled away and smacked his arm. “Now let’s celebrate by stuffing our faces with burgers!”

—

"What if we just went together?"

"Us?"

Her reaction sent him into a spiral, the blood draining from his face. "Yeah, I mean we'd go just as friends— people go with their friends all the time."

Her face lightened in amusement at his nervous rambling. "I'm just fucking with you, Seresin. We can go together."

Then every year after that, they went as each other's "dates." To homecoming and prom. By Jake's senior year, everyone in their school swore up and down that they were actually a couple, despite their insistence that they weren't. Them showing up to prom together just fueled the fire. Jessie wasn't even a senior that year, but the yearbook staff made an exception labeling her and Jake, "Most Inseparable Friends." Every time someone opened up their copy of the yearbook, you could see drawn-in quotations people would add around the word Friends.

But regardless of everyone's speculations or pressure, they never really did get past being just friends. At his graduation, all three Rosales’ stood next to the Seresins cheering with balloons and a bouquet of flowers. Jessie noticed the side eye his father gave her as she cheered for him when the principal called his name but paid no mind to it. She supported their son more than he ever did.

—

“Jake!” He jumped at her sudden shout.

“What,” he groaned as he rubbed his eyes. Summer was exhausting, Jessie and Jake deciding to do almost everything they possibly could do in Austin, Texas. He was leaving for college at the end of the sunny season after all. He wasn’t going far, but he’d be busy with classes soon enough. Most days, just like today, they found themselves lounging in her room, listening to music and catching up on sleep. Well, until she woke him up. “You know how X-Men is coming out next week?”

“Yeah…?"

“The Alamo Drafthouse is playing it!”

“And?” She smacked his leg at his sarcasm. “Ow! Okay, I’m sorry!”

“We have to get tickets!”

“Do we have to?” Her eyebrows furrowed, sending him an angered glare. “Okay, okay!”

She quickly stood up off her bed, placing her hands out in front of him to help him up. “What?”

“Let’s go. How are we gonna see the movie when we don’t even have tickets yet!”

“Ugh, fine. But you’re driving,” he said, tossing her his keys. As they pulled into a parking space in front of the theater, she turned off the car with lightning speed and ran to the tiny box office at the entrance.

“Sorry hun, we ran out of tickets for it just yesterday…”

Her shoulders sagged and she whimpered back to the worker, “Oh okay. Thank you though.”

Watching her as she walked back to his car, the pep in her step gone, he couldn't help but feel bad. As she sat back down in the driver’s seat, he asked, “Well? Did you get the tickets?” She shook her head.

“That’s weird,” he started, pulling something out from his pockets. “Because when I went there yesterday, they had plenty.”

At that, he placed two small slips of paper in her lap. “Two tickets to see X-Men, tonight at 8 o’clock.” Her eyes widened as she picked up the papers and shot her head around to face him. He had expected a shriek followed by a warm embrace of excitement but instead, he was met with a firm slap to the shoulder. “What was that for?”

“You’re crazy and you’re stupid. That was so mean!” Each word was followed by a consecutive slap. “Okay but do you need to keep hitting me?”

“Yes! Because you’re mean! Letting me get all sad thinking I wasn’t gonna see the fricking movie.” After a dozen more hits, she leaned over the center console and gave him the hug he was expecting earlier. “Thank you,” she said into his shoulder. “You’re the best.”

“Of course. One question though.”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s hotter: me or Hugh Jackman?”

“You’re an asshole, d’you know that?” He grinned as she turned the car back on. “Refusal to answer the question means the answer is me,” he quipped, singing the last word.

“In your dreams, dickhead. Obviously Hugh Jackman’s hotter.”

Jake gasped in feigned offense. “I can return those tickets.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jessie hissed, causing Jake to grin at her seriousness.

—

As Jessie handed Jake an envelope, his eyes quickly scanned the text printed. University of California, Irvine. “Jess, what is this?”

“Open it,” she encouraged. Carefully, Jake pushed aside the flap, the envelope already opened as he pulled the paper inside, his expression filled with concern.

“Oh, read it out loud, too!” He let out a breathy laugh at her excitement.

“‘Dear Jessie Rosales, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that your application for admission to the University of California, Irvine has been approved.’ Jess, this is awesome!” He immediately jumped up and pulled her into a tight hug, the papers thrown across her bed as he threw his arms around her.

A piece of him worried for what the newfound distance between them would strain their relationship, but when his phone rang every night like clockwork, her name flashing across the screen, his anxiety about losing her slowly faded into the background.

Then they both got into the Naval Aviation program, Jake first with Jessie following suit a year later. Even when they were stationed in different places at a time and being sent off on long deployments, their relationship stayed strong. Long calls like no time had passed made his heart swell.

“What’s up with you?” Jessie asked, her voice distorted slightly by his phone’s speaker.

“I am packing,” he responds loudly for his phone’s mic to pick up as he moved to grab more clothes from his closet.”

“New orders?”

“Yeah,” he trailed, his voice strained as he shoved stuff into his duffel. “M’not supposed to tell anyone, but I got called back to Top Gun.”

Jessie didn’t respond for a second. “Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here,” she answered quickly. “D’you know why they’re calling you back?”

“Nope, but you know the Navy. They tell us where to go but not why.”

Jessie hummed. “Well, I’ll let you go pack.”

“Alright, good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.”He sighed as his phone beeped when she hung up, falling onto his bed in exhaustion.

Both of them saw the other grow up to be the person their younger versions had always wanted to be and neither of them would have it any other way.

TRANSLATIONS:

Dios mio - My god

Mierda - shit / crap

Pinche pendejo - Fucking idiot

(disclaimer: i don't speak spanish fluently and referred to things i've heard my friends say and/or looked it up! lmk if anything isn't accurate)

A/N: i hope this part made up for the pain that was the last three parts... again, tysm for keeping up with this series whether you've been here since the original versions or are just tuning in. much love <3 (also, the whole x-men plot point was written long before the hype for that franchise came back [ogs remember] and i thought i'd be cool to keep it in)

if you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

the playlist || taglist: @dempy @bellaireland1981 @princessashley99 @whateverbagman @blairfox04 @blue-aconite @captainmoonknight (some ppl were tagged bc i remember ygs from the og posts & thought i'd update yall! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged anymore!)

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hotshotsxyz · 2 years ago

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nothing's the same except everything

(buddie) (1.1k words) (6x15 coda) this started as a 6x15 coda and ended as spec for the rest of the season so ?? pls enjoy whatever it is i just did

On average, adults spend two hours per night dreaming.

Ever since his coma, Buck’s wondered if that statistic is skewed. Were coma dreams counted? If they weren’t, should they have been? And even if the statistic is right, does it take into account the way he is now?

Because he’s different. Buck knows he’s different. Eddie knows too, apparently, but it’s not just the him that interacts with the world every day that’s changed, it’s the him that lives in his dreams, too.

His dreams, jagged and sharp where they used to be soft and hazy. Buck’s different, and god, he needs to understand why.

Natalia helps, in a strange, roundabout sort of way. Not because she understands him, no, though he’s embarrassed to admit it took him four entire dates to figure that one out.

(And honestly, in what world was someone he just met going to get him like that?)

Anyway, it’s not what she sees in him that helps, not really, it’s what she asks when, at the end of their fourth ‘date’, Buck tells her he doesn’t want to see her again.

“What is it you’re still trying to figure out?” She tilts her head to the side in that enigmatic way of hers, and though she doesn’t explain herself further, Buck knows what she means.

You’ve seen what happens at the end, what else is there to know?

“What happens now,” he replies.

No weight falls from his shoulders when he ends things with Natalia, not like it did with Taylor. He thinks maybe it’s because, for once in his life, he let things run their course. Chose not to cling to a sinking ship.

It doesn’t really solve anything, anyway.

He says as much to Eddie one night, clutching the neck of a bottle tight between his fingers.

“So what now?” Eddie asks, leaving him all the room in the world to deflect. He finds he doesn’t really want to.

“I think,” Buck says, frowning, picking at the condensation-covered yellow label of his beer, “I think I’m going to start therapy again.”

A line of tension seems to release from Eddie’s shoulders and he nods. “That’s good, Buck,” he says, “I’m glad.”

There’s something else he wants to say, needs to maybe, but the words don’t come. It’s a feeling, and for the moment it’s vague. He’s got time, though. Enough time to find the words.

Buck wakes with a start. It’s hard to say, these days, whether he’s had a dream or a nightmare. The scenes are always disjointed, riddled with faces he doesn’t recognize wearing expressions he wishes he could forget.

Have you figured it out yet? They ask him.

How much longer do you think it can wait?

“You know,” Eddie says as they survey the remains of a burnt out house, waiting for the okay to begin overhaul, “it’s okay if you don’t have all the answers.”

Buck turns to him, cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

Eddie shakes his head. “I just mean– you can ask. Whatever questions you’ve been sitting on. Maybe Bobby’ll know, or Hen. Or– maybe I will.”

Buck swallows harshly. “I’m not sure I even know where to start,” he says.

“That’s okay too,” Eddie replies.

That night, he dreams of water. He claws at it, desperate to pull his way to the surface. The scene fractures, and he’s dangling from the top of the ladder truck. It groans loudly and begins to tip, slow at first, then fast, until the ground is hurtling towards him and–

Buck!

He wakes with a gasp and reaches for his phone with trembling fingers.

He dials and waits. Waits until–

“Buck?” Eddie’s voice is sleep-rough and worried, but Buck can’t bring himself to be sorry for calling.

“What happened?” he asks, so quiet he can’t be sure Eddie hears him.

For a moment, only the sound of breathing reaches his ear.

Then, Eddie tells him.

It’s strange, in hindsight, that Buck never thought to ask whose hands he came back to life beneath. Stranger still, the way his heart seems to react to the news.

Every time he sees Eddie, it gives a little jump, a small acknowledgement of the man that saved it.

Nothing’s the same but everything is, and the only constant in the universe is change but statistically, things always regress to the mean.

On average, adults dream two hours per night, and now, Buck only ever seems to dream of Eddie.

“What do you think dreams mean?” Buck asks Hen one morning, apropos of nothing.

“Why?” she asks, “Have a weird one last night?”

Buck shrugs. “Something like that.”

Hen pauses for a moment, takes a moment to look at him, really look. “I’m not sure they mean anything,” she says finally. “But how you feel in the morning… that’s got to be worth something.”

“Do you think I’m looking for the right things?” Buck asks Maddie.

“How do you know when you’ve found what you’re looking for?” He asks Chim.

“Are we clear to head out?” he asks Bobby.

The roads are always bad after an earthquake, but Buck navigates them carefully, driving slowly around old potholes and new cracks in the asphalt. None of the traffic lights are working, so Buck takes a circuitous route to the loft, making only right turns where he’d usually go left. What’s usually a twenty minute drive takes over an hour tonight, but they make it without incident, and that’s all Buck really cares about.

“I’ve got him,” he whispers to Eddie, nodding towards Christopher, who’s half-asleep in the back of the Jeep.

Eddie smiles tiredly at him and shoulders his bag.

As they wait for the elevator, another question occurs to Buck. “How did you know?”

Know what? Eddie should probably ask. Because Buck hasn’t really asked a question. He could be asking about anything. Could be asking–

How did you know I needed the jaws earlier?

How did you know what I wanted for dinner last night?

How did you know you could trust me with Chris?

How did you know I wasn’t the same?

How did you know I needed permission to ask?

Could be asking any of it. But he’s actually asking all of it.

Eddie smiles at him, tired but warm, wearing that soft expression he only ever seems to direct at him or Christopher. “Because I know you,” he says simply.

Buck’s eyes snap to Eddie’s, because suddenly, he gets it. I know you, Eddie says, and he’s right. Eddie knows him, and he knows Eddie.

All those weeks ago, he’d wondered aloud: what happens now? And this– this is the answer. Him. Eddie.

“Oh,” he says softly, a little awestruck.

Impossibly, Eddie’s expression softens further.

For once in his life, Buck knows exactly what happens next.

The ground shakes beneath their feet. Eddie’s eyes widen and he reaches for Buck, even as the shifting concrete has him stumbling back. The building around them groans and screeches, and Buck pulls Christopher tight against his chest.

Fear twists its way into Eddie’s expression. It’s the last thing Buck sees before the world crumbles around them.

#911 spoilers #911 #911fic #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #uhhhhhhh idk what happened here but sorry!!#abbie writes #fic #userceecee

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mondstalgia · 11 months ago

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BL ships that I will never forget:

In a few weeks it's gonna be 14 years of obsessing over queer media, especially BL, so here are the ships always on my mind in no particular order.

Arata & Shingyouji (Takumi-kun Series 4: Pure, 2010): Listen the Takumi-kun Series from 2007 to like 2011 was my life as a (pre-)teen. In hindsight really sketchy but anyway haha. Those two really caught my eye back then though (especially their racy kisses) and I was happy they got their own bigger part in one of the movies.

Evan & Isak (Skam Season 3, 2016): Was there a queer European teen that wasn't obsessed with this season of Skam? I remember re-watching it so many times I could recite their text without speaking Norwegian. Plenty of beautiful Skam universe parallel couples out there but these two will remain the iconic blueprint.

ChenAi (Kiseki: Dear to me, 2023): Almost unfair to put them on here but seeing how I haven't been able to think about any other ship every single day for the last 3 months, I feel like it's justified. They just have everything I want and need to get hyperfixated on.

Seiryo & Yuzuru (Seven Days, 2015): Oh my, the way I loved this silly concept and how funny it was yet they managed to get me all emotionally involved in the span of two movies? Insane chemistry and just..everything I needed back then. Especially since it was then one of the very few BL's I saw without a sad ending.

KornKnock (Bad Romance 2016, Together With Me 2017 - 2018): Listen, plot wise Manner of Death is the absolute height to me but when it comes to MaxTul I will never forget them as Korn and Knock in these series. Forever grateful to all the fanvids that led me to finding my BL fathers. Chemistry forever out of this world. Also shout out to Yiwha, best female character in any BL and my wife.

WinTeam (Until We Meet Again 2019, Between Us 2023): The couple that made me aware of what second lead syndrome was because I waited so long for more of them, it felt eternal. I don't think I will ever get tired of these two.

VegasPete (KinnPorsche, 2022): Who said I couldn't like a toxic ship? These two took me by surprise, I didnt even know they were going to be a ship in the series. Definitely acknowledging how fucked up they are yet at the same time it's the forst toxic ship that really got me. I love them, in my own weird way.

HaoGu (HIStory 3: Make Our Days Count, 2019): I mourned them like I have mourned no other couple. I should have known from the title but they really lead me astray. My beautiful boys, the star crossed lovers. They still get me emotional now, I might go cry now.

Hira & Kiyoi (Utsukushii Kare, 2021 - 2023): Before ChenAi there were Hira and Kiyoi who absolutely owned my heart. I love how misunderstood by BL fans they were who claimed their toxicity. Meanwhile I simply love how weird their relationship is and getting to see a real Tsundere in action. I'm obsessed with them.

Honourable Mention: Kim Jae Wook as Min Sun Woo in Antique Bakery, 2008. The very first gay character I saw in Korean media. Forever iconic, forever in my heart.

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wh0refornikolailantsov · 1 year ago

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omg you write for Nikolai too?? could you do a part 2 to Better Late Than Never - i love the idea!!

Sure can do, Nikolai is my love. Tolya content is because I love my bestie and apparently the fandom as a whole is deprived of Tolya content which is unacceptable honestly. But yeah thought my username might give away the Nikolai enthusiasm, and I'm more than happy to write content for him, he plagues my every waking thought and honestly I'm not mad about it.

Part 1

Better Late Than Never Part 2 - Nikolai Lantsov

Content Warnings: Vasily. No Beta/Proof Reading.

All Nikolai could do was think about you, about his brother and about all the ways he wanted to bring a stop to everything.

The thoughts consumed his every waking moment, his conscious thoughts being entirely clouded by you. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you had looked at him the night he found out about your engagement, that pleading look in your eyes, that wishing he could do something, anything to fix it. You had given him that look once before, before he left. When you'd begged him to stay without saying a single word about him leaving.

He had left anyway, and a day had not passed by when he had not thought of how sad you were to see him go. He had often thought about returning, and what it would be like to see you again. He had never in those worst thoughts considered that he would return to you stuck and so resigned to it.

It's not like you hadn't considered your options, you'd considered just leaving Ravka, which you admitted was a bit of an extreme method for getting out of an engagement, but this was to Vasily Lantsov, First Prince of Ravka, destined to be King of Ravka, and you took no joy in the prospect of being his Queen.

It was late when you heard the knock on your bedroom door, you'd been moved in months prior to the engagement, it was a matter of your familys relationship with the crown and the manner in which of the countries war. Your father needed so often at council meetings you had been relocated for convenience, which hindsight let you wonder if that had not just been an excuse on Vasily's part to get you close.

He knew you hated him, you'd never been good at hiding it, and he adored just how much you disliked him, he treated it like a game. It only made you hate him more.

You opened the door and of all the people you'd expected to be at your door, Nikolai had not made the list. And yet, it was his deep eyes, and his soft, sleep tousled hair that you laid eyes on. His rob hung loosely tied, the fabric not held close across his chest, he was showing far too much skin to just be walking around the halls and you both knew it.

"Nikolai," you grabbed his hand and pulled him inside your room without thinking. You leaned quickly on the door until it closed and stared at Nikolai, who tried to look like he had a good excuse for the intrusion but you both knew he did not. Not with that look on his face, you knew it better than most of his looks, this was he was causing trouble, for him, for you, for both of you, was anyone's guess, and he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry about it. "What are you doing here?"

"You just pulled me inside your bedroom in the dark of night, and you're asking me about my intentions," he teased you, he should know better but he doesnt, "people will talk."

"Nikolai," you mumbled.

"I have been thinking about your situation," Nikolai said and for a moment you pondered if maybe he had been drinking, but no, this was something else. "And I've been trying to think of how I could fix this."

"Fix it?" You laughed, and it was more bitter than you intended.

"Yes," the softness in his face made you want to grab his face and shake sense into him, or kiss him but those feelings were like old friends to you and you would not let them shake you.

"Oh Kolya," you sighed, and gave him the softest smile you were capable of mustering. "You have to live up to your name, don't you?"

"Saint of Sailors," he tried, desperate for you not to say it.

"Can't you see I am a lost cause?" you asked. He didn't look at you then, unable to handle the look he knew he would find in your eyes.

"I will not believe you are a lost cause," he says, "I cannot believe that."

"Then you can believe in me for the both of us."

He stepped close and you moved to step back but were quickly reminded of the door you leant against. You couldn't let him be close to you, not after all this time. Not like this. Not because he felt guilty for never noticing. Not because he felt guilty for leaving. Not because of Vasily. Not because Nikolai thought he owed you something.

Not because you are engaged to his brother.

"What if I took you away?" He asked. You would be sure he was drunk now if he wasn't holding your gaze so adamantly, his voice so serious and steady. His eyes bored right into you.

"Nikolai, my life is here," your voice deflated, given in.

"What life do you get to have with my brother?" He asked.

"A frustrating one, and I do not want it but it is mine," you argued. "What choice do I have?"

"I could not stay before," he said, and looked away from you, his shoulders lowered like he was finally admitting to a long awaited confession. "But I should not have left you."

"What did I have to offer Sturmhond," the words fell from your lips and Nikolai saw in plain view just how much you knew and understood. Exactly how much you'd always seen him, how much none of the other things had mattered. How much he hadn't noticed in all those years felt like drowning.

He regrets his response before he fully made it but the words came out of him and they felt like knives, "What did I have to offer you, as the royal spare to the throne?"

There was anger in your eyes and he saw it. White, glaring anger. "None of that mattered to me, you knew that, it was never about-"

"I know," he stopped you. "I'm sorry, I am sorry for all of it, for leaving, for not taking you with me, for letting Vasily ever set eyes on you, for not coming back sooner, for not realising sooner. For all of it."

"Nikolai I spent our entire youth hoping, that maybe one day you'd wake up and you'd see it, all of it, but that was stories, and this isn't those stories, you cannot rescue me from this, not without..." you stopped, you knew you were just as much a pawn in Vasily's game to anger his brother as you were a prize in your own right to him. You knew all the things that Vasily might do or say to bring Nikolai down if he dared to try and interfere. Vasily's play was this slow suffering, this hope of inflicting quiet, longing and regretful suffering on his brother. His brother who had never done anything to harm him except be a better man than Vasily was capable of being. "I do not like to think of what he would do to you Kolya," Nikolai watched your movements, the way you struggled with your words. The idea of his pain, and what he might lose was more painful to you than your own suffering and Nikolai understood it with perfect mirrorlike reflectance, because he felt the same.

"What if you married me?" He asked. You laughed. You couldn't help it.

"Swap one prince for another, on what count, Vasily would sooner see me hanged for dishonour than allow that," you argued.

"Not as a Prince then."

"As Sturmhond?"

"No... well... yes. But no, not as someone else, not as a Prince who never had a shot at being King, not as the person I pretended to be to get away from a life felt could not serve me or my country, but just as me, Nikolai, not a Lantsov or a Privateer, not a Prince or a facade. But as me," he said. Saints you'd wanted that, of course you wanted that. It's all you'd wanted for so long but never allowed yourself to think you could have.

"The Crown-"

"I'll renounce my right to the throne."

"You wouldn't," your tone was far too serious, you looked far too stern that Nikolai couldn't help but laugh.

"I love Ravka, it's my country and I would live and die for it, but I cannot serve Ravka's best intentions walking around this place with no real sway and no chance to make a difference. But I will not leave without you again, and I will not let you fall into a life that we both know you'd rather die than live in. Especially if one of the reasons you're doing it is to protect me from the same slander and rumours Vasily has taunted me with my entire life." He steps closer again and you don't try to move away. "So please, let me take you away."

"You know Kolya, I have waited my whole life for you to ask me that," you admitted.

"Is that a yes?"

"I do not care to be a Lantsov, Nikolai, I only care to be yours."

Tagging Those Who Asked About Part2: @xceafh , @marchingicenotes7 , @goldenpoison , @number-0-iz , @hauntedenthusiasttragedy

#shadow and bone #grishaverse #six of crows #nikolai x reader #nikolai lantsov fanfic #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai x you #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lanstov x y/n #sturmhond #vasily lantsov

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