#comfort household

[naomiisimes]

The Carmel's.

[hinamie]

post-graduation trip airport looks

[brainrotcharacters]

The silly thing about associating Deadpool and Wolverine with Patroclus and Achilles is that if the Greek gays had regeneration and nigh-immortality, they wouldn't have reached peak tragedy

[virgothozul]

[callmebrutus]

stay at home malewife qfit and qpac who canonically wants to be treated like a princess.

can you hear me.

i think its a perfect case of things for them.

qfit grown tired of constant fighting and wants some stability in life. he wants to do something that doesn't involve violence, running, survival instincts. he wants to be safe and he wants to make a safe space for the people he loves and cares about.

and qpac wants to finally feel loved. he's been hurt by world for too long. even his family caused him trauma one way or another. his skin is bruised and bones are aching from phantom pain. he's the glue of favela 6. an anchor of sanity and pacifism. He Needs A Break.

not to mention that main part of his love interests are to say the least unhealthy. he was searching for care and safety, but in the wrong places and in the wrong people. dangerous = strong. but strong ≠ safe. you get me?

that's why qfit is the perfect match. the balance needed.

[the-king-of-butterflies]

[t-leaves]

Okay lads put your nichest dr in the tags. Yap to your hearts content. (If it is a fandom please elaborate!) GO!

[sade-alicious]

mike is an established smart and clever character from the beginning idk how everyone picked up the “mike wheeler has rocks in his head” joke and ran with it

[autisticlancemcclain]

The tears are the worst fucking part.

They always are. They come out when she’s angry or hurt and embarrassed, and they make her feel like a little girl, which only ever makes her feel worse. It sucks to feel like you can’t hold your ground in an argument because your eyes are burning and trails of tears are blazing hot down your cheeks.

But she didn’t even get the chance to argue.

“We’re not punishing you,” Shiro had said gently, guilt visibly lining his features as her first tear fell, which only made her snarl at him. “But your bond to your element could use some strengthening, Katie. It won’t take too long, I’m sure of it.”

Just a couple vargas, he has promised her. Gather the list of ingredients for the next few meals, and see how the exposure to a natural environment makes you feel, map out your relationship with your lion. Easy peasy.

Easy for everyone else to say. The rest of them seemed to bond with their lions like it was fuckin’ easy, snapping up their elemental control like it was second nature. Hunk was as solid as the rocks and earth he represented, and it showed in the way he was and the way he acted. Shiro felt like the awesome and incredible presence of the sky to everyone he met. Keith was the most fiery person she had ever met, probably. He acted like he was powered by a raging inferno, always moving, always flickering. Lance was —

Well. Lance was water, simple as that. Everything he did was as playful and stubborn as a running river. Even his expressions have the same practiced fluidity of them, like he grew up imitating the tide.

She supposes he did. She supposes it makes sense, that he is the one sent with her, to help guide her along, so to speak.

It still kind of stings.

“Could you stop fucking humming,” she snaps, glaring at her teammate.

He doesn’t even glance at her. “No.”

She rolls her eyes, tears making her breaths stutter, and wipes some of the wetness off her cheeks. It doesn’t really work, and mostly just smears it around, but she’s so bitter that she’s kind of beyond caring.

She hates this. She hates this stupid mission, she hates this stupid forest, she hates her stupid element, she hates that Lance will not stop fucking prancing around, and most of all she hates that she can’t figure this shit out on her own.

She hates that she has to be babied.

“Oh, hey, these are the sugarplums for the not-lamb stew.” Lance stops abruptly, gentle hand on her arm to stop her, too. She resists the urge to yank it away, desperately reminding herself that it’s not Lance’s fault she’s so angry, not his fault that humiliation burns through her, not his fault that she can’t get her shit together. She’s already snapped at him once — more than once, if she’s being honest — and he’s gracefully ignored it. If she keeps pushing, he’ll snap right back, and then they’ll both be miserable.

Plus, she doesn’t actually like snapping at Lance. He doesn’t deserve her lashing out, he’s only trying to help.

“You sure?”

Pidge looks at the small purple fruits , feeling a little helpless. She has no idea how Lance has distinguished them from the various other fruits and seeds hanging from the hundreds of other trees. She has no idea how the hell she’s supposed to memorize all of this garbage. How something as frustrating and unique and random as nature is supposed to be her element, the one thing that represents her, deep to her core.

It’s not fair.

“Yep!” Lance chirps. He crouches down, starting to pull at his laces. “The bark has more linear pattern structures, see? And the leaves are smooth, not serrated, and much darker than any other fruit trees we’ve passed. And it smells like plum jam.” To her great confusion, he pulls off his shoes as socks as he explains, only standing once his bare feet are on the backed earth and moss of the forest floor.

“You’re going to get a sharp rock to the foot,” she says, unsure as to why he’s decided to ditch his shoes in the places he probably needs them most.

He snorts, kicking his shoes to the side and turning to face her, making obnoxious kissy faces and poking at her relentlessly.

“Aw, is Pidgey worried for my health and well-being?”

She scowls, shoving him away. “Nevermind. I hope you get tetanus and lose your whole leg.”

Unfortunately, her threat only makes him grin wider. He blows her one last dramatized kiss before turning to the large tree, wrapping his sweater around the trunk, and using it to scurry up the tree almost faster than she can register. By the time it occurs to her to question him, he’s already ten feet in the air, shifting his weight to a steady enough branch.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yells.

Lance looks back down at her, raising an eyebrow. “…Getting…fruit…?”

“There’s fruit down here!” She gestures to the dozens and dozens of fallen but perfectly good plums on the ground, many of which she’s already scooped up and put in the bag Hunk gave her. “All the fruit-bearing branches are like thirty feet in the air, and the branches are way too thin! It’s too risky!”

“Well, Pidgeon,” he says, hooking his knees around a branch to hang upside down, shooting her a wink and a pair of finger guns, “that’s the fun part!”

Before she can yell at him again to get the hell back down, he’s flipped back upright, scurrying up rapidly thinning branches to reach the higher, juicier fruit.

Pidge heart pounds.

“Lance, get down here!” Her voice is reedy with panic, but he ignores her. “You’re going to get hurt, you colossal fucking dumbass!”

But no matter how loudly she cusses him out, he keeps climbing, barely even pausing to make sure a branch can hold his weight before using it to get higher. He climbs as easily as he walks, as easily as he shoots — like it’s second nature. Despite his ease, Pidge can fucking use her brain and see that as scrawny as Lance is, the branches are scrawnier, and he is going to fall and die and Pidge is going to have to watch it happen.

Just as she’s about to call backup, Lance forty feet in the fucking air and without even the distant thought of a rope, Lance ties his hoodie — filled with fruit — to his back, stands on a branch, and fucking leaps the hell off.

Pidge screams at the top of her lungs.

But instead of falling to his death, Lance lands on a branch jutting out from a neighbouring tree, maybe five feet below the branch he leapt from.

Pidge’s yell catches in her throat.

He’s fine.

He continues like that for the ten seconds it takes for him to make his way down, hopping from branch to branch like a chickadee, smiling so wide his brown eyes are nearly creased shut. He looks elated; the happiest she’s seen him in ages.

Slowly, some of her fear starts to fade.

“You fucking scared me,” she says harshly when his feet are back on the floor. Her heart is still galloping.

Lance shrugs. “I told you I’d be fine.”

“No, you told me risks were more fun, then you jumped down a fucking tree.” She accepts the fruits he hands her, replacing the less appetizing ones she already had in her bag. “Taller than your lion.”

“Yeah, because I’ve done it before.” He places the last sugarplum in the bag and then ties it shut, securing it to his back and then throwing an arm over Pidge’s shoulders. He starts walking in a random direction, and Pidge struggles to keep up with his wide strides.

“…Oh.” She supposes that makes sense. He looked comfortable as he climbed.

They walk for the next several minutes in silence. Pidge notices that the tear tracks on her face have dried, and the terror she felt for Lance earlier has replaced her anger, her embarrassment.

She wonders if that was the point.

“Hey, look at that.” He points to a small, budding yellow flower dotting the base of a tree. “That’s hairflower. They grow at the bases of confler trees, because the confler trees always host sodiko birds, which are their biggest pollinators. Cool, huh?”

“How do you know all this stuff?” she blurts, barely letting him finish his sentence. Some of her earlier frustration bleeds into her voice, but luckily it doesn’t sound too accusatory. “I don’t — we’re not even on Earth, but somehow you recognise all the random wildlife. Nature is supposed to be my element. I don’t — I don’t know why I’m struggling so bad when you have it so easy.”

Lance trips over his feet, slightly, stumbling. He removes his arm from her shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His shoulders hike up somewhere near his ears, hunching his posture.

Guilt churns in her stomach.

“Lance, I didn’t mean —”

Did she?

What did she mean?

“I’m not dumb,” he says quietly.

She swallows. “I know.”

“It’s — I’m not good at the classroom shit. I have to try really hard to understand what a textbook is telling me, and I never understand instructions that aren’t explained to me three times in four different ways. I can’t even begin to understand all the fancy shmancy engineer stuff you and Hunk do. I will not pretend to understand how Altean alchemy and magic works.” He looks at her finally, and hurt clouds his eyes, but his voice is steady, firm. Practiced even, like it’s not the first time he’s had to explain this. “But I’m not dumb.”

“I know,” Pidge repeats, quieter. She doesn’t know how to take back her words, to say them better. How to fix how she feels, honestly. Because it was a lie, her backtracking — she did mean what she said. It was a mean thing to say, a mean thing to think and believe, and she had allowed herself to think it, to feel it, to say it and believe it.

That’s not fair to Lance. That’s not fair to her friend.

It isn’t even true.

“I know,” she repeats again, firmer this time. “I’m sorry. I forgot. But I know you’re not dumb.”

He hesitates for a second, but then nods, accepting her apology. He puts his arm back around her shoulder.

“I’ve always been better at learning things I can do, physically, or things that I can see have a purpose. Like dance, or shooting, or learning the names of cool things like plants and rocks. I’ve always been good with names and faces. And piloting, too, I hope I’m good at that.”

She hates the doubt there, and hates more that she might be part of the reason. “You are. Good at piloting, I mean.”

He grins at her. “Thanks. You are too, you know. Even though all this element shit is a learning curve.”

She snorts despite herself. “Not to you. You’re the living embodiment of water, basically, you naiad.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I spend time in it. I go to the pool, like, every day. I don’t even play mermaids all the time. I do boring meditative shit, because apparently that’s what Blue needs.”

She looks at him in shock. She hadn’t considered that anyone other than Shiro really meditated, or that anyone else had to work towards working with their elements. Especially not Lance. “Really?”

He nods excitedly. “Yeah, man! I thought I was good, but when Hunk unlocked his earth weapon thingie, I asked Blue what was up and she said I just needed more practice letting elemental quintessence flow through me, whatever the hell that means. Apparently it’s easy to summon when you’re panicked, but if you want to do it on a more regular basis you have to learn how to recognise it, so you can call it.”

That makes sense, she supposes. But she still feels like she’s missing something.

“How the hell am I supposed to frolic around a forest between missions? There’s not exactly one in the castle.”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know, genius. You figured out how to turn a magical lion invisible, can’t you puzzle out how to grow a garden in space or something? Aren’t you a science nerd?”

Pidge stills.

Oh, duh.

It’s such a simple solution — plant a garden. She used to have a garden, back home, that she and her mom worked on regularly. Her mom would show her how she genetically modified plant seeds, and then they’d monitor the new plants and plant traits together.

Suddenly she understands why Green is the lion of curiosity and science as well as nature — the two are linked, everywhere, even in her. She belongs in the forest as much as she belongs in the workshop.

She can do so many weirdo experiments. Isn’t that what science is, basically?

“I owe you one,” she tells Lance, walking again beside him.

He chuckles, adjusting the bag of fruit on his shoulder and nudging her with his elbow. “You owe me twenty. Now, come on, we have lots more stuff to gather. I’ll show you how to identify it.”

[tildeathiwillwrite]

In this household we torture both characters and readers alike >:3

[lupins-hehim-pussy]

I think of so many stupid shenanigans between Wriothesley and his daughters in the Addison Lee verse. They tell Wriothesley crazy shit all the time, their daddy-daughter secrets, and it drives Neuvillette nuts that Wriothesley won't snitch.

Sigewinne, whispering into his ear: Today at school I punched a boy because he was being mean. I waited until it was recess, and made sure that no one was watching, and I punched him. Everyone knows he is a liar, so noooo one believed him when he cried about it. And Sigewinne is aaaalways a superstar so Mr Vautrin didn't suspect a thing !

Wriothesley, mildly concerned: Uh huh.

Sigewinne: Papa would say Sigewinne has to be nice to everyone, but, Sigewinne thinks bullies need to get punched sometimes, b'cos, b'cos otherwise, they think everyone is just gonna let them be mean

Wriothesley: Y'know what. That's fair

[daily-hanamura]

[starrycassi]

Out of character.

Andrew is the last person that one would expect to be insecure about himself. But, sometimes, some days, some nights.

Or the one where Nicky indirectly causes his cousin's marriage.

.

When Neil wakes up, the air is wrong.

Instinctively, he checks his own pulse, to make sure that he isn't having a heart attack. He isn't, so, that is good. He checks his own breathing, sits down in bed and looks around, makes sure that his body is okay. Or as okay as it can be after a specially rough night in the rink. US against Canada, the match of the year.

They won, so, that is good. His inner health is okay, also. No signs of any panic attacks coming, or anything of the sorts. Betsy taught him how to identify them.

The air is still wrong.

He takes a deep breath. It isn't the putrid, nose-clogging, overly sweet fragrance he is used to, and that's not good. It isn't sugary syrup and chocolate pancakes, it isn't colorful cereals and strawberry milk. It isn't anything Andrew usually ate for breakfast.

That sets off all his alarms. That was not good. Andrew, like him, has good days and bad days and days when eating is too much of a task for him to perform and he ends up just wanting to sleep in all day. Neil takes care of him, those days. Brings him food, water, and tries to be as quiet as possible throughout the day. If he can't do it, Renee will, and if they can't, Kevin will, and sometimes even Aaron shows up. Nicky's living in Germany now, but he makes sure to video chat often enough.

It's 8 am, already. Neil usually wakes up earlier. He runs out of the bed and into the kitchen, worried. What if it is too late, too late to cook, too late to bake, too late to order delivery, too late to call for an ambulance, too late to give him cpr, too late to-

Andrew is just sitting there, peacefully. In front of him, a bowl of salad. He's eating it

That is weird. Neil's brain doesn't have enough information about the situation to actually do anything. He locks his eyes in Andrew's face, and stares.

Andrew looka up, places his fork down in the green-filled bowl, and smiles.

That isn't good. Oh, God.

Neil suddenly feels so, so lost. He's seen Andrew smile a hundred times before. Under the meds, he smiled all the time; after that, just in a couple of very quick, small gestures on very certain events. A "blink and you'll miss it" situation.

This isn't genuine. This looks copypasted, and suddenly they are 19-ish again, sitting at the bleachers of the PSU exy's court, Andrew smiling at nothing and Neil frowning at him.

"Did you sleep well, honey?"

Wrong. Andrew's voice usually doesn't sound like that. He never says "honey". His tone is off. Is he mad? Playing a prank? Neil's heart skips a beat. The only logical explanation is that, somehow, in the middle of their slumber, Katelyn and him swapped minds and this man in front of him is, actually, Aaron. But this is his mind, and his body, and his house, so not that.

The other suitable theory is that Andrew was been cloned by idiot aliens in his sleep. That seems better.

"Neil? I asked... I asked if you slept well, baby?"

Neil takes one step back.

Andrew and him are not some sort of loveless, tragic, doomed marriage. They are a happy "technically we're secretly married just for the legal and tax benefits" couple, and Andrew is a lovely "technically" husband. He brings Neil new notebooks with funky covers for him to do maths and doodle on, he makes sure that Neils running shoes are in their best shape and a pair is always by the door and ready to be used, he buys electrolytes and a lot of vegetables he doesn't even like, he does small, little things, everyday, to make his "technically" husband's life better.

He never, EVER, calls him baby, though. As a joke, perhaps. When he wants to point out his stupidity and immaturity. Never as a pet name.

This is wrong.

Andrew, smiling, squinted at him. He isn't wearing his glasses. He isn't in his usual outfit. There was more skin showing than it would usually be. Andrew wore pants and long sleeves whenever he could, and this isn't exactly a babydoll, but he's wearing nothing more than his boxers and a wife-beater that belongs to Neil and looks way too tight and a bit too long on him.

He gets up, his smile carved into his face like a curse to bear and not the blessing to witness it usually was. He walks straight to Neil, and his eyes look completely out of it.

Neil should've dealt with things better. Realize that his "technically" husband is intoxicated. But instinct overtakes him, and in less than two minutes, he hastily puts on a pair of running shoes and leaves the house without a word.

He's a shitty "technically" husband.

To try and amend that, he stops in a park that he knows well by now, takes a few deep breaths, and calls Betsy Dobson.

.

Calling Betsy Dobson is one of his least favorite activities. That means something is wrong, and he kikes it when things are good.

(Andrew banned the word "fine" from the household. Good was an easy replacement)

So Neil calls Betsy and explains the situation with guilt, because leaving Andrew alone was a shitty move, Betsy confirms she will call Andrew, and Neil runs back to the house. Betsy calls him back in the middle of the way, says that Andrew's safety isn't compromised, and tries to get him to talk about himself and his feelings about the situation.

He hangs up.

He gets to the house in record time. The 20 minutes it usually takes him to return from the Gardenia Park turned into ten minutes, minutes crushed under his shoes, under his desperation to get back, under the curses at himself for his reaction, under his attempt to think about what is going on, and his many illogical ideal on how to deal with it.

Perhaps he shouldn't hang up on Dobson, in the future.

It's strange, but relieving, to see Andrew, his Andrew, open the door. Black sweater, grey sweatpants, glasses, Andrew. Mildly annoyed, quiet, Andrew. His "technically" husband. His lover. The man he loves. Really, actually, literally, loves.

Andrew rolls his eyes at him and his whole appearance, scowling, and the world is back on track, "Feeling better, rabbit?"

He moves from the door and Neil gets in, smiling. Yeah. Better. Rabbit is a lovely pet name. He likes it. Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. He likes it. The world is spinning again.

"A bit. Feeling better, geumbal?"

Andrew stays silent, probably trying to remember what the foreign word means.

But that's fine. Uh, good. That's good. Neil drops himself on the couch, panting a bit. This was an extremely confusing situation, and he's beginning to question if it was real or he ran too much and his lack of oxygen made him halucinate or something when Andrew sighs, heavily, and asks, as a force of habit, "Yes or no?"

It's always a yes, and Neil says so. Andrew sits down next to him, and they aren't cuddling, but this is everything Neil could ever possibly have

"So..."

Andrew sighs, again.

"I'll say this, once. Coach sent us some vodka to celebrate yesterday's thing. I drank. Nicky called. He gave me some advice and I was intoxicated enough to try and follow it"

Neil can't help but burst out laughing.

The idea of Nicky trying to give Andrew some love advice is incredibly funny, but Andrew doesn't laugh, or chuckle, or call him stupid or something. He tenses his jaw and looks at the wall, and that's not good.

"I'm glad it was amusing to you, Josten"

"You're technically a Josten too, you know?"

That usually does it. Andrew turns around and Neil acts like he can't see the blush on his "technically" husband's face. Or he calls Neil a ridiculous sap. Or he vaguely says something about divorce rates on same sex couples.

Dobson would want them to talk about things. Andrew would probably listen to her advice and they'll do it anyway. So, might as well.

"Truth for truth. Yes or no?"

Andrew looks at him, lifting his eyebrows. He looks somewhat impressed. It's a spark, and then it's gone. They haven't been playing that, lately. They live, work and sleep together. There's no room for a lot of secrets.

"Yes. Ask"

Neil nods, and gets himself ready. He tries to think about the best, most cohesive way to word his question. Over the years, he's gotten better at covering all his bases in a single question, so Andrew can't claim that he should ask smarter questions if he wants better answers. But his brain is acting weird, and he hasn't eaten anything yet, and he's now used to breakfast, which, isn't it crazy, that Neil Josten is used to breakfast? And that someone usually cooks it for him? And that they share it, calmly and in silence, just because they're both free to do so?

"What led you to listen to Nicky when, before, you never really did that, even drunk or drugged?"

It's a bit of a tongue twister to spit out, but he manages just fine. Andrew frowns some more, and sighs, again. He looks everywhere but at Neil. He's ashamed. Sad. He's uncomfortable. But, he tells himself, he said yes, and this is Neil, and Neil would never hurt him on purpose. And he wants this. He wants to talk about it. And isn't it so crazy, that Andrew Minyard is going to talk about himself? And that someone will listen to him? Just because this is what they both want?

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not perfect. And even more contrary to popular belief, I am aware of that. I know that I'm not the most pleasant person to be around. I was thinking about it, these days, you know, with the legal paperwork and that. I guess I want to change a bit. For the better"

It's nice, to say it to someone who isn't Bee. It's nice, to look into Neil's eyes and see the millions of emotions running under them. It's nice, to know that 14-yo Andrew Doe would never believe he can say those words to someone. It's nice, to know that 20-yo Andrew Minyard would never want to say those words to someone. It's nice, to be Andrew Minyard-Josten, and simply sit on the sofa and talk things through with his lover. It's nice, to have a lover he actually loves, and wants, and chooses.

Neil leans in, and he mutters the question, and Andrew says yes because he fucking wants to and not because someone is holding a knife to his throat or something like that. They kiss, slowly, with feelings and all that sappy bullshit Andrew Doe wanted to have. They kiss, kindly, and they're so close that Andrew Minyard would have a panic attack and lash out. They kiss.

Then they take a break to breathe. Andrew asks and Neil says no, whispering and chuckling like an idiot, and Andrew may be blushing from the heat of the moment, but he moves away from Neil because they're both safe here. Safe to say yes. Safe to say no.

"I just- I want my question. Ask me again after that"

Andrew doesn't really need to think this one through. His mouth moves before his brain does, vomiting his biggest worry at the moment.

"If you could, what would you... change, in me?"

It's a question he never planned on saying. It feels weird. Like someone else, some lovey dovey married moron, said it. But perhaps that's the kinda person he's becoming. After all, to be loved is to evolve, or something like that.

Neil hums in silence, and Andrew is AJ, Andrew Doe, Andrew Minyard and a ball of anxiety all at once, and then, "Well, full honesty? There's something I'm fucking tired of. I think it's utter bullshit"

And he gets down on one knee. And they didn't do this. They did the legal paperwork, but never this, not this, and Andrew can feel his heart stopping and his idiot of a soon-to-be-again husband has absolutely no ring but that's fine, that's fine because he has Andrew's heart and what else can they fuckin need?

"Andrew Minyard Josten. Yes, or no?"

He never planned this. He never even allowed himself to dream about this, but, God, he's earned it. He wants this, and the "technically" thing was getting old and the sun is coming from the windows and Neil looks somewhat like an angel and they're thirty already and isn't this so weird when did they turn thirty he never planned to make it this far and it's like ten am already and neither one of them's had an actual breakfast and they're both in pajamas and-

"Yes"

And they go back to the whole kissing thing.

[flyingwargle]

tw: day after a panic attack, discussions of anxiety

suna awakens to the sound of his front door opening.

through the haze of his sleep-leaden mind, he registers how heavy his body is, swollen eyes struggling to blink through the darkness. he hears keys jangle, footsteps reverberating throughout the apartment until knocks sound on his bedroom door, along with a soft call. “rin?”

he tries to respond, but his throat is dry, so all that comes out is a faint cough. the door opens, a figure washed in shadows stepping inside, approaching to kneel beside his bed. suna rolls his head to face them, can see the concern in their gaze, the deep frown softening into a tiny smile. “hi, love,” osamu whispers. “i heard from komori that you were havin’ a rough time. didja eat?”

suna shakes his head. osamu reaches forward to brush hair out of his eyes, gentle touches that send shivers down his spine. “all right. lemme make ya some food. keep restin’, ya hear?” he doesn’t have the energy to speak, simply closes his eyes, feels osamu kiss his forehead before slipping out. the kitchen fan turns on a moment later.

after what happened yesterday, he isn’t in any condition to practice, so he stays in bed, chasing after the last tendrils of sleep, opening his eyes when he fails. a bone-deep exhaustion makes it difficult for him to sit up, let alone reach for his phone, somewhere on the nightstand, so he resigns himself with a sigh. it isn’t long before knocks echo on his door again, and osamu enters with a bowl balanced on a tray, along with a cup of water. “i made ya some rice porridge. lemme help ya sit up.”

slowly, he moves upright, leaning heavily against his pillows. osamu feeds him a spoonful of porridge at a time, quiet except for the steady rainfall that taps a rhythm on the window. “d’ya wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“not really.”

“but will ya, with someone?”

his nostrils flare. it’s good timing that his monthly therapy session is around the corner. “yeah.”

osamu feeds him the last spoonful of porridge, then moves the bowl aside. he kneels beside him again, hand in his, kisses his palm with reverence saved for a god. “i’m sorry that i wasn’t here fer ya when ya needed me.”

“you have a restaurant to run. it’s my fault. i should’ve been more careful.” he’s always been mindful of his own anxiety, has followed every plan and strategy that he and his therapist came up with to mitigate panic attacks, to the point that he hadn’t had an attack since joining ejp. but things always fall through the cracks, often in unpredictable ways, and he’s the only one left to suffer.

“it’s never yer fault, rin. don’t say that.” osamu lifts his head at him, expression fierce. “i shoulda recognized the signs earlier, shoulda paid more attention, and i’m sorry fer that. i know this won’t make up fer it, but lemme take care of ya today.”

“are you sure?” suna whispers. “what about your restaurant?”

“they can survive without me fer a day or two, but i can’t survive without ya.” osamu looks at him more critically now, frown deepening. “yer still in your practice clothes.”

“oh. yeah.” seeing that he collapsed in bed immediately after coming home last night, changing or showering were the last things on his mind.

“d’ya wanna bath? i’ll help ya wash yer hair. when was the last time ya washed it?”

“don’t ask.”

osamu helps him out of bed. with slow steps, they enter the bathroom, suna sitting on the toilet while osamu fusses with the water temperature, waiting until it’s warm enough. then, he tells him to undress and get in the tub, pulling hair products from the cabinet.

a hot bath and freshly washed hair later, they settle on the couch, weighted blanket thrown over suna’s shoulders, face pressed against osamu’s chest. in high school, when his anxiety was undiagnosed, osamu was the only one who knew how to help him through it, the others lingering on the sidelines. it worsened in his third year, pressured by family to go to university and get a job, pressured to perform well and gain attention from scouts, pressured to maintain his grades to keep his options open. through it all, osamu stayed, hand stroking his back, fingers running through his hair, whispering in his ear that everything will be okay.

suna doesn’t deserve him, this man who drove three hours at the crack of dawn to arrive at his doorstep to make him food and wash his hair. what has he given him in return? a burden that he’ll carry for the rest of his life, no matter how hard he tries to mitigate it.

“rin? what’s wrong?” osamu’s panicked voice snaps him from his thoughts. “yer cryin’.” oh, he is, swollen eyes leaking with tears again. suna makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. he cried enough last night. why won’t the tears stop?

“love, talk ta me. what’s wrong?”

suna hides his face from him. “i made you drive all the way here to deal with me. i’m sorry.”

“rin, ya didn’t ‘make me.’ i chose ta do this. an’ i ain’t ‘dealin’ with ya’ either. ya just had a panic attack in the last twenty-four hours. d’ya think i’d let ya handle the fallout alone? i’d never forgive myself.” osamu wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer to him. “if it weren’t for komori, ya would be by yerself, an’ i wouldn’t have known. that scares me, that ya’d be sufferin’, an’ i’d be none the wiser.”

“this isn’t–“

“no, don’t say that. i chose this. you’ll never let me go.” he lowers his head against his, voice soft in his ear. “so don’t be scared ta tell me when somethin’ is wrong, okay?”

suna crumbles, sobbing into his shirt, eyes and nose streaming. osamu holds him tight, strokes his back, murmurs that everything will be okay. he was there for him in high school and after, even when distance keeps them apart. he’ll always be here, and suna will never thank him enough.

[arcadewonder]

[ ♬ ]

[sammygender]

of genderswapped sam and dean. who has the short haircut.

THE REAL QUESTION. i could see a case for either. short hair is probably more convenient for hunting after all....

i think dean wears her hair long as a kid because it reminds john of mary. you could make the case that he'd cut her hair because it reminds him of mary too much, but i can't see it really, i think he'd want to preserve the innocence he sees in girlhood that he doesnt seem to in boyhood (a la that whole journal entry about wishing he had girls and how sons have to be soliders). continuing that, i cant actually really see her cutting her hair short at all because it ties her to her mother in her eyes. i think girl dean is like so obsessed with mary. can you imagine like. her whole life is about avenging mary and she's her daughter and the only girl in the family now. she has no adult female role models except her dead mother. she plays into being john (still loves cars and classic rock and wears flannel and leather jackets and is generally 'masculine') but she still sees herself as mary. john sees her as mary too even though he expects her to act exactly like him also. so i think she keeps her hair long. she probably has childhood memories of mary brushing it and wants to hold onto them. i think she likes it long, and i think john likes it long, and i think it reminds them both of mary, and i think they both like that.

sam? well sam is a lot less invested in playing the Role that's expected of him, so. girl sam is victim to levels of misogyny previously unthought of especially in the way where both john and dean see her as soooo weak and little and in need of protection. and they probably rely on the girl thing a lot to infantilise her. so i can totally see her cutting her hair off in a Fuck You to john at some point. tbh i reckon girl sam would have hair like canon sam's later season hair. though rly i can see anything with sam. also i feel like she'd have grown up with a shortish bob because it's easier maintenance (for dean john winchester is NOT bothered with looking after sams hair <3)

also both of those answers are in an au where one of them's raised a girl and the other isn't. but if we're talking total femchesters? john having two daughters? need to think on this more but im still leaning towards sam. i think girl dean commits to being a Girl the same way canon dean commits to being a Guy, even though both of them are shrouded in the same machismo. but sam fights any role hes given

tldr: sam