#ficlet… sorta

[bringthekaos]

Post reconciliation Jayvik and Jayce has to do a speech "deeply condemning" the recent actions of the Evil Machine Herald :]

Ohhhhh and he gives it the ol’ “I Am Iron Man” treatment…

Like he starts out reading the script, saying what Piltover wants him to say. “The Machine Herald is a deeply disturbed individual, who has carved out his… his empathy, and no longer values humanity or co— collaboration…”

And he pauses, just like he did at the Progress Day speech all those years ago, and he looks down at the faces watching: councilors, profiteers, warmongers… cogs in the machine that made Viktor what he is. And he’s suddenly overcome with righteous anger, and he just goes off,

“You know what? It is morbidly ironic for me to stand up here and preach about inhumanity when it was this city’s inhumanity that created the Machine Herald in the first place. We were a constant barrier for him, even when all he ever wanted was to improve lives—both ours and the lives of Zaunites…”

They cut off the mic, but Jayce just starts yelling.

“…and I don’t blame him! We create our own enemies with policies that keep Zaunites crushed under our boot heels. We keep them in poverty, under threat of rampant crime and caving to the rule of violent drug lords, because what choice do they have?! None, we made sure of that!”

Luckily it’s Caitlyn that’s tasked with dragging him off the stage, and she’s gentle—whispers of “I know, Jayce, you’re right. You are. But they won’t hear it. Come on. Fight this fight another way…”

And Jayce is fuming, he can’t spend another second in Piltover. So he walks (stomps, more like—mumbling angrily to himself the whole way) down to Emberflit, to Viktor. And he’s not sure how, it just fucking happened, but Viktor already knows what happened.

And Viktor can’t help but offer up that crooked grin as he comes over to where Jayce has plopped down into his musty old recliner and slides down onto his lap.

“You know I don’t need you defending me; I don’t need it, and it will fall on deaf ears anyway. They aren’t ready to hear it, and will only use it as an excuse to cast you out too. But I appreciate the sentiment, moje lásko.”

He tips Jayce’s chin up and kisses him breathless, and all at once Jayce can’t remember what he was so angry about.

[iwasthenightingale]

Maybe it's just the feral ace person who resides within me, but I desperately want Crowley and Aziraphale's first real kiss to be entirely awkward and innocent and honestly kind of chaste

I want Aziraphale, desperate to hold Crowley, words tumbling out of him as he says "You know, the first time in my bookshop didn't count. And I should very much like to try, er... kissing again. Perhaps. If you were amenable?"

I want Crowley, mute with shock, but nodding incredibly enthusiastically. And Aziraphale's hands, hesitant but still reaching, hovering over Crowley as he shuffles forward and tries to learn how to touch him

I want blushing as Aziraphale asks softly "so, um... was it something l-like... like this?" and Crowley doing everything in his power not to move or self combust as he inches closer

I want the gentlest, most barely there brush of lips, so soft and sweet, and a sharp inhale as Aziraphale wrenches back to take in Crowley, his beautiful Crowley, and feel the tingling warmth against his lips

And then I want them to melt together, not even because the kiss is particularly charged, but because they adore each other and have been kept apart for far far too long, and no amount of closeness or intimacy could ever be enough for them

[truefandemonium]

Welp I’m back and so is Bill

Please enjoy the drabble <3

a mind ensnared pt.2

a billstill ficlet

(inspired by the AU by @jellynut)

TW: self harm

…

It hurt like hell. And Stanley knew hell.

Hell was the lifetime he spent wishing he hadn’t hurt Ford. The lifetime he wasted running from the family he should have made amends with.

The lifetime he could no longer recall most of.

Ford was easing him back into reconnecting with his past— both of theirs. He shared stories they’d experienced as kids in Jersey… the good times they’d shared in high school… moments in between where they didn’t hate each other’s guts.

But it hurt.

Stan pressed his palms against his eyes with a low groan. “I’m sicka this.”

“Stanley, we can stop,” Ford said calmly. “This is for you, remember.”

“Remember. Right,” Stan scoffed. His attitude had plummeted in the last half hour since his headache had grown from a dull ache to a sharp throbbing in his right temple.

Ford rolled his eyes, shutting the scrapbook and shoving it back into the small shelf inside the interior of the boat. The name of the author was scrawled in glitter gel pen on the inside: MABLE PINES. “We can revisit it later,” Ford said, keeping his tone level.

Stan hated him for always being reasonable and kind despite his own short temper. Who gave him the right to be so forgiving?

Sure as blue skies wasn’t me! If anything, I helped him find his fiery side— Ol’ Fordsy never would have hurt you before I came along…

Ford never hurt me. This was never his fault, no matter how much I want to believe it was. Stan shifted to look at his feet, hiding his gaze. He didn’t know if Ford could see it; the way his eyes changed when Bill spoke. Maybe no one could see it… but Stan felt it. It clawed at the back of his brain like long tendrils of flame, licking until they could reach the glassy surface of his eyes, where they’d stare out.

Oh really?

Stan could practically see that damned Triangle grinning now.

Remember this?

Fire. This time, not just behind his eyes. It ate away at the flesh of his back, just at his wing, where the deep burn scar remained. Lately, Stan would run his fingers over the grooves in his flesh, as if he could pry the memory out of his skin, desperate to recall the moment in which he gained the scar.

But now he didn’t need anything to evoke it. It all came back like a tidal wave, floodgates opened and ready to drown him in the deep waters of his own mind.

Stan pushed himself up from the table, his chair clattering to the floor behind him as he reeled. The pain made him dizzy, and Ford’s brow furrowed deep as he looked up at him in concern.

“Alright, Stanley?”

“Headache,” Stan barked.

So worried for you. How sweet. Brotherly love is such a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Why don’t you go ahead and ask Sixer about that scar, Mystery Man?

Flashes of memory threatened to knock Stan to the floor. The deep pain of the burn on his back. The cold of the earth as he fell to his side in agony. A distant cry of, “Stanley… I’m so sorry…”

But why? Why had Ford burned him? Why had they been fighting at all?

ASK HIM.

“Stanley, are you sure you’re alright?” Ford stood, his chair creaking as he pushed it back and stepped around the table toward his brother. “You look—”

“I’m fine!” Stan snapped, grabbing Ford’s collar and holding him at arm’s length to stop him from getting closer. Stan looked up and glared into the soft eyes staring back, his grip tightening.

You’ll never know if you don’t ASK.

“I don’t need to,” Stan whispered, the words falling from his lips against his will.

Ford’s eyes flashed fearfully. “What?”

Panic suddenly gripped Stanley— the man shoved his brother back and growled, “I said I don’t need you. This stupid memory thing isn’t helping me— and neither are you.”

“Stanley, you don’t need to—” Ford lifted his hand and Stan stepped back again.

“Just leave it alone! Leave me alone, and stop trying to help,” Stan ground out, clenching his fists at his sides and pivoting to leave the underbelly of the ship.

Ford yelled something else as Stan left, but he didn’t turn around. The screaming inside his head was too loud to think— to breathe.

On a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean, there weren't exactly many places to isolate oneself. Still, Stan managed to find solace in the crow’s nest. Cold wind buffeted his hair as he tried and failed to catch his breath, chest hammering as Bill raked at the inside of Stan’s skull.

YOU IDIOT

NOW YOU’LL NEVER KNOW WHY FORD GAVE YOU THAT SCAR— YOU’LL NEVER REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAID TO HIM TO MAKE HIM SNAP—

“Shut up, shut up,” Stan seethed, his hands coming up to frame his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to know, you stupid triangle. I don’t want to remember…” Stan shook his head, voice dissolving into a whimper. “I don’t want to remember him at all.”

It was the thing that was killing him; the memory of how he’d betrayed Ford at every turn, destroyed his chance at happiness. And Bill wouldn’t stop reminding him of all of it.

“I just wanna forget everything,” Stan hissed into the wind, the breeze taking his words and tossing them to the sea. “Just for a minute…”

For the first time in a long time, there was silence. And then,

I can make that happen.

All at once, Stan felt his body heat. Not the fiery pain of the past, but a gentle warmth like the rays of the sun beating down on him. He opened his eyes and inhaled a sharp, small gasp.

He was sitting in the crow’s nest of the original Stan ‘O’ War on Glass Shard Beach, the hot summer sun baking the wooden boat as it sat on the shore. Stan stood cautiously, raking his eyes over his surroundings.

He was looking for something. Some one. Yet he couldn’t manage to remember who. The memory felt blurry in his mind, like a permanent marker had been scrawled across the image— the thick, choking fumes of the ink making Stan’s vision cloudy and head swim.

And yet he welcomed it. The sensation of not remembering… it was as peaceful as it was oddly painful.

But something was tugging him— calling him. Stan pushed off from the wooden nest and crawled down the rickety wooden slats that served as steps to the main deck, then jumped down to reach the shore.

Normally a leap like that would knock him to his knees— and it almost did— but the pain in his joints seemed to have vanished. He felt like… like a kid again.

A sudden breath of excited air filled Stanley’s lungs as he straightened and examined the terrain. Sure enough, everything was as it was in his childhood. Every stone, every tree— every glass shard.

Except the presence of that unknown entity clawing at the inside of Stan’s mind.

As he wandered the beach, Stan’s anxiety grew, soon overwhelming the joy he’d felt at being back home. Until he saw it.

Saw him.

A faceless figure he knew so well. Part of him knew, anyway.

No name would lend itself to Stan as he raced forward, one hand extended into the air in greeting.

The faceless man sat placidly on a near broken down swing set, rocking forward and back in gentle motions.

Stan’s heart pounded as he got a good look at his face. Or rather, the emptiness that was there. His hands, too— his whole body seemed to flicker with obscuring yellow light. Light that shone so brightly Stan had to back up several steps.

But then it dimmed, and somehow, that was so much worse.

Before Stan stood a stranger. A stranger he’d grown up with, a stranger he loved. A stranger who had done so much for him and he did nothing in return.

“Hey, uh—” Stan started, his eyes trying to focus on the ever changing clawed out space that the man should reside in. “Who are you? This place is— this is Jersey, isn’t it?”

The stranger turned, his face a shroud of scribbled yellow that flickered with his movement.

Then, a sharp, loud, incessant static began to pour from him. No words, just agitated sounds in a garbled mess.

The sounds welled until Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed his hands over his ears and cried, “I’m looking for—”

And then he stopped. Because… who was he looking for? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.

You wanted to forget. A grinning, gleaming flash of yellow appeared beside Stan. The single eye of the floating angular shape glinted with malice. So now he’s gone. Enjoy the spotlight, Stanley.

No, no, no no no no. Who did he forget? Who had Bill taken from him? And just when he was starting to remember—

But remember what? Even now, the memories were starting to fade. The image of the beach around him started to feel fuzzy in Stan’s mind. Everything but the glimmering shards of sun soaked glass that protruded from every corner of the beach.

The pain in Stan’s head, too, was beginning to grow. The aching that came with trying to uncover lost memories, the splintering sensation as the static noise penetrated his skull.

The sadness he felt when he looked into the space of the stranger’s face where his eyes should be.

The sound of glass shattering seemed to break him. Scrambling through the warm sand below his feet, Stan searched until he frantically pulled a shard of sharpened glass from the dirt.

Without hesitation, he lunged for the stranger, pressing the glass hard against his obscured throat. Stan felt the soft, kind hands of this unseeable man land on his shoulders. Confused. Comforting.

“Who are you?” Stan wailed. “I’m looking for someone! I— I can’t do this without him…”

Heaving for air, breath coming in short bursts as his heart hammered in his chest, Stan bleakly lifted the glass to his face and peered at it, retreating from the stranger.

Back then, he had terrible eyesight. He just never told anyone. He didn’t get glasses until he was in his late thirties and even then he hardly wore them. He didn’t feel like he deserved them. But his— someone— had loaned their own to Stanley. As a child, he borrowed someone’s glasses. Someone he looked up to and treasured and—

Fuck, the pain of forgetting was too much. It was like fire burning down the carefully crafted buildings inside his head. And the smoke was filling up his skull.

Maybe he could relieve the pressure. Clear the smoke and put the fire out.

Remember.

Ever so carefully, Stan placed the point of the glass shard against his right temple, and pressed. The pain was nothing compared to the sounds of agony his own brain was creating in this moment. The glass pierced his skin, drawing dark blood as Stan dragged the edge from his temple toward his eye.

Maybe he’d see better with just one eye.

STANLEY.

A horrible sound rang out. A mix of Bill’s voice and… someone else. As the rest of Jersey fell away, only the figure of the stranger remained: grabbing Stan’s shoulders and shaking him hard.

All at once, Stan’s eyes flew open. He was huddled on the floor of the ship, down below, one eye filling rapidly with blood from the long slice along the side of his head. Hand planted on the ground before him as he gasped and dropped the glass from his other.

“Stanley!”

That voice. Stan spun his body, revelling in the feeling of a familiar six fingered grasp on his shoulders.

And his own face staring back at him. For the first time in a long time, Stanley couldn’t get the words out. Until finally, “Stanford.”

Ford grabbed his brother and yanked him into a tight hug, his breathing frantic and horrified. “Stanley— oh for God’s sake, Stanley— I thought you were— it was like he had— but your eyes— oh thank goodness—” Ford’s rambling soothed Stanley.

His brother. He’d been looking for his brother all this time. And Bill had taken him.

Stan pulled away from the hug and slammed his fists into his brother’s chest, startling him into a sharp gasp. “Stanley, what are you—” he started, wondering and fearful.

The memories came back, finally, finally. The fight. That terrible moment when everything changed.

“You left me behind, you jerk! It was supposed to be us forever.”

And then the ever present searing pain in the flesh of Stanley’s right shoulder. Ford didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean any of it.

But he’d left him. And now he was back.

Stan rasped out, “Don’t ever leave me.”

“You ruined my life.”

Ford’s brows knitted over his eyes. “Stanley, you’re my brother,” he said gently. “We’re in this together.”

“You ruined your own life.”

“Forever,” Stan wheezed. Even through the dripping blood, and slowly darkening vision, Ford’s face was so clear now.

And Stan decided he would take the pain of remembering over the hell of forgetting. Always.

Forever.

[silverskye13]

I vaguely remember something about Helsknight going to confessions? I’m interested as to why and what he confesses to :3

Hi, this has been in my inbox for a hot minute, but it got me thinking, and I kept thinking so. Have a snippet.

_____________________

Please read the tags for the TW list!

_____________________

The Confession room for the followers of the Saint of Blood and Steel was exactly the same room they trained and dueled in. The only difference was, at a certain time of day, on two specific days of the week, there was a little white sign on the doors that said "Confession Open." There was almost always a line. Only one person was allowed in the confessional at a time. There was no law or order or rule that dictated everyone wait in silence, but there was something particularly embarrassing humbling about standing in a line of armed and armored knights, all waiting patiently for god to slap them on the wrist.

The door opened. A knight exited with her head held high, though Helsknight noticed she clutched her arm a little too close to her body. She walked past the line down the hall, to the little room on the left where the pleasant and somewhat dissonant smell of baked goods warmed the air. The line shuffled forward a step.

The wait was long, and awkward, occasionally broken by stilted small talk, and the lethal sounds of mail and blade, and the scuffing of boots. Helsknight had gotten into the habit of bringing something to read while he waited. It gave him a good excuse not to make prolonged eye-contact with anyone, and he had grown bored of making shapes out of the mosaic tiles ages ago. He could only look at the same repeating pattern so many times before he realized they all looked vaguely like a dog lifting a leg to pee, and thinking about bodily functions while waiting in a long line was a great way to convince himself to leave the line. Then the chances of him getting home in a timely manner after his confession [or really going to confession at all] dropped exponentially.

The door opened. A young knight limped two steps down the hall before a priest, waiting at a nearby bench for expressly this purpose, dashed over and put the knight's arm around his shoulders. The knight muttered a wincing thanks, and together they limped down the hall to that same, sweet-smelling room. As soon as they turned the corner out of the main hall, the knight let out a loud curse, and there was the heavy sound of someone collapsing into a convenient chair. The line shuffled forward a step.

A twitchy squire standing in line in front of Helsknight stared at the door wide-eyed, and then forward to the confessional sign, which they regarded with the same blatant fear as someone confronting their own noose. Helsknight looked down at the little book he was holding, sighed, and decided to show a little mercy. He was at confession, after all.

"The Saint isn't cruel," Helsknight told them softly, and just the sound of his voice startled them nearly out of their boots. "Whatever your penance is, it will never be beyond your means."

The squire flashed him what was probably supposed to be a nervous smile, but which looked a lot more like a grimace. "What if I've fucked up really badly?"

Someone in the line coughed inconspicuously. Someone else cleared their throat. Helsknight fixed the young squire with a measuring gaze, and came to the conclusion this nervy kid had probably never "fucked up really badly" a day in their life. Though he supposed he'd been wrong before.

"You could start your penance early," Helsknight said, reigning in his sarcasm as much as physically possible, "by maybe not swearing in church."

The inconspicuous cougher down the line let out a much more conspicuous snort. The squire clapped their hands over their mouth and stared up at him in horror. Helsknight sighed and pinched the space between his eyes.

"Swearing isn't against our tenets."

The hallway murmured into a soft chorus of "Amens" and "Praise the gods" and one particularly ambitious "thank fuck." A few of the knights signed various salutes and benedictions to the Saint. The squire visibly relaxed.

"It's respectful not to," Helsknight continued after the murmured din died down. "Show the Saint your contrition by respecting Their home. Is your sword sharp?"

The squire seemed a bit taken aback by this sudden change in conversation topic. They unsheathed their sword a bit, showing a dull iron blade. "Uhm... it could stand to be sharper."

"You bring your kit with you?"

The squire sighed and rolled their eyes, more from disappointment at a new chore than any real defiance. They unsheathed their sword, dropped a large messenger bag off their shoulder, and started rifling through their things. The air was soon filled with the sound of whetstone on blade. Someone behind Helsknight tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed to the squire, then to Helsknight, and offered an approving thumbs-up. Good job on distracting the scared kid. Helsknight shrugged and held out his book, flashing the title in her direction. Everyone needs a distraction in this stupid line. She rolled her eyes, tell me about it, and moved her cloak to the side, showing off a little satchel with what looked to be art supplies. Helsknight smirked.

The door opened. A knight came striding out, running a stressed hand through his hair. He started to walk past the little door at the end of the hall, but a priest came dashing out to stop him before he could make it too far. They whispered amongst each other for a moment, heads bowed close together to keep their conversation private. The priest looped a consoling arm around the knight's shoulder, and together they walked slowly into the little room. The line shuffled forward a step.

No one ever stayed inside the confessional for long. Fifteen minutes, twenty. Once or twice someone dipped closer to a half hour. Then the door would open, and the line would shuffle. Helsknight had made it through about a chapter and a half of his book [an epic poem about the deeds of one of the Saint's paladins. He brought it to keep himself in a "contrite mood", whatever the hels that was] when finally it was the squire's turn to step inside. They bundled up their gear, offered Helsknight their bravest grimace-that-was-probably-a-smile, and walked inside.

The knight behind him asked politely, "Is that your squire?"

"No."

"Ah. Just being nice then?"

Helsknight offered an indifferent shrug. "It's everyone's first confession once."

She turned this somewhat nonsensical statement over for a moment, shrugged her agreement, and went back to sketching.

Time passed. The squire exited the doors with a relieved look on their face, though they clutched their right hand beneath their arm as though afraid to look at it. Helsknight sighed, closed his book, and stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The room wasn't so much dark as it was simply not as bright as the hallway outside. Beside the door was a small table, and Helsknight turned and made use of it, setting down his book, then unbuttoning his tabard. He knew whoever was taking his confession today would be nearby, ready to help him doff any armor, but he wore mail today specifically so he could slip it on and off, without having to worry about all the buckles and clips that came with chest plates and grieves. When he'd relieved himself of everything he wore or carried, besides his leggings and his unsheathed sword, he walked towards the center of the fighting ring.

A knight in full plate stood in the ring's center, a great sword planted tip-down into the dirt between their feet. The sword was simple steel, as was the armor. No enchantment or ornamentation decorated the surface. There was no plume on the closed helm. They were the image of the Saint, an unremarkable warrior, all silent strength.

Helsknight knelt at their feet, laying his sword gently between them. He sighed out a long breath.

"I come to the Saint to be shriven," Helsknight said as deferentially as he could, in the face of an often repeated task. "By Their steel, and by my blood."

The confessor nodded. "Speak your confession, brother."

Helsknight winced, and barely stifled a groan. "It's always you, isn't it, Blade?"

The confessor let out a heavy sigh. "Come on man, this is supposed to be anonymous."

"Not my fault you talk like that."

"Heh? Talk like what?"

"Exactly."

The two fell into awkward silence, Helsknight probably much more awkward than Blade. He took a bracing breath.

"I... Come to confess the sin of Wrath."

There was a long pause.

"Again."

"This is normally where I ask what you did, and why," Blade said witheringly, "but it was plastered all over the broadsheets this morning."

Helsknight pinched the space between his eyes.

"If it makes you feel any better, I gotta agree with the West Side Tabloid. He had it coming." Blade said, leaning a little too nonchalantly on his greatsword. "You don't just call someone a coward like that. It's violence theater. If you bring real honor into it, you're begging for trouble."

"I... Agree."

"So, you lashed out in anger and got blood all over the nice Colosseum sand." Blade continued. "You lost your temper, but you were defending your honor. And I wouldn't even call it all that cruel. It's not like you tortured him or anything."

"Am I being pardoned?"

"Depends," Blade said, in a casual tone that suddenly didn't seem wholly his own. "Where else have you vented your Wrath, brother?"

Helsknight licked his teeth, as though he expected them to taste like blood. "I... attacked a thief today. He stole from me, and I was in my right to defend that."

"But you harmed him past self defense," Blade prompted, when the silence stretched long.

"If he hadn't escaped me, I would have." Helsknight paused, and added. "I had wanted to."

"Wanting isn't the same as doing," Blade offered charitably.

"I would not have stopped myself."

"Has Wrath consumed your life in any other ways, brother?"

"My hermit."

Blade nodded solemnly.

"We fought recently. I won. It was unprovoked. I was having a bad morning, and I needed -- I wanted to take it out on him. So I did."

"Have you asked forgiveness from the people you've harmed, in your sin of Wrath, brother?"

"No."

"Have you attempted any restitution?"

"No."

Very suddenly, the greatsword in Blade's hand was sheathed in red. It was light, bright and scouring, and it filled the air with the taste of blood. Even knowing it would happen, Helsknight flinched at the sight of it. His hair stood on end, and the air seemed charged, like the breath before a lightning strike. The Saint, alive and present, glimpsed for a moment through Blade. The confessor-turned-paladin tilted his head back slightly, and Helsknight knew if his face weren't covered in the helm, his eyes would be red, brimming with bloody tears.

In a voice that was Blade's, and something past him, empowered by faith, brutal and scouring, the Saint said, "Stand, and pick up your sword."

Helsknight did as he was bidden. His heart fluttered a little too fast in his chest, and while his hands did not shake, they felt near to it, unsteady. Helsknight was one of the best fighters to have ever crossed the Saint of Blood and Steel's threshold. If he were simply fighting Blade, there was a decent chance he'd win, though Blade had been his match many times before.

He was not only fighting Blade, though.

"As a knight of the Saint's order," Blade and the glimpse of the Saint beneath said, "you swore to uphold Their tenets, even in the face of great adversity. By raising your sword, not in Their wrath, but your own, you break that tenet."

Blade let out a breath, like someone barely keeping their head above water. Helsknight wondered if that was what being a paladin in the service of a Saint felt like: held under water, drowning under divine will.

"Yet Their order teaches that even the Saint is fallible, and once, Their will was driven, not by divine purpose, but by reckless bloodshed. As They were once challenged, now They challenge you. Do you accept?"

Helsknight didn't have to accept. This part had been emphasized a lot when he joined and took his first confession. Anyone was allowed to deny the Saint's trial and simply accept their penance. The penance wouldn't change. There was no incentive for, or against, besides maybe his own personal need to prove he really was in the wrong. Maybe it was pride made him accept every time. Maybe it was spite. Or, maybe, it was simply the need to punish himself for the lack of control he felt.

Solemnly, Helsknight nodded.

"Then Pick Up Your Sword, and Smite Me."

That was all the warning Helsknight was given. Blade, or the Saint, or the Saint's Will, or all three together, lunged.

It did not take long. By the third swing, Helsknight's blade was sent crashing from his hand, though he met the Saint's blade with all the strength and mastery he could muster. Losing to the Saint was an indescribable thing. It wasn't like losing a match in the Colosseum, or like losing a duel against Blade when they sparred. It was like an ant scratching at the heels of a giant, a kitten swatted aside by the massive claws of a dragon. If he swung his sword at a wall, at least there was the smallest chance the stone would chip. There was no chance in this. There was only the token effort of the attempt, one clash, then two, then three, and then his sword was gone from his hand. Blade slammed a palm into his chest, and Helsknight was on his back, gasping for breath, having crumpled so quickly he hardly had time to register he was watching the ceiling.

"By the divine right of contest, brother, Their will is done," Blade, The Saint, both and neither, said. Helsknight laid on his back and waited, catching his breath. "Hold out your sword hand."

A jolt of fear lanced through Helsknight then. He hated, he feared, hand wounds. It was an odd folly of his that he'd never been able to shake. Blade knew it. The Saint probably knew it. It felt unfair to punish him with it, or cruel.

Helsknight closed his eyes, and he stared down the scared little squire in his head.

[The Saint isn't cruel. Whatever your penance is, it won't be beyond your means.]

And then, for good measure, as he offered his right hand forward, [you deserve this.]

The cut was quick and clean. The blade was supernaturally sharp. The wound took time to hurt. Still, Helsknight's head spun. His breath came too quickly in his chest. Blade had to repeat himself twice when he asked for Helsknight's other hand. Then his vision tilted more, stars blooming in burst around his peripherals, edged in black.

When he found himself again, Blade had carried him to the table and rested him there, and stood bandaging his hands. His own hands were shaking, every shudder sending a jolt through Helsknight's arm. Helsknight turned this observation over distantly, curious in the way of the desperate, clinging to small details to better make sense of the world. Blade didn't normally shake when they did these sessions. Maybe he, too, had objected to wounding Helsknight's hands.

"Sorry... About that," Blade stammered hoarsely. "It's... You haven't made restitution. And it's a problem you keep having."

Helsknight didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

"It's not bad," Blade said, trying to reassure both of them. "No muscles or tendons or anything. It was just a lot of blood."

"Yes," Helsknight said airily, still a little too unrecovered to explain the blood hadn't been the problem. Not really. Not that it needed explaining.

"Go see the priests down the hall," Blade informed him needlessly. "You need stitches, especially near the veins on your wrists. They need to heal naturally. Over time, as penance for your Wrath. You may lessen your time through acts of service to the church, if you so choose."

Helsknight nodded.

"Do you need help walking?"

Helsknight blinked slowly, his sluggish, shocked mind slowly crawling to life.

"Helsknight," Blade said, putting a still-gauntleted hand against his face. The cold metal felt good against his feverish skin. "Are you hearing me?"

"I hear you," Helsknight said, ashamed of how weak and small his voice sounded. "I need help with my mail.'

"Maybe we should make sure you can walk first?"

"Every other knight walks into this room and back out again fine," Helsknight said, his pride slowly crawling to life in his chest. "I just... I just need some help."

Blade, as much as a man obscured by a full suit of armor could, looked relieved. He nodded, and after a few moments of coddling, they managed to get Helsknight on his feet and dressed again. He squared his shoulders and walked with purposeness down the hall, his vision only swimming a little. The spiteful little animal in him wanted to keep walking until he was home, and he almost did. But a priest ducked her head out the door of the room at the end of the hall, and fixed him up in a concerned stare, and Helsknight, tired in body and soul, followed her inside.

The little room held tables and chairs, and a counter brimming with freshly made breads and rolls. Sweet things, prepared in advance of confession for those who might've lost too much blood, or for those who needed something soft and warm to take the edge off their penance. Helsknight allowed himself to be guided to a seat. The priest who had pulled him in checked over the hasty bandages, let out a disapproving tsk! and began organizing some supplies. She was joined by two other priests who began quietly discussing the best way to go about his stitches. Someone put a slice of some freshly baked something-or-other in front of him, and Helsknight ate it with the mechanical necessity of someone who recognizes a chore that needs doing.

Months later, Helsknight and Tanguish sat at a fountain outside the First Church of Hels, their breakfasts in their laps. Helsknight ran a thumb self-consciously along the odd, thin, centipede-like scar that danced from the center of his palm down his forearm. Tanguish must have noticed, because he asked, "How did you get that one?"

Helsknight turned his wrist so Tanguish could get a better look. "Lost my temper at something."

Tanguish ran a gentle finger across the misshapen skin, his touch cool and soothing. "It looks like it hurt."

Helsknight shrugged. "Not as bad as you'd think. It hurt more when they took the stitches out. S'why it looks like that."

Tanguish yanked his hand away like the scar had come alive and bitten him. "Why didn't you just drink a health potion?"

Helsknight chose his words carefully. "I needed to remember it."

Tanguish grimaced and allowed, "You... are very scary when you lose your temper." He reached out a hand to run his fingers tentatively along the scar again, as though he could somehow heal the long-passed harm. "You've gotten a lot better though."

Helsknight shrugged.

They returned to their prospective breakfasts, Helsknight eating with much less enthusiasm than his companion. He wished Tanguish didn't have such a preference for baked goods and sweet foods. They reminded him too much of that long hallway, and that door at the end of it -- and how long it'd been since he last stood there and waited to meet his Saint. Helsknight resolved to visit again when he got the chance. Just as soon as he ordered his list of sins. He remembered when he fought the Demon, sighed, and quietly put Wrath in its place at the top of the list.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Instead of writing my finals, I wrote this. Based on this post from @chronicowboy

Maddie bolts out the door, Hen close behind, the Buckleys already on their way to inform the guests of the… delay, leaving Buck and Eddie standing there like lost NPCs. To be honest, Buck feels like one. His head is still pounding so much he can’t hold a rational thought for more than a moment. His movements are still sluggish, each gesture enough to make him feel like he’s back on that sinking cruise ship. Eddie scrubs his hands over his face and lets out a noise that’s half sigh, half groan. “We are never doing that again, right?” “Never,” Buck agrees. He looks at his best friend, really looks at him, for the first time since finding him in the empty hot tub. His suit is completely ruined. Stains and tears and wrinkles tell a story Buck only half remembers. Somewhere between karaoke and the fifth bottle of champagne, Eddie’s shirt got ripped to shreds. Why? Buck doesn’t know. He’d never complain, don’t get him wrong. The suit jacket only covers so much, leaving Eddie’s chest bare and enticing. But… The collar is the only remaining piece of fabric from the shirt. Buck can’t help but wonder if there’s some kind of irony, or deeper meaning behind it still being buttoned around Eddie's neck. Last night was the first night since they met that Eddie actually let loose. His smile and his entire being was so free and beautiful, even in the little moments Buck hardly recalls. And yet that collar remained through the whole night, keeping him captive. His captor? Himself. “C’mere,” Buck says, a little too soft, a little too fond. “What?” Eddie steps closer despite his confusion. Buck reaches up to unbutton the collar. His knuckles brush Eddie’s throat. He feels the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. Buck looks into his eyes as he unbuttons the fabric. Eddie’s pupils are blown wide, keeping Buck from looking away. He slowly pulls the collar from around his neck and folds it up before tucking it into the pocket of Eddie’s jacket. He smooths his hand over it, feeling the rapid thump of Eddie’s heart beneath his palm. “Buck,” Eddie whispers, still looking into his eyes. They’ve drifted closer in the short time they’ve been standing there. So close Eddie has to look up at him. Buck takes him in- his mussed hair, his wide eyes, his plush pink lips. Lips Buck knows he caught himself staring at most of the night. “Eds.” Buck trails his fingers down the lapel of his jacket. Echoing footsteps cause Buck to step back, probably more than a respectable distance away. He feels cold suddenly, his heart faltering in its too fast rhythm. Hen appears in the doorway, still looking a little pissed. “What’s holding you up? You lost him, you help find him!” Buck and Eddie share a look before following Hen.

[justaz]

lance who has always hidden his insecurities under grandeur and humor. a huge ego paired with an inflated sense of pride. he is someone who is confident and cocky, but he exaggerates it in response to the deep rooted belief that he is not enough, that he is ordinary at best, lackluster at worst. he grew up as the baby in a huge family which came with a lot of coddling, yes, but his achievements had been made time and time again which made them expectations rather than milestones. the first time he truly shone was when he got into the garrison, something no one in his family had done before, something to be celebrated. he worked his ass off at the garrison to be top of his class, to be a fighter pilot, to reach the stars - to be the first of his family to reach space. who could too that? no matter how long he spent studying or training, he still tested into the cargo pilot class. it wasn’t the worst but it wasn’t what he wanted. he fell short by a measly three points. it was infuriating.

lance worked his ass off even more. he wanted to be something, he wanted to be noticed, he wanted to be praised, he wanted to be celebrated. he never made it. there was one student that caught his eye though - keith kogane. a living, breathing legend. he tested at the top of their class. miles above the other students. completely untouchable. despite his reputation, his grand achievements, keith never cared. he was never in the library studying or spending his free time on the flight sims. he rarely made it to class on time. he didn’t care. yet he was the best of the best. iverson gave him a hard time but it was clear to everyone that even iverson admired him and his skill, his talent. even lance admired him. he wanted to be like him, he wanted to be him. he was rejoiced, he was celebrated, he was praised, he was admired and he didn’t even try. lance pushed harder and harder but only ended in burning himself out. he crumbled under the pressure while keith didn’t seem to notice it. lance loved him but also hated him. then he was gone. and lance was a fighter pilot. barely.

iverson, now with one less eye, loathed that. he gave lance scorn and belittlement, compared him to keith at every turn and went on and on about his failings, about how he’d never be keith, about how he didn’t deserve keith’s space in the class. lance hated iverson, lance hated keith, lance hated himself. he just had to try harder. he was more deserving of all of it than keith. he never cared, he didn’t want what he was blessed with. lance fought tooth and nail for it. he deserved it. he rose a bit in the fighter pilot class and kept fighting, iverson kept ridiculing and humiliating, keith’s name remained at the top of the boards. as the year passed, his name overtook name after name until he was below keith, three points behind. almost, almost, almost, almost…

then they were in space. kidnapped by giant, sentient, mechalions. fighting in an intergalactic war. unable to return home. the years of resentment lance held for keith came to surface in close quarters with the man and he relished in every challenge that he won and despised every challenge he lost. he worked his ass off to get better until he could rechallenge keith until he won. he wasn’t sure when their rivalry became tinged with friendship, but he didn’t hate it. he should’ve, but he didn’t. it was keith’s disregard for his own amazement that infuriated lance. he was gifted and never cared for it. he was everything lance wanted and it was like it meant nothing to him. like he would trade it all at the drop of a hat if he could. yet, keith was fun, in an odd way. awkward and funny, a little prickly around the edges but a soft, gooey marshmallow heart under it all. lance knew it. he saw keith tear up at a couple of cute babies of some species on some planet as they played.

then shiro went missing and keith was forced into the role of leader and he very clearly did not want it. again, lance felt a flicker of annoyance. the role of black paladin, the pilot of the black lion, that was something lance had wanted. not at the expense of shiro, not at the expense of anyone, but he could be leader. he could lead the paladins of voltron in the fight against the galran empire. he could be revered on every planet they freed from tyranny, his name would live on forever. no one would overshadow him. yet, now keith stood in the shadow of the black lion, his face pinched and his eyes dark. he had lost his brother twice now and was being forced into leadership, he was now the one to make all the decisions for the team of (mostly) teenagers against the empire that had terrorized the universe for over ten thousand years.

lance stomped on the flicker of annoyance and put it out as he strode forward and stood beside keith. he spoke lowly, gently. he wasn’t sure how, but the right words spilled forth. keith’s shoulders relaxed and his scowl eased to a faint frown. he stepped into his role as leader. he was still as impatient and impulsive, he was quick to anger and often blinded by it. lance was there for it all. he held keith back, became his patience and impulse control. he quelled his anger when he could and talked sense into him when keith was already fired up. in return, keith gave him trust and gave him power. to outsiders, it seemed like it always had since the birth of voltron - the black paladin, the leader, and the red paladin, the right hand. but in all actuality, it was more the black and red paladins, leaders of voltron. the final decision rested with keith, but he never made a choice without lance’s input. lance made the plans and keith approved of them. lance talked at the diplomatic meetings while keith put on a brave face and played nice for a few hours.

then shiro came back and keith stepped down. lance felt as if he had finally found his footing. lance and keith, leaders of voltron, best friends. and now keith was leaving. lance watched keith walk away as he supported hunk and his tears. lance retreated to his own room and found traces of keith in every nook and cranny. hell, the damn castle ship could be traced back to keith in lance’s mind. ever since he stepped foot in the garrison, everything was tied to keith - the school legend, top of the class, best fighter pilot in their generation, the crazy man breaking into a government facility to kidnap legend takashi shirogane, the conspiracy theorist with the odd sounds in the desert, finding the blue lion, ending up in space fighting a war, red paladin of voltron. it was all keith. yet he wasn’t here. lance loved him, but he also hated him. he wasn’t sure how many more times he’d end up feeling that same sentiment.

the team…drifted. hunk and pidge paired off while allura and shiro paired off leaving lance and coran. coran was a nice, funny, odd man that reminded lance of his father back home. coran’s crazy, kooky exterior melted away when it was just them two and lance felt the same happen with him. coran talked of altea before it all, his husband and their son. lance talked of home too, every detail he could remember from earth and his family. lance busied himself with training or helping coran around the castle. he tried with the rest of the team, but things were pretty tense and his loud, jovial nature wasn’t exactly welcome all things considered. he tried to be shiro’s second as he had been keith’s. he offered his input and his plans but they were tossed aside without a moments thought. he was belittled for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong when he tried to speak up at their meetings. he was not shiro’s second, he was keith’s piss poor replacement as he had been at the garrison. he quieted and kept to himself. he stuck to the walls with crossed arms or locked himself on the training deck for hours at a time. shiro was off, a but different but lance couldn’t put his finger on it. the way he looked at them all sometimes was eerie. his eyes were empty and void and unsettling. after being shouted at on the bridge during a meeting,

he really couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. he thought getting it out in the open would ease the worry off his shoulders and, if it didn’t, then whoever he spoke to could laugh off his worries to properly ease his mind, help him see sense. lance told coran. coran did not laugh. he did not brush off lance’s worries. he all but confirmed them. he said how he had found shiro’s behavior odd and the shouting really sent the point home. shiro before had never yelled, not like that (bar slav but that was understandable). the rest of the team also sought lance out to share their same opinions. lance took it all in stride despite the heavy dread settling over his shoulders. in agreement, the team trailed down to the bay and sat in front of the black lion. instead of the slow, patient meditation where they would ascend into the astral plane, it felt more like they were snatched and hauled up into it. they found shiro there, the real shiro, the dead shiro. they weren’t sure who was on the ship, but it wasn’t their leader. they all remained in the astral plane as they talked over a plan.

lotor considered their line of questioning and shared the witch’s experiments while he was there and gathered that if shiro was anything, he was most likely a clone. there were other options such as shapeshifter or droid disguised as shiro but both were easily disproven as if shiro were a shapeshifter, there would’ve been moments when he tripped up and either didn’t remember something or acted too different from the shiro they knew. if shiro were a droid disguised as shiro, well…their capabilities of such a thing were lacking. the droids the galran empire had were only good for fighting and even then they were pretty lackluster. the witch had an odd fascination with life and death so the chances of shiro being one of her experiments at recreating life were incredibly high.

lance didn’t trust lotor either but he knew they needed all the aid they could get so he bit his tongue and allowed lotor to remain in close cohorts with all of them. they staged a coup and overpowered the shiro on the ship. unable to kill him, they froze him in a pod and kept him locked in the floor of the infirmary. with the loss of her spy, haggar launched an attack on voltron. tens of hundreds of galran ships warped to their position but their appearance was quickly followed by hundreds of thousands of rebel ships and military ships from those in the coalition. the blade managed to send a few ships, though at lance’s poking and prodding, kolivan relayed that keith wouldn’t be there as he hd been out of a mission for the past couple of weeks and hadn’t returned yet. heavier dread settled over lance but he had no choice then to ignore it and fight with the rest of his team against the galran attack.

with a great sense of deja vu, lance found himself locked out of the red lion. he groaned and complained to him as they didn’t have time for this but red didn’t budge. lance spoke to coran through his comms that red wouldn’t let him in and the older man appeared in the bay at frightening speed. they talked it over and red allowed coran to enter and pilot him. as coran stepped into red’s maw, black let out an ear-shattering roar. the deja vu was never ending as lance found himself rushing toward black and taking a seat at the helm. the castle ship was put on autopilot, it kept its shield up as it fired at passing galran ships whilst the rest of the team flew around in their lions taking on ship after ship. as rebel and coalition ships began to fall, the team formed voltron and took out the ships with ease.

it was odd, finally being in charge. finally being recognized. being turned to for guidance with unwavering trust. it was something he had always dreamed of, something he envied keith for, something he truly didn’t want when he finally got it. how could they look to him? how could black choose him? he was just a boy from cuba, one out of a family of seven, twelve counting his sister in law, niece and nephew, and grandma and grandpa. he was a cargo pilot who had no business being in the fighter pilot class. he became a paladin by sheer luck, luck attributed to keith kogane. even now, as black paladin, he only received that position because shiro was out of commission and keith was on a mission for the blade. the moment keith returned, the lion would return to keith and lance would go back to being his second, ignored at best, yelled at at worst. as of now, he was keith’s stand in. he just had to make it until keith returned. problems arose practically ever minute and lance tried to imagine keith and how he would respond before making a decision. he’d stand still as he took in the information, pointer finger and thumb brushing together as he thought it over, and finally respond.

he checked practically every minute of every day for a response from keith or a change in status from kolivan, but neither ever came. keith was still on a mission. he had been for weeks. lance stood on shaky legs as he led the team. he hesitated and was indecisive. he froze up when they turned to him to make a decision. he was not a leader. he wasn’t who they were looking for. they needed keith. he needed keith. lance would spend his time in the bridge, a line ringing endlessly in hopes of keith finally picking up, as he looked over the battle plans and made tweaks and adjustments as he saw fit. allura joined him once and merely watched as he worked. she chuckled to herself suddenly and mentioned how with the clone as their leader, she had forgotten what it was like with keith as their leader. she had forgotten that lance was once their strategist, that he had been part of the duo that made all the decisions for the team.

coran also joined him after allura left. he let lance ramble aloud about the plans until he ran into an issue he couldn’t resolve quite yet. he stood still as he rubbed his thumb and pointer finger together. coran smiled and exhaled sharply. he said softly how he had not seen lance “like this” in quite some time. at lance’s questioning look, coran explained how lance had been so confident and sure of himself when he led with keith. under the clone’s leadership, lance had been shaken and wasn’t sure of himself anymore. the lance of the past few months was quiet and hesitant, unsure and unsteady, whilst the lance who led with keith was confident and self-assured. he made these decisions for the team and didn’t second guess himself once. yes, he thought over his plans from every angle to ensure the team was as safe as could be, but he never doubted himself. coran supposed it was keith’s unwavering faith, loyalty, and trust in lance. keith followed lance’s decisions just as much as the team followed keith’s.

lance watched coran leave after ruffling his hair and slowly turned back to the messy draft of a battle plan. lance’s gaze shifted over to his stilled hand where he had been rubbing his thumb and pointer together since running into the issue. he had been doing the same motion since becoming black paladin. it was oddly familiar. he swore he had seen…keith do it. it was keith’s unique tick that he did when stressed or emotional and trying to compose himself. lance had stolen it. allura and coran’s words echoed in his mind as he thought back to the short period of time with keith as black paladin. lance had felt like he finally found his footing there. he felt seen and heard and appreciated as he and keith led the team together. keith’s trust in his decisions, lance’s ability to match each of keith’s weaknesses to balance the team. here lance was now, leading the team all on his own, and he felt his own weaknesses exposed to the elements at the loss of his samurai.

well, the whole time he had been thinking what would keith do. he had been leading like he still had keith. perhaps that was the problem. he was leading like half of a whole rather than black paladin. lance looked up at the trilling line on the screen of the bridge. keith was on a mission. he was not on the ship. it was lance and his team. lance reached up and ended the ringing line. he had to lead like it. lance watched lotor closely for days but still couldn’t find any issue with him. weeks passed and things sailed smoother than before. lance still froze up in meetings and hesitated before making big decisions, but he stopped looking to his side for keith’s input. just as they fell into the new normal, keith returned. he flew into the castleship with a teleporting black and blue wolf, a tall galran woman that looked suspiciously like him, and (most peculiar) an altean. as well as a growth spurt that came with bulging muscles. not that that was important. what was important was that keith finally gave lance the reason why lotor was so hard to trust.

in the hours waiting for lotor and allura to return, lance lead keith to the infirmary to see the still clone body and retold everything that had happened while he was gone. keith’s face cycled through a few emotions but he quickly forced them back behind a mask of indifference and he nodded. the two of the returned to the bridge to wait for lotor to return to confront him. allura was heartbroken and enraged at the news and had taken to fighting lotor herself. outnumbered and surrounded, lotor surrendered and allowed himself to be taken to the dungeons of the castle. it was unnerving that the castle had dungeons and lance never knew despite his wanderings over the years, but he let it go. lotor was taken into the belly of the castle in chains while keith mourned his brother once more. maybe it was the news of her people that had survived only to be farmed for experiments that gave her the idea, but allura thought of a way to bring shiro, their shiro, back.

the clone’s body was taken down to the bay where allura pressed her hands to the black lion. she began to glow and she walked toward the limp body and placed her hands to it’s chest and head. the light around her body flowed down her arms and hands and into the body on the table. after a few seconds, the body took a breath and cracked open it’s eyes. lively eyes. loving, kind, and caring eyes. shiro’s eyes. shiro was put back in the infirmary as he got used to being alive again. coran stepped back from the red lion and turned the mantle back over to lance without complaint. lance did the same with the black lion to keith. instead of it feeling bitter, lance felt more at peace. being a nobody was horrible, unbearable, but being the somebody that everyone turned to for help and guidance was not very fun either. he was content to be second in command, right hand man, three points behind keith. only, keith took back the black lion but didn’t let lance fall back into the shadows. they fell back into the same dynamic they had before, two halves of one whole, two leaders that complimented each other, that met one another’s weakness with their strengths, that balanced each other, that made a damn good team.

[sunsetsandsunshine]

~ 𝚃𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 ~

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙸𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙱𝙱𝙸𝙽𝙽𝙶𝙶𝙶𝙶. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝙱&𝙹 𝚍𝚞𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝙼𝙽𝚃 𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚠— 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚞𝚘’𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚋𝚏𝚋𝚏𝚑𝚍𝚓𝚓 𝙸 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙿𝙱&𝙹 ✊🏾🥲…𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙…˚*• ̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊·̩̩̥͙

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 𝟸,𝟻𝟷𝟸

𝙻𝚎𝚎: 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚢 🐢🧡

𝙻𝚎𝚛: 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 🐢💜

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛. (𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝? 𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝 = 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 = 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜/𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙? 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝, 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝).

(𝙰/𝙽: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢! 𝚃*𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚔/𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝙳𝙽𝙸!!!)

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜: @shut-up-jo @someone1348 @itzsana-kiddingmenow

@saturnzskyzz @giggly-cloud @savemeafruitjuice

@rice-cake-teen10 @titters-and-tingles @tmntalways @my-l0v3r-v3rse

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝟷𝟶𝟷% 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 <𝟹

𝚃𝚆: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚝!!!

̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙻𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜…𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 /𝚛𝚎𝚏˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Alright. Hear Mikey out on this one, okay? Because in all honesty, this was originally a fire plan. A lit plan. Some might say that the fire from the plan was sooooo hot it was practically blazing due to the fact of how awesome it was.

…okay. Well perhaps maybe people don’t say that exact term but they definitely should!

Anyways, it started off as a pretty chill day for the orange banded teen. I mean, it was Summer for crying out loud! These next few months were supposed to be absolutely nothing but pure chillness.

If your Summer isn’t even a bit chill in the slightest, then you’re doing something totally wrong. 

Daylight savings was over, school was over and most importantly…homework was over! (Besides the fact that Mikey and his brother’s are forced to do dumb reading reports over the break because the school system dumb)…But other than that, Michelangelo was basically free! Free as a bird. 

And so, like any��sane studious kid that has been in High school for about a year…Mikey has been doing something he hasn’t done in a while since school started…

…Absolutely nothing.  

He’s been spending the past week or two playing Roblox on his IPad while eating Doritos mixed with Skittles.

Look, don’t even judge until you try, it’s actually pretty good!

But anyways, as Mikey was playing Flee the Facility, he randomly came to terms with the fact that he needed to steal some of his brother’s clothes for today…

Random thought, I know. 

The youngest has (and always will) politely take his brother’s clothes during the Summer— preferably hoodies and/or shirts. It’s basically a forced hand-me-down/Yard sale the youngest turtle always looks forward to. And today marked the 29th of June— 8 days from June 22nd. 

And if you’re unfamiliar, the 22nd of June marked the official end of Spring and official start of Summer! So the smallest turtle’s annual raid of his elder brother’s clothes was loooooong overdue. 

Last Summer, Mikey took Raph’s Detroit Become Human t-shirt, his WWE shirt, one of his polos and one of his The Walking Dead t-shirts (Raph had a TON). 

And the Summer before that, Mikey took Leo’s Squidward hoodie. And…yeah. That was basically it— the eldest was a pretty bland guy and there was really nothing worth taking from his wardrobe. 

So if you did your Math correctly, you would realize that this year it was Donnie’s turn. And so that’s what the youngest of the turtle teens was planning…

How the absolute hell could he take some of his immediate older brother’s clothes without taking ALL of them? 

Because believe it or not, the nerdy turtle of the group had a pretty good fashion taste and sense. His style was simple but not too bland or standout-ish. Donnie’s style was just a simple array of sweatshirts— a piece of clothing the smallest turtle could never EVER have too much of. 

But the tech-y turtle of the family definitely did. Just looking at his side of the shared bedroom, you could see sweatshirts and hoodies galore just scattered everywhere. 

The orange banded mutant looked through the sweatshirts and hoodies, trying to figure out which one he should now claim as his own.

A Sailor Moon hoodie? Too bright. 

An MHA sweatshirt? Too basic. 

An Attack on Titan hoodie? Too edgy. 

The youngest sighed in frustration, digging through his brother’s mountain of clothes before settling on a nice black hoodie with Gojo Satoru on it.

…what? Gojo Satoru was cool! Even though the orange banded turtle had only seen him in TikTok edits…those edit’s were pretty fire.

Just like his plan of taking his brother’s anime merch because he simply just could. 

The orange banded teen looked at himself in the mirror right next to Donnie’s tent, humming the popular yet overused tune that Gojo is associated with to himself, trying (and failing) to do the popular dance. 

“Ugh…how did Donnie do it again…?” The chocolate eyed teen inquired, attempting to do the dance one last time before lightly falling on his shell; the other sweatshirts and hoodies breaking his fall. 

“Dude…” A voice giggled behind him.

Mikey’s eyes widened at the sudden but familiar voice, glancing upwards to lock eyes with the one and only Donatello, peering down at him and smirking. 

“DONNIE!” Mikey shouted in surprise, getting up and whirling around so that he faced his immediate older brother as he tried to look as casual as possible, “Donatello! Dee! Don-bon…what’s…up…?” The youngest grimaced, sending awkward finger-guns as the hood to the hoodie fell down, completely covering his eyes due to how big it was on him. 

The elder snickered, putting a hand over his mouth as he tried to stifle them a little. “Oh shut up…” Mikey huffed, taking the hood off as the other turtle chuckled in amusement again, going to his younger brother and standing right next to him.

“My sweatshirt literally engulfs you.” The turtle that wielded glasses chuckled soflty which only caused the youngest to roll his eyes annoyed at the entire situation. “Shut. Up.” He pouted, crossing his arms as he glared at his older brother, “It looks good on me!”

“It swallows you…” The other said back. 

“I’LL SWALLOW YOU!” Mikey retorted, turning away from his brother angrily. 

The purple loving teen sighed fondly and laughed slightly at the automatic retort, raising a teasing brow at his younger brother, “Are you attempting at trying to look like me~?” 

The orange banded turtle blushed profusely, glaring at the other turtle’s question, “HELL NO.”

“Thehen why do you hahave the hoodie I wear literally everywhere? You know damn well Gojo is my go-to anime character of all time.”

Michelangelo grumbled, looking to the side of him as he swayed his arms at his sides. Okay…well, perhaps out of context it did seem like he was trying to look like Donnie. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

The only reason why the youngest “steals” clothes from his brother’s is because…well, he can and it’s easy. And it’s just…sorta comforting in a way. Not the stealing part…but…

Look— it’s dumb and confusing don’t think about it too much. 

The elder teen huffed out a small laugh, “Why did you choose my Gojo Satoru hoodie of all things, though?” 

“…I keep seeing him on TikTok and he’s the only anime character that hasn’t made me cry out of cringe in a way...” 

“Ooookay. Good for you, bud.” Donnie nodded, putting his hand out “Now give it here. Me and the TMLBANOT21stC are meeting later today to have a JJK meeting.”

The chocolate eyed turtle blinked, “Your going to…what…?” 

“My club stands for The Most Logical, Big-minded, Anime Nerds of the 21st century. Duh.” The honey brown eyed mutant said sassily, “Now give me back my hoodie or I’ll be late!” 

Mikey blinked once more, a small cheeky smile plastering on his face, “And what if I don’t want to?” 

“Michaelangelo—“ 

And with that, the smallest turtle ran out of the shared room, moving his legs as fast as he could that the other in the room just saw an orange and green blur sprint past him. 

“MIKEY!!!” Donnie howled angrily, running out of the room to catch up with him. The second youngest bumped in between the two eldest turtles, quickly apologizing to them as he ran after the youngest.

The leader in blue scratched his head confused, “Should we…?”

“Nah.” Raph commented. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

Donnie was internally groaning. If he couldn’t get his hoodie back from his brother in the next 10 minutes he would be late to his own club. 

Imagine that.

…Exactly! You can’t. 

The second youngest looked around the living room, trying to figure out just where his little brother was. In the last couple of years, the honey brown teen didn’t really mind the youngest taking some of his clothes (even if Donnie would’ve preferred him just normally asking).

But Donnie needed this hoodie. More than anything and one way or another he would get it. 

Suddenly…an idea popped into the geniuses brain, smirking widely as he leaned on the wall. He closed the door without stepping outside of the kitchen, still in the room to make it seem like he left. The youngest peeked from behind the couch, him and his brother making immediate eye contact. 

Ha. Got em. 

The anime loving turtle basically lunged at the smaller turtle, sitting on top of him as the other tried to squirm away. “I GOT YOU, YOU LITTLE TURD!” The purple cladded teen smirked triumphantly, crossing his arms and watching amusedly as his little brother tried to escape. 

“Just give me back my hoodie, man. You’re making it seem like I’m asking you for your liver.” 

“YOU DID ONCE!!!” 

“That was for a Bio experiment.” The elder corrected almost immediately, “But that’s not the point just— UGH! Give me my dang hoodie!!!” 

“NO!!!”

The purple banded turtle glared, uncrossing his arms as he wiggled his fingers in the air, “Wanna do this the hard way? Because we can do the hard way, little brother…”

The brown eyed mutant paled, shaking his head back and forth at the question. Well…this didn’t go exactly as planned.

Donnie just scoffed, his hands immediately going for the other’s underarms but Mikey put his arms down, sputtery giggles escaping his mouth as he did so. “P-Plehease! Deehee!”

“Don’t 'plehease Deehee' me! Give back me back my JJK hoodie!”

“BuHUT—“

The elder turtle lost his patience, effortlessly raising the other’s arms as he scribbled his free hand’s fingers all over his underarms. The smallest turtle squawked, falling into loud giggles. He kicked his legs underneath his older brother, “DOHOHON— NOHO!”

“Someone is sensitive here!” Donnie mused.

“STAHAP— I AHAM NAHAT!!”

“You’re not? Not what~? Ticklish~?” The anime loving turtle asked, his smiled widening as he saw how flustered his baby brother was getting. “STAHA— STAHA-! DEEHEE!” Mikey shrieked, “NOHO TEEHEEASING!”

The glasses wielding teen gasped dramatically, “No teasing? You take my hoodie and now you’re telling me what to do?” 

“NONONONO WAH— *squeal* WAHAHAIT!!!”

The tech whiz wasted no time prodding his thumbs on the youngest hips. The brown eyed teen squealed loudly, hugging his middles and just not even trying to stop Donnie’s hands at this point.

The last time he attempted to, his immediate older brother spent the next half an hour scribbling the orange banded teen’s palms…

That was hell in itself and Mikey was not trying to relive that again if he could help it.

“Awe…does this tiiiickle? Is this tickling you~? Maybe that’s cuz you’re reeeaally ticklish here…” 

“IHI— *squeal* QUIHIHIET!” Michelangelo demanded loudly. 

Donnie smiled at the weak retort, kneading the other’s hips harder, “What happened to all that smugness, hm? Where’d it all go, little guy~? Do I have you in a giggly puddle because your tickle tickle ticklish and I’m tickle tickle tickling you~?”

“STAHAHAP *squeal* SAHAHAYING *squeal* THAHAT, AHAHASHOLE!!!”

“Stop saying what~? Tickle? Ticklish—?”

The orange banded teen squealed loudly once more, accidentally cutting his brother off with his teasing. The glasses wielding teen couldn’t help but laugh softly at it, “Awe…look at my baby brother…” Donnie cooed. 

“NAHAHAHA!” The youngest threw his head back in loud laughter as Donnie now tickled the sides of his shell. Mikey arched his back, trying to buck his older brother off of him but Donnie held on easily, continuing to tickle him. 

“PLEHEASE! PLEHEHEASE!!!” 

“'Plehease'? Please what~?”

“JUHUST *squeal* NAHAT *hic* THE SHEHELL!” Mikey despretley cried, turning to his side as other small hiccups followed as the end of the hoodie went up a bit, revealing some of his plastron. 

The honey brown eyed turtle giggled at the perfectly played out action, “Oh…would you look at that~!” He mused, “Last chance to give me back my hoodie, bro.”

The smaller turtle’s eyes widened in realization, looking up at his brother from the corner of his eye, “Yohou *hic* wohohoudn’t…!”

“Oho wouldn’t I~?” Donnie grinned, gently holding Mikey’s waist and blowing multiple upon multiple raspberries on his stomach whilst scribbling his nails on his sides. “DAHAH— *squeal* DAHANNIE!” Mikey cried. 

“Jeez…your mega ticklish here, huh?”

“SHUHUT— GEHET— PLEHEHEASE!!!” The brown eyed teen rambled through his laughs, shaking his head. 

“Why— would— I???” The tech whiz mocked playfully, now blowing raspberries on his little brother’s neck and scribbling his fingers all over his stomach. “NAHAHAT THEHERE!! BROHOHO COHOME OHAHAN!!” The youngest squealed and squeaked. 

Donatello smirked, ceasing his 100% justified attack for a second, “You saying 'nahahat thehere' is genuinely so funny, Mikes. Like, I was going to tickle you here regardless but, hey! Thanks for confirming how badly it tickles for you.”

He resumed his tickling onslaught on his younger brother, the younger brother in question basically falling limp due to how hard he was laughing. The only body parts that were really fighting for his life right now were his legs, that still did not cease desperately kicking the floor. 

The purple banded turtle now started lightly giving ticklish nibbles on his younger brother’s neck as his light scribbles on the smaller turtle’s sides became quick and fast squeezes. “Om nom nom! Hm…you taste like…giggles! And ticklishness~! My favorite food combo!” The elder teased. 

“DEEHEE DEEHEEHEE?! WHAT DOHOES THAHAT EHEHEVEN MEEHEEAN?!?!” Mikey cried desperately, his voice sounding like a tea kettle brewing because of how squeaky and high pitched it was.

“Awe…you haven’t used that nickname for me in ages~! It must tickle that bad, huh?” The glasses wielding turtle cooed.

“IHI *hic* CAHAN’T!”

“You can’t~? Can’t what~?”

“IHIT— *hic* NAHAHAH!” Mikey silently wheezed, throwing his head back as he shut his eyes tight. “Is someone giving me the silent treatment?” Donnie snickered, “Pfft— get it? Cuz you’re laughing silently~? Eh? Eh?”

Okay, even if Mikey was the comedian of the family, he would’ve admitted that was a pretty solid joke if he wasn’t getting slaughtered right now. “FIHINE FIHINE *hic* HAHAVE *hic* IHIHIT BAHACK!!! TAHAKE IHIHIT!! PLEHEASE *hic* JUHUST STAHAHAP *squeal* I’M GOHONNA *squeal* DIHIHIE!!!”

“That would be kiiiiiiiinda funny making your grave honestly.” The tech loving teen smugly said, “Michelangelo Hamato. Reason of death? Being too freaking ticklish.”

“DEEHEEHEE!!!” The youngest cried. Donnie stopped, getting up and laying next to his brother, wrapping him in a side hug which the smaller turtle immediately melted to. “May I plehease hahave my hoodie back?” 

“Ihi juhust sahaid yehehehes!” The orange banded teen groaned, literally throwing the hoodie at his immediate older brother. The anime loving teen smiled, putting on the hoodie as he grinned in triumph. “For real real. I feel like new...” He said to himself proudly. 

And if the youngest knew his brother (which he did), that was probably a quote that that Gojo fellow has said. 

“Oh! And by the way, little bro. My club doesn’t have a meet up today. It’s tomorrow.” Donnie snickered, walking away and leaving Mikey left in complete and utter awe. 

That freaking asshole.

Okay, well now Mikey’s definitely taking that MHA hoodie next year.

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝙵𝙸𝙽˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙ 

(𝙿.𝚂.: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!!!)

[ender1821]

(back on my shiny duo brainrotting time, featuring Secret Life 9AM Pearl!)

— — —

It was a beautiful day out. Autumn had arrived in its wonderful grace, bringing nice but not too breezy afternoons and picturesque views of the forests that stretched beyond the world’s borders. The scenery was simply too breathtaking to not—

“What are you doing?”

Pearl perks up from the sketch pad she had on her lap, discovering that Gem had approached her.

“Just a lil’ doodling.” Pearl answers, using the pencil in her hand to point to her work-in-progress.

Gem quirks an eyebrow up at the reply, trying to have a glance at the picture before questioning her friend more. “Really? Right here?”

Pearl looks around. Well, she couldn’t really see what’s wrong with having a break in front of her mound, unless Gem was referring to the whole…game situation. In that case, she supposes it’s a fair query.

“Inspiration waits for no man, GeminiTay!” Pearl puffs out her chest, as though her declaration was meant for more than just Gem, but for the whole world.

Unfazed by Pearl’s theatrics, Gem sighs, “I knew I should’ve stopped Jimmy from calling you Shakespeare.”

With that, any attempt Pearl made at refocusing on her drawing were thrown out the window, and she took Gem’s words as a challenge.

“Why, doth thee not hold the same enthusiasm for the arts as I?” Pearl set aside her pencil, then mimicked holding a skull in her palm, preparing to monologue to thin air if Gem doesn’t stop her.

“Weirdo.” Gem giggles at the grand gestures Pearl made.

“Oh, you love it.” Pearl waves off the remark without a thought. It never gets old, and Pearl’s sure that Gem must’ve called her that a hundred times by now.

Just as Pearl expected, Gem lets out another fond sigh before taking a seat next to Pearl. Out of the corner of her eye, Pearl catches Gem trying to hide a smile.

Pearl returns to working on her sketch soon after, pausing for a second when she feels a weight press onto her shoulder. Gem was leaning on her to get a better view of the sketch pad, and as she shuffled closer, the unmistakable scent of pumpkins and flowers wafted into the air. Pearl makes a mental note to add more orange shades to the final picture.

The sketch at the moment is of the fields of sunflowers scattered around the grass fields of where the Mounders chose to set up camp at. Nothing too out of the ordinary, which is exactly what Pearl needs after days of chaos, all in the hopes of completing secret tasks.

“It looks pretty.” Gem breathes out after a brief lapse of silence between the two.

“Aw, thank you!” Pearl cranes her neck slightly to look at Gem. It doesn’t take long before she snorts and captures Gem’s attention, wondering what Pearl found worthy of laughing at.

Pearl points to the sunflowers. “They match your eyes.”

Gem pushes herself off of Pearl with an offended scrunch of her eyebrows. Her hand hovers dangerously close to the diamond sword she kept sheathed beside her waist. “Remind me again, can yellows kill greens? Because I’m really tempted to right now.”

There’s an amused flicker in Pearl’s face, and she clutches her chest with a horribly faked expression of terror. “Ooh no, am I being threatened by the great GeminiSlay?”

“Dork.” Gem huffs and rolls her eyes, moving to rest her arms on the ground below instead.

Pearl replies with a toothy grin.

[sprog-writes]

Soulmates AU but it's like this:

Just like in the real world, the idea of soulmates is just a myth. A story. A part of culture's folklore, but generally regarded to be some kind of romantic thing that's not actually real.

But after Simon gets rescued from the desert, after he wakes up in that coffin, after that brush with death, he starts seeing red threads connect people by their fingers.

He can touch them, sometimes, if he focuses enough. He thinks he's going crazy for a while. Having some kind of hallucinations.

So he does some research, he learns about the strings, and at first it does nothing to reassure him he's not going crazy. But then he finds a forum, a gruochat, something like that, with people recounting their own experiences with it. All with the same common denominator: they died, for a bit. And they didn't stay dead.

He doesn't visit the forum again after that. He still thinks it's bullshit. His eyes don't linger when he sees how a really entangled red line connects Price and Nik. He doesn't stare when he notices two practically invisible circles wrapped around two recruits pinkies, holding each other's fingers while they talk and they laugh.

And he avoids looking at his own hands like the plague. He tells himself he doesn't care. He tells himself it's not important. Not even when the other end of that thread is closer than he'd ever imagined. Not even when the hand it's connected to hits his shoulder.

He does cave, after a while. He spends some time in that forum. It's the only thing he can do not to actually go insane when it feels like his hand is being constantly pulled towards his Sergeant and him with it. Those people... At least they understand. There's a woman who was resucitated after a heart attack. She was declared dead for 2 minutes. When she woke up she thought the strings were because of something wrong with her eyes. When she went online, she couldn't help but stare and agonize about how the father of her children wasn't connected to her. They loved each other, but the universe didn't deem that enough, it seemed. It ended up ruining her marriage.

Some of the people there hated the string, just like her. Predestination doesn't match with everyone.

There's those that are hopeless romantics, who see this as the best thing to happen to them. That pass their days trying to follow the line.

Some others saw their "soulmates" as just their perfect match, but still believed you needed to put in the work to have a relationship.

Ghost doesn't know where he stands.

The more time he spends with Johnny, though, the more he understands how perfect he is for him. He's certainly disappointing some of the people in the forum, proving the universe, Destiny, whoever is responsible for it, right. But he can't help it, when everything that comes out of his Sargeant's mouth makes his eyes crinkle, when every quip and jab is met with equal responses, when seeing those blue eyes light up when he enters a room makes him want to be Simon again.

Price notices. In all the years he came back, Ghost has never been as obviously bothered by the strings as much as he is now. Not since he first thought they were hallucinations.

So, when he finds himself in the Captain's office, he expects some kind of reprimand. A well meaning question about his health.

Instead, he's met with, "Congratulations."

He blinks. "Pardon me?"

"Soap's a good lad. He's got his flaws, but who doesn't?" Price goes to light the cigar he'd been holding when Ghost walked in.

"... I don't follow, sir." He says, even though he knows exactly what Price is implying. He wants the Captain to stop pussyfooting and say it.

Price takes a drag of his cigar and blows the smoke out in a way that doesn't directly hit Ghost, even though it doesn't bother him anymore. "I don't care if you're dating or just fucking or what have you, Simon." He looks him in the eyes when he says his name. It leaves Ghost feeling prickly and oddly vulnerable. "But... You seem happier, lately."

"Fraternization -" the weak excuse he had started to pull out by instinct was interrupted by Price's laugh.

"Son, I couldn't give a single fuck. Look what we're doing here! Look at the people involved. No one cares as long as we get the job done." He chuckles again. And Ghost wants to tell him. He wants to explain about the threads, he wants to ask about Nik, he wants to spill all he feels for his- for Soap. Wants to go to his room, pull him out, kiss him in front of everyone, and intertwine their pinkies just like those rookies were, so that their fingers are so close that the string is barely visible.

But he doesn't. Instead, "There's nothing going on, sir," he tells Price, like a coward.

[more-better-words]

Had T'Pol on my mind.

(References events in 'The Forgotten' and 'E²')

‘Vulcans don't lie’, was, in itself, a lie.

There was a sort of perverse humor in that, though Vulcans weren’t supposed to find things amusing, either – yet another of the misconceptions about themselves they had allowed others to continue believing. Nuance so often seemed beyond the understanding of more emotionally volatile species that logic had dictated it was fruitless to attempt to correct them. If their interactions with Vulcans led them to believe that Vulcans were emotionless, humorless, and incapable of falsehood, so be it. At least that was how T’Pol had always understood it. But her understanding had changed a great deal in three years.

She sat in the floor of her quarters, and wrestled with the truth.

“I came because I’m worried about you.”

Trip had just been here, entering under false pretenses, but only for a moment. Truth seemed to come easier to him, or perhaps it simply seemed so, because he wore his feelings so close to the skin.

“I envy you Vulcans.”

He shouldn't.

He had come because her absence had been noted, because sequestering herself in her quarters and eating alone had not passed his notice. And he wasn’t angry with her for it – he was concerned for her well-being, offering his friendship if she required it.

How dare he.

She was angry, she realized.

What an unpleasant, but useful emotion.

But also uncharitable. His human anger kindled and quenched like a candle flame. He couldn’t understand. Or maybe he could, and she couldn’t bring herself to give him the chance. Because then the other emotions – the guilt and the envy, and the other that she dared not look at head on – then they would be real. Then she would have to face them.

She didn’t have the vocabulary for this, not with him. How could she possibly explain it to him without admitting its full truth to herself?

“She was my baby sister!”

They had stood together in the ruined corridor, and he had wept, tears streaking his face like blood from a wound, pouring out the pain he had tried to hold at arm's length. That was no fit place for it, not for him. He had wept, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself - she'd clasped his shoulder, and he had clutched her hand like a man drowning, like the contact was necessary as oxygen, looking at her with anguish and gratitude in his eyes.

They had had sex here in her quarters, not two meters from where she sat. He had thought that was the reason she had been avoiding his presence. But the truth was, the whole of that experience – from beginning to end - had been less intimate than that moment of grief, and his hands holding hers.

That was the reason she hid. Because when faced with his pain, her instinct had been to touch, to feel, to share. Some part of her that even briefly considered that she should put her arms around him, and hold his body to hers, until, at some point, the hurt might be lessened. When would that be?

As long as it took.

No.

No, she could not do that. Because then she would have to look directly at it. Then it would be real.

So she had lied to him. She had met his honesty with its opposite and sent him on his way. “I’m fine,” she’d told him, and he hadn’t believed her. There was no reason he should. That had likely been the least believable utterance to ever leave her mouth. But he’d gone anyway. And some part of her was very sorry that he had.

Don’t take me at my word, she thought. I’m not telling the truth.

But Vulcans don’t lie.

Oh, but they do.

[theflyingfeeling]

hello if you thought that this stupid band going on a stupid devastating world-crushing well-deserved hiatus would stop me from writing the terrible tragic miserable galaxy-brain Olli/Allu infidelity AU... lol think again <3

this one is sort of an independent sequel to this ficlet and takes place after The Decision™ 🖤

~

When Aleksi got back from the Hilltop Forest cottage, the first thing he did was get out his drum set. 

It was dusty from having been untouched for months (or for years? Aleksi wasn’t sure anymore) and he suffered through multiple coughing fits while assembling it, but at last everything was in place. He spent another moment giving the cymbals a final polishing, a hint of a grin on his lips as he imagined Tommi’s voice scolding him for handling them so carelessly, then he sat on the stool that squeaked from the first touch since– yes, Aleksi still couldn’t remember since when exactly. Come to think of it, now that he was seated, alone in his studio, he tried and failed recalling the last time he had had time to just sit. 

So he sat. He sat, until voices started echoing in his head. They were the voices of his bandmates, of their management team from Century Media. Of Joonas crying silently in the woodshed. Of her saying hi and how was the meeting before Aleksi had rushed to the studio to avoid having to say out loud what they had agreed on at the cottage. 

Of Olli’s whisper by his ear, ordering him to stay quiet. 

When the voices got too loud, he started playing. 

And once he had started, he played for an entire week. 

He played, until the bang of the drums muted all these voices. He played to mute the suffocating silence behind all that noise. He played until it became almost too dark to see in the studio, with the curtains drawn and the midnight sun covered by a thick veil of clouds, so he lit one of his scented candles and resumed playing. He played and played and played, from breakfast until sunset, skipping dinners and ignoring text messages from upstairs, asking him to please come to bed already, and when he stopped at last, when he could no longer hear a single thought swirling in his head, he was left in silence, his hands aching and trembling, his breathing coming in short puffs. 

Something wet was spread on his cheeks. Sweat, he decided, and dried them off with the back of his palm. 

Then he set the drumsticks aside, took out his phone and texted Olli. 

I miss you already. 

The second he had sent it, he wanted to unsend it, because fuck if it didn’t sound ridiculous and desperate – both of which he was, of course, but he didn’t need Olli to know that. 

(As if Olli didn’t already, from the way Aleksi had begged for him to let him cum the last time they had been together.)

It was too late, though, because the second after the regret had hit him, the message was marked ‘seen’. Aleksi couldn’t pretend to be surprised, because that’s what he had gotten used to when texting with Olli. Sometimes he felt as if Olli was already typing his reply or calling him when Aleksi had barely lifted his thumb off the ‘send’ button. That was why it felt odd to see Olli was viewing his message but not writing back to him or to not feel the phone in his hand vibrate from an incoming call. 

No matter how hard he stared at the screen, there seemed to be no reaction from Olli. It was such a strange feeling, one that scared him to the depths of his soul. 

Is this what it’s going to be like from then on? Him in Oulu living his idyllic northern life in his idyllic northern home with her, and me down here in my desolate studio, missing him so much that I want to scream and rip my hair off? 

Suddenly it was getting too loud again in Aleksi’s head, so he grabbed the drumsticks and was all but ready to bang his longing away, right until he’d feel numb, and not just in his hands. He never got around to it, though; if he had started playing a second earlier, he wouldn’t have heard the quiet knock on the door interrupting his intentions. 

Which was an odd thing to hear in the first place, because no one ever knocked on his door. 

Joel never knocked, because he always just sent Aleksi a text informing him he had arrived and Aleksi would find him standing awkwardly behind his studio door. Niko never knocked, as he just stormed right in the studio to play Aleksi his new song ideas, not noticing (or caring) what he was interrupting, even if it was Aleksi about to slide his hand down his pants in a delusional daydream about a mutual friend of theirs. Joonas never knocked either; Aleksi usually learnt of his arrival from upstairs where he’d be playing with Rilla before coming down to greet Aleksi. 

She never knocked, because she never came to the studio. It was the one place that was his, only his in the house, from the walls he had painted himself, to the wobbly Ikea shelves he had assembled alone at two in the morning with a great deal of swearing and maybe even tears – although he wouldn’t admit it – to the shabby couch he had gotten from his mother when she had moved houses, to the polaroids that kept him company by his computer when he worked and which could have him travel back in time and space in the blink of an eye, to memories he would be treasuring until the very end of everything. 

(All of them had Olli as the main character.) 

And, well, Rilla never knocked, because she was just a little dog with no hands, so Aleksi was baffled as to who would be behind his studio door, at almost midnight on a Tuesday. During the four steps it took him to reach the door, Aleksi’s guesses on who he’d reveal when opening it ranged from an annoyed neighbour complaining about the noise, to the studio ghost his Twitch viewers kept joking about, asking to be let back in after having sneaked out when Aleksi had gone upstairs for some coffee, and somehow all of that seemed to make much more sense than what he did find behind the door.

He had not expected to find a familiar mop of curls and a pair of sad, grey eyes staring straight into his. 

“Hey,” Olli said. 

“Huh,” Aleksi replied, which was an accurate expression of how he was feeling. 

“I’m just… here are your shorts.” Olli was handing him a bundle of black fabric. 

“Huh,” Aleksi repeated, still bewildered about the latest turn of events. He looked at the alleged shorts in Olli’s hand, then at Olli, and again at the shorts. “You… did you come from Oulu just to give me these?” 

“Uhhh. Yeah.” Olli looked almost embarrassed now, his gaze having fallen to the garment he was holding, his chin lowered closer to his chest. 

“But… We’re gonna see each other next week. You could have given them to me at Provinssi.” 

As if there was something in Olli’s eye, he blinked rapidly while reaching towards Aleksi until he took the shorts from Olli’s hand. 

“I thought you’d maybe need them before that. They’ve promised a heatwave after midsummer.” 

Aleksi felt the worn fabric. It smelled different, of an unfamiliar conditioner. He wanted the garment out of his hands, but he didn’t want to seem rude; Olli had travelled all this way, seemingly to just give Aleksi back his stupid shorts, the ones he had seen Olli pack in his backpack (by accident or on purpose, Aleksi could only guess) the morning after they had made love for the last time and had said nothing of it (out of courtesy or on some twisted, selfish whim of his mind, Aleksi wasn’t sure). 

“Well. Thanks,” he said, and tried his best to sound grateful. Perhaps, if Olli had stolen a piece of his heart and taken it to Oulu with him, it was only fair that he at least returned his shorts. 

“Well,” Olli’s eyes wandered somewhere past Aleksi, now that he no longer had anything his hands to fix his eyes on, “guess I’ll get back, then.” 

“No,” Aleksi heard himself say, way before his useless brain could follow. “Don’t go.” 

Aleksi searched for Olli’s gaze, but when he finally found it, he regretted it immediately, for Olli’s eyes had welled with tears and his bottom lip was quivering. 

“Don’t go,” Aleksi echoed himself. By then he was prepared to repeat it over and over, would have gotten on his knees if that was what it would have taken to make Olli stay, now that he was there in front of him again, for him to touch and hold if Olli only would let him. 

Like he had, so many times before. 

Even though he maybe shouldn’t have, for both their sake.

(Aleksi was terrified he might not, ever again.) 

Olli stepped inside, the tips of their shoes touching. The sorrow in Olli’s eyes was going to drown Aleksi if he kept staring into it for too long, yet he couldn’t force himself to look anywhere else except into the depths of grey and blue. 

How could he ever? Whenever he looked into Olli’s eyes, he felt loved like he had never before. He felt safe, even when the world around him was changing and scared him to the bone. 

“I miss you already too,” Olli whispered. His voice was just as full of melancholy as his eyes. “Every day. Every second.” 

That was the reply Aleksi had been left hanging without just a moment earlier. That was the reassurance Aleksi needed to toss the shorts in his hands aside and pull Olli in, their hips and chests and lips crashing together. 

The heaviness inside Aleksi, the one he had tried to suffocate, gave room to hunger and yearning, to lust and urgency as they stumbled towards the couch, tangled in each other like vines. Olli let out small, soft whines with every kiss, as if he was in pain, and perhaps he was, although Aleksi hoped it was the kind of pain he himself was experiencing: pain of not having Olli close enough even though he was right there, in his arms, skin on bare skin once their shirts had flown off; pain of wanting someone you could not have, or rather, someone you did have but could not keep. 

He could never keep Olli, not the way he wanted to, not for as long as he needed to. Keeping him forever was out of question, and it was naive to even wish for it, but would even that have been enough? Keeping him for one more night was nothing like forever, but it was more than never at all, was it not?

Maybe one more night was their forever. 

Olli’s face was sombre, with his eyebrows straight lines and his lips only just parted, when Aleksi took off the rest of his clothes, never taking his eyes off Olli who lay on his back. Their eye contact was broken when Aleksi touched his lips on Olli’s exposed stomach and Olli closed his eyes, sighing out loud his satisfaction. The sighs grew louder the closer Aleksi got to Olli’s cock, so that when he finally took it in between his lips, Olli was full-on moaning – dangerously loud, but Aleksi had no intention to silence him. Olli moaning out of pleasure was the most beautiful sound Aleksi had ever heard, and if he was the cause of it, he would always do his everything to keep Olli going. 

Olli was perfect under his touch. Olli was perfect inside his mouth. Olli was perfect in all the ways Aleksi could imagine; so perfect and gorgeous and sexy that Aleksi could have come just from sucking him off, just from making Olli feel good, which he had had done, in fact, many times before, but tonight he was feeling a little more selfish. He could have rubbed himself off against the couch cushions while having Olli flood his mouth with his hot cum, but the heaviness that threatened to return to his chest had other ideas. 

He expected Olli to object when he gave the tip of Olli’s erection one last kiss before sitting up, but the man only looked up at him in silence with hooded, darkened eyes. Without a word exchanged, Olli spread his thighs as Aleksi positioned himself in between them and guided his own throbbing cock to Olli’s rim. Then Aleksi glanced at Olli, to wordlessly ask if he needed preparation, but instead of nodding or showing any hesitation, Olli took Aleksi by the back of his head and brought him in for another kiss. 

They kissed until Aleksi slid inside Olli, as slowly as he could so as to not hurt him without driving himself crazy with want. They kissed until the throbbing of Aleksi’s cock became unbearable and Olli urged him to do something about it with a roll of his hips, because of course Olli noticed when Aleksi was losing it. They kissed until Aleksi began moving, in and out of Olli, tears rising into both their eyes with every deep thrust. They kissed until Aleksi was fully fucking into Olli, no longer able to hold himself back. They kissed and kissed and kissed, soft and rough at the same time, loving and furious, blissful and heartbroken, until Aleksi felt Olli tighten around him and cry into his mouth, until Aleksi filled Olli with his seed and kept on rocking his hips until he was spent, until there was nothing left of him except what there’d always be left of him, even when he was too exhausted or fucked up to feel anything else: 

his love for Olli. His bottomless, hopeless, good-for-nothing love for Olli, which he would soon have nowhere to put, nowhere to waste on, nowhere to keep it safe until–

Until what? Until the stars would align and everything keeping them apart from each other would magically disappear with the northern wind? Until Olli would abandon his perfect life in Oulu and run back to him?

It was foolish, Aleksi knew, but it was his only hope. It was all he had left. 

Besides, is that not exactly what Olli had done tonight? Perhaps it wasn’t as foolish after all, Aleksi thought as they lay naked on his studio couch. There was still no room for words, despite Aleksi’s insufferable need to tell Olli how much he needed him and how much he was going to miss him, even if Olli wasn’t exactly going anywhere from his life. He wasn’t going anywhere, except for his home in Oulu, but somehow, suddenly, Oulu seemed farther than it had ever been. 

And Aleksi was scared it would only move farther away in time. 

Slowly, drifting them apart. 

There was no room for words, but there were two that Aleksi still couldn’t keep inside his mouth. 

“Don’t go.” 

Olli traced Aleksi’s arm with his fingertips. Aleksi wondered how long it would take for them to touch a bass again after Christmas. 

Or him, after this night. 

Still, Aleksi found great comfort in the touch and buried his head against Olli’s neck. The kiss he then felt on his forehead would have been enough of an answer already, but he didn’t mind hearing Olli’s words either. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[lilac-hecox]

hi i would love an ianthony fic where one of them is sick and the other is caring for them?? Couldn't stop thinking about this since Anthony said he would "nurse ian back to health" back when they got covid lol

Congrats on 500 followers btw!!!

Ian/Anthony - Ianthony - Sick

--

“You suck. You did this to me,” Ian complains.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, pressing the back of his hand to Ian’s sweaty forehead, “I think you have a fever.”

“I have covid because a certain someone gave it to me.”

Anthony withdraws his hand and looks down at Ian. The two of them are sharing a bed, Ian under the covers and Anthony on top, a blanket wound over his shoulders. The both of them are sick as dogs, and to be fair, Ian isn’t wrong. It is Anthony’s fault.

He ignores Ian’s bitching and picks up his phone, checking the alarm he has set.

“We can’t have medicine again for an hour still.”

Ian groans and flips on his side so he’s facing away from Anthony. He coughs, the sound of a bark in his throat, and Anthony curls up against Ian, pressing his front to Ian’s back.

“You’re lucky I’m cold right now,” Ian mumbles.

Anthony squeezes gently around Ian’s middle.

“I’ll keep you warm. You want soup or something?”

“You’re going to make soup?”

“I was thinking I’d get it delivered,” Anthony says, setting his chin over Ian’s shoulder, “I don’t want to make you even sicker with my cooking.”

Ian laughs, the sound rumbling through Ian’s body and into Anthony’s.

“I’m sorry for traveling to Prague and getting covid and then giving it to you,” Anthony says.

Ian turns in Anthony’s hold, so they are face to face.

“It could be worse. At least we’re suffering together. This would suck so much more if I was trapped in my house alone and sick as fuck.”

Anthony runs a hand through Ian’s hair, brushing it away from his damp forehead.

“When we’re better I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah?” Ian asks with a smile, “How?”

“Um…all the blowjobs you can handle?”

Ian laughs and then coughs into his elbow to keep from coughing all over Anthony’s face.

Anthony rubs Ian’s back. He also doesn’t feel well but if he focuses his energy on caring for Ian, it’s easier to forget his own illness wreaking havoc on his body.

“How about this? I’ll order dinner to be delivered. We can lay here and rest until it gets here and then take our meds and eat a little something?”

Ian nods, his eyes already slipping closed.

“Sound perfect to be honest.”

Anthony fishes out his phone and begins setting up an order for their usual favorites and he leans in and presses a sweet kiss to Ian’s cheek.

[someforeignband]

It was always strange, sort of like the world was cracking open again, like all that they’d nearly died for had been for nothing. It was like the ground was crumbling under his feet, like the goddamned sky was falling. His heart thudded away in his chest, painfully hammering, clenching and releasing, clawing at the inside of his rib cage, like it was trying to crawl out of his body.

It was strange, and sort of beautiful, like one of those paintings in a museum that you look at. The swirls of paint are made even more beautiful on account of the fact that you find out the guy who painted it killed himself. And it’s sort of funny, the way that works, the way the art reads like some kind of magnificent headstone, and he figures that he wouldn’t even know what those kinds of paintings were like, if it weren’t for Steve.

His Steve.

The Steve that was calm under pressure, while bleeding himself, who would’ve given his life if it came down to it. The Steve that dragged his half-devoured, nearly-dead corpse out of the gate, who jammed his fists into a shuddering earth and screamed fierce curses at the blood-red sky. The same Steve that returned tears with a sarcastic, utterly bitchy comment, who’d never hesitate to send you one of those wide smiles that made you forget everything.

The Steve that stared death in the face and laughed.

It’s beautiful and tragic, like when the world split open and almost swallowed Eddie with it. And he could stop the world with the way he feels in that moment, he could call himself Atlas, could muster the strength of a titan, with the way he feels like he could cradle the earth if it could make it stop.

But now they’re here, at the edge of the end of the world, surrounded by useless things, just boxes and boxes of nothing, and Steve is crying.

When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. It’s like he’s dying all over again, watching his boy sit in a pile of his own objects, a binder full of baseball cards to his left, multiple pairs of swim trunks spilling out from under his bed, dozens of pairs of unworn sneakers laying near the closet door. He’s sitting on a box of something and clutching a pearl necklace in his right fist, there’s pages upon pages of notebook paper in piles at his feet, and tears are streaming down his face.

When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. And in that moment, Eddie had never felt more like a damned god, cast to live in the wretched depths of hell for eternity. Like he was Hades, like Steve was his Persephone, damned to weep at his feet, cast out by his loved ones to live miserably within the confines of a future they’d created together.

When Steve cried like this, Eddie wondered if he’d been meant to die that night, if maybe the chasm in Hawkins would’ve sealed itself back over at his offering, if he hadn’t been so lucky. When Steve tried to tuck himself away, tried to lock himself in his room, it was like a part of Eddie died anyway, in that fucking place, where the sky shone red as the blood inside of Eddie’s flesh.

“Steve, honey,” Eddie sobers. “You’ve gotta take a deep breath, sweets.”

Steve throws the pearls to his right weakly, they hit the wall with an unsatisfying crack. He sobs harder, coughing, choking on his own emotion, head down. He won’t look at Eddie.

“Can I come sit with you, baby?” Eddie asks, staying at his perch along the wall.

Steve had said he needed to do this alone. Eddie was inclined to let him, inclined to stay downstairs and mind his own business, but then he heard the sobbing and-

“No!” Steve shouts. “I-I told you to stay downstairs god-goddamn it, Eddie.”

And yeah, a part of Eddie died with Steve that night anyway.

[sashaforthewin]

"What the hell are you listening to?" Eddie asked.

Steve looked up from the record player where he had just changed albums. He held up the cover for Eddie to see.

"GTR. Bet you thought I never listened to any good music."

"I still think you don't listen to any good music."

Steve put the album down and glared.

"Whatever, man, I bet you GTR is going to still be famous in 20 years and nobody will know who Dio or Metallica are," Steve said. 

"So confident! Okay, I'll take your bet. If I win, we get married."

Steve did a double take. Had his curiosity and interest in Eddie been too obvious? Or was Eddie actually interested like Robin claims he is?

He flounders for a brief moment and then settles on, "do you think we would even be able to get married in 20 years?"

"I dunno, maybe. How about I bet you that in 20 years, nobody knows who GTR is and that we can get gay married."

Steve shrugged, unable to hide his smile. “Sure, bet is on.”

[dd-wyd]

Don't touch anything

I'll make sure that you're nice and warm. Just don't die on me, boy!

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

Harringrove camp counselors x werewolf au anyone?

Camp starts in a few days, Billy is getting ready for the shift and is thus super grumpy and practically starving. Steve is the only thing that stands between him and doom and destruction.

-

Tomorrow night is the full moon.

Billy's been on a short fuse all morning. Snapped at Jonathan and Keith and anyone else who so much as looked his way.

The only time he's somewhat calmed down all day is when he sat down to eat a little while ago. Of course, he plowed through his meal, and looked mildly upset enough afterwards for Steve to slide his tray over. Billy fixed him with grateful, almost teary eyes before he tucked his fork into the mashed potatoes.

Steve feels bad that he can't offer the usual treatment. Can't have Billy bundled up on the sofa with steak and French fries sitting in front of him at every meal.

The best he can do out here is make sure the tank is full of something, even if it can't be purely protein.

That, and he came absolutely loaded with jerky and Slim Jim's.

By the time mid afternoon rolls around, Billy is sluggish. Sitting by the lake in a lounge chair, umpteenth meat stick in his hand, stomach glaringly full.

He's not as cut as he used to be. Steve appreciates soft abs, thick thighs. Seeing the blond with a rounded tummy like this makes him feel...

Domestic.

Like he could scoop Billy up and lavish him with kisses and attention until he's breathless from it. Or buy him a house.

Whichever.

It's just their luck that someone else would take notice to the fact that they’ve disappeared from the main campground. Eddie's snickering alerts them to his presence before he ever shows up, Chrissy trailing next to him.

"Damn, Hargrove, don't let Keith catch you slacking off," he says. Stands too close for comfort and earns a scoff from Billy. "How many strikes until he boots your ass off the program?"

Munson glances over at Steve, who's been sitting crisscross on the ground flipping through his itinerary, looking over the names of his soon-to-arrive list of campers. Steve shakes his head, raising his eyebrows in hopes that Munson interprets it as lay off. He doesn't, of course.

Just winks at Steve and crouches down next to Billy's chair.

Although Billy's wearing sunglasses, it's obvious from his demeanor that he's glaring daggers at Eddie.

The two aren't exactly friends, aren't exactly enemies. Billy buys off him occasionally. Laughs at a joke every now and then. Playfully flirts back when Eddie deals the first cutesy pet name.

But Billy doesn't put him on a pedestal like other people tend to do. He isn't nice to him just because he's got good weed; no one crosses Billy Hargrove and gets away with it. Something that Steve learned the hard way when they first met.

Before they became friends. Before they were gentle to one another.

So Billy doesn't hesitate to smack Eddie's hand away when he reaches out to pinch teasingly at his side.

"Guess we know the snacks are good at Harrington's place," Eddie teases. "Hell, I'd get fat too if I had name brand shit at my disposal all the time."

Billy grits his teeth. Steve wants to usher Eddie away for him, if for no other reason than it might help Eddie keep all of his limbs intact. But Eddie's too fast and too stupid to be stopped.

He snatches the Slim Jim from Billy's hand and goes to take a bite, but it doesn't make it to his mouth before Billy has risen up from his seat. Steve, fearing the worst, jumps up as well. Readies himself to intervene if he has to, to remind Billy of his own strength before he does any serious damage.

But Billy doesn't pick Eddie up by his throat to strangle the life out of him. No, he manhandles him and swings him over his shoulder, stomping towards the lake with Eddie kicking and screaming all the while.

When he gets nearly knee-deep in the water, he throws him. Far enough out that Eddie actually sinks and takes a moment to resurface.

When he does, he swipes his wet bangs out of his face, clearly about to blow his gasket.

But Billy stays standing there. Chest heaving, shoulders squared, and the anger relaxes off of Eddie's face. Turns into fear, briefly, like he's worried that if he swims to shore, Billy will crush his skull between his hands. Or shove his head under the water and not let it come back up.

Neither of which are too far from the truth, just based on the way that the veins are popping to the surface on the blond’s neck.

Steve jogs out to where Billy stands in the water, setting a careful hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, c'mon, let's go take a walk, huh?" Steve coos.

Gently grabs Billy's hand and guides him out of the lake, leaving Eddie floating just a ways off. Slim Jim bobbing on the surface of the water.

When the two pass by Chrissy, she mouths an I'm sorry to Billy before she jogs out to help Eddie back to shore. And probably to lecture him for being mean, which is something she does fairly often.

Even if he doesn't have bad intentions, the guy can't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

By the time supper rolls around, Billy is antsy. It takes Steve rubbing his back while seated in the dining hall to calm him down enough to eat.

Their friends give them wary glances. Clearly concerned, but too afraid to ask what's wrong. It's not like Steve could really tell them anyway. He just tries to soothe the blond the best that he can.

That turns out to be easier after dinner, when the two sneak off to the bathrooms and Steve tugs Billy's shorts down. Presses up behind him as Billy leans his hands on the sink, legs spread as he pitches forward to take all that Steve has to offer.

The blond isn't even quiet. He moans loud. Watches their reflections with half-lidded eyes in the mirror, cock bobbing between his legs as Steve thrusts into him.

When he comes, his brows knit together and his mouth parts around a pretty sound. It's the most at ease that Steve has seen him all day.

It makes him want to prolong this moment. He keeps pushing into Billy, savoring his whimpers and gasps as he grips at his hips. Smooths a hand over his abdomen, relishing how soft and full he feels against his palm. Billy pushes back into him, trying to take him deeper.

"Y'know, fuck Munson," Steve pants. Drags kisses against Billy's neck and nibbles at his ear, earning another moan. "I like your tummy."

Billy whines. Another pearly bead dribbles from his tip, the first of many as Steve keeps plowing into him.

After having his soft underbelly squeezed by a slender hand, he spills another load. Steve is soon to follow, pressing his fingers into his lover's pudge until his hips are stuttering and he's tipping over that edge as well.

Billy moans as he's filled up. Cups his hand over the back of Steve's and holds it there as they both sit on that high together.

The brunet smiles against Billy's skin. Lavishes his neck with attention as they come down together, still linked, still cradling Billy's full tummy.

"Do you feel better, bubs?" Steve asks.

Billy just pants for a moment. Smiles at Steve in the mirror and winks at him.

If their little bathroom hangout was heard, no one says anything about it. Not even when the two of them climb into one bunk at the end of the night.

-

Part 1?

I have more of this, but idk if it’s even something people wanna read, so I haven’t completely flushed out the concept yet. I guess lmk?