#fuck it. in case this goal ever goes anywhere ->

[mios-axe]

i love setting goals for myself im so good at reaching goals

[winniethewife]

It's undeniably real (Layla El-Faouly x The Moonknight system x Reader)

Chapter 7: And we kissed, as though nothing could fall

Warning: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort (yet), gun violence, abduction

Last Chapter ~ Next Chapter

Words: 1093

Sometimes I swear that in the silence I can hear everything come crashing down. I can see them, their loving deep brown eyes looking at me, they know I didn’t mean to, I can’t control this. Our life hangs in the balance, I just have to tip the scales…

This was not how I expected my return to Egypt to be. I thought about going through the markets with Marc and Layla, eating snacks and laughing, going on tours of temples with Steven as he told me everything I could ever want to know about everything, andI’m sure Jake would have taken me dancing anywhere music plays, his hands on my body as we moved to the music…But that wasn’t the case. Instead we were here to take out a dangerous cult, “The cult of the Jackal” they seem to barely have a goal or mission stamen besides causing chaos and attempting to assassinate anyone with a decent amount of power. They claim to have some Tie to the God Anubis but Khonshu assured Marc that the god of funeral rites had nothing to do with them. They just have delusions of grandeur.

I lay on top of the building sniper rifle in hand as I watch from a distance as Marc and Layla talk with an informant. Waiting for a signal. I feel the edge of the numbness in my mind. I was learning to ignore it but it wasn’t easy. I watch through the scope of the rifle as they argue. I have no idea what’s happening but Marc is managing to keep his cool, I can tell he’s not pleased with something they said. Layla however is unreadable, her fake plastic smile fools most. I take a second to scan the area for threats again, as I scan I hear something behind me I turn around to see one of the cultist’s gun aimed at me, I move as quickly as I can but as the shot rang out I feel a sharp sting in my shoulder, my hand goes to the spot where I felt the sting feeling the wet gush of blood. As I pull my hand away, I see the blood on my hand. The dark red color burned into my mind as I feel myself start to loose consciousness, in the distance I hear yelling, Layla…Marc…I hear them, but I can’t focus, I feel my body lifted over someone’s shoulder. Everything goes dark.

~

“You said you knew where they were located. And now you’re telling us you have no idea where they are?” Marc was sick and tired of these people and their ever changing information. As the guy starts to speak and make excuses that’s when they hear it, A gunshot. Marc turns towards the sound and watches in horror as the scene unfold. He watches as the cultist lifts her over his shoulder and turns to leave.

“NO!” He shouts as he starts to run to her. The voices of his alters fill the back of his mind with panic but he manages to block them out as he runs at a break neck speed. He hears Layla scream her name behind him as they boths start on the chase following the cultist with their partner over his shoulder. As they move through the city just as they think they are going to catch him, the cultist throws her into a car and they drive away.

“Fuck NO!” Marc stops in his tracks and feels his heart breaking.

“Give me the body amigo, I’ll get us a car, I’ll get her back.” Jake urges and Marc can’t find a reason to argue. He watches as Layla starts to chase the car and he feels the weight of everything.

“Go, Jake go.” He mutters as he feels himself fall back into the headspace letting Jake to the front.

~

Jake followed the car furiously through the streets of Cairo, Layla swears she’s never seen him this mad before and she’s been the one he’s been mad at more than once. She’s has a death grip on the seat underneath her. This was her best friend, the wonderful woman that she had spent her whole life by her side and all she could do was pray that Jake kept on the car in front of him, and that she was still alive.

Layla races to the back seat to find her, pale, eyes rolled back as she breaths shallow fading breaths, Layla pulls her in, not caring about the blood, pulling her down as bullets fly around them. She looks at her wound, Clean shot straight through the shoulder, shattering her collarbone and shoulder blade. She’s gotta get to a hospital as soon as possible. Layla ripping her shirt padding the wound, trying to stop the bleeding as quickly as she can.

“Please…Hold on for me Habibi…Hold on…” She mutters as they speed along the street. To her surprise Jakes hand slipped into hers, He gives him her a quick glance before refocusing on the road, she catches a whisper on his lips.

“Voy por ti mi amor. Haré que esos bastardos paguen.” Jake looked determined like nothing in the world will stop him. However on the inside He was scared as hell, thinking a mile a minute. They wouldn’t take her if she was dead, but they’d been driving around in circles for too long, depending on where she was shot…He couldn’t think like that. He squeezes Layla’s hand before letting go and turning the wheel as they follow the car down an alley before they finally stop. Jake doesn’t think twice, jumping out of the car and summoning the suit in one fluid motoion as he races to the driver’s door.

“I’m here, we’re here, it’s going to be okay…It has to be okay.” Layla softly croons as she tries to not let the situation get to her. “I love y-you, God Damn it I Love you. You can’t leave us like this. We’ve got so much to do habibi, So much life left to live. Damn it live!” She cried as she holds her lover in her arms. Finally the bullets stop flying and Jake appears.

“Let me take her, Let me take…Layla we have to move now! Vamos!” Jake insisted as he takes their lover in his arms and rushes to the car. They only had so much time. He looks at her frail body in his arms. They have to make it, He’ll never forgive himself if they don’t.

~

Translation:

Voy por ti mi amor. Haré que esos bastardos paguen.: I'm coming for you my love. I'll make those bastards pay.

Vamos!: Lets go!

Masterlist

Taglist: @redeyerhaenyra @summonthesoups

[strideofpride]

i know in this part of the fandom we talk a lot about how serena (and to a slightly lesser extent nate) needed to get the hell out of new york and the upper east side to actually thrive and self-actualize, and i do agree, but that train of thought always makes me wonder - do you think any of the show’s major characters (sans chuck but fuck him) were actually being served by staying in new york, or would they all have been better off packing up and starting over somewhere new? and, to that end, where would you see each character ending up if they had left the ues as adults?

Yes! Serena is really the only character who no matter what I think would be unhappy staying in New York full time.

I love the idea of California!Nate but also I think simply getting away from the UES would be fine for him (this is true of most characters). Like a Nate who lives in Lower Manhattan or Brooklyn or something would be a very happy Nate imo. (NYU!Nate my beloved)

Same goes with Eric! In her latest fic, Liz has Eric living in the East Village which just makes soooo much sense to me.

Rufus and Lily living on the UES just makes me angry. Like they probably kept them there for production reasons so as not to build another set, but character wise they should’ve moved anywhere else when they got engaged. Personally, I like the idea of them finding a neighborhood that suits both of them a la the Upper West Side or something.

Both Dan and Vanessa I think are most served by staying in New York. Like I think they’ll both go and live other places for a little bit, follow the work, but given what they want to do and also just who they are as people, I think New York/Brooklyn will forever be home to them. And I really do think they belong there.

I know Dairis and all but…I really like the idea of Blair staying and making a life on her own terms in New York. I think her powerful woman goal makes the most sense in New York. I think it’s a big part of who she is as a person just like Dan and Vanessa. Sometimes I struggle to see her ever leaving the UES unless it’s a compromise with Dan (I love Liz’s idea of them in Gramercy Park) or it’s post her marriage to Chuck, in which case I’d think she’d run sprinting from the UES.

Jenny is maybe the hardest one for me. Cause I do ultimately think a career in fashion would be best served in New York. But I also think it would take a lot for her to ever willingly come back from London. But I do like the idea of Jenny returning to NY and moving somewhere trendy. Hell, I could actually really see a modern Jenny killing it in Astoria.

[krakenator]

1, 18, 23 Craigory Peckneck

1. What’s your chosen OC’s favorite color? Least favorite?

Warm colors, red and orange and gold, though he has a fondness for blue as well.

He's had enough of green to last him a lifetime.

18. How does your OC feel about education? How much education do they have? Are they studious or a slacker?

He feels passionately. As a wizard he's a nerd by nature but he's big on open access information. Always has been. Barriers to education, censorship, and academic elitism is THE beef he has with the local wizard guild. Let your library actually BE A LIBRARY for gods sake.

Craigory's primarily self-taught. Henrick is a wizard too of course, but they aren't big on "direct teaching". "Fuck around and find out" is more engaging by far, you can learn far more. Craigory doesn't consider himself particularly studious, he goes where his curiosity and needs take him. More formal education with the guild did not go over well.

Craigory was a lot more black and white on restricting information before the Thrall became a problem in his life. There are... perhaps... cases which a person shouldn't be able to access what they are interested in learning. But censorship outright is abominable. Destruction only for the most dire of situations. This is basically THE issue Craigory will go instantly aggro on these days.

Learn. Collect. Preserve.

23. What is your OC’s dream? What will they do once they’ve achieved it? Are they done and they disappear into the sunset or will they find a new goal/dream?

Short term Craigory's just trying to survive his goddamned patron and have his FRIENDS survive his goddamn patron. Medium term he's been poking into how to break or change pacts. Very. VERY. Carefully. Oh so carefully. He barely dares acknowledge it as a thing he wants to himself, like Thrall could smell it on him.

Long term... he's had to re-evaluate that ever since "do my own research unhindered forever in the woods" became less and less of a goal or even a desire. He has all those opinions and beefs with the wizard guild. Maybe... maybe he'll become a librarian? Teacher? Archivist? He's not sure. Been a bit busy dealing with immediate crises at the moment.

Whatever comes up, he has a family now and he's not going anywhere without them.

[sinnabonka]

It’s cursed speculation time: worst case scenario

I’m drunk Chuck and this post is my design for the ending. Or, I am Gabe from “Mystery Spot” and i am here to teach you a lesson.

Disclaimer: I believe with my whole heart that nothing from this post is anywhere near what we are getting. It’s me being sarcastic. It’s a joke. I think I’m being hilarious, please don’t take it away from me. None of this should be taken seriously. On the opposite, the solemn goal of this post is to show that you should put all the negativity aside and stop worrying. We are up for a happy end!

You can check my opinion here and here.

About ep 19 here.

Light, camera aaaand action!

Cas is not coming back. He just isn’t. The best season arc ever written in Supernatural? Oh no, you are just seeing things again.

Has been to empty before, bounced back twice? Naaaah, this time it’s different. This time it’s for good. No further explanation, just take my word for it.

Regarding Dean. He is not feeling this way about Cas, he can’t reciprocate and he won’t, this was a strictly brotherly relationship for him all way long. The looks? The jokes? The prayer? The parallels with Cain and his wife, with Sam and Eileen, Charlie and Stevie? The despair every time he loses Cas? He’s just a flirty little drama queen, sweetie, and you are delusional.

Sure, he is brokenhearted by the loss of a friend, but never mentions to either Sam or Jack what has really happened in the bunker. Why? Castiel is gone, that’s enough. No reflection on the matter whatsoever, they won’t ever speak of him again.

Character development who? Dean is still an angry man with his rock music, his car and his daddy issues, with “DON’T DESERVE - DON’T CARE” tattooed on his knuckles.

Cas’ confession goes in vain, as well as his sacrifice. Dean doesn’t get the message.

Dean keeps the jacket on as a reminder how hard he fucked up with the whole kill Bill(y) idea. It’s the coal fueling his anger, you know, the only thing Dean Winchester knows.

There’s also guilt, caused by the idea that, at the end of the day, Dean is the reason Cas is dead. Silly angel puts another brick in the wall of his self-hatred. The wall so high he soon won’t need Falcon 9 to reach Mars.

Forgiveness? Redemption? Learning, discovering new things about himslef for at least the last five years? Uh-huh, thanks, but no thanks.

Jack who? Something definitely went wrong with Billy’s plan of taking Chuck out, but we just pretend it never happened. We need Jack to sacrifice himself somehow, for the only acceptable ending, so he simply goes supernova. Again. But this time doesn’t miss.

What about Ruby? What about “you made it loud”? What about Lucifer attempting to get out? “Last time it took all the archangels to cage me” anyone?

Just sweep it all under the rug and forget it ever happened, for god’s sake, it’s not like every second of the show has to actually mean something.

The issue of Jack dying is also never addressed ever again, it just was meant to end this way. No biggie. His troubled relationship with Dean? Their touching conversations with Cas and Sam? The character’s arc screaming “I’m perceived evil, but I don’t want to be” not finished? Come again?

The show is about family. The Winchester family. And following the logic of never ending brothers’ deathly ping pong, it all ends with one of them dying during the fight. To save the second one, of course.

Which one? Dean always throws scissor, so it’s kinda predestined.

How? Heroically, given his unhelthy and unhelpful tendency to put everyone but himslef first. He didn’t even have to die, we see it clearly later, it’s done just for the sake of the Winchesters early seasons dynamics. Dibs on dying first!

Bobby? Eileen? Charlie? Another twenty humans? Sorry, kinda forgot to write them back into the script after they’ve vanished.

Let’s say they are not dead, just away. That’s a happy thought, right?

Everyone we cared about for years is either dead or gone, monsters are still lurking under the kids’ beds, but at least God is dead. That’s a win!

Fifteen years, a few apocalypses, a handful of deathes - yet no reflection, no regret, no lessons learned. The message from the creators: no matter what’s the journey, you still end up where you begun.

The last Winchester takes Impala, salts and burns the dead, and finally drives back to Stanford, following the dream of finally doing law after the exhausting years of killing, being killed and all the side effects.

And to celebrate the beginning of his normal life, Sam hits a dog, for crying out loud.

Happy end!

[stillness-in-green]

Why Deku's ultimatum to Overhaul is bad and he should feel bad

This is a bit outside my normal character wheelhouse, but I really need to get a rant about it off my chest, so here goes:

The Deku and Overhaul scene in Chapter 316 is terrible. It is fucking terrible.

I took a whirl around Overhaul's tag up through when the leaks first started dropping, but didn't immediately see anyone talking about why it's so fucking terrible, only concerns about letting Overhaul see Eri (understandable, but baseless, I think), some empathy towards Overhaul's current state (totally warranted!), some snark about Deku being So Done with Overhaul (haha because who cares about Deku's stated goal of trying to understand villains, right?), and, worst of all, some cooing about how Deku was being so compassionate and noble by offering Overhaul that olive branch.

Deku was not being compassionate and noble there. Deku was being arrogant, small-minded, and so shockingly cruel that it leaves me speechless that anyone could think his stunted and hard-hearted "offer" reflects well on him.

Deku's entire motivation in this arc has been wrestling with the realization that he might have been able to avoid some of the desperate battles of his past if he'd understood more about the villains he fought. He thought of three very specific people--Stain, Muscular, and Overhaul--as he reflected, "Maybe it wouldn't have had to go that way if I'd understood them better." He then thought of Gentle Criminal and La Brava, people who he’d come to some understanding of, who he’d been able to soften the conclusion of his battle with by going along with Gentle's fiction downplaying what had happened between them. The whole line of thought was intended to contextualize his newfound desire to save Shigaraki.

It soon became apparent that Stain, Muscular and Overhaul were, in fact, encounters that he would be revisiting, as a chance to see how he'd grown since he faced them, and as a dry-run on reaching out to villains that would give him a chance to practice ways he might reach out to Shigaraki when the time comes.

Well, based on his performance so far, the idea that Deku might be able to reach Shigaraki is laughable.

Firstly, his tentative questions to Muscular were ill-timed, all wrong for the middle of a battle. Muscular laughed him off, and I don’t think there’s any version of that scenario in which he would have done otherwise. Muscular was a huge threat, gleefully violent, disinterested in conversation about his history. Obviously, right in the middle of a fight was no kind of time to try to figure out what made the man tick! But Deku didn’t get the luxury of choosing the circumstances of that encounter, so yes, that battle probably was unavoidable, certainly if Deku wanted to stop him from doing further damage. But the idea that because Deku couldn't reach him right then and there, it's impossible for Deku--or, indeed, for anyone--to reach him at all is fallacious. Not every person has to be able to like or understand every other person. If Deku couldn't reach Muscular, so what? That doesn't mean it's impossible that someone might. And that means an obligation to treat Muscular like a human being, to afford him human rights, to not stop trying to find a way to rehabilitate him, even as you safeguard other people against him.

Deku's battle with Muscular being unavoidable was not some great triumph, for all that the narrative used it as an opportunity to let him show off how far he’d come in mastering One For All. In the way that matters, the way that Deku himself is currently trying to better, he hasn't advanced at all. Imasuji Goto represented his first test in the lead-up to saving Shigaraki, and Deku failed it.

His next trial was Overhaul.* Here, again, was someone who Deku was explicitly trying to understand. So what was the one thing that was most key to understanding Overhaul's current motivation? What was the one thing that Overhaul was ranting about out loud, incessantly? And what did Deku conspicuously fail to ask about? Overhaul's relationship with Pops.

This was so easy. So obvious. And Deku didn’t even try. All he could think about in the moment he was faced with that broken man was the little girl that man hurt--all thoughts of trying to understand where the man himself was coming from went right out the window, flown away in an instant. Instead of asking about why Overhaul feels the way he does, he demanded that Overhaul feel the way Deku wanted. He was essentially holding the only person Overhaul cared about hostage for the remorse he wanted Overhaul to feel.

I'm not going to try to armchair diagnose Overhaul with mental conditions. I don't have the educational background, and I'm positive Horikoshi doesn't. But it seems pretty clear that asking Overhaul to feel guilt about Eri was asking for something that he might not be capable of feeling, at least not without years of therapy that he was plainly not getting in Tartarus. And if Overhaul is not capable of feeling that guilt, then what does denying Overhaul his meeting actually solve? Who does it help? It doesn’t help Eri. Doesn’t help the old man. It certainly doesn’t help Overhaul himself. The only person who gets any satisfaction out of demanding remorse from Overhaul is Deku. And even Deku didn’t look like he found it very satisfying!

Another failure. A meaninglessly cruel, petty failure. A failure that served only to hurt a man who was already a live wire of agony, to sentence an old man to a coma he might never wake from without Overhaul's expertise, and to deprive Eri of the only actual family she had left.

And look, Pops might very well not be the ideal guardian for Eri, and I'm not saying he should get to "keep" her just because of the blood connection, but it's not like he cheerfully handed her over to Overhaul and walked out the door! He turned to Overhaul because he trusted Overhaul, because he wanted someone to help Eri and thought that maybe Overhaul could. And when Overhaul's thoughts about Eri took a very dark turn, Pops first denied his request about using her to further his research and then, when Overhaul kept pushing it, chose Eri over the kid he personally took in from the streets by telling Overhaul that he needed to leave the Shie Hassaikai if he couldn't muster any more respect for human life than that.

But, you know, Eri is so cute with Aizawa and stuff. And Pops was a criminal. Probably. Maybe? I mean, he was yakuza, anyway, so he obviously must have been a criminal even if the police never actually arrested him. Apparently, this means it's okay to just leave him in a coma forever! Even though Overhaul absolutely has enough medical expertise that letting him talk to a neurologist about what he did to Pops might enable them to figure out how to wake Pops up even without Overhaul being able to use his quirk to undo the damage. Hell, Overhaul is also the person alive who has the best handle on how Eri's quirk works. He might even know what her accumulation condition is. Maybe a better thing to ransom his access to Pops with would be Overhaul telling Aizawa everything he knows about Eri's quirk so Aizawa can use the knowledge to help her get a better handle on it.

But no. Obviously undoing some small part of the concrete harm Overhaul did was less important than how Deku felt about that harm.

And there's more! Oh, is there ever. I called Deku arrogant before; let me circle back to that.

Deku said that if Chisaki would feel the way Deku wanted him to feel, then Deku would uphold the promise to let Overhaul see Pops. But where in hell did Deku get off making that claim? Deku is a student. He's not a pro. He has no authority, medical, legal, carceral or otherwise. He has no say in where Overhaul goes or who he's allowed to see.

What the fuck? What the actual fuck? What kind of strings did Deku think he could pull that he could just casually make that claim without so much as going into a huddle with Hawks and Endeavor about it first? How inflated has this kid's sense of importance gotten that he made Overhaul that promise without even stopping to think about whether it was something he was in any position to ensure? It was such a bullshit ultimatum, not only because of how needlessly obstructive it was, but because it was so formless.

"If only you would feel a wish to apologize to Eri…" Okay, so what if Overhaul goes back to prison and, three days later, calls out to say, "Okay, I thought about it and I really feel like I want to apologize, now can I see Pops already?" Who gets to make that judgment call? Deku? Is he going to drop his faux-vigilante act and come visit Overhaul in prison just so he can squint at the man really hard to see if he's lying? Is Deku going to delegate the call to someone else? All Might? Hawks? A prison warden? A psychologist? Who? Who gets to be the one to say, "Okay, I think his remorse is genuine."

Then, once that call has been made, how many people have to arrange for Overhaul to be escorted out of prison and to whatever hospital Pops is in? Will Deku get to oversee that visit? Does he think he can overturn a warden declaring, "The scum doesn't deserve a visit, and the old man probably doesn't either," or a doctor protesting, "I'm not letting that man anywhere near my patient!"

The hell of it is, I think Deku could do all of that. He's got a close personal connection to All Might, who was basically a demi-god to this society for decades; he has the ear of the current top three heroes. Everyone is apparently convinced that the power to save this society rests solely in Deku's hands; I'm sure he could ask for anything he wanted. But the fact that that is the case suggests that this society is not even slightly turning away from its dependence on heroes dictating its morality. A hero having the sole right to dictate, out of hand, based on his personal feelings, the fate of people designated "villains" while the rest of society turns away is exactly what Shigaraki is angry about.

The only thing worse than Deku perpetuating the worst problems of hero society in an arc that's supposed to be about him finding a better way is that he didn’t even stop to think about it. It never even occurred to him that that was what he was doing. He thought that what he was asking of Chisaki was just and fair, and thus, he didn’t need to ask for any second opinions or permissions; he didn’t need to think about what would actually be feasible, about what was best for the people involved. He'd made his judgment call about a villain, and that's all there was to it. The villain could fall in line or--nothing. There isn't actually another choice. Hero's way or nothing

I hate it. I hate it. I don't care about whether Overhaul "deserves" to suffer; heroes making the cold decision that they will make him suffer is antithetical to everything a carceral system intended to rehabilitate prisoners stands for. And yes, Japan does at least claim on paper that the goal of incarceration in state hands is rehabilitation.

Restorative justice is superior to retributive justice. It's better for society and it's better for individuals. It is kinder, it is more compassionate. Retributive justice poisons people. It perpetuates suffering for no reason but moral grandstanding. Individuals are allowed to forgive or not forgive anyone they want, but a society should conduct itself with an eye to the long-term welfare of all of its people. That means that even the worst kinds of criminals still have human rights. It means not inflicting pain that serves no purpose.

I've gotten off-track here. Yes, I think that if Overhaul could feel regret about Eri, that would obviously be a positive development for his character. It'd hurt like hell, but it would be a hurt that indicated he was becoming a better person, a person who wanted to do more good, less ill, with his life and efforts. But you can't mandate that someone become a better person. No ultimatum handed down from on high is going to change Overhaul's heart. Telling someone, "I'll help you, but only if you only feel the way I want you to feel. Otherwise, you can just stay there and suffer," is not reaching out to help people who are suffering in the dark, which is, again, what Deku claimed he wanted to do, what he begged for Nagant's help in doing, the way he insisted to the vestiges that OFA should be used.

Deku writing people off because they don't conform to his expectations, because they can't be "good" the way he wants them to be, nor even "bad" in ways he can understand, is him failing to live up to his own expressed ideals. "I wish you'd feel bad about hurting people," wasn't enough to reach Muscular or Overhaul, and it damn well shouldn't be enough to reach Shigaraki.

Cruelty does not beget kindness. You cannot treat people with only callousness and severity, then condemn them for not taking the opportunity to grow. You have to give them opportunities to better themselves. For Overhaul, giving him an opportunity would be letting him help the man he wronged and then moving forward from there. Telling him to feel regret about Eri or else? That's doing nothing but sweeping his pain back under the rug.

---

*I have more or less exhausted my outrage over Lady Nagant in chats with friends, so I'll spare the rant on how disjointed, contradictory and ludicrous her turn was; the gist is "very, on all counts."

---

P.S. Anyone who says that Overhaul "has nothing left to live for" is being a level of ableist that defies description. Prosthetics exist. Assistive devices exist. Speech-to-text software exists. Overhaul is intelligent, driven and highly educated. Even if he never got prosthetics at all, there would still be things he could contribute to the world if he were motivated to do so. The better thing to do, though, would be to get the man some damn prosthetics, hook him up with the neurologist consulting on Pops' case, and let the two of them get on with the matter of waking up the old man.

P.P.S. Overhaul spent six months in solitary confinement. The United Nations considers solitary confinement exceeding 15 days to be a form of torture. Solitary confinement creates severe mental health issues and exacerbates existing ones. It frequently leads to a deadening of empathy, something Overhaul has in little enough amounts as it is. It is absurd to ask a man who's just come out of these conditions to "feel sorry for what you did to Eri," especially if you're planning to turn around and send him right back to solitary. Tartarus is inhuman, and the only reason more of the escapees aren't total wrecks like Overhaul is because Horikoshi clearly didn't bother to do the reading on the wide array of problems that those characters should be experiencing physically, mentally and socially.

[snickerdoodlles]

@emberfaye "pouring effort into it to pour effort into it" is such a good summation of it! because like. it's all part of the "growth at all costs rot-economy" problem more than anything else. OpenAI is currently in its Uber-phase where its this behemoth propped up by venture capital and its being hyped into being the Next! Big! Thing! so that either someone else buys it for more than its worth or it goes public and all the current investors cash out before people catch on to the fact that it's a flop. like, nowhere in this equation of investment are people actually asking, "hey, does OpenAI bring in more revenue than it spends?" reality has no place in this business according to them. a lot of genAI is like this, but most other genAI titans are companies like Google, or Meta, or apparently fucking Amazon if they ever get anywhere with their Olympus model. these other companies have marketshare for reasons other than generative AI tho, so OpenAI is just the specific case where you can really see how little return or viability genAI currently has a business.

like. honestly, i think i was giving them too much credit to even say that they're ignoring/losing sight of potential sustainable business, because that probably isn't even a factor in their company goals. they don't care where genAI actually goes as a business after they cash out, so all the absurd hype around it right now is serving the exact purpose they want: make people think its worth something. if genAI happens to suddenly become a viable business model before then, lucky us ig, but that's just straight up not a concern for the business side of it.

my personal disdain towards there being another huge leap forward in genAI before their cash out time stems primarily from the fact that the AI puppet is a ton of smoke and mirrors atm. i don't want to make it sound like nothing's come from genAI, there has been a lot of truly incredible research and innovation that has come out of this bubble. not by OpenAI or any of the other big names, they've pretty much stopped sharing information since the first wave of foundation models, but there is a ton of really impressive research in areas like NLP, deep learning, and more that wouldn't have been possible without the development of these really huge foundation models (and this isn't including the potential applications of genAI in other scientific fields, medicine and biology esp).

however, 1. innovation is never a straight line. even just looking back on genAI: the shift to using transformers, the current architecture all LLMs use and even most other genAI use in part, was due to a breakthru in machine-translation back in 2017. nobody was expecting it to be such a big hit-- the paper that published their findings on transformer models was hilariously named "attention is all you need"-- and certainly nobody had any idea that transformers could even scale to such huge scale until OpenAI took a stab at it with GPT-3 (we actually don't know why they scale to huge models so well either! sure, we have theories like superposition on why, but we don't actually know).

which segues nicely into my bigger point, 2. there's so much about genAI we just don't know. all the model's unsupervised pre-training, the first stage of learning that accounts for 99% of genAI's function, happens in a black box. even tho the structure of an artificial neural network is simple (its two matrices with a nonlinear function like a ReLU between them, then a bunch of those in series), mapping out or understanding the hows/whys/etc of the emergent behavior is extremely difficult. right now, the only assured method for "get better results/reduce output error" is scaling a model to something huge, and second mostly reliable method is training the model on more data (size and data are closely intertwined, but a model's size is not always indicative of their training data size).

(sorry if this is vague, i'm trying really hard not to geek spiral rn 😂💦)

getting back on point, there is a lot of research going into making model training more efficient, understanding how they process and store information (fun fact! we actually have no idea how LLMs recall basic facts. we have some theories on how, but we have no idea what the actual mechanism is that allows it. sounds wild, doesn't it?), any progress in AI memory, and also just figuring out more on where genAI breaks down. there's just so much we don't know about how genAI works-- and it's actually a lot more than how it seems on the surface:

that two-model system i mentioned in the reblog above? it doesn't just work to the benefit of both models, it's huge in patching over a lot of issues in genAI. the smaller model/AI assistant handles a ton of tasks like augmented context retrieval, simulating short-term memory, integrating apps for specific functions (ie something like a calculator app because something as specific as math is contradictory to the generative function of LLMs), and a bunch of other stuff. also, on top of patching over or minimizing the issues in models we do not know how to fix yet, genAI is absolutely trained or coded to mimic specific behaviors that increase user's trusts in it (ie, the speed of ChatGPT's responses? heavily researched and tested because a slower response seems "more thoughtful"-- and therefore more trustworthy-- to users; not at all reflective of the actual time it takes for a model to generate an answer (time is not an asset to genAI)).

like. people shouldn't stop researching machine learning, there is a lot to learn about it and like i said, innovation is never a straight line, you never know what's going to push genAI or even another science field forward. but venture capital isn't investing in OpenAI because they believe in genAI. they'd love for another big jump forward in it to bolster all the ways they're hyping it, but given how little we know about the actual mechanisms of genAI, i'm highly skeptical of us achieving any huge leaps forward in it in the next few years. and anyone who claims we're anywhere close to general artificial intelligence, or any sort of mimicry of human intelligence, is a grifter trying to sell you grade-C bullshit.

akdj profit-making monster

bold fucking choice of words for a company that's several hundred million in the red in its yearly income

[savagesbonergarage]

In the spirit of fairness (and horniness) do you have any smutty headcanons for Savage too?

Ohhhh yeah ☺️

I'm just gonna list these in no particular order or preference and let my brain do its thing here~

In your everyday relationship, Savage is sweet with you. He's gentle, he's caring, he's cognizant of your needs and he's always got a shoulder for you to cry on. (More of an underboob, really. Ya know, size difference). With him being so, so, so much bigger than you in every capacity, people have commented things like "you two are so cute together!" when you're out and about. Curious and uninhibited folks have dared to ask you "so what is it like, you know..." Fucking a giant?

Obviously you don't care to answer, but it's something you assume most people wonder when they see you together. If you were to indulge them about what sleeping with Savage Opress is like, however, it would probably go something like this:

Imagine having every inch of you engulfed by warmth and all your orifices gloriously filled so completely that every pleasurable crevice within you gets perfectly simulated with every move each time and throughout all of it you don't need to lift a finger or flex a single muscle, since he can fully support all of you in any position.

Yeah, it's like that.

The man is capable of literally anything your heart desires, including things you haven't even thought of yet. His size makes certain positions even more exciting, like being caboosed, chairmanned, pinballed, ragdolled, you name it. Ever wanted to feel like you were floating in midair while being fucked so deliciously you start crying? He's got you covered. Every inch.

We likely don't really need to go over what he's packing, since by now I'm sure we all know he's got the meat ™. Try as you might, there's no way to fit it all in while you're giving him head. It's just not possible. He doesn't mind though, and the fact that you even make the attempt makes him happy beyond belief.

Speaking of which, he doesn't rely entirely on his size to pleasure you. He knows how to use what he's got, so when he's going down on you expect your soul to be transported to another galaxy entirely.

Also, his stamina is off the charts. He can go multiple rounds without hardly breaking a sweat or going soft even when he's doing all the work.

He prefers to finish inside you whenever he can.

Uh, he's got quite a bit of testosterone from his enhancements, and whether it be from that or due to his species you aren't quite sure, but nevertheless - there's always so much cum.

If it's one of those nights where he keeps going and filling you up over and over, it will get to the point we're you're abdomen actually gets noticably distilled from the sheer amount of it. The same goes for his girth in general when he bottoms out inside you, whenever he flexes upwards you can see the outline of it. In any case, with Savage, you get full.

It's likely we already know about his breeding kink, too. Even if you aren't keen on the idea of offspring or it isn't possible, he still loves the prospect of filling you anyway as though that were the goal. His favorite kind of dirty talk involves you begging him to breed you until you're both spent.

He's adventurous - not only with you and whatever you suggest, but with his own experiences. He's got a pretty decent toy collection, and he loves it when you peg him. Flavored lube and lotions are also something he enjoys incorporating into your adventures. Also, food - specifically juicy fruits and berries are something that often find a way into the bedroom.

You've nearly broken your hand more than once trying to spank him. He's got buns of durasteel.

You don't, but that's okay. He loves all your supple flesh so much. He's tasted every inch of you, and one of your favorite activities is marking each other as much as you can. It's a little unfair considering he has more surface area than you, but you think it's better that way.

It means there's more time for you to spend admiring your handsome zabrak and telling him how much you adore him. Even the littlest bit of praise gets him going, so he's bound to go the extra mile each time you commend him for anything.

Really the only issue that surfaces during these times are the few but inevitable minor injuries you get, no matter how careful he is. There are occasionally bruises and cuts on you from his hands or his horns, and it kills him inside every time he sees a new one. You assure him it's fine, but he'll never let it go.

If you massage him, anywhere, he'll immediately start purring. No matter how irritated he may look, it's the remedy that works every time. In exchange he'll do it back, just remind him to be a little more soft than he thinks he should be-

He's accidentally broken more bedframes than you can count.

He loves being both the big spoon and the little spoon, even though the latter is nothing short of hilarious. He loves feeling you against him, huddled together like he at one time would do with his brothers back home. He feels safe when you hold him, even though there's no danger he couldn't easily face on his own. He feels wanted with you, desired - less like a monster. Really the most intimate thing for him is when you kiss him softly and whisper in his ear how much of a sweet boy you think he is, and how much you love him no matter what he's become.

[spencers-renaissance]

storm-darkened or starry bright

Summary: Spencer contracts HIV. It all falls apart after that.

Tags: angst, illness, hurt!spencer, hurt/comfort, worried derek, depression, mutual pining, getting together, angst w a happy ending

TW: vomit, implied/referenced sex and addiction, disordered thinking, depression as a result of medical diagnosis

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

(I've tagged my usual moreid taglist in this fic, but I won't be offended at all if this is too heavy for you!)

Title from "Where All My Books Go" - W.B. Yeats.

Originally inspired by J_Ballinger's Swift, Fierce & Obscene which is just a brilliant piece of art.

you said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud — richard siken, litany in which certain things are crossed out

It starts with the flu.

He calls into work sick and he makes himself comfortable in bed, preparing to ride it out. It is the middle of January after all, and their last case saw them in Ann Arbor, shivering their way through each crime scene and a police station with abysmal heating.

His lymph nodes are swollen, and he’s running a moderate fever — 102 the last time he checked — and the cough he’s had for a couple of days is definitely getting nastier, but he uses the time to catch up on the documentaries he’s had stored on his DVR for the past couple of months. He tries to see it as a positive: he never gets time to rest like this. Warm soup, chamomile tea, and some Nyquil should be the end of it.

He makes the most of it. He gets better. He goes back to work, and life goes on.

“It’s not like you to get sick, Reid.”

Emily doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s about as innocuous as a comment can possibly be, but something about it makes his heart stop for a second. Because the thing is, she’s right. The last time he was actually sick was the anthrax poisoning three years ago, which can hardly be blamed on his body itself. He hasn’t been sick with a virus since he was a child — certainly not anything more than a mild winter cold.

His world turns upside down in the middle of a Tuesday, a couple of them gathered around Derek’s desk laughing about nothing in particular, the easy camaraderie of a close-knit team without a time-sensitive case on their minds.

Three and a half weeks ago: a night heady with alcohol in a gay bar in downtown DC, a charged encounter with a man just Spencer’s type, a whispered invitation back to his place, not making it past the bathroom…

He pales, suddenly feeling violently ill at the prospect of what’s happened, how badly he’s fucked up this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” Emily asks, suddenly noticing his appearance. “You look really pale… maybe you’re not ready to be back at work yet.”

Forcing himself out of his stupor, he manages to open his mouth without vomiting. “I don’t feel so good,” he says, and even to him his voice sounds weak and distant. Blood roars in his ears, and all he can think is what that blood could very well be tainted with.

Far away voices discuss something he doesn’t pay attention to before Derek’s placing his hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the discussion. “I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Emily isn’t standing at the desk anymore, but he doesn’t think to look around for her, just locks eyes with Derek: noticing his brows knit deeply in concern, worry clouding his dark, striking eyes.

He lets himself be led down to the garage. Later, he won’t remember any of the winding car journey home, Derek’s worried sideways glances, his attempts at making conversation, tucking him into bed, his hesitancy to leave and go back to work. He’ll just remember the weight of his realisation, the sinking acknowledgement of what this means.

What it makes him.

⭐️

The next day, he wakes up ravenously hungry. He doesn’t remember anything after the dreaded realisation, but he remembers that he came to it only minutes after eating lunch: meaning he’s gone over eighteen hours without food. Somehow, he manages to pick himself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He finishes it all and doesn’t taste a single bite.

He texts the group chat Penelope had made for the whole team last year, ignoring the dozens of anxious messages from his team already filling his phone. Won’t be in.

Almost on auto-pilot, he gets dressed, picks up his phone, wallet, and keys, and walks to his nearest metro station. He counts four stops, gets out of the carriage and walks up the stairs onto the street, weaving through exactly three streets until he finds himself staring at the sign for his Urgent Care clinic.

Words — not ashes, as some small part of him anticipates — manage to spill from his lips as he tells the doctor everything from the unprotected sex he vaguely recalls having on the night of Saturday the 12th of March to his brief flu-like symptoms to his sickly realisation yesterday. Vaguely, he thinks there’s some sort of sick humour in being able to recall exactly what day he had sex, but not the details of the sex itself. Alcohol and dilaudid are the only things that have ever been able to interfere with his memory.

He obediently opens his mouth for a saliva swab, lets the nurse prick his finger and collect a drop of his blood. He wonders if she knows what they’re testing him for. He wonders if she thinks he’s as dirty as he feels, if she’ll violently scrub her hands after smiling politely at him, if she’ll roll her eyes when she talks to the other nurses, lamenting his stupidity.

The sounds of the waiting room melt into the background as he waits for the test to be conducted, and judging by the tone of the nurse who gets his attention when it’s time to return to the doctor’s office, it’s not her first attempt.

He mutters a distracted apology as he gets up from his seat, but she just smiles sympathetically. It shouldn’t get his back up in the way it does.

“I’m afraid you have tested positive for the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Dr Reid,” she tells him, her voice gentle but straight-forward. He’s at least glad she doesn���t try and soften the blow. It’s not a blow that deserves to be softened. “I know this is a shock, but—”

“It’s not a shock.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s not a shock,” he repeats insistently; impatiently. “I knew it was coming. It’s my own fault.”

“Playing blame games isn’t going to help anybody here, Dr Reid,” she says firmly, meeting his eye. “Whether you were expecting it or not, this would knock anyone off-kilter, and I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that.”

She waits for his reluctant nod before continuing. “The good news is that we’ve caught it early enough to contain the infection. Your CD4 levels are very good, and you do not meet AIDS criteria. I’ve referred you to Dr Frederiks at George Washington University Hospital. He’s an expert in Infectious Disease and specialises in HIV/AIDS treatment. He can see you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

He arrives back at his apartment almost $300 out of pocket, having gained nothing but a positive HIV diagnosis. The FBI has brilliant healthcare insurance but Spencer ticked the ‘no’ box on the insurance form. He can’t risk anybody knowing about this.

He texts Hotch and tells him he has a doctor’s appointment in the morning and will let him know whether he’ll make it in for the afternoon. Then he lays on the sofa, and cries.

⭐️

“HIV is a chronic illness,” the doctor explains at four minutes past ten the next morning, “a latent infection. Not a death sentence. Medications have come leaps and bounds in the last ten years, and the regimes aren’t anywhere near as rigorous as they used to be. With your CD4 levels this good, your life really won’t be much different than it was a few weeks ago.”

Spencer’s never had much interest in medicine — after all, there’s a reason he’s not that kind of doctor — but he knows this much. He doesn’t tell the doctor that he’s wasting his time explaining the basics of the disease, just stares blankly at the point in between his eyes, staring at the small crease in his skin, the way it moves as he speaks.

“It’s likely that you’ll die of something else, Dr Reid, decades in the future. When managed correctly, HIV is rarely deadly.”

This seems irrelevant: it doesn’t matter to Spencer what he dies of. Whether his immune system gives in or he’s shot in the line of duty or drops dead in the street from an aneurysm he doesn’t see coming, he’ll be dead.

He still doesn’t say anything.

“For the first six months of infection, the risk of transmission to sexual partners is high,” he continues, unfazed by Spencer’s lack of response. “Are you in a relationship?”

“No.” It’s the first word he’s spoken since he entered this office. His voice breaks. He can’t have the person he wants: this feels like the nail in the coffin of a relationship dead on arrival.

A look of sympathy crosses Dr Frederik’s face. “In any casual encounters you may engage in, you’ll need to be extra careful. Do you have the contact details of the person you contracted this from?”

His voice is steadier this time. “No.”

“Do you have any suspicion that you were deliberately infected by them?”

“No,” he answers, because he doesn’t, but it occurs to him that he’ll never actually know. He doesn’t remember if they used a condom; if he even wanted to use one. (All he remembers is his muscles and the way he pretended he was Derek, the amused look on the other man’s face when he whispered his name like a prayer.)

“That’s fine,” the doctor smiles encouragingly. It feels patronising. “We’re going to start with a triple combination of medications: tenofovir and emtricitabine combined with dolutegravir. HIV is an adaptable virus and easily becomes resistant, so it’s best to attack it hard and fast as early as possible to give you your best chances at an undetectable viral load in the next year. Which, I might add, Dr Reid, is a completely reasonable goal. At that stage, you will not be all that infectious. You’ll have bloods drawn before you leave to estimate your baseline kidney and liver function as well as overall health. In three months, you’ll have another test, and in six months, we’ll assess how well the drugs are working for you.”

Spencer nods, his eyes not leaving the crease between Dr Frederik’s eyebrows.

“Make those appointments with my secretary on your way out, and contact me if you have any concerns.” He pushes a brown paper envelope across the desk. “Inside you’ll find a copy of your positive test result, your prescriptions, and a number of leaflets on the condition as a whole.”

He squashes the urge to push the envelope back across the desk and nods again.

“Pick up the medication before the end of today and start them either tonight or in the morning,” he advises, before standing up from behind the desk and walking towards the door.

Spencer follows obediently, nodding once more and forcing a grimace onto his face, before walking down the hallway towards the secretary, another stranger he has to share his secret with. Swallowing down the urge to either scream or vomit, he fiddles with the envelope in his hands and bites the bullet.

⭐️

He tells Hotch that he won’t be in that day, and he goes home and forces himself to get it together. He showers first, the hot water washing the grime of the last few days down the drain, but he can’t do anything about the lingering layer of shame clinging to his skin. For the first time since the realisation, he forces himself to look in the mirror. A thin, pallid man with bags under his eyes and the look of someone harbouring a secret looks back at him.

His hair has grown out a little in the last few months, actual curls visible around his face (memories flash across his mind of breathy gasps; a hand buried in his hair, pulling ever-so-gently but they’re gone before they’re even remotely tangible), and he lost a little bit of weight he couldn’t afford to lose during his symptomatic period.

But, as frustrating as it is, it’s not what he sees. Not really. He sees Spencer Reid, possessor of five degrees, soon to become six, expert analyst in the FBI, the man who listens to jazz when he studies and watches documentaries for fun and solves crossword puzzles on the metro.

Something inside him shifts as he’s reminded of his humanity in that moment. It’s the most okay he’s felt in the last forty-eight hours.

He’ll take it.

He goes back to work the next day with little fanfare, getting warm smiles and ‘glad you’re feeling better’s from the team before they’re plunged headfirst into a new case, as it so often goes. They fly to Vermont, and part of him is glad for the distraction: no more talking about his illness, no more self-pity — he’s forced to try and bridge the gap between Dr Spencer Reid, Before and Dr Spencer Reid, HIV Positive as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

He does what he’s good at: offers relevant, detailed facts, profiles the victims and the unsub, cites studies that help them get to the bottom of the case, and for a moment he allows himself to forget about the virus coursing through his blood and the feeling of shame he can’t quite shake no matter how clean he scrubs his skin.

They get to the hotel late that evening and Spencer takes his second dose of medication, individually popping each tablet from it’s sheet into his hand. The pharmacist he spoke to yesterday told him that from his next medication order they can put all three tablets into a blister packet for him, but for now he’s stuck punching through three different plastic packets every night. Derek asks him to join them at the bar for a drink, but Spencer turns him down. He’s barely been able to look him in the eye.

If, in some rare and far flung universe, Derek did want to date Spencer, he wouldn’t want to date HIV positive, ex-addict, reckless and unsafe Spencer.

He wouldn’t want to date a man so heartbroken and lovesick that he got black-out drunk and slept with someone — most likely without a condom — just because he bared a passing resemblance to Derek. Contracting the Human Immunodeficiency Virus in the process.

No.

Spencer spends the evening staring into the mirror instead, desperately trying to find the man he was four days ago under the burden of broken suffering he seems to have picked up along with the diagnosis, the positive test, the sympathetic doctors.

When he hears the others come up past midnight and pile into their hotel rooms, laughing and chattering among themselves, Spencer still hasn’t looked away.

The use of the case as a distraction only works until 11am the next day. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and he’s powering through the day fuelled by black coffee and raw determination alone, but those motivators — as effective as they can be — can’t stop his legs from shaking as he stares at the geo-profile, searching for what they’re missing.

It sucks, but he’s glad for the warning the shaking gives him. He finds a chair and sits down, which is likely the only thing that stops him from collapsing when black dots swim in his vision and he’s suddenly vomiting down his front.

“Reid!” Hotch cries, running from the other end of the police station to where he’s sitting, panic clear on his face. They’re the only two from their unit currently in the station, but Hotch quickly locates an officer and turns to him. “Call an ambulance.”

“No,” Spencer manages to protest, although it only makes him want to be sick again, “‘m fine, promise.”

“What’s going on? I thought the flu had passed? Healthy people don’t spontaneously vomit and almost pass out, Reid.”

Somehow, his addled brain manages to concoct a decent enough lie. “Keep thinking I’m better,” he mumbles, leaning forward to put his head between his legs as Hotch places a hand on his back, “and then I’m not.”

“You’re sure this is just the flu?” Hotch asks, concerned but at least appearing to believe him.

“Certain,” Spencer lies.

Hotch nods once before shaking his head at the officer on standby with a phone to call an ambulance. “Well, you can’t work the case like this,” he sighs. “We need to get you back to the hotel, okay? You can rest there. God, Reid, what did the doctor say?”

“Bad case of the flu. Gave me some strong Tamiflu and told me I’d be fine in a couple days.” He gasps the words out in between intense waves of nausea, clasping his hands together in an iron grip.

He absolutely can’t let Hotch catch on. In the nine years he’s worked at the FBI, he’s managed to conceal his sexuality below layers upon layers of closeting, and he’s not about to be forced out now. It started as a purely protectionist strategy — law enforcement in the early 2000s didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation when it came to tolerance — but then he just felt forced too deep, felt the web of lies spun too tightly around him to even begin to unpick them.

Terror seizes his heart at the idea of his team knowing who he really is: not because he expects homophobia or backlash, but because he’s not sure he’s ready to live that openly yet. He’s never been good with change, and this is no exception.

It doesn’t help that the whole team is all too aware of his past addiction. He dreads the thought of them thinking he’s using again and, worse, so irresponsibly that he managed to contract HIV.

Hotch gets a rookie officer to drive him back to the hotel, and she keeps sending him nervous glances, most likely worried he’ll stink up her immaculately kept squad car with his spontaneous vomiting. Both he and the car make the journey unscathed, although he knows he probably looks as green as he feels as he drags himself up the stairs — could there possibly be a worse time for an out of order elevator? — and somehow manages to make it to the bed before he collapses.

Unfortunately, his restful slumber doesn’t last long. He’s woken up not half an hour later with the intense need to be sick again, and he races to the toilet, where he spends the next two hours: intermittently slumped over it, being sick into it, and lying on the cold tiles next to it.

It feels like a punishment. If Spencer was a religious man he’d be certain God was smiting him for his sins, but instead he’s left instead pondering karma or fate or some other theory he doesn’t really buy into either. Logically, he knows it’s just a combination of guilt and regret — he made a mistake, he’s suffering the consequences; there’s no fate or religion or karma involved — but his delirious, out of sorts mind struggles to hold on to that.

Reason doesn’t make the nausea any less crippling, after all.

Eventually, he must manage to pass out on the bathroom floor, because he’s being shaken awake by a pair of gentle hands, and when he finally opens his eyes, it’s dark outside.

“Spence?”

Shit. Derek.

His eyes fly open and he fights to sit up, to make himself more presentable. The smell of vomit lingers in the air and he remembers that he didn’t even put the toilet seat down, let alone flush it. (At least he thought to change out of his vomit-covered shirt. Thank God for small mercies.) He blushes, and thinks he must look a pretty picture of red and green as he finally meets Derek’s eyes.

“God, Spence, how bad is this flu?” he asks worriedly, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Despite himself, Spencer finds himself pressing back into the touch, relishing any contact he can get.

Then it hits him: he’s dirty. He can’t contaminate Derek like this.

“You should leave,” he asserts hurriedly as he pulls away, hating that desperation is so obvious in his voice. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleaned everything up, and I used gloves. I’ve been in contact with you the last couple of days, so if you were going to get me sick you would’ve already. I just want to be here for you.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed so tightly they hurt. He wants nothing more than to fold himself into Derek’s arms, let himself be comforted by the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But he can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t.

“No,” he says, not opening his eyes, resenting the tear that slips out and spills down his cheek. “You can’t. I’m… I’m not safe to be around.”

He doesn’t really mean to say it, but it escapes anyway, and he opens his eyes just in time to see the confusion cross Derek’s face. “Not safe to…? Spencer, what—”

“I just… I need to be alone.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek says softly, bringing a hand to his hair again, and he knows that HIV isn’t transmitted through sweat or vomit but he’s dirty, and Derek is so so good, he can’t be responsible for tainting him. Derek doesn’t relent, though, not even when Spencer pulls away from his touch and shrinks in on himself, leaning against the toilet. “You need to allow yourself to be comforted. You need to let me help, Spencer.”

Suddenly, he feels incredibly tired: the energy seeping out of his body, and he’s boneless against the toilet, absent even of the effort to hold himself upright.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He puts his arms around Spencer’s rolled up body and lifts him, holding him close to his chest as he carries him from the bathroom to the bed.

Spencer doesn’t just let him, he curls into his embrace, clinging to the material of his t-shirt like it’s his only grip on reality.

(Later, he’ll blame the fever, but deep down he knows that just once, he wanted to play pretend, and just once, he didn’t have the energy to stop himself.)

⭐️

The side effects take weeks to finally leave, his body having a hard time adjusting to not only a deadly virus in his bloodstream, but some of the strongest drugs on the market inhibiting his natural enzyme production. Eventually, though, he’s back at work properly, selling a story about a simultaneous gastro-intestinal virus making the flu exponentially worse.

He’s not really sure everyone believes him, but nobody questions it out loud, so he avoids everyone’s eyes and takes it as a win.

Nobody gets close enough to try, anyway. He pushes everyone away, holds them at arm's length no matter how much they kick and scream and claw their way closer to him. It surprises him how persistent Derek is, and for a moment he feels a sad flutter of hope in his stomach and he’s forced to stamp it down: Derek sees him as a brother, a friend, a colleague, not a potential romantic partner.

And it would be irrelevant, even if he did. Derek wouldn’t want him as any of those things if he knew what he was hiding. Ever since his lapse in judgement on the case in Vermont, he’s refused to spend any time alone with Derek, and he hates the hurt he sees in his eyes, hates that he can’t scream at him that this is for his own good. But he can’t know. Because Spencer is still ruled by his relentless selfish desires, and he can’t let Derek go, no matter how hard he tries to.

Kept at arm’s length at least means he’s still touching his shoulders.

He muddles through the next few months on his own, returning to his quiet apartment every night and eating a sad, lonely dinner on his sad, lonely sofa before punching his way through a blister pack, taking his tablets, and going to sleep. He turns down drinks invitations, declines phone calls, ignores text messages. He pretends he isn’t home when there are knocks at his door.

He takes showers that are too hot and cries on the metro, scrubs his fingernails and his face, and when he got a shallow knife wound on a case last month, wouldn’t let a single member of the team near him. Whispering his status, shame-faced, to the attending EMT.

This is it, he thinks one night, as he opens the microwave and takes out the mac-and-cheese ready meal he’d bought on the way home that night. He doesn’t even like mac-and-cheese. It was just the only thing left in the store at 8.30pm. This is my life now. Standing in my kitchen at 9.15pm, not being able to remember the last time I was actually happy.

(He does remember, really. It was Sunday the 13th of March, 9.37am: Derek had ruffled his hair and joked with him as they waited alone in the conference room to find out what was so urgent they were being called into work on the weekend for. Spencer could still feel the aftermath of his Saturday night tryst, and pretended for a brief few minutes that that encounter was with Derek, and those jokes were actually flirting. But then the case took over, then the flu symptoms, and then. Well.)

Before he can carry the mac-and-cheese into the living room, though, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone had mostly given up on turning up unannounced, so it catches him off-guard, and something in him, some vain flicker of hope, or maybe a masochistic desire to hurt even more, propels him forward until he’s opening it and coming face to face with Derek Morgan.

“Spencer,” he says urgently, and panic immediately grips Spencer as he wonders what could be so wrong that he’d need to show up out of the blue, but Derek must see it on his face. “Nothing’s happened, don’t worry, I just… I need to speak to you.”

A knot of something that Spencer can’t quite place tightens in his stomach as he stares at the myriad of emotions playing across Derek’s face, but he steps aside to let him in anyway. He closes the door behind them and feels a flash of embarrassment at the state of his apartment. It’s completely clean — his already rigorous attitude towards germ and cleanliness have only intensified in the last few months as paranoia plagued his mind relentlessly — but it’s barren of any joy, and it couldn’t be more obvious.

The furniture is drab and Spencer’s packed away all the photos and trinkets that used to litter the entire place because they just made him too sad to look at. The only life that remains is his books, and the sheet he’d hung to cover them up in a fit of rage a couple of weeks ago still hangs there limply. He hadn’t wanted to see his books: didn’t want the temptation of touching them and tainting them. What if he got a papercut on one of the pages and his virus-ridden blood spilled across the words he treasures so dearly?

He watches as Derek surveys the place with a sad expression on his face, before recollecting himself and turning back to Spencer.

“I know you’ve been pulling away from us, Spence,” he says, almost breathless as he takes a seat on the sofa. Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his body, so he settles on remaining where he is: stock still facing the couch, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. “We’ve watched you become a shell of who you used to be, and we’re all worried about you—”

“I don’t—”

“No, just let me speak. Everyone is worried, and I am too, but… I’m also… I’m hurt, Spencer. You’re pushing me away, turning me down every time I try to get close to you, and it’s painful because you’re my friend. You’re my best friend, and you mean the world to me.”

I wouldn’t if you knew my secret, he thinks miserably, but he doesn’t say anything.

“More than anything, though, it hurts… because I’m in love with you.”

Spencer stares. He’s hallucinating, he has to be.

“And I know — well, I don’t know because we’ve never talked about it — but I know you’re probably straight and even if you were interested in guys, too, who’s to say you’d be in love with me back? But I had to tell you because our relationship is heading south anyway, plummeting straight for the ground, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, I just… say something? Please?”

He doesn’t mean to say it.

“I’m HIV positive.”

It’s Derek’s turn to stare. Spencer can’t meet his eyes, and suddenly feeling like he needs to Get Out, he rushes to the kitchen and picks up his rapidly cooling mac-and-cheese. He gets a fork out and faces the countertop, away from Derek, as he starts to shovel unsatisfying bites into his not-hungry stomach.

It can’t even be a full minute later that he hears footsteps behind him. “You have AIDS?”

He sets the mac-and-cheese back on the counter. “No,” he answers, not turning around. “I tested positive for HIV; I don’t meet AIDS criteria. My CD4 levels are apparently very good, and the medication I’m taking is proving effective in controlling and managing the virus. I don’t have side effects anymore, and I don’t feel any different than I did before I contracted it.”

There’s a beat of silence. “And this is why you’ve been pulling away from us?”

Spencer hesitates before nodding shamefully, his eyes burning a hole in his dinner. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone, and I—” He’s cut off by a heaving sob. It catches him by surprise, but suddenly he’s choking on emotion: everything he’s been through, everything he’s been dealing with alone for so long a burden he no longer knows how to carry.

“Oh, baby,” Derek breathes, rushing forward and turning Spencer until his face is pressed into his neck and their arms are wrapped around one another. The nickname only furthers his emotion, falling apart completely in such a way that makes him unsure he’ll ever be put back together again. “I’m so sorry.”

He lets Spencer cry it out until his sobs recede and his tears slow, and he feels confident enough to pull away and meet Derek’s eye properly again. It feels like a reconnection; a reconciliation of sorts, and his breath catches at the emotion on his face. He’d expected a meddle of sympathy and disgust, but all he finds is compassion and love, tinged by a sadness Spencer supposes probably comes from watching the man you’ve just professed to love fall apart like that.

Oh wait. Derek just told him—

“You love me?” His voice comes out quieter and shyer than he’d hoped, and not nearly as incredulous as he’d intended, but Derek softens anyway.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “So much. And if you think you telling me this is going to change how I feel even a bit, then you’re dead wrong, Spencer.”

It’s suddenly too much to think that everything he’d feared happening for the last few months was wrong, and he’s gasping for breath again, sinking to the ground to bury his face in his hands.

“Spence?” Derek asks worriedly, following him to the floor. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No… please, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself, ground himself in the reality that’s unfolding before him, no matter how different it might look than that of his anticipation. “You know, the man. Um, the man I… contracted this from. I slept with him because he looked like you.”

He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes again, searching for anything in them to confirm that he was thinking all the thoughts Spencer feared and coming up empty. “I was so heartsick that I got blind-drunk and slept with a complete stranger because it was the closest to you I ever thought I’d get and then I was just so scared of what everyone would say when I found out. I know logically that HIV doesn’t make someone dangerous or unclean, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling of shame, you know? I was constantly panicked that I’d pass it to one of you. Besides, I’m not even out to the team, and I know the implications of a disease like this: gay or an IV drugs user — I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that I was both. I’m clean, and I’ve stayed clean, I just…”

“Hey, I get it,” Derek says gently, reaching out a hand and cupping Spencer’s cheek gently. “I think if I was in the same boat I probably would’ve reacted in exactly the same way. You can’t be blamed for bowing to a social stigma this heavy, Spence. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise what was going on sooner. And even sorrier, for that matter, that I didn’t tell you I was in love with you before this even had a chance to happen.”

Spencer smiles a little at that. “Hey, I didn’t tell you either. I don’t blame you at all. Neither of us were out and confessing something like that is no small feat.”

“I suppose so.”

Spencer shifts a little in his position on the floor, the raging storm of emotion that he’s been drowning under for the past four and a half months quieting for the very first time. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before working up the courage to ask the question he really wants the answer to. “I know you said that this doesn’t change the way you feel—”

“And it doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, because suddenly he gets that. He isn’t sure what took so long. “But does it make you not want to be in a relationship with me?”

“Spencer, no.” Derek’s voice is urgent as he makes intense eye contact with him, raising a gentle finger to his chin. “It doesn’t change a single. thing. I don’t know much about HIV, I’ll admit, but I do know that these days you can get to a point where it doesn’t transmit to partners. And we can be really safe about it. I’ll do all the research to make you comfortable, but Spencer, even if it did mean that we could never have sex, I’d still want you. I want you so badly, pretty boy.”

He can hardly believe his ears. “Really?”

“Really.” He swipes his thumb across his cheek, catching a falling tear. “I’m hopelessly, desperately in love with you, Spencer. I have been for years. You can ask, Penelope: she’s been putting up with my pining like a saint, but I’m not sure she could’ve taken it much longer.”

“I’ve been in love with you for years, too.” Another tear falls as the prospect of what’s about to happen really sinks in.

“Can I?” Derek murmurs, as he inches closer ever so slowly.

“Please,” Spencer whispers, barely finishing the word before their lips are colliding and a flurry of butterflies break out in his stomach as his chest glows with the warmth of a kiss he’s long been aching for. Derek’s hands find his waist, his jaw, his cheek, his hair, exploring his body ever so softly as he kisses him with the same inquisitive gentleness, managing to take him apart with just his lips and his hands.

“God,” he whispers as he finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s as he struggles to hide his wide grin. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I’m gonna be like a teenage girl tonight, running my fingers across my lips as I remember every minute of it.”

Spencer giggles at that. “Well you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ll be doing the same.” He pulls away slightly and looks down for a second before looking back up into Derek’s earnest gaze. “I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

“I’ll kiss you like that every day for as long as you’ll have me.” He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in, connecting their lips again as they melt into one another’s touches, and it makes Spencer laugh later that the most intimate and passionate encounter of his life so far happened on the kitchen floor.

They pull apart as soon as it heats up a little bit, and pain flashes across both of their expressions at the thought of why.

“There’s this thing called PrEP,” Spencer says, still a little ashamed of his situation, that Derek has to be protected against him before they can take this any further. “It’s medication that you take before and after sex with a HIV positive person that blocks the virus from entering your bloodstream if you were to somehow contract it. And we can wear condoms. And once I reach an undetectable viral load, it means the virus is untransmittable, and you won’t contract it even if we’re unprotected.”

Derek blinks. “Wow, that’s… that’s better than I thought.”

“Really? You’re still okay with all this?”

He softens. “Pretty boy, I am so okay with all this, and I’m sorry that you spent so long thinking otherwise. We have time to figure all this out, but what matters is that right now, I have you next to me, and we love each other. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, and leans forward to kiss Derek chastely. “I do.”

“Now, how about we bin that disgusting mac-and-cheese and order some Chinese?” he suggests, matching Spencer’s smile. “We could eat it in bed and watch one of those documentaries you’re always talking about.”

Spencer laughs fondly. “You want our first date to be eating takeaway and watching a science documentary in bed?”

“Well it sounds perfect to me.”

“Yeah, it sounds pretty perfect to me, too,” Spencer whispers, the happiness in his chest feeling warm and inviting, begging him to bask in the moment for as long as he can.

They’ll work out the specifics later — they’ll get Derek started on PrEP and attend Spencer’s appointments to measure his viral load, they’ll have important and serious conversations about the risks to both of them, they’ll work out what their relationship means for work, how they’ll begin to repair the damage the last few months have done to Spencer’s mental health — but right now, none of that matters.

All that does is: the buffet of Chinese food Derek lays out on a blanket on Spencer’s bed, the documentary about bees playing on the TV, and the thrilled little glances thrown each other’s way, the stolen kisses and casual touches, the love palpable in the air around them. And later, when the food is eaten, and the documentary is playing the credits: Spencer’s tired head resting on Derek’s loving chest, and the syncing of their heartbeats as they fall asleep to the sound of each other.

This shouldn't have to be said but please do not use fanfiction as sex education and PLEASE practice safe sex. As far as I know, all the information included in this fic is correct, but I have no personal experience with HIV/AIDS, and this is very much written from an outsider's perspective - albeit a thoroughly researched one.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic-not-stupid (taglist form)

[tenthgrove]

La squdra with black s/o and somebody was being racist towards them? Only if you are comfortable with that. If your not, could you just do one with la squdra with black reader who has natural hair.

How La Squadra Responds when Someone is Racist to you

La Squadra x Reader (GN), Platonic/Romantic (interpretable), SFW, TW: Racism

(A/N: Since we’re talking about racism here I think it’s best I state for the record that I am white. While I don’t go into detail about the specifics of the racism in these scenarios it might still be triggering to some so a warning applies.)

Formaggio- I headcanon that Formaggio has both African-American and South Asian ancestry, so unfortunately, he’s no stranger to the sort of abuse you’re facing now. He has a simple solution that always cheers him up when it happens to him, and he’s more than happy to give it a go with you. Simply put- you steal the aggressor’s wallet with Little Feet, high-tail it out of there by any means necessary, and spend the cash on whatever the hell you feel like. It’s a nice way for the bigot to pay you back for the hurt they caused, whether they want to or not. Fair, no?

Illuso- Similarly to Formaggio, Illuso’s first thought is to use his stand to get back at the aggressor. Instead of going after their money however, he has a different idea. With your approval of course, he’s going to go down the route of scaring them shitless. There’s nothing that could make them question your sanity more than wondering around a desolate world for a few minutes before inexplicably finding themselves back where you were before. Illuso then continues to spy on the person a bit longer to see if they do anything bigoted again in which case, guess what? It’s back in the mirror world they go! The goal is to form an association between their behaviour and being trapped in the mirror world, ensuring that they never repeat their shitty actions to anyone else again.

Prosciutto- He isn’t one to jump into action without planning, but at the same time, he knows that something like this can’t go unpunished. Consequently, his first port of call is to get you somewhere safe and ask what you’d like to do about this. You were the one being victimised, after all, so it’s only fair you get to decide what happens to them. He’s really okay with anything you say. You can leave and choose to ignore it or you can find the aggressor again and force them to apologise by any means necessary. If, theoretically speaking, it were entirely up to him however, he would most likely choose to covertly make clear to the bigot that the two of you happen to be part of an organisation more powerful than anything they will ever be involved in. Surely they’re willing to give such people the respect they deserve, yes?

Pesci- If there’s one thing that Pesci wants you to always know it’s that he thinks the world of you, and he hates the thought of anyone else potentially making you see yourself as less than he does. There aren’t many things that will anger Pesci enough for him to take a stand, but seeing someone be racist towards you is definitely one of them. He gets you behind him and tells the aggressor just how wrong they are in as many words that come to his mind. After that he whisks you away somewhere private to check on your emotions and offer you reassurance if the event has left you shaken.

Melone- Provided there’s no threat to your safety, he gets out his phone and starts filming. The threat of accountability for their actions is often enough to make someone shut up at once, but if it doesn’t, he absolutely will go through with his threats of making sure the video ends up in all the wrong places. It’s up to you exactly where it goes, but provided you’re okay with it, Melone’s happy to send it pretty much anywhere. How would they like their boss to know that this is how they behave? Their family? Their partner? He’ll back up these threats with educated guesses about the person’s life situation that often prove frighteningly accurate. He might not have the physical strength to endanger a life without his stand, but he can sure well ruin one.

Ghiaccio- Without hesitation he immediately snaps around at yells something to the effect of ‘EXCUSE ME WHAT THE FUCK?!’ He absolutely will not stand for this kind of behaviour, towards anyone but especially towards someone he cares about, and he isn’t afraid to get all up in the aggressor’s face about it. If the person isn’t prepared for a fight there’s a high chance Ghiaccio’s explosion will send them running or at very least backing down. If they are prepared for a fight, well, they aren’t going to win, that much is for sure.

Risotto- If anyone dares be racist to you in his presence, Risotto will simply crank up the intimidation factor until your aggressor comes to understand you’re far from the easy target they mistook you for. Most of the time all he has to do is look over, stand closer to you and put his hand on your shoulder while staring menacingly for the bigot to stammer their excuses and hurry off with their tail between their legs. Failing that (or if the person in any way made you feel physically threatened- in that case there are no second chances) he isn’t afraid to get violent. He doesn’t even have to cause a scene- all it takes is a tiny little hunk of iron careening around your aggressor’s insides while he stares them down, for them to make the most profound apology of their life.

Sorbet and Gelato- My version of Sorbet is Korean, so couple that with his and Gelato’s status as a very overt MLM couple, they are unfortunately very common targets for bigots who see them around town, especially when they’re just trying to enjoy a date. The years of putting up with this have only increased how rightfully angry they feel about this, and the first time they witness someone behave that way to you as well, they both see red. They’re going to make it very clear to the aggressor that if they ever speak to you like that again they might very well pay in blood. This isn’t an empty threat either- Sorbet and Gelato are never not armed.

[ragingpancake]

I Will Try (To Fix You) - Part 2

It’s ten days before Carson deems Rodney “well enough” to return to his quarters. To date, this has been the longest infirmary stay that Rodney’s ever had and truthfully, he should probably stay a bit longer. His kidneys still aren’t functioning as well as they should, which means Carson’s been closely monitoring his water intake and urine output and a whole host of other things that John knows Rodney is embarrassed about. He’s also not entirely steady on his feet, courtesy of the muscle spams that wrack his calves and his thighs, bad enough sometimes to nearly bring him to tears. It’s ten days before John, Carson and Elizabeth have a very real, very difficult conversation about what a prolonged stay in the infirmary will likely do Rodney mentally, left with nothing really to occupy his time except, well, time to think about just how close he’d come to death. Carson is reluctant to release him; they haven’t yet gotten him back to solid foods and of course his kidney function is still a concern, but John knows Rodney, knows that he needs to be anywhere but here and he argues his case: Rodney can come stay in his quarters. His team is grounded for the foreseeable future, courtesy of John who is unwilling to go off-world without his entire team and while he’s offered to temporarily reassign Teyla and Ronon to Lorne, they share his line of thinking. Rodney can come stay with John, but he has his whole team who’ll be watching out for him, who will bring him for twice daily check ins, if needed, who will monitor any time spent in the lab, who just want Rodney to have some semblance of normalcy during his recovery. It must be an impassioned speech, because by the time he’s done, Elizabeth nods her consent and John finds for the first time in ten days, it’s a little easier to breath.

--- Rodney, predictably, complains about the arrangement. He’s not keen on having a babysitter and that hurts John’s stunted feelings more than he’d ever admit out loud. But when Carson makes it clear that the only option is an extended stay in the infirmary, he relents pretty easily and all that’s left is to prepare John’s quarters. Easy peasy. Right? Wrong. It turns out that the room John’s claimed for himself isn’t quite meant for two people. It’s small and while it’s fine for just him, he knows that it’s going to be too cramped, too claustrophobic and so he spends the eleventh day scouting out some of the larger quarters near the East Pier with Teyla, pretending to understand when she makes suggestions based on where the light from the rising sun falls and which room has the best view of the ocean, which she believes will aid in Rodney’s recovery. He’s never been much into new age bullshit that seems to be pretty common across two galaxies, but he’s willing to shove a couple of crystals up his own ass if it means getting Rodney better.

He enlists Ronon, Lorne and a couple of marines to help move their things. John leaves his own quarters to Wallace, Gregory and Barnes despite how uncomfortable the thought of them seeing his own personal effects makes him, and he takes Rodney’s room with Ronon and Lorne. Rodney, for his part, has a lot of stuff. It takes the better part of the afternoon to get everything moved over, including Rodney’s deceptively heavy prescription mattress, his four laptops and the whiteboard that he’d swiped from the labs within the first week of their arrival. John’s stuff, save for his own bed, mostly fits in a couple bags. By the time they’re finished, he’s tired, shoulders and back aching, reminding him just how fucking old he’s getting, but still, he trudges down to the infirmary, plastering a smile on his face for Rodney as he steps in through the paneled doors. “Hey buddy,” he greets. “Got us all set up in some new digs. Wait until you see the tub in this one,” he says, nodding as Carson comes over, Rodney’s chart in hand. “He all good to go, Doc?” “I suppose he’ll have to be, now won’t he?” He asks and there’s a scowl there that John cheerfully ignores. “I expect him back here at 10 and 2, Colonel. A minute late for either appointment and he’s back here, d’you understand?” “10 and 2, just like a steering wheel. Got it, doc. How about the food situation?” “Yeah, what he said,” Rodney frowns and John knows from previous experience just how miserable a clear liquid diet can be. “I’m alright with him startin’ on solids, but take it easy,” Carson warns. “Nothin’ too heavy,” and Rodney waves him off, but despite his lackadaisical nature, John really is taking this seriously, committing everything to memory. “Got it. We good?” Carson pauses for a moment before he sighs. “Aye. But not a moment late, Colonel!” He warns as Marie and Simpson come, pushing a wheelchair that Rodney tries to vehemently refuse. John settles a hand on his shoulder gently. “Hey, hey. C’mon. Easy. It’s a pretty long walk to the pier, alright? Let’s not push it too much on your first day.” “Traitor,” Rodney mutters under his breath and John actually does smile because it feels a little like it used to before those God damned Carneans. John steadies the wheelchair while Marie and Simpson maneuver Rodney into it and after what feels like forever, they’re finally on their way. “You did get my laptops, right?” “Yes, Rodney.” “And what about the Athosian soaps from the bathroom? Those were made specially for me by Gita and, and, and the medicinal properties-- “We got ‘em.” “My mattress?” “Of course.” Rodney harrumphs like maybe he’s expecting John to have forgotten something, as if John would ever. “What about—” “Your favorite red pen that you use to mark up all those damn physics journals? Yep. Got that too. We grabbed everything, buddy. And if there’s somethin’ you need that we don’t have, just say the word and we’ll make it happen.” Rodney falls strangely quiet at that. --- It’s easy to live with Rodney. Lorne had very nearly pissed himself from laughter when John said so after the first few days and honestly, John took a little offense to that on Rodney’s behalf. Sure, he’s messy and he’s loud and the longer he’s out, the more of his biting sarcasm is returning, but John’s all for it, especially when he considers the alternative. (And he does consider it, frequently, usually in the dead of night when he wakes up from nightmares of vomit and grey skin, of an antidote recovered too late). But honestly, save for the fact that John now has to deal with Rodney’s dirty clothes strewn across the room and the stupid whiteboard that takes up the space that John’s surf board should be occupying, not much has changed at all, a testament to just how much time the two of them had spent together even before this. John follows Carson’s instructions to a T, and okay, maybe that’s a little different too because John’s always been the one to avoid the infirmary at all costs when it comes to his own health and

well-being, but he’s not taking a chance with Rodney’s. He takes him to his appointments and at nights, when the muscle spasms seem to be the worst, John sits with him on that stupidly comfortable bed, kneading the tight muscles in his legs as he tries to distract Rodney with shitty 80s movies and random banter about anything and everything that he thinks will goad Rodney into a tirade that’ll take his mind off of the pain. He even lets Rodney have four hours a day in the labs, split into two hour segments with an hour break in between. Normalcy. That’s the goal here and Rodney’s always at his best when he’s in his element, berating scientists and defying all laws of physics. That’s where Rodney is when everything goes to hell. --- It’s been twenty days since the Carneans. Ten days of the two of them cohabitating, ten days of Rodney slowly working his way back to normal. He’s been subsisting entirely of power bars and MREs, which, while not entirely healthy has been cleared by Carson if only for the fact that they provide sustenance without being too taxing on Rodney’s still delicate system and John’s just thinking about whether or not he can try to convince Rodney to try something a little more substantial from the mess later that evening when the call comes in over the radio. “Zelenka to Colonel Sheppard, please respond.” He sounds harried and John closes the latest mission report from Lorne’s team, already on his feet and moving when he taps his comm. “Sheppard here, go ahead Doc.” “I need you in Science Lab 3 please. There is a… situation.” “What do you mean by situation, Radek?” But when Radek keys up his comm again, John can hear the panicked wheezing in the background and he picks it up to a swift jog. “I believe Rodney is having a panic attack,” he says. “I have tried to bring him around but nothing is working and I--.” “I’m on my way. Sheppard out.” He meets Ronon in the corridor and he doesn’t even have to say a word before the Satedan is altering his own course, following after John. They can hear it before they even open the door. Rodney’s on the verge of hyperventilating, the sound of his ragged breaths interspersed with pained moans and Ronon is quick to clear the lab of well meaning scientists who are gaping at the scene while Radek tries to shield Rodney from view as much as possible. “Hey, hey,” John says soothingly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the way his heart is beating against his ribcage. “I’m here, buddy. Rodney, look at me. Hey, hey,” and he reaches out, finger under Rodney’s chin as he tips his head up, wild blue eyes meeting hazel. John wants to take Rodney’s hand, but his arms are wrapped around his middle, clutching his stomach so tightly and John glances over at the toppled plate on the floor, shards of glass now mixed with what looks like not-meatloaf. “Talk to me, Doc,” John calls over his shoulder at Zelenka. “What the hell happened?” “He was out of power bars, but hungry, so Miko thought perhaps he might be enticed to eat by something from the mess, knowing that this,” he gestures, “was Rodney’s favorite. He managed a couple of bites and everything was fine until… until it was not.” “Cramps,” Rodney rasps, reaching out to grip John’s wrist painfully. “Cramps. Poison, I—I can’t--.” “Get Carson down here,” John snarls, voice softening as he turns back to Rodney. “Hey. Listen to me, buddy. Carson told us this could happen, remember? The cramps. That’s why we started light. You’re okay though. I promise, Rodney. You’re okay, I’m right here and I need you to breathe.” It takes a bit of manhandling but John manages to get Rodney up enough that he can slide behind the other, drawing Rodney back against his chest, taking a couple of deep breaths. “C’mon, buddy. Breathe with me. You’re alright. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Rodney.” That’s how Carson finds them a few moments later, Rodney trembling against the other, but thankfully no longer hyperventilating. “He’s alright,” John says, glancing up at Beckett. “Panic attack when

he tried to eat and cramped up.” “I thought—I thought--.” John pets through Rodney’s hair gently. “I know. You thought it happened again, but it didn’t, right? We’re gonna go down to the infirmary with Carson though and let him check you over so you can see for yourself.” “Easy, lad,” Carson says as Ronon comes over to help Rodney to his feet with more care than he’s shown anyone else, guiding him over to the gurney before he tugs John to his feet as well. “John—” Rodney rasps, the name catching his throat as the cramps hit again and he curls on his side, swallowing hard against the panic beginning to rise again. “I’m here,” John reminds him again, moving to take Rodney’s hand. “You’re alright, I promise.” And he is. He will be. John will be sure of that. --- The panic attacks don’t last long. He still cramps painfully when he eats, but the team is always with him at meal time to help him through it, John always, alwayseating a third of his food before switching his tray with Rodney’s for him to finish it, confident that there’s no poison. The effects of what had been done to him still linger, still present often and painfully, and sometimes, John doesn’t think what he’s doing is enough. That he should be doing more, that he should’ve done more back on that fucking planet to have saved Rodney from this entire ordeal. But Rodney’s getting better. John can see that when he goes longer and longer without a muscle spasm, or the first time he pees on his own and calls John in to see how clear it is, proof that his kidneys are finally starting to function normally. “You know,” Rodney says one night after they’ve pushed their beds close enough together that if they each scoot over to the edge, their shoulders are touching, “it probably won’t be too much longer until we can go back to our own quarters.” There’s an uncomfortable knot that twists itself up in John’s stomach at that but he swallows against the lump in his throat and says casually, “oh yeah? That’ll be cool. I guess.” “Yeah,” Rodney says and then he falls silent for a moment, as if waiting for something. Apparently, his impatience has returned full force because he doesn’t even give it a half a second before he’s speaking again. “I mean, unless we just… don’t?” Okay. That’s unexpected. “I just… this has been incredibly difficult, Colonel. Uh, John,” he corrects, “and you’ve… I know that this is probably because of some weird, misplaced guilt you’re harboring, because that’s how you are, Lieutenant Colonel Martyr, but… this has been okay… hasn’t it?” “Rodney, I--.” “I know I’m difficult. I’m messy and I’ll be going back to keeping weird hours soon enough and, and, and I know I can be annoying, but you’ve put up with that remarkably well and so I just thought--.” “I don’t want to go back to being alone,” John blurts out and he can feel the tension leaving Rodney’s body beside him. “Good. Me neither.” They fall into a comfortable silence then for a moment, the only sounds being their quiet breathing and the sound of the ocean waves through the open window. (Teyla was definitely right about picking this room.) “It’s not guilt,” John says after a moment. “I mean, not that I don’t feel guilty, because I should’ve never--.” He clears his throat and stops himself before he goes down that road. “You’re… I dunno. You’re McKay. Rodney. And I… when I found you that day, I thought you were dead,” and he can feel Rodney flinch at that, but he needs to get this out, he thinks. “I thought you’d died and I just… realized that I would’ve gone out of my fucking mind if you had, Rodney. Like, legitimately crazy because you’re… You’re you and I’m--. I’m yours. However you want me. If that means we forget this conversation ever happened and go back to how it was before all of this, I’m okay with that, but I just… I had to tell you because I came really fucking close to never getting another chance to.” Rodney is quiet, doesn’t say anything but after a moment, John can feel the other’s hand brush against his own before he

squeezes two of John’s fingers. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time in all the time we’ve known each other.” And John laugh out loud at that, an actual laugh, and as he does, he feels that knot inside of him loosen just a bit. “Which is to say,” Rodney continues, “that I… would very much like to notforget this happened. I… suppose that I’m yours too. Maybe I always have been.” John doesn’t know where they’ll go from here. He’s under no delusions that this will be easy, any of it, but when has it ever been? All that matters though is that they have time now to work through it, to figure it out together. Maybe they’ll fix each other.

[penaltbox]

no promises - cole caufield

here’s a little fic that i’m actually pretty proud of and i owe so much credit to @puckyess​ for always helping me get these ideas rolling. if you like it let me know! feedback and reblogs are much appreciated!

word count: ~5.9k

__

The image of the gold chain he always wore dances behind your closed eyelids for the third night in a row. You swear you can hear his ragged breath in your ear, his mumbled profanities mingling with the gasps you let out when he checks to make sure you’re still okay, and the brief mentions of something gone wrong during the game. It’s like he’s right there, pushing you both closer to a release of emotions that you played no part in aggravating. You’re ready to lose it when you shoot up in bed, your phone lit up on the side table next to you with a notification. You take a deep breath and steady yourself, not even realizing that you’d fallen asleep. You rub your hand over your face and grab the device to check who was contacting you at such a late hour. You had a feeling you knew who…

‘Speak of the devil’, you thought as you unlocked your screen and tapped on his message. You realize then that it’s just past one o’clock in the morning and you connect the dots that he’d probably just gotten back from their trip to Ohio State. 

‘come over’

Never a please. Never a ‘would you like to’. Never a doubt that you wouldn’t do exactly what he asked of you.

And you had yet to prove him wrong. You slip out from under your covers quickly, grabbing some clothes and sneaking into your bathroom with your fingers crossed that your roommate wouldn’t hear you. You shower quickly and shave, slipping on the lace underwear that he’d probably hardly notice and some comfy clothes before brushing your teeth and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Your roommate asks, head peeking over the back of the couch as you jump in surprise. She was rarely up late, but of course, some west coast hockey game had kept her up well past her bedtime on that night of all times. You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed the TV still on when you walked out.

“Uhm, nowhere,” you lie, knowing she’ll see right through you, “I’ll be back tonight though.”

She sighs and turns back around, “you know he’s just going to hurt you.”

And that… that was probably true, but it’s something you refuse to think about in that moment. Instead, you slip your shoes on and grab your keys, heading out just as suddenly as his request had come in. You made a half-hearted mental note that this needed to be the last time you did this.

__

You hate how quickly you get to his place but you can’t help it. It’s like second nature at this point and you could get there on autopilot if needed. Some nights it felt just like that but tonight you had a weird buzzing under your skin. It wasn’t like you were doing this for the first time or anything. Far from it, in fact. You try to brush the feeling off as nerves and stop two doors down from his actual apartment, sending him a text that you’d arrived, just like he always asked you to do. 

It takes a few minutes but his head pops out of the door suddenly and he smirks, “about time.”

You roll your eyes playfully and walk towards him, leaning in to kiss his cheek before making your way towards his bedroom. Brock barely spares you a glance from the couch, focusing his eyes on the TV as he watches the replay of the game your roommate had caught earlier. You blush and turn towards Cole’s room, but manage to catch Brock telling Cole to keep it down in a less than pleased voice. 

You ignore it and make your way into Cole’s room, peeking out the window at the city below that was much quieter than you were used to with it being such a late hour. 

“Miss me?” He calls from behind you, catching your attention.

You turn and find him still donning the smirk he’d formed when he first saw you that night, “wouldn’t you love to know.”

He scoffs a little and you watch his demeanor start to shift. Cole never called because he wanted to see you. No, it was more that he needed you to be there. Cole had a short temper ever since getting to Wisconsin. He found himself easily agitated and regularly frustrated at how his game had gone from smooth and easy with the NTDP to always struggling with the Badgers. 

And then one night he met you. He didn’t mean to start hooking up with you but you knew enough about hockey that he could talk about what went wrong if he wanted to, but you also knew when you just let him have his turn to get his frustrations out. His mouth turns down in a scowl as he locks his bedroom door and closes the gap between you two. His stare is constant and you feel your cheeks heat up almost instantly. He had control over you that you’d never given up to anyone and it made for addictingly good sex. 

“This last game sucked,” he mumbles, backing you against the wall and resting a hand on your hip. He’s so close you can feel his warm breaths as he seems to disconnect from the world suddenly. 

He goes silent but you don’t need any other explanation. You’d watched the game and saw he got his shit rocked on a couple different occasions. You would bet there was a bruise somewhere under his clothes that you’d be finding in no time. 

He presses his lips roughly against yours as his free hand comes around your waist, holding you tight against him. His hand slides up from your hip and slips under your shirt until he gets up to your bra… or where it should be. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling back and lifting your battered Wisconsin crew neck over your head, “no bra? I love it.”

Your heart stalls a little at the l-word, not expecting him to say that. You don’t get time to react though as he kisses you again, slower this time, and angles you over towards the bed. He lets you fall back on it and you smile, reaching a hand out for him. He takes it, giving you a grin back that makes the buzzing under your skin worsen. 

Cole was always different once he got you in his room. He didn’t say much when you got there or left, but when it was just the two of you? He was all hands on. He was vocal; he checked in on you, he praised you, and he always made sure you finished. But he never looked at you when he did. 

He’s quick to shed his own clothes and tug your joggers off, wasting no time as his lips found as much skin as they could. He left a couple marks, but not anywhere they’d be visible. You did your best to keep up, gripping his shoulders as you rolled your hips up against his. 

He’s settled into you and creating a pace before he says another word, his tone strained as he says, “can’t believe that goal didn’t count. Fuck that ref. We hardly got enough chances on net. Shit, I’m getting close, baby.”

“Just a little longer,” you squeak, digging your nails into his back as the pet name rolled through your thoughts. He never called you by name during sex. It was a red flag that stood tall but you still ignored it every time it happened. 

You could feel every failed play in the way he moved. You knew there were missed shots and poor passes that resulted in them losing. You watch the wheels turn in his head as he holds you down just a little harder, blunt nails digging into your skin. His left bites the skin above your collarbone and you know it’ll leave a mark but it still pulls an obscene noise from your lips. 

He presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, lips melting against your warm skin. He slips a hand down to help you along and it works much faster than you expected. You hated how he knew what would make your body react fastest as you tumble to your end. You try to catch your breath below him, knowing the hold he had on your hip would leave bruises. It usually did. He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a couple minutes when he’s done. 

He looks over at you, the corner of his lips just slightly pulled up, “are you good?”

“I’m good,” you laugh, still a little out of breath, “just don’t make me stand up right this second. My legs feel like jello.”

“Deal,” he laughs, letting his hand slide over, hooking your pinkies together in the small space between the two of you. 

Once you finally feel up for it you slide out of his warm bed, grabbing your clothes and sliding them back on. Cole pulls sweatpants on and waits until you’re ready before walking you out. He stops at his own door first though and leans down, giving you a much more gentle kiss than the first that night. He lets you both linger, arms wrapped around each other, and leans his forehead on yours when he finally separates his mouth from yours. 

“I’ll see you next time?” He asks, but you both know the answer. 

“Yeah, of course.”

His demeanor turns back to friendly versus affectionate as he walks you to the front door. You notice that Brock is no longer taking up space on the couch and you feel embarrassed when you think of what he must have heard. 

Cole tells you goodbye, but there’s no hug and definitely no kiss this time around. He watches until you get safely into the elevator and leaves you with a nod of his head. You really wondered why you stuck around but when you remember the last kiss he’d given you, you can’t help but press your fingers to your lips as the buzzing under your skin heightens again. 

—

You watch the time tick down off the clock, wincing when you watch Cole smash his stick off the wall at the buzzer. They’d gotten destroyed by Minnesota and you already knew what type of mood he was in. The announcers make comments on the bad attitudes the Badgers were toting, mentioning multiple things they’d done wrong that night. You mute them but leave the feed running just in case they interviewed someone you’d want to hear from. 

It was a home game so there was no flight to wait for but you had a good feeling you’d be getting a text in an hour or two so you moved from the couch to your bathroom, not wanting to make him wait with how he was acting already. 

As soon as you wrap the fluffy towel around your body and tap the screen you see three messages waiting from Cole and one from a number you didn’t have saved. You frown and open it quickly, tapping the unknown number first. 

‘Hey it’s Brock. Sorry if this is weird but the doors unlocked and I’m gone for the night so deal with my brother please and thanks’

You laugh a little, knowing he must be way more worked up than you expected. ‘What a shit show this is going to be’, you think to yourself. You skim Cole’s messages next that range from ‘come over’ to ‘I’m dead serious get over here’. You’re about to type out a response when his contact pops up on your screen. He’d never called before. 

“Hello?” You answer, brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Why are you ignoring me? Get over here,” He grits out, sounding so tense your jaw drops a little. 

You sigh, tucking the phone between your shoulder and cheek as you hurry to your room to grab clothes, “I am, I promise. I was just in the shower.”

“We don’t make promises, remember? The front door is open when you get here.”

You’re about to tell him you knew that but the line goes dead, leaving you to stare at the blank screen in your hand. You’re baffled at the attitude he was projecting onto you but you get your things together anyways and finish getting ready. ‘

You don’t hurry to his place this time, knowing he was on edge either way, but you still get there in under 20 minutes from when he’d called. You bite your lip as you try the door handle, finding it unlocked just like both Caufield boys had said. You take a deep breath and walk in, locking the door behind you

“Cole?” you call out, looking around the small space. He’s not in the kitchen or living room so you head down the hall. His room is dark, leaving you confused, but then you hear the shower. You tap on the door and peek your head in, “Cole?”

His head pops out from around the corner, a frown so prominent his forehead was creasing. It eases off his face a little when he locks eyes on you as he calls for you, “will you come here? Get in with me.”

Your face heats quickly. You’d never done something so intimate with him and you were wondering if it was really the best idea. Your skin starts to get that all-too-familiar buzz under it now and you were starting to think it was permanent around him. 

“Are you sure? I just took one and I don’t mind waiting in your room until you’re done.”

He sighs, pouting a little, “please.”

You really wished you had more willpower in that moment but when it came to him you just didn’t. You nod and make your way into the small room, striping your clothes off as he watched. It makes you feel so much more exposed than usual but somehow it’s not uncomfortable. You push him back gently as you go to step in, smiling a little.

“You better make room if you want me in here,” you tease, putting your hair up in a bun to keep it dry.

Cole smirks and pulls you into him, eyes still scanning your body, “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

You snort at that and roll your eyes, “we both know that’s a lie. You’re the one who calls the shots around here.”

He’s silent for a moment before he smirks and leans down, kissing you hard. He bites gently on your bottom lip, much to your surprise, and lets a hand trail down the side of your thigh. He looks like he’s up to no good when he pulls back, making you let out a little laugh. You knew when you were in trouble with him. 

“Let’s see what it’s like in the shower. I bet you sound amazing in here,” he says, his tone low enough to make you shiver a bit. You didn’t hate the idea. You were pretty sure anywhere the two of you chose would be worth your time, but the bathroom was… well lit. He’d see every inch of you and you were pretty sure he hadn’t yet.

“Are you sure?” you check in, half hoping he’ll change his mind for some reason. 

“Yeah I’m sure. I think it’ll be fun,” he nods, but stops when he notices your hesitation, “unless you’re not cool with it?”

“No! I’m okay with it! I just was thinking we’ve never really done anything with so much, you know, light and stuff,” you blush, looking down at your feet then and feeling a little silly for your admission. 

Cole reaches out to tilt your chin back up towards him, “I’ll let you call this shot.”

And you agree. You end up losing your footing a couple times, he has to hold your waist almost always, and you can’t help but laugh at the awful noises that are being made at an awful volume in the tiled area. It’s simultaneously the worst yet most fun sex the two of you had dealt with yet. It takes longer than normal to finish for you both so you’re exhausted by the time you both lean on each other to catch your breath. 

“Wonder what time it is by now,” you mumble, cheek pressed against his chest as you hug his waist tight. 

He looks down and leans to kiss your forehead so gently you can’t breathe suddenly, “probably pretty late. Did you just want to spend the night?”

You sigh and try to step away but his arms hold you tightly in place. You give him a look, trying to remind him that you both know better than to even think about doing that. This was still just a hookup. Or at least it was supposed to be. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you sigh, leaning your cheek back onto his chest to listen to his heartbeat rather than catching his stare. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. 

He carefully slips from your arms and out of the shower, grabbing his own towel before searching for an extra for you. He shuts the shower off and wraps the towel tightly around you, giving you another forehead kiss. He was really pushing boundaries for the night and you were struggling to keep saying no. 

You both dress in silence, but it’s far from awkward. You can see the tension is gone in his shoulders and he just looks exhausted now. You’re still determined to leave and keep things casual, but if you weren’t, you’d have him wrapped in your arms in his bed while you played with his hair. Luckily, or maybe not, you’d never know that was struggling not to think of the same thing. 

He catches you by surprise yet again that night when he kisses you at the front door. He usually played it cool and acted unattached in any of the common spaces but tonight was much different. You had so many thoughts in your head from the way he was treating you and you knew you needed to go. 

A quick goodbye and one more fast kiss, or you wouldn’t leave, and you were walking a little quicker than usual to the elevator. Maybe it was time to start telling him no. You laugh at your own thoughts immediately. You were way too gone for him to ever do that.

—

‘Let me know when you land and I’ll get ready’

You stare at the words that you’d texted, wondering if you blacked out when you sent them. You can’t take it back, unfortunately, and you’re left with the gnawing feeling that you shouldn’t have done it. Cole was always the one to ask you over. 

“You sent him what?” Your roommate asks, her eyes wide as she leans over your shoulder to read it, “oh my god, are you in love with him or something?”

“What? No!” You yell back, but truthfully you weren’t sure about that, “I just figured I’d check in with him first? I don’t know, I guess I just thought I’d get the ball rolling earlier today.”

Your face feels hot to the touch as you press your hand against your cheek. You know you must look like a lost puppy because your roommate wraps her arms around you immediately, rubbing your back soothingly. 

“Just be careful, okay? I know you have fun when you’re with him, but boys suck. You can’t trust him.”

You swallow hard and nod, knowing she was telling the truth. You nod as a silent agreement and tell yourself you need to start pulling away. It’s not that you want to. You always enjoy being with Cole. It’s more that you need to. 

Cole turns his phone on once the flight lands. A few messages popping up right away. He’s about to ignore them all when he sees your name ding on the screen right before he can lock it. He feels a little tug in his chest as he reads the words you’d sent him. He tries to shrug the feeling off but the smack on his shoulder grounds him more than anything. 

Brock stares at him, an almost knowing look on his face, “is that who I think it is? I thought you were the one who always reached out first.”

“I mean, I usually am. This is a first,” Cole says, looking back down at the message that has his face quickly turning up in a smile. 

“You know this isn’t a good idea,” Brock mumbles as he gives his little brother a side eye, “when are you going to stop playing with her emotions and make a decision? Because it sure looks like you’re getting your own feelings involved at this point, too.”

“I’m sure she just sent it because she knows by now. We practically have a routine at this point so she’s really not out of line or anything,” Cole justifies, starting to type out a message right away.

Brock laughs a little before standing to get off the plane, “just don’t come crying to me when things go wrong because you two wouldn’t talk about things and one of you ends up heartbroken. Or both of you.”

Cole sighs and tries to shake off the words from his brother because honestly, he knew what Brock was saying was the truth. He’d always said he wasn’t going to get into anything serious because everything until the NHL was just a short-term stay. He hadn’t listened to that rule in high school though and so far he was having a hard time listening to it at college as well. Despite the advice from his brother he texts you back, wanting to just go with what made him feel good. 

‘Don’t be late’

He throws a winking emoji on at the end, quickly softening the formerly demanding message. You nearly choke on your own breath when it comes in on your phone. You’d spent the last half hour pacing your apartment and overthinking the worst case scenarios that could come from your choice to text him first. You’re surprised that he’s so casual about it, if you’re being honest, but you chalk it up to it being a routine thing that you guys did after his games. It’s all you need to hear though and you finish getting ready while trying not to think too hard about what it meant that you were both showing a desire to be together. 

Cole barely drops his backpack down in his room when his phone lights up. He smiles subconsciously and opens your message as he’s walking back towards the front door. Brock happens to be walking in the opposite direction and gives Cole a solid shove on his shoulder, mumbling something about how soft Cole was getting. He ignores the comment and pulls the front door open quickly, looking over at you.

“Well look who it is. Get over here,” he says, directing his smile at you.

You blush when you see how happy he looks and it makes your stomach flutter. That couldn’t be a good sign, but you can’t help it. You walk over and lean in, testing to see where the boundaries were that day. He leans down easily, kissing you gently, and making your brain go haywire. He’d never done that in the common space. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and giving a little squeeze as he takes the familiar path to his room. You were pretty sure you could walk the apartment with your eyes closed by now and you mark another little red flag in your head. They were tallying up faster and faster lately.

“You split the series, huh?” you ask, needing to break the silence with something to stop your thoughts from scrambling any longer.

Cole grins back at you, “yeah, they were decent so I’m glad we got that first win yesterday. Is that what it takes to get you to text first? A split?”

You can hear the teasing in his voice and it makes you blush, leaning your forehead on his arm, “stop, I thought you were back already. I didn’t mean to text early.”

He laughs, kissing your forehead and shutting the door behind him, “it’s okay. I didn’t mind it. We do kind of have that routine by now.”

“Yeah, we kind of do, huh? I just didn’t want to step over any lines with it,” you mumble, looking down where your hands are still connected.

“You didn’t,” he says quietly, grabbing your other hand and putting them on the back of his neck so he can wrap his arms around your waist, “don’t be afraid to do it again.”

You can’t form any words, opting to give him a little nod as your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck instead. He kisses you then and it takes your breath away. It feels like more than the ones you’d had before and maybe that was from his confession that he didn’t mind hearing from you whenever you pleased, but it’s a lot. In fact, the whole night is a lot.

He takes his time once he lays you down, picking you apart and finding every soft spot on your body. It isn’t rushed and aggressive like the hook ups usually were and you both were well aware of what you were doing. You even take a chance, tracing a bruise on his side with kisses to see if he’d let you. Usually he took charge and did things his way, but he lets you do what you want, making him whine and squirm like you’d never seen. You’re both exhausted by the time you’re done. You’d spent time, and for once, a lot of emotion on each other that wasn’t how things used to be. He pulls you against his chest after as he gently dances his fingers up and down your back.

“Same thing next weekend?” he jokes, getting a laugh out of you instantly. The sound makes the tug in his chest come back and he tries to push it away.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you say and pretend to think about it, “what if I have other plans or you guys win both games?”

“Why don’t you text first again and we’ll see what happens?” 

You bite your lip and start to sit up, knowing you needed to leave before you got too tired or lost your willpower to tell him no. Cole frowns immediately and you catch the look right away, teasing him, “you aren’t so tough after all, are you, Caufield?” 

“Just stay,” he says, his tone low enough to make your stomach flip as he catches your wrist, “you already broke your rules once today. Do it again.”

You toss the idea around in your head, knowing this would go much farther than it should. It would step over so many lines, but your composure wasn’t very good around him anymore. You nod, leaning down to kiss him before settling back against his chest. He wraps his arms around you and kisses your temple. You hate how happy you feel with him as you remember all the red flags he’d given you in the past. You close your eyes and just try to relax. Next time you’d discuss what was going on. That was one promise you wanted to keep for yourself.

__

You and Cole go silent for the rest of the week after spending the night, but that was normal. You two didn’t talk any other time and you didn’t reach out unless it was after a game to sleep together. Still it manages to nag at you and you kick yourself. You caught feelings. You should have known better and cut things off weeks ago when you’d first started to get butterflies. Now it was too late and you knew you needed to have the ‘what is this’ talk with him sooner rather than later. You couldn’t keep wasting your time on someone who wasn’t going to stick around. You manage to make it through the week without reaching out to him, saving the interaction in case they lost their games that weekend and you’d inevitably hear from him then. 

Except they win.

Except he texts you immediately after the game with a message you’d never gotten from him.

‘Can we talk tonight?’

Your heart hammers in your chest as you read the four words over and over and over again. They’re burned into your memory by the time you look up, realizing your eyes had begun to tear up. You knew you needed to talk but you weren’t ready for the request to come from him. You send back a thumbs up emoji, not knowing how to string together any words that would make sense. You go on autopilot after that as you play through every possible situation that could come from this. 

Realistically it could either go really well or really poorly. He could say he also had feelings for you and that he wanted to make things work. Or, the worst option, he could tell you he didn’t have any feelings and he was done hooking up for good. You run through both options until your mind goes static and you have to force yourself out of the shower that’s run cold from being in it so long. You go through the motions of getting yourself to his place and sending the ‘here’ message that was customary at this point.

When he opens the door he doesn’t give you a smile, but waves you over. Neither of you go for a kiss and the air feels heavy around you both. It does nothing to calm your nerves or the churning in your stomach. You knew you weren’t there for a hookup that night, that much was obvious. It’s Brock standing in the living room that surprises you most. You catch his gaze and the soft, almost apologetic, smile he gives you sends you into overdrive. What the hell was going on?

With a hand on the small of your back, Cole ushers you towards the one room that usually offered privacy and relief, but this time it looked like a death sentence prison cell. His hand feels hot on your back and not in the good way that it used to. You lean against his desk when you get in there, immediately crossing your arms across your chest to get away from him. He shuts the doors softly and shoves his hands in his pockets as he stands in front of you. He still has his game suit on, minus the jacket, and you let yourself look. He looks ridiculously handsome and you commit the image to memory, having a feeling this was the one and only time you’d be getting that view. 

“Would you just tell me already?” you whisper, knowing that the worst was coming. 

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, nodding, “I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t. It’s exactly why I’ve always said we can’t make promises to each other.”

You frown at him, “so then don’t. It’s literally that simple.”

“It’s not though,” he says with a little laugh, “I already made my promises to someone else.”

Your blood runs cold at that and you realize you hadn’t thought of one very awful possibility of why he wanted to talk. He had someone else already. Your throat feels so tight that it’s hard to breathe and you try to suck in a deep breath that doesn’t help at all. You shake your head and tighten your arms more across your chest, praying it helps hold your heart together for just a little longer. 

“Who is she?”

He hangs his head like this entire thing isn’t his own fault, “we were together in high school and now we go to separate schools. I didn’t want to hold her back but I don’t know how to let her go either.”

“So you’re a cheater,” you spit out, tears falling fast before you can even try and hold them back, “you’re cheating on her and I’m the other girl. What the fuck is wrong with you, Cole?”

“It’s not cheating!” he tries to justify, holding his hands up and stepping closer to you, “we’re not official right now.”

You push him back, hand firm on his chest to give yourself space, “fuck you. You’re as official as you can be and you still slept with me for the last four months. You knew what you were doing and you didn’t care. You didn’t have her here so you found a good substitute. That’s awesome, thanks for fucking up my life and emotions in the process.”

“Stop, I told you I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I’m being honest right now.”

“Honest?” you raise your voice, well aware that Brock could probably hear everything at this point, “you call this honest? You’re a liar and a cheater, Cole Caufield! I can’t believe I let you play me for this long.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I swear I didn’t mean for this to be the way it is,” he says, practically pleading at this point. 

You shake your head, bottom lip wobbling as much as your voice, “you broke my heart. Are you happy with that? Was everything a joke to you? Sleeping together, forehead kisses, holding hands, spending the night? Or did you just picture her the whole time and I was just a stand in?”

“No,” he mumbles, trying to reach for you, but you smack his hand away and start to back yourself towards his door, “I swear it was real with you. I didn’t mean to take it so far but I started to like you, too.”

“You are unbelievable. I can’t believe I let you in so easily. I hate you.”

He swallows around a lump that appears in his throat suddenly. This wasn’t at all how he’d planned things. They were never supposed to go this far with you, but he couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t but now he had to. He had no options anymore and he would probably lose everyone in the process. 

“I promise I will hate you for the rest of my life,” you whisper, cheeks wet with tears despite your best efforts to try and rid yourself of them before you left. He didn’t deserve to know how much he was breaking you.

You rip open his door and all but run out of the apartment. Brock catches your gaze from the living room as you open their front door. Immediately his heart breaks a little. He knew the entire time and never saved you from this. He was just as guilty as his brother was. Cole stays frozen in place where you’d left him in his room, heart hurting despite everything. He’d let you keep your promise about hating him. That was one he deserved to carry with him.

[glitxhwayventeen]

Lonely Together

Jihoon: Chapter 4 (Waves)

Characters: Jihoon x female reader

Genre/Warnings: multi-member au (different scenarios), werewolf au, fantasy, fluff, suggestive content, mentions of marking, angst (kinda maybe sort of?). Any others will be put as warnings when future chapters are thought up/written. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Author’s Note: So I’m trying to not make every story super depressing. At least for now. So I took a shot at some average fluff for Jihoon’s chapter. Let me know what you think! It’s a bit short, but I’ll edit it some more to juice it up when I have the free time.

Please remember that all of these chapters and the content within them are a work of fiction! They’re just for fun/entertainment!

Bold= Dialogue Italics= Thoughts

☁️

Lonely Together Masterlist

Chapter 4: Waves

You were still getting used to everything, which no one could blame you for. You weren’t used to being around humans let alone lovey happy couples all the time. It was all… disorienting to you. You understood why the rest of the pack acted the way they did with their mates, in a way you also felt some primal need to be the same with Jihoon. But it was just… quite a big adjustment for you.

It wasn’t bad by any means! You knew you’d get the hang of most of it eventually. But there were some things you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to. Like the constant PDA of the couples around you. You didn’t understand the need to be that close to someone all the time or need to be that handsy. You always wondered if maybe Jihoon wanted to be like that, but you never really had the courage to ask in case you wouldn’t like his answer.

You also knew you’d never really like the fact that the pack seemed to refer to you more as a mate than as a wolf. You grew up being a wolf above all else, you considered yourself a wolf first. Now, you were Jihoon’s mate. Just one of the girls. You ate with them, you hung out with them, and you were treated like them even though you were just as strong if not more so than most of the males. Soonyoung didn’t get treated that way even though he was technically Seungcheol’s mate. It seemed unfair. That thought seemed to leave a bitter metallic taste in your mouth, but you just dealt with it because that’s just how it was now.

And you knew you’d NEVER understand the need to give your partner sweet little gooey nicknames. I mean, who the hell decided it was an adorable idea to start calling the person they fuck baby? How the hell was that SUPPOSED to be cute? It was creepy to you. You could tell it visibly bothered Jihoon that you hadn’t called him anything other than his given name, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to call him by anything else. Every cutesy petname you could think of just felt… wrong to you. Sweetheart? Shit didn’t make sense. Hearts were NOT sweet. Sugar? He wasn’t composed of glucose or fructose so that wasn’t right. Prince? He wasn’t royalty, well, at least not that neither of you knew of. Daddy? Even creepier than baby. So you just opted to leave it at Jihoon.

As for you and Jihoon, you’d been doing alright. You were still rather shy around each other, but you were definitely more obvious in your affection with each other. For instance, at breakfast you always seemed to find yourself scooting your chair as close to his as you could manage. And he always made sure you were within his sight. You weren’t sure why. Where could you have possibly gone when you were stuck with a bunch of wolves? But it did make the chambers of your heart constrict extra whenever you noticed him trying to look for you. You had to admit, It was kinda cute.

There was still one problem. You two hadn’t… consummated your bond yet. You were still unmarked even though it had now been weeks of being in the same house together. He hadn’t even tried to sleep with you. It had you confused, shouldn’t he have wanted to have sex with you by now?

-

“Dude quit being a little bitch and just do it already!” Soonyoung groaned at his younger brother while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

You were currently outside learning how to play soccer with Somi, just far enough away to where you couldn’t hear what was going on inside. They were all watching you guys from the window. You felt someone staring at you so you looked up from the ball next to your feet towards the house. Your mate was eyeing you and had a fond smile flashing brightly at your from his spot. You gave him a sweet one back with a little wave added before you continued on with your fancy foot maneuvering past the younger girl and scored a goal, causing you to jet your hands in the air in celebration. God he loved you.

Jihoon looked away to sigh and he ran his shakey hand through his slick hair, “But how am I supposed to do that? You fuckers are here every second of everyday and she can hear everything that goes on the same as I can. You’re all way too distracting. If she’s anything like me-” He was cut off before he could finish his sentence.

“Which she is.” Mingyu stated with a giant grin on his face while crossing his arms over his chest.

“IF she’s anything like me, she doesn’t want you guys listening in or around when we’re going at it. She’s too private for that” Jihoon emphasized, trying his best to contain his annoyance at the taller boy for his smugness, “Plus, you’re all too lovey with each other, it makes us both awkward and uncomfortable.” He admitted.

Joshua laughed and slapped his hands on his knees where he was sitting down at the table, “So you’re telling me that WE make YOU GUYS uncomfortable? Have you ever even been in the same room with yourself? You’re both ridiculously intimidating to the girls because you’re so quiet. WE know it’s because you’re just shy. But THEY all think you’re some sort of psycho killer dude!”

“Yeah if looks could kill, we’d all have been long dead by now!” Snorted Wonwoo, who had his arm wrapped around his mate possessively.

Jihoon raised his chest out defiantly, slightly annoyed at his pack mates for making fun of his cold exterior, “Yeah? Well at least I can keep my hands off my mate for more than a split second!”

He never really understood the need to keep partners away from other people. That is, until the other day when Chan had accidentally brushed up against your front while trying to reach for a plate. He all but chewed him up and spit him out for it, though you didn’t know that as he did it once you had gone up to bed. He couldn’t help it. His inner wolf just snapped at the poor kid. Though looking back, he’d still do it again. No one should be touching you but him.

“Not for long. You’re getting soft. You’re laughing more at the things she says, you’re joining us on errands more because she goes with, you’re getting more and more protective over her because she’s not marked and you don’t want anyone taking her away from you” Mingyu proudly spoke up much to Jihoon’s shock. He happy that he had taken the smaller wolf off guard with his statement, “You’re getting just as whipped man. You want my advice?” He asked, seeming pretty genuine with his question.

Jihoon nodded at him. Mingyu was surprisingly one of the few who could actually keep a few feet’s distance from his mate. Out of everyone in the pack, he would’ve DEFINITELY expected him to be the one most likely to be attached to his lovers side. But he when he found his mate, he didn’t get possessive over her at all. He just let her do her own thing with relative freedom. He figured he must have had some sort of secret behind being able to control himself and, for your sake, Jihoon figured he should take any help he could get before he got bad.

“Mark her as soon as you can. It helps. You wont get as jealous, at least around us, because we’ll smell you on her.” He shrugged towards his elder, quickly going over and kissing the top of his mates head who was sitting on the ground braiding Josh’s mates hair.

The thought of marking you sent a weird feeling through Jihoon’s veins. He WANTED to. But the real question was, would you LET him? “I don’t know. It could help I guess. But again, you bitches are always here and if I EVER want to do anything with her, you assholes can’t be anywhere near or she’ll refuse.”

“Okay okay! What if we were to all go visit Taeyong’s pack later? Then would you get the stick out of your ass and just fucking get it over with?” Seungcheol interjected with a heavy chuckle.

He was just as glad that his younger brother found you as everyone else. He really needed you in his life, even if he didn’t want to admit it. So he knew he had to help him figure out how to finally make things ‘official’ with you.

Jihoon thought for a moment. There didn’t seem to be a reason why that couldn’t work. He’d just have to make sure you knew to stay behind which, considering how touchy feely the others were, you’d probably be more than happy with that, “That’s….. actually a good idea.”

“Yeah no shit Sherlock. That’s why he suggested it” sneered Jeonghan. Jihoon sent him a small warning growl before Hannie went and collected the other mates and boys to tell them the new plan for the day.

He couldn’t lie, he was super fucking nervous. Other than that day you found out you two were mates, he hadn’t been left alone with you. At least not completely. There was always someone how because of how many people that lived in the house. He didn’t have much experience with girls. He had more experience than you did, but he was still trying to grasp the whole ‘mating’ thing. He didn’t know where to even start. He couldn’t just go up to you and go “hey I need to mark you or I’m gonna go crazy so we need to fuck like rabbits.” I mean, what kind of loser did that? He had to start thinking of a more subtle approach.

And, as if on cue, in came you and Somi from outside after Jeonghan had called for you both from outside. Your cheeks were a bit flushed from being in the sun and your hair that was once put up in a neat ponytail was now falling out in locks towards the rest of your face. You had grass stains on your knees and you had a bit of dirt on your forehead. You looked like you had gotten into a fight with the ground when in all reality, it was just your first time playing a child’s game.

“So, we’re going somewhere?” Somi ran up and kissed Chan on the cheek before he cuddled her in his arms.

“Yeah. WE are. THEY’RE staying here.” He let a playful grin plaster on his face as he pointed at your and your mate.

You cocked your head to the side in confusion, “We are? Why’s that?”

Chan gulped down his dry throat and shifted his eyes towards Jihoon, who was now staring daggers into him, “Oh… um- well… because…”

“Because we’re gonna be doing coupley shit over at Taeyong’s today and Jihoon said you wouldn’t want to watch us make out.” His sentence was quickly interrupted by the oldest alpha, much to your mate’s relief as his answer seemed to satisfy you.

“Ew yeah no. I’ll stay here that sounds gross,” you shook your head and scrunched up your nose in disgust, “Though I think I’ll take a shower. I feel almost as gross as you all are together.” You chuckled as you mad your way up the stairs and to the bathroom.

-

A little while later after everyone had got themselves together and understood why they suddenly had to leave, they began to head towards the door to depart. You were now upstairs in your bedroom, a towel tightly wrapped around your body and hair as you read a book to work on your Korean. You were pretty good with the actual speaking portion of the language, minus your accent of course, but you were still having a bit of trouble with the spelling and reading. And since it was the native language of most of the people who lived in the house, you figured it was best you study up on it a bit more to become more fluent.

Before you knew it, the others had left. You began focusing on a page of plural ways of speech and were brought out of your gaze by a soft voice near the doorway of your bedroom, “How’s the studying coming along?”

“It’s going about as well as dealing with humans after centuries of avoiding them.” You figured, putting your book down on the bedside table and looking at your mate who was now moving to sit at the end of your bed.

“That bad huh?” He joked while bringing his hand to touch your naked thigh. It brought a light pink blush to your cheeks, but you did your best to avoid it as much as possible and continued the conversation.

You shrugged the heat one your face away, “It comes and goes in Waves. Besides, It could be worse”

“And how’s that?” Jihoon questioned, giving you a tilted head in response.

“I could have had to go watch all the other suck face all day with another pack.” You laughed in amusement at your own joke.

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before he responded, “Well… yeah… about that…” he trailed in an effort to avoid the situation.

“What about it?”

“Wellllll….” He took a deep breath in so he could finish his sentence, “They decided to leave for me- well for us- so we could… have some time alone together…” he brought his newly hot face down to look at his lap so he didn’t have to look you in the eyes as he spoke.

“Alone time?” You bit your lip to hold back a knowing grin. You knew exactly what he was trying to say. But you really wanted to HEAR him say the words. Half to confirm your suspicions, half so that he would squirm a bit.

“Uh yeah. Alone time…” he started to pick at his nails to distract himself. He had never really been this nervous before. Why was he even nervous? You were his mate. It’s not like you’d have an issue with it all… right?

Your pulse was starting to race. The thought of what could happen was heating your body up to the point of concern. You weren’t sure why you were reacting this way, maybe it was because he was your mate, maybe it was because now you could go into heat, you didn’t know. But you did know that if he was going where you thought he was going with his sentence, you’d definitely not be complaining.

You gave him a wondering look, “What do you mean by alone time?” You faked innocence in your question, playing with the edge of the towel wrapped around your body.

He groaned in frustration and threw himself to the bed, landing on his back with a light thud while his hands found their way to his face, “They all left so I could mark you okay?? I knew you wouldn’t want to do anything like that with them here. But I knew I needed to do it soon so that my jealousy wouldn’t get the best of me. So Cheol agreed to have everyone leave for the day so we could just-get it over with” He sighed out, hands still covering his eyes so he could ignore your no doubt astonished face.

But instead, you found yourself straddling him in your easily droppable attire. His hands automatically sent themselves down to hold your hips once his body realized what was happening.

“You know, you could’ve just said that to begin with you know” you seductively let out. His face was absolutely stunned at your sudden behavior change. What actual fucking alien world had he stepped in when he came into your shared room?

(Updated 9/16)

[supercasey]

So I've been playing The Hades Game like fucking mad for the last few weeks, and although I'm not very far in it (at least, I don’t think I am; I’ve only beat Hades once!), I'm absolutely in love with it! Anyways, a certain idea has been kicking around in my head for awhile now, so I thought I'd share it with y'all; feel free to tell me what you think of it! (Warning: spoilers for when you beat Hades the first time!)

Anyways, I've already seen a really cool AU post for if Demeter raised Zagreus on the surface by herself (which you can find HERE; please check it out, the outfit for Zag alone is an amazing concept, and I love the artwork!!!) but I keep thinking about an AU where, after Zagreus dies at birth, Persephone runs away and takes his wrapped up body with her.

On the surface, she reconnects/reunites with her mother Demeter, and with her aid, the two of them manage to resurrect the newborn baby, though now he has more white in his hair than anything else. After that, Persephone sends Hades a letter to tell him that Zagreus is alive and well (because she actually has some fucking class), before proceeding to raise Zagreus on the surface with her mother, far away from the entrance to hell. The Olympians also help her out a bit, but mostly they just help by hiding Zagreus when it’s necessary.

(The rest is under a cut ‘cus this got a bit long, sorry!)

Years pass in relative peace, until Zagreus is about as old as he is in-game (I think he’s around 20-25ish???) and is living well, working with his mom and grandma to take care of their gardens and live peacefully away from mankind; he especially loves tending to the animals and guiding lost mortals to safety. However, one day while foraging for fruit in the deepest corners of his mother’s signature garden, Zagreus happens across a strange man in long robes, who introduces himself as Thanatos.

The two men get along swimmingly from minute one, and after agreeing to meet with each other again soon, they leave and tell their families/friends all about the experience, having no clue who they are to each other. After all, Thanatos was told growing up that his lord’s first wife died giving birth to their first and only child, who was a stillborn, and Zagreus thinks his father died of disease (his mom didn’t have to heart to tell him anything bad about his dad). Needless to say, they’re gonna be in for quite the shock soon.

Cue Hades losing his shit and calling on Thanatos, Megaera, and Achilles to go find his progeny and bring him home; he gives them special permission to leave the Underworld without any resistance, trusting Than to lead the way back to Zagreus. Achilles is less than thrilled to be performing such a morally grey task for his master, but Meg and Than are eager to prove themselves, so he begrudgingly agrees to help, even if it hurts his conscience to do so.

Persephone and Demeter also freak the hell out on their end, scared shitless by the fact that Death incarnate has just met their son/grandson, and they’re worried that he plans on coming back again soon. Demeter suggests sending Zagreus to live with the Olympians until this all blows over, but Persephone disagrees, wanting her son to stay nearby in case he grows ill (it’s implied that she’s a bit overprotective of him, mostly because she’s afraid of him dying again; this also means she refuses to let him know that he’s in any danger, believing it would only make things worse for him in the long-run). Frustrated but understanding her daughter’s pain all too well, Demeter at least convinces her to call on the Olympians for aid, which Persephone agrees to do.

The gods promise to help of course, but... well, they're low-key lying; they wanna see how this plays out first.

After several days of traveling through hell (literally), the “let’s kidnap Zagreus” gang makes it to the surface, and they immediately head to Persephone’s garden. All this time, Zagreus has no idea that he’s being targeted, so he goes about his chores as usual, only to run into Than again, and hey, he brought some more friends for him to meet! Zagreus is friendly with all of them, being raised to be very polite by his guardians, and while he’s busy chatting with Than and Achilles, he doesn’t notice Meg sneaking behind him. Just as Zagreus is rattling on about how the animals have been faring this summer, Meg stabs Zagreus in the back with a blade coated in Hades’s blood, cursing him to belong to the Underworld again.

With Zagreus now unconscious from a sedative that was mixed with the blood, the trio hurry off with him back to the Underworld, but not without Persephone seeing what they’ve done to her son. Horrified, she begins to sob, and winter arrives in the mortal world without so much as a fall season in-between this and the summertime.

When Zagreus comes to, he finds himself in a bedroom similar to the one he has in the game, but it’s much cleaner and has less objects of personal value to him. Hades is standing at the foot of his bed when he wakes up, and very calmly, Hades tells Zagreus that he’s his father, and that from now on, Zagreus will be living in the Underworld with him and his people, where he so obviously belongs. It’s a shame his mother can’t be here, of course, but they just need to wait awhile, that’s all; surely she’ll come to her senses and return home soon, now that her husband and son are here.

Zagreus jumps out of bed and faces his father as soon as he’s done monologuing, ready to tell him off for what he’s done, but to his shock, Hades hugs him as soon as he’s on his feet, and admits that he’s waited for this day for a long, long time. He asks his son to please just accept that this is his home now, and despite still being a bit surprised (and subtly hugging Hades back because Longing), Zagreus tells him straight up that he can’t, that he has to get home, especially with winter coming in a few months!

Dejected but not overly surprised, Hades simply nods in acceptance, but he still warns Zagreus that it’s no use trying to fight it; he’s stuck here, now and forever, so he may as well get comfortable and try getting along with him, because no one’s going anywhere anytime soon. Zagreus is horrified, but he nods nonetheless, unsure of what to say or do just yet.

Later that night, as Zagreus is struggling to sleep in this new, unfamiliar place, Achilles comes to him and apologizes about what’s happened, and although he can’t magically fix everything for him, he tells Zagreus that it actually is supposedly possible to escape; it’s just that no one’s ever done it before. Driven by his desire for freedom and the thought of reuniting with his mother, Zagreus tells Achilles that he’s going to find a way out, no matter the cost. Achilles congratulates him on his tenacity, but warns him that it won’t be easy. Still, he’s willing to help Zagreus as much as he can.

From then on, I imagine the game playing out very differently from the original, with a rather frazzled and scared Zagreus trying to get home to his mom and grandma, but with none of his training from Achilles in this AU, he has to rely on something his mother taught him; his connection with earth and all it’s inhabitants. Or, in his case, his connection with the spirits of animals (a cross of his dad and mom’s powers). That’s right, I’m making The Hades Game into a fucking Pokemon-ripoff, but still with some rouge-like elements mixed in (mostly with Zagreus not keeping his animals after runs).

Having royally fucked up in not stepping in sooner to protect Zagreus, the gods end up helping him out by sending down animals associated with them for the young god to tame for a run (I’ll come up with them later). They usually offer a selection to choose from, and from there Zagreus can build up a team and use it to try and escape the Underworld.

To replace weapons, I like to think he’d have “signature” animals that can help him out for any of his runs, specifically ones from Achilles, Poseidon, Zeus, Demeter (once he reaches the surface at least once), and eventually even Hades gives him one if they bond together enough ((yes, it’s Cerberus... kinda; it’s a puppy version of him, otherwise he’d be OP as fuck)). Zagreus’s signature animals can all be given names, and they keep certain skills that they pick up through enough experience battling in the Underworld for Zagreus.

As for story-line stuff, Zagreus ends up in a very fish out of water situation as he tries to get to know everyone in Hades’s house (he’s still our kindhearted Zag, after all, and he knows most of them aren’t to blame, not even really Than!) while also focusing on his goal to get home to his mom. Hades ends up being a lot nicer to him in this AU, perhaps overly so, as he’s trying to make his son like him more in order to make up for lost time (and fill the hole in his heart that Zag’s initial death as an infant and Persephone leaving with him created). It’s part of the reason he’s even letting Zagreus try to escape; he wants him to learn that it won’t work on his own terms (and maybe also scare the kid so bad that he comes running to him for comfort afterwards).

Also, I should really note that Zagreus is 100% a sweet country farm boy in this AU, and he has no idea what the fuck is going on with pretty much anything in the Underworld, much to everyone’s astonishment. For example:

Meg: Gods, it must be weird getting used to everything down here, huh? Sick of stepping in bat shit yet? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it, and Dusa’s pretty good about cleaning it up to begin with. Zagreus: I mean, I guess? It’s not that different from chicken shit tbh. Meg: What the fuck is a chicken???

After that... yeah, I dunno. I’ll try playing Hades some more, see if I think up anything else that could be interesting, but for now, I hope at least someone ends up liking this dumb AU (if not, I’ll still like it... might even try my hand at drawing for it a bit tbh). Again, please check out the person who’s post/art I linked earlier in the post, ‘cus their art is really awesome and inspired me to include Demeter more in this AU!

[jackedspicer]

C.B.H.!

new chowder oc dropped. Youre gonna hate this guy so much

first of all, corned beef hash is a character that my siblings @collectiveazaelas​ & @castingcomets​ and i have collaborated on making. from the bottom of our hearts, we hope you hate him as much as we do

at first glance, corned beef hash serves as a narrative foil to ms rhubarb. his initial conception centered loosely around antagonizing her, but his personality quickly grew beyond that. he is a beast unto himself and others. his only goal is to be self serving and (intentionally) get in the way of others in his life, primarily the other OCs kumquat and pimento, but also canon characters as well. he does this not out of spite or dislike for others, but rather it’s just because he can, and it is often times the fastest route to his goal. he is the freudian id, if the id had a sense of self control and awareness (though he does occasionally blip out on the latter). 

cbh's age isnt exactly clear. he exists in the comically broad adult world that most of marzipan city seems to: anywhere from 25-2500; whos to say? he graduated valedictorian from law school. around this time, he terrorized his dormmate (and future "friend"), pimento (a ram-like man with a few loose screws), to the point of dropping out and going into the culinary field, as "a kitchen during rush hour is still less stressful than sharing a living space with cbh." cbh is at times a petty thief, and at times a criminal mastermind - it depends on his current "schemes" and what is funny at the time. he knows the law to the letter and sometimes uses it to his advantage. though others sometimes think he is a temperamental idiot, most actions are done through thought-out choice and by utilizing his own strengths.

He has a stand in the farmer’s market at which he sells an assortment of mysterious wares and occasionally baked goods that are Evil & Wrong. The quality of his stock ranges anywhere between genuine artifacts to actual garbage from the dumpster, which he will then try to “spruce up” and sell as something more. He’s a hustler no doubt, and he earns his supply through meticulous dumpster-diving, talking down prices at thrift stores, and general vaguely-illegal tomfoolery. At times, he’ll get his hands on elusive items, and how he accomplishes this is seldom explained (he once was arrested and jailed for 12 days because he “accidentally” was selling illegal dognip). He frequently enlists in Kumquat’s help in his various endeavors and typically has her do the dirty work. For example, one of their foraging techniques involves his hooking her onto a fishing line and casting her out to sea; it’s usually just junk, but sometimes she’s clutching a few shiny souvenirs when reeled back in.

He does move the physical location of his stand around a lot, both to “drain fresh pockets” and to avoid growing too known and hated in one area. That being said, he’s been at this for a while, so every vendor at the farmer’s market knows him and is all too familiar with his cycling. The clientele are just unfamiliar enough to fall for his beguilement, though, save for a few skeevy regulars who seek him out for his stuff.

yes he was valedictorian. yes he was a frat boy all throughout college. yes he does beer kegs by pouring the beer directly into his head. yes hes a criminal mastermind. No its not a big deal

being a “bottlehead” (as he calls himself), he doesnt know what sex is (why would he need to?) but he doesnt know that he doesnt know. he loves the culture of it and he’ll hit on anyone. he doesn’t get vocab, but he’s raunchy without hesitation (see quotes section)

he has his eyes on the front of his skull because hes a pursuit predator

his tragic flaw is that he has no flaws. likewise, his lack of complexity is what makes him complex. He has no insecurities. This guy is a black hole. He is everything, but most importantly, he is Nothing.

It’s typical for him to throw around callous, vulgar, and at times offensive references. Case in point: his favorite nicknames for kumquat are Cumsquat and Cumsquirt. Likewise, his nicknames for pimento are Pissmentos, Bimento, Bitchmento, etc.

whenever he does something to boast about, he pounds his chest, turns around, flashes the back of his jacket, and chants C.B.H.! the way a frat boy chants his college's name

he's largely inspired by the way chris fleming characterizes the massachusettsian frat boy. in our minds, he also shares a voice with him.

he feels no shame and he does not hide himself. He may be a bullheaded, grandiose individual, but that doesnt mean he'll withhold his words of affirmation. he'll say something and really mean it - he gives and withholds performances for no one, as he only serves himself.

He devotes no time to introspection. it’s debatable that he might not even know how, but it would be time squandered as there’s not much to introspect On.

it’s a mistake to misinterpret kumquat as his little buddy whom he feels affection for; in his mind, they’re on the same team is all. hes gotta protect his own. It’s as if they’re in the same frathouse. that being said, hes not a good team player. he gets along with kumquat and at times pimento because they’re both socially passive, and the same goes for any relationship he’s ever had. Working with someone of his caliber would guarantee the butting of heads and stalemates on stalemates. A disaster

he’s heavily inspired by 3OH!3

his other inspirations include grunkle stan, brucie kibbutz, and caesar from big top burger, in equal parts

his species is potion

his mother is a lava lamp, his father is a science flask, and he has several siblings, with one of which being a bong named Oregano.

Cannot stand being called Corn

QUOTES

“C.B.H.!”

“You wanna go? You wanna start some BEEF with the HASH?!”

“By the power vested in me by the state of marzipan city i now pronounce you FUCKED PWNED”

“I’LL SUCK YOUR MOM’S DICK, BRO, DO NOT FUCK WITH ME!”

You want to know if his potion liquid is adhesive so you ask him if he has a meniscus and he thinks that youre asking him smth dirty so he says “hey hey i’m on my day job right now. Come by after 8 and ask me then, see what happens”

“If it’s not broke, we don’t sell it!” (motto)

“You wanna throw rocks at this glass house?”

 “Oh i’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was politically incorrect to have my TITS OUT”

“Broskis can you keep it down, im trying to get my wicked sleep gnar gnar on”

“I’M GONNA COME UNCORKED. IM GONNA COME UNCORKED. IM SERIOUSLY GONNA COME UNCORKED”

“Bro, i can’t deal with you trying to kiss me & shit. I’m not gay. Like, yeah, i’ll fuck a dude, marry a dude, but i seriously can’t be seen smooching someone with horns that big, you dig?”

“MY MOM DOESN’T LIKE YOU, STOP PRETENDING SHE DOES!”

“Yeah, no, yeah, yeah, i’m looking at the fucker right now.”

“Whose bottle do i gotta brush to [XYZ] around here?”

his uncieknuckies-type shitpost blog: @corndbeefhash​

and finally, his difficult person ranking:

[wienerbarnes]

The Electrifying Mind Reader (1/2)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 3,186

Warnings: violence, capturing, angst👀, drugging, reader doesn't have fun in this one but i don't wanna spoil it yall know i always end w happiness so part 2 will fix things

A/N: hehehehe i had this idea but im still trying to see where it goes depending on how fatws ends, how the loki disney+ series goes, etc, etc, but ugh i never wanna stop writing these two so imma just make shit up forever also don't let the warnings scare you lol yall know im soft on the inside

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

The mission was rough, to say the least.

Another HYDRA base found in Eastern Europe. One you’d worked for for a few years. Making you have both a personal connection to the mission, and be the only person on the team who knew this base intimately. This specific location arose after Bucky’s time, but during the prime of yours. So, you, Bucky, and Sam took it upon yourselves to go out and investigate while Sharon helped from the tower.

Until it was occupied with more HYDRA soldiers than any of you could’ve imagined.

580 soldiers. 580 Nazi’s all in one building. You wanted to blow it to shreds as soon as you landed there, but Sam went against that idea; there was too big a possibility that there were innocent people in there, either those brainwashed or those being held hostage. Neither you nor Bucky could argue with him there, the two of you fell under those categories yourselves.

We can take 'em, Sam said. With him in the sky and Bucky and I on the floor with the brawn and mind control powers, we can totally take ‘em.

What a fucking lie, that was.

The three of you got separated fast. And it didn’t take long after a few fights and punches that your coms broke and went offline. You think they would’ve made better com devices that were better adapted for this kind of stuff. They make arms and shields out of vibranium but not tiny coms to go in your ears?

Being separated from your teammates with no way of contacting them while still not being completely confident in your powers was not good for you, especially considering the history you have with this place. You want to hope that your handlers aren’t at this location anymore, but there’s really no way to know. The last thing you need is to run into one of them and for them to recognize what used to be their favorite play toy.

Except somehow, something worse happens.

A bomb goes off. Not necessarily blowing you to pieces, but with you being placed next to a window, being hurled a few stories into the snowy woods didn’t exactly put your body in good shape.

It takes about twenty minutes to orient yourself again. For your ears to stop ringing, for your body to stop shaking, for you to look around and have some kind of a feel for your surroundings. You don’t see the quinjet you arrived in anywhere, nor Sam and Bucky. But you know with the tracker sewn into your stealth suit, someone will find you eventually.

So, you start walking.

The shoes on your feet aren’t exactly made for the snow; you didn’t imagine you’d be hiking much on this mission. But the boots are thick enough to keep your toes from getting wet, which is good enough.

You stick close to the trunks as you walk on, planning to make a large circle around the perimeter and hoping to run into the quinjet, wherever it is. You hope they waited for you, at least.

Meanwhile, Bucky yells at Sam on the ramp to the quinjet, engine already purring as Sam is telling him to get on, that we’d come back for you with Sharon and better equipment to help them look.

“I’m not getting on the fucking plane, Sam!”

“It’s a jet, not a plane.”

“I’m not leaving my fucking girlfriend in the snowy woods alone outside of the Nazi base she used to be held at! Come back later, I’ll find her myself!” Bucky yells, vein popping out of his neck in anger.

If it was any other agent, he would’ve agreed. To go back to the tower, to get more equipment, to bring more people. But this isn’t any other agent; it’s you.

So, he starts walking.

He figures you’ll walk a few miles out, keeping your distance from the base in case anyone who survived that blast goes looking for any one else in the area. He begins heading west, planning to go a few miles straight and then start rounding the area, he can clear by nightfall, but hopefully he’ll find you before then.

Bucky doesn’t think to look for you in the treetops, though.

You hear a voice, and you panic. There’s nowhere to hide; only tall trees and mountains of snow around you, so the only way you think to go is up. You quickly hoist yourself up into the tree, balancing on a branch and hoping you’re covered enough by the snow covered branches.

It’s quiet again, and for a moment you think it was just the voices in your head; that there was nobody actually in the area. It’s hard to get a peek out with the blanket of snow clouding your vision in this tree, but you think you see a flash of metal. It could either be a gun or it could be Bucky’s arm. You cross your fingers and take your chances.

Wrapping your hands around the branch, you slowly bring your legs down to swing a bit before landing on the ground, prepared to greet your boyfriend and joke about engaging in monkey business.

Except it’s not Bucky.

A tall man, both arms made of metal, one with a shiny red star on the shoulder and the other with a skull and tentacles, turns to face you, drawing his gun and aiming it at your head.

“Oh, fuck.” Is the last thing you hear yourself say before a shot is heard and you see black.

Bucky hears a shot from the direction in which he was walking from. That could either be someone from HYDRA shooting at someone or you shooting at someone. He doesn’t like either option.

He breaks out into a sprint, gaining momentum and speed as he flies through the snow, charging back in the direction he came, hoping he can figure out where the shot came from in time. There was only one, so either it was a warning shot, or a lethal one.

When is Sam getting back? The longer he imagines your bleeding body on the white floor, the more he feels his anxiety spike and his heart race. You have your gun. Even if that shot was for you, you don’t go down without a fight. You’ve been training with your mind control with Wanda. You’re fine.

Surely, you’re fine.

The next time you wake up, it’s to a sharp slap across the cheek.

Your eyes open to see two men in front of you. You ignore the stinging in your face and the ache in your arm and glance between the two soldiers before you. You former handlers. Two of them at least.

“Sorry, boys,” You begin, glancing down at the bandage wrapped around your right bicep, where you assume a bullet was a while ago, “I’m unfortunately taken and only like it when my boyfriend slaps me around.”

You try to rub at your shoulder with your opposite hand, by there tied behind your back to the chair you’re sitting in. There’s also ties around your ankles and the fold of your knees.

You take a moment to stare at them to see if there’s a way to tap into their heads, get one to shoot the other, or untie you at least before they do that. But nothing. 

They both giggle. “Just as feisty as ever, aren’t you.”

“Yeah, yeah, listen, great catching up and all, but I actually have a doctor’s appointment I need to get to and I do need to get going -” Another smack, and then two hands vest the collar of your top.

“You’re not going anywhere! You left once, but now that I have you again, I’m not letting you leave my sight, my Mind Reader.” He tells you.

“...Can’t read minds. Can control them! But, can’t read them, sorry, no dice.” You correct, hiding behind your fear with a plethora of jokes and teases.

“We’ll see about that.” He looks deep in your eyes.

You smile drops and you look over your shoulder, realizing the room you’re in.

A large, black, metal chair sits above a few steps of concrete. Dark screens and bars surrounding it. There are open brackets for your arms and legs to be restrained, and the infamous headpiece that sends painful shocks to your brain. The man with two metal arms who shot you earlier stands beside it.

You remember the first time your powers manifested. Hours of drowning and waterboarding, followed by hovering candles and fires around your skin, poking and prodding you with needles to make something, anything happen. The goal was to send you into such an overdrive, overwhelming you to the point that your body to work with whatever poison they were putting in you.

“You wouldn’t,” You tell them, “You’re not stupid. You’re evil, but not stupid. You wouldn’t risk me in good ole’ Sparky.”

“Wouldn’t I?” The two men hoist you up and begin to drag you towards a heaping pile of metal. You try with all your energy to tap into their minds, tap into anyone’s mind, but to no avail.

This is it, you think. Who knows what will happen next, what you’ll remember. I hope Bucky doesn’t find me, I don't want him to see me like this. Two metal arms hold you down, one choking you hard and the other sitting heavily atop your injured shoulder while the machine powers up. The ties around your limbs are cut and the brackets automatically close, locking you in by your wrists, biceps, and ankles.

“See you on the other side.” He tells you maniacally, a syringe being pushed into your neck by the man with metal arms and the head piece coming down over your face before the worst pain you’ve ever felt courses through your body.

You scream.

Bucky has spent the last couple of hours running around this stupid forest with only failure to show for it. His last option is to go back to what’s left of the base. Sam’s about to land again, this time with Sharon and an extra agent or two.

He’s tossing the pieces of rubble around, looking for something, anything, to show him that you’re around here, that you’re alive.

Until he sees it. It almost perfectly looks like a metal rod sticking out of the ground. But it’s a handle. He pulls on it with all his strength until the lock and chain from the other side snaps, the door swinging open.

He climbs down the small ladder barely hanging against the wall before his feet thump on the ground again. He doesn’t like the nostalgia he feels slowly walking through the dark room, the distant groaning of a body, and smell of just pure evil.

He finally sees a slight glow coming from around the corner at the end of the hallway he’s ended up on, and he speeds up his pace, desperate to find someone, desperate to find you.

And he’s sorry he does. He’s sorry that he’s seen what he’s just seen. A door, on the opposite side of where he’s entered, left ajar and slightly swinging, signifying that someone’s just gone through it, and you, sitting slumped in that fucking chair, groaning and using what little strength you seem to have to weakly pull at the restraints around your wrists and ankles.

It’s his worst nightmare. You, stuck in that chair. He doesn’t waste a second running over to where you are, latching his hands on the headpiece that still sits on your face. He grabs a hold of the two pieces of metal and props a foot to the back of the chair, using all his might to snap it apart. He lets out a yell as he pries it off, bending the metal handle that connects to the main body of the machine.

He pants, reaching for the other restraints and prying those apart too, the sound of metal on metal making his ears hurt, there’s no way his metal arm isn’t wrecked after this.

He grabs a hold of your face to get a good look at you, to make sure you’re still alive. Your pupils almost completely cover the iris, the whites tinted pink. There’s also drool staining the corners of your lips and you're mumbling something to him that he can’t understand.

“Baby? Baby, I’m here, we’re leaving now, okay? I need you to stay awake for me while I get you to the jet, okay? Can you walk?” He coos and speaks to you softly and calmly, gently lugging your body into a standing position, but all you do is slump against his frame.

He can still hear the silent whirring of the machine, and from the subtle shakes in your body, he can guess the chair wasn’t used on you too long ago. He remembers having to be carried by two guards larger than him after a session in the chair, and he's about twice your size and strength, no matter your powers; he can’t imagine what your body’s feeling right now.

You whimper as he catches you, and he’s quick to slide an arm between your legs, the other grabbing a hold of your good arm and slinging you over his shoulders. The metal in his left arm is pinching into the skin of his shoulder, letting him know the plates are messed up from his pulling apart the machine.

Kinda went full Banner on the chair, didn’t I.

“Sam should be here, love, okay? So, just stay awake for me and you can rest on the plane. Huh?” He tells you, trying to engage and hoping you’re awake as he talks to you.

Another groan from you, which is good enough for him. He finally climbs back out of the basement and doesn’t see a jet in sight.

“God damn it, Sam,” He mumbles, and you whimper above him again, your breathing turning into panting and he senses your panic rising.

“Babe… Babe!” Bucky, sets you down gently, trying to capture your attention. A sharp call of your name forces you to look up at him.

You see three of him, and every color you see is much more vivid than you’ve ever seen before. You feel yourself shivering but also feel like you’re burning from the inside out. You know he’s talking to you, but you can’t focus on a single word he says because all you’re thinking about is how you don’t want to feel like this.

“Put me to sleep, knock me out, make me not feel this,” You interrupt him, but by the look of utter confusion in his face, you don’t think you’re speaking clear enough for him to understand you. Which only makes you panic more.

His eyes travel around your face and neck, observing the bruising on your forehead from where the headpiece of the chair rested and the finger-shaped marks on your neck. He also takes notice of the small hole on the side of your neck, about the size of a needle.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry this happened to you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it, to protect you, like I’m supposed to. But, I need you to be strong right now, I need you to suck it up until I can get you on that fucking jet and in a fucking hospital, okay? Please! Please, baby, just tough it out for a little while longer, can you do that?” He cradles your face and head with both of his hands.

Bucky’s on the brink of a panic attack himself. The only thing keeping him from breaking down is the fact that he’s the only one here to make sure you stay awake.

A distant purring of an engine is finally heard and his head darts up at the sky to see the quinjet come into view.

“Look, babe! See? Already here! Just the short trip to the tower, okay, love? You can’t die on me, please,” He trails off.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you try to bring yourself up into a kneeling position to stand up, and a cry escapes you as you feel an utter lack of control over your body. Your brain is trying to move your arms and legs but they feel so heavy that they just don’t move.

Suddenly, Bucky’s hoisting you up again, bridal style this time, and he’s running to the quinjet. You don’t even feel the pain in your shoulder and chest when your arm bounces around because you feel like your insides are melting.

Your brain and head haven’t stopped buzzing since sitting in that chair. You only remember flashes; flashes of black, flashes of the room, flashes of those bastards’ faces while they stare amusedly at you writhe in pain.

You don’t realize you’re on the jet until your body is laid on a cold table, the only table on the quinjet that’s attached to the wall. You look around to gauge your surroundings; you see a blonde head of hair and two other taller figures. Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out for Bucky, but he’s not looking at you. You whimper again, but it must not have been loud enough because he only continues to speak to the two other people, who you guess are Sam and another agent.

You straighten yourself on the table as your heart speeds up faster and faster. You brace yourself for a panic attack but it doesn’t come.

Nothing does.

Bucky tries to tell Sam everything as quickly as possible while the jet takes off. He can only imagine how hysterical he looks right now, and how much explaining he’ll have to do to the other agent on the jet with them; he’s pretty sure he might’ve slipped in calling you his girl by mistake once or twice.

He glances over his shoulder to check on you but does a quick double take. You’re not moving. Your eyes are open, but you’re not moving. Not shaking how your body was before from the electricity, not groaning or whimpering from whatever was wrong with you.

He remembers going on autopilot from there. He strains his ears and can’t hear the rapid beat of your heart, he doesn’t hear anything coming from you. His own heart feels like it stops when he climbs on top of you, straddling you, and leaning his head over your mouth to try and catch your breathing - which he doesn’t - and raising a hand to feel your heartbeat - which he also doesn’t feel.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” He starts CPR immediately, pumping his fists roughly against your chest, counting in his head among all the other chaos floating around in there.

“C’mon sweetheart. Wake up. Wake up, baby.” He continues.

“Bucky, you’re going to break her sternum!” Sharon tries to warn him.

He pauses only for a brief moment to turn his head towards her, “Sharon, shut up!” He snaps, this probably being the first time he’s ever screamed at Sharon. He turns his head towards Sam and Agent 36, “Sam get this fucking plane to the tower, now!”

“Please, please, please don’t do this to me. Not now. Not because of them.” He resumes the CPR while mumbling to himself, leaning down to breathe air into your mouth.

“Can’t lose you, can’t lose you.”

He can’t lose you.