#but if you’re cutting off bridges or changing pronouns ???

[theballadoflucygraybaird]

it’s such a pet peeve of mine when a band or artist cover a song and they change the pronouns. what are you so scared of? just say the pronoun it cannot hurt you

[voidcat]

— the maker, far away and the muse, ardent

characters: endo yamato, you

notes: this is more in the style of my typical dazai content so iykyk. artist!reader, gender neutral pronouns used. small picture of dorian gray reference. a mini post explaining my vision for this fic basically

Drawing Endo Yamato is a tricky feat.

Despite his simple looks, you realize there are more details to him that meets the eye. Sharp edges and curves, eyes and lashes that cut through, wavy locks of hair that fall with an order to itself.

It is difficult but so is to create. That’s the thing with art, and that’s what you love about it until the very end.

No matter how hard, how detailed something is, no matter how long it’ll take you to reach that level of skill required to make it, it is never impossible.

And so you sit back and keep observing him, smoothing out the page before you, you sharpen your pencil.

Despite the numerous pages adorned with his face, you’ve never spoken with Endo Yamato, not even once. Nor did you feel the need to.

Does god often seek an audience with their followers, does a nature artist eat the apple even after days of mold has accumulated— does everyone kill the thing they love? Or do they just leave it be, to their happiness or misery.

To you he is nothing more than a pretty face, beautiful features and an impressive body, one he uses as his own canvas, recording his life and feelings onto his skin permanently.

Endo Yamato never sits still, as if offering a challenge to you. Another thing that helps you in the long run, your pen begins to hasten, your sketch line improves and you begin to remember and transfer every small detail of a millisecond to paper without breaking a sweat.

It begins piece by piece, part by part. When one thing proves difficult to grasp, you have no choice but to dissect it one by one.

You begin with his structure, how he carries himself and his body. You have confidence in your figure drawing but it takes something extra to show off his pride and nose high up attitude in his posture. You don’t know Endo Yamato all that much but you know enough that you don’t like him or his kind at all.

Then comes the face, the edge of his jaw and the softness to his cheeks despite coming off as thin. It’s the details that prove the real challenge. When drawn apart, be it his eyes or the hooked nose, you’re good. Yet the way they have been placed on his face, you have to remake the dough figurine over and over again. His hair proves a great distraction, you’d suppose it is the real source of your problems. It hides everything characteristic to him, every small detail, the arch of his brows, the wrinkles on his face when he smiles or furrows them, the angle of his nose and how the bridge comes down, the light in his eyes though they are absent majority of the time.

You sketch over and over, the pencil glides off the pages. You change the materials but the subject remains the same. Noticeable changes begin to appear after some time. You’ve lost for how long you’ve been drawing, but it comes natural now.

So you switch up the medium, and try the process from the start with watercolors. The uncontrollable nature of the medium met with the difficult subject growing familiar on your muscles perfectly.

Too perfectly in fact, as you are lost in the thrill of it, that you don’t even notice how time passes nor the shift in scenery unless it contradicts your paintings— and you’re slouching over the papers once more, face contracting in focus as shadows disturb your view and lighting.

When you steal a glance above, you’re met with not a cloud but none other than Endo Yamato himself.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets and his confident yet relaxed posture, he glances down at you and the papers, wearing a smug smile the whole time.

You wait for a moment of breath then divert your attention back to the work before you, adding shadows currently.

You hear him let out a slight grunt, and maybe you’d see his expression shift into something of surprise too, were you to be carefully watching.

“It’s sublime knowing I have a fan.” He says, still not stepping one step to the side, adamant on blocking the light apparently.

His words register far too late for you, you let out a hum at first, “hmm… oh?” The sound fades into surprise on your end, “ah, no, you see-“

You dip the brush into water and to the shades of blue and purple, mixing and lightening the amount of paint on the brush. 

A tapping of feet brings you down to earth and reminds you for once you are not alone in your leisure time of painting.

“Ah… sorry.” You say more as an apology for forgetting he was right there up until a second, “it’s nothing like that.”

Your words take him out like a chain of inconveniences following one after another, building up until you’ve lost your temper.

You don’t notice this either, focus solely on perfecting the shading, calling it another painting done and complete.

To Endo, your nonchalance is odd to say the least. Here he stands, the subject of your attention for many a while now, from what he has seen, and you don’t seem to care one bit. Or is it the paper that is holier than him? Or is this another, albeit looser case of Takiishi, not caring for the people but for their reflections, their end products, what comes out of them and the hand that crafts them into something bigger, brighter.

Along the lines Endo Yamato says to you, you do catch something like ‘having the real thing before you already.’ An enlightenment perhaps, a revelation you didn’t need nor asked for.

So he is a charmer, you think, or tries to be. Considering the things at hand it’s the former most likely— walking up to you without a care in the world as if you’ve interacted before. It takes some sort of confidence, as most charmers carry with them. He is just not trying it to the fullest with you, but is it because he thinks he already holds a part of you in his hand, you’re unsure.

In the short timeframe of thinking over a man you couldn’t care any less, you notice your brush staggering, slowing down. Any more and the drops of water will be too much for the paper, ruining all your hard work on this completely.

“So… listen,” you begin, cutting off whatever he was saying. “If you don’t have anything important to say, would you mind-“ 

You wait and wait for him to catch on. Instead met with empty eyes looking at you with not a single clue inside that brain of his, you let out a sigh.

“The light at this hour is very good and you’re making me lose it minute by minute right now.”

Endo looks at you, in disbelief again. Not the reaction he was expecting and definitely not the words he expected to hear. And compared to how quiet and just shy you sounded up until the last sentence— that last demand, all that timid nature of you dispelled within a second. 

Deflated, he admits his defeat for the time being and leaves, stealing one last glance at the paper.

As the man leaves, you watch his back for a bit, waiting for your brush to dry.

Odd, you think. 

What did he really expect you to do or say? 

You may not know Endo Yamato but all you’ve observed is more than enough to deem him as weird. You are somewhat aware he is filled with burning passion down to his very being but that’s just not who you are as an artist.

The views people have on you, and by extension, on artists has always been far fetched from what you’ve seen.

Must art always be loud and intense, waging war upon any heart that gazes at it? Should you too be destructive and heavy— not all artists see their subject like Basil to Dorian, not all art is an all consuming fire, an endless devotion, a declaration of war. Art can be natural and gentle, like a breeze, like a stream of river.  Love can be accepting and gentle, unifying and kind with the familiarity it brings, the comfort hidden in the routine, as he fails to see.

By the time the painting has come to an end, darkness has fallen. Endo Yamato has already left, and the sunlight soon after him. The sky begins to darken, purple spreads of paint among the clouds. You turn the page and leave today in the past, crossing another thing off the list and moving on.

[g00d--m0urning]

Unnamed Pt. 1 (Daryl Dixon x AFAB!reader)

Part two

This is my first time writing in a long ass time, so please, feel free to leave criticism.

word count: 3208

Summary: ex-cop!Reader's world is rocked thrice over when Daryl Dixon breaks up with them, they discover their pregnant and the world goes to shit in the span of a few months. A/N: this is gender neutral, no other pronouns but you/your used. Reader is obviously AFAB since they get pregnant. Also this first part is hella slow. Basically just getting background out of the way. No y/n used. (No smut, angst? IDFK)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being a cop whilst dating a criminal is… well, interesting, to say the least. And in both of your defenses, Daryl’s not, like, a murder or anything, just petty theft and trespassing and the occasional assault charge (they never go further than a slight fine, it’s a small town in Georgia, nobody gives two fucks). The problem is the eldest Dixon--Merle, the GD bane of your existence--the dumbass is constantly dragging Daryl into his shit (drugs, to be clear) and the youngest refuses to stop riding along with him. No matter how hard you try, therefore, it's a constant point in arguments; much like this one.

“You can tell him no!” you shout exasperatedly, for probably the millionth time tonight.

The ‘him’ in question is Merle Dixon, and the needed ‘no’ is Daryl refusing to ride along to one of his drug crusades. You weren’t even supposed to know about this run, Daryl kept that part of his life separate, per your request, keeping from having to turn either Dixon in, as your academy oath swore. However, the FBI had gotten wind of this trade--something about some cartel being included--and they started sniffing around in search of making a bust and you really didn’t need your boyfriend in federal prison for being associated with that.

“Nah, I can’t!” Daryl shouts right back, smacking his hand against the shitty, peeling folding table he calls a dining table.

This has been going on for probably almost an hour now; you push, he pulls and it just turns into a vicious circle. It had started as an earnest plea, asking him kindly not to go on this run and he just scoffed, continuing to scarf down the three-day-old leftovers you heated up. Now it’s this screaming match, one you’re both tired of. You go to open your mouth to ask why, but he raises a hand, cutting you off like he can read your mind (he can’t, you’ve just had this same argument so many times, you can predict the exact words to come out of each other’s mouth).

“He’s family, been there for me mah whole life,” he hasn’t, he’s been in and out of jail his whole life, but ok. “Least I can do ‘s be there for a simple run, done it a thousand times.”

You just groan in response, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pace, just trying to figure out what to say. How to change his mind. There’s a simple answer, you can’t; if there’s one thing you learnt almost immediately in this relationship is that once the Dixon mind is made up, it’s made up.

“What?” he barks, clearly annoyed by your annoyance.

“Nothing, D.” you mutter, shaking your head at this whole situation.

He huffs at that, knowing it’s not ‘nothing,’ but not wanting to know what it truly is, it’d just stoke the fire. Being the pouty baby he is, Daryl plops into a folding chair, the old hinges creaking at the intense weight add, crossing his arms over his chest. If you weren’t so mad, you’d find the scowl on his face and the way his muscles bulge attractive. A loaded silence falls over the two of you; the neighbor’s dog barks at something, presumably the car that can be heard driving across the old gravel road, a door slams, and cicadas chirp, having come back to enjoy the southern summer heat.

“You know what? No--” you set your hands on the table, putting a stop to your pacing as you look over at Daryl, something indiscernible clouding your face.

“What’re ya--” he starts, sitting up in the chair, cutting himself off as you butt in before he can finish.

“It’s not nothing, Dixon. This--” a quick gesture to the air between the two of you, “isn’t ‘nothing.’ You insisting on going on your idiot brother’s crusades isn’t ‘nothing.’ And I get that he’s family, I do, but you shouldn’t have to throw your life away to repay whatever debt you think you owe him for sticking around!”

You’re the one to get cut off this time, being silenced as he scoffs, abruptly standing up from his chair, anger evident on his face, maybe even a hint of betrayal if you looked real close.

“Fuck that’s supposed ta’ mean?” he asks, brows furrowing as he steps closer to you.

“What’s what supposed to mean?” you ask back, confused by his sudden reaction. You didn’t think you said anything wrong, just expressed a very correct opinion.

“Ya think ‘m throwing mah life away?--ain’t like I got much ahead of me, right? Not like you do, right?” he puts extra emphasis on that last right, rounding the table to stand in front of you.

Another constant topic brought up in arguments--him thinking he’s got no life ahead of him other than ending up dead or deadbeat like his parents and you, having been dealt a much better card of hands in life, having much more planned for you. No matter how much you tried to convince him he could do so much more than be a lackey for his shithead brother, he denies and you guys end up ignoring each other for days until one of you cracks.

“Well, newsflash, all of us ain’t got some shiny future waitin’ for us. Some of us got a life being a ‘lackey’ or whateva you said, fancy pants. And ‘m sorry if that ain’t good enough for ya.’” he states, invading your space inch by inch as he mocks your words.

“That’s not--that’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant!” you stammer, panic slowly beginning to boil beneath the anger. If you thought he, or his family situation, or anything about him, wasn’t good enough for him you wouldn’t have put in the almost two years being his friend and another two and a half dating his stubborn ass. He continues his encroachment until you’re toe to toe,

“Sure as hell sounded like it’s whatcha meant,” he snarls, rubbing at the scruff he has yet to shave before straightening his posture, looking away for a moment. He sucks at his teeth, huffing before he looks straight at you, something you can’t make out clouding his face, “I think you should leave.”

Your face falls, tears slowly welling in your eyes as the words leave his mouth. He’s not kidding, nor was it some sort of freudian slip, he wants you out. It seems different this time, too; not some enraged get out that gets resolved with rough make up sex, or the more tearful one that usually ends with sobbing in each other's arms.

This, this is different. He doesn’t look angry, there’s no tears clawing their way through his stubborn ducts, he’s just… blank. No emotion, other than that stubborn Dixon resolution. This feels like a breakup.

“Fine, I’ll leave.” you huff, taking in a shaky breath as you turn on your heel to make the short trek to the front door. Shoes are haphazardly shoved on, the tongue stuck under your foot and laces shoved in, and your phone and keys shoved into a pocket as you head out the door, slamming the screen door shut behind you.

You don’t bother looking back, not wanting to risk the tears falling, until you hear the broken door of the Dixon trailer jimmied shut. A few tears slip from your eyes, angrily swiping at the wet streaks before continuing down the ‘driveway’ to your car.

Maybe if you stayed inside another minute you could’ve seen the tears glassing over Daryl’s eyes. Or maybe if you stayed outside another minute you would’ve heard the sound of another hole being punched into the wall of the Dixon trailer that continues out of sight as you drive away.

A few days pass by, no contact between you two, letting each other cool down; at least you thought. It’s about a week before you try talking to him the first time, having stopped by the car shop he works at to bring him lunch (a BLT from the greasy dinner, the one next to the even greasier motel near the edge of town). The only response you got was a sideways glare before he huffed and returned to fixing the neighbor’s old pick up, leaving you to put his sandwich on his toolbox and walk back to the station.

Another three days pass before you try again, approaching him in the rundown bar, but again, he ignores you, turning away and slipping into the crowd Merle had gathered. You don’t want to be desperate, but you try calling him a few times, no response to all four calls. As a week turns to two and two to three, your attempts become less and less often.

Around week four is when you got the letter; your application to attend the new agent training for the FBI has been approved. Holy-fucking-shit. You read the letter over and over until the words turn to blurry specks you can no longer decipher and that’s when the nausea kicks in, heaving into the bushes by your mailbox. You write it off as stress sickness, between your breakup and now this; I mean, it’s a big deal, going from beat cop in bumfuck Georgia to a possible FBI agent in Virginia.

You wait on the decision, debating if you want to uproot the life you’ve set up here, getting sick a few more times in the process. You try calling Daryl after a few days of thinking to no avail as he doesn’t answer; that helps you make your decision, handing in your badge the next day and spending the last few days of the week packing your stuff into a u-haul.

You stand on the last step of your shitty porch, staring at the even shittier two room house you’ve called home for the last five years, tears welling in your eyes as you think back to the memories. They’re not all good, not all bad either, and the longer you stand there the more you regret your decision, so you wipe away the few tears that slipped down your cheeks and turn away.

Away from the house, down the step and down the uneven pavement you call a driveway and to your car. You open the door of your baby (a lovely ‘69 Chevy Impala you got from an old lady a few years back), taking one more look back before sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car: starting your new life.

Settling into your new apartment in Virginia wasn’t as hard as you thought it was going to be; honestly it was a breeze. The whole move was a breath of fresh air, it's nice being in a city where you don’t have to worry about everyone knowing everything about you. The only bad part is you still feel like crap--physically, not mentally, or not really--you’ll have to find a doctor soon anyway, the FBI academy requires your health records and you do not remember the last time you had your shots.

It’s about a week before the academy starts, so you decide it’s time to get to the hospital and get everything checked out. The doctor you booked with seems nice enough when you get there, going through a routine checkup: reflexes, blood pressure, weight, shot records and updates, all that lovely medical stuff.

“So, dear, I’m all done, unless you have any concerns of your own?” the doctor asks, tapping a manicured nail against her desktop as she looks up at you through thin framed glasses.

“Uh, yeah, actually, these past few weeks I’ve felt pretty nauseous. I don’t think it’s anything, just the stress from my move and all, but I wanted to make sure before I started work.” you tell her, a faint blush painting your cheeks under her gaze; normally you could never admit something like that, not without it getting out and people forming all sorts of conspiracies.

“Hm… Well, you’re healthy as a horse, so you’re probably not sick. It most likely is the stress.” she tells you, standing up, her heels tapping as she moves in front of you, red painted lips pursing in a thin line, “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

“W-what? No. No, there’s absolutely no way I could be preg--” you stammer, trailing off as you think back to about two months ago. You and Daryl had been drunk off your asses, desperate, sloppy..

“Here, the bathrooms down the hall and to the left.” she hands you a pregnancy test with a chuckle, clearly oblivious to your inner panic. “And don’t worry, this kind of thing happens all the time.”

You have to hold back the urge to glare at her when you get up from the chair, annoying hospital paper crinkling beneath you. How can she just play this off like it’s nothing? It’s not nothing, you could be pregnant! This could fuck everything up, you can’t attend FBI academy whilst pregnant.

Squatting awkwardly over the toilet so you can piss on the stick while simultaneously managing not to miss the bowl, you hum to yourself as you actively avoid meeting your own gaze in the awkwardly placed full length mirror. You finish, quickly tossing the pee-stick into the sink and deal with the rest of your business before pacing the bathroom as you wait the longest three minutes of your life.

Your phone is in and out of your pocket, continually checking the time until three minutes have finally passed; thank god. You grab a paper towel, reach in the sink and grab the test, trying to find the courage to look at the results. Before you can psych yourself out you look, your heart sinking as you stare at the two pink lines glaring up at you.

You feel sick, you are sick, apparently; there’s a full ass human growing in you. As you gag over the toilet the doctor knocks on the door, slowly pushing it open. An apparent sympathetic expression reading her brows as she moves to gently rub your back. She sits with you until your stomach is emptied, the only thing falling into the toilet being tears.

“It’ll be ok, honey, it will. No matter what you decide.” she tells you as you both exit the bathroom, having spent a good ten minutes sitting on the floor dreading the future. You haven’t a clue what she means by ‘no matter what you decide’ until she passes you a pamphlet for an abortion clinic, offering you a pity smile as you leave the room.

The rest of the day is a blur, between swinging moods between rage and depression it’s hard to keep track of when what happened. You can’t go back to Georgia, you don’t want to go back to Georgia, but what’s going to happen? You know absolutely nobody and your plans have been utterly fucked. So, what? Get rid of the kid? Maybe? No. Maybe… No. Just get a job, raise a kid, yep, sure; this has to be the worst thing ever.

Surprisingly the next month of pregnancy isn’t horrible, you snagged a desk job at the local police department, and you’ve been setting roots down. The doctor--Lillian, you learn, the doctor from before--has been a big help, a friend, you’d consider her; she has a kid of her own with her wife and has been coaching you through your first trimester of growing an unnamed fetus growing within you.

You’re sitting pretty in your OB/GYN’s office, waiting for her to come in and do your four month ultrasound and tell you the gender, which you hope is some because if you have to listen to anymore of the incessant drone of the news anchor you might go insane.

Finally she walks in, all chipper smiles and pink gloves as she wheels the ultrasound machine in behind her. The gel is cold, making you hiss as it’s smeared across your stomach, the tech chuckling at the reaction.

“Do you have any names picked out yet?” she asks, getting the machine all kicked up and ready. She tuts playfully, as you shake your head no, waving a hand through the air. “Well, no pressure, I had a friend who didn’t pick a name until her kid was crowning.”

You cringe at that, finding it to be way too much information; if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that you’re getting a c-section. Natural birth seems scary as shit.

“Are you excited to find out the gender?” is the next question asked as she drags the transducer across your stomach, trying to pinpoint the child. You shake your head again, a ‘yes’ this time.

“Yeah, I am. I don’t have a preference, but I figured knowing the gender would take a little stress off, knowing what to buy and all.” you tell her, pulling a chuckle from both of you. She nods in agreement, cheering quietly as she finally finds the baby.

“In that case, I am happy to tell you that you are having a…” she moves the wand around a little more, squealing happily, seemingly having found the right angle, “girl, it’s a girl! Congrats!” she beams, reaching around to press the print button on the machine.

A sigh leaves your lips as you stare up at the black and white blob that is your baby; a baby girl apparently. Wow. You smile as she hands you the pictures, ‘Congratulations’ scrawled on the bottom of the film.

You can’t seem to find words as the doctor hands you a paper towel to wipe the excess gel off, her head wiggling as she celebrates on your behalf. She busies herself with cleaning everything up as you pull your pants pack on properly, ready to leave the room before something catches your attention.

There’s a red banner rolling at the bottom of the TV, words flashing ‘breaking news.’ You tap the doctor’s shoulder, asking her to turn the volume up on the TV. Her face falls at the sight, nodding as she clicks the volume up several notches.

“Breaking news, multiple reports of a virus outbreak have been recorded in the last several hours. There has been little comment from the government--Wait, one moment please,” is the only thing you manage to hear before a loud and annoying blare emits from the TV, “This is not a drill, I repeat this is not a drill,” and back to the news guy.

“This just in, cities are going on lockdown, soldiers invading hospitals and the government is advising everybody to stay in their homes. Do not try leaving your city, stay at home or indoors. There has been an outbreak. I repeat--” what the fuck? You listen to the spiel again, trying to wrap your head around what he’s saying.

A nurse rushes in, ushering you out of the room and out the front door, bidding you good luck. There’s already panic starting in the streets; people are flooding stores and cars jamming the streets.

You know how you said being pregnant was the worst thing ever? Scratch that.

[viperrot]

⇁slasher season | leon kennedy | intro

re4 remake ghostface!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader NSFW 18+

MINORS DNI: BEWARE OF THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME.

you've always been in love with horror media growing up, especially slasher films. your boyfriend suggests to indulge in your dark fantasies after learning about your liking towards the classic ghostface.

series content warnings: porn with little plot, cnc/dubcon, depictions of chase, stalking, knifeplay, size difference, and possibly more to be added

content contains: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF MURDER (ghostface in the movie doing ghostface things), oral (f!receiving), reader has fem!anatomy and uses fem!pronouns, size difference (leon is supposedly taller and beefier than reader), use of petnames (bunny, bug), no p in v, leon eats pussy like a champ!, praise and degradation

not proofread i am eepy

3719 words

song rec: "porno witch" by devil's witches (PLEASE LISTEN I LOVE THIS SONG UHHUGGHHU)

the introduction to my new self-indulgent collection of ghostface leon! no ghostface!leon here, but in the next one? ohohoho… be prepared, little doves.

enjoy below the cut~

Swaddled up in a soft blanket dyed to look like the Mystery Machine from Scooby-Doo, you patiently waited for your boyfriend to arrive home from work. You sat on the floor below your couch, surrounded by pillows you had taken from your bedroom in effort to get comfortable.

Tonight was movie night, and it was your week to pick the movie. With the summer season in full swing, you had finally decided it was “Slasher Season”—a time of the year you made up when you were in high school as an excuse to watch shitty horror films on your mom’s VHS player. Slasher Season, for you, was from July and all the way into Christmas—the typical settings of many slasher films. From summer camp scenarios, halloween killing sprees, and organs for Christmas presents, you thought it was a proper time period to call the Slasher Season.

As you scrolled through your phone, mindlessly looking through cringe social media, a ping! sound vibrates the small device. Your put your attention on the notification banner at the top of the screen, smiling softly when you see a message from your sweetheart.

Lee💕» Almost there. Make me some hot chocolate?

At the mentioning of the sweet treat, you checked the electric kettle that was resting on the kitchen counter and squinted at it.

« Too farrrr you do it urself!!

You respond, feeling lazy.

Lee💕» You’re goofy. See you soon, bug

Your heart raced knowing Leon was only a few blocks away at this point. He often walks place-to-place to make up for his lack of gym consistency as a result of college taking up most of his time, and his dorm isn’t very far from your apartment. As you waited for Leon, you got up from your comfortable spot on the floor to turn on the kettle before searching for the remote to the TV, finding it wedged between the couch cushions.

Sitting back down in your pillow moat, you quickly search for one of your favourite slashers on a random streaming service—Scream, 1996. The infamous Ghostface mask stared back at you as you clicked around for the “play” button, starting the movie and immediately pausing it to continue when your lover arrives.

The door to your quaint apartment clicks, the sound of a door knob rattling catching your attention. It pushes open to reveal Leon, sporting a black t-shirt and some blue jeans. He crouches down to slip off his beat-up Converse, tucking them against the wall before fully entering the house and closing the door behind him. He pushes his hair back as he looks at you with a boyish grin, a faint blush dusting the bridge of his nose as his pupils widen at the sight of you.

“Hey, bug,” Leon beams. He takes a look at the kitchen and notices the electric kettle boiling on the counter.

“Hi, Lee,” you chuckle softly. “I thought you changed at your dorm?” you motioned towards his jeans from your spot on the floor. His attention turns down to his attire.

“Figured I could shower and then just wear the sweats I keep here. Plus, I didn’t want to walk in pants like that,” Leon shrugs, walking towards the short hallway that led to your bedroom. You hum and go back to your phone while your blondie changes out of his tight jeans. The six-foot tall hunk walked into the living room and nudged you with his sock-clad foot, asking you to scoot forward. You did so, allowing him to squeeze behind you and set you into his lap.

"Was it busy today?" you peer up at him, your eyes unable to focus on his chin and his eyes at the same time. You felt Leon's right arm leave your waist to pick up the remote on the coffee table, pressing the "play" button to begin the movie. He tugs up the Scooby-Doo themed blanket to cover the both of you before answering your question.

"Like always. Luckily, no one pushed me into the pool today," Leon chuckled. He works as a swim instructor during the summer for little kids at the local pool, and the children would often play with him and push him into the body of water. The image of a dozen little ones running around him like vultures made you giggle.

"That's kinda lame," you joke. Leon squeezes your side gently, taking a nibble at the shell of your ear as a silent jab at your comment.

"Do you want hot chocolate, bug?" Leon asks lowly. You shake your head as a no, focusing your attention to the movie.

Drew Barrymore as Casey Becker picked up the white landline phone, responding to the fake voice speaking to her with a cheeky grin on her face. You felt your thighs squeeze at the sound of Ghostface on the other end of the line, silently wishing you were Casey Becker. If Leon noticed, he made no effort to say anything. As the scene plays out, you feel your lover's chest hum softly.

"What is this...?" he questions quietly. Your eyebrows knit together at this.

"You don't know what we're watching...?!" you gape up at him, your head looking over your shoulder. He gives you a look of pure confusion.

"Not really, no. Am I supposed to know?" Leon laughs nervously, a brow quirked up.

"If you're dating me, yes! Yes, you're supposed to know!" You yelp out, distraught by your lover's confession. He flashes a stupid smile, seemingly unbothered by your behaviour, his lightly calloused fingers tickling beneath the baggy jumper you wore that totally wasn't his to tease at the skin of your waist.

"Then why don't you help me out and tell me what in the world we're watching, bunny?" Leon circles his thumb just above your v-line, rubbing softly as he nuzzles his chin onto your shoulder.

"It's only like... one of the best slasher films of all time," you mumble under your breath. "Scream by Wes Craven from 1996."

"Mmm... not ringing a bell, bunny," Leon begins to press kisses into the crook of your neck as his eyes focus on the screen in front of you two, confused as to why the platinum blonde chick is losing her mind while running around with the phone in her hands.

Casey Becker screams at the sight of her meathead boyfriend strapped to a chair in front of her family’s pool, guts hanging out of his stomach from a large slit that ran across it. Leon cringed slightly at the sight, not expecting to watch a horror movie tonight.

"What is this..." he squints, still confused.

"Just keep watching," you sigh, childishly upset that Leon didn't know what this movie was.

The scene continued, Casey Becker running around and out of her house with a knife from her burning kitchen. Eventually, she's found by the wicked killer of the movie. He chases her with his blade, digging it into her neck as she cries to her poor parents over the phone. The blood gurgled in her throat as she cried, crawling in the yard of her lavish and isolated home, leaving a trail of her blood in her wake.

As Ghostface brandished his modified hunting knife, you shivered with a sick excitement, unknowing of the sparkle in your eyes as the scene unfolded.

But Leon knew.

As you squirmed in his lap, he grew curious, his lips no longer kissing against your neck. He knew what the two of you were watching now—he had dressed up as that murderous fool for Halloween in his senior year of high school as a joke with some old friends. Leon hadn’t any idea who Ghostface was. He simply knew him because of his friend group that dressed up as other slasher antagonists.

He remembers the compliments he’s get when trick-or-treating with his friends—the girls that’d flirt with him and ask him for a game of cat and mouse with batted eyelashes. Leon feels warm at the memory of spending time with his old group and denying girls a playful chase, but he quickly brushes them away when he feels you grind into his lap a little harder than the other times.

“What’s got you so twitchy, bunny?” Leon whispers into your ear, thumbing at the waistband of your pajama shorts. You jolt at the sensation, a blush running up to your ears.

“Nothing?” You respond, hoping he wouldn't realize the true reason as to why you're so fidgety tonight. The sight of Billy Loomis and Stu Macher made you want to jump with joy, unconsciously biting your bottom lip as they teased their respective girlfriends. Leon hummed, mimicking the kisses Billy would give Sidney in the scene, his lips grazing the lines of your neck.

"I think you're lying to me, bug," Leon chuckles lowly, his lips curling up into a grin against your neck. "I have a serious question for you."

You perk up at this, your full attention in your lover's hands. You can no longer focus on the slasher film playing on the TV as Leon turns you in his lap to face him, his nose grazing against your own as he tilts his head down to look into your eyes.

"Do you get, uh...?" Leon hesitates, his lip twitching as his eyes dart around in search of what to say.

"Do serial killers turn you on?"

Blink.

Blink, blink.

"HAH- why would you think that, Lee?!" you laugh nervously, your heart drumming against your ribcage. The blonde man smirked at the flustered sight of you, knowing good and well you were lying through your teeth.

"Well, you keep squeezing your thighs together, first of all," he notes. "And then you keep squirming around like a caterpillar getting ready to cocoon," his hands tickle your waist, trailing up and up, closer to your chest.

"That doesn't mean anything, Lee. I-I'm just feeling the affects of a thrilling film!" you try to dodge his speculations, eyes averting from his own. Leon presses a soft kiss on the corner of your lips before you felt his right hand trail away from your torso, cupping the heat between your legs.

"If it doesn't mean anything," he leans in, whispering into you ear.

"Why are you soaking through your shorts?"

You shiver when you feel Leon's breath tickle your ear, unknowingly grinding your clothed slit onto the palm of his hand. He chuckles lowly, pulling away from your heat. Your blush worsens, and you whine softly when the contact is lost.

"Be honest with me, bunny. Do you like the idea of being chased? Maybe even... having a little fun with a knife?" Leon coos, bringing his hand back to your waist. You shyly nod, shoving your face into his neck to avoid his soft gaze. His laugh rumbles low in his chest as he holds you close, caressing your skin gently.

“Don’t be embarrassed—It’s kind of cute, really,” Leon assures you. “But I have another question.”

You press your chest against his, and you feel him hug you a little tighter. You hum softly, urging your lover to continue.

“Do you want to try something more… slasher-like?” He asks curiously, and you grow a little confused.

“What do you mean, Lee? Like… do you mean you want to watch more movies, or in be-“

“In bed. Or maybe even out of bed,” Leon smirks. You pull away from the crook of his neck, interested in the proposition.

“Out of bed? How would that work?” You slightly pucker your lips with confusion. Leon traces your bottom lip with his thumb, tugging at it gently as his blue eyes traced the features of your face.

“However you want, bunny. I can send you creepy messages on a cheap burner phone, make you wonder if I’m stalking you every moment of the day, and maybe even, hmm… Get a Ghostface costume…?” Your eyes widen with surprise at his suggestions, and by the look in his eyes, he’s completely serious. You stifle a nervous laugh, unsure of how to even respond.

“Y-y’know, I thought you were a ‘missionary only’ kinda guy,” you half-joked.

It was mostly true, really. The times you’ve had sex with Leon, he was mostly very sweet—he’s just a big tease. He always wanted to look you in the eyes, whisper sweet praises to you as he rolls his hips into yours. You never bothered to ask him for rougher activities, not wanting to come off as weird to your boyfriend of almost a year, so his suggestion of chasing and stalking you was a shocker.

“M’only a ‘missionary only’ guy because I didn’t think you’d be such a lewd and depraved girl,” Leon confesses, smirking down at you. “But now… I know what you really like,” his hand reaches down to the curve of your ass, pinching the plush flesh teasingly between his fingers.

“I-I’m not lewd,” you stammer out, your arousal dripping from your tongue. Leon takes in the sight of you—flushed and small in his lap, your body betraying your words as you began to grind onto the apparent bulge in his sweatpants.

“Stage one is denial, bug~” gently, he pushes you down to the floor, the movie and Mystery Machine blanket that covered you two long forgotten. You make no protest when he begins to tug off your pajama shorts, revealing the cotton panties beneath. Leon’s breath grazes over the white fabric, tickling your most sensitive areas as he smiles up at you from his spot between your thighs.

“So, what do you say, bunny? Do you want to play a game with me?” Leon chuckles darkly, his teeth pulling at gusset of your panties to pull them off. When they’re halfway down your thighs, he ducks to wedge himself in front of it before lowering himself to the slick between your legs, his plump lips immediately getting to work.

His tongue runs up from the bottom of your pussy and up to your sensitive little clit, teasing at the bundle of nerves with a few flicks of his tongue. Leon skims his giant hands over your thighs before squeezing them closer to his head, burying himself into your wet cunt like a man starved.

You moan out his name as you thread your fingers through his soft blonde hair, throwing your head back into the carpet as you feel his warm tongue bully itself into your wet hole.

“Tastes so good, bunny,” Leon groans, the vibrations of his voice against your cunt making your stomach churn. “All f’me, too—god,” he smiles before fucking his tongue back inside, relishing in the way your thighs hugged his head tight.

“L-Leon—“

“That’s right, bunny… Keep moaning like the depraved little slut you are,” your lover chuckled, the devilish tone dripping from his tongue. Leon began to focus on your clit as one of his hands left your thighs, teasing the entrance of your pussy with soft pokes and prods.

“Who would’ve known such a sweet girl like you could be so dirty~” Leon mumbles as he sucks at your sensitive little nub. “You like it when I call you slut, huh? You’re squeezing my head like I’m trying to kill you or somethin’, bunny.”

“Why don’t you beg for my fingers, hm? Let’s hear it, bunny~” the blue-eyed boy pulls himself away from your twitchy little hole, smirking at the sight of how fucked-out you looked despite him barely doing anything. His head presses against your thigh as he forces them apart, placing soft nibbles onto the plump flesh as he awaits your response.

“P-please, Lee…” you pant out, hands reaching out for him desperately as your hips bucked up. Leon remains in his current position, worrying bruises into your inner thigh as if nothing was happening.

“L-Leon, please… need you—“ your voice is shaky as you continue to beg, and that seems to do the trick as you watch your lover return to his spot buried between your legs.

“Perfect…” He smiles, his lips a breath away from your aching cunt. “My perfect little bunny, hm~? Let’s give you want you want now, slut~”

Without warning, Leon thrusts his thick fingers into your slick little hole, scissoring your entrance open as he sucks harshly on your clit. You cry as you feel his teeth graze against the little bud, eyes rolling back as his fingers pump a hair upwards to graze against that special little spot inside of you.

“L-Lee—!” You moan, breath hitching in your throat as you tugged at his hair. Leon makes no plans to stop, continuing his attack onto the most sensitive spots of your body as you squirm and squeeze beneath him. Every time your thighs clenched around him, he couldn’t help but chuckle with delight, relishing in every sensation you gave him.

“Feels so good, isn’t that right, bunny?” Leon coos, smiling coyly at the sight of your arched back and drool-covered lips. “Y’look so pretty like this, bug… Love eating you out.”

Leon digs his fingers deeper inside of you as he goes back to stimulating your clit, his tongue dragging letters onto your slick pussy with expertise. Your hips rock up onto his mouth, your jumper riding up your stomach as you squirmed. Your lover could feel your cunt squeeze with each thrust of his calloused digits.

“Y’gunna cum for me, bunny?” he hums. “Go on. Cum for me, slut. This might be the last time I let you feel this good,” Leon growls.

At his order, you release, your juices making a mess of your lover’s face as your hips twitch forward. Leon sighs with delight, lapping up every drop you give him as if he was never going to have another meal for the rest of his life. Groaning at the taste of you, he pays no attention to the way you lay boneless beneath him.

“Such a good girl for me, bunny~” he moans onto your pussy, obsessed with the flavour of you as his tongue drags itself in and out of your slick hole. Your shivered, trying to push him away from your overstimulated intimates as your eyes rolled back. He doesn’t budge, continuing to fuck you with his greedy tongue.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good… all f’me… all mine~” Leon mumbles between every lick, pussydrunk and loopy. He finally pulls away, your slick making a mess of his jaw and lips. His blue eyes stare down at you with a slight worry.

“You okay, bug?” He whispers, bringing a hand up to caress your cheek. You nod softly, lost for words as a result of your recent orgasm. Leon chuckles at your current state.

“So cute… Let’s get you a bath, n’then we can keep watching Scream in the bedroom, okay?” Leon helps you up to your feet before carrying you bridal-style immediately after. You make no argument, allowing the man to walk you over to the bathroom down the hall.

Apparently, watching Scream and making you scream are two different things, but Leon didn’t really care.

uh. my first public smut i’ve ever written? hope u enjoyed the intro i guess bc this is one of the few times i’m gunna make leon be nice to u in this little collection :,]

comment if you want to be in the taglist, perhaps?

[1-have-no-idea]

make it hurt, love

Character(s): Crosshair, reader, mentions of Omega and AZI

Genre: angst

Overview: Crosshair’s tremors are getting worse, and right now he just wants to be left alone. You’ve always been a helper, so when you come and try to comfort him, he can’t help but take his frustrations out on you.

Warning(s): Angst with no comfort, Crosshair is a jerk, reader is called a bimbo, implied female reader but there’s no pronouns included, reader and Crosshair is implied to be romantically involved, brief cursing (in Mando’a and Basic)

1216 words

———————————————————————————

Tremors. He was having tremors. Crosshair released a sigh, brows twitching, before furrowing as he stared at his hand wistfully and in disappointment as it trembled.

‘Let’s get it checked out,’ Omega would say, eyeing the sniper with worry.

‘Maybe it’s not something that’s physical-‘ said AZI.

But that wasn’t enough. He was fine. Suddenly, he was snapped out of his thoughts from a soft voice calling out to him, making him turn around and face the talker. Oh. He huffed, light brown eyes narrowing down at the medic. You offered him a gentle, caring smile, but your eyes held worry.

“Hey, you’re still good, Cross. Better than any of us, that’s for sure. You were super close this time,” you reassured, offering him comforting words, but all they did was make him bitter. He grit his teeth and dropped his hand, letting it shake at his side while he glared at you. “It’s still a miss, Name, I still missed the target. That’s not good enough.” he said, throwing the gun down with a grunt as he walked away from the target, your eyes following him as you frowned sympathetically and padded after him. “Yeah, but…” you sighed. “It will take time, Cross. All of us have changed, you have too, but that doesn’t make you any less-“ you started, wringing your hands together nervously. Crosshair cut you off though, throwing his head back and groaning loudly as he turned around to face you, towering over your form with a snarl.

“Can you just stop?! All the time, I have to hear your babbling about how ‘things will get better-‘ or ‘you’re okay’, I’m so sick and tired of you and this happy-go-lucky act you have going on here! It’s helping nobody, and it’s certainly not helping me, so just do us all a favor, and shut up!” He hissed, words venomous. Ouch. That hurt. Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped slightly, shocked by his outburst. There was a flash of hurt, until your eyes clouded over with something akin to sternness or annoyance. “Excuse you? That was rude. You can be upset all you want about what's happening with you, but you don’t get to take it out on me, especially when I’m just trying to comfort you.” You scolded, both of you standing still now, in the middle of an alleyway. Crosshair pinched the bridge of his nose, lips twisting into a frown as his eyes pinched shut, taking a deep breath before talking. “It’s cute that you think you can lecture me, but I really couldn’t give a damn if you think I’m rude or not. All you are is just a kriffing bimbo.” He seethed, taking you back in surprise. That was the first time in a long time you had ever been called something like that from Crosshair, making you tighten your fists, before regaining your sense of calmness. “Don’t call me that, Crosshair. You know I don’t like being called that.” you warned, making him let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Or what, Name? Gonna give me a lecture on why I should be nice? Don’t like the truth?” He mocked, stepping closer to you. You sputtered, letting out an incredulous laugh as you stared up at him with wide eyes. “What is your problem?! Literally! What is wrong? I’ve done nothing to you, and- and even after all we’ve been through—? On Tantiss?! Did that mean nothing to you?!” You yelled, raising your voice, making his lips quickly twist into a snarl with rage in his eyes, but she didn’t back down. “I told you not to get close to me, I warned you. I am not like the others, I do not care for you-“ “Oh- oh, so then what were those times when you said you loved me, huh? What was that- what about the times where you held my hand or held me- huh-?”

“You said it yourself, I’ve changed.” He said between gritted teeth, pushing you back, making your back hit against the wall as you looked up at him with hurt, barely containing your quickly growing anger and hurt. “Is that it? This is the new you, or whatever? Is this how you really felt the entire time?“ “Glad you can finally see that now. You see, I never was the one staying for you. Do you realize that?” That made you go quiet, heart sinking as you listened to him. “No, medic, I’ve never stayed for you. This? Whatever you think we have? It’s one-sided. I’ve never done anything for you, and I don’t plan on doing anything now. It’s just you.” He said, lowering himself a bit to get in your face, allowing him to see each emotion flash in your eyes and the quiver in your lips and the furrow and twitch in her brow. All that swam in those eyes of yours were hurt, regret, confusion, and frustration. You desperately searched his own eyes to see any clue that maybe he was lying. You found none. Finally, you spoke up, voice wavering.

“How- why are you so mean? Crosshair, I’ve done all I could to be with you, try to believe you were different, and all you do is hurt me.” You whispered, eyes slowly watering up. The sniper looked at you with anger, inhaling sharply. “I told you to leave, but you didn’t. I gave you the chance!” He countered, jabbing a finger at your chest, making you press against the wall more as he stared at you with nothing but anger swimming in his eyes. He was spiraling. Seeing red. “Yeah, because I didn’t want to!” She shouted. “I didn’t wanna leave you, because- because I loved you- I really did- and I still-“

“I’ve never even loved you!” He bellowed, making you flinch back as stare at him with wide eyes, eyes glossy with unshed tears. All the anger and frustration left you, now only leaving you with horror and sadness and hurt. His chest heaved with shuddering and heavy breaths, still recovering from his outburst as he glared at you, before finally, he blinked. Brows slowly relaxing and eyes softening to something more akin to confusion and exhaustion. Then, he saw you, trembling with tears in your eyes and horror etched on your face. For a second, his eyes widened, regret and fear on his face, but before he could say anything, your eyes averted to the floor, pushing him away and shoving past him, sniffling as you wiped your tears away.

“Maybe you should’ve told me that before I went and fell in love with you.” You whispered under your breath, choked up and quiet as you quickly walked away, borderline almost running, even if it was childish, but right now, you just couldn’t. Crosshair turned, reaching out a hand and calling your name out desperately, before cursing under his breath and turning away. Then, he felt his hand shaking next to his side, and brought it up to stare at the trembling part of his body. His breaths were uneven as he stared at it. All you had wanted was to comfort him about the tremors. And yet, somehow, he ended up making you cry again and run away. All over his tremors.

[niki-phoria]

a may be a short fic for like jay leaving the house and m/n tried to cook but accidentally burnt it and caught by jay then end up jay helping m/n while he was back hugging m/n hehe

pairing: jay x male!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 678

includes: established relationship, changed this slightly to just jay helping reader learn how to cook, sorry if this is messy i wasn't really sure how to write the actual cooking part lol

a/n: thank you for requesting !! i hope you like it :))

you push your phone onto your bedside table before turning to lay on your side. you softly smile to yourself as you study the boy laying next to you. jay’s messy fringe perfectly frames his face - still damp from the shower he had taken earlier. a thin pair of glasses sits on the bridge of his nose. one of your old t-shirts hangs loosely off of his broad shoulders. 

“you’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs. you silently watch as he sets his phone down before turning to face you. 

“what thing?” you chuckle.

“the puppy dog eyes you only do when you want me to do something for you.”

a gasp of faux offense escapes you. you dramatically roll onto your back, bringing a hand up to cover your heart. “you always assume the worst of me,” you huff.

“okay, okay,” jay laughs. he shifts even closer to you, leaning over your body to look down at you. “i’m sorry, baby. what do you need?”

“i’m hungry. will you help me make dinner? please?”

jay smiles brightly. he leans down to pull you into a sweet peck before he nods. “of course, love. come on.” you intertwine your hands together as you follow him into your kitchen. “what do you want to make?”

“japchae.” he smiles at your enthusiasm, helping you grab a variety of leftover vegetables and meat from the fridge. you set a pot of water to boil on the stove before slowly adding the noodles in to cook for a few minutes. the thin noodles swirl around when you stir them with a large, wooden spoon before putting the lid back onto the pot.

“y/n,” jay’s soft voice catches your attention. a cutting board and knife sit on your countertop near the sink. a variety of vegetables lay surrounding them on the counter. “come here.”

his arms snake around your waist from behind as you move to stand in front of the cutting board. he leans his head down to rest against your shoulder, carefully observing each of your movements. “let me know if you need any help,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against your shoulder. 

you hum as you reach over to grab an onion. it rolls slightly along the cutting board as you slice a piece of the onion out of the side before peeling the first few layers of skin off. “how do i dice it?” 

“here,” jay smiles, reaching over to put his hands on top of yours. “use your knuckles to guide the knife so you don’t cut yourself.”

you let him maneuver your hands into the correct position before slowly guiding the knife down to hit the plastic cutting board below. you cut the onion into thin slices before turning them so you can cut the slices horizontally. “like that?” you ask.

“that’s perfect,” jay smiles. he slips away from behind you to turn the stove off before draining the water from the pot. he sets a frying pan over the still-heated burner before adding a small drop of oil into the center. the noodles sizzle when they hit the pan.

you use the knife to gather the diced onion between the blade and your hand before dropping them onto the noodles. jay smiles, nodding in approval. “do you want to do the rest while i make the sauce?”

“okay,” you nod. you carefully replicate the movements jay had taught you previously, gliding the blade into bell peppers and tofu until they were cut into small pieces. you’re nearly dancing around the kitchen beside jay as you work in tandem to add each new ingredient into the stir fry. 

“here,” jay pauses, using his chopsticks to fish out a few of the noodles. he holds a hand underneath your chin as he blows on them before raising the food up to your lips. “is it good?”

he chuckles when you perk up at the taste, frantically nodding. “it’s delicious,” you smile. 

jay reaches over to press a kiss against your temple. “that’s because you helped make them.” 

personal note: fics might be coming out as fast/more focused on what i have inspiration to write in the moment for now. i've been stuck in a cycle of dysphoria and depression lately that's really impacted my motivation and my mental health lately as well as just general stress. i hope to start writing more frequently soon but until then thank you for all of the support <33

[spectoris]

RUNAWAY | J. SERESIN

written by: @spectoris​ & @yuunina​

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin x fem!reader

summary: after witnessing both your older brother and the love of your life walk away, you find no reason to grant them your forgiveness while simultaneously punishing yourself for their decisions. years later, when you’re reunited with them both, you begin to see what you couldn’t in your blind grief and learn to mend those burnt bridges.

contains: she/her pronouns, canonverse, adopted bradshaw!reader, older brother!bradley, high school exes to lovers, reader works at penny’s bar, estranged familial bonds, familial trauma, mentions of death & loss of family, angst, fluff, brief mentions of injuries and blood, hurt/comfort, toxic relationships (familial and romantic)

word count: 7.8k

a/n: reposting bc tumblr took this off the tags

In the golden glow of the setting sun, where blue gowns rustle in the wind and the excited clamor is far behind you, you and Jake stand before each other in silence. You share everything in those quiet moments—a deep frown, creased brows, pounding hearts, and the weight of dread sinking in your stomach. Jake has his cap in a clenched fist, tassel dangling limply by his side, while yours shadows your sunken eyes. On a day of pride and new beginnings, the thought of the lives you will lead after the festivities are over makes your throat tighten. Two separate lives, one you have tried to stray Jake away from, but his heart is set on it, more than it is set on you.

There’s fury in his eyes. Disbelief, and a touch of disappointment, at the words you’ve uttered. It’s followed by a scoff and his fight tightening around his graduation cap, threatening to snap it in two.

“So that’s it then?” your voice trembles.

You’ve been brushing his response to the side these past few months, hoping it’ll disappear if you pay no mind to it. But Jake doesn’t even have to speak for you to know—it’s been on his mind for ages. And when Jake has his heart on something, he doesn’t let go. It’s been stuck in a vice grip, his future held by the throat. Your heart was in that position once, too, at one point where you promised each other eternity. That was the consequence of falling in love at seventeen.

Jake gives a single, curt nod. He tucks his cap under his arm, shoes circling in the grass. The realization that this—your final moment with Jake—is drenched in bitterness, makes your heart weigh heavier in your chest. Yet, the spite you’ve saved only allows you to spit the most awful words at him. You can’t apologize to him even if you wanted to nor change the outcome of this.

“Are we finished here?” Jake cuts in. Finished with the conversation, you know he means, but beneath it is the fate you’ll be left with once he walks away. The end of teenage romance, a blissfully ignorant four years together. From preteens to young adults with uncontained ambitions, temporary lovers, and soon, perfect strangers.

There is nothing left for you to say. You only mimic the same curt nod, keeping your head down to hide the tears welling in your stinging eyes. The grass crunches ever so softly beneath his dress shoes as he turns his broad shoulders to you. Then, he’s stomping over fallen flowers and drifted leaves from ornate leis and bouquets. In the distance, you see his father approach with an outstretched arm. He catches you in the corner of his eye and waves you over. Jake pushes him on with a forced smile, concaxing some inaudible excuse.

The rest of the graduation cheer has died. Your former classmates have head home, leaving behind an empty field of streamers, ribbons, and flowers once thriving with joy no greater than an hour ago. In the growing silence, you watch Jake’s figure recede into the distance as your older brother appears from behind.

“Ready to go?” Bradley nudges your shoulder with his fist. He accidentally punches too hard, making you flinch. The indifferent expression he has on his face, one that makes you feel as though he resents being here, falters into concern upon seeing your somber expression. Before he probes any further, you wipe the tears with the back of your hands and nod, walking in the opposite direction from where Jake was.

Everyday, the sound of jet engines roar above your head, rumbling the thin roof of the bar. Everyday, you dread its inevitable appearance, having to plug your ears with your fingers until they pass or run errands in the storage room where the walls are thick enough to mask them. The good thing is that they fly on schedule—you can guess (not exact, but close) when the planes take off and prepare yourself. Though, that’s not the case all of the time. There are moments when you’re filling a customer’s glass and the planes come, shocking you so hard the beer spills. Or, you’ll freeze in place until Penny, sometimes Amelia, snaps you out of your rigor.

You can blame no one but yourself for putting you through this torture. Yet, there is nowhere else you can see yourself being. Underneath the paralyzing fright, you can almost hear his voice—your dad’s—as he soars happily through the sky. It’s the only thing he ever saw himself doing. Now, it’s the only thing your brother sees himself doing. Against your wishes, but perfectly in line with your mother’s, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw has a seat in the air like your dad once had decades before. No matter how much fifteen year old you cried (days on end) for Bradley to stay home, to care for you as your parents could not, he had already made up his mind.

There was a time where civil conversations were the norm, joyous ones where you laughed until your stomach hurt and you loved your brother with the entirety of your flesh and blood despite sharing neither. With you living and working so close to the air station, Bradley is always a few steps away. But having missed him growing up, you barely recognized him the first time you saw him again in years. Instead, you saw the spitting image of your father, the fuzzy glimpses of him from your formative years. You remember the brief, yet agonizing, eye contact you held with Bradley from across the bar, and the twitch of your arms as years of missing him prompted you to hug him for the lost time. But you turned your head away, ignored the pained look from the corner of your eye, and moved on as quickly as he had left you.

Your favorite time of day is when the sun is about to set. Its golden rays kiss the shimmering ocean horizon a few yards away from Penny’s bar, casting beautiful shapes across the floor as it shines through the windows. With the afternoon reaching a sweltering heat, swarms of uniformed pilots are bound to mingle throughout the night. The jingle of the bell hanging above the door signals the first patron. As you expected, a pair walks in, vaguely familiar.

The next handful meander in and out as Penny takes over the bar and you head to the storage room for inventory. Its cool inside compared to the growing humidity of the main area. You have a chance to sit down and breathe, wipe the sweat from your brow, and take a moment to prepare yourself for the rambunctious night ahead. With a small grunt, you hoist a box of beer bottles, holding it against your hip while you push the door open. There’s a similar grunt from the other end, no doubt from a person you’ve just hit. You quickly step out of the room, an apology already forming on your tongue, when you freeze.

A harsh chill runs across the entire expanse of your body. Looking up, you meet the shocked eyes of Jake Seresin. He stares dumbly at you for a few moments before they narrow. A tense, awkward silence grows between you, broken by his buddy who leads him to the billiards table, unknowingly saving you from having to share any words.

Your shift carries on until stars litter the dark sky, the sun long forgotten in song and laughter. You manage to avoid two faces tonight; both Jake and your brother, who sings in the same energy as your father once did. Bradley is able to lose himself in the delightful clamor—Jake’s heated presence, however, hovers delicately over your every move. He keeps himself at a deliberate distance, never wandering closer than ten feet from you unless he has to. Jake says nothing—he speaks over you, quite literally when one of his pals forces him to grab another round of drinks.

His domineering figure shadows you when you conveniently duck below the counter to grab clean glasses, keeping him out of sight. He calls to Penny all the way across the other side (a couple of slurred words here and there), who happily serves him much to your delight, until his eyes linger on you for a second too long when you resurface with the glasses.

It’s nearly 2 a.m. when you clock out, the bar still alive. Each step towards your car makes your feet ache more than the last. Every muscle in your body is sore, and being frank, you’re in no shape to drive home. You could always sleep over at Penny’s—having known you for a while, you’ve been entrusted with a key, and a long talk with Amelia would be a nice way to cap off the night despite her being years your junior (she’s got wits that make you believe she’s much older).

Your car sits at the edge of the lot, closest to the road. A towering streetlamp shines its yellow light right onto the hood of your car, highlighting the scratches and chipped paint. There’s a flash of a shadow from your peripheral vision. You’re not alarmed by it—the bar tends to have a few stragglers outside for a smoke or fresh air. It’s when you slip into the driver’s seat that you look into the darkest corner of the parking lot and your blood runs cold.

Even the darkness cannot mask the familiar silhouette of a faded red pickup truck. A lump bobs in your throat as you slowly look over to the man leaning against the truck bed, arms crossed over his chest. When your eyes meet, he jolts and immediately turns his head away, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

The engine rumbles to like with the same ferocity it did years before. It strikes a bolt of fear into your chest, especially when the lights turn on and blind you for a split second. In that brief moment, you’re seventeen again, running barefoot across concrete with Jake’s hand in yours. You’re both utterly soaked and wearing only swimsuits, breathless as the security chases you into the parking lot. You’re dripping water all over the ground and in Jake’s truck, laughing as he hurriedly drives away, like he is now, leaving you in the dust once more.

The memories you have of your father are faded. The tickle of his mustache ghosts your cheeks when you look at pictures of him holding toddler you, barely old enough to form a solid sentence. Your mother, however, is sharper in your mind. Her face, forever cemented in youthful beauty, was always joyful no matter the circumstances. Even when she reminisced on your father and looked upon Brad with a wistful smile, you can’t recall ever seeing her cry.

Life likes to test your sanity. First, the daily reminder that the lovely people you grew up with are not technically your family (not by blood at least), but you’ve overcome this. The second is not losing one parent, but both, before they could see you flourish in your adulthood (or perhaps it was for the better they didn’t see the divide between their kids). And the third—standing beside your brother, looking down at your parents’ headstones side by side.

It’s been roughly three decades since your father, Nick “Goose” Bradshaw passed away. A tragic accident, really. Rarely talked about by your mother except for when she explained what happened when you were a bit older. For Bradley, it’s always sitting in the back of his head, crackling his nerves when he thinks about the ‘what ifs’ despite being out of his control.

Today, dressed in your best black clothes, you stand at least a foot apart, unable to look at each other, but sharing the pain. There’re a few flowers on the ground, the freshest left by the two of you, and a few from a previous visitor, dried out from the sun. In the tense moments that pass, you manage to glance over at Bradley who has his brows furrowed, anger growing on his face.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” he mumbles. “If Mav-”

“You can’t change what happened, Brad. Whatever happened wasn’t Maverick’s fault.”

Bradley turns to you sharply. “So you’re on his side?” Each word weighs heavier than the last. His skin seeps the heat of unbridled rage, having been brewed since he was a teenager. He was no older than you when your father passed—you wonder where, or how, he learned to be so angry, given your mother’s forgiving nature.

“There’re no ‘sides’ to this. Maverick was found innocent. Would you blame Dad if he was in Maverick’s position?”

“The difference is Dad’s dead and Maverick isn’t. It was his recklessness that got him killed. How are you not as angry as I am?”

I can’t believe our parents are watching this right now.

“Because I’m not you, Bradley. Do you think Dad would be happy with you holding a grudge against his best friend? What about Mom? She loved Maverick like a brother and she was never this upset about it.”

Bradley scoffs and shakes his head, the corners of his lips raised in a smile—not one of joy, but in utter disbelief. “You’re using them against me? Real fucking nice.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “All I’m saying is if we can all forgive him, why can’t you?”

Something crosses Bradley’s mind. You can tell by the way his pinched brows relax momentarily and his eyes unfocus before hardening again. There’s the quickest flash of doubt, gone before you can catch it. Then, he opens his mouth again. His words make you want to scream into the open sky.

“You never felt anything, did you? You were only two when it happened, so it makes sense.” He makes you think he understands. “You never cared for him, did you? You never cared for Dad because you never knew him. But me? I did. I’m his flesh and blood, so whatever pain he takes to the grave, I’m carrying that with me for the rest of my life.”

You can’t explain the chill in your body; a frigid winter wind blowing through a cold husk. The only word that forms in your head is what? Bradley studies you, watching like a hawk for something to hook his talons into. Something for him to throw back at you. Nothing comes to mind, yet your mouth knows what to say, moving faster than the rest of your body. Your face feels wet. You must’ve cried sometime during his little speech; you can’t name exactly when. What you’ve thought you had accepted comes back to light, the sinking reality of your entire being, the bane of your existence—you’re not a real Bradshaw.

Bradley may not have said it to your face, but those three words—flesh and blood—hurt more than a knife to the chest. Though he’s not your biological brother, you’ve shared enough years together for him to feel the same agony rushing through when he realizes what he has done—the venom of his words. He calls your name, but it’s miles away. Every ounce of rage has been replaced by concern and deep regret. Bradley reaches out to you, but you jerk away, scrubbing at your eyes with your hands.

“You’re right.” Your voice sounds wonky from your runny nose. “I didn’t know him like you did. But you know who did raise me?”

Bradley chews his lip, refusing to answer.

You continue, “You did. You look just like him, you know that? I needed my dad, but more importantly, I needed my brother.”

You couldn’t care less about the state Bradley’s in; shoulders sagged and shaking with silent, regretful sobs. He’s still trying to reach out to you, picking up the old habit of hugging you whenever you were upset as a child. Only now, he’s not comforting you—he’s comforting himself.

“All I wanted was for you to care for me in his place, but I guess that was too much for you. After all, I was never your sister, was I?”

You don’t think you’ve been this upset before. It’s unlike the typical, bubbling rage, but rather a weight rooted in your stomach and chest you can’t rid yourself of. Night after night you’ve tossed and turned, leading to you working odd hours at the bar much to Penny’s dismay. Life likes to throw you into the deepest pits. Like a gladiator standing before a lion, you’re left to defend yourself with only a feeble stick as the ferocious beast stalks on.

On a sunny Sunday morning, you find solace on the sand-covered trails outside your home. The ocean tides bid you good morning as your bare feet descend onto the yellow sand. You immediately sink into its plushness, then take slow steps towards the blue water. Salt sprays across your face as the waves rise to your knees, splashing against your shorts. At last, you can breathe. The beach is secluded this time of day, not yet crowded by tourists during the afternoon and evening.

The ocean stretches for miles on end, twinkling under the golden sun. The farther it goes, the darker and cloudier it gets. While the first few yards are paradise, what looms after is a swimmer’s nightmare—ice cold water waiting to rope you beneath its surface into a never-ending abyss. Yet, you imagine yourself getting lost in it, floating with the tides out to see where the struggles of the shore can’t reach you. It’s an odd vision, but it brings you temporary peace.

A running figure disturbs your tranquility. His shoes leave large indents in the semi-wet sand—a strange place to have a morning jog, you think. The grit and gravel have traveled up his wet shins. His bare skin glistens with sweat and dons the growing red patch of a fresh sunburn.

A light sigh falls from your lips. It loses itself in the breeze like the clouds do, rolling across the great blue sky. That sigh quickly morphs into a thunderstorm when you hear your name called from behind in a confused, breathless tone.

Standing on the shore where the water doesn’t quite reach is none other than Jake. He plucks his earbud out then squints at your face as if it’ll clear his vision. Unlike your encounter in the bar, there’s no escape from this situation. Running would paint you to be a fool, but engaging might also make you look like a fool.

“Mornin’” you say as nonchalantly as possible. Too late—your voice has already cracked.

“You look…good.” You realize Jake’s waiting for you to meet him on the sand when he glances down where the water meets your knees. Hesitantly, you wade through until you’re close enough to not have to shout, but a good arm’s length away.

“I could say the same to you.”

It’s not necessarily a lie. Jake does look good. He’s grown even taller since high school, shoulders broadening out with muscles clothes cannot hide. That old, charming air has stuck with him all these years, shadowed by arrogance. The way he speaks so freely to you—as if you’ve forgiven him—makes you queasy.

The fact that you’re not angry right now makes you wonder if you have. Then, you look clearly at his face, and you remember all the time you’ve spent together, years of memories swept under the rug. Unspoken and forgotten as if they no longer exist. That version of you, the one who forced Jake to make a decision and still had her heartbroken, feels like another person. Maybe it’s stupid to hold onto grudges. Or it’s stupid to think he can pretend everything’s okay.

“So, you work at Penny’s bar.” Jake has begun absentmindedly tailing you as you stroll along the beach—whether you want him to or not is undecided. You answer in clipped, short phrases, partly because you’re not sure if this is a good idea, and also to push Jake’s buttons a bit—see if he’ll continue to lean in. Somewhere along your impromptu Q&A, he pauses to kick off his shoes and socks. When you no longer hear the sand crunching behind you, you turn your head out of instinct. He peers at you through his lashes, and a strange look comes across when he realizes you waited.

You end up side by side, holding your shoes in opposite hands, creating a mirror image. There were times you nearly bumped shoulders, but Jake held himself sturdy, catching himself before it happened. There’s a brief beat of silence as Jake tries to think of another question other than the ones he’s already thrown out. You tell yourself you’re relieved—the longing to hear his voice again says otherwise.

“What do you think of- ow! What the fuck?”

Jake lifts his left foot, instinctively grabbing onto your shoulder for balance. The initial shock washes off at the sight of the brownish-red spine sticking out his heel. It’s roughly the same size as a toothpick, lodged into his skin.

“Oh my god, is that a fucking sea urchin spine?” You slap a hand over your mouth to cover your laugh. “And the whole thing isn’t even here, just its spine.”

“Are you gonna be a marine biologist all day or are you going to help me?” The smile lifting the corners of Jake’s lips betray the annoyed facade he’s trying to maintain.

“Okay, okay. Come on, my house is across the street.”

The two of you hobble back to the main street where you earn a few odd glances from the cars at the crosswalk. Jake’s arm has found its way across both of your shoulders while yours is wrapped around his waist. With each step, your heart thumps a little louder. When Jake squeezes your shoulder to curb the stinging pain, your cheeks light up with more than the summer heat.

Once past the front threshold, he flops onto your couch and rests his leg on the coffee table. A quick search through the bathroom later, you come back to the living room with a first-aid kit. Jake leans his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

“Don’t die on me, Seresin.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t complain when I do this-”

A pair of silver tweezers grips the end of the sea urchin spine and yanks it from his foot, prompting a curse under Jake’s breath. You clean the area before covering it with a bandaid.

“There. Good as new.”

Jake opens his eyes and lets his foot drop back to the floor. The numerous picture frames hanging on the wall and on your mantle catch his attention. Jake stands then paces the room, taking in the images with curiosity. Each picture unlocks different parts of your, and his, memory—none of them feature him, but he stills recalls those days with perfect clarity. There are a few moments where he laughs, particularly at the ones of younger you and Brad.

You tail Jake the entire time, palms growing sweaty as he basks in the nostalgia of you former years. They’re sweet sentiments of the past, the few souvenirs you have of those times. Though they’re mostly happy memories, you rarely ever speak of them, not even to Bradley if you manage to hold a conversation without screaming. Jake, an outsider, looking into them feels odd, as though he’s visiting a museum and you’re the curator offering stories of someone else.

You do admire the fondness he expresses when he pauses at the pictures of you and your father, reminding him of his own. The corners of his eyes crinkle at the sight of your baby face, round and rosy with youth. He freezes at the last photo. The most recent—your graduation. It’s you and Brad standing at the front of your high school with smiles that don’t stretch quite as far as you’d think. Jake lingers longer than you expect. He gazes deeply at it, face falling by the second until it reaches a soft frown. You tap his arm lightly to pull him back, and he turns away, rigid and slightly paler. He recovers with a small cough.

“Lot of memories,” he says, cringing at his words.

“Yeah.” You sway on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. “So, Penny’s throwing a bash on Friday.”

“What for?”

“A little homecoming celebration. For Maverick, of course, even though she denies it.”

Amusement graces Jake’s features once more. “Right. Those two are…something else.”

Your eyes lock onto his, round and soft with a commanding air. His breath hitches in his throat—he can’t remember the last time he looked so deeply into your irises.

“Will you be there?” The innocence of your question provokes him. On your end, it raises the hairs across your skin in astonishment of your boldness. You purposefully avoid each other at the bar—now you’re implying you want him there. The ultimate goal of this is unclear and will most likely be a hassle for both. Still, him shying away won’t snuff the spark crawling up your neck.

Enamored in your sudden vulnerability, and reeling in thought of you asking for his presence, he doesn’t notice how you bite your cheek to withhold your embarrassment. If anything, he’s the one embarrassed.

“O-Of course,” he finally answers. “Who isn’t?”

With warmth rising on your cheeks, you let your head hang to the ground. “Good to know.” When you look up again, he wears the same bashful expression. “You’re not going to leave us hanging, are you?”

He turns red at the jab at his callsign—and perhaps, something more—his tongue twisted in knots. “Not this time.”

Jake starts to frequent the bar more often. On days where it’s too hot to step outside, or too gloomy to see the grey sky, he’s always there waiting for you. It’s jarring to see his face in the flesh, talk and laugh like old friends (you were, at one point). Each day, he makes it incredibly difficult to be upset for what happened. When his fingers brush against yours or he calls you to dance on crowded nights, your mind flutters back. It makes your legs wobbly when he holds your hands and spins you around, drawing out lines of messy laughter.

His smile is genuine. It’s pure, unfiltered happiness you see as the rest of the world moves around you. But behind that curtain sits the lingering thought of guilt, the feeling of needing to be punished for all those years—and he sees it in your face, too. Perhaps you’re letting Jake off too easy by agreeing to “hang out” (it’s painfully obvious they’re dates) and reliving your youth. You should throw him the same pain he’s left you with, but on top of the situation with Bradley, you don’t know if you have the strength to do so. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with being around Jake who makes you happy, for now. You’ve changed, you hope.

Weeks of your unspoken dates later, you’re strolling along the pier after sunset when dark blue fills the sky. The cool air kisses the skin of your cheeks, lifted in a delicate smile. Jake’s knuckles knock against yours with each step until you take his hand in yours. The warmth of his palm compliments the one spreading across your face.

You walk hand-in-hand in comfortable silence before stopping at the pier. Jake takes hold of both of your hands and faces you. Everything about him contradicts the person you’ve heard rumors of—the snarky, stubborn Hangman, whereas Jake is softer—timid, almost—in your presence. You’ve started to see the person he is behind closed doors, having shed his toughened exteriors that rise in the face of his colleagues. Against your will, it’s made you fall for him again. A crush, if you’d call it, though it feels silly to admit at your age. Still, it doesn’t change the weight of the brief kisses you’ve shared after your dates, or how he craves your touch in the silent hours of the night.

Jake has his lip tucked in his teeth as he sorts through his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What are we?”

Your heart spikes painfully in your chest, setting off in a sprint. He catches how your eyes widen, expecting a reply, but your mouth has gone dry. The eagerness starts to drain from his expression, fading into confusion and concern. 

A glimmer of hope shines through, like a patient dog waiting for a treat. The words dance on the tip of his tongue, thoughts running circles in his mind. There’s no trick to his question, yet it has you wound tighter than a sailor’s knot. Head beneath a dark ocean, watching the rope slip from your hands as you descend.

You can’t breathe.

“We’re…friends?”

“Friends?” He immediately drops your hands. “We’re friends?”

Jake’s brain seems to jump from thought to thought as he attempts to conjure a coherent sentence. Who wouldn’t be appalled by that? Worse is, you’re not sure of what to say yourself. It’s evident to even a stranger of the affections you share—you’re a couple without the title, lacking the words of commitment. He shakes his head rapidly, cutting off each of the syllables that attempt to leave your mouth. When you reach out, he backs away.

“Did these past few weeks mean nothing to you?” Jake starts. You don’t know what hurts more—how angry he is, or the fact you can see him crumble with each passing second. “What were you doing then? Passing time?”

“It’s not like that!” Your voice begs him to hear reason. “We just- We never talked about it.”

It’s clear you’ve hit another nerve. Jake’s emotions loom above him like an angry shadow, ready to paralyze you with a single stare. When he steps toward you slowly, you can’t help but shudder like prey waiting to be slaughtered by his words. Then, you see the switch—the ultimate decision it’s not worth entertaining you, nor depleting his energy when the answer dangles in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Now, you’re forced to chase after him as he turns and stalk off in the opposite direction. His long strides have you jogging to keep up, eventually snagging the sleeve of his jacket to stop him, but he continues forth.

“Please, Jake!” you beg, huffing to catch your breath. “Can you give me a fucking chance to explain?”

His abrupt stop almost makes you run straight into his back. “Explain what?” he snaps. “I thought we could move on from the past. Clearly you’re still holding onto it.”

It’s your turn to throw him looks of disbelief. “You don’t get to blame me for that when you were the one who left!”

“So it’s my fault, then? You’re mad I made a decision you forced me to make? Real fucking mature.”

The weight of his words sinks into your skin like claws. In your moment of consideration, Jake takes your silence as defeat, and his smugness creeps in before you can counter. Ultimately, he is right—you could’ve stayed together had you accepted his decision to join the Navy. But when it’s waved in your face like some document to support his argument—what your brother had done to you numerous times before—it makes you see red. So much that you want to return Jake’s anger tenfold. The idea of it poisons your head despite the consequences surrounding it—give him what he gave you. Every other option can’t convey how hard it hit to see him physically retreat and walk away from the life you had begun to build.

“You know what’s mature, Jake? Leaving without a goodbye. An explanation, or a reason, something for me to understand why you fucking left.”

“I gave you plenty! You had no right to choose my future for me!”

“Wasn’t I supposed to be a part of that? Weren’t you the one who gave me all these promises even though you knew you couldn’t keep them?” Your nails leave crescent marks in the palm of your hand. “I trusted you. I believed you when you said we could work things out. You loved me one moment, then you couldn’t give me the time of day the next.”

His boiling anger simmers to a slow bubble until it is still. You hardly recognize who he is through the blurriness of your eyes.

“I loved you for years afterward. All for someone who couldn’t do the same.”

Wordlessly, you turn and start walking. Jake follows you before realizing you’ve quickened your pace. You don’t turn back, not when he calls your name in panic, realizing you’ve used his own cards against him. You can’t reason with him or yourself—the rage he’s ignited has left you blind. All you think of is revenge and how spiteful you feel, unlacing the strings of regret weaving through your mind. You have the temporary satisfaction of forcing him your perspective. Now, you have to deal with losing him again, too.

A constant shadow looms above your head. It’s evident when the clear glasses slip from your fingers in the bar after hours of mindless work and land in a pile of shards. You can’t even muster a full apology to Penny, whose first instinct is to ask if you’re okay. The concern radiating from her almost makes you sob—it’s been so long since someone had asked about your wellbeing. Penny lets you collapse into her embrace, rubbing your back as you allow yourself the time to unleash the storm stirring within you.

Even then, you can’t rid yourself of the pains. It takes more than a few words for you to understand the nature of your regrets. The second wave of denial has hit, the same you felt when Jake walked away first. Looking down at your empty hands, you only wish they were woven in the warmth of his.

His absence is recognized at the bar. “Where’s Hangman?” his friends often wonder. Their stares find their way to you—judging from the stoicism of your face, they leave the topic untouched. The itching presence of your brother doesn’t provide any aid, or so you convince yourself. He doesn’t need to ask to know when something is bothering you, and he shouldn’t need permission to comfort you. But from the nature of your last exchange, he wonders if it’s best to leave you alone. In the back of your mind, you wish he would take another step.

After the sun is down, all that’s left is the sea crashing against the shore. Leaning against your doorway, you stare out at the open water. It’s too much of an effort to go there now, given the time and your lack of energy. It’s still beautiful to gaze at, though. Despite your current conditions, the ocean reminds you of the reason you moved in the first place. It was your father’s wish to fly, eventually inspiring Brad to do the same. While you may have punished him in your mind, ignoring your mother’s compliance, it isn’t difficult to see how much it means to him, and how much it’d mean to your father. The ocean is his final resting place, where his dog tag remains amongst the healing yet commanding waves. Each time you step on the sand and feel the salt on your skin, a piece of your father travels with you. It’s enough to conjure the distant memories that remain.

Your father was always revered for his ambition, a by-product of being friends with the Maverick. Above that, he had compassion, a feat passed onto your brother. Forgiveness, even if he wasn’t around to express it. So, when Bradley’s car pulls into your driveway, part of you isn't surprised. More importantly, you’re relieved to know your brother hasn’t changed too much. He lingers by his car door like a timid child. Shoes kicking at the concrete, lips pressed into a line—he doesn’t know exactly what to say or do.

The half smile you give him is the invitation onto your porch. You settle in the swinging chair outside your window. Brad sits tensely, hands folded on his lap. “I heard what happened,” he begins.

“Really? He gave me up, just like that?”

Brad shakes his head. “The opposite, actually. Hangman was pissier than usual. He had to say what was on his mind or else it was 200 push-ups every morning.”

Your head falls back with a sharp laugh. Hearing his callsign is odd, to say the least. It defines him by his uniform, the facade he’s built over time. Or, possibly, the new person he’s become.

“So, what? Is he also wallowing or am I some bitch than ran away?”

Brad turns his head to you. Never in your life have you seen him react so grimly to a joke, one you silently hope holds no truth. He takes a deep breath, “Hang- Jake is…to be honest, I don’t know. We aren’t the closest of friends—actually, I don’t even know if I can call him a friend at all. But when he looks at me it’s like he only sees you.” He cringes. “Shit, maybe that’s why he hates me. He only sees his ex-girlfriend.”

You’re both laughing. Calm as the ocean, still loud enough to hear over the waves. You’ve inched closer together until your shoulders touch and your breaths align as one. You’re still Bradshaws—his heated words couldn’t have changed that even if he willed them into existence. With the thought of that day, your chest spikes, and your brother senses it, too. He gives you his undivided attention.

“It wasn’t fair of me to throw that at you. It was such an asshole move.”

“It was.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, though there’s a grin creeping in at your amusement. “I’m gonna stick by your side, okay? No matter what.”

Your fist lands in his arm, earning a yelp. “Thanks. It’s nice to not have you insulting me for once.”

Following another fit of laughter, Bradley gazes out to sea. An air of clarity encompasses him, determination locked into his features coupled with acceptance. “I forgave Maverick,” he admits. “It took a while for me to understand his side, and now I do.”

The quietness of his tone indicates the difficulty of his confession. Bradley had never stepped down from defending your father’s name, even in the face of the people who seemingly knew more than he did. He held onto the last bits he had of Goose, that infamous name which continues to hover above his head. A name he cannot shake himself of—not that he wants to. Though he chooses to hold onto your father’s name, it doesn’t mean he has to hold onto those unfortunate circumstances. When he glances at you, you see the message behind his words.

“Talk to Jake. Just talk, like I did with Maverick. Maybe you’ll see something you never noticed before—say something you’ve been keeping inside.”

You sigh. “I don’t know if I can. I ruined everything.”

Bradley pats your shoulder in comfort. “Trust me when I say you haven’t. He’s more forgiving than he presents.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

There’s a pounding in your chest. It’s a sense of dread that you can’t seem to find an answer to, whether it’s due to the impending raindrops cascading down your shoulders—soaking your clothing to your skin in a slim stretch of fabric that’s likely to make you ill—or the fear of rejection. A fear that only he can relieve you of. A fear that’s been a major player in the ongoing battle of heartache and misconceptions, two subjects that have haunted you for years. With each sinking step into the deep puddles in the cracked concrete, the weight of the world begins to multiply by thousands. There’s no going back after this and you’re completely aware of it.

Mud periodically splatters across your beaten shoes, unequipped for this treacherous journey. Driving would’ve been the better, and more convenient option, but amidst another bout of midday thoughts, you knew this would make it harder to turn back. The fire in your lungs burns with each shallow gasp you take. There’s an itch creeping in your throat, a headache pooling at your temples, but your feet won’t stop even as they ache. You keep running, splashing through the paved street that’s foreign in this thick fog, and you can’t help but realize you look like a complete mess.

As the ground inclines, the terrain becomes rougher. Rocks and potholes begin to stand in your way, causing you to think that fate is seemingly not rooting for your love, but you ignore them. Nothing could possibly derail your path. Derail your goal of seeing Jake again, of telling him all of the things that you were too afraid to say before. So, as you run up the hill towards his quaint home, your strides are more powerful than a tsunami.

Your older brother’s words rage through your head. His advice on forgiveness and second chances are the slogans for the redemption of your relationship with Jake. The short motto slapped onto the movie poster of your love story would be nothing but a blockbuster—a bold font with scattered letters that spell ‘I miss you, I’m sorry’—that would play in your mind’s cinema for the rest of your life. You're almost there. Just a few blocks away. Just a few minutes from the ultimate make-or-break moment that could change your future entirely.

His door stands before you now. The cobalt blue color is stark against the pure white wooden frame. You wonder if he painted it himself and can easily imagine a scene in which Jake is sitting on his front porch during a particularly hot summer day, sipping a cold beer, with paint splattered across his white undershirt. Your heart warms at the thought of you seated beside him, with his hand in yours, while your only concerns are related to each other—making your inevitable reunion even more meaningful.

You knock three times. Once as an announcement that you’re here, twice to reaffirm your presence, and a third for good measure. You aren’t taking any chances today.

“I heard you the first time! You don’t need to break down my goddamn door!” Jake’s voice becomes louder and louder with each word as you hear him approach the entryway. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Just hang on a second, okay?”

The lock clicks whilst the knob begins twisting to the left, and he’s standing opposite to you before you can even blink.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He’s taken aback—not only by your unannounced visit, but by the horrific state you’re currently presenting to him. You can’t even begin to describe the amount of mud that’s running up your thighs or the drenched fabric that’s sticking to your sternum. All that matters is Jake and the fact that you’ve finally come back to him and his blunt choice of words. “Holy shit, you’re shaking. Get over here.”

You nod your head, giving him a faint ‘okay,’ before stepping through the doorway and breaking the invisible barrier that had been dividing the two of you for years. Instinctively, your hands yearn for his, wishing for the skin-on-skin contact that would allow you to feel his love for you—or at least feel the ghost of his high school heartbreak.

“I know this is sudden,” you begin as he guides you to his sofa. His hand hovers at the small of your back, never daring to rest on your waist as he doesn’t yet know the boundaries of your relationship. “I should’ve called beforehand or given you a heads up, but this couldn’t wait.”

You continue, “I had to tell you that I love you.”

There’s a sort of breathlessness laced within your voice. Your normally pessimistic thoughts are evolving into idealistic dreams of you and Jake’s happiness as a healthy and happy pair of lovers. You want nothing more than a real chance at a life with him, a real chance at being the person he chooses to wake up next to every single morning, but it’s scary—because at the end of the day, your mutual future is entirely up to him.

The way he looks at you, eyes muddled with something bordering years of untouched longing, make you want to melt into the floor. It isn’t quite there—he’s holding himself back from relishing in your words, too good to be true, but also long overdue.

He falters. That’s your cue, you think solemnly as your vision stings and blurs. Leave and never turn back; forget this entire ordeal and realize the cycle is complete—you’ve left Jake the same way he left you, yet you’re the one getting your heart broken again. When he looks upon you again, you understand exactly what happened that day. A face full of torment and utter grief—what you couldn’t see amidst the blind rage as he walked away. Jake never wanted to make that decision, but he did, and it’s tormented him for as long as it has haunted you.

Jake whispers your name with yearning. You realize he has cupped your face with his hands, searching your expression for the answers to his unspoken questions. Is it true? Is this real? And you nod, holding onto his wrists in hopes he won’t step away again. In fact, he steps closer until his lips are a touch away—then they’re on yours, moving with hesitance, waiting for your call. Your heart swells with a force stronger than the winds, pushing you deeper into Jake’s embrace. The world stands still, granting you the time to express all that you’ve needed to say.

When you part, a smile remains on Jake’s face, though it’s unable to mask the sadness behind. “I love you,” he says breathlessly. “I never stopped loving you, and I’m sorry-”

“Don’t,” you say with a finger to his lips. “I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have made us walk away from each other.”

His brows crease, mouth open to speak. You hold his face the same way he holds yours, ultimately shutting him up. “Jake,” you say. He softens; he knows from your tone of voice he won’t be able to refute. The tears begin to fall, mixed in the rainwater still littering your skin.

“Yes?”

You wait, making sure he is present. You need him to hear these words, to seal your fate and to provide the closure you’ve both needed, ending this journey with forgiveness. “You became the man I always wanted you to be.”

thanks for reading! this took a while to finish so i hope it lived up to ur expectations- and if it didn’t then don’t be a b word abt it

tags: @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @dempy @ollyoxenfrees​ @walkonthewiidside

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 5.5

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell’s Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~700 words)

author's note: WOW sorry for disappearing on y'all for a hot minute there! i'm still working on the next part of this series (part 8) but i wanted to write this little interlude that takes place after part 5: matt reflects on saving you. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warning: some strong language, a brief (very vague) reference to violence

read part 5 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~

At three in the morning, Matt tumbles into his apartment and tears off his helmet, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his forehead. His heart is going so quickly that he’s worried it’ll give out on him, the usual pounding of his heartbeat reduced to a higher-pitched vibration that hurts his entire chest. He presses a hand to his ribs to try to ease the pain, but it doesn’t work. 

You weren’t supposed to be there. 

You’re never at the cafe that late. You’re usually home by then, the cafe long-closed, everything waiting patiently for your arrival the next morning. You weren’t supposed to be there in the back, in the alley, alone and vulnerable and—

Fuck, he thinks, pressing his fingers to his temples. He can still smell the fear on your skin underneath the aroma of coffee and freshly-baked muffins. His ears still ring with the sound of your voice as you begged him not to touch you. He’d never hurt you—never. But of course you had no way of knowing that. 

He was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, responsible for half of the people who ended up in the hospital. 

And you weren’t supposed to be there. 

Before Matt can even process what’s going on, he’s plucking his phone off of the kitchen counter and calling Foggy. 

“Jesus Christ, man, it’s fuckin’ three in the morning,” Foggy groans, his voice raspy with sleep. 

“I need—” Matt cuts himself off, his throat closing up. “Fuck, Foggy, I screwed up.”

“Whaddya mean?” Foggy asks. He sounds a little more alert now, worry easing its way through the slurs between the words. “You screwed up? What, did you kill someone or something?”

“No,” Matt says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I—they met Daredevil.”

Matt doesn’t even have to say your name for Foggy to understand what he means. Years and years of friendship will do that. 

There’s a rustling on the other end of the call, followed by footsteps, and then Foggy saying, “Explain. Now.”

Matt rattles off his explanation—that you’d been in the alley, you’d gotten attacked, he’d had no choice but to step in. Foggy listens intently the entire time, and even after Matt finishes, he stays quiet for a moment longer, taking it all in. 

Before Matt can ask if Foggy’s still awake, Foggy says, “Matt, I say this with all the love in the world: you are the biggest, dumbest dickhead that I have ever met.”

“What—Foggy—?”

“How the fuck is that screwing up?” Foggy asks. Matt can hear the air quotes. “You did the right thing, got in there like a hero, saved their life, and then got out. Easy as pie. What’re you so mad about?”

“I made a promise—”

“Well, I guess you broke it,” Foggy says, “even if you did it by saving their life. Look, I know you want to keep this to yourself, but if you really care about them—if you really want to be there for them—then you have to accept that sometimes, it’s going to be the other guy. And if—if—you decide to tell them, then…well, if they care about you, they’ll accept it too.”

There’s a reason why Foggy is one of the most formidable lawyers in New York City right now: he’s impossible to argue with. Matt sits heavily on his couch, raking a hand through his hair, Foggy’s words echoing in his ears. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve only barely started dating—Matt knows that what Foggy says is true. He’s lost too many good things because of his inability to trust people with his other life. He’s not about to let you go too. 

Maybe he’s going all-in too quickly, but… This time feels different. Good. Real. 

He doesn’t want to let that go. And in order for it to stay that way, he’s going to have to trust you. 

“Yeah,” Matt says. He breathes in, smells coffee. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Foggy says. He’s preening, Matt can tell, and he’s going to be fucking insufferable at work tomorrow. “Now go to sleep. You sound like you need it.”

“Thanks, Foggy.”

“Anytime, bud.”

The call ends, letting the apartment descend into silence, but the raging storm inside of Matt’s head has never been so loud.

part 6

taglist

@your-not-invisible-to-me @hellskitchens-whore @l-a-y-n-i-e @a-girl-called-herby @u23r2p4m @dyzlks @lucypaulette @father4giveme @feliciab1990 @aramora @does-existance-exist @flaskofheads @thegreengoop @urlocalgeek @abbyhaslongshorts @shadybeef @amaryllisblue @ashtasticperson @niallsvirgosun

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 2,193 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: the prison Warnings: none really Summary: Y/N falls ill and Daryl goes to make sure she's okay, only to discover her cell is empty. A/N: Just a short and sweet fic! For all you fellow migraine suffers out there! Requested by: @winchestershiresauce and anon!

Your name: submit What is this?

“Gettin’ real sick of staring at these ugly fuckers,” Daryl said, smashing the end of the metal rod in his hand through the chainlink fence and into the brain of a particularly loud walker. He watched carelessly as it crumpled to the ground and was immediately replaced by another.  “Yeah, well—” you jabbed the crowbar in your hand into the temple of the seemingly endless infected clamoring at the fence, “someone has to do it.” You paused for a moment as your head suddenly swam. Daryl immediately noticed.  “What? Ya alright?” He thought maybe you looked a little pale all of a sudden, which was strange considering the sweltering heat and humidity. He was sure he was red-faced and he knew he was soaked with sweat.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment and shook your head. “It’s nothing. I’m good.” You resumed your thankless and grim task, picking out another infected dead one to put down. You felt Daryl’s eyes on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the fence. You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand and pushed on, but it was only a few more minutes when you felt your vision start to change and the familiar stabbing pain began to grow behind your eyes. Daryl watched as the crowbar dropped to your side and you froze again, squeezing your eyes shut, a grimace wrinkling your brow. “Hey—s’goin’ on? And don’t feed me some bullshit about how you’re fine,” he drawled. He watched your fist clench around the iron crowbar. “Just—just a little too much sun probably. I’m just gonna go get some water and shade for a bit. I’m fine. Really,” you said, opening your eyes again and turning to look at him. His eyes were narrowed as he peered back at you, concern obvious on his face. “I’ll walk ya up—” “No. No, Daryl, I’m fine,” you reassured him, forcing out a light laugh. “Just keep at it down here. I’ll see if Glenn or Maggie can come down. There’s too many walkers. We need to cut this herd down or we’ll lose the fence,” you said, already walking backwards toward the gate. “I’m fine,” you tossed out one more time, forcing a smile that you knew wasn’t entirely natural. He watched you turn and let yourself through the gate, taking the alleyway between the fences back up toward the prison. Hopefully you just needed to rest a little while... He continued to work on thinning the herd for a while but found himself distracted. Neither Maggie nor Glenn came down to help and it was possible they were just busy, but he found himself fixating on an intrusive thought that you’d collapsed somewhere of heat exhaustion on your way back to the cell block. He finally decided to take a break himself and make sure you were alright. He could see if anyone else was available to help on the fence too. The archer didn’t find you anywhere on his way back inside, collapsed or otherwise. He breezed into the cell block, stalking past Beth who had Judith in her arms. He slowed as he neared the cell you’d claimed and was surprised to see that it was empty. He spun on his heel and headed right back out toward Beth. “Hey. Ya seen Y/N come in here?” “She came through a little while ago, but she left again,” Beth said. “But ya did see her?” Daryl asked again. Beth nodded. “Yeah. I saw her. Why? What’s goin’ on?” She saw worry in the archer’s expression. “Any idea where she went?” Beth shook her head. “No. Daryl, what’s goin’ on?” “Nah, nothin’. She just—she was out on the fence with me and said she wasn’t feelin’ well. I just wanted to make sure she was alright. I was thinkin’ I’d find her in bed but she ain’t there.” “Oh,” Beth said. There was something like a realization on her face and Daryl paused. “What?” “Nothin’,” Beth said again, averting her eyes back toward Judith.  “Ya ain’t a good liar,” he said, a little annoyed that she obviously knew something she wasn’t saying. “C’mon. Spit it out,” he said, flicking his fingers at her. Beth looked up at him again and still seemed unsure. “It’s just—she doesn’t really want anyone to know...” “Know what?” he pressed. Beth looked hesitant, but the look on Daryl’s face convinced her to spill it. “Sometimes—she—she gets migraines. They can make her real sick,” Beth said, bouncing Judith on her hip. “Only reason I know is because I saw her leavin’ with her pillow one time real early in the mornin’ when I was up helpin’ with Judith.” “Leavin’? Leavin’ to where?” “She needs it dark and quiet... so I think she goes to one of the other cell blocks,” Beth said. “But she really told me not to say anythin’.“ Daryl stood stunned for a moment. “One of the other cellblocks?” Beth nodded. “Ya mean with those bloodstains and shit all over the place?” Beth shrugged. “I told her no one would care but she insisted I didn’t tell anyone anythin’.” Before Beth could ask him not to let you know that he knew, his broad shoulders were already disappearing back out the door. Daryl checked two cell blocks before he heard the sound of you being sick. He pushed through the cellblock gate, which creaked lazily on its hinges, and found you huddled over a bucket. You rinsed your mouth out with water and didn’t notice him standing in the cell doorway until you had sunk heavily back down on the edge of the mattress. You startled a little and Daryl watched your expression and body language just sag. 

“Great...” you muttered. “Did Beth rat me out?” you asked, sliding further back onto the bed and wiping a shaky hand across your clammy forehead. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how disgusting do I look right now?” you asked, leaning your head back against the wall behind you and shutting your eyes. Daryl was just about the last person you wanted to see you like this. He watched a flash of pain flit across your face. “‘bout a 5,” he drawled, stepping into the cell. You cracked one eye open to take in his expression and saw that although one corner of his mouth was quirked slightly upwards at his joke, he mainly looked concerned. You closed your eyes again as the light coming in the high cellblock windows made your head throb.

“I’ll be okay. I just need—if I can get to sleep, sometimes that stops it...” You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the thudding of your pulse beneath your fingers. “Sometimes?” Daryl repeated. You didn’t respond and he moved farther into the cell until he was standing at the side of the bunk. “I thought it was yer head. How come ya got sick?” he asked. You took in a deep breath and tried to let it out steadily. “If the pain’s too intense sometimes it can make me nauseous.” Oof. Talking was not helpful. “Mmm.” You shook your head. “Can’t talk.”  “Hmm...” Daryl considered you for a moment. “Scooch. And lie down.” You looked up at him, surprised, through bleary eyes, the aura of your migraine distorting your vision uncomfortably. “What?” “Ya heard me,” he said, his tone soft. You obeyed and shifted closer to the wall, settling down on your side. Daryl squeezed himself in beside you, sitting up with his back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle.  Your eyes were closed, but he still saw your expression tighten as waves of pain crested and fell. “What can I do?” he drawled quietly.  You shook your head. “Just—nothing...” you murmured, feeling a hot wash of shame spread over you. The next moment your eyes shot open as you felt Daryl’s fingers running over your hair, following a strand gently, brushing lightly over you. You peered up at him in surprise and he immediately pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and chewed it anxiously. His fingers left you for a moment. “Uhh—s’that... help?” he asked, his hand hovering above you. You nodded and closed your eyes again, just in time that you didn’t see how red Daryl’s cheeks and ears suddenly were. “Actually, yeah. That helps...” you sighed. His fingers landed in your hair again and resumed their gentle movements. He watched your breathing slow and deepen, and you seemed to sink more heavily into your pillow. Once you were asleep, Daryl carefully slipped from the cell and returned with a blanket for you, covering you over gently. He debated about heading back to the main cellblock, but the idea of leaving you there alone bothered him. Ya shouldn’t be in a fucking prison to start with, but alone in that cellblock that still held signs of unspeakable horrors? That was out of the question. So, instead, he slipped back onto the edge of the bunk, setting his back to the wall again, and settled in next to you. Maybe it was the hard work out on the fence earlier, but he was soon asleep too. When you woke up many hours later, you were surprised to see Daryl beside you asleep. his head nodded down toward his chest. He’d stayed there next to you? That whole time? He woke as you stirred a little, leaning up on an elbow and peering up at him, rubbing your eyes with your free hand.  “Hey,” he said, feeling suddenly awkward and climbing off the bunk and onto his feet. “How ya feelin’?” You nodded. “Better. Thanks. Just... a bit hungover,” you said wearily. The sharpness of your migraine had faded to a fuzzy kind of ache, and your whole body felt fatigued. “Hungover without the fun of gettin’ lit in the first place? That’s some serious bullshit,” he drawled, leaning back against the wall behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Yeah, tell me about it,” you said, swinging your legs over to sit on the edge of the bed, the blanket falling from over you to land in a soft pile. “Thanks...” you murmured again, feeling that creeping wave of shame rising in you again. Daryl must have sensed it because you could feel his blue eyes on you, studying you, and you glanced up at him. “Why didn’t ya tell me?” he asked. “I mean, why hide it?” He looked around the empty cellblock and his eyes landed on the bloodstains on the floor outside the cell you were in and the piles of trash nearby. “This ain’t where ya should be when yer sick. Ya should be back where—where we can take care of ya...” He’d almost said “I” instead of we, and he felt his heart start pounding.  You hung your head and stared down at your hands. “I don’t want to be a burden...” you said quietly. “It’s better if I just deal with it. Alone.” Daryl scoffed and you glanced up at him. “Tha’s stupid. Ya ain’t alone. Ya got a family. And ya ain’t a burden cuz ya get sick. Ain’t yer fault. Can’t control it. Ya didn’t choose it. It’s the shit hand ya been dealt.” You shrugged and peered down at your hands again, anxious. “This why ya had to back outta that run the other week at the last minute? And—that time when we were out tryin’ to track that horse?” Your jaw clenched and you nodded. “Usually I know when they’re coming on. Sometimes I have more warning and sometimes hardly any at all... Before the world went to shit I had a couple medications that really helped, but—can’t exactly walk into a pharmacy now and fill a prescription,” you said wryly. “It’s fine. I manage them. But... I know it makes me weaker...” “Weaker? Nah. That ain’t true. If anythin’ it makes ya stronger cuz ya gotta deal with that pain.” You shook your head. “No. What if I’m out there and one hits me? That’s a weakness, Daryl. It’s dangerous.” “Mmm,” Daryl hummed, chewing on his bottom lip. He seemed to make some decision at that moment and straightened up. “Look. From now on? If yer gettin’ sick, ya just tell me, alright? No matter where we are, I’ll always make sure yer safe. If we’re outside the fence, we’ll find someplace to hole up. If we’re in here, I’ll make sure ya get to bed and that everyone keeps fuckin’ quiet so you can rest—well, ‘cept Lil Asskicker, but can’t do nothin’ about that,” he drawled.  You managed a half smile. “Daryl, you don’t have to—” “I know I ain’t gotta, but that’s how it’s gonna be. Like I said, yer not alone.”  You were a little overwhelmed at the moment and you felt a bubble of emotion forming in your chest. You cleared your throat and tried to gather yourself for a moment before you looked back up at him. You knew there was no point in arguing. “You’re the boss,” you said, when you finally met his blue eyes. He rolled his eyes at you in response.  “Alrigh’, we both know that ain’t true... C’mon. Let’s get ya somethin’ to eat,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the cell door.  You smiled and took in his broad shoulders and strong arms, feeling another rush of heat in your chest. The softness inside that badass warrior always melted you and you had readily come to the realization that he was simply your favorite person in the world. And soon you planned to tell him so.

[ginervacade]

Hey there! I just got my period and I’m dying, but you always seem to have a fictional man at the ready to make me feel better. Who’ve ya got? You’re the best btw! 💗

Hey love! I would venture to debate that you’re actually the best but whatever. I’m very sorry to hear that you’re dying ( me too 🙁), but lucky for us I’ve got just the remedy. This is a fandom I’m not really even in but a character I’ve just discovered and fallen head fist for.. drumroll please……… Pavel Chekhov!!!

Warnings: periods, blood.

You can choose to take this as an SO or a friend or however you want. And I use she/her pronouns in this but not everyone who menstruates is a woman, so this can be taken as gender neutral reader!!

“ Y/N?” The young boy asks softly, looking worriedly at your slumped over form in the seat next to him.

“ Yes dear?” You curl up tighter as you turn to face him, pushing the grimace off your face to offer a weak smile you hope is convincing. It is not in fact convincing.

“ Are you alright?” His voice is soft, in both its volume and tone, adorable accent cutting through the words.

“ Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?” Your voice is weak.

“Y/N?” The boy gave you a knowing look. “ Then why are you sitting like that?”

“ It’s more comfortable.” You reply, turning away from him and continuing to work “ Hurts less” you mumble.

“ I heard that. “ he leans close lowering his voice so only you can hear, “ What hurts? I can get Dr. McCoy.”

“ No! No, I don’t need Bones. I’m used to this. I’m fine.” You reply, nearly wincing as another cramp hits.

Pavel looks puzzled “ A pain you are used to? Hmm.” Then he seems to get it and turns a bit pink “ You’ve got your monthlies. Don’t you?” His smug whisper doesn’t match the schoolboy blush tinting the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

“ I might.” You’ve developed a blush of your own. There’s a beat of silence as he watches you. “ Fine. Sometimes you’re too smart for your own good.” You cross your arms in a pout but the sudden movement allows for another bad cramp and you shut your eyes tightly for a second “But I can handle it. I need to be productive,” you reply in the most unconvincing tone there ever was.

“ I don’t see “productive”,” he says with air quotes, “ I see you curled up in a ball at your desk fighting back tears.”

“ I’m fine Pavel.” You glare at the boy and he backs down. He keeps an annoyingly close eye on you for the next few minutes. Another cramp hits especially hard and you accidentally make the tiniest sound in response.

“ Enough!” He says. He may be gentle and innocent but Pavel Chekhov is strong willed and he is a teenage boy, so when he decides he’s done watching you suffer he stands up and scoops you into his arms.

“ Pavel Chekhov you put me down right this instant!” You protest, squirming in his arms.

“ Nyet!” He proceeds to carry you out of the room and into the long corridor of the enterprise. “ We’re going to the med bay.”

“ No!!” You reply. “ Please Chekhov, I don’t need McCoy knowing, it’s bad enough you know! Just put me down and let me go work!” 

“ Nyet! We need our crew healthy and functional and your are neither right now!” The accent in his voice is strong as he’s putting his foot down.

Another bad cramp hits you. “ Fine, ok. Let’s just go to my room. I can walk.”

“ No, I am taking care of you!” He says matter of factly. He carries you all the way to your quarters. Once you unlock the door he sets you down. Since all of the rooms on board the enterprise are organized the same way he knows where your things are. He opens a drawer and pulls you out some more comfortable clothes. Handing them to you he says,“ Change. I’ll be right back.”

He walks out and you strip off your work attire. You discover a small splotch of red on the back of your pants and curse tears filling you eyes. He must have seen. Grabbing a new pair of underwear you toss your dirty things into the hamper. You change your pad/product of choice and slip into the clothes he handed you before sliding into bed.

****

Chekhov enters the med bay to find McCoy.

“ Hello Dr. McCoy.”

“ Hey kid. You ok?” Bones asks, concerned.

“ I am fine. But I need your help. Do you have a heating pad?”

“ Sure do.” Bones turns to grab it. “ This for Y/N? I noticed her looking a little rough around the edges this morning.”

“Yes Sir.” The boy replies.

“ Her period?” Bones says,completely unphased.

“ Yes Sir.” Chekhov nods, “ It’s pretty bad I think.”

“ Yeah, hers usually are, poor kid.”

“She wouldn’t let me bring her here. She didn’t want you to know. She is embarrassed.”

“ Yeah, she always is. I’ve really tried to break her of that habit. But I’m a doctor and I care about her.I already knew.”Bones shakes his head at the boy.

“ Of course sir.” Bones hands Chekhov the heating pad and a small cup of painkillers “ You better get those back to her.”

“ Yes sir.” The boy hurried out and back to you.

****

“ Knock knock.” He says as he walks back into your room.

“ Hi love.” You say, curled up in a tight ball in your bed.

“ I brought something to help you feel better.” He plugs in the heating pad and places it on your stomach and then offers the pain killers. You take them gratefully.

“ Thank you.”

“ Of course.” The two of you just sit for a moment.

“Why aren’t you getting all embarrassed about this?” You ask, “ I mean especially given your age I figured-“

“ I am not immature I guess.” He shrugs. “ You’re hurting, that’s more important anyway.” He gently squeezes your hand.

“ Do you need anything else?”

“ I’m ok” you smile, “ the heating pad is starting to help.”

“ Ok.” He replies, “Get some rest.” He turns to go.

“ Pasha wait…” you said sheepishly.

“ Hmm?” He turns around.

“ Stay with me?”

He smiles “ I can do zat.”

This may be way out of character, idk. I’m not in this fandom I just find Chekhov adorable. Hope this helps my dear anon, thank you so much for the ask!!! Feel better!💗

[prrism]

A Visit From… Wilbur (Fifth Visit) and Dream (Third Visit)

Relationships: platonic

Pronouns: unspecified/kept neutral

It was well into the evening when you got a message from Wilbur telling you to meet him near Pogtopia. You weren’t sure why he wanted to meet up so late but you figured you’d get your answer once you arrived, quietly making your way to the door to not wake the sleeping Tommy upstairs. After dealing with some mobs you finally reached your destination seeing two darkened figures just outside the entrance to Pogtopia. Once you were close enough you see one of them was Wilbur, no surprise there but the second figure surprised you a little.

“Dream? I mean it’s good to see you and all but I didn’t expect to see you here.” You say, raising a confused eyebrow.

“I have my reasons. And it’s good to see you too.” He says with a nonchalant shrug.

“Never mind all these greeting,” Wilbur cuts in. “Did you bring what I asked for?” He looks at you expectantly.

“Sure, but first you gotta tell me what all this is for and why all the secrecy?” You question. Wilbur let’s out a low chuckle before giving you a cocky grin.

“Look I had to ask you without Tommy getting in the way,Meh already doesn’t like Dream getting involved.” He starts.

“Involved with what, exactly.” It came out more as a statement then a question.

“I have a plan, to blow L’Manberg up sky high!” He says with an almost delighted laugh. You look over at Dream slightly concerned but of course all your met with is his smiling mask.

“I’m sorry, let me get this straight. You’ve been working hard trying to get L’Manberg back and now you want to blow it up instead?!?”

“Precisely! Look, I’m going to be real with you for a second alright.” You just nod and wait for him to continue. “By all accounts we’re actually the bad guys. Schlatt won fair and square in the election and even made some good changes to the country, and we’re the ones trying to take it back by force. This isn’t about L’Manberg or the people anymore, it’s all about having power, so let’s show them all and completely destroy the place.” You blink a few times to try and process everything being said.

“I-…” You’re quickly interrupted by Wilbur again.

“Think about it (y/n), I know you’re tired of all the shady deals they keep throwing your way. You want to keep doing your own thing, but getting L’Manberg back wouldn’t help, I would’ve eventually done the same thing too. Asking for full allegiance or getting you to sign into a contract with me if I were placed back in power. Even if I know you don’t want it, it would happen, it always does. So let’s cut out the middle man so that it’ll never happen again.” He sounded like an absolute madman, looked the part too, you couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just acting delusional.

“I kinda regret jokingly calling you short fuse now. Didn’t think it would become this serious.” You sigh, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. “Regardless, I can… sorta see where you’re coming from, doesn’t mean I agree with it, but I see where it’s coming from.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we could just take the potions off your hands and handle the rest.” Dream pipes in, you’d almost forgotten he was standing beside you. You stare at the Haste potions you’d made sitting in your inventory, you could just walk away with them, it wouldn’t be hard and yet you find yourself handing them over much to Wilbur’s delight.

“Wonderful, I knew I could count on you!” He cheers. “Don’t you worry, I’ll be sure to warn you when you need to leave that festival.”

“Fine, but you just need to promise me one thing.” You say, looking him straight in the eyes. “Don’t go deciding something prematurely alright. Maybe your views really have changed, and I can’t really blame you for that but I know for a fact that you, at least, used to genuinely want nothing but the best for L’Manberg. So all I’m asking is for you to truly consider thinking about what you’re doing, and if it’s really worth it.” You say, he stares at you for half a minute before giving you a nod and strutting back into Pogtopia…

You let out a long sigh before looking over at Dream.

“So what’s brewing in your mind?” You ask, earning an amused chuckle from the masked man.

“What makes you think I have anything on my mind?” He questions right back.

“Don’t play dumb with me, it may be dark but I can hear the cheeky smirk on your face. You’re planning something.”

“Ha, nothing gets past you does it. That’s why I like you, you’re not as gullible as the others… so long as you swear not to say anything of course.” You roll your eyes at this.

“There’s always a catch, but you know I’m good at keeping secrets.” You see him nod then he gives you a pat on the shoulder.

“This whole Pogtopia vs. Manberg ordeal is interesting, to say the least, and while I am more in favour of Wilbur’s side, who’s to say I can’t cause some chaos amongst them. Not yet of course, it’s too soon for that, but if the festival doesn’t go as planned, well…” He trails off but you were quickly catching on.

“Sounds to me like you don’t want the place blown sky high just yet. All just so you can watch things crash and burn longer.”

“We gotta have some fun somehow.”

“We? What we? I’m getting myself involved with this.”

“No. But now you know about it and you won’t tell anyone about it, so you’re indirectly involved.” He says cheekily.

“I- buh- you-” You sputter over your own words for a second before sigh softly. “I’m going home, I’m done with this. Goodnight.” You huff out. Hearing Dream laugh a little before you’re out of earshot…

[sadprosed]

𝑳𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑪  𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺.

↬   REPUTATION  ( 2017 )  by  taylor  swift.

taken  from  or  inspired  by  the  lyrics  of  the  album.  some  sexual  themes  present.

+    feel  free  to  change  pronouns  !

‘  i  see  how  this  is  going  to  go.  ’

‘  i  knew  he / she / they  was  a  killer,  the  first  time  that  i  saw  him / her / them.  ’

‘  every  love  i’ve  ever  known  in  comparison  is  a  failure.  ’

‘  i’ll  keep  him / her / them  forever,  like  a  vendetta.  ’

‘  touch  me  and  you’ll  never  be  alone.  ’

‘  no  one  has  to  know.  ’

‘  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  my  dreams,  you  should  see  the  things  we  do.  ’

‘  are  you  ready  for  it  ?  ’

‘  i’ve  got  some  big  enemies.  ’

‘  you  and  me  would  be  a  big  conversation.  ’

‘  we  tried  to  forget  it  but  we  just  couldn’t.  ’

‘  i  bury  hatchets,  but  i  keep  maps  of  where  i  put  them.  ’

‘  in  rumors,  i’m  knee  deep.  ’

‘  i  can’t  let  you  go,  your  handprint  is  on  my  soul.  ’

‘  you’ve  been  calling  my  bluff  on  all  my  usual  tricks.  ’

‘  i  never  trust  a  narcissist,  but  they  love  me.  ’

‘  for  every  lie  i  tell  them,  they  tell  me  three.  ’

‘  this  is  how  the  world  works,  you  gotta  leave  before  you  get  left.  ’

‘  i  can  feel  the  flames  on  my  skin.  ’

‘  i  did  something  bad,  why  does  it  feel  so  good  ?  ’

‘  they’re  burning  all  the  witches,  even  if  you  aren’t  one.  ’

‘  don’t  blame  me,  love  made  me  crazy.  ’

‘  for  you,  i  would  cross  the  line,  i  would  waste  my  time.  ’ 

‘  i  once  was  poison  ivy  but  now  i’m  your  daisy.  ’

‘  for  you  i  would  fall  from  grace,  just  to  touch  your  face.  ’

‘  i’d  beg  you  on  my  knees  to  stay.  ’

‘  my  reputation  has  never  been  good,  so  you  must  love  me  for  me.  ’

‘  we  can’t  make  any  promises,  but  you  can  make  me  a  drink.  ’

‘  just  think  of  the  fun  things  we  could  do.  ’

‘  is  it  too  soon  to  do  this  yet  ?  ’

‘  sometimes  when  i  look  into  your  eyes,  i  pretend  you’re  mine.  ’

‘  i  don’t  like  your  tilted  stage,  don’t  like  your  twisted  games.  ’

‘  the  role  you  made  me  play  of  the  fool,  no,  i  don’t  like  you.  ’

‘  i  don’t  like  your  perfect  crime,  how  you  laugh  when  you  lie.  ’

‘  the  world  moves  on,  another  day,  another  drama.  ’

‘  i’ll  be  the  actress  starring  in  your  bad  dreams.  ’

‘  you  make  all  my  grey  days  disappear.  ’

‘  i’m  so  chill,  but  you  make  me  jealous.  ’

‘  i  break  down  just  a  little,  but  when  you  get  me  alone  it’s  so  simple.  ’

‘  i’m  in  a  gold  cage,  hostage  to  my  feelings.  ’

‘  you  cut  me  into  pieces.  ’

‘  you’re  so  cool,  it  makes  me  hate  you  so  much.  ’

‘  you’ve  ruined  my  life  by  not  being  mine.  ’

‘  i’m  so  furious  at  you  for  making  me  feel  this  way.  ’

‘  you  should  take  it  as  a  compliment  that  i’m  talking  to  everyone  here  but  you.  ’

‘  there’s  a  consequence  to  you  touching  my  hand  in  a  darkened  room.  ’

‘   i  feel  like  i  might  sink  and  drown  and  die.  ’  

‘  you  make  me  so  happy,  it  turns  back  to  sad.  ’

‘  i  struck  a  match  and  blew  your  mind,  but  i  didn’t  mean  it.  ’

‘  we  never  had  a  shotgun  shot  in  the  dark.  ’

‘  don’t  pretend  it’s  such  a  mystery.  ’

‘  we  were  flying,  but  we’d  never  get  far.  ’

‘  you  should  have  known  i’d  be  the  first  to  leave.  ’

‘  it’s  no  surprise  i  turned  you  in,  because  us  traitors  never  win.  ’

‘  that  was  the  last  time  you  ever  saw  me.  ’

‘  i  made  up  my  mind  i’m  better  off  being  alone.  ’

‘  all  at  once,  you  are  the  one  i  have  been  waiting  for.  ’

‘  i’ll  never  let  you  go.  ’

‘  your  love  is  a  secret  i’m  hoping,  dreaming,  dying  to  keep.  ’

‘  the  taste  of  your  lips  is  my  idea  of  luxury.  ’

‘  is  this  the  end  of  all  the  endings  ?  ’

‘  all  at  once  this  is  enough.  ’

‘  i  loved  you  in  secret,  at  first  sight  we  loved  without  reason.  ’

‘  i  could  have  spent  forever  with  your  hands  in  my  pockets.  ’

‘  you  said  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  divide  us,  but  i  had  a  bad  feeling.  ’

‘  we  were  dancing  with  our  hands  tied,  like  it  was  the  first  time.  ’

‘  i  loved  you  in  spite  of  deep  fears  that  the  world  would  divide  us.  ’ 

‘  can  we  dance  through  an  avalanche  ?  ’

‘  my  love  had  been  frozen  deep  blue,  but  you  painted  me  golden.  ’

‘  i’d  kiss  you  as  the  lights  went  out,  swaying  as  the  room  burned  down.  ’

‘  i’d  hold  you  as  the  water  rushes  in  if  i  could  dance  with  you  again.  ’

‘  they’ve  got  no  idea  about  me  and  you.  ’

‘  you  made  your  mark  on  me,  a  golden  tattoo.  ’

‘  my  hands  are  shaking  from  holding  back  from  you.  ’

‘  say  my  name  and  everything  just  stops.  ’

‘  i  only  bought  this  dress  so  you  could  take  it  off.  ’

‘  carve  your  name  into  my  bedpost.  ’

‘  i  don’t  want  you  like  a  best  friend.  ’  

‘  if  we  get  burned,  at  least  we  were  electrified.  ’

‘  everyone  thinks  that  they  know  us,  but  they  know  nothing.  ’

‘  even  in  my  worst  lies,  you  saw  the  truth  in  me.  ’

‘  i  woke  up  just  in  time,  now  i  wake  up  by  your  side.  ’

‘  it  was  so  nice  throwing  big  parties.  ’

‘  there  are  no  rules  when  you  show  up  here.  ’

‘  why’d  you  have  to  rain  on  my  parade  ?  ’

‘  this  is  why  we  can’t  have  nice  things,  darling.  ’

‘  did  you  really  think  i  wouldn’t  hear  all  the  things  you  said  about  me  ?  ’

‘  here  i  was  giving  you  a  second  chance,  but  you  stabbed  me  in  the  back  while  shaking  my  hand.  ’

‘  herein  lies  the  issue:  friends  don’t  try  to  trick  you.  ’

‘  i’m  not  the  only  friend  you’ve  lost  lately.  ’

‘  here’s  a  toast  to  my  real  friends.  ’

‘  i  brought  a  knife  to  a  gun  fight.  ’

‘  i’m  doing  better  than  i  ever  was.  ’

‘  call  it  what  you  want  to.  ’

‘  all  the  liars  are  calling  me  one.  ’

‘  all  my  flowers  grew  back  as  thorns.  ’

‘  you  don’t  need  to  save  me,  but  would  you  run  away  with  me  ?  ’

‘  i  know  i  make  the  same  mistakes  every  time.  ’  

‘  bridges  burn,  i  never  learn,  but  at  least  i  did  one  thing  right.  ’

‘  your  starry  eyes  spark  up  my  darkest  night.  ’

‘  i’ll  be  there  if  you’re  the  toast  of  the  town,  or  if  you  strike  out  and  you’re  crawling  home.  ’

‘  don’t  read  the  last  page,  but  i  stay.  ’

‘  hold  on  to  the  memories,  they  will  hold  on  to  you.  ’

‘  please  don’t  ever  become  a  stranger  whose  laugh  i  would  recognize  anywhere.  ’

[whoabo]

all i wanted

readers pronouns: she/her

pairings: bo burnham x reader.

warnings: angst, yelling, crying, verbal fighting.

era: inside (2020-21)

requested: can you write a huge fight/argument imagine for bo burnham and the reader. Current/Inside era. She/Her :)

a/n: hi! sorry this took so long and i really hope you like it. and before anyone asks, yes, there will be a part two. <3

over the past year bo had locked himself in the guesthouse. it’s not that y/n never saw her boyfriend over the course of that year, but to be fair it did feel pretty rare that she did. he’d only come in if it was too cold to sleep in there or even to just make himself food and rush back into the guesthouse.

the amount of time the two spent together was minimum, almost non-existent.

bo was just so set on wanting to make this special— special! he wanted it to be different and feel the same as his old stuff at the same time. he didn’t care about how long he’s been in there, he just needs to make it perfect. if not for his fans, then for himself. he just wants to prove to himself he can still do something great. whether it was by himself in a room or even with a whole production team behind him.

however, for y/n it wasn’t nice. she was left alone in the house most days. sure, she had bruce but she wanted bo. she wanted him next to her when she fell asleep. or to have dinner with her at least once. but she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him to spend time with her. she knew how important this was for him, and she didn’t want to ruin that. but. it’s not selfish to want some time with your partner. especially if you live in the same house.

she felt like they were mere roommates.

today. today, she’s gonna go tell bo how she’s feeling. or at least tell him to come inside and spend time with her for one night. take a night off and relax.

she started thinking about what she was going to say when she heard little patters come toward her. bruce. he jumped onto the bed next to her and rested his head on her lap.

she waited till the vibration of the music stopped before making her way out there. she’s never felt more nervous to talk to bo, besides when they first started dating. but they’ve been together for almost six years, she should be fine.

she knocked on the door, hearing the man inside stumble over a few things. soon enough the door opened to a somewhat confused bo.

“y/n? what’re you doing?” he said as he leaned against the doorway.

she let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding and started to speak. she wanted to go about calmly and take things slow. “i just wanted you to have dinner with me and sleep in the house tonight. i feel like we haven’t—.”

“honey, you know i can’t. i have to finish this.” he cut her off. he turned around and looked at the room behind him, before turning back around.

she ran a hand through her hair, “bo, one night isn’t going to hurt you. we haven’t had dinner together in months, let alone sleep in the same bed! please, just one night with me and bruce.” she pleaded.

she watched as he let out a sigh. most likely annoyed with how much she was begging him.

he lifted a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose while squeezing his eyes. “why can’t you just understand how important this is to me, y/n? i need to do this, okay? get that through your mind!” his voice started to raise towards the end.

her eyes widened the tiniest bit, but he caught it. he never raised his voice at her. the only time he did was when it was in a jokingly manner.

when he saw her face change, he felt a ping of guilt hit his chest.

“god, robert, why are you being such an asshole? i’m just asking you to spend time with me!”

it was bo’s turn to be surprised. his eyebrows rose as he heard her say his full name. she never called him ‘robert’ unless she was actually angry with him.

“because,” he started. “you complaining about me not spending time with you is taking away valuable time i could be working! do you not understand that i have a fucking deadline?” he was borderline yelling. his voice barely tip-toeing just being loud and full blown yelling.

he brought both hands to his face, using the heel of his palms to rub his eyes. only one of his hand traveled up to his hair, gripping it slightly as he smooths it back.

“you’re being selfish at this point, y/n.” he finished.

she laughed bitterly, “i’m being selfish?” she turned away from for a second, not wanting to look him into the eye. “do you not hear how you sound? you’re calling me selfish cause i want to spend time with my boyfriend! god, you are so hard to be around sometimes!”

“then leave!” he yelled. a full on yell. “go somewhere else if i’m so hard to be around!”

that was it. that was her breaking point. tears started to fill her eyes. she wipes her eyes before they could fall.

she nodded, “fuck you, bo.” she spoke boldly and started walking back towards the house. before she reached the house, she heard the guesthouse door slam. followed by what sounded like his camera equipment falling.

it was about eight twenty eight (8:28pm) by the time she finished packing her bag. she wasn’t packing all her belongings, just an overnight bag.

she was planning on staying with her friend for a few days, just until the dust settled. that was really their first huge argument.

as she was grabbing her keys, she heard the back door open.

“y/n.” she heard from behind ber.

she shook her head, and continued walking.

“where are you going?”

“why does it matter? you told to me to leave, so that’s what i’m doing, robert.” she responded.

he let out a sigh. “please,” he grabbed her arm, turning her around to face him.

she tried to pull herself out of his grip.

“no—.”

“please, just let me talk—!”

“bo, stop!—.”

“y/n! please, no. listen to me, damnit!”

“fuck off.” she pushed him away. he stared at her, semi shocked. but what could he expect after the things he said.

she started walking away. as she reached the car, he spoke again.

“are you leaving me? like-like.. are you breaking up with me?”

she swore she heard his voice crack. but she played it off as her imagination.

“no. i never said that, did i? i just need time away from you and from the house, especially after the things you said.”

she opened the door and walked out, not closing the door behind her.

“i love you.” she heard him speak from the door way.

she didn’t respond.

that ping of guilt hit his chest again, but harder.

“shit.”

[shihalyfie]

You talk a lot about how the Digimon are born from the kids own souls, would you be interested into describing how the digimon partners reflect their humans' personalities?

Oh man, I love this topic! (You’ll have to forgive me in that my desire to do justice for it is why it ended up taking me this long to answer it.)

The part about the Digimon literally being part of the kids’ souls comes directly from official (it’s been mentioned several times, not only in what I just linked). This was never stated outright in the original Adventure or 02, and it took until Kizuna to really shove the link between the partner and the human’s inner self in your face and make it a huge part of the actual story, but fans had been catching onto it long before that, and even without reading what the staff had said. Kizuna throws a bit of a nail in this because it’s said to be a bit lore-noncompliant, but considering how much of the background lore it still goes out of its way to adhere to, and the fact it still does match the fundamental concept of “human heart = Digimon partner” regardless of detailed minutiae, we can still apply and analyze this concept with no problem, especially since Adventure and 02 always walked the line between sci-fi and fantasy, and there is undoubtedly a spiritual element to them no matter how you look at it.

(My personal comfort zone in analyzing Adventure and 02 comes moreso from a human behavior and mentality perspective, which is also why my meta on this blog tends to focus more on the human drama aspects of Adventure and 02 and especially the latter’s story being so heavily about human relationships, but if you’re interested in said spiritual elements, I heavily recommend @analyzingadventure‘s very comprehensive meta on Adventure background lore and themes, which also covers similar territory in detail. We’re different people, so our takes on it probably differ in some respects, but that’s the beauty of having different perspectives, after all.)

In any case, back to your question. I think it would be best to break this down piece-by-piece with the Adventure and 02 kids in detail, so more is under the cut!

...Well, okay, before we continue, I do want to touch on something briefly, and it’s regarding the fact that “evolution” in this series is generally a metaphor for human growth. That counts for when everyone gets their evolutions, but it also counts as a metaphor overall -- after all, Adventure is about self-assertion and pushing oneself as far as possible (the major evolution gimmick being tied to Crests), whereas 02 is about cultivating differing aspects of yourself and applying it to how you form relationships with others (the major evolution gimmick being tied to Digimentals and ultimately Jogress). The human self is quite a flexible thing, and the Digimon themselves quite often change personalities as they evolve. (I touched on this briefly in my discussion of honorfiics and first-person pronouns earlier, but in Japanese, the Digimon will often even change personalities and speech patterns as they evolve.) This also leads to a few other potential observations (not really corroborated by official, just my personal view of it):

Speaking from a meta perspective, the fact that only the “front protagonists” end up getting the highest level forms is pretty obviously so they don’t have to spend toy budget on allocating it to everyone, but from an in-story perspective, Adventure episode 50 adds an implication that not reaching as high of a form may also have to do with how inherently attuned one is to combat (Jou says that he believes that Gomamon will never reach Ultimate because he doesn’t have the sort of strength Taichi and Yamato do, and it contributes to his conclusion that his skills are more meaningfully applied as a healer instead of as a fighter). Of course, none of the Adventure or 02 cast is necessarily the belligerent type that inherently likes fighting in itself, but of course certain ones are less emotionally drained or more attuned to it, so you might be able to see a rough pattern there. (Again, I’m not going to sugarcoat how this still has a lot of dismaying issues on the meta level, but the difference between “how much this sucks on a meta level” and “whether this at least tracks in-story” is a common theme on this blog.) In a franchise sense, Digimon were of course conceptualized as fighting monsters, but within the narrative of Adventure, it probably stands to reason that having a manifested part of your soul or inner self shouldn’t necessarily mean they have to be fighting things all of the time unless it’s necessary.

It’s very often been pointed out that the 02 cast is at a sort of “combat disadvantage” compared to their seniors (well, and Takeru and Hikari, anyway) because their highest forms require two people/Digimon to be in play, so their overall combat power is rather low. My impression is that this is by design (and it’s a subversion of the usual expectation of shounen anime sequels where the sequel will often power creep everything to make the new guard outdo the first). That the 02 team is inherently dependent on each other for support, and to a degree far more than their seniors, is rather baked into its narrative, and moreover, from an in-story perspective, the 02 group doesn’t seem like the type to really care about being outflanked by their seniors (on the contrary, they’d probably take that as more proof that their seniors are amazing). Moreover, the forms you see their Digimon in most of the time tend towards the smaller Baby-level forms instead of the Child-level ones, and while this is partially due to plot logistics about being in the real world (and, admittedly, kind of inconsistently applied), it gives you a much stronger impression of the 02 kids and their partners in general being people who aren’t that individually imposing or strong and get more mileage out of flexibility and variety (see: the Digimentals and the huge number of lower-level forms the kids have access to).

With this kind of metaphor, I caution against taking it too literally as a 1:1 thing (especially since official has been generally quiet about it and there isn’t much in the series text itself to corroborate this), but I do think there is certainly some kind of relevance that’s worth thinking about.

Many people, including the official notes I just linked, refer to there being some Digimon partners that are "like-minded” with their partner, and some that are “opposite” in personality. This is roughly true, but I find this to be a very simplified description of the concept; it’s more like all Digimon partners are a reflection of the less easily exposed part of their human partner (and, most pertinently, the part that would allow them to express themselves in ways they wouldn’t normally), it’s just that the kids with more straightforward or less extreme personalities don’t have as much to hide or cover up in the first place, and so their partners come off as more “like-minded”. Even Urawa Megumi, voice of Iori and Armadimon (arguably one of the pairs of partners that seem “opposing” in personality), stated that she didn’t personally feel like the two characters are all that different, since humans have different sides to them, and Armadimon is functionally an expression of the side of Iori that isn’t apparent.

Because the Adventure narrative has the Digimon partners be linked to human mentality, this leads to the side effect that you won’t have a Digimon partner who ever truly denies the human partner (barring external factors like Evil Ring-induced brainwashing), which is something producer Seki Hiromi was quite insistent about. That said, this is a very Adventure and 02-specific thing, since other series go more into different angles about how one would approach partnership when this factor is not in play; half of Tamers’s drama regarding partners comes from the fact they are not necessarily mentally linked all of the time, and need to find a way to build a relationship by bridging that gap, and so non-Adventure universe entries are more freely able to explore the concepts of a Digimon partner more consciously entering conflict with their human partner. Well, that’s the beauty of having a multi-entry franchise, after all.

Taichi and Agumon

Taichi and Agumon immediately jump to mind as the first among the “like-minded” pairs, especially since the series shows them so often in sync and chilling together. Taichi himself is a straightforward person, so it stands to reason that his straightforward personality would also lend to Agumon coming off as being rather much like him.

However, there is one slight difference between the two, and it’s that Agumon has a somewhat stronger sense of “easygoing chill” than Taichi does, right down to using the more polite boku first-person pronoun in contrast to Taichi’s more assertive ore. He also lacks Taichi’s penchant for mild insensitivity -- in fact, very unlike Taichi, he has an incredible amount of emotional insight (02 spends quite a bit of time in 02 episodes 32 and 46 to showing off Agumon as someone who makes up for all of his lack of intellectual understanding with emotional and borderline poetic insight). And, really, while Taichi is a bit surface-insensitive, and while he seems to be impulsive, he actually is a conscientious person and is trying his best in his own way, and he isn’t the kind of person who cares about societal things like seniority, and he demonstrates multiple times that he’s easygoing and chill, and so you can say that’s a part of Taichi as well. Remembering that a Digimon partner’s presence helps their own human partner grow, Agumon being so openly friendly helps Taichi maintain good relations with others without running afoul of them.

One of Agumon’s most famous traits is that he likes food, which is not actually something that was in the original Adventure or 02 all that much but has been somewhat exaggerated since. That said, back in Adventure, while it was established that all Digimon regularly need food in order to maintain their evolutions, Agumon would usually be the first to complain “I’m hungry,” and whenever they did get food, Agumon would be one of the most prominently enjoying it. Food is, after all, one of the simplest and most universal of pleasures, and there’s a lot of visual framing of Taichi chowing down just as ravenously as Agumon is -- so, honestly, he probably got it from him.

Taichi also speaks a bit about his pain of being separated from Agumon in the space between Adventure and 02, and he directly refers to Agumon as “the other me”. The word “partner” was not actually used very much in the original Adventure or 02, and Taichi is not able to fully elucidate the sentiment of Agumon’s connection to his own self, but he still understands this much and why the loss cuts him so deeply, and by the time we get to Kizuna, it’s presumably why he uses similar language in his thesis proposal to refer to him. (I already covered the circumstances of Agumon’s relationship to Taichi’s existential crisis in Kizuna and how it led to their separation earlier, so I will omit it here for the sake of avoiding redundancy.)

Yamato and Gabumon

This might surprise some people to hear, but I would also pin this as one of the more ostensibly “like-minded” pairs. Gabumon is shy on the surface, but turns out to be quite passionate -- he uses the same assertive ore as Yamato, in contrast to Agumon’s boku, and he demonstrates his capacity for passion and action in that he’s arguably one of the most assertive in the cast. Note his taking initiative against Yamato’s frostbite in Adventure episode 9, or declaring his intent to stay with Yamato even if it means going against the others in Adventure episode 44, or singlehandedly dragging Yamato out of the hole of darkness in Adventure episode 51.

And, of course, Yamato himself is someone who initially seems a little awkward or detached around everyone, but is actually very passionate, so that’s all the same. And because Gabumon himself is so open about communicating with the otherwise closed-in Yamato, Yamato is able to express himself better over the course of Adventure.

Funny thing about that “shyness”, too -- the idea of Gabumon being particularly shy isn’t present in 02 much at all (we don’t get to see him very much, so it’s hard to say whether it’s completely gone, but it’s at least gone enough for the duration of his appearances). Which is funny, considering: guess who else stopped being shy and became naturally outgoing in 02? Yeah, so, as much as you might hear people (even official!) claim that the Digimon are static while their partners change, that’s not completely true -- the Digimon themselves develop in personality in the same way their human partners do. It’s just more subtle and less drastic, since they’re representing an abstract single part of their personality rather than being an exact match.

Sora and Piyomon

Sora and Piyomon have an interesting relationship in that they’re the only one where their relationship started off on a note of conflict -- mainly in that Sora was very put off by Piyomon at first and even looked down condescendingly on her (well, only for the duration of a single episode). In fact, Sora’s own surface behavior is very different from the kind and caring Sora we know -- Sora dislikes associating with the clingy and affectionate Piyomon for being “mushy”, and even declares that she doesn’t want to “take responsibility” for lugging her around.

Of course, Sora’s character arc later revolves around the fact that she has abysmally bad self-awareness and doesn’t even realize that she has a compulsive sense of responsibility to others. So Sora is affectionate and loving -- she just puts up a front of trying to act a little above that (well, at least, during this part of the series) and doesn’t even see herself as someone capable of being like that (again, purely during this part of the series).

Piyomon is also interesting in that she has one of the most dramatic personality shifts even as early as Child to Adult, where she suddenly switches from the casual atashi to watashi (sometimes even kono watashi, which is super regal), and becomes incredibly dignified and regal even as Birdramon, and you can certainly see why Sora immediately started taking her seriously thereafter. It also begs a lot to think about, considering Sora’s very convoluted character and the many layers of herself that even she isn’t consciously aware of.

The way Piyomon helped Sora shift her own mentality is pretty directly handed to you on a plate in Adventure episode 26 -- because Piyomon played the role of Sora in the metaphor of Sora’s behavior towards Piyomon correlated to Toshiko’s behavior towards Sora, Sora was able to re-adjust her position relative to her family and consider her both someone capable of love, and someone who is loved.

Koushirou and Tentomon

Koushirou and Tentomon are another pair that initially seem like they’re opposing types, with Koushirou being constantly curious and Tentomon being comparatively simple-minded, but the first key to figuring out where the similarity is ends up being a bit deceptive -- Tentomon says in Adventure episode 5 that he’s not particularly interested in himself. And, certainly, Koushirou is interested in Tentomon, but he, too, is not interested in himself -- in fact, he considers himself to be a topic he’d rather avoid instead of looking into everything else.

As far as language goes, while Tentomon does also use the stereotypically easygoing Kansai dialect, he also specifically uses the polite form, mirroring Koushirou’s own perpetual use of polite language. But unlike Koushirou, who uses it to keep distance from others, Tentomon is in fact very sociable, and is even portrayed as a Digimon who’s conscientious of others and “takes care” of them. And because Tentomon is so openly friendly, he manages to coax Koushirou out of his shell and allow him to think about more complicated things related to his own position in the world that he’d been avoiding.

As Koushirou’s character arc proceeds, we learn that he’s polite not only out of distance but also because he really is a very kind person, and moreover that he does eventually want to open up to others. And the payoff for this eventually comes in 02...

...when he ends up becoming one of the most visible members of the older Adventure cast to appear in the series, checking in on the younger kids and developing into someone capable of organizing and managing people. Hmm, seems familiar.

Mimi and Palmon

This one’s an easy one. Mimi is possibly the most straightforward person in the original Adventure cast -- well, that’s the point of her Crest after all -- and so Palmon is almost exactly like her, being a cheerful type who loves being cute. Any contrast between them is only really apparent in the very early episodes of the series, and that’s not even a contrast in theory as much as it’s just something that might intrigue audiences at first when Mimi spent a lot of those episodes complaining, but that’s also mostly because she was heavily under stress, and otherwise Mimi has always been kind and cheerful and indulgent in being cute.

Perhaps the only real difference is that Palmon, being a plant, is more willing to get involved with dirt and other things that Mimi ostensibly would rather not, but as the series progresses, Mimi manages to gain a higher sense of tolerance and get past her initial sense of materialism (which is something she’d had the capacity for the whole time).

Jou and Gomamon

Of the Adventure pairs, this one is probably the one that seems like the biggest contrast on its face, with the overly high-strung and constantly stressed Jou, and the more playful and relaxed Gomamon.

In the end, Jou is someone who’s defined by his desire to support others, and even admits at the end of the series that he’s better suited for a support role than for fighting, and that there’s nothing wrong with that as long as he continues to channel his desire to help people in a way he’s most comfortable with. So, in the end, he’s not actually an inherently aggressive type. And, meanwhile, Gomamon is the kind who’s constantly looking out for Jou, to the point of knowing (such as in Adventure episode 7) when he’s about to do something phenomenally stupid and minding him so that nothing bad happens to him, and so, this is probably why they’re ultimately able to settle down and end the series eye-to-eye (or perhaps hand-to-hand).

And, again, recall that Digimon partners generally reflect a part that’s vital to their own human partner’s growth; considering that Jou is most certainly one of the more extreme personalities in this cast, you get the feeling that he probably needs someone this chill to keep his massive stress tendencies in check.

Takeru and Patamon

Takeru and Patamon are an interesting case largely due to the two of them being so present for a whole two series. In Adventure, both of them seem to be largely like-minded, being playful, innocent, and childish -- although Patamon is more open about expressing the childishness that Takeru keeps trying to cover up. Patamon being roughly on the same playing field (no pun intended) as Takeru means that Takeru has someone he’s willing to be open with and let himself loose a little (such as in Adventure episode 12), because for the first half of the series, he’s almost entirely in the presence of elders and stifling himself for the sake of being “well-behaved”, and it starts his long journey of being able to understand his position and his actual sense of emotions over the course of Adventure and 02.

Patamon also has a striking personality change upon evolving, becoming the regal and dignified Angemon, and, interestingly, his appearances have a very “knight templar” vibe where he takes a no-compromise stance against dark forces and states that he’ll condemn all of them to oblivion. This is a stance that’s unnervingly similar to Takeru’s own no-compromise stance against the darkness in 02, and it’s interesting in that Takeru himself had been advocating for pacifism in Adventure episode 12, but this incident traumatized him enough to start taking a position that more resembled Angemon’s.

As we go into 02, Takeru’s contrast with Patamon initially seems like an increased mismatch, since Patamon is still ostensibly childish and playful while Takeru is ostensibly more mature. But for one, Takeru’s character arc is about the fact that he’s still pretending he’s more in control of his emotions than he actually is, and in some way you can also glean that there’s a sort of naivete present in his character that he keeps covering up with confident smiles. Patamon, for his part, does actually seem to have adopted a bit of a mentor role to the other Digimon, and we also learn that he’s capable of deliberately trolling people instead of just being generically playful -- much like Takeru himself, who’s a bit evasive and not entirely honest.

We do actually see Patamon reach HolyAngemon in 02 episode 34, but it doesn’t work out well, and while this is partially for plot mechanic reasons, it also says a lot that the “knight templar” stance that both Takeru and HolyAngemon have, with the full depth of no-compromise, isn’t going anywhere, and in the end, something more effective is only possible when Shakkoumon appears in 02 episodes 36-37 -- that is, Takeru is only able to better move on with Iori’s support.

Hikari and Tailmon

Hikari is the only of the Tokyo Chosen Children to have a Digimon who “defaults” to Adult instead of Child or lower, and it means that Tailmon herself comes with a certain amount of maturity -- on top of having been become a bit hardened due to her experiences being isolated. This is an ostensible contrast to the more pure-hearted and innocent Hikari, but note that Hikari’s own will can be pretty assertive when it comes down to it. On top of that, as much as Tailmon is a bit standoffish, Hikari is also “emotionally isolated” -- she has trouble vocalizing her negative feelings, and it’s difficult for anyone in Adventure or the first half of 02 to truly connect with her internal thoughts. Recalling that the Digimon partner reflects a side of the human partner that’s less easily exposed and allows the human partner to grow in ways they wouldn’t before, Tailmon’s sheer presence gives Hikari a route to action in ways she probably wouldn’t have beforehand.

In 02, Hikari becomes a little more mischievous and playful, and Tailmon also becomes a bit more willing to indulge (she even switches first-person pronouns in sync with Hikari, going from the more polite watashi to the more casual atashi). Both of them are now more able to enjoy themselves more openly. That said, Tailmon still has a certain degree of stuffy personal pride (she snarks at everyone quite easily for fussing over snacks in 02 episode 3), and Hikari herself remains emotionally elusive and repressive at the start of this series.

Tailmon evolves temporarily to Angewomon in 02 episode 13, which is the first time anyone (in this case, Takeru) makes some degree of headway to reaching out to her and allowing her to open up a bit more, but it’s not until 02 episode 31 when Hikari is fully reached out to via Miyako, which marks the first appearance of Silphymon.

Daisuke and V-mon

Now here’s a very like-minded pair, even more so than Taichi and Agumon -- and, after all, Daisuke is simple-minded, so painfully simple-minded that he’s practically incapable of hiding anything, and so V-mon is almost exactly like him, down to using the same ore pronoun and being feisty and mischievous (a point is also made that he plays soccer with Daisuke, something that Agumon didn’t necessarily do with Taichi), and, heck, in a rare show of Digimon-Digimon crushes, has a crush on Tailmon in the exact same way Daisuke has on Hikari. (By the time we get to Kizuna and its higher animation budget, a lot of attention is paid to having even their body language mirror each other.)

There is only one real functional difference between the two in disposition, and it’s that V-mon is very straightforward, friendly, and kind, without being prone to getting angry or spiteful at anyone, and in the end, it’s indicative of the fact that Daisuke’s tendency to lash out defensively at everyone is just a front -- at his core, he’s friendly, supportive, and kind. Daisuke’s experiences and banter with V-mon contribute to him getting the sort of validation he needed without having to worry about being on edge or lash out defensively, and because of that, he was able to form a healthier and more supportive relationship with the rest of the group.

Miyako and Hawkmon

This one seems to be a contrast right off the bat -- Miyako is bubbly, over-the-top, and rather messy and lacking in restraint, whereas Hawkmon is formal, graceful, and polite. But Hawkmon’s most prominent trait is his absolute loyalty and devotion to Miyako -- he’s very often referred to by both official staff and fans as her “knight” -- and is constantly minding her to protect her and make sure she doesn’t go over her head (most prominently, 02 episode 18). And as far as Miyako’s relationship to others goes -- she’s also devotedly loyal to everyone she loves and is constantly going out of her way to help others, and her character arc in itself is about the fact she wants to do her best to reach out to people and help emotionally support them in the best way she can, and Hawkmon managing to channel that to its utmost extent to Miyako in turn (in a very “who watches the watchman?” sense) allows her to regain her bearings and have better control over herself in the aftermath of 02 episode 18.

On top of that, as the series proceeds, it turns out that Hawkmon also shares Miyako’s penchant for dramatic theatrics and being a bit over his head -- even if he seemingly has himself more together than Miyako does, he’s not completely above it all...

Miyako is also the franchise’s first example of a female character with a masculine Digimon partner, and while Miyako herself openly identifies with and indulges in all things hyper-feminine, she also has zero issue engaging in more masculine-associated things as they suit her -- most prominently her Digital World outfit, and the fact she often displays a rather aggressive go-getter and hot-blooded/in-your-face personality that would not be out of place on a male shounen hero in a more conventional show. (Although, as much as these have generally been on the thread of “less visible aspects”, it’s not like this was that less visible of an aspect of her to begin with...)

Iori and Armadimon

Iori and Armadimon hold the honor of being the only pair in the Tokyo Chosen Children to be voiced by the same voice actress (Urawa Megumi), driving the parallel down even further. And while their surface temperaments seem different, with Iori being rather uptight and strict on himself while Armadimon is laid-back, carefree, and even somewhat assertive, they’re not that different -- Armadimon is basically the curious, impressionable, somewhat childish spirit that Iori would be if he weren’t constantly holding himself back. (There’s a lot to be said about Submarimon going out of his way to take Iori for a ride in 02 episode 16 so that Iori can finally properly enjoy himself for once.)

Iori takes a lot of very stubborn, no-compromise positions over the course of 02, but Armadimon asking just the right kinds of questions allows him to “snap out of it” and be a little more receptive to considering alternatives, or at least taking into account more emotionally-oriented issues he’s dealing with. You can say that Armadimon (especially as Upamon) softening Iori up a bit -- since Iori will never be cold or unforgiving towards his partner, no matter what -- serves as a precursor to Iori starting to question the limitations of his black-and-white view of morality, which allows him to successfully break through to Takeru and fill out the rest of his character arc.

Ken and Wormmon

Considering how much of the plot revolved around this one, this one almost goes entirely without saying! During Ken’s stint as the Kaiser, Wormmon represents the heart that Ken’s not entirely willing to leave behind -- and, also, the affection that he’s still craving from his family. The Kaiser going practically out of his way to deny Wormmon yet paradoxically keeping him around is basically his attitude towards his own “weak” and naturally kindhearted self. Notably, recall that the principle of “a Digimon will never deny their partner” applies here -- Wormmon’s “betrayal” of the Kaiser isn’t really any kind of denial, since he was doing it mainly for Ken’s own sake, and, more symbolically, it’s Ken reaching his own limit and coming to realize that this path isn’t what he really wants.

Wormmon is unusually clingy to his own partner over the course of 02, and it’s vital to Ken needing to learn to love himself and also getting important validation that he needs, especially during the critical point in time during 02 episodes 23-30 when he’s still not sure how to approach the rest of the group -- Wormmon gives him someone to talk to honestly and openly, giving him a proper springboard to sort out his complicated feelings about the others and himself. You can say also that as Ken becomes more open and straightforward over the course of the latter half of 02, he, in turn, becomes much more shameless about showing affection and opening his own heart.

Wallace, Gumimon, and Chocomon

Bonus round!

While it’s hard to fully apply Hurricane Touchdown to this theory (by official admission, it wasn’t properly cross-referenced with the original Adventure/02 series lore, and trying to correlate all of the evolutions in this movie to something metaphorical will give you a headache), Wallace’s two partners still fit very neatly into this overall theory of Digimon partners as a part of the self. Wallace is a character with very sharp duality, trying to be a flirt who asserts himself as a vagrant who’s about to “become an adult”, yet still feels an obligation to keep calling his mom and is engaging in increasingly self-destructive behavior.

Most pertinently, Gumimon and Chocomon represent the two stances Wallace is torn between: wanting to “return to the past” (Chocomon) because he’s still hung up on having lost Chocomon and is convinced that he can make everything just like it was before, and “being able to productively move on” (Gumimon). For most of the early parts of the movie, Wallace is stuck on Chocomon’s mentality of fixating on the past, and Gumimon isn’t even remotely subtle when he draws an explicit parallel between the two (saying that Chocomon didn’t like the heat, followed by offering to give Wallace shade as a hat). But once the conflict escalates and Wallace realizes just how deep in denial Chocomon is, to the point of being destructive to himself and others, Wallace comes to embrace Gumimon’s stance of practicality and moving on. In the end, the ultimate conclusion is reached, and Wallace is forced to fully accept that latter stance when Chocomon dies, but the movie’s ending (and Kizuna) provide an extra option: allowing the past to come back, but in a new form and treading new territory instead of trying to make it “the way it was before”.

[rpmusingsforthesoul]

This is Us Season 5 Sentence Starters

(feel free to change pronouns)

“Can we change the channel? Please? Just for a minute.”

“Check it out. 100% tremor free.”

“I’ve battled with that stuff. I’m battling it now.”

“Alright, old man. Meet you downstairs for some birthday breakfast. Don’t forget your dentures.”

“Someone unpause this man, please.”

“Help! Somebody help me, please!!”

“I don’t like to talk about that part of my life. That part of my life before here. Before you.”

“So I’ve been thinking and I’ve got some exciting things to tell you.”

“I think I love you.”

“Sir, are you high right now?”

“Is sh-she gone?…I-Is she gone?”

“Yeah, he’s jacked up for sure.”

“They say check on your strong friends…Checking.”

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“I prayed my kids would turn out better than I did.”

“I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I put my foot up in these pancakes.”

“___, you know you have absolutely nothing to prove to me, right?”

“I’m never leaving this bed. You cannot make me.”

“I would like you to tell me his name. I would like you tell me where I can find him. And I would like to kill him.”

“I’m gonna need some absinthe tonight.”

“___, where have you been? And don’t even fix your mouth to tell me a lie.”

“Get off of me! I’m not drowning!”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. If you don’t let the guilt go, it’ll strangle you.”

“Hey, have I mentioned how much of a freaking warrior you are?”

“___, get back here right now!”

“You wanna be on time? Get your own car.”

“I feel like there’s the person I was before I went to the hospital and the person I am now…I barely remember who that girl was.”

“Oh good. I love a dinner with something to prove.”

“I’ve lived alone a really long time. And I’ve been stuck. And anything good that would ever happen to me it just seemed…it just seemed impossible. But here I am. I made it.”

“Hmm…the ring feels kinda stuck…it’s stuck.

“It was a cute proposal, ___. I would have said yes.”

“There’s only one person that I owe an explanation to and that is the one person I can never give one to. I certainly don’t owe one to you.”

“What do you want? I’m not a mind reader. I’m asking you, what do you want from me?”

“No, man. You can’t break a window.”

“It is a prison, ___. Having to show gratitude and nothing but gratitude all the damn time.”

“I can’t believe we looked for an hour and they were in your freaking pocket.”

“I never wanted to be special, man. I just wanted to blend in like everybody else.”

“Dude, you drank ‘cause you’re a drunk.”

“I can’t even pick out your best quality__. There’s too many.”

“Every time you get your hopes up for me, I just disappoint you. You should probably stop putting yourself through that.”

“You always believed I would find myself again. How?”

“I’m just not sure how much more failure I can take.”

“I know the feeling of having your dreams cut at the knees.”

“You do know you’re the most impressive person I know, right?”

“Well I’m not gonna stop coming to you for pep-talks anytime soon.”

“Did you seriously just ruin the show for me?!”

“It feels like everyone wants a version of me that isn’t me.”

“I need inside air.”

“I’ve never really given you an explanation, have I?”

“No no no, I’ve let you let me off the hook far too many times.”

“I knew things and I hid them and I’m very ashamed.

“I know it’s way too late to say this, but I need to say this very clearly. I am so sorry.

“There’s no easy way to say this. I think our relationship has gone as far as it can go, ___.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“My mother gave me these and then she left. She left me with a father who gave me nothing.”

“I have stumbled through life gratefully accepting any scraps of affection anyone would give me.”

“Your family has given me the first family I have ever had and it would be so easy for me to tip-toe around the fact that you may not be in love with me.”

“I can’t marry someone who’s not in love with me. I know it’s ironic, but you have finally made me realize that I am worthy of that.”

“Hey, let’s keep talking! Five minutes, five minutes until the hospital.”

“Me having a cocktail might save your life.”

“Ahh I looked at it again, ___! Distract me!”

“I wanna hit you, but I also wanna kiss you.”

“Okay, you being moody I can handle, but comparing us to our parents is a bridge too far.”

“You’re not even gonna pretend to be interested?”

“Hey hey hey, let it go, ___!___, let it go!”

“I was terrified of being like my father and you were terrified of not being like yours. We’ve both wasted a lot of time being quietly terrified.”

“I’m glad that you have a thing with ___, but you’re suppose to think of me first.”

“You wanna go through ___’s Instagram and trash-talk?”

“I’m sorry I showed up unannounced. I recognize it’s kind of weird.”

“I didn’t know you had a huge knuckle!”

“Well you’re no stranger to helping yourself to whatever you want.”

“Go in there and do what you always do; blow us all away.

“You are too young and too smart and too strong to not find new dreams and go for them.”

“You don’t suck the air out of the room. You are the air.”

“You’re my day one.”

“I did not tread lightly.”

[crown-anon]

aah i thought of a req!!!!! could i maybe request one shots or hcs (separate) w dream, sapnap, n wilbur with a s/o (preferred he/him!!) who draws a whole lot,, n one day they catch him drawing him?? tysm :]

@ghcstbnr asked

gn i just realized i made a typo i meant cc catching reader drawing them- but ty again :)

of course! it's kind of long, sorry about that

I took a little creative liberty with the notion of "catching you drawing." also Sapnap's looks kind of long but it's also dialogue heavy. if you want me to redo it, I will. hope you like it 💗

& a note to everyone else, I don't write for Wilbur yet! I only write for the dream team at this time. sorry about that! this will probably change in the future, though, so look out 👀

CW: swearing

format: one-shot

people: dreamwastaken, Sapnap

pronouns: dreamwastaken's piece is ambiguous, Sapnap's piece uses he/him

edited 27 April 2021

—

dreamwastaken

since he doesn't use his camera, you find yourself with your boyfriend in the studio more often than not. when he's gaming casually, you play together, or one of you will cheer the other one on. when he's streaming, sometimes you interact with the viewers, or read donations for him; sometimes you just sit next to him, soaking up his energy and warmth. when he's working long days and long nights to edit videos, you're content with just relaxing together in the same space. at times you have to drag him out to the kitchen to eat, or help him to bed if he passes out, but…he's really cute when he's focused. (and you're starting to think he does it on purpose just so you can dote on him.)

today is a little different. he's recording for a manhunt that's meant to drop in a couple days. you're quiet, trying to avoid disrupting them. you're perched up on the loveseat, staring fondly at him across the room. he's so animated, the way his eyes shine when he talks to his friends, how he tears up when he laughs…

Patches mews at you from the arm of the couch, as if to say, disapprovingly, I cannot believe how sickeningly sweet your inner monologue is.

and you try to understand where she's coming from, you really do, but the sun's starting to set, and the gentle rays slotting through the blinds are shifting from white to gold.

he looks so divine, you decide. it's unfair. how could I not love him? he's seriously pretty. and before you can stop yourself, you're sketching him out on your tablet. you glance up at him fast to get the details right, and look away just as quickly. he never meets your eyes. soon your whole page is covered in little Clays, capturing the way he feels, the way he acts, the way you feel about him. Patches jumps off the chair, with all the moving. and before you know it, you've drawn up a whole page of concept art of your unfairly beautiful boyfriend. Patches was right about me, you muse to yourself.

fuck. Patches. the same Patches who's been meowing at you for the better part of an hour, now sitting patiently at the door? there's no way Clay didn't pick up on all that noise, you fret. but he's still playing, looking intense as ever. relief washes over you, replacing the guilt.

come here, girl, you think to yourself, knowing Patches wouldn't have even understood you if you spoke. sorry to keep you waiting. and you rise, slipping quietly out the door with his cat in your train.

—

you're coming back to the studio. Patches, fed and sated, is napping in another room. opening the door, you have to stop yourself, you freeze. your boyfriend's kneeling on the ground, sitting on his heels, right next to the door—you'd have hit him if it opened any further.

"baby, what are you…" the words die on your tongue.

my book. my sketchbook. my sketchbook full of drawings of him. shit, he's gonna think I'm such a simp! the embarrassment, the shame, the fear, it's overwhelming you.

you hear your voice break. "…what happened to recording…?"

"finished half an hour ago," he says simply.

and that was that. for the first time in ages, the silence hanging between you was thick and heavy with tension. you wait. and wait. and wait. you wait for the criticism, the hate, the argument that never comes.

suddenly, he seems content with what he's seen, when he looks up at you adoringly, and takes one of your hands, giving it a soft squeeze. "is that…me?"

you've lost your voice, all you can do is nod.

"you…you think I'm beautiful?" he glows.

ah, I suppose I did write that, somewhere in there. you look away. all the things I've said…

he brings your hand up to his lips and leaves kisses on your knuckles.

you sound small. "do I not tell you that enough?" you pause. "that you're beautiful? that I love you?"

and just like that, his nervousness dissolves into euphoria. you both start laughing at the same time.

"oh my god—" he wheezes. "—you're so sappy."

"only for you," you blurt out, and start laughing harder. but he quiets, he hesitates.

"only for me," he repeats.

you sink down onto the floor next to him. he's staring so fondly at you, you can't help but smile back.

"only for you," you affirm.

he rests his hands on your knees, pulling himself closer to you. he's so close to you, you can feel his blush. you let your eyes close, softly.

but the kiss never comes. instead, you're met with a "then what about all those drawings of Patches?"

laying on the floor, tangled up in each other, in hysterics, you distantly think I hope he remembered to leave the call from recording earlier.

—

over dinner, you meet his gaze, and he gives you that look. that stupid, handsome look; the one with the smile and the danger behind his eyes. he makes a point of pausing mid-bite, but it takes you a minute to notice that he's stopped eating.

"what's up, honey?" you ask, sounding a little more concerned than you should have been.

he shrugs dramatically. "oh, nothing…just figured you'd appreciate a muse." there it was. the teasing. you knew it would happen eventually. but the tone, it's kind, it's tempting; gentle, unlike a serious jab.

so all you do is roll your eyes, but you can't help the way your mouth quirks into a smile. "you're so dumb," you murmur with affection, and shake your head at nothing in particular.

Patches curls her tail around your ankle as she passes you by.

—

on the couch hours later for movie night, you're the last one up. Patches is curled up in Clay's lap, purring. Clay, in turn, sleeps soundly in your lap. (you think if he could purr, he would, but he settles for humming softly when you play with his hair.) you might think it's funny looking back on it later, but it feels so tender and vulnerable now. you like calm evenings like this one. Studio Ghibli plays quietly on the flatscreen; you don't know which one, you're not really paying attention anymore.

you're busy tracing the contours of Clay's skin, feeling more than seeing his shape in the dark room. mapping him out in your mind, learning his figure like you're seeing him for the first time again. you think you understand him a little bit better, every day you spend together. and with confidence, you make your first stroke, illuminated by the moon.

—

Sapnap

you only barely stop yourself from drawing a big "X" across your paper. exhale, and start erasing furiously. don't rip the paper—well, we didn't need that sheet anyway. ball it up and throw it at the dark, cobwebbed corner of the room. along with the rest of your mistakes.

you're trying. you're really trying. but those lips. his fucking lips. fuck.

your boyfriend smiles at the camera as he gets a donation with a sweet message on it. it should be so easy. he's right there. right here.

you check the time. it's been an hour. you've been trying, and miserably failing, to get his lips right for an entire hour. today, at least. you scoff at yourself, your misery, and pinch the bridge of your nose. it isn't fair.

his camera's on, and he's live, so you know you can't be in there with him. nobody knows you're together, and you don't want know what kind of backlash to expect if people found out. so you've been avoiding his streams…the whole room where he streams, really.

you've kept yourself busy by drawing. and you've cycled through many subjects in your life, and eventually, been able to draw whatever you put your mind to with enough time and effort. the problem is, your sights have been set on Sapnap, even for months before you got together. okay, maybe that isn't the problem. the actual problem is that you fucking suck at drawing him.

you get going, start it out, do an okay job, but midway through screw it all up somehow. to make things worse, your reference is his 2D image. he doesn't…know that you draw him. you're terrified to say. so you can't use the real life Sapnap as a reference, like you would prefer.

ugh, and this one's ruined too. you rip it up and throw it at your growing pile of paper balls, but being tiny confetti-sized pieces of paper, they don't make it very far. great, something else to clean up later, you huff at your own thoughts. it isn't fair.

—

"[name]?" he calls for you. you're one step ahead, already opening the door. you can't remember when you got here and decided to brood outside his room.

"hey, do you think you can—" he tears his eyes from his camera, his waiting audience, to look up at you expectantly. when he sees you he stops immediately, looking concerned, standing to meet you.

"what is it?" your voice is flat.

out of view of the camera, he mouths, are you okay? you only shrug and avert your eyes.

he falters, contemplates, sits back down at his desk and starts to talk to his viewers. "hey guys, I'm sorry for the short notice, but I gotta cut this stream short. my…" he glances at you for approval, only to see you motioning with your hands as if to say, no, don't.

(you yourself don't really know what for. no, don't end the stream for me? no, don't out us like this?)

he looks back. "…my friend…something came up with my friend. I have to take care of it. it's really important." you can tell he has trouble finding the right words. you can tell it throws him off, he's acting out of character for his internet personality. do you blame him? isn't this your fault? "sorry again. bye guys!"

the second he made the last click, he gets up and pulls you into a hug. it's unexpected, it knocks the wind out of you. you're certain he feels the tension.

"babe…what's wrong?" it's muffled by your neck and the sweater you're wearing. you just hold him, saying nothing.

he pulls away and holds you by the shoulders. "look at me. what's wrong?"

you feel all the more embarrassed. it's so silly to be upset about. "I…I…well, it's a lot."

he shakes his head, to say I'm not going anywhere, but his expression softens, his grip loosens. "do you want to talk about it?"

you sigh. "it started as 'I can't draw for shit', then it became 'why am I afraid of asking you for help?', and finally, worst of all, 'why the fuck can't we be seen together?' it isn't fair. it's never been fair. I'm sorry."

he thinks about it for a second. "okay, what makes you feel like we can't be seen together?"

"are you joking?" you snap. "we're two fucking boyfriends. in this society." he didn't look hurt by the outburst, but the guilt crept in anyway. "…I'm sorry."

he shakes his head, "do you really think I'd let that happen? I wouldn't ever let anyone hurt you, darling. remember that."

"I know, I know…" you don't know what to say. "it's easy to forget, I guess."

"what are you afraid to ask me for help about?"

"I…" shit, you guess you have to tell him. close your eyes, breathe, "I've been drawing you. trying to draw you. but I can't, it never turns out right."

you peek, and he's red in the face, stuttering. "me? you draw me? of all the hot people out there?"

you furrow your eyebrows at him. "don't give me that shit. you know you're cute."

he shakes his head incredulously. "are we talking about the same person here?"

"dude, your smile is literally the most radiant fucking force of nature I have ever seen."

"you're hot too! why are you coming after me?"

"I'm not 'coming after you', you're being defensive about your looks, when you shouldn't be! you're gorgeous, baby."

you're both giggling like girls at a sleepover, the anger and frustration long forgotten. now it's a war of who can be more grossly in-love with the other.

"what part of me," he manages between laughs. "are you having trouble drawing?"

"oh god," you groan, remembering yourself and your dilemma. "your lips."

"my fucking lips? you would think that—"

"no," you warn. "shut up. don't say it. don't you dare say it."

he leans in close, his hands have moved up to cup your face. you shiver.

"don't worry," he grins. "I won't."

the kiss is long and sweet, nothing like the ones you've shared in the past. he takes his time, you savor each other. you feel time stop ticking, you feel your heart stop beating, you feel the way he tilts his head. you grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him in. and when you part, you're breathing heavy, in tandem.

"thanks," you manage. "but I needed to see your lips, not kiss you into next saturday."

"nah," he laughs. "I think you needed that too."

you choose your words thoughtfully. "do you need me, too?"

he hums, and—

ding!

dreamwastaken donated $69!

:)

you could die. you could really, seriously die.

the response is instant. you don't even see Sapnap move from you to the PC, flushed down to his neck, apologizing, apologizing, and apologizing again. "change of plans, guys, we're doing an art stream!"

the chat is filled with "huh?"s and "what?"s.

"huh? what?" you didn't have the time to process what just happened.

karljacobs: I thought we were doing a make-out-with-our-secret-boyfriends stream :(

he smiled warmly at you. "yeah. my lovely boyfriend is going to draw me! he's been wanting to for a really long time, and his art is really good. let's go get your stuff."

you're in so much shock that he makes it past you and out of the room, while you stand there waiting. after a pause much longer than you intended, you hurry after him.

—

down the hall, in your room, he's got your sketchbook tucked under his arm, closed. you're sure you left it open when you came out.

you only barely get the words out. "um, did you…go through it? please don't laugh."

your heart sinks when he laughs heartily, but he grabs your hand, resting it on your book, about to hand it off. but he holds you there for a second. "of course not. I respect your privacy." he ponders for a moment. "I respect you."

you can feel the sigh of relief when you let it out. "I…love you."

your holding your book now, as he moves to collect the boxes containing your pens and pencils and colors. he gets them all together, but before he picks them up to head back, he turns around to face you. "is this too much?"

you absently reach for a hand, tracing over the lines on his palms. and you think about it. am I okay? is this too much?

"I don't think so. not with you. I'm okay."

he moves to open the door and grab the rest of your things. "well then, let's not keep them waiting!"

—

edited 27 April 2021