#it’s slash but before they get together

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[twilightkitkat]

What does Logan think of his claws? Does he like them? Does he hate them? Or are they just a part of him like the tail of a dog? Do they remind him of the violence he had lived through? Of how he used them to kill? Does he ever think of them in a positive way? How he uses them to defend the ones he loves? To climb trees and cut through high grass when he's in the woods? How they are a part of his skeleton? Or how they set him apart from the others? Do they make him more human or more animal?

Logan would have very ambivalent feelings toward his claws.

At first, he was scared of them. Scared of himself. Scared of the consequences of being a mutant. Scared of what he could do with them, to kill a man so easily.

(Scared of the implications. Was he human or not? Was he still a person? Did he still have a chance at a future?)

Eventually, he'd get used to using them in fights. As Logan and Victor fought together in tge wars, he started to view them more pragmatically. They were weapons, just like the guns other soldiers held. Nothing more, nothing less. He was just another soldier who had an extra card up his sleeve.

Logan didn't let himself see the claws as a part of himself at first, not like Victor. His first impression was killing his own father with those claws and watching him bleed out. He hid them away most of the time, opted for military weapons, and was forced to use them only in dire situations.

They were an escape plan. A last resort. Something he tried to hide to pass off as "normal." He felt disconnected from them, almost like they were separate from him.

And then he joined the Weapon X program. Which was full of mutants just like him. Where he was expected to actively use his claws inside of hide them.

And he adapted. He leaned into the instincts he'd long suppressed and passed off as adrenaline. He became familiar with the feeling of slashing and climbing and opening cans and using his claws for more than just a quick kill. He became acclimated with them, comfortable.

He never really liked his claws, not really. But he got used to them. He stopped fearing them as much and started to view them as an actual part of himself. (Even if that part of himself was directly tied to being used as a weapon. To being a human tool.)

And then came the X-men. And so he had to confront his internal conflict between being The Wolverine, an animal, and Logan, the human. It was easy to ignore when he was treated solely like a weapon. But now people expected him to care, to empathize, to be human when all people have wanted from him before was to use his animal side.

It was then that he really started thinking about his feelings on his claws. How they distinctly marked him as an animal, how they represented why he couldn't assimilate into society. How they hurt every time he unsheathed him, contorting in a way that human bones could never handle. They were a reminder, visible proof that he'd never fit in with society. That even when all he wanted was to be human and assimilate into their family, there was still a barrier. He'd lived for so long as The Wolverine that he forgot how to be Logan. (Let alone James.)

And then they were gone.

And in came Wade. And Wade didn't pressure him to be human and relearn all of his "animalistic" habits, nor did he demand he use his tendencies as a weapon. He just let him be.

And that's the thing. Logan's claws were never really Logan's. They were Victor's ally, Weapon X's tool, the X men's protector, but never his. They may be a part of him, but they weren't really his. Not in the ways that mattered.

And now... he gets to choose. Whether he uses his claws for violence. Who he uses them on, where, and why. Whether he wants to use them to open a bottle of beer or screw a nail into the wall.

It's freeing. Liberating.

It's the first time he felt his claws were really his. Like he had the final choice in his life. It's the first time he really appreciated them, now that he finally got to reap the benefits.

[peapodbond]

I'm going to hit Tim Minear with a calendar.

Okay, so, first of all. I'm a Teen Wolf fan. I'm used to wonky timelines. (Lydia had two canonical birthdays!) And 9-1-1 did get a little wonky! There are references that contradict each other all time, but since there is no set 'length' of time that each episode covers, maybe they do all work together. Could go either way!

But. For real. Abby? Seriously?

I have indulged in the Abby and Tommy jokes before. It is, objectively, hilarious to imagine.

But the math just is not mathing with what was given as their backstory.

2018: Buck is working at the 118, done his probie spot?? (in 1×2, Buck says he's been on the job for six months), and meets Abby.

2017: Abby and 'Tommy' break up. (as per her voiceovers)

2015-2017: Abby and 'Tommy' were engaged (as per Tommy saying they were engaged for two years)

?? - 2017: Abby and Tommy were dating. I have to assume it was at least six months? So at minimum, they were together for 2.5 years.

Let's recap! Chim came to the 118 in 2005. Hen came to the 118 in 2010 (there is some fun Twilight math involved, ask me about that sometime). Bobby shows up before Buck (in 1×5, Hen says he's been there for a year so it would have been six months before Buck, but Bobby Begins Again gets loosey-goosey with the time and it ~seems~ in that episode as though he went straight from Minnesota to LA after his family died and he got sober the first time, and the title cards in that episode say the fire happened in 2014. I don't really believe that he was at loose ends and drinking for two years. At that point in time he would have decided that the sooner he got back to work the sooner he could save 148 people and see his family again.)

Tommy, Hen, Chim and Sal were all friendly by the time that Bobby showed up. They made bets with each other, hung out after work, and razzed each other about stealing lunch money. This is a friendship that started shortly after Gerrard was removed (also 2010, because Hen was still a probie when the car accident happened) and continued until Sal and Tommy left the 118 in 2017.

You are telling me that Tommy managed to have a two and a half (minimum!) YEAR relationship, and that neither Chim nor Hen (nor Bobby!) met her, heard her name, and connected the dots when she started showing up with Buck?

Tommy, who was closeted and didn't feel safe coming out. Didn't mention his girlfriend slash fiancée so that people would stop asking about his relationship?

Not to mention that in Bobby Begins Again when they're all at the bar, Tommy mentions that being single is easier. So he's single! Which means that even with Abby waiting a year to hook up with the himbo the math doesn't math properly either.

And in Lou's interview with Decider he said that it was only decided recently that Abby and Tommy were going to be a thing.

Tim had seven years worth of timeline knowledge to figure that out. It feels like the length of the relationship was decided on so that Josh could give that (actually awesome) speech at dispatch.

(Also after hearing that 8×5 was written to be so good so that everyone would be even more upset in 8×6, it feels like it was just written to make it hurt even worse.)

So, it could have absolutely been written that they both dated Abby, but to be honest? It's more compelling if it had been earlier. When Chim is hired at the 118 Gerrard is asking Tommy when his girlfriend is coming to cook dinner - in 2005, fresh out of the army and DADT and faced with a boss that is homophobic, of course Tommy, at 21, would date a woman and go so far as to get engaged. And he and Chim, who were barely friends at that point, would not have been talking about their personal lives then. Of course, that would retcon the fact that 'Tommy ' and Abby had only broken up the year before the show started, but it would actually still work for the Patricia reference - Buck would have been much closer to Tommy's age when they would have dated, and Alzheimer's means that twenty years and twenty minutes can feel like the same amount of time away from you.

There. I made it make sense! And I didn't even have a team of writers and producers to guide me along the way.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control - 3x14 Long Distance Call

“I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”

Dean’s admission echoes in Sam’s aching head as they sit beside each other, on their respective motel beds, drinking beer and nursing their bruises, while the TV flickers ominously in the darkening room. Dean’s found an old horror movie that he must’ve watched so often he knows it by heart, mouthing some of the lines in sync with the characters, his swollen face lighting up in childlike joy at the outdated, involuntarily comical jump scares.

Sam could never get behind his brother’s enthusiasm for horror flicks. In his opinion, they’re dealing with enough horror in real life as it is. Why Dean would find relaxation - even joy - in watching people getting terrorized and torn apart by monsters, aliens or (worst of all) other humans is beyond him. Why he would fill what little downtime they have with even more fear and blood and pain is something Sam will never understand.

He also can’t get behind the sudden insouciance that Dean is showing, sitting rapt in front of the TV, their earlier conversation about Dean dying in three weeks seemingly forgotten. Very possibly, it’s just a front - a mask he’s put on to disguise the very emotions he admitted to only twenty minutes ago. Up to anyone’s guess whether he’s protecting himself or Sam by sliding back into the brave act he’s put on for months now. Pressed, Sam would guess the latter. In the end, it’s his modus operandi, and as much as Sam rebels against needing protection - he’s twenty-five now, for god’s sake - he believes that, by correlation, it’s what keeps Dean together. Taking care of Sam means he can’t fall apart. Not even three weeks from going to Hell.

Sam shudders.

“Ohhhh– that was nasty, wa’n’t it?” Dean grins at him, pointing at a slashed-up body on the TV screen, the insane killer silently walking out of the frame, machete dripping blood.

Sam shakes his head, albeit carefully, his brain still sloshy from getting knocked out earlier. How can Dean find gory murder amusing when he’s about to get ripped apart himself? He suppresses the ‘A little too close to home, don’t you think’ he’s got on the tip of his tongue.

Dean slaps Sam’s leg. “Oh come on, Sammy! Admit it - it’s funny!”

Sam doesn’t laugh. “Haha.”

“Wuss.” 

A knock on their door pulls Sam out of his thoughts and Dean away from the screen. 

“Papa John’s Pizza!” someone announces cheerlessly outside and knocks again, impatient. “Your order’s here!”

Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Dean gets up and, after checking through the window, he opens the door to a weary-looking twenty-something in a red-and-white uniform holding a family-sized pizza box out to him. Dean pays and tips him generously. That, too, is his modus operandi: they may be near-broke most of the time, but Dean never lets a person with a shit, low-paying job go without a tip. He’d rather not order at all. Sam can’t remember if that’s something Dad taught him, but he doesn’t think so. 

Door shut and locked, Dean returns to his bed with the steaming box and opens it, his eyes already swinging back to the TV where the crazed machete murderer is stalking his next victim.

“He’s in for a surprise with that one,” he comments cheerfully before he maneuvers a slice of pizza out of the box and bites off, sauce dripping down his chin and onto the bed. Sam wants to say something about the sheets and using napkins, but he doesn’t have it in him. As much as he complains all the time about Dean’s messy eating, he knows he’s going to miss it when–

No. He’s not gonna go there.. They’ll find a way to save Dean. It’s not gonna-

“Dude! You’re not even looking!” Dean admonishes, chewing. “This is the best part! The Final Girl!” 

There’s screaming on the screen, blood splattering all over the place, and the killer growls and snarls like some rabid dog. It sounds way too much like a Hell Hound. Sam swallows.

“Dude, you okay? Lord of the Flies leave you with a concussion after all?” 

Dean’s eyes are on him now, giving him the full Winchester-X-ray scrutiny, pizza and movie momentarily forgotten.

While it’s true that the Crocotta knocked him out, Sam doesn’t think he has a concussion. His head hurts, and he’s a little dizzy, but he can see straight and he doesn’t feel like throwing up the two beers he just drank. No, the lump in his throat is nothing but dread, pushing up through the bravado he, too, has been putting on for Dean. 

“D’you want a poem?” he’d joked earlier, to kill the tension and knock Dean out of his panic. It had worked. Humor sometimes was the only thing that worked when his older brother was spiraling. Humor or pure, physical force. And Dean needs him. No matter the show he’s putting on, Sam sees it in the taut line of his shoulders and hears it in his exaggerated laughter. Behind the pretend mirth, despair still glimmers in the green of his eyes. 

For once, Sam’s got to be the one to lean on. He can’t waver now.

“I’m fine,” he says, waving at the TV. “Just that Pizza Face over there is not exactly making my mouth water.” More blood sprays on the screen as the triumphant Final Girl takes an ice pick to the killer’s ugly face. Sam pointedly wrinkles his nose. “Yuck.”

Mollified, Dean chuckles. “Lightweight.” He takes another hearty pizza bite and licks a string of cheese from his split lip. “Wait till you see what happens with the teacher in part two! Guy knows how to handle a chainsaw, I’m not kiddin’!”

“There’s a part two?” Sam asks, horrified. Why anyone would want to watch a sequel to this ludicrous garbage eludes him.

Dean grins devilishly, although it must be hurting his badly bruised cheek. “Yeah, and it’s on right after. A marathon, in fact. Parts one through four back-to-back.”

Sam has to keep himself from sagging in dismay, and he stops the agonized groan that wants to slip out of him. A whole night of battling insomnia and the monsters waiting for Dean in Hell with badly made-up, fictional monsters prowling over a scratched TV screen - it’s not his idea of conquering fear. But, apparently, it’s Dean’s, and if this is what his brother needs, if this is what helps him face the nightmare waiting ahead, Sam will be by his side. In this dismal motel room and in the three weeks to come.

“Alright then. Pass me a slice,” he says, gesturing at the pizza, to a crescendo of screaming coming from the TV. “And another beer.”

Dean’s grin widens, and if he’s still scared underneath the twinkle in his eyes and the bright flash of his teeth, it’s hard even for Sam to detect. “That’s my boy!” 

He balances a slice from Sam’s veggie half of the pizza onto a napkin and hands it to him, followed by a fresh beer that he pops open with his ring.“Get comfortable, dude,” Dean instructs joyfully, rearranging the pillows between his back and the headboard. Then he lifts his beer bottle to toast to Sam. “It’s gonna be a looong night.”

Sam toasts back, a twinge in his chest. Twenty-one nights left. It’s time they start making them count.

The Damage Control Series Masterlist

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

[gensokyohyakkiyako]

"Yeah...With this, I should finally be able to do it~." She grinned excitedly. Nobody could stop her now. She could finally...Be the beast she was meant to be! Shaking off that lingering pain from her experience gaining the weave, she'd fly away immediately...Towards the human village.

The villagers would see a black dot in the sky. Nothing strange, people fly around all the time...But before they had the time to realize what was even going on, Mew came flying at them like a missile and landed in the middle of the village, several houses instantly being slashed apart along with their inhabitants in a spray of blood.

"Hehehehe...~! You all...You've forgotten just how dangerous a real monster is, haven't you? Let me remind you~!" She laughed, waving her claws towards one of the villagers who was trying to flee from her and instantly cutting his body into four chunks horizontally. She pounced upon his remains, beginning to devour his raw flesh...Certainly not as flavorful as cooked human, but there was truly something magical about the taste of freshly killed prey.

That were-hakutaku came out to stop her...She yelled something at Mew, but the cath palug was not listening. She immediately choke-slammed the youkai into a wall, carving deep gashes into her body in a surprise attack with her claws and collapsing the school behind her with the massive cuts that extended further than her claws. Keine struggled and managed to find her off...But realized what Mew had done and was forced to try to save what children were still under the rubble. That was one impediment out of the way for now...Mew was more interested in wreaking more havoc.

She charged off ahead down the street, tearing more villagers apart and ripping their meat off their bones with her teeth. Certainly, the villagers were stronger than outside world humans...But that didn't do much to save them here. Especially now that Mew could strengthen herself even further. She bit into a woman's throat, swallowing the blood that gushed forward before reaching back to grab the arm of the man trying to attack her from behind, swinging him into the wall before smashing his skull against it with a kick.

This felt like a dream come true~! Finally she could unleash these desires that were restrained for so long! But before long...Another obstacle appeared. Her body was bombarded with youkai-slaying needles, blowing away part of her...Yet just as easily, she'd weave herself back together as she looked up at her assailant...The Hakurei Shrine Maiden, Reimu.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You should know the-" Reimu was immediately interrupted, her incredible intuition allowing her to evade it when Mew threw an invisible slash her way. She'd gone for the head, too...What a shame.

"I'M DONE WITH RULES...IT'S TIME FOR YOUKAI TO BE YOUKAI." She laughed, charging up at her. There was no danmaku. It was like one of the battles of old...Reimu tried to put up a barrier against her attacks, but even that reached its limit before long against the onslaught of invisible cuts. Each time Reimu attacked, Mew would immediately move to dodge, but often got clipped by it anyway...She was good. Really damn good. But it didn't matter. While normally any other youkai would've been defeated by now, Mew kept weaving herself back together each time she was destroyed. Despite the barrier, against Mew's attacks, her cuts were slowly adding up...She could win this! As long as she managed to get a killing blow before Reimu used Innate Dream against her...! While Mew had this weave, nothing could stop her~!

"No better way to teach you how to 'weave and sew' your own body, than to experience it...besides." She ran her fingers across her lips with quite the smile. "I got to enjoy myself a little, no complaints here."

She failed to mentioned if she experienced it too, if she had but was so normalized to it she didn't even blink? One may not know for now, but at least it seems on Mew's successful sewing of her body back together. That things were working, it'd be such a tragedy to test and see her laying lifeless.

"Simplicity is the hallmark of refined spells, so I've been taught. It should be, easy to use because you need to use it when you're lacking eyes or a brain sometimes."

"Like programming in every little bone, fascinating isn't it?" Micuccia had been crouched before her and and stood with her, a hand on her chin to inspect her fine work.

She seemed to like being handsy.

"At your level, weaving to refine your physical attributes.. should be relatively simple. With practice I'm sure you can break limits, but that's not what it's all about is it... to weave your own life..."

"Not even these fragile youkai and sages can take it from you now..." Only she can, only Micuccia could.

"You should go play a little... I have a dinner date at the mansion over yonder. Fret not, I'll always be near if you need me. Besides. new toys to play with in your hands. You don't need me looking over your shoulder."

[hopelessromantic5]

I thought it would be fitting to post a sick-fic snippet, considering the upper-respiratory infection I’ve had for the past week has been kicking my ass.

So this is a little Bucky taking care of sick Buck fic.

Thank you for reading.

Gale went to sleep at Thorpe Abbots.

When his eyes shot open, he was in complete darkness. The only sounds in the room were the soft even breaths of his fellow officers.

Something was balled up in Gale’s stomach. This must’ve been what woke him.

God he hadn’t felt real nausea like this since he was a kid.

It’s alright. He tells himself. Just lie still and it will go away. Just calm down. Breathe, in and out. Calm yourself. It’s fine. It’ll go away.

Another roll of pain and discomfort had him up on his feet and bolting out the door before he could think twice.

He just made it outside behind the building before the contents of his stomach emptied into the grass.

Gale leaned against the bricks, heaving, tears streaming down his face.

God, how he hated it. The lack of control, the inability to stop it. Forced to endure until it’s over.

He felt himself drop to the ground, curling into his own body, trying to slow his breathing. Trying to get rid of that awful scratchy feeling in the back of his throat.

He blindly wiped at his face with the bottom of his tshirt, hoping he hadn’t been loud or interrupted anyone’s sleep.

It reminded him too much of the terrible nights of his childhood, fresh bruises already blackening around his cheek, under his ribs, the pain swirling behind his eyelids causing the sickness before little Gale could get it under control.

“Buck?” A voice called out, whispering, but still too loud for the dead of night.

Gale didn’t have the energy to respond.

Footsteps grew near.

“Buck! Hey,” a body crouched near him, gentle hands settling on his shoulders, like a blanket.

When Gale didn’t lift his head immediately, Bucky, softly, barely touching him, placed his rough hand on Gale’s cheek, calling the other man to meet his eyes.

When John felt the wetness of tears under his palm, his brows furrowed further in concern, if that were possible.

“Hey, doll, what’s the matter?” He whispered.

Gale must’ve been really really tired. The term of endearment didn’t seem out of place, it didn’t jolt his system the way it would in any other instance, it just seemed right.

As if he were expecting John to call him that.

A second hand moved, so Buck’s face was effectively caged in by John’s grasp. It was only then he realized the heat Gale’s skin was radiating.

“You’re burning up, Gale. We need to get you back into bed.”

Gale finally lifted himself from his hiding place, meeting John’s eyes. He’d never seen that kind of worry there before.

“You called me Gale.” He mumbled before he could think about it.

John huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Because I knew it would get you to pay attention.” He stands, and gently places one of Buck’s arms around his own broad shoulders.

“I can walk.” He mumbled, yet disproving his own point when he practically slumped into John with all his body weight, tucking his face into his neck. Gale huffed, wanting to be embarrassed, but finding he was rather annoyed at relying on John for yet another thing. Relying on anyone for anything is bad enough, but John doesn’t need a burden like him. He should be free, like a bird.

Gale is beginning to think, in the only rational part of his mind left, that there may be something wrong with him.

Maybe he’d been poisoned.

A snort followed his poor attempt at being right,

“Sure, doll. If you say so.”

Bucky practically carried him all the way back inside, he smelled like fresh air and lucky strikes with just a hint of something simply titled ‘John’, it could never be recreated, Buck knows.

Once settled under his blankets, warm and content, John smiles softly at him.

“Get some rest, Gale.”

“Thank you, John.” He whispered, watching the silhouette of the other man freeze and the continue his journey back to his bunk, without looking back.

A sad, pathetic sigh escaped him before he drifted off into an awful, fitful sleep.

When he woke again, he was sweating, and it was bright enough in the room to blind him when his eyes creaked opened.

Then he caught onto the silence of his surroundings. No quiet murmurs of morning. No shuffling feet.

Daylight.

Silence.

Oh God, the meeting, the mission.

“Oh, fuck.” He says before he can remember he isn’t supposed to.

He’s up and getting dressed before he can even breathe.

He’s late. He’s so incredibly late, the captain is going to have his ass.

Oh, no.

“Whoa, whoa.” A hand on his chest settles his rushed movements. “Slow your roll there, cowboy.” Bucky just walked through the door, holding, what looks like, soup in a cup?

“Bucky, I’m late. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be helping Curt with flight check?” Gale is confused as to why either one of them are still here talking, and why no one woke him up.

A small smile appeared on John’s face, stilling Gale once again.

“What’s with the face?”

Bucky shook his head,

“Leave it to you to be deathly ill and still be worried about flight check.”

Gale looks at him like he’s crazy, which makes it even funnier.

“I’m not sick, John.”

“Tell that to your hundred and four degree fever.”

“What-how do you-“ Buck stopped, huffing in a breath. He probably looks ridiculous, one pant leg on and no shirt, with a sock halfway rolled up his foot. “Why are you here, then? If I’m sick, you could catch it. I shouldn’t even be in here, I should stay in the med tent.” He’s babbling.

Bucky has been watching him with wide eyes. He’s never seen Gale so ruffled, and stuttering.

He’s never seen him so not put-together.

He loves it. He’s drinking up the sight like water, though he does feel a pinch of guilt and hurt that Gale had to be sick in order for him to see this side of him.

“It’s a cold, Buck. Your body just needs some rest and it’s forcing you to get it, the only way it knows how.” Bucky turned back to something that he had discarded on his bed.

“You are not late, so you can stop having a panic attack and lay back down. I already told the Captain that you were sick. It’s not contagious. And I’m not leaving you here, sick and alone.”

For once, Gale went without a fuss.

He was exhausted.

“I brought you some pills. Doc said they should help.” John said, offhand.

The words send Gale spinning into a future he’d never imagined before. One where he and Bucky are living in a nice humble house with a few acres out back. John brings home the paper from town and they gossip about the neighbors while they drink coffee in the morning, huddled together on the porch swing. Maybe a good hound at their feet.

“Buck?” That warm hand returned to his face, this time feeling his forehead.

“Jesus, Buck, I’ve never felt skin this hot.”

“Careful,” Gale huffed a laugh. “You’re gonna give a fella an ego too big for his boots.”

John seemed to think this was funny too. Fond amusement colored his eyes, clear skies on a moonlit night.

“Maybe you could use a little ego, Saint Cleven. You’re too humble.” The hand that had previously taken his temperature by touch, carded its fingers through Gale’s hair. Sweaty blond locks that had fallen over his forehead were pushed back, cool air on his face more prevalent. It felt good while at the same time, sent shivers down his spine.

[nenestansunsthings]

having svsss au ideas beyond my station

thinking. shang qinghua goes on a mission as a young disciple to some town in fuckoff nowhere and finds himself in the qiu household. and there he finds a young shen jiu, undergoing the plot he originally intended for him and hadn't realised had become real and he's so young oh god hes so young why is he so small what do you mean that part was real, he hadn't kept it why is it real—

and he panics and sneaks him the Fuck out of that house

and he's not sure what to do but surely sending him to cang qiong will fuck up something in the plot and he can't come under even more investigation and cang qiong tryouts dont happen for months anyway and his system would probably never allow it (it doesnt. it would interfere with yue qingyuans story) but shen jiu is refusing to stay anywhere near this place and wants to learn cultivating to protect himself make sure nothing like this ever happens again and sqh panics harder and

calls mobei jun.

okay. on second thought, maybe this was a bad idea. but he stumbles over himself and shushes baby shen jiu's very understandable freaking out and asks his king for the first thing hes ever asked for other than his own life.

is there any way this human child could learn cultivation in the demon world?

[girlboyburger]

wish i had a consistent character to show for this, but since i don't i just used icons :0]

blank template for those that want it under the cut

[mercless]

🗡 mad cowboy disease....

[elscaptive]

Totally! But, hmm, the singers, will they... get along tho if this ever happens 😀😀

[cabeswaterdrowned]

I’m going to be real maybe something will change especially since I think they’re supposed to have a tragic bent to them eventually and yk I like that sort of thing but so far I really don’t find m*rthur interesting. Not as in I don’t think there’s subtext I think it’s there I just don’t feel anything about it.

[cloverkingsmith]

Nita steeled herself, knowing that she was the final line of defense between Damnatio and hope.

Protect the witches and Finral. Buy them enough time to get Asta through the door of fate. Act as their shield if the other Bulls failed. That was it.

Nita’s fungi soldiers chanted behind her, ready. Spores poured off of them, creating a thick cloud of poisonous, paralyzing, sleep-inducing danger. She prayed it would be enough to slow him down.

Then, there was an explosion.

[waywardsalt]

easily my favorite boss in elden ring so far

[mainfaggot]

just found out the guy i was frenemies with in middle school got a boyfriend

[6mayhem]

anyway i need to hang out with my brother again he is the one person who i am pretty sure knows literally everything about me so he's the only person i trust that i can absolutely not disappoint. nothing i can do could be worse than the sum of everything i've been doing to that poor man (and him to me) the past 19 years

[malaierba]

like i know Eve probably won't be as cool as I picture her in my mind but. I have so much honest fun thinking about her.

the Eden Four is just great in general, the way they foil and parallel and clash with each other. honestly from the bottom of my heart, whatever they had and could've had going on is 10000 times more interesting to me than whatever Charlie is trying to do.