#i could have written that shit but worse and even more tiring

[garpond]

one day the veil will get thin and ill seriouspost about neilphen itry not to because i dont want to be annoying and im not saying that in a shy demure way im saying that in a you are Not ready for how much of a killjoy and a nuisance i can be way

[problemswithbooks]

BNHA Ch. 429

So, I guess Toga is dead, and people are losing it.

I get why people liked her--she was actually queer, being pan/bisexual. She was representation for them and that's rare in shonen manga. But here's the thing--she was bad representation at best and insulting at worst. Nor do I think she was made queer because Hori really wanted to represent a queer girl. Himiko was always the author's poorly hidden fetish--she just was. She liked girls as much as boys because Hori wanted to draw a girl touching sexually on another girl. You can see this in how he draws her and Ochako in solo pics together.

I mean, people seem to understand this when it comes to Momo and her outfit being overly sexual or that both Himiko and Hagakure's Quirks either leave them naked or they have to be naked to use them. These are excuses to draw girls in a sexual manner. Himiko being into other girls is the same thing and that's the kindest interpretation.

Given how Himiko acts and her Quirk being heavily coded sexual desire, and therefore her use of it against someone unwilling being sexual assault, it could just being playing into harmful stereotypes of predatory gays.

As a queer person myself I just found Toga insulting. She was designed to be overly sexual and give the male author a female character that he could draw being suggestive with his other female characters. When he did flesh out her character, her backstory was eventually the trope/fear of straight people, that gay people will be so overcome with their lust that they end up sexually assaulting them.

In the end Ochako accepts this part of Toga and says she'll giver her blood forever, but as much as a lot of readers took that that as some deep lesbian confession, for me it really fell flat. Hori never really gave any of the main kids time to actually learn about their villain or show how that changed their minds toward them. Shoto only works because Touya is his brother (even though he admits he barely remembers him). But Ochako goes from not thinking of Toga at all pre-first war, to one thought about her during her speech, to suddenly caring about her so much she--given how Toga's quirk is coded, is willing to essentially fulfill Toga's kink for the rest of their lives.

It's weird and it comes out of nowhere. It's made even stranger because Toga doesn't actually change or show remorse for anything she did, which included personally hunting and murdering people before she joined the LOV. None of the death and destruction she is also partially responsible for is brought up either, something that Ochako was rightfully upset about during the first war when less people and property had been destroyed. Ochako just accepts everything about her suddenly and her past serious crimes are forgotten so they can cuddle and cry.

Am I shocked Toga died--a little. I didn't think Hori would have the guts to kill off a young girl character, especially one that he clearly got a lot of joy drawing in sexy poses. But at the same time, once he killed off Shigaraki and ended Touya's story with his slow death, I'm not surprised he went the same route with Toga.

This isn't Naruto--Hori isn't really kind to characters that do something wrong, especially if they don't try and change. Enji, Bakugo, Hawks, and Aoyama all sort of got punished for what they did. Enji is the worst off, being permanently crippled, missing an arm and burned everywhere. Bakugo's hand is damaged, his heart weaker, plus he feels bad that Izuku lost his Quirk so they can't compete the same way he wanted them to. Aoyama, despite doing way less wrong and even helping his class during the forest raid, still leaves school because he doesn't feel he earned being there yet. Hawks lost his Quirk and even though him running the HPSC could be seen as good for him, Hawks always wanted a break, but now he has one of the most time consuming and stressful jobs out there.

So, if this is what characters who actively did good things and even changed and fought to be better get, what would characters who never changed and never did anything positive for anyone but their friends/themselves get?

Before the last Arc started, when so many people said the LoV were 100% going to be redeemed I had doubts and always thought it wouldn't make sense with how the story presented redemption or treated other non-LoV villains in the past. That if the main LoV did get some happy ending where they were bffs with the main cast it would clash with how other characters had been treated.

That doesn't mean that I think how Shigaraki, Toga, and Touya ended up in the manga was well done. I think their endings fit far better then a last minute redemption would have, but at the same time you can feel how rushed everything has been since the end of the first war arc. Hori was done with this story months if not years ago, yet he was contractually obligated to finish it. Because of that I think he left out as much as possible. As much as I think he's written some pretty obsessive stuff, particularly towards women, I can't really fully blame him cutting corners or the story being shit at the end.

We know Manga authors, particularly those that work with Jump are treated like shit. That they suffer incredibly long hours at times not even getting to go home for days. We've gotten messages for Hori saying he's sick quite a few times. On top of that, weekly story telling is not a great way to tell a cohesive narrative. Ideas probably change week to week or at least month to month and you can't go back and change the last chapter no matter how much you need or want to. Then you remember he also gave a lot of ideas to the people who made the movies, which would also change his plans for how he wanted the main story to go.

The story is bad--it has been for a while, but I think a lot of people put their hopes on their favorite characters getting a happy ending, even when there were signs that probably wasn't going to be the case. I know how much it sucks when a character you love gets a shitty ending (Stain was my fav, but he got an absolute dogshit ending) but at least, knowing what I know about the industry I can't really blame Hori the way I see some other people doing. Criticize it, sure, but saying Hori hates his readers or is horrible writer isn't true. BNHA was popular for a reason--he's great with characters and the beginning of the story had some great pacing. We'll never know, but I wouldn't be surprised if BNHA could have been amazing if Hori had been treated better and the story hadn't needed a chapter every week.

If anything BNHA has taught me how much a story suffers when authors/artists are treated like crap and forced to work past burnout.

[brbsoulnomming]

Heart On Your Sleeve Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

written for steddiebigbang2024 and belatedly posting here!

This part includes the Russian torture scene, so adding a warning for gore/violence just to be safe!

-----

Eddie comes by Scoops, once Steve gets the job there.

The first time, he laughs at the sailor hat for a minute straight until Steve rolls his eyes and calls back, “I'm taking my lunch!”

“Now?” Robin bitches. “Did you actually get a girl to fall for those ridiculous li-” She cuts off as she comes out of the back room and sees Eddie. “Oh. Huh.”

Eddie flashes a sharp toothed smile at her, and Steve rolls his eyes again and elbows him.

“I'll be back before the actual lunch rush hits this way,” he tells Robin, untying his apron and depositing it to the side of the counter.

To Eddie, he says, “Here, since this brought you so much joy,” and drops the sailor hat onto the top of Eddie's head.

Eddie gives a squawk and squirms around like he's trying to bat him off, though Steve notices he doesn't actually push him away as Steve adjusts the hat to his liking.

“There,” Steve says, shooting Eddie a teasing little grin as he steps back. “You keep that on the whole time, and I'll buy you lunch.”

“A small price to pay for a free meal,” Eddie says solemnly, but his eyes are crinkled a little like they do when he smiles, and he doesn't take the hat off the entire time they eat together.

—

He and Eddie sit out back behind Scoops, passing a cigarette back and forth. It's the end of Steve's shift, and technically he doesn't have to stay anymore, but he's not in a hurry to get home.

Dustin's away at camp, after all.

“Why the hell are you working here?” Eddie asks, sounding like he's been mulling it over for a while.

Steve snorts. “Needed to work somewhere.”

“Okay, fine, but haven't you done the lifeguard thing for like three years?”

Steve - didn't actually expect Eddie to know that, and he shoots him a little smile before he rolls his eyes. “Not a real job, according to my dad. It's just hanging out at the pool all day.”

Eddie scoffs. “Would your dad even know a real job if it bit him?”

“My dad's never really had to work for anything,” Steve mutters. “I didn't get into any of the colleges they wanted me to, so I needed to be taught a lesson. Pretty sure he was hoping it'd humiliate me.”

Eddie tips back, looking him over. “You don't look very humiliated.”

Steve shrugs. “Because I'm not. Yeah, sure, the outfit and the hat are stupid, but work is work. Ice cream makes people happy, I make people happy, it could be worse. Besides, he has no idea what I'm even making here. Every paycheck is a little more I can stash away where he can't touch it.”

Eddie's watching him very closely now, in a way that Steve's never seen before.

“How long have you been doing that?” he asks quietly.

“What, saving money that my dad doesn't know about?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

Eddie's face is serious - far more serious than Steve's ever seen him, than he thinks the situation warrants. Steve frowns.

“Since I got my first job, I guess? Anything I ask for from him comes with some kind of string attached, and I got tired of paying for it.”

Eddie's quiet again. “You've gotten in a lot of fights the last couple of years,” he says, slow and careful like he thinks Steve might bolt. “Lot of bruises.”

He clocks on to what Eddie's trying to get at, then, and a rush of relief washes over him as he hurries to set him straight. “Oh, no, my dad's not abusive or anything, just an asshole. He's never hit me.”

Eddie considers that. “Your dad can be an abusive piece of shit without ever hitting you.”

Steve licks his lips, takes his turn watching Eddie a little more closely. “Sounds like you're familiar with it.”

Eddie laughs, sharp and humorless. “Come on, man, you know who my dad is.”

“I know what people say about him,” Steve agrees. “But I've learned not to listen to rumors.”

Eddie flicks the cigarette butt off into the distance.

Steve gets out another one, puts it between his lips to light it. He takes a long drag, then - pulls his heart out of his chest, setting it between them before he passes the cigarette over.

Eddie's eyes drop down to his heart as he takes the cigarette, but this time he doesn't say anything.

Steve still doesn't ask to see his, even though he's tempted.

“You can listen to these ones,” Eddie says after a while. “They're mostly true.”

“You deserve better,” Steve tells him.

He looks over when Eddie doesn't say anything, finding him watching his heart. It's beating strong and steady.

“So do you,” Eddie says without looking up.

They sit in silence for a while longer, until the cigarette is gone.

Then Steve tucks his heart back into his chest and stands up. “Come on, I'll get us lunch.”

Eddie scowls at him. “You bought last time.”

“Yeah, but a conversation like that deserves a burrito bigger than your head, and I've got employee discount,” Steve counters, holding out his hand.

Eddie concedes, accepting his hand up.

—

Steve keeps making up excuses to buy Eddie lunch after that, every time he comes by at the end of an early shift or close to his lunch break on a later shift.

One day he gets them both pizza from Sbarro, and they sit at one of the sticky plastic tables in the food court. It's so small their knees knock together as they devour their slices, but -

But it also means that Steve can tuck his ankle up against Eddie's, hook his foot half around it, and have an excuse if he needs one.

He doesn't need one.

Eddie doesn't move his foot away, but he does shoot wide eyed little looks over at Steve like he's not sure whether this is a joke or not, and -

“Hi,” Steve says, soft and ridiculous and holy shit, he has to have something better than hi.

But apparently hi works, because Eddie ducks his head, looks back up at him with something soft and wary and surprised all at once.

“Hi,” Eddie says back.

And that's -

It's something.

—

Steve gets closer to Robin - their bickering has started to become playful, and even though her teasing's never been mean, now it sounds almost fond. She still gets annoyed when customers watch them work in complete sync and think they're a couple, but now she just rolls her eyes and complains to him later instead of throwing things off by trying to protest it.

It's nice. He thinks he might be winning her over, and it makes the days pass a lot quicker.

—

He doesn't see Eddie for a week after their pizza lunch.

He tries not to think much about it, just tells himself that if he hasn't seen him by the time Dustin comes back from camp, he'll call him.

—

This isn't like any beating he's taken before.

Steve'd thought he was prepared. He was prepared, at least in the beginning. Billy did just as much damage, even if it was in a shorter span of time, and the ache in his ribs and stomach and face is familiar.

He can handle it.

Besides, it doesn't matter how much they hurt him - protecting Robin and Dustin and Erica is more important than anything else.

"Let's take a look at his heart," one of the soldiers says. "See how honest he's really being."

Steve's pretty sure he makes a choked off little guh.

He doesn't want to let them anywhere near his heart.

But on the other hand - he isn't lying as much as they think he is, and maybe that will prove it? They'll have to undo his hands to get him to take it out, and he briefly considers trying to get the drop on them, but he has to concede that probably won't go very well for him.

It's not like they're really asking for his opinion, anyway.

They aren't making any move to untie his hands, either, and Steve's brow scrunches in confusion.

He sees one of them holding what looks like a mix of a gun and a taser. It - honestly, it looks pretty stupid, like a prop in a bad movie, and he wrinkles his nose at it.

They press it up against his ribcage, pull the trigger - and fuck, he jolts back with the force of it.

His chest splits open.

The shock of it makes him numb for a precious few moments, staring down at the gaping hole in his own chest. The pain doesn't hit him until they take his heart out. It feels like it's being carved out of him, ripped from his chest as though he were being mauled by a wild animal, and he has the somewhat hysterical thought that he shouldn't be alive for this.

His heart was torn out of his chest, and somehow it's still beating, erratic and racing.

"Hmm," one of the soldiers says, tilting his heart this way and that. "Feels real."

The soldier squeezes it, and this time Steve screams at the pressure tightening around his heart, making him convulse in his bonds.

The second soldier laughs.

"They're making such good fakes these days," the second soldier says.

The first soldier relaxes his grip, and Steve sucks in ragged gulps of air, too disoriented to really understand what they're saying.

"Much more sophisticated than patches and paint," the first soldier agrees. "What good would a spy be if he showed his real heart?"

"No," Steve protests. "It's real, come on, you can feel it."

There’s no sign of deception from his heart, but it's beating too wildly from the pain to really make a difference.

"We'll see about that," the second soldier says, handing a switchblade to the first.

The first soldier presses the flat of the blade against his heart. "Let's see what's underneath if we shave a little off?"

—

Steve doesn't really remember anything after that. He must have passed out, because the next thing he hears is Robin's voice, and he realizes he's in a different room, tied back to back with her.

His chest aches.

Everything aches, really, but his chest is the worst of it.

Steve looks down, sees himself solid and in one piece again. He might have thought the whole thing was just a pain induced hallucination if it weren't for the unstable beat of his heart. It's pulsing unsteadily, and he feels as though if he even breathes too hard, it might burst into pieces with the next beat.

But he's not alone now.

He's with Robin, and she makes everything better, and even though his heart beats too fast when he thinks of how much he likes her - it's the good kind of too fast, not the kind that makes him think his heart is going to explode.

He is pretty sure that his heart is going to explode, though, that they're probably going to die here. He knows Robin is thinking the same thing - he just knows, like going through Russian secret agent torture together has made them automatically on the same wave length.

They were heading towards being friends before this, he knows, wonders if maybe they could have ever been for real.

It's a shame he doesn't think he'll ever get to find out.

—

Dustin and Erica find them before Steve loses any fingers.

Which is good. He might not be on the basketball team anymore, but he still plays with Lucas sometimes, and he likes all of his fingers attached to his hand and not on the floor of a secret Russian base.

He tells Dustin that as they're escaping from said Russian secret base. Dustin looks a little pale, hugs him tight around the middle, which makes Steve laugh - it should hurt, he thinks, but he doesn't feel a thing.

The only thing he feels is kind of floaty, and the itchy, overheated sensation he always gets when he's had his heart locked inside his chest for too long.

When no one's looking, Steve takes his heart out of his chest.

His stomach turns.

Whatever he's feeling about it seems distant, too far removed for him to be able to react to it, but the physical sensation of his stomach heaving is present and accounted for.

It only barely looks like a heart. The shape of it is hardly visible, more like a double handful of the precut chuck roast he gets to use as stew meat, sluggishly oozing every time it beats.

The thought of putting it back in his chest makes his stomach heave again, but even like this, he knows he can't keep it out in the open.

He rips off the red scarf from his Scoops uniform, wraps it around his heart to hold it together, and ties it off.

There.

Now no one will notice.

This is already written, and my plan is to post one part a day until it's all up here!

-----

Part 6

Taglist (always happy to add more to this if anyone wants): @fairytalesreality @lostonceandneverfound @wheneverfeasible @awkwardgravity1 @theintrovertedintrovert @thewickedkat @ravenfrog @scarlet-malfoy @missmagillicuddy @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @ollyxar @cringe-culture-is-dead-99 @thedragonsaunt @makewavesandwar @ajeff855 @mae-liz @the-fantastical-asexual @jettestar @warlordess @samsoble @persnicketysquares @cryptid-system @my-love-of-books @mydysfunctionallife @dreamercec @holyangelstudentuniverse

[gay-dorito-dust]

Heyy,love your headcanon stuff! Especially the Batboys things

Wondering if you could do a few headcanons with the Batboys where the reader gets injured from a sport,work or something like that and they hide it from the Batboys?

It's all good if you can't or already have written something similar to this :)

Dick

Thought everything was okay until he started to notice how you’d carefully and meticulously planned out how you should move your body, which almost made you look robotic in the process.

That was when he knew something was wrong when you refused to let him hold your afflicted side, strict that you weren’t in the mood for it, but it was obvious to dick that wasn’t the case.

He’d even notice your breath hitched in your throat when you moved a certain way too fast, pulling on your injured side in a way that caused you to stop and try to breathe through the pain that was coursing through your body before continuing on with your day as though nothing had happened.

‘Are you okay sweetheart?’ He’d ask softly as you held your side instinctively when you caught it on the edge of the counter, it was a brief bump but it was enough to have you fighting back tears from streaming down your face.

‘No.’ You’d whimper, ‘I’m not. I’m hurt dickie bird.’

With that dick immediately gets you to bed and assess the situation with your side, only to see a particularly nasty looking bruise blossoming across your side in hues of purple, yellow and more. ‘Oh why didn’t you say anything sooner?’ He says as he gingerly held a pack of ice against your bruises, holding your hand with the other as you squeezed it the moment the ice pack made content with your tender side.

‘I didn’t want you to worry about me and my stupid bruises.’ You admitted and dick couldn’t help but kiss your forehead.

‘I’ll always a worry about you sweetheart, no matter what I’ll always worry. So let me take care of you now.’ Dick told you as he then dedicated the rest of his spare time to making sure to ice your bruises while smothering you in kisses and words of affirmation into your skin to take your mind off of the ache in your side.

Damian

He just knows you’re hurt and it’s best not to act like you’re not because it’s not fooling him in the slightest.

Even if you tired to pass it off as something that’ll go away eventually, Damian would see through such an excuse with ease.

‘If that’s the case then why are you still struggling to pick up a kettle when making yourself a drink?’ He would ask and suddenly your mouth became dry and a mind blank of ideas on how to answer that.

Your silence was enough of an answer for Damian to know that you were full of shit and were only making things worse for yourself out of sheer stubbornness to not admit to him that you were hurt.

So Damian took it upon himself to make sure that your hand was properly bandaged, while telling you that you were not allowed to do anything that could cause you more discomfort or make things worse for yourself.

However he would personally over see your healing process himself when he wasn’t on missions, making sure that you were taking your medication, drinking enough fluids and eating enough food while doing the harder tasks for you without a single word uttered past his lips.

Damian was serious about your healing and didn’t want to see you further descend into pain if he could help it while with a look of perpetual annoyance upon his face.

‘If it bothered you so much to look after me then don’t bother-���

‘No.’

‘No?’ You asked.

‘I don’t trust you to not hurt yourself even more, so let me do it until you can actually lift a kettle again.’ He said and you couldn’t help but smile at his way of saying that he didn’t want you to further hurt yourself out of fear, even if he did possess a unique way of saying it, but you wouldn’t have Damian any other way.

Jason

Had a suspicion that you were injured the moment you didn’t allow yourself to fully utilise your foot without groaning, grabbing on the nearest surface to steady yourself before trying to act like nothing ever happened.

Once Jason had enough of you pretending you were okay, when you clearly weren’t, He doesn’t hesitate to carry you off to your room with little struggle and put you down on your bed.

‘Jason what the-‘

‘You’re hurt and you didn’t think to tell me?’ Jason asked, a little hurt that you didn’t seemly guest him enough to admit to them you were injured, which only made him wonder about all the other times you had been hurt but didn’t say anything to him and instead suffered in silence until you were passed off as fine.

‘I didn’t want to worry you!’ You replied, seeing the hurt in his eyes and immediately feeling bad about your decision because you knew Jason valued honesty and respect in your relationship, and so you could only imagine what was going through his mind upon finding out that you were hiding something from him after having told him everything in your relationship thus far.

‘Of course I’m going to be worried when you’re hurt, you’re hurt and I don’t know how!’ Jason exclaimed but his hands remained gently when elevating your foot on the closest pillow he could find within reach. He then placed a soft, featherlight kiss to your ankle, leaving a pleasant tingle there as he looks at you tiredly. ‘I just want you to come home safe and not in bits, I just want to protect you and keep you happy.’

‘You already do that enough as it is jay birdie!’ You cried as you grabbed his hand and held it close to your chest, thumb rubbing at the pulse point on his wrist soothingly, while kissing each and every one of his fingers. ‘Besides I just tripped up on something when on my daily jog and it sprained my ankle, nothing more, nothing less.’ You explained to him as you pleased with your eyes for him to believe that you were telling the truth.

Jason, being the massive softy that he was towards you, sighed and squeezed your hand. ‘Okay chipmunk but I best not see you walking on your ankle until you’re better.’ He said sternly and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘As long as my jay birdie is the one taking care of me, then I’ll never step a toe out of this bed, it’s too comfy.’ You said and Jason visibly relaxed as he kissed your forehead. ‘That’s a shame, I like the aspect of having to carry you back to bed, I didn’t get my morning kiss before you left for your daily jog after all.’ He whispered against your skin.

You and Jason use your sprained ankle as an excuse just to cuddle and spend time together to make up for lost time between the two of you.

Bruce

Another one who’s sharp eyes immediately knows that your hiding your hurt from him.

The biggest give away was the fact that you didn’t put much weight on your afflicted foot and instead poorly attempted to hide your hobbling and facial expressions of intense discomfort you’re putting yourself through just to leave him unsuspecting.

You failed on all grounds when dating/married to a detective/vigilante.

Bruce knows you’re not okay and he’s not going to allow you to make things worse for yourself either, as soon enough he has Alfred help him set up a comfortable space for you to properly rest for the foreseeable future, making sure you had everything you could possibly need and more to make your healing journey more durable.

Even if you tried to deflect any and all notation that you were hurt. Bruce would look at you unimpressed because you were talking to someone who had once tried to fuck up thugs with a couple broken rips, fractured bones and more, only to be stopped by Alfred who walked him back to the manor like a disappointed and overtired father.

Bruce now understood what Alfred felt when he practically had to carry you to your shared room where you were to remain bed bound, not until Alfred said you were cleared to walk the manor without flaring up your injury.

‘This isn’t fair! It’s just a sprain!’ You cried as Bruce made sure that your pillows were fluffed and that your comforting blankets were even fluffier.

‘A sprain that could’ve worsened with how you treated it.’ Bruce replied as he put aside the ibuprofen gel and paracetamol tablets on the nightstand along with a glass of water before gently but quickly elevating your bandaged foot with a pillow.

‘Still i could’ve handled it myself.’ You muttered under your breath.

‘If by better you mean make it worse and prolonging the healing process, then yes I’d say you had it handled well.’ Bruce said sarcastically that you couldn’t help but notice the irony in the statement.

‘You’re just as worse!’ You pointed out, ‘how many times has Alfred has to stop you from going out at night while severely hurt?’

‘Too many to count.’ Bruce said under his breath but he only smiled at you and kissed your forehead before getting up from the bed and moved to the door of your shared room, but just as he was about to leave he gave you a pointed look. ‘You.stay.here.’ He gestured to the bed before leaving you to look up at the ceiling, knowing that if Bruce was going to be looking after you, there’s was little to no chance that he would let you step even a toe out of bed without looking at you like a overtired husband.

Bonus: baby dick and Jason are your ‘bodyguards.’ Who will tell Bruce if you even tried to leave bed before you were fully healed.

[roosterforme]

Stateside | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley made a mistake last summer when he left for his deployment without ever asking you out, and then he thought about you a lot when he was gone. He was stateside again for less than a day when the other guys coerced him to help with a fundraiser at the Hard Deck. A friendly wager with the squad might not be the only thing he wins by the end of the night.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, drinking, swears

Length: 4500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more. Banner made by @thedroneranger Written for Pick Your Poison

Bradley had barely been stateside for twenty four hours when he woke up in his bed at noon to an array of texts arriving all at once. Five months on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with nothing much going for him left him surprisingly exhausted. It wasn't that he didn't want to see his friends, he just needed a full day to himself to readjust. 

He groaned and rolled over after glancing at his phone and seeing the words Hard Deck in a message from Jake. He closed his eyes again after tossing his phone aside, but about ten seconds later, he cracked them open again. If there was one thing he had consistently thought about over the course of those five months, it was you. Your bright smile, your perfect laugh, your navy blue tee shirts that said The Hard Deck across the front.

When he reached for his phone and checked the message from Jake, he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Maybe this could be an excuse to see you again sooner rather than later.

Hangman: Hey, we need you to come to the Hard Deck tonight. It's the annual charity event, and Bob can't make it. We're short a bartender. And don't try to bitch out of this, Phoenix told me you're home.

Bradley covered his face with his hand and thought long and hard about this. The real bartenders would be there to help which meant there was a chance you'd be one of them. If he volunteered for this, then maybe he'd find himself in close quarters with you for a few hours instead of the other Naval officers he'd been stuck with for months on end. Just the idea of accidentally bumping into you while pouring a beer had him texting Jake back.

Yeah, I'll be there.

Even though he was still pretty tired later in the afternoon, Bradley took a shower and then spent some extra time on his hair before dressing in his lucky shirt. That five month deployment was the reason he didn't ask you out during the summer, and now he was nervous to see you again. He had good intel from Penny that you'd been single the last time he saw you in August, but what if you had a boyfriend now? Or worse, what if you didn't even acknowledge him when you saw him?

He groaned as he looked in the bathroom mirror. Hours, possibly even days... that's how much time he'd had you on his mind while he was away. And for what? A crush on a girl who was probably too young for him? A cute bartender at the Navy hangout who definitely got asked out nightly? Shit. He was a lost cause. 

And now he was going to be late if he didn't leave right away. He grabbed his keys, and headed out to his Bronco which he had missed dearly. So if nothing else, he'd get to cruise around later after the event. But on the ride to the bar, all he could imagine was how you'd look in the passenger seat, smiling at him at every stoplight and singing along to the radio. 

"Fuck," he grunted as he parked next to Jake's truck before heading inside. He let his heart fill with hope as he strolled in to find Penny, Jake, Javy and Reuben behind the bar with two bartenders. But neither of them were you.

"Rooster!" Reuben cheered, and soon he was being clapped on the back and high fived by the guys he hadn't seen in months. It was nice, but he couldn't help but think that his smile would have been more genuine if you were here.

Jake smirked. "So glad you left your perch and joined us."

Bradley laughed as he gave Penny a hug. "Come on, man, I literally just got home."

Penny smiled up at him. "Thanks for filling in. It'll be great." Bradley really wanted to ask her about you, but then Penny patted him on the cheek before turning to reach under the bar top. "This will be a breeze for you guys," she said, handing matching shirts to the four of them. "Just a basic bar menu tonight. No super fancy cocktails. Just beer, wine, some pre-made sangria, and a few different kinds of shots."

Bradley started to unbutton his lucky shirt before pulling the new one on in its place. He smoothed his hand along the front of the blue shirt that said THE HARD DECK FIGHTS CANCER, and he noticed the two bartenders glancing at him. They were both cute but decidedly not what he had been hoping for tonight. 

"Hey," he asked them with a nod. They smiled in response, so he decided to just go ahead and ask them about you.

"She quit a few weeks ago," the first one told him. "After she graduated from law school."

"She moved, too," said the second one. "Left San Diego."

Shit. He was too late after all, nodding in response to them as he pressed his lips together in a firm line. He'd never been any good at this kind of thing, which was why he always fell into casual relationships. What should he have done? Asked you out, gone on a handful of dates and then tried to persuade you to wait five months for him? Just for him to get deployed over and over again? That wouldn't have been fair to you.

But he didn't feel like it was fair to him either, because right now he was having a hard time even remembering exactly how pretty you were and the precise tone of your laughter. Probably for the best. At least he only needed to do this event for a few hours before he could leave and go for a long drive. He swallowed down his disappointment and turned toward the guys who were in the middle of conversation. 

"How about a side wager?" Javy asked, tossing a bottle of vodka up into the air and catching it over and over again. "You know, for the charity?"

"What did you have in mind?" Bradley asked as Penny went to peek outside. "Because I doubt Penny will let us strip for charity again after last year. The two of you scuffed up the bar top," Bradley added, gesturing at Jake as well.

They both started laughing like idiots before Jake said, "Nah, let's give Penny a break this year and just tally up our tips at the end of the night. Whoever donates the least amount of tip money to the charity is the loser."

"Oh, that's a great idea," Javy said as he ate the orange slices and cherries that were meant to garnish the drinks. "What's the punishment for losing?"

Reuben smirked and said, "Loser has to report to the tarmac on Monday in his underwear. Instant push ups from Mav."

"Deal," Jake said.

"Absolutely," Javy agreed.

Three pairs of eyes settled on Bradley, and he slowly said, "Okay." If he strolled out of the locker room in just his underwear and boots on his first day back from a long deployment when he was supposed to sit down with the admirals and Maverick and have a debrief, he'd probably earn a greater punishment than just a few push ups. But it was for the charity, so he'd do it.

But he soon learned he'd made a mistake after Penny called out, "Let's get started," and propped the doors open. The first person through the door was Reuben's wife, followed by Javy's fiancee and Jake's girlfriend. And all of her sorority sisters. 

"Shit," Bradley grunted. "Did you make me come here just so I would lose?"

Javy was handing out pint glasses that they could use as tip cups as he smirked, and Bradley was wondering if there was any way he could actually stuff his discreetly with cash from his own wallet.

"You'll be just fine," Jake drawled as the jukebox came blaring to life. But even the music was mocking him as Slow Ride started to play, and Bradley had people in front of him expecting him to make them drinks. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jake's girlfriend open her purse and start stuffing Jake's tip cup full. "I feel like that's considered cheating," Bradley told her, and she rolled her eyes and smirked before tucking five dollars into his cup as well.

"Don't tip Bradshaw, Sweets," Jake complained. "We made him come here as a buffer!"

"I knew it was a setup!" Bradley groaned as he listened to someone ask him for some wine and some beer. That was easy enough. He knew how to do that. Or at least he thought he did, but then one of the bartenders who had volunteered for the night told him he poured too much wine into the glass.

Then a woman asked him for a green tea shot, and he stared at her blankly. He leaned closer to Javy and asked, "What the hell is in a green tea shot?" 

"I don't know," he replied as he poured two pints at the same time. "But you better figure it out, because your tip cup is still practically empty."

"Shit." He was scrambling to flag down the young bartenders again when he froze. He only caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye, but he knew it was you simply by the way you moved and the color of your hair. And then you sat down in the only empty stool left at the bar and smiled at him, your voice drawing his eyes up to your perfect face. 

"Rooster. You're back."

The little thoughts and fantasies he'd indulged in while deployed had nothing on the real thing, and he knew he was blushing as you smiled and waited for him to respond. But it had been months since he'd been this close to you, and now he was really beating himself up for not trying to make you his sooner. Because if you were his, he could do all the things he wanted to do right now. Like kiss you.

"Rooster," you repeated with hesitation in your eyes, your voice softer, nearly drowned out by the jukebox. 

"They said you quit," he blurted out as he leaned on the bartop, curious as to why you were here tonight. "And that you moved."

Your eyes went a little wider as you nodded, your smile still soft. "I did. You asked about me?"

"Can you make me a green tea shot or not?"

Bradley begrudgingly switched his focus to the woman next to you and sighed. He was about to tell her he didn't even know what that was, or that maybe she should fuck off so he could talk to you, but then you reached out and ran your fingers along the back of his hand. 

Your touch was brief but intentional, and all of the irritation seemed to ease out of his body as his gaze snapped back to yours. "Yeah," you told the other woman as your finger grazed his knuckle one more time. "He can make you a green tea shot."

"I don't even know what's in it," he told you, with a helpless smile, trying to fight the urge to reach for your hand. 

You kind of shrugged as you said, "I do. I'll talk you through it."

Bradley's smile grew which left you giggling as he said, "I'm kind of helpless back here. Nothing like you."

"Well, you can learn from the best," you told him, reaching out to squeeze his wrist before pointing to the many liquor bottles behind him. "Irish whiskey and peach schnapps," you told him, leaning on the bar now, so close that he just couldn't bring himself to turn away from you. 

"Okay," he said, memorizing the exact color of your eyes. "Thanks for doing this."

You bit your lip and smiled up at him, and when Bradley moved just slightly closer, he thought he heard you whimper. Your eyes were full of emotion that reflected his own as you said, "Focus, Rooster. Irish whiskey and peach schnapps."

He nodded once and then finally moved away from you as he scanned the bottles and grabbed the two you told him. "Good," you said, pointing to the mini fridge and saying, "now get the sweet and sour mix. It's in a pink jug. Yeah, you got it. Now you need a half ounce of each."

Bradley listened to you explain how to use the shaker while he gave you another helpless look. "I'm just a simple beer or bourbon drinker," he said as he strained the drink that his customer had been waiting several minutes for into a shot glass.

You laughed and said, "I know you are, and it's kind of endearing that you don't know what you're doing. Now top it off with a splash of Sprite." 

Bradley grabbed the soda gun, pressed the little green button and then looked up at you again. "This is endearing?" he asked, finally sliding the shot to the annoyed woman who unenthusiastically put a dollar in his tip cup and turned away.

"Very," you promised him. "And now I want you to make me a kamikaze shot."

He gave you a bland look, but his heart was pounding. "Are you joking right now?"

Bradley was hyper focused on your lips as you said, "Not at all. You can handle it. It's vodka, triple sec and lime juice. I prefer Finlandia. Impress me, and I'll leave you a nice big tip for the charity."

Then he groaned. He had forgotten about the wager and the other patrons looking for drinks and just all of it. He raked his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, but I'll probably still end up in my underwear at work on Monday morning." 

When he pushed away from the bar again, your eyes dipped down to his jeans before snapping back up. "Underwear?"

"Yeah," he grunted as he reached for the type of vodka you liked best. You told him how much to use, and he dumped it in a shaker. "The guys coerced me into volunteering tonight. I literally just got home from deployment, but here I am... their scapegoat," he said, arms held out at his sides. "They threw out a side bet based on tip money, and next thing I know, all of their wives and girlfriends show up with a bunch of cash."

While he shook your kamikaze shot, he watched you turn first to your right and then to your left, eyeing up the overflowing tip cups in front of Reuben, Javy and Jake. Your lips parted, and you gaped at Bradley, but your eyes looked a little devious now. "You know, all of this makes a lot of sense since the guys made me come tonight."

Bradley carefully poured out your shot and asked, "What do you mean they made you come?" He realized his voice sounded annoyed, but how did they all have your phone number anyway? He'd been standing here thinking about asking you for it, but they were apparently already texting you. 

You accepted the shot and took a small sip to taste it. "They kept messaging me earlier today, saying I absolutely needed to be here tonight. They said it was important I made it to the charity event." Then you tipped your head back, and Bradley was treated to the soft looking expanse of your neck as you swallowed down the rest of the shot he made. When you were done, you set the glass down and licked your lips as you dug some money out of your pocket. "That was delicious."

While you loaded his cup with all the cash in your pocket, Bradley tried to ask you where you lived now. If the guys were bugging you earlier today, you couldn't be that far. But before he could get a word out, you pushed yourself up so you were kneeling on the bar right in front of him, and he looked up at you as you grinned down at him. 

"Don't worry, Rooster," you said as you ran your fingers through his hair. "I got you." Then Bradley was reaching for your hips. He didn't fucking care if the place was packed, he was ready to haul you off to the back hallway and ask you if he could kiss your pretty lips. You beamed at him as his hands met your body, but you just cupped your fingers around your mouth and shouted over the music, "Come get your drinks from Rooster! He knows how to make everything! But kamikazes are his specialty! And he's hot!"

His eyes went wide as you slipped out of his grasp and back onto your stool while an influx of mostly women queued up in front of him. "What did you do?" he asked, trying to mentally process an order for a cosmopolitan while stumbling over you calling him hot.

"I'm helping you not embarrass yourself at work. Keep the vodka out. Grab the Cointreau and a martini glass. We're about to show the guys what's up."

Bradley struggled through drink after drink as quickly as he could, but you never gave up on him. Occasionally you'd slide things out of his way or point out where he could find something he needed, and at some point you grabbed a second pint glass for his overflowing tip money. And all the while, he stole as many glances at you as he could while he worked. 

When Penny eventually walked behind him, patted him on the shoulder and said there was less than an hour left of the event, she also shared a smile with you. But there was no hope. The other guys were already working on their third tip cups each. "I don't think I can make up the deficit," he groaned, pulling up the hem of his shirt and wiping his brow with it. 

"Oh, that's a great idea," you mused, leaning across the bar and pulling his shirt up higher. "Take it off."

He stared at you as you tugged on the fabric. "Take it off?"

You nodded, the moevent exaggerated as you said, "Absolutely. Take your shirt off." As he looked around awkwardly before pulling his shirt over his head, you cupped your hands around your mouth once again and said, "He has six pack abs!"

Now the guys were glaring at him. "So do I!" Reuben complained.

"Don't you dare take your shirt off!" his wife told him, pointing at him in warning. 

Bradley knew his cheeks were flushed, and all he really wanted to do was talk to you and hopefully kiss you. And he really wanted to do all of that with his shirt on, because he felt a bit like a stripper now as you reached for a third tip cup. The cash was filling it up quickly, and he smirked as he thought about Reuben, Jake or Javy in their underwear instead of him. And it was all for a charity after all. 

"Make him use the shaker!" you urged a woman who looked like she was in her seventies and holding a crisp fifty dollar bill. "Make him flex."

Bradley groaned your name which sent you into a fit of laughter, your second empty shot glass still in front of you. "This isn't right," he complained half heartedly as he shook the older woman's Mai Tai with flexed abs and biceps. 

"It is so right," you told him, and he appreciated that you were scoping out the other guys' tip cups instead of looking at him right now. "Keep going. It's going to be so close." And then that fifty ended up in Bradley's cup when he handed over the cocktail, and you said, "Or maybe not!"

"Last call for the fundraiser!" Penny shouted over the crowd, and Bradley almost sighed in relief when the last few people ordered beers and a glass of wine. And then it was all over, and he had a huge amount of cash in front of him along with you. But he didn't care about the tips as much as he did getting to finally talk to you. The fundraiser was technically over, and you were looking at him the same way he was looking at you.

When he took a breath to suggest you and he go for a walk, he felt a hand on his bare back. It was one of the young bartenders who was helping out, and she said, "I can count up your tips for you," with a smile.

"Nope," you said, reaching for his cups yourself and shooting her a glare. "I'll do his. You go help Coyote." You didn't move again until her hand slipped off of his back and she walked away, and then you looked at Bradley and asked, "What are you going to do for me if you win?"

He watched as you quickly sorted the bills into efficient piles as he pulled his shirt back on and leaned against the bar. It had quieted down significantly, and now Penny was taking a few drink orders while everyone else seemed to move to the tables. He felt like he had a moment of privacy with you as he said, "I guess that depends. Apparently you moved away, Sweetheart."

"I did," you confirmed with a smirk as you counted up his twenties. 

"But you came back tonight."

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you moved to the pile of tens. "I'm not too far away. I took a full time job and moved to Del Mar. The guys told me I needed to be here tonight for a special surprise. They said something I had been missing was returning. So I came down."

Bradley's fingers flexed on the edge of the bartop. "They did?"

You looked a little vulnerable as you stacked the bills in one pile and said, "Eight hundred and seventy one dollars." 

He nodded once and pushed the money aside without really looking at it. "You'd been missing something, Sweetheart?" he pressed gently, heart pounding in his chest. 

You bit your lip as your eyes drifted closed when he rubbed his thumb across your cheek. "I guess I must have asked the guys one time too many if they knew when you'd be back from your deployment."

"Oh," he rasped as you looked at him again. "You missed me?"

"Yes," you whispered. "I was going to ask you out, but then you were just gone. And they told me you were deployed, and I thought I really missed my chance. And I didn't even know if you were single or not, so I-"

Bradley had heard enough, so he kissed you. Just a soft press of his lips to yours, but you practically crawled onto the bar to get closer to him. And it was better than he spent the last five months imagining it might be. He could taste the vodka and lime on your tongue as it met his. Your fingers gently combed through his hair again, and he moaned, "I missed you too, Sweetheart."

Your laughter was soft and sweet as your nose brushed against his, and then he jerked back a few inches as Reuben shouted. "Yo, Rooster! There's time for that later, man! How much tip money did you make?"

"Eight hundred and seventy one," you replied as your fingers trailed down his scarred cheek to rub his mustache before you pecked him on the lips. The three guys groaned in unison, and Bradley watched your face light up in a beautiful smile. 

"This is not why we told you that you had to come tonight!" Jake whined, pointing at you and pouting. "You were supposed to distract him, not help him win! He was just supposed to turn into a bumbling mess and admit he has feelings for you!"

You turned away from Jake, and you asked Bradley, "So, do you have feelings for me?"

He huffed out a laugh before he hopped up to sit on the bar, swung his long legs over to the other side and hopped down again. You jumped from your stool and into his arms when he said, "I thought about you the whole time I was away, Sweetheart. I wanted to ask you out in the summer, but I didn't think it was right to hope you'd wait almost half a year for me to be stateside. For us to be together again."

"Bradley," you moaned. His hands found your hips just like earlier, and this time he pulled you snug against him while your fingers teased through his hair. "If a guy is worth waiting for, then I'd wait forever."

He kissed you again, tasting and nipping the lips that he'd dreamed about. Inhaling all of your sweetness that his mind didn't do justice to when he'd been away. Feeling your smile against his lips for the first time.

"Let me ask you again," you said, pausing between kisses. "Since I clearly helped you win the bet, what are you going to do for me?"

"Anything you want," he said immediately as you started to push him toward the door with a grin. 

"How about we go for a long drive? And we can talk about how the next time you're deployed, your girlfriend will be waiting patiently for you to return?"

Bradley scooped you up, sending you into a fit of laughter as he carried you directly to his Bronco.

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

Bradley was exhausted on Monday to the point where the travel mug of coffee you sent him with did nothing to keep him from yawning out on the tarmac at 8:00. But every yawn ended with him smiling as he thought about how perfect the weekend had been. In the very early hours of Sunday morning, you'd agreed to be his girlfriend. And now he was waiting for the cherry on top of it all.

He didn't have to wait long as he stood between Reuben and Javy, the three of them looking nearly identical in their matching flight suits and boots, standing at attention in front of Maverick. Then Jake came strolling out, and Bradley instantly started laughing. 

Maverick turned, took one look at Hangman in his boxer shorts and combat boots and said, "I don't even want to know what's going on here, I just want five hundred push ups."

Jake's eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his face as everyone else tried their best to hold in their laughter. Bradley took his phone out as discreetly as he could and snapped a picture of Jake panicking on the tarmac before he dropped down onto the ground and started on his punishment. 

"Everyone else to your jets," Mav barked, and Bradley didn't stick around to hear him say it again. Instead he texted you the photo of Jake along with a short message.

Couldn't have pulled it off without your help, Sweetheart.

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

The way I would die of this man just casually started calling me his Sweetheart. I love that he swept the guys to win the bet! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[milkloafy]

STUCK WITH YOU — BLADE

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which you get sick and blade is wondering how the hell he got stuck having to take care of you. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: sickfic, fluff, swearing, gn!reader, stellaron hunter!reader, reader doesn’t like room temp water LMAO only ice cold, blade’s kinda mean but a softie trust me u.u ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.8k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: i haven’t written for blade in ages so i am very rusty but i hope u enjoy <3 this is a self-indulgent fic i wrote while sick and bed-ridden yesterday :c if any of y’all got the summer cold/flu too i hope u feel better !! :> 

You felt like shit and the last thing you needed was someone threatening you to get better. 

It would have been one thing if those threats worked in scaring your illness away. But you were certain that it did the opposite of help— It simply gave you an unwanted headache instead. 

“Can you stop glaring at me whenever I blow my nose?” you demanded with a sniffle, tossing your tissue into the trashcan Blade so graciously placed next to your head.

“Can you stop blowing your nose so loudly?”

You glared at him, responding by grabbing another tissue and blowing your nose even louder. You winced at the force, feeling a slight throb in your head from the overexertion.

With an ever-present scowl on his annoyingly handsome face, Blade shook his head at you. You could practically sense the disappointment and annoyance radiating from him. “Don’t make yourself feel worse.” 

“I’m not trying to,” you said, choosing to lay back down on your bed rather than arguing with him.

Your throat was sore, your nose was both runny and stuffy with no in-between, your muscles were achy, and your body was tired. There wasn’t much fighting spirit left for you to spare in your current state. Hence, the reason the Stellaron Hunters had Blade stay behind on the mission until you recovered enough to join everyone. Why they didn’t leave someone more personable and caring like Sam behind was beyond you. But you supposed you should be grateful Elio let anyone stay behind instead of having you recover alone. 

Coughing, you reached for a glass of water to moisten your throat only to find it already empty. You groaned to yourself, the thought of having to get up from your warm and cozy bed to fill up your water in the cold, cold kitchen made you shiver. 

With a sigh, Blade exited your room while muttering a quick, “Stay put.” 

You blinked blearily, eyes barely able to follow his quick-moving figure out the door. 

In a flash, Blade returned with two separate cups—one filled with clear water, and the other with warm tea. He set them both down on your nightshade, collecting your empty glass to clean in the sink. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, touched that he brought you drinks without you having to ask. You grabbed the glass of water first, letting out a giggle when you saw the single ice cube floating on the top. With a smile, you questioned, “One ice cube?”

Blade shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face that one could easily mistake as uncaring. “You don’t like room temperature water. If I brought warm water to you, you would rather die of dehydration than drink it.” 

A nodded sheepishly, unable to deny what came out of his mouth.

“Still, you need fluids to feel better. I figured one ice cube might be enough to satiate you.” 

Staring at the melting ice cube, you assumed it didn’t do much to help the temperature of the drink, but the thoughtfulness of your fellow Stellaron Hunter was enough to coax you into drinking it regardless. 

“That’s…surprisingly sweet of you,” you said, taking a sip of water. It was, in fact, not cold enough for you, but you still pushed onwards. “Thanks, Bladie.” 

The scowl on his face deepended. “Don’t call me that. And drink the tea. I put honey in it since its anti-inflammatory.” 

“Your frown lines are forming prematurely,” you jested, setting the glass of water aside to pick up the steaming cup of tea. The warm mug felt hot against your skin and you felt a droplet of sweat forming on the side of your head. In the blink of an eye, you threw the blankets off your body and fanned yourself dramatically with one hand. You shared a look with Blade. “It’s too hot for tea.” 

“It’s not too hot, you just have a fever,” he said with annoyance, walking over to the thermostat and turning down the temperature regardless of his words. “But you can wait for it to cool down then—” 

Before he finished his sentence, you had already taken a sip of the drink. Immediately, you felt a burning sensation on the tip of your tongue and jumped. “Ow!” you yelped, placing the mug down and glaring at it. “That’s hot!” 

Blade glared at you. “Tea is typically made from hot water. I just told you to wait for it to cool down.”

“But you said that after you told me to drink it!” you sniffed, nursing your tongue by dipping it into the lukewarm glass of water. “You can’t give a sick person mixed signals like that.”

“You’re sick, not incompetent.” He paused. “Not more than normal, at least.” 

“Hey!” you protested. At the sudden overuse of your voice, you felt your throat growing more irritated. You coughed and coughed, taking in deep breaths of air to stop yourself. 

He folded his arms as he scolded you, “Don’t overexert yourself. Get some rest.” 

With tears forming around your eyes from coughing, you matched his haughty expression. You croaked out, “You’re naggy. Did you know that?”

“Only to those who don’t listen.” 

“You tell me like a million different instructions! How can I listen?” you retorted, your headache coming back as your shoulders tensed in irritation. 

When he noticed your slight wince of pain, Blade sighed and relented. He walked over to the side of your bed and picked up the cup of hot tea. With a blank expression, he blew the surface of the drink, cooling it down until the steam went away. 

“Here,” he said as he held out the cup to you. “Now drink.” 

Your stared open-mouthed at the drink. You felt as if he was giving you whiplash with his crass words and caring actions. You didn’t quite know how to feel, but you knew you were at least a bit grateful. 

Carefully, you sipped the cup of tea Blade gently (and begrudgingly) placed in your hands. This time, you did not feel the scalding heat burn your tongue. 

“Thank you,” you said, chugging as much of the tea as you could. “It wasn’t hot that time.” 

He nodded in response, stepping away from the side of your bed once he confirmed you finished your drink. Blade studied you as you laid back in bed, closing your eyes to try to soothe all your ailments. It didn’t work, but you would certainly keep trying. 

Without the blankets covering you, you felt cold again despite the sweat you felt gathering on your forehead. You heard rustling and the clanging of glasses next to you.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Blade walking away with the dirty cups in hand, muttering something about how he wasn’t your maid. You smiled weakly, knowing he was doing his best to take care of you regardless of his bitching and moaning. 

Blade returned with a slightly damp washcloth in hand, folded perfectly into a compact rectangle. You sniffled through your stuffy nose, watching as he held out the washcloth to you, before taking it back last minute. Confused, you pulled your hand back as well. 

“I’ll just do it. Before you mess up somehow,” he said, leaning down by your side and placing the damp washcloth on your forehead. 

The instant he placed the towel on you, cool relief coursed through your body. You shivered at the sensation, letting out a noise of satisfaction. 

You peeked one eye open, looking at Blade with another sheepish expression. “Thank you. Again…” 

“You don’t need to keep thanking me.”

“I do!” you insisted, staying as still as a board despite the passion in your voice. “I know you would rather be out on a mission right now, following Elio’s script with the others. But instead you got stuck here taking care of me.” 

He folded his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “It’s not your fault. Kafka forcibly volunteered me.” 

You chuckled lightly at that. It certainly seemed like something Kafka would do. Either to annoy Blade, tease you, or irritate the both of you just for fun. 

“You just need to get better soon,” he said as if it were that simple. “Then we can both get back on the field.”

“Is that why you’ve been such a good little nurse, Bladie?” you teased, touching your fingertips to the cool washcloth on your forehead. 

He glared at you, but there was no anger behind the expression. “Call me that one more time and you will see what happens.” 

“Will you bring me more hot tea to burn my tongue on?” you asked in mock horror. Despite his menacing-sounding threats, you knew Blade would never hurt you. 

“I’ll bring you room temperature water with no ice,” he promised blankly. 

Your mouth dropped in surprise and you shook your head fervently, the small towel falling off your face. “No, please! I won’t call you Bladie again.”

Blade rolled his eyes at your dramatics but immediately went to pick up the fallen washcloth. “Stop moving around like that. You’re going to make your headache worse.”

“Sorry, mother.” 

He scowled and plopped the washcloth back on your forehead, less gently this time than the first. You stuck your tongue out at him in response before feeling another fit of coughs come your way. 

Once you managed to soothe your throat and gather your breath, you sighed. “I hate being sick.” 

“Then drink more fluids and go to sleep.” Blade grabbed the glass of water from your nightstand and began to walk out with it. “I’ll get you some more before you try to rest.”

Closing your eyes shut, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself despite your discomfort. He had a rough exterior, but he surprised you with how much effort he put into helping your sick self out. 

His hidden thoughtfulness was enough to stir something in your stomach—butterflies, you hoped, and not an unwanted stomach bug to add to your list of ailments. It was unfamiliar to you, but certainly not unwelcome. 

Blade entered your room one last time for the night, bringing you a new glass of water with a single ice cube, and a fresh new washcloth folded to perfection. 

You giggled, noticing his attentiveness to detail. “Thank you, Bladie. I really appreciate all of this.” 

He sighed but didn’t argue when he heard that nickname. Thankfully, he did not take the ice cube out of your water and hand the glass to you lukewarm.

“You are so… You’re welcome,” he relented, replacing the damp towel on your forehead with a fresh and cold one. “Now, hurry up and recover.” 

“I’m trying,” you laughed, no longer annoyed by his impatience. “I’m sure I will, with you doting on me like this.”

“I don’t dote.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bladie,” you sang softly, your eyes finally feeling heavy after drinking more water and relaxing your muscles with the help of the cool washcloth. “I’m finally getting sleepy…”

He nodded. “That’s good.” 

“Mhm,” you murmured, your voice drifting into a sleepy mumble. “‘M tired. Goodnight… Blade.” 

There was a long pause before you heard Blade’s response while you drifted off into a deep slumber. “Get well soon, Y/N.”

[balteringanatidae]

Here Comes the Sun

pairing: s.r x fem!bau!reader word count: 2.8k contents: not proof read i’m sorry… fluffy :3 title taken from a beatles song, suggestive content, but no smut!!!rushed, badly written, post prison!reid, professor!reid mentioned, very tiny jeid reference, eventually sweetheart!spence, his tism is showing, cuddling <33, emily is a little shit the one time she’s mentioned, allusions to sex, sneakin’ around a/n: this is kinda bad… idk. i just needed to post a fic because im sure you guys are tired of me thirsting over glasses reid </3

You joined the team when Reid was on sabbatical leave. You were yet to be introduced to him until your second week. He was insensitive and distant, especially with you (only distant); he lacked that shine in his eyes you saw in other people. To which the team clarified he wasn’t forever like that, and he’d changed after he went to prison. You felt nothing but empathy for him, and you wished he could find that happiness he once harbored.

In the first one hundred days you got to know him, you unknowingly profiled his every move. Every diminutive gesture, a raise of an eyebrow to a giggle that slipped from his lips. You deduced that he was most comfortable around JJ and Luke, and he missed a former agent named Derek Morgan. He was least relaxed around you; he shielded himself near you. He would plow his hands into his pockets and purse his lips awkwardly.

You’d managed to pry a few conversations out of him, and you couldn’t be more different than him. Despite your job, you were the biggest optimist ever. Spencer was a blunt realist, which you’d expected, but his honesty shocked you. You two had serious conversations, less lighthearted than the ones you heard him have with other members. It made you wish that he would be more comfortable with you.

You would watch him from afar, your heart breaking at his permanent pout and glossy eyes. You would seldom ask ‘a penny for his thoughts,’ but he always hesitated, simply laughing it off, pulling the infamous ‘I’m fine.’

You, of course, respected his boundaries, but you felt as if you hadn't even developed any camaraderie. You two felt like strangers, because it was all you were. There was no bond; there was no relationship. Simply coworkers, and you didn’t think that he wanted anything more than that.

Of course, you preferred a professional relationship, but sometimes you wished he would give you a smile like he did to any other member. After what he’s been through, you don’t blame him for not wanting to develop new, close relationships. It would only make it worse to force a friendship upon you two. If it doesn’t happen, that’s it.

Then, it was thirty days without him. It felt no different than your average days at the BAU. Other team members were affected, but you couldn’t feel any more normal. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him, but the complete opposite. It was simply that he wasn’t a key part of your social life as the other team members were. Of course, working the cases felt slightly different—void of his nerdy aura.

The air felt less tense for you. You were closer with the other team members; you couldn’t deny that you felt bad to feel better without Spencer. It wasn’t because he was gone, per se, you simply felt more comfortable.

The thirty days seemed to be the longest month of your life, because when you saw him, you felt relieved to know he was there, he was alive. First day back at the BAU, he wrapped his arms around JJ tightly, spinning her in a circle, erupting gentle laughter from the blonde. You smiled, because it was a wholesome sight, and you totally didn’t wish that she were you.

Winter came around with Spencer, and the team received significantly fewer cases, which made you wonder if even serial killers feared the cold. The thought was almost humorous. The rare cases the team received were in the warmer states like Arizona and Florida. It was nice to seldom escape the cold and experience a bit of warmth this time of year.

Unfortunately, some serial killers feared nothing. The team accepted a case in North Dakota, an unsub taking advantage of the cold, utilizing it to torture their victims. Though you were a profiler, you could never actually be in someone's brain, and you could never figure out where such creativity came from.

You and Spencer arrived at the first crime scene. It wasn’t unusual, because you guys worked well together professionally. You strode in sync, walking over to the lifeless, cold victim. You shivered, in horror and because you were cold. You two had been standing in the middle of a field; what would’ve been beautiful grass was covered in snow.

“This is… unusual,” you acknowledged quietly, because it was more than obvious. Spencer let out an amused scoff and nod, his breath causing tiny clouds to form in the wintry air.

You two examined the victim with meticulousness and sympathy. You couldn’t bring yourself to look into the victim’s dull eyes. You almost winced at the sight of their body overall. The contrast between their practically blue body and the blood from their chest was horrific.

You sighed with a shiver as you turned to walk away, Spencer still examining the victim, imprinting the image into his head for future reference. You didn’t bother to ask whether he was coming or not, because he had to get back to the station, so it would only be stupid to ask.

Closing in on the distance to the car, you felt a warm, cozy object encircle your neck: Spencer’s purple scarf. He didn’t have to, but your whole body was practically shaking, and he couldn’t handle it.

You turned around to him, the cool wind blowing his hair out of place (not that it was in place to start). “You’ll be cold.” You started to take the scarf off, and he immediately grabbed your hand, stopping you.

“Sorry, um, no. Keep it. I’m fine, and you’re shivering.” His hand still holding yours, until he realized the awkward position, he let go. “Are you warm?”

You nodded, which wasn’t a lie to simply satisfy him. You now understood why he wore it recently. It was welcoming, warm, and relaxing. You felt like the fierce cold couldn’t touch you anymore, though you knew it’d win.

He stepped over to the driver's side, avoiding the ice in the road, to open the door for you.

“I’m the driver, Reid. You didn’t have to do that.” You smiled at him involuntarily, the gesture just sweet. You quickly started up the car, yearning for the warmth that would leave the vents.

“It’s just respectful.” He hummed, closing the door behind you as you leaned down into the car. He strolled back to the passenger side, taking the seat next to you, taking in the heating temperature of the car.

“You’re suddenly a gentleman, hm?” You chuckled, glancing over to Spencer, a slight smile crept onto his lips.

You could seriously get used to this.

The next roughly ninety days of winter were warm because you were filled with warmth. Each morning at the BAU, Spencer would make you a cup of coffee and have it on your desk before or right on time as you arrived. It prompted for a conversation—specifically, each time an awkward conversation about the weather, which was the same every day, but it was an excuse to interact. He became comfortable enough to ramble to you; it was mostly about how D.C. didn’t even get the worst winter in the US and comparing your fortunate weather to other states that were freezing.

You’d be bored in the morning; Spencer was a form of entertainment, but not just that. He seemed the happiest when he could talk and talk so much. He had so much to say, and people let him say so little. It disheartened him, so of course, he expected it from you. He didn’t expect your pout when he suddenly stopped talking, it made his eyes light up.

You actually cared.

He beamed before he started prattling on again, and you listened intently as you sipped your coffee, his purple scarf around your neck—which he noticed, and it made his heart flutter.

“You really… like the scarf?” he haphazardly blurted in the middle of his rambling, with something of humor in his voice.

“Of course I do! It’s also given me a chance to wear all of the purple in my closet while staying warm.” You nodded, looking down at your outfit, wearing a purple cardigan he hadn't seen before. He noticed your new versatility in style, and he liked it. “Why wouldn't I like it?”

“Oh—It’s just old. I've had it for a while, and it’s kind of ugly. It, um..." he cleared his throat, “it looks great on you.”

“Are you flirting with me, Reid?”

His face flushed an unusual shade of red, and his lips immediately parted to object, but he couldn't say anything. He simply looked like a tomato.

“Oh, no, I was joking!” You giggled a bit, the back of your hand traveling to his cheek to feel the heat of his face. “I know you weren't flirting.”

“O-oh…” He spoke through an uneasy chuckle, and your hand on his face served no consolation to his nervousness.

Even this moment wasn't too awkward, it was humorous to you, and Spencer was minorly embarrassed, mainly adoring your giggles at his red face. The idea of germs was in the back of his mind as you handled his face, but he couldn't care less.

You had one more case with him before he left on sabbatical leave. You took advantage of it. You had the chance (not even a choice, actually) to share a hotel room, and you couldn’t help but think it would make it awkward again.

Spencer had been lying in bed before you were out of your work clothes. He was lying on his back, his eyes tightly closed, afraid to see something he didn't want to.

“Asleep already?” You were changing into the comfortable clothes you packed to sleep in. You would've packed better if you knew someone had to see you in your pajamas.

“No, I’m afraid I might see you… you know, changing.”

“Afraid?” You chuckled, climbing into your side of the bed, a lot of space between you two, which was comfortable and not awkward.

“You know what I mean.” He sighed as he turned to face you, his eyes opening to notice the comedically large space. “I think you could move a bit closer?”

You scooted a bit closer, the space shrinking narrowly. “Just a little more,” he murmured.

“Do you want to cuddle with me, Reid?” You jested as you two lay a few inches apart now.

A giggle erupted from his lips, but he shook his head. He reached out to sweep your hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. He examined your facial structure closely, and you stared into his big hazel eyes.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you hummed, stifling a smile as his eyes widened in surprise. “Sorry to scare you.”

“No, I’m sorry for staring.” He pulled his hand away, your skin immediately missing his frigid fingers.

You murmured a quiet assurance to him, holding the eye contact for a moment. A moment of adoration.

“Can we?” he vaguely proposed.

“What?”

“Can we cuddle?” He breathed out a shaky breath, opening his mouth to object to his own proposal, but you cut him off before he could.

“I’d like that, if you’re truly comfortable with it.”You closed the space between you two, and you felt Spencer wrap his arm around you, gently lifting you up, some of your weight resting on him.

You two lay like that for a while, his hand encircling your waist, his index finger sketching obscure shapes on your clothes abdomen. You were half asleep, his melodic breaths lulling you to sleep. Your face in his neck, you could feel his pulse against your lips. It was clearly intimate, but you could tell he had no intent to try to initiate anything further. He made you feel safe.

“Good night,” he murmured as he felt your eyelashes flutter shut against his neck. You reiterated it lazily, more of a hum than anything. He simply smiled, pressing a kiss to your scalp as you dozed off.

But you felt it.

This was the first time you’d genuinely been affected by his presence, or lack of it. You walked in, and there was no cup of coffee on your desk. It was disheartening, truly, because the cup of coffee was the greatest reminder of his presence and how much he began to care about you.

“Someone’s missing Reid.” Emily chuckled as she watched the coffee drip into the pot. There was enough for her, but she waited until there was enough for both of you to get a cup, stalling for time to talk.

You turned to her as a look of curiosity painted your face. Then you noticed his personalized mug was gone too. “Who?”

“You, newbie.” Though the term was reserved for Luke, Emily still used it for you because you were fairly new.

That obvious?

“Well, of course I do! He’s a valuable asset to the team. It only makes sense to miss his presence,” you explained, an odd defensiveness in your tone.

Emily hid her smirk and simply nodded, agreeing with you. She poured coffee into her mug, leaving just enough for you.

You were still dumbfounded by the fact that she drank her coffee black and the fact that you were not discreet at all.

So, you’d spend the next month evidently pining.

Or so you thought.

“So, how are you settling in without me?” you teased over the phone, standing near the toaster, making sure your toast didn’t get too dark.

“Not too well, I think this feeling is called yearning,” Spencer exaggerated, setting up for early morning lectures.

“Hm, ditto.” You jumped a bit as the toast popped up without warning—of course—having been immersed in the conversation with Spencer. “You could always visit me, or vice versa,” you proposed.

There was silence for longer than you would've liked, but you gave him a moment to think.

“I’d like that… to visit you, I mean. My apartment isn't the most organized,” he agreed, a quiet chuckle exiting his lips.

“It’s a date!” You beamed as you placed your toast onto a plate. The sun shone through your opened curtains, casting a light onto your dining table.

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.” And with that being the end, you noticed that you two were talking for half an hour.

You would have never guessed that one day, you would be cuddled up with your coworker who you were certain hated you. On your couch, in his Caltech sweatshirt that he generously offered you for no reason, and he was only wearing, what was before, a matching shirt that was slightly tight on his new muscles.

In this moment you knew that—you didn’t have to guess it—but you didn’t know how his lips ended up clashing with yours, ignoring whatever movie you were watching, captured in this random makeout session. And he kissed you with love, like he feared he would never be able to do it again.

Spencer pulled away hesitantly. “I’m sorry, the movie—“

“No, it’s okay. The movie can wait.” He immediately nodded in agreement as you pulled him back in. His hand on your stomach unhurriedly pushed you down onto the couch, your head held up by the armrest.

He sat in between your legs, his kisses beginning to trail down your neck, and soon, that sweatshirt he gave you was long gone, and everything else.

Nothing about him surprised you, especially not how gentle he was. It was basically expected.

As stated before, Spencer never surprised you much since the second you learned he was a genius. He knew how to do most everything, but you didn’t imagine that he knew how to treat a woman so greatly.

“Do you feel okay?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

All you could do was nod, your eyes slowly opening and closing. You could feel a cloth cleaning you gently; it was relieving, just like the touch of his lips to your skin.

“Have I said it yet?”

“Said what?”

“That I love you,” you hummed, you could faintly see him shaking his head.

“No, but I know, and I love you too,” he said it casually, as if he’d said it a million times already. “And I can’t exaggerate how much I mean it.”

You reached up to swat his hair away from his face, his big hazel eyes visible to you now. Your eyes trailed down to the marks on his neck, you grimaced. “Do you have to teach tomorrow?”

“I don’t… have to. I can spend tomorrow with you.”

Your eyes were busy trailing downward, and then you felt perverse, so you redirected your vision to his eyes. “Work,” you complained, sitting upright.

“Right.” He sighed. When he was on sabbatical leave, he tried his best to forget about work, and you most definitely helped. “So this is fraternization, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, pulling him down onto you once more. “Not if no one knows.” You hummed as you watched the sun peek through the blinds, shining onto Spencer’s face, which reminded you how late—or early—you guys had been up.

Till the first day of spring, you could say.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Fumble on the Play

Prompt Day 12: Stargazing | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Stargazing, A Wooing Was Attempted, Baby Steps, Getting on the Same Page

"It's so cold," Eddie whines, and Steve throws the blanket towards him. It bounces off his chest and down into the snow.

"Oooh, fumble on the play," Steve crows, and Eddie looks less than thrilled. Steve rolls his eyes, "Just go along with it. Look around! Doesn't it feel like there are just more stars in the sky in the winter? Yes, it does. So, suck it up buttercup," Steve stresses, and Eddie begrudgingly picks up the fallen blanket.

And then he shakes it out, probably more violently than he really needs to.

Steve gives him the look, the one he's practiced on the kids, because he finds that it translates to Eddie pretty goddamn well more often than not.

"It's the cold air," Eddie mutters, being a grouchy ass.

"What?" Steve asks.

"It's the cold air. Makes the chance of haziness in the sky less likely, because there's less moisture in the air. So. Yes. It's the cold air that's letting you see all those stars."

"You're making that up," Steve says.

"Nope. It's science. Read it in Newsweek."

"You read Newsweek?" Steve questions, unsure if he should believe this. His default is no, no he should not. Eddie likes to make shit up for fun, just to see how Steve reacts.

This feels like that.

"Yes, Harrington. I can read," Eddie says, and he doesn't seem like he's pulling Steve's leg. He looks annoyed.

"Oh," Steve says, and shifts his weight to his other foot. "That's cool."

"Sure, cool. Just like the night air out here in the middle of nowhere," Eddie snaps, and Steve decides this was a mistake. A big one. Eddie's hating this. 

Hating being in the cold, hating being stuck with Steve.

Steve slumps his shoulders, defeated, "We can go."

"We're already out here, Harrington, might as well stay and freeze our balls off," Eddie grumbles.

"Not if you're hating it."

"I just don't get why you drug me out here. Isn't there some girl you could have conned into freezing her tits off instead?"

Steve turns, and tries to yank the blanket out of Eddie's hands, but Eddie has suddenly developed Kung Fu Grip, like he's a goddamn G.I. Joe. 

"What the hell, Harrington?" Eddie says, yanking back. 

"Let's just go, this was stupid!" Steve yells, and Eddie's eyebrows disappear, shooting up beneath his bangs.

"Steve," Eddie says, softer this time, using his first name, which makes this worse. He didn't even know he could be this fucking embarrassed. Robin says he has no shame. Clearly, he does. This was a big swing and a miss.

"I just want to go home. It's cold. I'm tired. You hate this. Just. Let go of the blanket," Steve says, tugging more gently this time, and Eddie does relent and lets it fall from his grasp. 

Steve throws the blanket into the trunk of his car, and slams it closed.

Eddie is standing there with his head tilted towards the sky. Steve watches him.

"It is pretty out here. Cold, but pretty," Eddie says, and Steve nods. It is. That's why he brought him here in the first goddamn place. Skull Rock is fucking tainted. If Eddie thinks this was a dumb idea, he'd have really been annoyed by that.

Remember when you had to run for your life and you hid here? Well, wanna makeout here now?

No way.

Steve shouldn't have brought him anywhere at all with ulterior motives. He absolutely misjudged Eddie's interest in doing this with him at all, "It's pretty. C'mon. Let's get back to town."

It's harder than it is with a girl. Uncharted waters. He really thought Eddie was sending signals, but apparently Steve's just an idiot and read into nothing. 

Eddie climbs in the passenger seat, and Steve slides across the now cold leather, putting the key in the ignition. He turns it over, and thinks this almost over, thank god.

It's not, apparently.

"Was this a date?" Eddie asks, voice going high and pointed.

"No!" Steve snaps, kneejerk, and mortified that he bungled this so bad that Eddie had to even fucking ask.

"Oh. Okay," Eddie answers, seemingly crestfallen instead of relieved. Steve sighs. It makes no fucking sense. 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He can't get a read on Eddie, never has been able to, not really.

"I wasn't implying anything," Eddie says, too quietly. "About you. Or me." 

Oh. 

Oh. 

"Of course," Steve says, "But if you were. That'd be okay."

Eddie laughs, "Not bloody likely." 

Steve wants to be offended. Wants to tell Eddie he's cool. That he loves Robin, and all that she is. But he can't. 

"It's stupid. I'm stupid, whatever this was, or wasn't."

"Steve." 

"It was," Steve admits. 

Eddie reaches over and squeezes Steve's knee, "You're not stupid. This wasn't stupid, either. I just didn't connect the dots until it was too late."

"Sorry," Steve says. 

"Don't be sorry," Eddie says, "Just. Tell me what you're thinking."

Steve thumps his head back against the headrest, "I'm thinking that I'm a fool."

"Harrington."

"I like you. But I don't really know how to do anything with that. Obviously."

Eddie slides his hand up to Steve's arm, "Same book now, same page, even."

And Steve looks over at him, wondering if maybe tonight isn't a total lost cause? Maybe he can field his own rebound and lay it up. Second time's the charm. A do-over.

"I'm thinking it's not too late," Steve says at the same time over Eddie asking:

"Wanna look at some stars?" 

Steve nods, expecting Eddie to get back out of the car, but instead he leans over the console, elbow landing on Steve's knee, motioning for Steve to look out the window and upwards.

Steve does.

The sky is full of stars.

He doesn't know where to put his hands, so he squeezes Eddie's shoulder through his coat, as they stargaze from the warmth of the car.

Steve looks at the stars, then at Eddie.

Both, equally beautiful.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🌟

[madonnamadeofasphalt]

EA & Bioware honestly did an incredible job at killing any enthusiasm I had for a new Dragon Age. Fucking hell, man, I've played the first two games so much I could probably go through them with closed eyes and still pick all the right dialogue options to get My Exact Personally Canonized Plot. And the only reason I didn't do the same thing with DA:I is because it was made after EA completely gave up on optimizing their shit so the fucking thing takes up like a billion terabytes of disc space and takes 10 hours to download and install. I honestly think it's the best-written cRPG franchise to ever have a budget that doesn't involve a list of Kickstarter backers or getting an eccentric Estonian billionaire fixated on the project. And the gameplay is also there, I don't really care about that part.

Then they proceeded to fire all the talent that made me love those first three games, and scratch and restart the production twice, and be suspiciously cagey with any details or gameplay footage for a fucking decade, so my hype consistently went down and down. And yet I still managed to hold out some hope that somehow, by some miracle, it wouldn't fucking suck.

I kept that hope until the trailer dropped. You know the one. The one where we see a bearded Varric. This, I think, was the exact moment when I lost any desire to play fucking Veilguard.

Like, first of all, Varric being there at all is already an issue. Leave the man alone. His presence was already kinda forced in DA:I. And after DA:I and Tresspasser, his story couldn't be more finished if he got killed, eaten, shitted out, condemned to hell, redeemed by divine sacrifice, bathed for eternity in the everlasting light. There is no point to Varric anymore. Whatever arc they've given him in Veilguard, and I don't even give a shit enough to read the spoilers before writing this post, it has no business existing. Fuck you. The only reason he's there is because he's a recognizable IP, and when you're a certain kind of soulless corporate moron, you think there's nothing more important than putting a recognizable IP in whatever new bullshit you're trying to peddle. Maybe if you didn't fire every decent writer in your trash fucking company, you'd have someone to tell you about the importance of Ending The Fucking Story When The Story Fucking Ends.

But that's not even the core of the problem. Beard? they gave Varric a Beard? Varric I fucking hate everything that's even tangentially connected to dwarven culture with a passion which is why I've made a point to shave my beard all my life to spite anyone who gives a fuck about it Tethras? beard? you gave him a beard? He changed so much offscreen in the goddamn timeskip between these two games that he got a motherfucking berd? fucshhfdbeard? feadsgfsvarricafgfdh BEARD? yyousftoiuslyhhabevarricasgsfucningbeardandthivkimgosabedineditit?beard????

PS. (edit after finding out spoilers) I've gone to TV Tropes to read up on Varric's role in DATV after writing this (just in case I'm wrong and dumb, and there's actually a deeply compelling narrative reason for his presence), and, well, this shit is cheaper than I thought. And more importantly, just as I thought, there appears to be no justification for the beard beyond "adding a beard is a cliche way to show that a bunch of time has passed, and we didn't care enough to think this shit through". I'm fucking tired, man.

PPS. (edit after reading the rest of big spoilers) This is so much worse than I could even begin to suspect. This is worse than the final season of Game of Thrones. This is the final season of Game of Thrones if they straight-up fired GRRM, burned his notes and hired a showrunner who's only read a one-page summary of the first six seasons. This is fucking depressing, man. I'm genuinely fucking sad. So many subplots that were started over the course of these three games, that were clearly going somewhere, scrapped in favour of a simplistic good vs. evil story that would get rejected by fucking CD-Projekt in 2007 for being too basic. All because the artists who poured their hearts and souls into this bullshit franchise got thrown out like trash by its "owners". Morrigan's kid, the Well of Sorrows, all the implied complexities of Tevinter politics, the Crows, the Old Gods, Andraste. All went to shit. Death to capitalism.

[wibben]

Strange Bedfellows

An overnight mission leaves Nanami and Higuruma sharing more than just a professional rivalry.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x kento nanami

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, bottom! higuruma, top! nanami, sexual tension, rivals to lovers, one-bed trope, pining, frottage, (m) mutual masturbation, sexsomnia, wet dreams, dry humping

↳ wc: 11,355

↳ notes: another ao3 cross-post! this was written for day 5 of @higunanaweek, and I think it's one of my favorites of the bunch! nanami art by @/xu_bx7 on twitter, higuruma art by @/amico173 on twitter

“What do you mean there’s only one room?”

Higuruma’s voice cut through the sterile lobby air, sharp and unyielding. He stared down his nose at the nervous young woman behind the desk, shrewd, stern, who seemed to shrink under the weight of it. She wrung her hands, her brows knitting together in a silent plea for forgiveness as she fumbled for the right words. Her eyes flickered nervously between Higuruma and the glowing monitor, her lips parting in a desperate attempt to conjure an explanation.

“I—I… let me check again. I’m so sorry…”

“Please do.”

Higuruma exhaled a longsuffering sigh, the weight of his frustration settling deep in his weary bones. Leaning heavily on the reception counter, he pinched the bridge of his nose as the clatter of keys behind it grated on his nerves. It felt like the universe was conspiring against him today.

First, the car ride—a torturous stretch of road that seemed designed to fray his nerves with every bump and jolt. The mission briefing in his hands blurred in and out of focus, tense, unable to think with the silent, brooding wall beside him.

Poor conversation was made even worse by the fact that his companion’s silence wasn’t even peaceful. It was sharp-edged, judgmental, like he was silently cataloging Higuruma’s every fault and flaw before he’d managed to do anything. As if being cooped up in a car with someone like that for hours wasn’t bad enough, the higher-ups decided that person was to be his babysitter; as if he weren’t a grown man himself and so what if he’s new to jujutsu, he’s good at it—a prodigy even—and he gets jobs done and—

“I’m really sorry, sir, I only have one room for you.”

Well, shit.

Higuruma was a proud man, but even pride had its limits; and when it came to something like this he’d throw it to the wind. His fingers steepled before his face, his stress reaching a peak, tired eyes blew wide with exasperated pleading. “Please, you don’t understand—I need another room. Hell, I’ll sleep in the goddamn lobby. I just can’t be stuck with—”

“... Is there a problem?”

Higuruma stiffened, the roll of suitcase wheels on wooden boards sounding more like the drag of an executioner’s axe.

He turned to face Nanami, who carried their bags with the same unyielding stoicism that seemed a permanent feature of his countenance. The air of unflappable calm that surrounded him only grated further on Higuruma’s thread-bare nerves.

“I assume there’s a problem, for you to be bothering the front desk already.”

Higuruma shot him a look that clearly screamed: ‘of course there’s a fucking problem,’ but before he could put his irritation to words, the receptionist interjected.

She looked to Nanami with desperately friendly eyes, silently pleading that this man—the quieter one—might be less inclined to bite her head off. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. There’s been a mix-up with the bookings and we’re short a bunch of rooms. I only have one left…” She cast a nervous glance back at Higuruma, who looked positively steamed, then back at Nanami as he came to a stop at the desk.

A wave of annoyance and dismay washed over him, a cold tide that mercilessly drowned the small comforts he had carefully planned for the evening. He’d envisioned a quiet, solitary night—a long bath, the crisp pages of a book he’d been eager to start, and the simple pleasure of fresh bread from a bundle he had tucked into his bag. The prospect of sharing a room, and with someone as high-strung as Higuruma, was far from appealing.

“...I see.”

Higuruma’s frustration boiled over, though he kept his tone measured. “Is there really no other option? We’re here on important business and need proper accommodations.”

Nanami’s calm gaze shifted back to the receptionist, who looked as if she might melt into the floor under the weight of Higuruma’s glare. “We’ll take the room,” he spoke suddenly, spurred by pity for another of society's downtrodden, brooking no argument. “We don’t have time to find other lodgings.”

The young woman nodded quickly, relieved to have someone decisive to address. She offered the key to Nanami with a quickness, desperate to get it and them off her overworked and overtired hands.

Nanami accepted the key with a curt nod, passing it to Higuruma, who snatched it like it was the last scrap of his pride, muttering a stiff, “Thank you,” through clenched teeth. He looked for all the world like a deflated balloon, all the air of authority he usually carried now leaking out in a slow, miserable hiss.

Nanami adjusted his grip on their bags, the plastic handles groaning in protest under the weight of his hand. Of course something like this would happen. When it came to Higuruma, nothing ever went smoothly. The man had an uncanny knack for turning the simplest tasks into a tangled mess, stirring up trouble where there should be none.

If Nanami said left, Higuruma would inevitably go right. If he said up, Higuruma would dive down. It was as if the man took perverse pleasure in jamming the square block into the circle hole, and any attempt Nanami made to exert authority was met with the immovable resistance of a brick wall. Higuruma was a force of nature—unpredictable, uncontrollable, and more stubborn than any beast Nanami had ever encountered.

And that’s exactly why Nanami resented him.

He resented the higher-ups for thinking his diligence could somehow fix the unfixable, resented this ridiculous mission, resented this shit job—and most of all, he resented this shit inn, with its one-room nightmare.

Deep down, Nanami knew it wasn’t really Higuruma’s fault. But as they climbed the narrow staircase and navigated the threadbare halls, it was all too easy to shoot a derisive glance at him through the sea-glass green tint of his glasses, certain Higuruma’s mere presence had cursed them both.

Higuruma, for his part, was steeling himself, jaw set in determination. It was just one night, maybe two if the mission dragged on longer than expected. He resolved then and there to make it quick, no matter how much Nanami might chastise, berate, or hinder whatever methods he employed to get it done.

They reached their room,and Higuruma cupped the doorknob, giving it a jiggle before the door finally creaked open. He stepped forward, fully intending to hold the door for Nanami and the bags—because that was the polite thing to do. But all thoughts of courtesy evaporated as his stomach plummeted to and then through the floor.

Nanami, following close behind, nearly collided with Higuruma’s back. “Please keep moving—” he began, but the words stuck in his throat as his gaze locked onto the scene before them.

Their eyes hit the single bed simultaneously—pristine, white sheets meticulously tucked, and—was that champagne? Higuruma’s ears lit up red, heat crawling up his neck as mortification spread like wildfire. Rose petals? Was this some kind of sick joke? Blood pounded in his temples, the absurdity of standing in what was so clearly a honeymoon suite with Nanami making his skin crawl with blistering embarrassment.

“No, absolutely not.”

“…This is highly irregular—”

“—Unprofessional, more like—”

Higuruma shook his head in vehement denial, already turning on his heel and nearly colliding with Nanami’s chest in his haste. “I’ll go back to the lobby… there has to be something else… a coat closet, maybe—”

“Higuruma.” Nanami halted him firmly, blocking his path with the bastion of overnight bags hoisted upon flexed shoulders. He stared down his nose at Higuruma with a sternness that made the ex-attorney feel inexplicably cowed.

“I will not allow you to bother that girl again. We’ll make do.”

Higuruma’s attempts to leave, awkwardly failing to thread the needle around the wall that was Nanami, were halted when the man stepped past him and deeper into the room, taking his belongings hostage.

Nanami was the picture of calm. His movements deliberate, precise, each action executed with the same meticulous care he applied to everything. He entered the room with steady composure, placing his bag on the foot of the bed without a second glance at the rose petals scattered across the duvet or the champagne chilling in a silver bucket. To him, they might as well have been invisible.

He unzipped his bag and began to unpack, methodically unfolding his clothes for tomorrow and hanging them neatly in the closet. His fingers moved with the same practiced efficiency with which he approached all things, smoothing out any wrinkles with a quick, deft touch and brush of his hands over ironed fabric

Higuruma watched with the faintest quiver of his shoulders. The door was still open, and he stood closest to it. He had half a mind—no, closer to two-thirds of a mind—to just march back through it and bolt down the hall. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not when Nanami was practically rubbing his unruffled feathers in his face, appearing so calm that it made him itch to piss him off, just to see if he could make Nanami crack, just to know there was a man beneath the metal.

Higuruma’s blood burned with staggish pride as he closed the door, a declaration if only to himself that he wouldn’t be outdone by a man who exists with a perpetual pole up his ass. He marched over and grabbed his own bag, dropping it on the bed beside Nanami’s and unzipped it with a flourish. Nanami paused his own unpacking, glancing sidelong; he isn’t oblivious to this dick-measuring competition Higuruma issued, even if he chooses not to rise to it.

And he chooses not to rise to it because he’s utterly horrified. A singular room was bad enough, a single bed even worse. But the room is flavored so intensely romantic, such a glaring breach in professionalism that he doesn’t know how he hasn’t fallen to his knees and wept. His outward serenity is tempered by holy rage, already considering how hot the coals would be that he intends to rake Ijichi over for this appalling mix-up.

Somewhere, many hours away back on campus, Ijichi shuddered.

The room misted thick with suffocating silence, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the quiet thud of a drawer closing. Nanami took to ironing tomorrow's shirt with a precision just shy of obsessive, each stroke and hiss of the iron a desperate attempt to transfer the heat of his frustration to the steam billowing from the board. 

On the other side of the room, Higuruma pretended not to watch, busying himself with anything that kept his hands moving and his mind occupied. He found himself flipping through the pages of the complimentary Bible he’d pulled from the nightstand, not out of piety but sheer desperation for something, anything, to do. His devotion to distraction could almost be considered religious if one squinted.

The minutes dragged, each one heavier than the last. Nanami, finding himself finished with the shirt far too quickly, awkwardly shuffled a deck of cards he’d discovered in a drawer. The quiet slap of cardboard against cardboard only plucked at both mens nerves all the more.

So awkward was the silence, that even a practiced enjoyer of it such as Nanami finally felt the need to break it. “Are you… enjoying that? I didn’t take you for the type.” Nanami shot a pointed glance at the leather bound book in Higuruma’s hands.

“Riveting.” He grunted, not looking up.

Silence reigned once again.

The unbearable tension finally snapped, like a too-tight wire fraying under pressure. Nanami cleared his throat, and set the deck of cards down with an air of finality, as if conceding defeat to the invisible force between them. “I’ll go shower,” he announced, a shade too quickly, seriously considering drowning himself. He caught the absent hum of acknowledgment from Higuruma, who was still pretending to read the same line for the hundredth time.

Higuruma waited, counting the seconds until the distant sound of running water reached his ears, and then let out a long, shaky breath, his hands dropping the Bible like it burned him. His face fell into his palms, heart hammering against his ribs with the frenzied desperation of a caged animal, desperate to claw its way out. A low, rough groan rumbled in his throat as he scrubbed a weary hand over his face, trying to erase the relentless tension etched into every muscle before Nanami returned.

In the bathroom, Nanami pressed his forehead against the cold tile, water pouring over his bowed head. His hands braced against the wall, blunt nails digging into the slick surface in an effort to ground himself in the midst of this waking nightmare. His heart pounded with a cocktail of stress and humiliation so potent that it twisted his stomach to the point of nausea. He was horrified by the situation, mortified by the implications, and the longer he stood there, the more he questioned how he would ever face Higuruma again without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

Nanami wasn’t a vain man. His appearance, in his mind, was a reflection of his dedication to the unremarkable—a clean, professional exterior polished just enough to blend into the background, to become one with the sea of suits and silent efficiency. He took a certain pride in this ordinariness, in presenting himself with a uniformity that drew no attention, commanded no second glance.

But there were simple standards he abided by, boundaries that should never be crossed. A colleague should never see him with his hair undone, loose and unkempt. A colleague should never see him outside of work. A colleague should certainly never see him in his sleepwear, prepared for bed, prepared to share a bed—

The thought struck like a blow to the gut, stopping him dead in his tracks, his breath catching so sharply that he inadvertently inhaled a mouthful of water. He choked, the sound quickly muffled into the crook of his muscled forearm as he hunched over, a silent curse slipping from his lips.

Fuck.

When Nanami finally emerged from the bathroom, it was with a gust of steam, a billowing cloud of vaporous heat that curled around his bare feet and clung to the frayed hem of his plaid linen pants. The transition from the damp warmth of the bathroom to the cooler air of the room sent a shiver up his spine, making him feel exposed, more so than even the loose drawstring of his pajama bottoms or his bare chest ever could.

His hair, usually meticulously combed, now hung damp and tousled, a rebellious mess that only added to the sensation of exposure gnawing at him, fraying the edges of his carefully constructed self-assurance. He stepped forward, gaze fixed resolutely ahead, avoiding Higuruma’s eyes as if by sheer will he could erase the fact that this—this woeful breach of boundaries—was happening at all.

But there were no eyes for Nanami to avoid. Higuruma’s back was turned, his shoulders hunched over a thick wooden desk on the opposite wall, swaying idly in the creaky rolling chair. The faint clink of ice in the bucket and the soft hiss of champagne fizzing to life came from his side of the room. Higuruma’s arm shot up in a lazy backwards greeting, bottle neck firmly gripped, the champagne already half-drunk straight from the source. A decidedly unromantic way to enjoy the drink—about the only thing in this entire mess that seemed fittingly appropriate.

“Ah—good. I was starting to think you’d died in there—” Higuruma grunted with weary annoyance, spinning himself further in the chair to cast what would have been a bemused glance toward Nanami—if he weren’t suddenly so focused on keeping the champagne from erupting and scorching his throat and nose, nearly choking on the frothy surge at the sight of him.

Like this, Nanami appeared strikingly younger. His usual air of immaculate professionalism was absent, leaving him looking closer to his actual age—or at least, what Higuruma guessed his age to be, since their exchanges had rarely ventured beyond barbed remarks. 

Without the constriction of his suit and carefully combed hair, his features softened, the severe lines of his face yielded to be almost approachable. His hair was tousled, the wet strands clinging together, a stray towel draped haphazardly over bare and broad shoulders.

“Unfortunately I did not.”

When their eyes met, there was a moment of shared surprise; both men reflexively turned away, Higuruma back to the desk and Nanami towards the bed. Nanami ran a hand through his hair, his bicep flexing with the motion as he grimaced in embarrassment, hidden from view. 

Nanami slipped into the bed, the crisp sheets rustling softly as he maneuvered himself under them. He pulled the covers up to his chin, as though the fabric might offer some shield against the awkwardness that turns the air humid. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning, and the glassy grind of the champagne bottle as Higuruma shuffled it back and forth between uncertain hands.

After a long stretch of silence, Nanami finally broke it, his voice nasally and rough as he reached for his book on the nightstand. “Thank you.”

Higuruma flinched, snapping out of his thoughts. “For?”

Nanami sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his own reluctant gratitude. He hesitated, debating if it was even worth acknowledging, but eventually gave in. “For cleaning up the… mess,” he added with a rueful grimace. The rose petals that had once littered the mattress and floor were nowhere to be seen.

“It’s much better.”

Higuruma let out a low, dismissive noise, flicking his wrist as if to swat away the words. No, he’d rather not think about the rose petals—or the fact that he’d scrabbled on hands and knees to pick them up, one by one, and buried them at the bottom of the trash bin like some feral teenage secret. 

So he changed the subject with a sledgehammers subtlety, taking a deep breath and stealing a glance at Nanami who seemed effortlessly absorbed in his novel. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over his damp hair, burning it a darkened gold. And maybe he was drunker than he realized, because the sudden urge to cross the room, crawl onto the mattress, and run his fingers through that hair hits him like a freight train—

“I’m taking the chair,” he blurted out, meeting Nanami’s gaze, both of them equally startled by the sudden declaration. “If you wouldn’t mind just sparing a pillow.”

Nanami frowned, nudging his glasses higher to peer over the top of his book. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “You’ll injure your back and be a liability to the mission. You’re sleeping in the bed.”

Higuruma’s lips pressed into a thin line, bristling indignantly. “My back will be just fine, thank you very much.” Though he wasn’t so sure he could say the same tomorrow after carrying the weight of this entire mission. 

“Look, I don’t need you to babysit me,” Higuruma continued on. “I can handle myself just fine.”

Nanami simply shook his head, infuriatingly calm. “You’re being reckless. You always are. That’s why you’re stuck with me in the first place—to keep you from getting yourself killed.” 

Nanami spoke so certainly, so matter of factly, as if it were a guarantee that Higuruma would sooner or later stumble and need a pair of experienced hands to catch him, that it made Higuruma see red. He bristled, nose curled with bitter defiance. “Reckless? Please. You play it too safe all the time, Nanami. That doesn’t make you better equipped, that makes you boring.”

“I’m not here to be exciting. I’m here to do my job without unnecessary risks,” Nanami shot back, his tone icy. “And right now, the only unnecessary risk is you trying to sleep in that chair and harming yourself.”

Higuruma’s jaw clenched, his irritation mounting with every word Nanami spoke. “I don’t need your approval to do my job. Maybe I’d be better off without you hovering over me.”

Nanami’s grip on his book tightened, his patience wearing thin. “You’re a loose canon, Higuruma. And I refuse to let you put me in harm's way just because you think you’re invincible.”

“Maybe I am invincible! Maybe I don’t need you watching over my shoulder every second. I’ve got this handled. I don’t need you or your damn bed—”

“You do need the bed, and you’re going to sleep in it,” Nanami interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through Higuruma’s tirade like the blunt blade he himself wields. “I won’t have your blood on my hands because you decided to be stubborn.”

Higuruma opened his mouth to argue again, but the conviction in Nanami’s tone gave him pause. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a kernel of truth in what Nanami said. He knew he was capable, but the last thing he wanted was to end up injured—or worse, dead—because of something as stupid as a lack of sleep or a slipped disk. He wouldn’t allow Nanami the satisfaction.

He met Nanami’s eyes the entire time as he stood and stalked over to the bed, each step slow and deliberate, like he was daring Nanami to say something. The air was thick with tension, a silent standoff where neither man seemed willing to back down. But Nanami just watched him, calm as ever, that infuriating poker face giving nothing away; an icy counter to Higuruma’s fiery defiance.

Higuruma yanked back the covers with a quick, sharp flick, keeping his gaze locked on Nanami’s. He slipped into bed, making a show of settling as far from Nanami as humanly possible. The mattress dipped under his weight, the distance between them barely a foot, but it felt like mere centimeters with how he’s immediately engulfed in Nanami’s furnace-like body heat beneath the covers.

Nanami didn’t rise to the challenge, but he didn’t bow to it either. He held Higuruma’s gaze with an unflinching steadiness, an unspoken acknowledgment of the battle being fought in silence. Neither blinked, neither wavered, ever the unmovable object to Higuruma’s unstoppable force.

But for now, at least, he was in the bed. And that, Higuruma told himself, was his decision. Not Nanami’s.

He finally turned away, his back to Nanami, but the so-called victory left a sour taste in his mouth. “Sanctimonious prick,” Higuruma grumbled, voice tight as he yanked the sheet up to his shoulders, frustration knotting bitterly in his chest.

Without warning, Nanami snapped his book shut, the sharp clap of it cutting through Higuruma’s grating rant. His patience, thin as it was, finally wore through after the fifth attempt to read the same damn paragraph. He didn’t bother with words, just rolled over and clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Insufferable egoist,” he muttered, voice low and rough with irritation.

It was as close to a ‘goodnight’ as either of them was willing to offer.

The room simmered in the thick silence left in the wake of their argument, the air steeped with the remnants of their spat. Neither of them moved, both stubbornly clinging to their respective sides of the bed, the earlier heat cooling into uneasy embers buried beneath ash.

Higuruma’s fists slowly loosened their death grip on the sheets. He could feel the frustration ebbing away, replaced by a dull, persistent slightly-buzzed fatigue that tugged at him, heavy and insistent. His eyelids grew heavier, his breath evening out against his will, and before he could fight it, sleep crept in, stealing him away with the last lingering traces of his irritation.

Across the bed, Nanami lay unmoving, his eyes locked on the ceiling, unblinking as the minutes stretched into what felt like hours. He listened, every slight sound amplified in the stillness—Higuruma’s breaths gradually deepening, the rustle of sheets as he shifted in his sleep, the steady drone of the AC that filled the gaps in the silence.

It wasn’t until he heard Higuruma sigh softly in his sleep, a sound so unguarded and peaceful that it almost startled him, that Nanami finally felt the first threads of his tension begin to unwind. The rigid lines of his shoulders softened, his body easing into the mattress as the room exhaled around them. It wasn’t a competition to see who could outlast the other, but he’d won it anyway.

The darkness shifted, becoming less of a burden and more of a balm, lulling him into a state of reluctant relaxation. Only then, after what felt like an eternity, did Nanami allow his eyes to close, surrendering to the slow, inevitable pull of sleep as it finally claimed him too.

The night wore thick with hurricane's-eye quiet, the sort that made every small sound swell. Every sniff, every slight shift of mattress springs, every rustle and tug on the blanket was a gunshot in the dark, unheard by either of them through the veil of unconsciousness. The tension from before had finally ebbed, leaving the room heavy with uneasy peace that would last until daybreak; until they woke and remembered themselves and, unfortunately, remembered each other.

Higuruma’s sleep was restless, warped by murky and unpredictable dream logic. He was a tired man, worn down and beaten to a vaguely human-shaped pulp by each day's end, and so he didn’t often dream. His brain struggled with the unfamiliarity, twisting in dissonant directions that blurred the lines between reality and nonsense.

It’s just his luck that tonight he dreams, and of course he couldn’t escape Nanami, even there.

“...Guilty!”

Judgeman’s voice rang with authority, echoing off the dreamscape walls of the courtroom. Higuruma stared at Nanami on the stand, whose eyes flickered with something between disbelief and annoyance.

Higuruma could feel a vicious pride swelling in his chest as Judgeman called the verdict. It didn’t matter what Nanami had done—whether he’d swiped a candy bar from a corner store or toppled an empire; it was all irrelevant. The sweet thrill of victory was what he savored. This was his domain, a theater of justice where every misstep Nanami had ever made played on an endless loop for Judgeman to scrutinize.

Nanami sighed, pushing the bridge of his glasses with a practiced flick to nudge them higher up his nose. “That’s hardly fair, Higuruma. This is your dream, after all—”

“Ah, ah,” Higuruma interrupted, eyes narrowing into glittering slits as he held up a hand in triumph, silencing Nanami's protest with a smug grin. No, he would be savoring this victory, even if only in the recesses of his subconscious. Here, his word was law, and Nanami was the subject of his courtroom drama.

Confiscation? Death penalty? Higuruma’s mind raced through the possibilities, savoring each like a connoisseur sampling a fine wine. For as much as Nanami grated on his nerves, he sincerely hoped it wouldn't be the latter—the man doesn’t need to die for being a snobbish, holier-than-thou, mother hen—

“Kiss.”

What?

“What?”

Nanami’s voice mirrored Higuruma’s thoughts perfectly, both snapping to attention, eyes wide as they turned to the shikigami that hovered kite-like and oppressive just behind Higuruma. Judgeman, with its impassive stitched gaze and cryptic presence, remained ever silent, the verdict and the punishment both declared. Its job was done and would not be repeated.

The absurdity of it all tickled at the edges of his consciousness, tugging at a laugh that threatened to spill over. A kiss? In the grand theater of his mind, that was the punishment meted out by his subconscious?

He’s somewhat offended by himself that kissing him would be so bad as to be deemed corporal.

But when he turned back to Nanami, he found the man already watching him with a steady gaze. Prideful as ever, chin held high, Nanami stared Higuruma down with a confidence that skirted dangerously on the edge of intimidating—a quality that was indeed daunting in the waking world, if he were honest with himself. Arms crossed and seemingly unbothered by the verdict, Nanami cocked his head. “So, are you coming to me, or shall I come to you?”

Higuruma stared.

And then he stared a little longer. This was undoubtedly the weirdest dream he’d ever had.

True to life, his hackles raised at Nanami’s challenge, a gauntlet thrown down between them, and Higuruma’s alcohol-thinned blood simmered beneath his skin. Nanami had a way of forcing him to bend the knee, but not this time. Not here.

Higuruma descended from his platform, leather shoes clicking sharply over the polished stone tile as he stalked toward Nanami’s stand. He propped a foot on the bottom rung, hoisting himself up and curled his hands around the mahogany railing that separated them. Braced on strangely sweaty palms, he leaned forward, almost nose-to-nose with Nanami now.

In the dark of the hotel room beneath chilled sheets, Higuruma shifted, rolling to his other side with an outstretched leg to knock socked-toes against Nanami’s ankle.

Nanami's eyes gleamed with a challenge as he reached over the railing, fingers curling into Higuruma's shirt, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Their lips crashed together, a collision of heat that sent a jolt through Higuruma's dream-self.

The intensity of it took him off guard, the force of Nanami’s mouth on his leaving Higuruma reeling. This was meant to be punitive, a slap on the wrist—or lips, rather—but it was hard to remember why when Nanami kissed him like this.

Champagne and mint.

He couldn’t possibly know what Nanami tasted like, so his mind helpfully supplied the sharp concoction from his own tongue. His hands moved before his mind could catch up, tangling in Nanami’s hair and pulling him closer, pressing deeper into the kiss. There was something beneath all that resentment—a spark, a flicker of treacherous attraction Higuruma had never let himself consider. But it was there, buried under a mountain of irritation and petty grievances.

The kiss morphed, a messy thing turned messier and god, Higuruma didn’t ever want it to end. He hadn’t known he wanted this at all and if he won’t remember this when he wakes he’ll make the most of it now. Higuruma’s grip tightened, pulling Nanami in, erasing the line between them until it didn’t matter where one began and the other ended. There’s a vibration in his mouth—a groan, he thinks—but from who he wasn’t sure.

Higuruma was lost in the dream, and his body was quick to betray him in the waking world with shameful ferocity. Unconsciously he inched closer until he was pressed snug against Nanami, his body seeking the flesh-warmth he so reveled in within his dreamt domain. His arm hooked lazily around Nanami’s middle, nose pressed tight into a prickling honey-blonde undercut.

His hips jerked, orbiting in uncoordinated circles. It was sloppy, a messy grind choked by rust and time-lost inexperience, devoid of rhythm but steeped in the urgency of need. The friction, the coarse slide of fabric against fabric, was enough to quicken his breath and set his blood thrumming. Nanami’s thigh was warm enough, firm enough, and it penetrated that purgatorial barrier with enough ease that it didn’t matter to him one bit.

Nanami woke slowly, dragging himself out of sleep with sandy slowness, eyelids heavy and mind sluggish as he blinked against the groggy blur. It wasn’t the usual sounds that roused him—no birds chirping, no insistent alarm beep—but rather the disorienting sensation of near-perfect darkness that left him momentarily unsure if his eyes were even open, and warmth and pressure tugging him further into awareness.

His brow furrowed in confusion as the warmth pressed against him again, incoordinate and inconsistent, paired with the soft, breathy exhale of something that sounded suspiciously like a sleep-garbled attempt at his name, the unmistakable hardness nestled against his hip—

The sluggish cogs in Nanami’s brain started to click into place, oil applied to bleary gears, and when the reality hit him it hit him like a bullet.

Oh. Oh.

His eyes snapped so wide they hurt, panic flooding his system and catching his breath in an iron fist to be yanked forcefully down his tight throat. Higuruma ground against him again, and Nanami should move, should stop him from embarrassing himself.

But worse yet—much worse—was that Nanami didn’t want to stop him. His thickening cock was proof of that, treacherous was the growing tent in his pants that made frenzied sweat bead on his bare chest. Mortification clawed at him, it left him paralyzed.

This couldn’t be happening

“Higuruma,” Nanami croaked, voice thick with sleep and arousal that settled so hot and heavy over his brain that he couldn’t begin to school it out of his tone. He shook him, a bit too roughly in his haste, desperate to stop this before it spiraled any further out of control. “Higuruma, wake up.”

Higuruma grumbled, fingers tightening their burial in wrinkled linen sheets when they failed to find purchase on the smooth skin of Nanami’s arm. His head bowed, tucked low and determined as he rutted against Nanami again, mouth pulled taut with displeasure as the source of the warmth grew firmer and less pliable, more distant, and he’s shaken.

Higuruma’s eyes cracked open, rolling white as he’s gracelessly tugged from his dream. He could cry, he wants to claw it back until it’s marked with the blunt bite of his nails, hoarding it jealously in his mind where none may take it and none may know. So desperate is he to keep the slipping memory alive and in his grasp, to hold possessively to the fabricated flesh memory that his eyes slip closed again—until his name is barked into his ear like a clap of thunder.

He blinked, suddenly much more awake, sleeps fog lifting as if he were hot pavement, and with that heat comes the cold, cruel, crushing weight of reality. The heat was not his own, and his eyes were filled with the dark silhouette of a muscular back and half turned shoulder. The weight against his front, another's leg pinned between his own, the pressure against his fully erect member—though it isn’t rare for Higuruma to suffer from morning wood—it isn’t morning, nor is he alone.

He froze, horrified as the reality of his situation dawned clear, sentenced under the weight of his own dreamt gavel.

Oh no. Oh god, oh fuck, no.

Panic surged through him with the violence of a live-wire. Higuruma practically convulsed with his clawing to escape, scrambling back and almost tumbling off the bed in his rush to put much needed space between them. Sheets tangle in his legs, yanking them free from Nanami who jerks in response, grabbing a pillow and forcing it tightly down over his own lap.

“I—oh my god, I’m so sorry—didn’t mean to… fuck, shit—I wasn’t—” The words tumbled in a frantic stream from Higuruma’s mouth, mortification burning through him like wildfire, setting each nerve ablaze until his whole body grew slick with terror-induced sweat. It left him dizzy and desperate to crawl into a hole and disappear forever, and he knew he should’ve slept in the fucking chair—

Nanami’s silence was deafening, but it wasn’t the steady, composed kind that Higuruma had come to expect. No, this was an awkward, uncertain sort. The kind that made Higuruma’s stomach hurt—he expected Nanami to punch him with every second that ticked by without a word, and god he would deserve it, would relish it even as some sort of penance for this egregious trampling of bounds and he’s sure Nanami feels absolutely sick.

But Nanami would not punch Higuruma, nor would he speak. Nanami is a quiet man, but that has always been by choice. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. Everything he should say flees him, anything he could say slips like water between his fingers, and everything he wants to say simply isn’t an option. He struggles to process the situation, but his body certainly doesn’t, cock hard and insistent against his thin pants and pillow shield.

Higuruma wanted to die. He wanted to sink into the earth and never be seen again. But more than that, he wanted to forget that he’d been grinding on Nanami like some desperate animal in heat, laying bare something he hadn’t known he wanted in the most humiliating way possible.

“I’m so sorry,” Higuruma repeated, voice shaky and impossibly small in the dark. His heart beat erratically, pounding behind his ribs with a concerning force—maybe he’ll have a heart attack, drop dead right then and there and that would be merciful, wouldn’t it? He felt like a fool, an absolute idiot, and the shame was suffocating, and he’s wholly undeserving of Nanami’s forgiveness but he silently pleads for it anyways. Forgiveness, punishment in the way of a broken nose, he would accept it all but this silence eroded his nerves down to the quick and made him nauseous.

Nanami finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “It’s… fine,” said through clenched teeth, though his expression was anything but. His brow furrowed, caught between confusion and the unwelcome heat simmering beneath his skin, emotions tangled and unspooled messily and he couldn’t begin to figure out how to put them back together.

Both stared up at the ceiling, hearts jackhammered against their cages in a way that may have been bonding—this shared feeling of horror—if not for the gulf forcibly carved between them via blank mattress space. Higuruma allowed himself to be lost in the sea of white linen sheets where he hoped to drown, and Nanami clutched to the raft that was the downy pillow locked very conspicuously over his lap.

Both willed their very obvious predicaments to go away, but thinking about them only made it worse. Unsexy thoughts didn’t work, when the only thought either of them had was about the ache between their legs, and Nanami considered how much easier it would’ve been to not have woken Higuruma at all and slipped away to the bathroom, jerking himself to calmness in a harried palm; while Higuruma wonders how thick the glass of the nearby window is, and if he might be able throw himself through it.

He chanced a glance at Nanami, eyes skittering surreptitiously in the dark. Bare chested and devoid of the blanket, one knee bent upward with a forearm flung over his forehead, Higuruma is just as quick to look away because fuck had Nanami always looked so good? Surely not, surely it’s just the dark, and the residuals of a dream he should never have had and would never have had if not for the alcohol in his system, but he looked good and the pillow in his lap makes Higuruma want to move it to see what’s underneath—

His gaze flickered downward, inexorably drawn to the pillow where his heart thumps overtime. Oh fuck.

Higuruma is a man. He’s fully aware of the tricks he might deploy and has deployed in a situation like this. His old desk made for great cover when his body went neglected in favor of late nights pouring over cases, cock thickened and twitching down the seam of his thigh. A well placed file, though more obvious, could serve just as well until he had a chance to adjust himself. A clipboard, his coat slung over his arm, a pillow—

Higuruma’s eyes zeroed in on the pillow perched awkwardly on Nanami’s lap, a wordless understanding crashing over him that leaves him breathless. It was a man’s intuition, the kind that muddled both heads—the one on his shoulders running on empty, while the other swelled with smug satisfaction. Nanami was just as affected, and Higuruma felt his cock give a hopeful jump that maybe not all was lost… what else does he have to lose with his dignity already in shambles?

An idea—stupid and reckless—flashed through Higuruma’s mind, and he couldn’t quite quash it, couldn’t quite suppress the tiny flicker of something that wasn’t quite panic and wasn’t quite desire. Maybe it was madness. Maybe he’d finally lost it.

“Nanami—”

“Excuse me,” Nanami interrupted, palm clasped tight over his mouth and nose, and shuffled to the edge of the mattress with jerky and robotic movements. Feet hit the floor and he bent, shoulders hunched and muscles tense as he prepared to force himself up and away as quickly as possible. But before he could make his escape, Higuruma’s hand shot out, clutching Nanami’s wrist in a desperate grip.

“Wait,” Higuruma gasped, voice barely registering above a whisper, inaudible above the pounding of his own heart. This was stupid, mortifyingly so, but somehow the idea grew legs and ran from his mind and out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Nanami doesn’t turn, but he freezes, paused and straining but not pulling away.

Higuruma’s eyes are wide and pleading, thoughts spiraled to oblivion with not a hope in hell of getting them back. “What if—” he swallowed. “We could—maybe we could…?”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, and he cursed himself for being so weak, so utterly incapable of keeping his treacherous mouth shut. He wanted to take them back, swallow them down and pretend they’d never existed.

If Nanami could grow stiffer, he did. His shoulders expanded with the slow sucking inhale he pulled between his teeth. So too stiffened the turgid length between his legs, hard enough that he feels he might bore a hole through the pillow in his lap.

He feels like a teenager. Feral, and stupid, and so wildly out of control. Higuruma can’t say that. He can’t say things like that because if he does then Nanami wouldn’t be able to quash the thoughts of agreeing out of his head. And he can’t agree. They’re coworkers, and in some strange sense Higuruma is a mentee. His stubborn, infuriating, good-for-nothing, good looking, hopelessly distracting mentee.

Higuruma stared, Nanami avoided, reaching that familiar impasse but this time was unlike any other. “Wildly inappropriate—” Nanami muttered. “Ridiculous. I can’t believe you would even—absolutely not, no—”

“Fuck, say it again.”

Higuruma froze, his grip on Nanami’s wrist tightening. “Say what?” he ventured.

Nanami didn’t turn, but even in the dark Higuruma could see the muscles in his back twitch. Where Higuruma saw anger, Nanami felt restraint. Horror… temptation. Disgust… desire.

“Tell me what you want.” Nanami elaborated, voice breathless from the oxygen that flees his lungs and head, and with it goes his last chance to flee as well. Nanami is not a spontaneous man, but the act of surrender, of slipping the leash choked so tightly by his own hand, was nothing short of euphoric. This would be enough, even if nothing more—

Higuruma’s breath caught, snagged and lured on every word Nanami spoke, and every insult he didn't. He dared to let his grip slip on Nanami’s wrist, the calloused tips of his fingers brush over the sensitive inner skin beneath his palm, marveling at the veins and tendons that flex under his touch. Nanami didn’t pull away, and Higuruma almost groaned when he felt Nanami’s fingers twitch, moving to loosely tangle with his own. “I…”

Higuruma found himself lost for words. A rarity for him. “I, ah—you.”

Nanami’s blood roared in his ears. Yes, yes, oh fuck yes please—

“Can I… can I touch you…? I’m so sorry—fuck, we can just go to sleep, this is too awkward—”

No, no, no.

Higuruma’s grip slackened on Nanami’s wrist and retracted back into his own space. Nanami wasn’t sure what compelled him, a sudden surge of panic powered his body without his input and he twisted, spun around to face Higuruma who flinched with the surprise of it. He grabbed Higuruma's arm, holding his elbow, his other hand braced atop Higuruma’s knee through the blanket. He hadn’t meant to touch him, but he can’t find it in himself to move his hand either.

“No, please wait.”

They both stared face to face now, the dark doing little to conceal the burning red that stained both of their faces. Nanami felt that same panic slither down his throat—Higuruma stared at him, expectant, and now he had to be the one to push. Nanami silently cursed the way his hands shook as they drifted down Higuruma’s arm, loosely circling his wrist and drawing his hand to his chest.

His heart pounded violently, a dying animal trying to escape his ribcage for somewhere safer than inside him. “...Touch me.”

The air whistled from Higuruma’s nose, shaky palm and splayed fingers pressed against the bared skin he hadn’t known existed before a few short hours ago. His hand doesn’t move, frozen and paralytic as skittish eyes flicked up to meet Nanami’s for approval that he’d already received.

Stone faced as ever, Nanami made every effort to soften his edges. His brows lowered light and gentle, and his lips twitched in a rare up-tick, a hesitant smile and Higuruma had never seen such a thing on the man's face before. “Do you not want to…?” Nanami’s fingers brushed lightly over the fine bones that latticed the back of Higuruma’s hands.

“I…” Higuruma’s tongue was still struck dumb, breathless at the hot feel of skin beneath his palm. How long had it been since he’d touched somebody? Since he’d wanted to touch Nanami?

It crashed upon him, the realization that he’d buried after their first introduction was exchanged months ago, and every exchange since being one of barely restrained dislike at best. Even back then, and every time after, he wished circumstances were different; because truth be told, he thought he could like Nanami. His ideals, his determination, his ethics—they had all the ingredients to make for good friends.

They might have met over coffee or a drink stronger than espresso, they could’ve bickered over bread brands at the grocery store rather than how to best safeguard their lives. If things had been different, maybe they could’ve been different too.

It scared him, this sudden epiphany that he may have been wrong—or worse, a fool.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“That’s irrelevant and not what I asked,” Nanami insisted firmly. He gave Higuruma’s hand a small push, guiding it against his sternum and sliding slightly lower. He wasn’t sure where his sudden boldness came from—maybe it was the exhaustion, or the fact that the blood in his head had fully migrated south to his cock and that’s the head he was thinking with.

Maybe it’s because he’d dropped the pillow in his haste, and Higuruma’s eyes dropped with it to sweep shamelessly along his erection. There’s a savage pride Nanami harvests from Higuruma’s eyes, black as oil but far more valuable.

“Do you want to?” He repeats, eyes piercing, impeaching.

The look in Nanami’s eyes, the loosening of the harsh lines of his face in favor of an uncertain smile, all things point to this not being the trap Higuruma was half convinced it must be. There was no fist imbued with licking blue flames crashing into his nose or mouth, no vitriol spat for him being some sort of accidental pervert… it was okay. It was actually okay.

“Fuck yes, Nanami. I want to.” Higuruma gasped, and it was as if a spell had broken. For the first time since their meeting, they were finally on the same line of the same page. Higuruma’s hand drifted lower over the firm planes of Nanami’s abs, muscles flexing beneath his touch as Nanami moved to mount Higuruma’s thigh, wedging his own between the other man's legs. In sync, they moved with the same determined purpose.

Nanami’s head dipped, casting a shadow over Higuruma’s face before sealing out that little light entirely with the first tentative brush of their lips. He can feel the shake of Nanami’s muscled shoulders as he hovers, holding his weight high above Higuruma and those tremors reflect in the satin softness of lips he’d only ever seen pulled taut and disapproving.

What Nanami offered as a gentle introduction, a second chance at first impressions, Higuruma took and ran like a wild dog. His hand not currently entrenched within the lines of Nanami’s abs curled into bed-mussed blonde hair and pulled him down, delighting in his surprised grunt.

The kiss Higuruma sought was painted with the same brush as his dream. Angry, aggressive, hungry—but Nanami would have none of that. He wrenched himself away with a breathless bark, lips curled in the widest smile Higuruma had seen yet which almost soothed the sting of having been rejected. “Easy,” he murmured, pressing his nose to the corner of Higuruma’s mouth instead. “There’s no need to rush.”

Higuruma snorted, not the derisive and bitter sound Nanami was used to but the prelude to what would quickly evolve into a gravelly full-belly chuckle. Wonderful, Nanami thought. Higuruma had a wonderful laugh… he would like to hear it more. “Sorry,” he offered. “Must be the champagne.”

“Mmm—” Nanami hummed spiced with mirth, unconvinced as his lips returned to Higuruma’s. “Must be.”

Despite the tentativeness and undeniable awkwardness of fumbling with an unfamiliar body in the dark, they found themselves eventually moving in sync, as if they hadn't spent months just barely tolerating each other.

They fit together easily, Higuruma’s nose brushing and bent against Nanami’s cheek while Nanami savored the lingering taste of champagne on his tongue. There was an unspoken synergy that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, if only they hadn’t been so stubbornly blind to it.

The world narrowed to a gravity of their own making, a push and pull just as they’d always been but devoid of the friction that left their edges rough and raw. Smooth stones in a riverbed their mouths tumbled, exploratory lips and tongues as they mapped this uncharted territory, thorough and thirsty and uncompromising in this burning consumption of each other.

Higuruma nipped at Nanami’s lip, grinning against his mouth as the subsequent gasp allowed his tongue to slip beside his.

He felt like a teenager again. Higuruma isn’t old but the heart-pounding anticipation in his chest is that of a much younger man. His eyes cracked open to admire Nanami, only for his heart to judder in his chest to find their eyes locked. Lost in the hot whiskey depths of Nanami’s gaze, half-lidded and more relaxed than Higuruma had ever seen him.

He wondered if it had been as long for Nanami as it had for him—if Nanami needed this as desperately as he did. He wondered if Nanami’s eyes stayed open out of concern that he might disappear out from beneath him, just as Higuruma feared he might still be dreaming after all.

Nanami’s hand drifted along his arm, fingers tangled and plaited together and pinned above Nanami’s chest. He gets his answer then in the erratic rhythm beneath his palm, pulse vibrating as desperate as his own. Nanami shares his vulnerability wordlessly—he isn’t as unaffected as he seems.

Nanami guided his hand lower, Higuruma’s fingers twitching and sandwiched between Nanami’s broader hand and the board of muscles beneath. Lower, and lower still, Nanami doesn’t break eye contact as he pressed Higuruma’s hand hard against his straining erection with a low groan, eyes closed with the instant relief of such a small touch.

Higuruma’s eyes leave him in favor of watching his own hand, the experience is almost out of body, his hand operated and guided by a force separate from himself. His anxiety left him then, replaced by a hunger that gnawed with vicious teeth at his belly.

His fingers curled instinctively, catching the fabric of Nanami’s pants with a sharp tug—pulling them down without resistance.

Nanami’s cock sprung upward, smacking against his stomach, bobbing and leveling at Higuruma in accusation. Thick and long and engorged an angry red from inattention, Higuruma decided with humor that Nanami’s dick looks a lot like the man himself. Big, and angry, and something he suddenly and desperately and carnally wants in his mouth.

For as long as Higuruma stared, Nanami looked down at him with the first inklings of trepidation. He’s staring, but he isn’t touching—is he displeased? Inadequate? Nanami’s eyes searched Higuruma’s face, flicking between his eyes and the neutral set of his mouth—should he kiss him again?

Insecurity made for the catalyst that flew his mind back to him. Maybe this was a mistake. Nanami swallowed, throat bobbing as his lips part with apology (for what, he doesn’t know but was resolved to figure it out), he started to withdraw—

At the same moment the wires connect in Higuruma’s brain that this was actually happening and hungry fingers finally reach out, tracing Nanami’s cock from ball to tip and cupping his palm over the sensitive head.

Nanami’s hips buck, lashes fluttering and a surprised groan ripped from his chest as he collapsed down onto his elbow, barely catching himself from crushing Higuruma beneath his full weight. His withdrawal was halted, finding himself shoving forward into Higuruma’s hand instead of away.

With a newfound confidence, Higuruma wrapped his fingers around Nanami’s cock, marveling at the velvety smoothness of the skin stretched taut over rigid flesh. He felt Nanami’s pulse beneath his fingertips, a steady beat that mirrored his own racing heart. Higuruma’s grip tightened slightly, earning him a deep, rumbling moan that made his skin tingle and his own cock throb with need.

“Fuck,” he cursed, forcing his lids back open—he looked between Higuruma’s eyes, beetle-black and flashing like flint in the dark, darting between his hungry stare and the connection between their bodies, the slow slide of Higuruma’s grasp around his cock. He doesn’t know where he’d rather look, or how to unknit his eyebrows, or how to stop the gravitational pull of his mouth back to Higuruma’s with desperate insistence.

His tongue teased the seam of Higuruma’s lips, coaxing his mouth open and Higuruma was quick to oblige. Their tongues tangled, and this time Nanami did nothing to chill the heated fervor with which Higuruma drank him in. His fingers dug into the pillow beside Higuruma’s head, muscles flexed and veins bulged as he fought to keep from losing himself in Higuruma’s hand so soon.

Some things would never change, the hot spirit of prideful competition blazed in Nanami’s blood and his hand drifted, dragging with obvious intent down Higuruma’s body, leaving more than enough time for him to be shoved off, to be stopped, but it never came. He needed Higuruma to cum first. Nanami refused to accept otherwise.

He palmed the bulge through Higuruma’s pants, swallowing the earned gasp down his throat and breaking the kiss just long enough to ask: “S’this okay?”

Higuruma nodded so hard he feared his head might snap off his shoulders.

Nanami hummed his acknowledgment, dipping his head away from Higuruma’s mouth to plant kisses along his jaw, leading back towards his ear to nuzzle against the sensitive hinge, buried against the clinging spice of yesterday's cologne and aftershave, and Nanami’s brain goes a bit fuzzy.

Soft skin and downy hair tickle his nose, nibbling distractingly at Higuruma’s pulse as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of Higuruma’s pants, hooking his cock out into the air, pointed up towards his navel against the fabric of his shirt.

That brief touch alone was enough to have Higuruma seeing stars, a strangled gasp stripping his throat raw and breaking into a drawn out moan when Nanami gripped him fully.

Nanami took a moment to admire Higuruma’s cock, appreciating the weight and heat of it in his hand. It was beautiful in its own way, the smooth curve and the throbbing vein that traced a line beneath the silken skin. Nanami’s thumb swept over the tip, gathering the beads of pre-cum that glistened there and spreading it over the head with a gentle stroke that made Higuruma jerk up into his palm, his own grip on Nanami inadvertently tightening.

"Sensitive," Nanami murmured, eyes gleaming with an intensity that could melt steel, the heat of his gaze stripping Higuruma down to his very bones.

Higuruma flushed, a deep crimson spreading across his cheeks as his nose wrinkled in embarrassment. He turned his head into the pillow, trying to hide the uncontrollable reactions of his body. “It’s been a while,” he admitted, voice barely more than a whisper as he gave Nanami’s cock a tentative pump. The motion drew a low moan from Nanami, his eyelids fluttering, breath stuttering warmly against Higuruma’s cheek.

“No time… no interest,” Higuruma continued, words spilling out between panting breaths. “Not into flings… too impersonal.” Excuses tumbled from his lips, broken by the rhythm of Nanami’s hand stroking him into gasping pants. The wet sucking sounds of pre-cum between Nanami’s fingers only made Higuruma throb harder in Nanami’s fist.

"Me neither," Nanami confessed, his voice muffled as he buried his face into Higuruma’s neck, inhaling the warmth of his skin with a shaky breath. The wet rhythmic plap plap plap’s of his hand grew faster until Higuruma’s back arched off the bed with a frantic whine, a string of curses slipping unbidden from his lips.

Nanami had never imagined Higuruma to be a whimperer, always so composed and sharp-eyed. Then, he never dared allow himself to imagine Higuruma like this at all.

Except for that one time, maybe… or perhaps twice. Maybe he’d lost count after thrice.

He thought those sounds might be irritating, wax annoyingly and decoratively pornographic, but from Higuruma, they were intoxicating. They made him crave more. He wanted to chip away at his composure, to draw out more of those desperate noises, to capture them and keep them close. Because Nanami didn’t do flings, and if that’s what this was, he at least wanted something to remember it by.

It was instinct driven the way he moved next, shifting to straddle Higuruma more completely, head bowed to watch the narrow space between them. It’s clumsy, it’s dark and they’re new to this and Higuruma’s body was as alien to him as anybody else's. His ears burn in time with the heavy thump of his cock thudding into the cleft of Higuruma’s thigh.

With clenched teeth, Nanami pressed forward, his movements deliberate but unsteady. A slow, grinding thrust dragged the underside of his cock against Higuruma’s, exhaling sharply at the fresh sensation.

Higuruma's lips parted in another moan, but the sound was swallowed by Nanami’s mouth before it escaped. It’s an opportunity for authority Nanami relished, a chance he didn’t often get. He didn’t hesitate to explore the warmth of Higuruma’s mouth, snagging the sharp of his canines against soft velvet lips, the slick of his soft palate lashed by Nanami’s seeking tongue.

Nanami’s fingers extended, thumb and palm hooking around his own cock while the remaining four stayed devoted to Higuruma—jerking them in tandem, a shared rhythm that drew out breathy gasps and muted moans.

Higuruma’s mouth was hot against Nanami’s, full of urgency and an unspoken plea and promise. So much potential with that mouth—quick wit, arguments, warm, inviting. There’s a kind of intoxication in the way Higuruma responds, each hitch of breath and stuttered exhale fueling Nanami’s quiet resolve to be good to him. He wanted Higuruma to remember him; a matter of ego.

Nanami does not do flings, and neither does Higuruma, but maybe this is an exception. Maybe it’s more. Maybe they’d wake in the morning and Nanami would find the courage-tempered cowardice to flee the life of a sorcerer for a second time—this time out of embarrassment—or maybe he would treat Higuruma to breakfast. Either felt just as likely at that point.

Higuruma found his hands rendered obsolete, defunct palms still slick and sticky from Nanami but with nothing to occupy them. His heart raced, hips bucking up into Nanami’s fist, grinding his cock against Nanami’s as he murmured muffled encouragement into Higuruma’s neck. Higuruma’s hands moved frantically, grabbing for any part of Nanami he could reach.

Fingers tangled in his hair, raking through the undercut at the nape of his neck, carding through blonde locks as if to stay tethered. His hands roamed over Nanami’s back, tracing the firm muscles that quivered beneath his touch. He scratched constellations into the sun-dappled freckles decorating Nanami’s skin, a galaxy amidst the scars. He’d never considered the life Nanami lived before, never quite cared.

Maybe it was the near-orgasmic rush of dopamine clouding Higuruma’s brain, making him tender and soft, but he found himself leaning into Nanami’s shoulder, planting his mouth there. He kissed and licked, laving his tongue over every mark and blemish, every scar that marred the tanned skin with silver, pink, or fresh purple, each one undeserving of the canvas they existed upon.

Higuruma’s breath quickened, each gasp a desperate plea for more, his body straining towards the edge. Nanami’s hand worked them both at a relentless pace, the wet sounds of their cum-slick skin shlick-shlick-shlicking in the hot air. Higuruma could feel the pressure building, a knot tightening in his belly, ready to snap.

“Nanami,” he gasped into a spit-slick shoulder, voice trembling with urgency, his hips stuttering as he chased the release that felt so close, so inevitable. His grip tightened on Nanami’s hair, anchoring himself as his body tensed. He was a live wire, all nerves and sensation, and Nanami’s quiet, focused attention only made it sweeter.

The briefest moment of consideration crossed wires in Higuruma’s head, shakily tugging his own shirt up and pinching the fabric between his teeth, stomach bared and muscles clenching, unclenching, then clenching again—

“Kento,” Nanami corrected, pleading, impeaching, driving the slick, urgent rhythm of his hand. “Please—” It felt different that way, more intimate. Nanami wanted to erase the last traces of anonymity, eradicate impersonality, to fill the room with the weight of something softer, something real. He didn't know what compelled him, but the mere thought of Higuruma gasping his name, lips parted in desperate need, sent a hot thrill down Nanami’s spine, his balls tightening with a searing want that took his breath away.

The heat between them was unbearable, each stroke of Nanami’s hand pushing Higuruma closer to the edge, unapologetic in his destruction of his restraint. His body bowed, fingers tangling desperately in Nanami’s hair, a silent plea for more, just a little more—

His spine tensed, fingers gripping tightly in Nanami’s hair as he finally gave in, spilling over Nanami’s hand and his own stomach with a shrill bark of his name. Pleasure hit him hard, blurring his vision as sparks of ecstasy sparked behind his eyelids like stardust, every nerve galvanized past capacity. So long since it had been his own hand or some impersonal silicon device, Higuruma had simply forgotten. Forgotten what it was like for it to be someone else.

Nanami watched him, enraptured by the way Higuruma fell apart beneath him, the way his chest heaved and his eyes fluttered shut, the way his skin flushed with orgasmic afterglow. It was enough to tip him over the edge, the sight and sound and fuck even the smell of Higuruma’s orgasm drawing his own from him with a deep, guttural groan. 

He ground their cocks together once more, the slick mess of their combined cum making it all the more intense as he followed Higuruma dope-eyed into oblivion, his own climax spilling hot and wet between their bodies. Higuruma’s stomach hollowed with each gasping breath, a basin in which their combined cum pooled, mixed and hot.

They lay there, breath mingling in the heated space between them, Nanami still bracketing Higuruma’s body with his own. Both panting, skin glistening with sweat and the final ropes of cum stringing between Nanami’s fist and Higuruma’s stomach. Higuruma’s cock twitched with each pulse, oversensitive and alive with lingering sensation.

Nanami nuzzled into the crook of Higuruma’s neck, breathing in the musky warmth of his skin, while Higuruma wrapped an arm around Nanami’s shoulders, fingers splayed possessively, as if to keep him from pulling away—not that Nanami had any intention of moving.

“Stay,” Higuruma murmured, voice still breathless, tinged with the raw edges of satisfaction and something suspiciously softer.

Nanami chuckled, a low rumble against Higuruma’s ear, and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

Higuruma shifted, a satisfied glint in his eye. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can move,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips.

Throughout the night, every inch of Higuruma’s body came to know Nanami’s hands, his lips, his touch, and Higuruma explored Nanami with the same enthusiasm. When the sun rose, it found them not on opposite sides of the bed in a cold war but tangled together, limbs more origami than man, an ouroboros where it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

They prepared for the mission ahead, no longer the awkward and begrudging roommates they had been, not quite friends, not quite lovers, but something decidedly more pleasant than they were just the day before.

As Nanami fixed his hair, Higuruma brushed his teeth with a casual ease. While Higuruma tied his tie, Nanami laced his shoes, relaxed, satisfied. Pleasantries exchanged were more than mere obligation, carried out with a quiet contentment and softened shoulders. The glances they shared were not of sharp edges or bitter abrasion but of thoughtful kindness.

“I shouldn’t think we’ll be here another night,” Nanami commented, donning his jacket from the closet and rolling his shoulders, loosening the threads around muscles that felt more limber than they had in a long time. “Make sure you’ve repacked your bag.”

Nanami’s words were met with an odd sense of regret, cold and dousing was the wave that washed over Higuruma as he hummed his acknowledgment, swallowing his disappointment. “Yeah, already done,” Higuruma assured, raking fingers through his hair in the mirror one last time. He found himself caring a little more than usual today, the lines of his suit sharper and picked of lint, not a hair out of place. There was no good reason for that, of course.

He didn’t want to leave.

Sudden was this change of heart, where before he wanted to blaze through this mission and get away from Nanami, the sooner the better. But now, with them finally on decent—dare he say good —terms, he wasn’t ready to go back. Not to campus, not to the way things were before, marked by prickling anxiety and petty competition.

So lost in his thoughts and buried beneath a tortured brow, he didn’t notice as Nanami approached him. Only when his hand tentatively grazed his waist, jolting Higuruma back to reality did he blink at the other man reflected in the mirror over his shoulder.

“Hiromi…” Nanami began, hesitant and stilted, unused to the taste of anything other than Higuruma or a muttered insult, unsure if the request for familiarity was still in effect.

“When we get back—”

Higuruma is already shaking his head, expression schooled into neutrality. He would have to practice it again, learn how to be unaffected. It would be hard but he would learn, and it would be like nothing ever happened and god that was a tough pill to swallow… because Higuruma Hiromi doesn’t do flings, and he didn’t think Nanami Kento did either.

“I don’t kiss and tell if that’s what you’re worried about,” Higuruma chuckled, placating, strained.

Nanami simply smiled at him in the mirror. Slowly he reached around, snaking an arm to Higuruma’s front, gently adjusting Higuruma’s collar and the knot of his tie.

“Actually… I was thinking about dinner.”

[pastafossa]

"From A Squirt Gun, With Love" (Bucky Barnes x F!Reader, Fic)

Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 5's prompt: water gun fight. It's also been a while since I've written for my favorite super soldier, so today's prompt is for Bucky Barnes! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! Side note, once I've got more these will all be edited a bit more and placed on my AO3, so if you lose one, just keep an eye out over there!

Ship: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: some suggestive dialogue and innuendo

You couldn’t afford another mistake. 

He’d been hunting you for at least an hour now, stalking you determinedly through the corridors of the compound and the manicured gardens outside. He’d already nailed you half a dozen times. And much to your disbelief, one of those times was because he’d somehow managed to find his way up into the air vents where he could track you unseen. You’d done your best to at least make it a challenge for him, relying on a variety of traps you’d managed to set up ahead of time, but it hadn’t done you as much good as you’d hoped, your hit count a measly two against his six. And now? Now you were running low on ammunition, and just as low on workable options. What was worse, he’d cornered you in the garage. You’d been able to tuck yourself beneath an SUV before he could see you, but there was only one exit—one currently being monitored by your annoyingly precise marksman of a boyfriend. 

You held your breath at the quiet scrape of heavy combat boots scuffing against the concrete floor. If you had to guess, he was wandering around about two rows over and off to your left. He could have bent over and just scanned beneath the cars immediately, but he was enjoying this far too much to let it end that easily. He was toying with you, dragging things out now that he had you boxed in. 

“I know you’re in here, doll,” came his low chuckle. “Come on out, and I’ll go easy on you. Besides, you gotta be soaked by now, and not in the fun way. But I can change that for you if you want. All you gotta do is pop that pretty head up for me.”

Not a chance. 

You weren’t going down without a fight. 

You clutched your water gun tighter, checking the glowing tactical display—you hadn’t even known high-tech water guns existed until Bucky had dropped one into your hands with a grin. “If my girl wants a water gun fight, we’re gettin’ a water gun fight.” 

And what you saw wasn’t good. 

Shit. 

You were down to eighteen percent tank capacity. Anywhere else in the compound, you might have had a chance to reload with one of the buckets you’d both scattered around, but you’d forgotten to put one in the garage. If you didn’t get him with your next shot, you were done. 

“The fact that you’re not out here shootin’ at me like before tells me you’re low.” His voice sounded different now: higher up, and a bit more distant. Had he… climbed on top of the cars? “You need more practice. I’ll admit, I was proud of you when you got that ass shot in, but that ain’t happenin’ again. My turn to get your ass now, darlin’. You gonna give me what’s mine?”

You sucked your lower lip for a moment before carefully edging your way forward, water gun held in front of you just in case he decided to pull a horror movie move and drop into view. It wasn’t easy. The goddamn water gun was shaped more like a shotgun than a super soaker, clunky and a bitch to drag around. The upside was it had an automatic reload so you didn’t have to worry about making any noise while pumping the gun. Its range was good for a water gun, around twenty feet, but not good enough that you could shoot Bucky at distance. You’d need to get close.

One of the cars down the row creaked, tires groaning, presumably as your massive super soldier of a boyfriend strolled along the top of the cars like they were paving stones. That he wasn’t bothering to be silent was… unusual.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he purred, his voice growing fainter as he wandered down towards the other end of the garage. “Where’s my pretty girl gone?”

On the one hand, you enjoyed hearing that tone from him, playful and relaxed, warm and content. He’d grown pretty comfortable with you, open and affectionate, over the time you’d known him. That comfort, that openness with you had only blossomed further as your relationship had morphed into something romantic. But even so, it was still unusual for him to let go like this just so he could have fun. It was progress, and that knowledge filled your heart with a sparkling warmth. 

But you also couldn’t help but be the least bit suspicious, because it would be absolutely like him to use his voice and playful tone to distract you from something. 

You froze again when a pair of boots suddenly appeared on the concrete in front of you, landing without a sound—you’d been right; all the sound a minute ago had been to try to lure you out, make you think he was farther away than he really was. You didn’t dare move, not when the slightest sound might give you away. Slowly, the boots shifted on the concrete as he turned one way, and then the other. Waiting for you to make a run for it. 

But he’d taught you better than that. 

There was the softest, quietest little huff of amusement, or maybe pride, instead. But instead of heading off, he began to kneel. 

Shit, shit, shit—

He was going to duck down and look under the car. He knew you were here, he had to. He had to. Could you shift the angle of your water gun before he leaned down and saw you—

Fortunately for you, it became clear a second later that he was only lowering himself into a crouch. You stilled again in the shadows beneath the SUV, your gun still aimed cautiously at his legs.

Speaking of which, you had a really good view of his thighs at this angle. With him crouched the way he was, his thighs looked even thicker than usual, deliciously hard muscle covered in old denim. The round curve of his ass looked just as good where he filled out his jeans, though the dark splotch on the tight fabric made you grin. It was a testament to one of the only two shots you’d managed to hit him with. Sure, he’d shot you twice in the ass in retaliation, but it had been absolutely worth it. 

He settled onto the balls of his feet, rocking a little back and forth. You heard a soft whir, before his metal hand appeared in your view. Your heart skipped a beat, a droplet of maybe-water-maybe-sweat rolling down your temple. Only… his hand didn’t appear to be going for you like you’d expected. Instead, it slipped down to the concrete. One metal fingertip gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, it brushed lightly at the droplets of water drying on the concrete. 

Fresh droplets. 

From you. 

Crap. 

His head appeared beneath the SUV as he leaned over to meet your eye. Then he flashed you a feral grin. “Hi doll,” he said smugly. “Hi Bucky. I love you,” you said fondly, and shot him in the face. 

His head reared back as he spat out a curse, frantically swiping the water away from his face. It gave you just enough time for you to squirm out from under the SUV and take off down row between the cars, your sneakers slapping against the concrete, the wind blowing your hair back. If you could get to the door before he did, you could turn around and lock him in. It wouldn’t keep him here forever, but it might buy you a few minutes to reload. 

Based on the rapidly pounding footsteps behind you, though, you weren’t even going to get close. Not when it sounded like he was charging after you with every last bit of super-soldier-powered speed he had. You needed another plan, or else—

Something slammed hard against one of the cars behind you, startling you enough to make you stumble. In that brief moment of distraction, Bucky had vaulted himself up off the car and over your head. 

His broad form landed smoothly in front of you in one easy motion, dropping into a crouch. He rose slowly, powerful muscle gradually uncoiling inch by inch, until finally he loomed up over you, water gun held ominously in one hand. His pale eyes had gone dark with heat, pupils blown wide as he fixated on you: his prey. He took one prowling step forward, a flash of pink from his tongue as he lazily licked the droplets of water away from his mouth.

“You shot me,” he rumbled hungrily. “I should be mad. But damn, doll. That was hot.” “Hot enough to stop you from shooting me back?” you asked hopefully.

“Not a chance,” he said with a smirk, before firing a blast of cold water directly at your abdomen. You let out another shriek, turning to sprint away from him, a trail of damp footprints left behind. And if your shriek was half laughter, well, his playful growl was just as full of joy as he took off after you. 

[enigmatist17]

Okay okay okay I haven't seen any Mirage/Hound in the Mecha Pilot/Universe AU by @keferon (if there is I apologize I haven't seen every post) so here :)

Also I'm sorta kinda mashing together my version of this mecha AU, as there really isn't a sort of "canon" version of things (I have written Ratchet both as human and bot, so there ya go) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

---

Henry was a simple guy who had lived a pretty (in his view, anyway) simple life. He had served in the military, got out when he had done his time, and had become a wildlife biologist for what was supposed to be the rest of his life.

Then they came, and his simple life was gone.

Xenobiology quickly became what he was known for, he and so many others using what they had learned to try and help the fight against the invaders go smoothly. He supposed it could have been worse; the mecha program was a far more brutal face than his dime-a-dozen lab, a lot of pilots dying more from their machinery than the aliens themselves. Jazz, the first pilot who seemed receptive to his friendly attempts to befriend those in that group, became one of the few Henry could call as a friend as they strived to protect Earth.

He even accepted the nickname Hound, the name a second skin Henry wasn't even aware he had been missing.

Then Jazz went missing, Hound there for his grieving brother as a mecha was merely put in Jazz's place, marking the first to leave. Ratchet retired (sort of, they knew he'd be dragged back eventually) shortly after, having grown tired of the constant death and overall burnout, promising that Hound could come to visit whenever he desired. The little guy First Aid stopped showing up in common areas after his whole Vortex incident, and as much as Hound was concerned for his friend, oddly enough, he did not question the haunted mecha that seemed to lurk when Hound visited his hangar.

Still, he persevered in helping to stop the threat to Earth, even when he started having breakdowns at the nonstop death. He couldn't jump fast enough when the MECHA program eventually offered him an off-site lab with housing, the buildings far enough away from their biggest main facility to be out of sight, but close enough where reinforcements could be sent out to protect their investment scientist in case of an attack. It helped to be surrounded by nature again, the smell of oil, metal, and all sorts of blood replaced with fresh air and as many plants as he could cram into the space. Sure, he was still dissecting alien biology and working on finding more weaknesses and potential uses, but it helped to be away from the worst of it all.

Maybe that break stops Hound from having a full-blown freakout when Jazz suddenly returns through some weird sort of portal, flanked by other mecha's that turn out to be alien sentient robots.

"Hound!" The pilot jumps out of his mecha and onto the hand of one of the robots, placed down on the grassy surface as Hound stares in awe. "It is so good to see you man!"

"Jazz?!" Hound drops the gun he (regrettably) used for protection as the pilot sprints over, the two falling back and onto the grass at the force of Jazz's impact, hugging the smaller man just as tight as the other was hugging him. "Holy shit you're still alive!"

"You know me, I'm too stubborn to die." Jazz's voice is bordering on hysteria, but Hound says nothing, freezing when one of the other mecha leans over them, its head tilted as glowing eyes slightly narrow. "U-Uh..."

"Prowler, ya gotta relax yea?" Hound stared as Jazz pulled back, craning his neck up with a grin at the massive alien, using the clawed finger(????) offered to get to his feet, one hand held out to Hound. "This is my buddy Hound I told you about, he's good me-people."

"It can understand you?" Hound took Jazz's hand and got up onto his feet, the other aliens crowding closer in curiosity as Jazz stepped on the offered palm, completely unphased as he was lifted into the air and set on a metallic shoulder.

"He, and they can! Hound, I'd like ya to meet my main mech Prowl to start with, he's the reason I made it home." The one, Prowl, stared down with a blank look, the two staring at each other for a beat before the mech nods his head, his doors (wings? They look like wings, which is really interesting) twitching when Jazz bonked his helmet against his cheek in a way that had the biologist doing a double-take. "What?"

"...did you get a boyfriend? Botfriend? Oh no that sounds so stupid." The former soldier slapped his hand over his face as Jazz started to cackle, the alien's own laughter that rippled through the crowd sounding as alien as it did almost human. "Forget I said that."

"Oh, never." The pilot only looked amused as he looked down at his friend, the air seeming to ease as the aliens loosened their stances, save Prowl. "To be fair, I tried that out too, and it does sound so stupid."

"Who are your other friends?" Hound rolled his eyes, eyeing the group with uncertainty. "Um, you all do understand me, right?"

"Of course, Jazz taught us your Earthen language." The second to shortest bot spoke up, their blue and white coloring catching Hound's interest. "I am Mirage, it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Jazz's."

"It's nice to meet you, Mirage."

---

Mirage did not understand this planet Earth, more specifically, why his fellow Cybertronians seemed to adjust to the planet with ease.

It was covered in organic matter, no matter where you looked.

While his attitude toward organics changed when Jazz was revealed, the person who practically forced the former noble into becoming a trusted friend, it did not mean he enjoyed dealing with organic nature. It usually meant they were in a place the Quintessons wanted, and he could see why Jazz and his people created shells to fight in; his planet was filled with more resources than he could have imagined. The latent feeling of energy (and for some reason energon, something to be investigated later) practically hovered in the air, and the Quintessons could feast for many years if they succeeded in getting a foothold.

Something these small organics had stopped, keeping a foothold despite being so fragile.

"You're brooding again."

"You know that I still do not know what that means."

"Sorry, it just means you're...lost in your thoughts, and judging by the frown on your face..plates? You seem upset is what I'm saying."

"...I am confused." Mirage had been idling outside of a market while waiting for Hound to do his shopping, his new alt mode gathering more than a few optics by the time the human had returned. Little protoforms had touched his side paneling before Hound had returned, and he could still feel their touch as he began to drive back to Hound's home. Once they had returned, Mirage had transformed to look at the small smudges on his arm plating, perched on one of the large rocks that littered the property until Hound had sought him out with a bucket in one hand. "I do not understand how my fellow Cybertronians are not...distressed by this constant organic matter."

"Well, I'm not really sure how to answer that." The organic looked up at Mirage with a servo on his hip, a friendly smile on his face. "Would you like me to help get those smudges off? Figure it's the least I can do."

"Very well." Hound worked in relative silence after Mirage transformed, the small cloth and polisher cream doing its job of removing any trace of a smudge. The human was humming as he worked, occasionally speaking to local wildlife that appeared not to understand his language that wandered nearby, a little whistle and movement of his hand sending them scattering. "Why do you speak to the wildlife?"

"Um...good question!" Hound chuckled as he carefully polished one of Mirage's door handles, making sure the inner part was just as clean as the outer. "Helps me pass the time, makes me feel like I'm not alone I guess. Don't you talk to uh, cyberbirds or something?"

"....Cyberbird?" Hound nearly started at the amused rumble Mirage's engine made, his face plate taking on a red hue Prowl had explained was a "blush". "Not as such, no. The closest animal I have seen you interact with that was similar to Cybertron was a turbo fox, albeit a lot less elegant."

"Aw, we might not be all fancy metal an' tech, but every animal can be elegant if you give them enough credit." Hound knelt down to get the last of the smudges on one of the wheel rims, using some bottled water to rinse off some sort of sticky residue. "I'd love to see what your wildlife looks like, your planet too."

"Perhaps one day, Cybertron is still very much a warzone that had not recovered enough from our own personal War."

"Mhm, we've got places like that here too." Hound sighed, dabbing some more polish on the smooth metal. "Part of why I left the military, I only want to help the planet, not destroy it. What's the point of fighting, only to have rubble and the dead to greet you when you're done?"

"That is a question I have asked myself for many vorns. When we were Autobot and Decepticon, I had been called a sympathizer merely because I wanted to try and end things peacefully, not with weapons and near extinction of our race." His spark pulsed painfully at the deaths that occurred before Earth was most likely even a planet, still a painful memory despite the time that passed.

"I'm sorry to hear that, you don't seem like that sort to me. Nothin' wrong with trying to use words instead of steel." Satisfied, Hound got up and onto his feet with a slight stretch, eyeing Mirage's frame with a smile. "There we go, as organic-free as I could make ya."

"It was very kind of you to do so." Mirage transformed in one fluid move, eyeing his plating with his first genuine smile. "I have not had such a thing done to me out of kindness in a very long time."

"Well, consider it me helping out a friend." Something squeezes his heart at the confused look that crosses Mirage's face for a moment, before he carefully kneels down and extends a finger (digit?).

"It is not a "handshake", but it is the best I can do." Mirage doesn't twitch when he feels the warm hands that wrap around his digit, Hound doing a mock shake, his EMF field cautiously reaching out to drape itself around the human.

"You're doing great, Mirage."

They both lie awake that night, wondering what was coming next.

---

He doesn't know what happened, only that one moment, a Quintesson was about to use its staff to stab Hound right in the chest, and the next, he's ripping its head from its body.

Safe/Confusion/Fear/Resolve

Where is Hound? Where is Mirage? Where are they?

A blast rockets past, and they react, HoundMirage lifting an alien gun to fire, a clean headshot taking out the Quintesson before them.

Something isn't right, he's not a pilotmecha, he's not a soldierspy

No, they're both and yet not, sparkheart beating as one as they fight, driving back the attacking force that had tried to take out the city that Ratchet was based out of these days, its denizens weirdly unsurprised about the new "mecha's". Jazz joins them in the fight until the last one is dead, his mecha holding its handsservos up as he regards them, HoundMirage itching for any more threats as optics flick around the now empty battlefield.

"Fellas? You alright?"

"YesNo, confusedscared?" A processor is halted by unfamiliar emotions, and a servohand reaches for their chestchassis, the outer armor opening to -

Mirage cycles his optics, shimmering out of sight when he feels something close, too close to the small thing trying to intake in his servos. Nothing can harm them, nothing would harm them, and it takes his processor a few klicks to realize the voices calling out to him were friendly. Jazz was in front of him with his servos still up, just spouting anything and everything while Bumblebee watched from just out of sight, making sure nothing was actually going to attack them despite looking in awe.

"Jazz?" His vocalizer sounds off, and he resets it as Jazz gives him a thumbs up. "What happened?"

"No idea, but you and Hound pretty much went berserker and took out most of the Quintessons. Henry, you alright there man?"

"Ask me when everything stops spinning." Hound wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but being in his bot's hands were really doing wonders, so he stayed where he was. "I don't normally talk like this, but what the fuck was that?! I thought you weren't mechas!"

"They're not." The pilot shrugged, Mirage remerging into view when Prowl clicked in warning. "C'mon, we've got to go before the lookie-loos start asking questions we can't answer."

"You're too late on that fact, son." Everyone looks down to see a lone human approaching them with an annoyed look on his face, pointing a wrench at Jazz's mecha. "Also when the hell were you goin' to tell me you made it back to Earth? Cybertron isn't exactly a hop and skip away."

"....what?" All of the alien mechs stared at the grumpy-looking human as Jazz cackled, Hound only amused as he watched Ratchet almost immediately get into an argument with a stunned Prowl.

A weird way to end what was shaping up to be a very weird day.

[fluff-n-cookies]

Hello :)

Could you please do and platonic Aizawa x daughter reader?

His daughter is in her teen years so she is being like really rebel and all that so they fought a lot, but one day she just breaksdown during one fight and starts crying and apologizing for being a shitty daughter?

I have been avoiding this for so long, and it's all because I have no idea how aizawa would handle something like this. because it goes against everything that Aizawa would try and teach his kid so this may be a little forcefully written, apologies.

TW : unhealthy parenting, mental illness, some suicidal thoughts, probably angsty shit, I dunno, read at your own risk.

We can start this by walking through how this may start in the first place. I think the best place to start is that reader's mom left her and Aizawa when she was very young, and Aizawa, assuming here he didn't understand how to properly tell her why her mother left her, never tells her why.

Now reader is very young so she might blame one of two things.

herself

her father

While both instances would technically work, I think the more favorable option is she blames herself since a young child would probably never blame an adult they look up to and hold dear as the problem.

Up to this point her father has been really kind to her so the only other variable is her, this spirals into social anxiety, low self esteem, and depression. all of which don't help when you have an absent mother and a neglectful father who is both a teacher and a full time hero, which leaves little to no room for children.

(this is also why I think it isn't realistic for Aizawa to keep Eri or a child without another non-hero caretaker. Fight me, I dare you.)

As time goes on, and this child becomes a teenager, she might not know how to properly express her feeling and after being misguided by factors like the internet, other adults, and "friends" she might take out the feeling of being abandoned on her closest caretaker and another source of her problems; Aizawa.

if you purposely yell at him or start arguments it's not going to be very fun because Aizawa has this complex where if his students or other heros represent incompetence or arrogance he expels them or ignores him rather than explaining it to them and helping them improve, this is especially with students.

and since he lacks a true connection with you as his daughter mainly because of his job(s) and past with Oboro which he is still trying to heal from keeping him from bonding with you, he'll treat you as a student like the rest of the teenagers he knows. and even then, you may actually be treated worse than his students because while he interacts with them daily, he interacts with maybe 1 hour every other day.

so from all that he simply ignores you, just stops interacting with you entirely, he's too tired for your bullshit. this action makes the wedge between you two even worse.

if you keep persisting though he will yell back but it's often really short and really loud. something like "SHUT UP" a cold "I don't care." before slamming the door in your face. He knows it's probably not right to do that to your daughter but let's face it. you're just this annoying teenager he legally has to live with if he doesn't want to lose his hero and teaching license.

this is where things actually get very interesting, because let's assume he stops approaching you entirely, you just live in the same house nothing more than that, and while you may act like you hate your father for ruining your family and neglecting you all your life on the outside, remember, you're still that little kid in second grade that blames yourself for your mother leaving and your father not caring for you.

so let's say you realize this and go back to blaming yourself for everything like you did when you where a kid but since your father stopped talking to you entirely explaining your faults to him maybe difficult.

this where my personal experiences come in, I've actually had this happen to me in my own life, and I truely hope that you'll enjoy it. thank you.

---------

why is it that the voices are the loudest in the dead of night?

the moon is gone, the birds are silent, there isn't a single light that shines on your tear streaked face, puffly, swollen, sad, just sad.

years of confusion, neglect, a lack of love in it's purest form.

all because of you.

it's all because of you.

it's sings so prettily, like it's a church choir spreading the word of the lord like it's common knowledge.

it's common knowledge that you are a terrible person!

it cackles.

the urge to strangle yourself to finally feel some relief has never been stronger.

lie awake in the dead of night, in pitch darkness, a proper scenery to match ones broken and cracked soul, be careful, you might hurt yourself, again.

however, one cannot weep in their wallows forever.

the night has to make way for the morning sun.

and a relaxed self pity has to make way to dread.

dread.

dread of him, he who you blame for everything, everything you know is your fault.

it's all your fault.

a click at the door,

the creak of the old wood and the hinges never oiled.

mild thumping footsteps that wander around the apartment that can barely hold your overflowing buckets of tears.

you can mumble out all your pleas.

pleas that this is all a terrible nightmare and your real life is actually one with a kind and loving mother and a supportive and encouraging father.

mumble out the little lies that you made up all these years to make yourself feel worse and other better.

"it's pointless to keep trying."

"I wish I wasn't here."

"why can't I just be happy?"

"it's all my fault,

it's all my fault,

it's all my fault."

the thin walls don't do those in mourning justice though.

for the wind is calm, the branches don't dare to move, the owls, the bats, the sleeping heros in training downstairs don't make a peep.

for the only ones alive, awake, aware, is a man beaten down and broken by society serving as it's protector, ignoring the one in most need of protection all this time. With him is a girl. a girl that's scared, scared of her mirror image that haunts her, a girl who's cried an ocean, screamed a thousand wails of pain, a girl lost in her own heart,

"No wonder no one loves you."

you lie again.

but keen ears trained from years of work with villains hears you, for the first time, he hears you.

not the rebellious teen he's seen yell out strings of pure hatred and fiery insults like he's her own worst enemy.

it's the girl who he saw waiting on the steps to their apartment all those years ago. waiting for her mama to come back home with the promise of cupcakes.

it's the girl who never smiled for the remainder of elementary school.

it's the girl who's heart withered way that autumn evening.

he heard the softest little voice in the dead of night. he heard his daughter cry

"No wonder no one loves you."

.

.

.

"But I love you."

for that whole night, for that whole night.

the peace was disturbed.

for that whole night, it seemed that the moon shone once again.

it may not be the sun. but it'll do for now.

Aizawa walked away shortly after that.

leaving a little girls and her mirror image to ponder.

ponder.

---------

Afterwards I don't think he'd talk about it too much, he's proabably approach you after breakfast the next morning and tell you "you can talk to him about it if you want." but not much more than that

he definitely would change his practices though. like getting you a therapist, taking the weekends off in favor of being around the house more.

he'll let you get used to his presence first like one would with a cat, and one day. maybe years later, or tomorrow, you'll talk to him.

you'll tell him you love him too.

and maybe.

just maybe.

the world will stop,

and everything will be okay.

[lvrsparadise]

'JEALOUS' - M.S

Synopsis - She's always liked him.

Warnings! - Profanity, kissing, reader being jealous, Matt n reader being cute, fluff

A/N - Okay. I want to kms because I had originally written out something so beautiful for this. And then I accidently deleted something, and I forgot that if I press control z it ERASES THE WHOLE DAMN THING! So, this is a re-write. Enjoy!

Work was so tiring. I got cut from the floor at 7 instead of 9, when I was supposed to get off, because I had no tables. I made barely $40 in tips. And not to mention the weird drunk creep who kept asking my co-workers and I, very uncomfortable questions. I sigh as I clock out of the system and grabbing my stuff before saying bye to my co-workers.

I walk out the back to my car. I open the driver door and throw my stuff in the passenger seat. I just sit there and recollect myself before I put the key in the ignition, turning on the car.

Thee drive back to my house was quiet. I didn't have the radio on, I didn't have the windows down. I wasn't even on the phone with anybody. Today was that stressful.

'I'm going to have to ask my maneger for more hours next shift.'

I pull into my driveway and grab my stuff, turning off the car and walking to my front door. I open it and am immediately bombarded by my puppy, Sam, and my cat Mr. Murray.

I set my stuff down on the couch before walking upstairs to my room. I get undressed and hop in the shower. After my very refreshing shower, I throw on some comfier clothes - a pair of pink and black plaid pajama pants, a white tank top, and one of Matt's hoodies he left over.

I flop on my bed with a sigh. I sit up and open my phone, opening my messages app before clicking on Matt's contact. Matt is my brother's best friend. Well, actually, Chris is my brother's best friend, but I learned that they're a package deal. Get one, get all.

1 ring. 2 rings.

"Hey. Everything alright?"

I breathe out a small sigh of relief at the sound of his voice.

"Hey. Yeah, no everything's fine. I've just had a stressful day and I was wondering if we could go for like a drive or something?"

"Yeah, no that's fine. I'll be over in 10."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Always."

That's the last thing I hear before the line goes dead. Knowing he's going to be here in less than 10 minutes, I slip on my converse and head downstairs.

I love on and play with Sam and Mr. Murray for about 5 or 6 minutes before I hear a car pull in my driveway. I instantly recognize it as Matt's car. I grab my wallet, just in case, my keys, and my phone, placing all of them in the pocket of the hoodie. I hear a knock at my door and Sam barks. I yell out his name to get him to stop barking as I open the door.

There he is. Looking perfect as ever. Even in sweats and a hoodie. He's wearing that damn smile. One I return gratefully.

"You ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

I close my door behind me as I walk out, locking it as well before I walk over to the passenger side of the car. I get in and so does Matt. He pulls out of my driveway and starts driving around with no destination.

"How was your day? Why was it stressful?" He turns is head towards me as we're at a red light.

"Well, I got cut from the floor early because we were dead, and I had no tables. I made barely $40 in tips. I also had to work with that one girl I told you about. She made the day ten times worse. And this morning, Sam thought it would be nice to wake me up with a surprise next to my bed." I rest my elbow on the center console, resting my chin on my hand as I look out the window.

"Yikes." I hear him say as the light finally turns green and we start driving again.

"What about you? Anything fun happen?"

"Chris almost like, broke the ceiling in the warehouse."

"How in the hell?"

"I have no idea; I wasn't around when it happened. But Nick was and he kept making jokes about it reminding Chris that he did it. It was hilarious." He chuckles quietly.

"I bet."

"Oh shit."

"Hmm?" I turn my head towards him, his gaze switching between the road and the dashboard behind the steering wheel.

"I'm almost out of gas. I think I have enough to get us to that 7-11." He jerks his chin towards a 7-11 that's not too far. It's dark out, not many cars are on the road, the gas station seems empty.

He pulls into the gas station, pulling up to a gas pump. He turns the car off after rolling down the windows a little bit. He gets out and walks over to the pump, which is next to me because for some reason, the gas tank is on the right side of his car instead of the left. So, as he fills the tank up, he's also leaning on my window, talking to me.

"Did anything interesting happen in your day though?"

"Um, let's see. Oh, there was this older gentleman who tipped me $25 for being the best server he's had. He was celebrating his anniversary, but he said that his wife had passed away a few years ago. So, every year on their anniversary, he goes out and gets himself a meal. It was so sweet, it almost made me cry."

"Wow. That does sound swe-"

He's cut off by a girl walking up to him, looking to be around our ages, maybe a year or so older. She's talking with hi and flirting with him. I feel my blood run cold with jealousy at the realization she's flirting. Matt's hand is like holding onto the window, his hand partially in the car. I take advantage of that and I somewhat intwine our fingers, my own mindlessly playing with his.

Either she can't see me through the somewhat tinted windows, or is openly ignoring my presence, she asks him out to dinner. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine back. I hear him say 'Oh, I can't sorry. My girl is in the car' and my heart skips a beat. Multiple beats actually.

He finishes filling most of his tank and pays before walking over to the driver's side as quick as he can speed walk without running. He turns the car on at lightning speed. He starts to drive off to my house.

The drive is silent. Other than the really quiet hum f whatever is on the radio, there is not a peep coming from either of us.

About halfway through the drive back to my house, he reaches his right hand over the center console and grabs my left hand, interlocking our hands before resting them on his thigh. My chest is filled with butterflies. My head is empty. I feel my face heat up as I turn to look out the window next to me.

We pull up to my house. As soon as he puts the car in park, I'm out the car and making a b-line for my front door, unlocking it in record time. I didn't realize Matt was hot on my heels until I turn to close the front door, his hand stopping it. I sigh in defeat knowing I won't win. He pushes the door open and then walks in, closing it behind him.

"Were you jealous?"

"What? I have no Idea what you're talking about Matt." I place my wallet and keys on a table I have next to the door for that reason. Of course, I was jealous, but I would never admit it out loud. Especially to the guy I was getting jealous about.

He shakes his head and crosses his arms "Wrong. Were you jealous?"

I roll my eyes slightly "Matt- I don't get why you're asking me this. It would be the same if it were me-"

"No, it wouldn't."

"Wha-"

"A guy touches you? Jealous. A guy flirts with you? Jealous. Takes you on a date? Kisses you? I'm jealous. I'm jealous as hell. How have you not known? I'm not very secretive about it at all. Now I'm going to ask you one last time. Were you jealous?" His voice, despite being stern and angry, it still is soft and kind.

I sigh in defeat, crossing my own arms, mirroring his pose. "Yeah. I was. I was very jealous."

There is nothing said after that. And there doesn't need to be. Next thing I know, I'm being softly pinned against the wall and Matt's hands are on me. One on my cheek and the other on my waist. I try to look at the hand on my waist but the hand on my face makes me look into his eyes. He doesn't say much, but words aren't necessary right now. He leans in and kisses me.

The kiss is soft, tender, sweet, and everything a hopeless romantic like myself could ever want. I entangle my hands in his hair, closing whatever space was between us.

After what felt like hours, but was really 20 seconds, we pull back for air. Both of us are panting.

"I'm taking you out Friday. 6:00. I pick you up, with flowers, take you to dinner, then I take you to a 7:00 movie, then we walk on the beach before I take you back home and kiss you goodnight. How does that sound?"

Although my eyes are still closed, I hear the smile in his voice, and at his words I can't hold back a smile of my own. I open my eyes and look into his beautiful blue ones that look like they're the ocean. I swear I get lost in them for a few seconds before replying.

"That sounds perfect."

I don't have a taglist for the Sturniolos!

If you want to be in it, all you have to do is ask! <3

I love all of y'all!

[jaggedamethyst]

…look for the light

joel miller x f!reader | 2.7k

pairing: joel miller (tlou) x fem reader

content: you're tired of hearing that old slogan from the fireflies...but maybe you should give it a chance.

notes: 18+ minors dni, eventual smut for the girlies (smfh + side eye) also unprotected in the heat of the moment unfortunately…dont be like them! angst because it's my specialty, mental health depictions (illusions to death, depression, etc. do not read if that's a serious trigger) this takes place in the time jump between tlou 1 and tlou 2…tons of existential crisis otw, grief, everything unfortunately…and i still don’t believe in proofreading

also this is the longest i've written so far...of course it involves joel too...hashtag need that.

 ࿐ ࿔*:·ﾟ🍂🌿༄。°          ° 。༄🌿🍂·ﾟ*࿔ ࿐

You hadn’t arrived in Jackson on your own. At the time, you were one of a family of four. As time passed, the number dwindled along with your will to live. Back when everything was normal--or as normal as it could’ve been in a world that corrupt, you saw a therapist. You knew it was in their career description to listen. It helped sometimes, others it didn’t. Overall, though, you’d say they’d done a shit job if at the first sign of loss, you wanted to cease to exist. 

When you weren’t overthinking, you found yourself on patrol. It became ironic that you rejoiced at the sight of a fresh dead body. Knowing that the person before you had made a mistake you could now avoid lit a small fire in you. The flame didn’t last long though, quickly blown out every day with a speed just as fast as its ignition. 

To be candid, there was this guy. Well, this man. You couldn’t do him the injustice of calling him anything but a man. You saw him often--sometimes to himself, others with this girl. No matter the circumstance, though, he rarely spoke. You liked that. Something about people who acknowledged their capability to not speak made you extremely happy. Silence is a valid option. 

As an observer, you learned his name was Joel, the girl Ellie. They’d arrived about the same time as you, which explained the lack of interaction. This was, of course, aside from glances, the fake half-ass smiles you exchanged, and your time on patrol together. 

Unfortunately, he was the worst. It absolutely burned you up. That, and the fact that even when he annoyed you, you wanted to have extremely private time with him. 

The first time you actually spoke, he’d found you by a stream. You didn’t know he was showing the girl, Ellie, something that day. But as you lay with your eyes closed, taking in the sunlight--a shadow cascaded over you. 

You opened one eye to see who’d stepped in the way. Before you could get a word out, he spoke, “You from Jackson?”

“Who’s asking?” You created a sort of visor over your eyes with your hand. 

He huffed, “someone from Jackson.” 

Resuming your position on the ground, you spoke, “You some sort of Jackson cop? You seem like the cop type.” 

He scoffed. You realized he did that a lot, not speaking, making annoyed sounds. Not answering questions directly. 

“You should get back.” 

With a quirked brow, you replied, “I’m good, thanks.” 

“Wasn’t really a question.”

“Didn’t say it was.” 

By this point you’d opened your eyes again, surveying the man. You kind of felt bad for being snippy but honestly, he interrupted your “alone with my thoughts” time. Some people can cope without thinking of the same incidents in a constant loop. Not you--you liked the hurt. It reminded you to be safe. To not trust people. 

Even in that position, though, you observed the man. He looked rough, but in a way that motioned toward experience. There were hints of gray in his hair, yet he didn’t look old. His shirt was slightly opened, tattered. The sheen of sweat covering him made him all the more alluring in the sunlight. 

“Are you gonna get the hell up and get a move on or what?” 

You didn’t know him at the time, or that he was trying to surprise Ellie on her birthday. Even worse, that on this day, he’d thought of his daughter. He was coping. Anyone or anything out of place was shattering the amazing plan he had made to go a day without feeling like a disappointment. 

He didn’t know that your “alone with my thoughts” time often consisted of thinking of your family. You’d willed yourself to shut your eyes tight, picturing those you lost; it was the only time you could see them. If you got lucky, you could dream of them. If you were unlucky, you’d see images of their mangled bodies. 

It seemed that even awake, your luck was the fucking worst. 

With swift and silent movements, you stood and turned to leave. Avoiding eye contact was the only way to hide the tears prickling in your eyes. 

“Dude,” a young voice called out, “you hurt her feelings!”

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to, Ellie!” 

Like you said, he was the worst. But you definitely took it to the next level at every opportunity. 

That’s how you found yourself on patrol with Joel giving him the silent treatment. It was customary at this point. If you two went alone, he would bark out orders, you’d follow if you felt like it. If someone else happened to be there, you two would rely on an unspoken rule to only speak to them and not one another. It worked…until today. 

Entrapment wasn’t a new feeling for you. Often on patrol specifically, you would have to maneuver your way out of dangerous positions to return. But the realization of there being nobody to return to hit you today. So even when Joel and Jesse said to stay back, you proceeded. It was a miracle none of you three were bitten or worse. Your reckless act left the trek back to Jackson completely silent. 

When you reached the gate safely, Jesse spoke first. It was obvious he was shaken up but even more annoyed with you. “Kinda fucked up you did that. Did you even consider that you would put me and Joel in danger?” 

“Nobody told you to follow me, to be honest.” 

“I don’t give a fuck! When we leave, we work together… or we don’t go.” 

Joel shook his head silently, observing the way Jesse continued to rip into you. You continued the back and forth until Jesse hit extremely low. 

“Look, I know you lost people…I remember them-”

You spoke over him, a finger out in warning, “Don’t-” 

“And just because you feel like there is no worth left in your sorry ass life, doesn’t mean I wanna die right now. Not for you. Not on a stupid patrol mission.” 

It felt like he punched you. Square in the face. The way your breath left you was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Not since the day you realized your entire family was gone. As a result of that day, you grew accustomed to silent walks back to your house. You got used to the sounds your house made between the silence. 

You didn’t hear Joel’s faint footsteps and persistent calls to you as he followed behind. It wasn’t until the unusual sound of your door not immediately closing behind you that you turned around to see him there. 

“You didn’t even stop him, you just stood there like you always do!”

His signature sigh and no response. Just a sort of expectant look on his face. 

“Get. Out. Please.” 

You begged him to leave, your voice breaking. It was somewhere in the midst of you slowly falling toward the floor that he reached you. He knew what you were experiencing right now. The dull panging in your body, a faint scream at you, and a feeling that of anyone it should’ve been you to go, not your family. 

He didn’t want to admit that he recognized the bubble of sadness around you, as he’d be forced to acknowledge his own. The least he could do was to comfort you in a way he had yearned for when he lost Sarah. When he lost Tess. When he thought Tommy was gone. But he failed, as he always did, crying with you. 

He urged you to quiet your sobs, “It’s okay, shhh.” 

His attempts at soothing you were a sort of reassurance to himself--that it was okay. It could be okay. He eventually grasped your face, too, forcing you to look at him. He wanted you to believe him, despite the lack of conviction in his voice. The eye contact shocked you both. You had never seen the man cry let alone been this close to him. From a distance, it's easy to think that any dark-colored eye is just black but his…

“Brown…” You mumbled incoherently. 

“What?”

“Your eyes. I’ve never really looked at ‘em.” 

He was confused, “yeah, brown.” 

“It's just that, it's easy to overlook things…” when you’re so stuck in the past, you wanted to say. But you left it. You had a feeling he understood. 

It was hard to not lean into his touch, even harder to not want to be near him. He noticed you staring, but there was still so much left unsaid. Thinking about it, he never really allowed himself to carry out a conversation with you. But there was an unspoken attraction between you. It was easy to minimize said attraction to one where you needed each other. It was suffice to say that it was more tantamount to the way particles were reliant on one another. Even more, the way symbiosis occurred. Despite the urge to push one another away, you knew that you did, in fact, need each other. 

If not for a long time, at least for now. 

Without a word, you pushed up a bit, meeting your lips with his. He was obviously taken aback; there was so much behind the kiss…but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

You pulled at his shirt, that damned shirt he always liked to wear. Always opened slightly, but never enough to give you what you needed.

“Can I?” You broke the kiss and motioned toward the buttons, breaking eye contact for a second. 

Joel let out a characteristic sound, affirming you, “Mhm, yeah…” 

You moved your hands lower, stopping at the close of his top. “Are you sure?” 

The man understood you. The shirt acted as a sort of metaphorical barrier between the two of you. As much as it scared the both of you to cross that line, there was an unspoken respect for one another. 

He noticed your apprehension, bearing the task of taking down that wall for you both. 

Joel unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, intentional in his action. 

He watched you shiver, “I haven’t…I want…I mean-” 

That same alluring stare maintained its gaze at you, Joel allowing you the time to process and say what you wanted to. 

“I want to feel…be close to you. Not because I want to use you or something…I just,” You searched for words that seemed to escape you. 

His words interrupted your thought process, a gentle but calloused hand returning to your face. 

“You don’t have to have a reason. Use me.” 

That was enough to make you attack him full force. You’d thought of each other so long that there was an urgency. There wasn’t time for niceties or the pleasantries of preparing yourself for him. You just wanted each other immediately. 

The trail of clothing that led to your room was something out of one of those old movies you watched. Before everything went to shit. You allowed yourself a smirk at the thought--Joel hot on your trail. 

Joel observed how clean your place was. He was one to keep tidy, too. Not for the thought of expecting someone, but for lack of people except him. There were few things he held near and dear, so a large space like his home was often unused save for his bed and couch. It seemed you echoed this thought, and that made him even more eager. Knowing you had so much in common made him insatiable.

You found yourselves kissing again, seeking comfort in each other. It was sweet and slow. You couldn’t handle it, the lack of him. 

“Joel, please,” you backed towards the bed. Now fully available for him. With you demanding everything be so structured to protect yourself these days, you were willing to let go for once. 

He didn’t say anything, he never did. But the way he hovered over you, maintained eye contact and pushed into you said enough. 

His pace was somewhere between painfully slow and slower. He felt your wetness, the way you were ready for him already, and it made him harder. He knew he wouldn’t last long if he went any faster. 

You reached up, pushing the hair out of his face. It was a distraction from how good it felt, even the purposely slow pressure, but you wanted more. 

You bucked up into him. He hissed and grunted in your ear, that’s new. 

The southern drawl was even more apparent on the man. “Shit. I’m tryin’ to…make it last,” his head met your shoulder, breath against your skin. “Cant.” 

“Don’t.” 

You couldn’t see his face, but you figured a look of surprise flashed there. It only took a second for him to pick up the pace. Those grunts filled the room; his wordless communication was now music to your ears. 

You continued that way for not much longer--but the high was unlike any other. He reached down to rub between you, making sure you’d finish. The thought of him caring about you in that way and the pointed pressure of his strong hands doing so was enough to make your body pulse against him. 

He pushed you back down, keeping you still, “Don’t move, baby.” 

It was a lot. 

His movements became even more erratic, but it felt so damn good. 

“Where should I?” 

You arched a brow, “You want a little Joel running around here somewhere?” 

He chuckled, so sweetly, too. Fuck. 

“Wow, even full like this you still got a mouth on ya. I’m gonna work on that.” 

He pulled out suddenly, and before you could even complain, latched his mouth onto you until he finished and your voice went dry from calling out his name. 

Okay…

The usual urge to freshen up never came. The smell of Joel was all over you, and you liked it that way. You breathed in and out, processing what happened, fighting to stay awake. The sound of the man’s snores was enough to keep you awake in itself. 

It wasn’t until you heard the snores stop and Joel stirring that you spoke again.

“I’m sorry.” 

Joel turned his head toward you, clearly still half asleep, “For?” 

“For that day, in the woods, when we first met. I was mean.” 

“I understand. A random guy shows up asking questions. You get defensive. It happens to the best of ‘em.” 

There was silence. One long enough that Joel sat up to get out of bed--you stopped him when you spoke. 

“I was thinking of my family,” a pause, and with it, your eyes burned a bit. “I don’t know why I act the way I do. I don’t know why I’m… harsh. Part of me thinks it's because they are always looking at who I have become and are so disappointed. The other part of me thinks that they don’t see me at all…or that they can’t…that there’s nothing more after this. I dunno which feels worse but I know it drives me fucking crazy.” 

He silently reached for your hand, deliberate in his response. “I like to think that the big moments we share with the people we lose are more important than anything after.” He nodded, assuring himself before continuing. “Good or bad, their memory only survives as long as we are thinking of them.” He paused to look toward his wrist, almost out of muscle memory. “Our families may not be here, but even mentioning them proves that they were real. I know my baby girl was real, I can’t fail her by going on like she wasn’t.” He inched closer to you, “If it takes me being sad to know that there was someone I loved here before, I’ll stomach it any day.” 

You nodded slightly. 

“Thanks.” 

A hum resonated from him, and he made his way out of your house. He was elusive as always, and definitely just as attractive..if not more so now. But his words stuck with you. 

That stupid catchphrase from the Fireflies…you’d heard it often. The aftershocks of the group persisted even after they’d slowly dwindled in numbers. When you’re lost in the darkness…

Wiping your eyes, you pulled the covers back a bit more. A lot of time had passed, but for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like it was ripped from you. 

After a few minutes, the Sun started to rise, heat emanating from your window. You felt the warmth slowly reach your face--closing your eyes. 

For once, you’d look forward to sleep, and even more, the possibility of dreaming.

[tcoaal]

EDIT: i made a few small edits since i posted this

hi i might be beating a dead horse but this rant has been building up since seeing the first comments on reddit. spoilers under the readmore + i didn't want to eat your entire dash

you're all free to like or dislike or love or hate The Coffin of Andrew and Renee mod all you want but something that's been driving me absolutely bonkers in criticism of it is people saying Renee was wholesome or loving in it. i have a lot of mean words about it actually but i want to keep it civil and just say: you are absolutely completely incorrect in every capacity.

the key difference between canon gravecest and Andrew's and Renee's relationship in this mod is Renee's abuse is completely different than Ashley's. the mod is quite arguably a LOT more fucked up than the source material when you pay attention to it!

(and also one of the mcs is a milf yada yada)

this mod at the end of the day is a fanfic. it's an AU fanfic you get to play. it's a really well written fanfic! not the same as the original, and there's definitely parts that are weaker (the first half of the 303 lady scene after the summoning was really weak before it became my favorite part of the mod) but it does a decent job at exploring this story with a major plot of divergence years before the canon start of the game and how that's affecting Andrew.

Andrew is considerably more submissive when things get rough around Renee than he is with Ashley. the thing about gravecest is that it's codependent. Ashley doesn't really force or make Andrew do anything: Andrew desperately wants to blame his problems on Ashley but deep down he's just as, if not even more fucked up than Ashley actually is. this is something we could debate and discuss for hours but: this dynamic is lost with Renee, and for good reasons.

Renee was the one that forced Andrew to be the one who raised his sister. and then Renee forcibly separated them and told him if he ever had problems come to her.

Andrew is dependent on Renee in a way Renee clearly is not in the mod.

Renee's life has kinda gone to shit. getting Ashley locked up didn't magically solve her problems: her life is actually worse than in canon. her doormat husband finally found the balls to leave her, Andrew clearly resents her deep down, she's locked in an apartment and her tie to Andrew is literally the only thing she has left. and boy is Andrew infinitely worse off for that! Renee actively controls every aspect of Andrew's life one way or another, and while I dislike the first half of the Room 302 scene the ending shows that contrast.

Andrew basically mentally shuts down whenever Renee gets serious about weaponizing his dependency. Renee is somebody who forced him to raise his sister, then forcibly ripped that person from her to make herself the one he's dependent on.

this scene was really fucking haunting to watch because she actively weaponizes using what she did. she was the one responsible for letting shit get so messed up when he was a kid. and then he uses it to hurt him: and then continues to weaponize the fact she "saved" him to make him back down.

"And... maybe I said some things that weren't called for myself."

^ the exact line that sold this characterization of Renee to me. this is immediately after her exploiting his trauma, trauma she is very much directly responsible for. this isn't a happy scene. this isn't a wholesome scene. look how tired Andrew looks compared to his mother.

even when she's blatantly, clearly in the wrong she won't admit responsibility. it was Andrew's fault for acting like a child. it's his fault for lashing out when his trauma is exploited by Renee and she has to further manipulate and abuse the trust she forcibly installed into him to make him back down. but maybe she said a few bad things too. she didn't mean it though. Andrew should know better though.

anyone with half a brain can tell this is horrifically fucked up and a very different kind of control and confrontation Ashley uses: Ashley just likes to get in his face and initiate a verbal argument regarding Andrew's hypocrisy more other than not and then said arguments run their natural course. Renee repeatedly uses textbook abuse and gaslighting tactics to force the person dependent on her to back down. Anderw is not naturally "a dutiful son," as the mod describes him, Renee made him become that and regularly abuses that fact.

Renee is a lot more gungho about being a cannibal and is extremely attached to a story about a monster that eats everything that threatens her child because Renee has lost everything else of value in her life and is forcing Andrew to be close to her, constantly picking needless fights at the idea of her own son leaving her side and leaving her alone, and emphasizing that he owes it to her to stay by her side and actively controls him to ensure he doesn't leave.

like, you can feel however you want. i've seen some people hate it. i've actually seen some people who like it more than the actual game itself. i certainly have a few criticisms of it, mostly tied to its format inherently, but i'll defend it unless chapter 2 drops the ball.

but every time i see someone comment "Renee is really wholesome and loving in this mod and that's really OOC for her," or when the criticisms mostly boil down to the art style i think i die inside a bit and i cannot take that person's complaints regarding this mod seriously in any capacity. anyways thanks for listening to my insane rant if you read this far manifesting chapter 3 soon my crops are dying