#maybe even a couple of good ones rattling around in here somewhere

[weaselle]

and the really frustrating part is that we spent like hundreds of thousands of years science-ing the shit out of this problem until we finally solved it and now in the last like, two generations we've backed all the way off our best solution to this for no good reason.

see, you start with a group like gorillas and everybody has to get and prepare their own food and they spend a good chunk of their day each day doing that, but not so much that it's onerous and they have almost nothing else to do anyway.

but say you want to store food for when there's no food. And say you want to eat more kinds of food, and say you need your brain to start running a huge protein and sugar deficit so you can think real bigly. Now preparing your food doesn't mean bruising some leaves in your fist or chewing the husk off a fruit or breaking open a nut, now preparing your food means processing it, which is labor. And cooking it. Which is labor. And you low-key have to invent tools to prepare and eat it. Tools like sharp scraping stones and mortars and pestles and bowls and spoons and things.

This is getting to be a lot more work. You're getting a lot better access to nutrients and body fuel, but you need a lot more labor to find and prepare the food, and you need specialists to make the tools -- which means you have less people (or at least you have less total individual work hours within the group) available to do that extra labor.

That situation put a hard cap on group size (and therefore cooperative potential) for a long long time -- tribes of people who operate under the hunter-gatherer protocol (an oldie but goodie, plenty of great stuff to say about this format of peopling) often max out their group size around 50 individuals because if you all split up and go different directions, and hunt and gather at a steady walking pace for half the day, and then turn around and come back together along slightly different routes, the total area of land you covered as a group has the resources to support about fifty people usually.

Like that's how much land a group of people can cover in a day, and that amount of land is enough space to grow fifty people's worth of fruit and rabbits and stuff. Maybe only 30 ish people's worth in the badlands, or 65 people's worth of stuff if you're in a particularly lush area, or maybe you exploit something local or innovative that lets you double that number or whatever, but on average it's about 50 people.

but then, big new tech! Agriculture! Not just plants, but animals for labor and meat too. Now fewer people on a smaller area of land (about 6 acres, which is only about 1/10th of a square mile) can feed maybe a thousand people.

But if you want college professors and heart surgeons and video game designers and dentists and rock guitarists and the hundreds different specialist jobs it takes to build a single car, well, you're going to have to get a lot better than 20 people on 6 acres feeding a thousand people. You're gonna need like 5 people on 5 acres feeding 10 thousand people if you can figure out how.

and out of the total amount of human time and effort that has taken place on this planet, a huge amount of that human time and effort has been spent on trying to improve that ratio. More food provided by less people

This, incidentally, is why "industrialized food is all automatically evil" is not a realistic take, because first of all, it prevents famines and saves lives, and second of all, it's literally what allows us to have heart surgeons and video game programers.

The industrialization of our food production is something we've been working on our whole existence on this planet. The brilliant cultivation of corn by central and south american natives is all part of that process, and we still need to be working on it. We just have to make sure it's being done for the good of humanity and the planet, and not for the profit of some giant corporation or the power of some corrupt national government.

Anyway, back to the point, part of that process is the individual preparation of food as a meal. See, a gorilla eating a meal of leaves just picks and eats the leaves, but a human eating a meal that utilizes food processing to take advantage of a food source like cassava tuber, has to dig it up and grate it into a paste and squeeze aaaaaall the poisons out of it, and dry it and bake it and probably some other stuff i don't know that whole recipe, but it's a labor intensive process, and if you do it wrong you eat cyanide.

food prep is important. It takes labor, and tools that need to be cleaned and cared for, which is more labor...

This is part of why bread is a big deal. Like, the Roman army used to actually be paid in bread as a salary. And of course we've all heard about the street vender food carts in ancient Pompeii. But in-home preparation is a very real requirement on the front end of our food development as a species.

and the solution is simple. The beautiful thing is, it takes an almost identical amount of time and effort to cook a meal for two as it does to cook a meal for one. So it's easy to do the same thing to our food practices on the front end as we did on the back end. You have a small number of people making the food for a large number of people.

So if you live in a big family group, maybe 10 to 20 parents and siblings and aunts and cousins, then you can have like 3 to five of those people doing a real, but reasonable, amount of labor to feed everybody, who presumably has other specialist jobs that benefit the family group.

But somehow, modern western (can i just say white? I mostly am white, i feel like i can just say white, though of course there's an unfortunate combination of colonization and an evil empire version of keeping-up-with-the-joneses that's spreading the worst of the west around the globe) ANYway, this culture has taken that "fewer people providing for the group" thing, that super effective social unit, and twisted it into a single person doing everything for themselves (which is ridiculous and an illusion, a single person doesn't exist entirely on their own efforts in the modern world any more than a single person survives long living alone in the ancient wilds)

And then the most you are supposed to upgrade is to one pair of adults who have to do ALL the specialist jobs for their "group" between them, raising the kids and cooking the food and managing the money and securing the housing and everything that would normally be done by a larger group.

Anyway, it should be at least two people cooking for at least five adults, but more like 5 people cooking for 20 adults imo, we done fucked the whole system up

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One

Full series ONLY on AO3

NSFW

Steve has a range of acceptable beer. He had picked up a six pack of something from uncomfortably near the bottom of that range to take over to Wayne’s place. He had stared at it, where it had been sitting on the passenger seat, and remembers, vividly, second guessing this whole thing before he’d finally picked up the beer and gotten out of his car.

Steve’s pretty sure he had never been inside a trailer once in his damned life before today, and he had absolutely no idea what to expect. From the outside it had looked...cramped. Steve’s pretty certain his bedroom is bigger than the whole place. Fuck, maybe his en suite bathroom is bigger.

Steve had done his best to prepare himself to be polite about whatever it was he was about to walk into. It hadn’t mattered though, in the end, since Eddie had done a pretty solid job of carrying the conversation.

Wayne’s a stoic kind of guy, which Steve can get behind, because it meant he didn’t have to talk much either.

Steve doesn’t think he will ever forget the look on Eddie’s face when he’d opened the trailer door. Eddie had fucking lit up at the sight of Steve. Hadn’t even tried to hide it. It makes Steve’s skin itchy even now, hours later, while somehow simultaneously something flaps about in his stomach at the memory, “oh wow, you bought the really good beer!” Eddie had been thrilled by that too, and had taken the beer and put it in the fridge.

Which he had made it to in about four steps because the kitchen is like, right there. And Steve had taken one step in through the door and found himself in the middle of the lounge, which is, efficient, he guesses.

Steve thinks he could have appeared with six screw tops filled with piss and Eddie still would have been happy with him.

“Here, come sit at the table, Wayne’s about done with dinner.”

“Errr...thanks.” Eddie had pointed Steve to a cramped little built in breakfast nook type thing, and Steve had slid in just as the grumpy looking old man appeared from down the hall.

It was fucking awkward getting in, and it was even more awkward getting straight back out again so he could shake Wayne’s hand, “good to see you again Sir.”

Steve got a firm handshake, and then not two minutes later he was eating the first bite of what might be the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth. Wayne Muson makes a pot roast that should win a Michelin Star. Who could have fucking predicted that.

Steve’s lying on a little bed arrangement Eddie has made. Layers of blankets on top of an old threadbare comforter; all the padding pushed together into uncomfortable lumps. The view is good though, Eddie has the van doors thrown open, so Steve can clearly see the night sky from where he’s lying, feet toward the back of the front seats, head near the edge of the open doors.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, somewhere Steve’s never been before and had no reason to, because there’s nothing here. Literally nothing. It makes for a good view of the stars though, and Steve figures enduring the short trip in Eddie’s rattling van was worth it.

The stars feel...persistent. They are pretty, but make Steve feel oddly cold, and distant. He can’t remember ever doing anything like this, just...being. In the quiet. He doesn’t even have much in the way of cell signal here, so he leaves it abandoned by his feet. It’s...strange. Feeling so small and insignificant. The stars clearly don’t give a shit about anything Steve might get up to.

Eddie’s shuffling around, lighting a couple of candles; he puts them in chipped tin mugs so they don’t fall over, they still sit wonkily through, resting against the rim, dripping wax into the dirt.

Steve realizes about four seconds too late that this is definitely romantic. This is the sort of shit Steve does when he wants to get his dick wet. He has no idea how he didn’t see it coming; he’s just met Eddie’s family, essentially. And now he’s looking at the stars and there are candles lit.

They’re not at Wayne’s place or the shared house, they have total privacy.

Eddie’s about to give it up for him. Finally.

The initial wash of excitement quickly dulls into inexplicable disappointment. Steve was...enjoying this. And he knows Eddie really likes him and...Steve’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, even if he firmly believes it’s a life lesson Eddie needs to learn and like...learn fast.

Steve’s never committed though. Not ever. He thinks about Robin, cooking in her kitchen, and wonders vaguely what that must be like. She’s just...adapted so easily, decided to change her ways for Chrissy and then just...done it. She made it look easy.

She made it seem...right. Normal. Like Steve was the odd one out.

Maybe he is.

Does he need to keep living his life like he is? Steve stares at the stars, and he wonders.

He wonders what it would be like to keep seeing Eddie. To only see Eddie. To really, really get to know each other. To maybe have Eddie be the person who knows him best in the world. Well, second best, Robin’s never going to lose the top spot.

What would it be like to give Eddie a key to his place, to have Eddie’s ratty shirts hanging out of a drawer Steve cleared out for him. Eddie’s guitar leaning against the couch and his clutter ruining the Feng Shui of Steve’s otherwise immaculate lounge.

Maybe a dish in the sink, because maybe someone actually hung around long enough to eat breakfast. Maybe some spare boots left untidily at the front door, and maybe Steve would bitch about them every time he comes in.

Steve has space; Eddie doesn’t have a lot of space at the trailer. Everything is so cramped in Eddie’s room, plus Wayne is there...so that’s why Eddie said to Steve about coming out here.

But there’s space at Steve’s place, plenty of it. Eddie could have a room; a room filled with things and stuff like Eddie seems to like. His bedroom at the trailer is full of crap, and his bedroom at the shared place is likewise full of crap. Stands to reason Eddie could fill a room at Steve’s place with crap easily enough.

Maybe he’d like a decent space for painting those little people he likes so much; Steve could buy him a fancy craft lamp.

Eddie clatters into the back of the van, long limbs flailing, startling Steve out of his reverie. It makes Steve smile though, even as he has to pull a leg sharply out of the way to avoid being trodden on as Eddie ditches his jacket over onto the drivers seat before lying down next to Steve, head propped up on one hand, he looks down at Steve, “hey.”

Just that is enough to make Steve laugh, “come here often?”

“Yeah, actually, I kind of like the quiet-” Eddie starts to answer honestly, completely oblivious. Steve snorts a laugh, “-what?”

“You know, like a cheesy pick up line in a movie, ‘come her often?’”

“Oooohhh, right, yeah, gotcha,” Eddie looks a little embarrassed.

“Tell me anyway,” Steve finds himself saying.

“Right, yeah...I like the quiet and, you know. When I’m writing a song or a new campaign or something, or just reading. The trailer can be a little cramped and I don’t like disturbing uncle Wayne when he comes home from work in the morning, so I don’t hang out there much. And the house is busy you know? Those guys can be pretty noisy. No light around out here so the sky…” Eddie trails off, craning his head back to look up and out, “the stars are amazing here.”

Steve tilts his head back too, looking at the splash of stars across the night sky. Steve’s pretty sure he’s never been anywhere this dark. He’s pretty sure he’d remember all those extra stars in the sky, if he’d seen them before, “yeah. They are.”

Eddie looks pale and pretty in the meager candle light, and Steve pulls him down for a kiss. Eddie goes easily. Steve’s kissed Eddie enough now that it’s kind of familiar. Kind of...reliable feeling, which is fucking novel for Steve.

He feels himself settle into it, feels himself start to relax. Is this what it feels like, to become comfortable with someone?

To settle?

The feeling inexplicably twists Steve’s stomach with a little fear, and he pulls away. Eddie’s eyes are heavy lidded already, blinking down at Steve. He looks chill too. Content and...happy.

Steve has the sudden and, frankly, batshit urge to throw himself bodily out of the back of the van and flee into the night.

He does not do that, obviously.

“How am I supposed to ask?” he says instead.

“Ask what?”

“Well, when I said can I fuck you yet, you said-”

“Not if that’s how you’re going to ask me, yeah, same answer.”

“So...how do you want me to ask?”

Eddie grins, “I’m like the sphinx, it’s a riddle and you have to get the answer right,” Steve does not understand that reference, “or maybe you just got to know the magic words?”

Steve grins, amused, and tries, “open sesame.”

Eddie snorts, “a bit literal, no?”

“Too on the nose?”

“Kinda’.”

“How about just, please?” Steve tries, pulling Eddie down into another kiss, but Eddie leans away, resisting.

He’s biting his lip nervously, “you know I’ve never done this before? I’m...a little nervous? Like what if I...really don’t like it?”

Steve shrugs, kind of feels like he’s gentling a skittish horse, “then we stop?” he offers, shrugging.

Eddie nods, agreeing, Steve figures it’s a simple enough reassurance, but then Eddie asks, “do you like it?”

And Steve’s brain stalls out because it’s not something he’s ever had to answer before. Because. The thing is, the answers kind of a trap. If Steve tells Eddie he likes it, Eddie might suggest they do that first and...yeah. Steve’s more of a top kind of guy. If he says he doesn’t like it...well. That could be catastrophic for Eddie’s faith in the whole thing...proceeding.

“It’s...okay,” Steve starts slowly, “I mean it’s fine but...I’d rather not.”

“Oh,” Eddie frowns a little, “so you’re expecting me to do something you won’t?” Eddie’s tone is curious. It’s not an accusation, not yet anyway. Eddie really, really isn’t any good at playing the game. He asks questions no one else would ever ask. Because everyone else Steve has ever been with has just understood the assignment straight off the bat. Steve is himself; they roll over and let Steve takes what he wants.

As long as everything is consensual and everyone's having fun, this sort of shit has never been a problem in the past. Steve’s partners have always just...known their role. Not Eddie though. Eddie fucking calls him out on everything.

“It’s not that I won’t,” Steve tries, and he feels like squirming, feels like Eddie’s cut very uncomfortably close to the bone, “it’s just...very...vulnerable,” and that’s not a feeling Steve enjoys, like, at all, “and I know I can look after you,” he reaches up, runs his fingers through Eddie’s unruly curls, “I can make it good for you.”

“And what if I want to look after you? I feel like...not a lot of people do that, for you.”

And if Eddie was slicing close to the bone before, he’s just fully twisted the knife.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters, looking away, the words out before he can stop them. Feels like Eddie’s big brown cow eyes are staring right into his soul and Steve just...can’t handle that.

Eddie’s leaning down now, undoing the next few buttons of Steve’s shirt, kissing softly along Steve’s throat, “you going to let me do this for you?”

Steve blinks, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Eddie’s head and keep his mouth pressed firmly to his neck. Because Steve’s eyes are wet and he has no idea why.

He holds Eddie close, gives himself a few seconds to quickly scrub away the moisture before Eddie sees it because what in the actual fuck is wrong with him??

“Stevie?” Eddie whispers into Steve’s skin, “let me love you?”

Jesus fucking Christ. Steve’s breath hitches without his permission, and it feels like he’s floating right out of his body. It certainly isn’t him in the driving seat when his mouth moves and Steve hears himself saying, “yes.”

Eddie strips off fast, pulling a blanket up, but by the time Steve has his shirt buttons undone, Eddie’s hand is there, stopping him. Steve lets his hand fall away. Eddie untucks his shirt, leaning down, naked ass in the air, kissing along the skin that becomes exposed as he tugs the material free.

Eventually he runs out of places to kiss, and Steve half sits up, letting Eddie help him pull the shirt, and then under shirt, off completely. Steve lies down, at a little bit of a loss. He’s the one who does this stuff. He’s the seducer, always.

But Eddie’s deft fingers are at his belt, and then Steve is being encouraged, with soft words he doesn’t deserve, to lift his ass off the lumpy bedding so Eddie can pull his pants and boxers off together.

Steve shivers; it’s nothing to do with the fucking cold, but Eddie pulls a scratchy blanket up over both of them anyway. He reaches for something; he already had lube and condoms out apparently, on the bed of the van.

Steve must have been staring at the stars and having his minor crisis while Eddie sorted that, because Steve totally missed it. Eddie’s half hard already, pressed up against Steve’s thigh, but Steve suddenly feels kind of...like this is happening to someone else.

Or maybe not that but...it’s just so weird he doesn’t know how to process it. Eddie’s squeezing some lube onto his fingers and honestly it’s been fucking years since Steve trusted someone enough to do this with them. He’s a bit...lost as to how he got here. This whole thing suddenly feels like it’s happening very quickly, and Steve’s not panicking exactly, but the feeling of not being the one who's running the show is...incredibly foreign.

This whole evening has taken a fucking turn and Steve has no hope of getting it back on track now.

“I’ve done a bunch of reading, you know, online, but you say, okay?”

And Eddie’s nudging Steve’s thigh with the back of his hand, and Steve obligingly bends a knee, lifts a thigh, spreads himself out for Eddie under the blanket and is suddenly plagued with the idea that he doesn’t want to take the control back.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t even know. And he’s so busy thinking about it that Eddie has a wet finger in his ass and is giving it a little twist and a curl, with an accuracy that has got to be beginners fucking luck, absolutely nails Steve’s prostate.

Steve has no control whatsoever over the noise that comes out of him because holy fucking Christ he’d actually managed to forget how good this could feel.

“There?” Eddie confirms, like he needs to. Steve just made a noise like a guinea pig being trodden on, like Eddie needs to fucking ask.

Anyone else and Steve would be telling them off for being fucking smug. Not Eddie though, no, Eddie who’s blinking down at him with his huge brown eyes. Eddie who's made them a candlelit bed under the stars because it’s the most honestly romantic thing he could probably come up with, and spending money on anything is not something that has ever even mattered to Eddie Munson.

Probably never even crossed his mind that they could be doing this in a nice hotel room.

Hell, they could be doing this at Steve’s.

But no. They’re here. In a place where they’re going to have to drive home sticky because there’s no where for them to have a fucking wash, and if Steve wants to piss after he’s going to have to go in a bush.

It’s still easily the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.

And Eddie’s there, with more lube and a second finger and despite how long it’s been, Steve knows he’s taking it like a champ. Eddie’s being nice. Too nice. The gentleness of it is grating at Steve, “I can take another.”

“Not yet,” Eddie tells him gently, fingers working soft and careful inside Steve’s body, “don’t want to hurt you.”

Jesus. Steve’s got nothing. Absolutely nothing he can say to that. And then Eddie’s kissing him, every now and then the curl of his fingers strikes true, Steve’s cock kicking and twitching a little under the itchy blanket, Eddie’s cock leaking steady and sticky on Steve’s thigh.

Eddie adds a third finger after the last glaciers have melted. Steve’s loose and sloppy enough he’s pretty confident he could take a fist, never mind Eddie’s dick.

“Ready, love?”

And Steve’s fucking chest feels like it’s going to cave in at the pet name, but he says, “yes,” anyway.

The out of body experience comes back a little as he watches Eddie roll on a condom and slick up his cock.

He finds himself wondering, again, as Eddie climbs on top, settles himself between Steve’s thighs, exactly how this happened. How did they get here?

If Eddie says, ‘I love you,’ in the middle of all this nonsense Steve will actually yeet himself to the fucking moon.

And then Eddie’s...pushing in. Steve’s glad for Eddie’s skinny left leaning cock, because honestly it goes in like a dream and...fuck, the curve hits just right and Steve finds his legs lifting reflexively, thigh’s bracketing Eddie’s body without his input.

“Ready baby?”

“Yeah,” Steve tells him, and his voice sounds like it’s been dragged over by sandpaper and he blinks rapidly because like fuck is he going to cry. He’s not.

He won’t.

Despite the emotion ballooning in Steve’s chest, he holds it together.

Eddie’s first thrust is long, he withdraws pretty much the whole way before sliding all the way back in. It feels like he’s making sure Steve knows damn well he’s filled. Steve can’t help the little chuff of pleasure he makes when Eddie’s dick bullseyes his prostate on the way past. The curve of his cock is fucking devastating.

“Do that again,” Steve finds himself saying, he's not begging, and Eddie is fucking eager to oblige.

He gets a rhythm, gets his movements coordinated will enough, and then he’s leaning down, hunching over Steve to get his mouth on Steve’s nipple and Steve does cry out then, holds Eddie’s head reflexively. Eddie gets him wet, his panting breaths chill against Steve’s peaked nipples.

Steve can't remember the last time someone did things for him. Not like this.

And then Eddie’s leaning away again, pulling back, sitting upright and dragging the blanket off both of them. He’s sitting up enough that he can look down, and Steve knows what he’s doing. Eddie’s transfixed, staring at the place where he’s in Steve, and Jesus that’s hot too, being watched like that, being exposed. Being helpless on his back, can only stay and take it as Eddie’s thrusts suddenly turn into quick, sawing movements, Steve unable to hold back the ‘oh, oh, oh,’ every time Eddie drags the spongy head of his cock across Steve’s sweet spot.

Eddie reaches down, questing fingers pressing at Steve’s rim, exploring the place where they’re joined, Eddie wide eyed and face flushed, free hand holding Steve by the knee.

Eddie hand explores further, knuckling at the space behind Steve’s balls, and pressing hard on the next thrust and, “Jesus fuck,” Steve cries out, “what have you been reading???”

“Might have been Cosmo sex tips.”

“Fuck off,” but Eddie’s smiling and Steve laughs a little and Steve can't remember laughing with anyone during sex, not really.

And then Eddie’s hand gives Steve’s balls a quick squeeze on the way past and then his hand is wrapped around Steve's cock and any laughter dies in his throat.

Eddie slows a little, clearly coordinating jacking Steve and thrusting his hips, a look of sweet concentration on his face, tongue poking out a little. And then he gets it, and Steve already knows his balls are tight and it’s really not going to take much, “gonna’ come if you keep doing that.”

“Good, can’t hold on much more. You feel so good inside.”

Eddie’s grip on Steve’s leg turns a little punishing, and Steve watches as his eyes flutter and he he manages a choked out, “Steve,” and Steve's never thought an orgasm face was, you know, that attractive before now, but Eddie’s really fucking is. Mouth soft and slack, eyes wide and almost a little lost looking, a little confused, but he keeps moving, keeps jacking even has he’s moaning and grinding and his cock is kicking hard inside of Steve.

And Steve comes all over himself, reaching down to steady Eddie’s hand as he works him through it, body clenched down tight on Eddie’s cock, like he never wants it to leave. Eddie moans again, Steve's hole is fluttering now, pulsing as his cock spurts it’s last.

Eddie’s not pulling out, but he’s got two fingers down there, tucked tight between their bodies to hold the base of the condom, letting go of Steve’s knee and leaning down for a desperate kiss.

Steve returns it; he’s feeling desperate too.

He feels soft inside, feels like he wants to keep Eddie tight to him just a little longer. And then just a little more.

Eventually Eddie pulls away, pulls out, Steve hisses, and Steve doesn’t really have the energy to be any more surprised by Eddie’s forethought tonight, but he pulls a packet of baby wipes from somewhere. He ties off the condom and wraps it up in one, and then pulls out a few more, carefully wiping Steve’s come off his stomach. Then another fresh wipe to give the sticky head of Steve’s cock a cursory wipe. And then another to, carefully, gently, clean the worst of the lube from between Steve’s cheeks and off his asshole. The wipe is cool; feels nice.

Eddie wads the mess up together and ditches it, curling up with Steve under the blanket.

“Thank you,” Eddie whispers, pecking a light kiss to Steve's jaw before snuggling into Steve’s chest. Steve wraps him up in his arms.

“For what?”

He feels Eddie shrug, and the blanket is still itchy as fuck, “trusting me? Letting me...love you.” Eddie sounds shy all of a sudden.

Huh.

“Well...maybe you’ll, uhm,” Steve swallows thickly, “let me love you. Next time?”

“Yeah. Sounds awesome,” Eddie yawns.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” Steve warns almost reflexively. He’s seen first hand now just how fast Eddie can pass out if Steve lets him. Steve is...still kind of surprised that he’s enjoying cuddling with Eddie, but he’s still sticky despite the wipes, and he is naked on the hard floor of a van, only vaguely cushioned by the substandard bedding.

“I won’t. I just want to snuggle a little longer.”

Steve sighs, feels vaguely like he might get struck by lightning for offering. Feels like he’s committing some kind of sin. Feels like he’s offering commitment, “come back to mine, we can shower...then you can cuddle all you want.”

“All night?” Eddie asks tentatively. It’s like he fucking knows that...that’s kind of a boundary for Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve takes a deep breath, can sort of imagine Robin hovering nearby, telling what an utter piece of shit he will be if he doesn’t follow up, so he does it. He pulls the band aid off. Squeezes his eyes tight closed, and leaps bodily off the edge, “yeah, for as long as you want.”

Eddie lifts his head up, just so he can grin at Steve. Just so he can show Steve, honestly, how fucking happy Steve's just made him.

And Steve hasn’t been struck by lightning.

“For as long as you’ll have me, big boy,” and Eddie fucking winks at him.

Steve sighs, exasperated, but undeniably fond, even if the feeling is incredibly alien to him, “what have I gotten myself into?”

They get dressed to the sound of Eddie’s ugly sniggering laughter.

Steve can’t help but be charmed by it.

[fratboykate]

Ooooff papi the pain. Maybe I am a masochist. It’s so agonizing but I fucking can’t stop reading it. It’s like eating something painfully spicy, you know?

If you would, allow me to word vomit. I think it’s so sad for me is because a marriage falling apart can happen to anyone. Like somewhere in a kitchen a couple is probably having this exact fight or something similar to it. This is kind like a glimpse through a window of a someone’s marriage and we can see every little dirty, human detail. And it’s heartbreaking. It’s happened a million times before and it's going to happen a million time in the future. and you can do absolutely nothing about it. because people are gonna be people, you know?

I am a hardcore romantic at heart so reading your stuff is almost a traumatic experience. But also it’s good for the soul so 🤷🏻‍♀️. And also I love it

also have you watched Acrane? it has Hailee Steinfeld in it? Probably one of the greatest pieces of media I've ever watched?

You want it to get sadder? I got 10.4k words worth of sad for you lol. You don't HAVE to have read the whole of FBAU so far to enjoy this, but I think I counted at least five other chapters/things that have happened before somehow referenced/called back in here and it just makes it so much more painful if you have that framing. But again, its not required to have that knowledge to understand this. We also see basically every major player in the story so far for at least a little bit. It's a nice roundup.

This picks up about sixteen weeks after the last chapter. It gets...a little Real towards the end so just...1) be warned and 2) trust the process. We're going on a journey here. Y'all just need to let it play out before you start asking for my head on a spike.

---

Yelena never thought she'd use the phrase ‘single parent’ to describe herself. It still sounds wrong when it crosses her mind. Like an ill-fitting jacket someone forced onto her. Like something she borrowed for a night and forgot to return.

But it’s real. It’s her life now.

Her apartment is smaller than the home she shared with Kate, but it’s comfortable. Just big enough for the kids when they stay over, but small enough that she doesn’t feel like a ghost rattling around in an empty castle when they’re gone. She was lucky enough to find a place a few subway stops from Kate's building so the kids don’t feel like they’re ping-ponging between two disparate worlds. She insisted on that. She wanted their lives to feel as seamless as possible despite the disarray beneath it. The world had already shifted under their feet. She wasn’t going to make them deal with unnecessary aftershocks on top of it.

Fifty-fifty custody. Three days at each place, alternating Sundays. A logistical nightmare, but fair.

Fair.

Yelena has no idea what fair even means anymore. It’s a kid asking why she isn’t home all the time. It’s a name missing from the emergency contact list depending on who fills it out. It’s the way the house is always clean now, nothing left out of place, no toys underfoot, no basketball shorts left out of place, no mug left in the sink with Kate’s protein powder stuck on the rim.

It’s quiet.

Even when the kids aren’t there, she wakes up early. It’s not by choice. Just habit. For years, there was always something waking her up before she was ready. Her wife’s wandering hands, a tiny foot pushing into her ribs, the distant hum of Kate on a phone call with Asian clients in another room.

Now, she wakes up to nothing half the time. Nothing but absolute silence.

Yelena swings her legs over the edge, presses her feet into the hardwood, and rakes her fingers through golden locks.

Coffee. She needs coffee.

Yelena moves on autopilot, filling the machine, pressing the button, waiting for the drip. The smell fills the apartment. Familiar. She used to love this part of the morning. Now, she makes the coffee and barely drinks it.

Some mornings, she forces herself to sit at the kitchen table and pretend she enjoys the quiet. Other mornings, it presses against her skull like a vice.

She used to be the type to start working before her second sip of coffee. Now? Most days, she just loiters around the apartment. Thinking. Tinkering. Trudging. Doing nothing at all.

Before, she measured time in deadlines and breakthroughs. Now, she measures it in custody exchanges and school pickups.

Yelena Belova never used to cancel anything work related.

Now? If the kids are with her, she leaves work early. She rearranges meetings. She skips conferences. She bows out of professional trips. She should be enraged about that, about all she’s missing. About how much more she could be doing. And she is pissed. At Kate, at herself, at the situation she got shoved into. But likely not enough.

But the truth is, when she’s with the kids, she doesn’t mind. And she’s getting them back today. The thought tugs at something deep in her chest. A quiet, unspoken relief.

She glances at the clock. She has a few hours before pickup. Enough time to go into the lab, check in, pretend to work for a few hours.

A knock at the door interrupts her before she’s finished the mental list of things to do once she gets to the office. A brute, familiar bang-bang-bang against the wood.

She sighs. Alexei.

A beat of waiting after loudly announcing himself, Alexei uses his keys to get in. They'd learned the hard (and embarrassing) way that him waltzing into the apartment with no warning was a terrible idea that traumatized both of them. Now Alexei knocks and waits a respectable amount of time before entering. At least long enough to warn Yelena that she needs to throw on a robe.

This day that was not necessary. So Yelena simply leans on the counter and waits.

A few thundering footsteps later…there he is. Alexei walks up to the kitchen threshold, holding two paper bags and looking smug.

“I knock loud enough now?”

“You definitely did.”

“No ‘Hello, Daddy’ for me today? Not even when I bring these?” Alexei lifts a couple of pastry bags.

"It’s barely seven in the morning, dad.”

"Breakfast is important. And you forget to eat when you alone." He moves around the kitchen like he owns the place.

"I eat."

“Coffee does not count," he mutters, already unpacking food. "Sit."

Yelena rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She drops into the chair across from him as he slides a breakfast sandwich her way.

Alexei squints at her like he’s evaluating a patient.

"You look better."

"I look the same."

"Better," he repeats, unwrapping his sandwich. "Less like roadkill."

High praise, coming from him.

Yelena takes a slow sip of her coffee.

"You should be sitting on a beach somewhere, not babysitting your grown daughter."

Alexei retired. Just…stopped. Unexpectedly. Said ‘Fuck it, I’ve worked enough’. The surprising decision came just days after Yelena told them about the divorce. After she cried for hours on their couch. Yelena still doesn’t know if he did it because he wanted to or because she needed him to.

And she sure did need him sometimes. Alexei watches Sonny on the days when Yelena can’t. Picks up Alexia and Maks from school if she’s stuck in a meeting. Stocks her fridge when she forgets.

He is, in his own words, Deda Supreme.

"Don’t flatter yourself," he mutters through a mouthful of food. "I am not just babysitter. I am also your mother’s house husband now. It is me and the kids or me and the pigs. Very important work I do.“

Yelena snorts.

"Bet mom and the pigs love that."

"Oh, she loves it. She gives me list. I ignore list. She yells at me. It is perfect system."

Yelena smirks, shaking her head.

The truth is, Alexei showing up like this is annoying. But also…the only thing keeping her from spiraling some days.

He leans back, watching her carefully.

"You are doing okay? Yes?”

It’s not ‘Are you okay?’ because they both know the answer to that. She nods, pushing a piece of egg around her plate with a fork.

"Yeah."

Alexei grunts like he doesn’t fully believe her, but he lets it go. For a while after that, they just eat in silence.

"You see Kate?" he asks. Throwing the question out there nonchalantly. More curious than he would want it to be.

Yelena keeps her voice even, but the question unsettles her more than it should. She knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time before he asked. But it still grates.

Alexei was Kate’s person for years. They shared the kind of love Kate never got from her own father. And Alexei? He treated Kate like she was his own. Kate was his unofficial second kid. His loudest, brashest, most stubborn child.

And then, just like that, she wasn’t. He chose his actual daughter in the divorce. Yelena knows it shouldn’t feel like a choice, but it does.

He doesn’t talk to Kate anymore. Not really. Not since the moment he found out how things had transpired. Alexei not saying anything is the better alternative to actually talking to Kate and verbalizing the things he would. Yelena has never really asked if they've talked, but she can infer. She knows because she can see how much Kate’s absence weighs on him. She can tell by the way Alexei doesn’t bring her up often. Or at all. Its been almost four months of this and this is the first time she even remembers him saying her name. He hasn't even tried to defend her. Yelena has had to mourn not just the lost of her marriage, but her father losing one of the most relationships in his life. She isn't quite sure which hurts more. And the way he looks at Yelena sometimes…like he wants to say something but swallows it down instead. That’s one of the worst parts of this whole mess.

She’s known Kate long enough to know that Alexei cutting ties is killing her too. Kate doesn’t lose people. She pushes them away. She burns them away. But she never truly loses them. Not until now. And Alexei? He lost her as well. Neither of them will ever talk about it. But Yelena can feel the ghost of it sitting between them.

“Only at drop-offs…Why?”

Alexei shrugs, stabbing at his eggs.

“Just wondering.”

Yelena doesn’t push. Neither does he.

Yelena shoves her chair back and stands.

"I need to go into the lab before I get the kids."

Alexei waves her off. "Go. I’ll clean."

"Don’t break anything," she calls over her shoulder.

She doesn’t hear his response, but she’s sure it’s something sarcastic.

///

When Yelena gets to the lab, she should work. Instead, she just…sits there. She stares at reports for twenty minutes without reading a word. Moves a petri dish from one side of the desk to the other. Rearranges the same stack of notes she’s already attempted to read five times. Her focus is gone.

Before the divorce, work was an escape. A thing she knew she was good at. A place where her decisions had immediate results.

Now, it just feels like…blergh. She doesn’t even realize she’s zoning out until her phone buzzes.

CALENDAR REMINDER: DR. O’GRADY @ 12PM.

“Damn it.”

Yelena sighs, grabs her bag, and gets up.

///

Therapy is therapy. Dr. O’Grady is direct. Unyielding in the way only an older Irish woman can be.

Yelena slouches on the couch, arms crossed.

"Before you say anything, yes, I’ve been sleeping. Yes, I’ve been eating. Yes, I’ve been functioning."

Dr. O’Grady quirks a brow.

"Functioning isn’t thriving, Yelena."

Yelena groans.

“You sound like my mother.”

Dr. O’Grady doesn’t react. Just waits. Yelena sighs, staring at the ceiling.

"I don’t know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me how you’re feeling instead of how you think you should feel."

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. She takes a slow breath.

"I feel…" She pauses. Licks her lips. "Different."

"Explain."

"I don’t know." She shifts, uncomfortable. "Kate backed me into this, and yeah, it’s messed up, and yeah, I was angry, but I’m here…And I’m figuring it out."

Dr. O’Grady nods.

"And what does figuring it out look like for you?"

"It means I wake up, I take care of the kids and try to remember to take care of myself too. It means I go to work and try to get anything done. It means I don’t let this define me."

"Do you still check your phone, expecting a text from her?" Yelena stiffens. Dr. O’Grady’s voice is gentler when she speaks again. "You don’t have to win the breakup, Yelena."

Yelena clenches her jaw, staring at the floor. She doesn’t answer. Because she’s not sure she believes that.

///

The alarm goes off at five-thirty, but Yelena’s already awake. She doesn’t need it anymore. Not when Sonny’s internal clock is better than any piece of technology ever invented.

There’s always a few blissful seconds of quiet, the kind where she almost forgets she’s not waking up in the old apartment, in the life she used to have. Then, reality settles in. A tiny voice crackles over the baby monitor. Sonny babbling in that half-asleep, half-happy nonsense way she does first thing in the morning.

Yelena sighs, throws off the blanket, and swings her legs out of bed. Another day. No time to linger.

By the time she makes it to the nursery, Sonny’s sitting up in the crib, Kate’s coal black hair wild, cheeks flushed from sleep.

“Mamaaaaaaa.”

Yelena leans against the doorway. “You could at least aim for anything past six.”

Sonny giggles, reaching her arms up, demanding. “Mama up.”

Yelena lifts her effortlessly, pressing a kiss against her chubby cheek, breathing in the warm, milky scent of her skin. Sonny hums, content, resting her head against Yelena’s shoulder like she has all the time in the world. For a moment, Yelena lets herself just hold her, swaying slightly on instinct, soaking in the quiet before the chaos of the morning really kicks in.

Yelena walks to the wall and gently taps it twice, voice low but firm.

“I’m coming in to get you in five, so don’t act surprised.”

Inside, there’s a groan followed by a muttered “Too early.”

Yelena smirks.

“Cry about it. You’re still getting up.”

The next bedroom over is Alexia and Maks’ room. A compromise. A necessity. Three bedrooms were the absolute most she could swing in New York City on her single mom salary, and even that was stretching it. A brownstone was out of the question. A four-bedroom was a pipe dream. The kids would have to share.

Alexia hated it at first. Maks didn’t care. Yelena still remembers the first night in the new place…Alexia lying stiff as a board in her bed, refusing to speak, while Maks snored like a chainsaw two feet away.

Alexia made it three days before she finally caved and admitted she could live with it. Begrudgingly.

Still, Yelena doesn’t barge in during the mornings. They’re Kate’s kids, after all. They need a bit of winding up time or they're little cranky demons. She learned that lesson fast.

She hears Maks stirring, rolling over, the distinct sound of him smacking his lips dramatically like he’s waking from a coma instead of a normal night of sleep. Alexia sighs heavily, the universal sound of an older sibling’s deep frustration.

Yelena just leans against the wall, waiting. Five minutes of extra quiet for everyone. No more, no less. The truce they’d landed on. Some battles weren’t worth fighting. Others? She fought like hell.

Sonny clings to her like a koala as Yelena moves around the room. The toddler is warm, heavy, and a little floppy from sleep. It would be nice if they could stay like this. If the morning didn’t immediately have to shift into the barely controlled chaos it always does.

But then…right on cue…she hears it. The sound of Alexia and Maks butting heads in their bedroom.

“You’re so annoying!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“Stop copying me!”

“Stop copying me!”

Someone groans in frustration. A door slams. Something crashes. Yelena takes a deep breath, shifts Sonny higher on her hip, and steels herself for war.

///

By seven, Alexia is at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed, snapping at Maks for ‘breathing too much’. Maks is hanging off the back of a chair, already talking at full volume about something he saw on YouTube. Sonny is smacking a spoon against her high chair like a tiny, chaotic drummer.

It’s a circus. It’s draining. It’s the best part of her week.

"Mama, Maks is making that sound with his throat again," Alexia grumbles, jabbing at her eggs like they personally offended her.

"I’m just clearing it!" Maks protests.

"You're doing it on purpose."

"No, I’m not!"

Alexia levels him with a look. Maks grins. Then deliberately clears his throat again.

“MOM!” Alexia complains.

Yelena pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Both of you. Eat.”

“MOM! SHE’S KICKING ME!”

Alexia rolls her eyes so hard Yelena swears she can hear it.

"Eat," Yelena warns. "No more talking."

It lasts a grand total of ten seconds.

“Do ducks know they’re birds?” Maks asks suddenly, looking genuinely concerned.

Kate used to answer these questions. Or, at the very least, deflect them better than Yelena can. But Kate’s not here, so Yelena tries. She tries.

Before she can come up with even a semblance of a coherent answer, Yelena hears the telltale jingle of a spare key in the lock and she knows her morning is about to get a hell of a lot worse.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s trying to wrestle Sonny into her pants when the door swings open.

“Доброе утро!” [Good morning!] Alexei’s voice booms through the apartment like a goddamn foghorn. “I bring real breakfast.”

Maks is the first to react, immediately jumping out of his chair.

“Deda!”

Alexei barely makes it inside before Maks throws himself at his legs.

“Ah, мой мальчик!” [Ah, my boy!]

Alexei hoists Maks up, swinging him dramatically in the air. Maks shrieks in delight. Alexia, still slumped at the kitchen table, doesn’t even glance up from her plate.

“It’s too early…”

Yelena sighs, trying to keep Sonny from wriggling out of her grasp.

“Dad, if you brought soup again, I swear to God…”

“I bring strong, good, Russian soup. I do not want my babies to be weak.”

“Deda, we hate soup,” Maks reminds him.

Alexei clutches his chest like Maks just stabbed him.

“Deda up.” Sonny requests while lifting both arms.

Alexei scoops her up effortlessly.

“See? This one? Smart. She will respect our family traditions.”

“I just had to stop her from eating a piece of paper. I’d temper those smart expectations.” Yelena says in jest.

“Я тоже ем бумагу. Это нормально.” [“I eat paper too. It's okay.”]

Alexei grins, tossing Sonny in the air just enough to make her giggle. The front door closes again, much softer this time. Melina.

“Alexei, do not throw the baby.” Her voice cuts through the kitchen before she even walks in, immediately taking in the scene.

“She likes.” Alexei protests.

Sonny looks at her grandfather and signs ‘more’ repeatedly.

“See! She likes a lot.” Alexei throws the baby up in the air again.

Melina sighs, placing a massive binder on the counter. Yelena groans.

“If that’s another ‘updated version’ of your binder, I’m setting it on fire.”

Melina helps in a Melina way. Clinical, methodical, and ruthlessly efficient. She made Yelena a co-parenting binder. Thick enough to double as a weapon. Complete with color-coded custody schedules, "empirical resources" on child development post-divorce, a curated list of recommended therapists (vetted…of course), and a financial projection chart mapping out Yelena’s single-income future in excruciating detail. She sends links to peer-reviewed studies on shared custody benefits. She forwards articles titled "The Psychological Impact of Divorce on Children and How to Mitigate Harm." She asks if Yelena has had “productive” therapy sessions with the same tone she once used when quizzing her on chemical compounds. The whole thing is intense, overbearing, and borderline invasive. And while Yelena would rather chew glass than admit it, she appreciates it more than she can say.

Melina ignores her, flipping it open.

“Have you reviewed the meal plan I sent you?”

“The…what?”

“The meal plan. I designed for optimal childhood development. I included omega-rich foods for cognitive function and…”

Alexia groans, shoving a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“Too many words before school.”

“Speaking of school, have you confirmed with Kate about the parent-teacher conferences?”

“Mom…” Yelena interrupts, rubbing her temples. “I love you. I appreciate you, but if you say one more thing that makes me feel like I am doing this wrong, I’ll just stop telling you things.”

Alexei, who has been rummaging through the fridge, emerges.

“You are out of beer.”

Yelena glares at him.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning.”

He shrugs.

“And? It is afternoon in Moscow.”

Maks, who has been quiet for a suspiciously long time, suddenly tugs on Alexei’s sleeve.

“Deda, do ducks know they’re birds?”

Silence. Alexei strokes his beard.

“Ah. A great question.”

Yelena groans.

“Don’t encourage him…”

“No, no, this is important,” Alexei insists. He turns to Maks, solemn. “Some ducks…yes. They know. They accept the bird life. Others?” He shakes his head. “They struggle. They fight it. They don’t like the expectations of bird society.”

Maks nods, taking this in.

Melina exhales sharply.

“This is exactly why they ask you the ridiculous questions and me the important ones.”

Melina declares as she begins to tidy up around the house. Before Yelena can respond, a spoon clatters to the floor. Everyone turns.

Sonny, looking incredibly pleased with herself, smacks her high chair tray and signs ‘More more more more’.

Alexei beams. “Да! Demand what you deserve, моя девочка!” [“Yes! Demand what you deserve, my girl!”]

“Deda, can you take us to school?” Maks queries.

“He’s gonna make us late.” Alexia argues.

“Me? Late?” Alexei scoffs, placing a hand over his heart. “Impossible.”

Yelena side-eyes him.

“You picked them up late last week.”

Alexei waves a hand.

“I had things to do.”

“You were watching a soccer game.”

“Exactly. Things I was doing. Now? Nothing to do but take these devils to school.”

Maks jumps up and down.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Yelena sighs, giving in. “Fine. You take them. I take the little one.”

Alexei claps his hands together.

“Alright, soldiers, let’s move out!”

He swoops one kid in each arm and heads for the door.

“Do NOT forget their bags this time.”

“I would never.”

“BYE BYEEEEEEE!” Sonny waves both arms wildly as her siblings disappear out the door, her little voice echoing down the hall.

The door shuts behind Alexei. And just like that, the apartment is plunged into a sudden, startling silence.

Yelena collapses into a chair. Her body still wired from the morning mayhem, muscles tense from the constant motion of keeping three kids fed, clothed, and moving in the right direction. It takes her a full minute before she realizes she doesn’t actually have to move anymore.

Melina reappears from the living room, arms full of scattered toys she’s gathered like some kind of overworked maid. A plastic dinosaur dangles precariously from her fingers, and she steps over a half-constructed Lego tower with the precision of someone who has spent far too many years dodging stray bricks.

“You let your father get away with too much,” she remarks, dropping a stuffed elephant onto the dining table with a huff.

Yelena snorts, stretching out in her chair.

“You say that like we’ve ever stopped him from doing anything.”

Melina sighs, flipping open the binder again. Yelena swears that thing balloons in size every week.

“I need you to confirm the holiday schedule with Kate. We need to know where they will be for each major holiday. I would prefer Christmas. She can have Thanksgiving.”

Yelena groans, tilting her head back against the chair.

“Can we survive one day without a schedule?”

“No,” Melina says flatly, barely glancing up.

“This is why Deda is the favorite,” Yelena mumbles, half joking.

“I know.” Melina smirks.

Yelena sighs, dragging herself to her feet.

“You want coffee?”

Melina hums, flipping a page in the binder. “You never said if you reviewed the meal plan. It has balanced dietary recommendations for all three.”

Yelena glares. Melina sighs.

“Fine. Yes, coffee. But if you do not ask Kate about holidays, I will call her�� and I do not know how well that will go. For her.”

Yelena sighs heavily but pours her a cup anyway.

“Don’t call Kate, Mom.”

Melina lifts the mug with a satisfied little nod.

For all the chaos, all the headaches, all the everything, this…this…is what keeps her sane. The noise. The movement. The absolute certainty that she doesn’t have to do any of this alone.

Even if she wants to strangle half the people helping.

///

Therapy with three kids is a whole different ballgame. Yelena doesn’t mind her solo sessions with Dr. O’Grady, annoying as the woman is in her ability to see things Yelena isn’t ready to deal with. But therapy with the kids? That’s another beast entirely.

Dr. O’Grady sees all of them now. Yelena. The kids. Sometimes separately. Sometimes together. Right now, they’re all together. Yelena sits between Maks and Alexia on the couch. Sonny is on the floor, attempting to cram a toy into another toy that is very clearly too small.

Alexia is… watching. Not outright angry, not anymore, but cautious. Taking notes. Filing everything away for later. Yelena can feel it. She talks to her, but there’s a hesitance in her voice, like she’s waiting for the inevitable moment one of them fucks up. And she’s going to have some things to say when they do.

Maks doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but he knows something changed. And he doesn’t quite like it. That’s why he keeps asking when Mommy is coming over for dinner.

Sonny, blissfully oblivious, just knows she has two beds, two toy baskets, and two completely different sets of rules depending on whose house she’s in.

And Kate? Kate is…Well. Kate’s Kate. And at the moment, Kate refuses to do therapy.

Dr. O’Grady shifts in her chair, studying the kids with that careful, quiet way she has. Then, finally, she looks at Alexia.

“Do you have any questions for your mom?”

Alexia is silent for a long moment. She kicks at a loose thread on the couch. Then, finally…

Yelena sees it coming. She tries to head it off.

“Your mom and I both love you,” she says before Alexia can even get the words out, trying not to fidget under Dr. O’Grady’s stare.

Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She looks at the floor.

“Then why don’t you live together anymore?”

Yelena hates that question. There’s no right way to answer it. She takes a slow breath.

“Because sometimes loving someone isn’t enough to make it work.”

Dr. O’Grady shifts slightly like she wants to step in, but she doesn’t. She lets Yelena sit with it. Eventually, Alexia crosses her arms, eyebrows pulling together.

“That’s stupid.”

Yelena exhales.

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice breaking. “It is.”

///

Maks can’t find his left shoe. Alexia forgot she needed a poster board for a project due today. Sonny still refuses to put pants on.

Yelena doesn’t remembers ever having to herd all three of them alone before this. Kate was always there. Or she was dealing with one or two of them somewhere else. Yelena is starting to think this could be considered an Olympic-level sport.

"Alexia, you’re getting way too old to be this disorganized…”

"You’re supposed to help me!"

"I am helping you by telling you to get your things together before the morning it’s due!"

"Mamaaaaa," Sonny whines, wiggling dramatically to push her pants down.

"Yes, I know, pants are oppression, but unfortunately, they are also necessary."

Maks is spinning in circles. "I forgot what I was looking for!"

"YOUR SHOE," Yelena yells, shoving Sonny’s leg into her pants while simultaneously digging through a pile of backpacks.

"OH RIGHT," Maks shouts, then immediately forgets again and starts talking about platypuses.

Somehow, by sheer force of will, Yelena gets them all out the door and into the car.

///

By the time she drops them off at school and daycare, she feels like she’s run a fucking marathon.

She grabs a second coffee, sits in her car for a full minute, then forces herself to drive to the lab, trying to scrape together whatever energy she has left.

The second she walks in, her assistant greets her with a loving grimace, “Were they up all night again?”

Yelena shoves her sunglasses onto her head. “No. They actually slept all night. I think this is just what my face looks like now.”

“Did YOU sleep?”

“Not really.”

He makes a noise of disapproval but hands her a file.

“Well that explains it…Review this before the briefing.”

“Remind me why I don’t just quit and become a full-time mom.”

“Because you’d lose your mind within a week.”

“…Right, yeah.”

He gives her a pointed look.

“Read the file. Let me know if you need me to make any changes”

Yelena sighs. "If I must."

She takes her coffee and heads to her office.

///

The bedtime routine is…organized chaos. Heavy on the chaos part. It’s, as always, a battlefield.

Getting them clean takes twice as long as it should because Maks keeps dunking his head underwater like he’s training for some kind of deep-sea survival mission and Sonny shrieks like she’s being waterboarded. Alexia refuses Yelena’s help with her shower because ‘she’s not a baby like the others’, but Yelena can still hear her struggling to detangle her hair in the bathroom down the hall. Meanwhile, Yelena, soaked to the elbows, tries and fails to contain the splashing, the wailing, and the general bedlam that is bath time.

By the time the kids are clean and wrapped in towels, Yelena is exhausted. And it’s not over.

Sonny fights sleep like it’s an act of war. Maks forgets how pajamas work every single night. Alexia acts like brushing her teeth is akin to brutal manual labor.

“Okay. Final warning. If you’re not in bed in five minutes, I’m making both of you sleep in the bathtub.”

Sonny, sitting on the floor, gnawing on a toy block, looks up with interest. “Bath?”

Maks gasps and speaks over his sister.

“You can’t do that!”

“I absolutely can.”

Alexia groans.

“Maks, she’s lying.”

“Am I?” Yelena raises an eyebrow, the tiniest smirk pulling at her lips.

Sonny drops the block. “Bath?”

Yelena scoops her up. “Oh, now you want a bath? Funny, because I remember you screaming bloody murder during your actual one.”

Sonny frowns like she’s been betrayed.

“You didn’t tell her she had to sleep in the bathtub.” Maks grumbles.

“She’s a baby. Babies don’t sleep in bathtubs.” Alexia clarifies.

“So she’s the favorite?”

“Absolutely.” Yelena ascertains.

When Yelena gets all three of them into pajamas and actually in bed, she’s wrecked. So much so that when they ask to sleep in her room, she doesn’t fight it. She secretly welcomes it. An empty bed is an awful thing.

///

Alexia sprawls out on Yelena’s bed, flipping through something on her iPad while Yelena wrestles Sonny into a clean diaper. Maks, fresh in his dinosaur pajamas, sits on the foot of the bed, dramatically flipping through a book like he’s deeply unimpressed.

“What are we reading?” Yelena asks, rubbing her tired eyes.

Maks huffs.

“I want to read the shark book, but I think we left it in Mommy’s car.”

“So pick something else.”

Maks flops onto his back.

“But I want the shark book.”

“Maksimilian.”

He groans, rolls onto his stomach, and flips a few pages.

“Fine. This one.”

Yelena takes the book from him, barely glancing at the title before he immediately shakes his head.

“No, wait. Not that one.”

Alexia doesn’t even look up. “Oh my God, pick a book.”

“You’re so bossy.” Maks scowls at her.

“I’m the oldest.”

Sonny, half-asleep on Yelena’s chest, perks up.

“Me book.”

“It’s not your turn!” Maks argues.

“Me book.” The toddler pushes back aggressively.

Alexia sighs heavily.

“Just let Sonny pick.”

Maks narrows his eyes, and the histrionics dialed to a twelve, he slides the pile of books toward Sonny. Sonny doesn’t even look at them. She just pats the top book with an incomprehensible babble. Maks sighs, defeated.

“Fine. We’re reading this one.”

Yelena shakes her head, flipping it open.

“Alright, it’s bedtime for real now.”

By page five, Sonny is completely knocked out, sprawled over Yelena’s chest like a tiny human heater. Alexia has shifted, eyes closed, curled up on her side. Maks fights it, blinking slower and slower, trying to keep himself awake. Come the end of the first chapter, he’s practically asleep, too. Yelena closes the book and carefully shifts Sonny. Then Maks mumbles something. Yelena glances down, brushing a stray strand of blonde off his face.

“Hmm?”

“Mommy doesn’t read anymore.” He barely opens his eyes.

The words hit low in her stomach, but Yelena continues to smooth a hand over his hair.

“Yeah? Since when?”

Maks shrugs sleepily, barely nodding before he fully drifts off. Yelena doesn’t move. Just sits there, staring down at him, at Sonny, at Alexia…listening to the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing.

Kate used to read to them. Every night. Even if she was exhausted. Even if she barely had time. She always made time. Yelena doesn’t know what it means that she stopped. And she doesn’t like that she doesn’t know.

When she moves to stand, she glances up and finds that her daughter is still awake. Alexia staring back at her. Watching her.

“You should be sleeping…Do you want me to read more?”

Alexia shifts under the blanket.

“You don’t have to try so hard.”

“I’m just…doing my best.”

Alexia doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then, finally, she shrugs then rolls onto her side, turning her back to Yelena. Yelena knows that’s as much of an answer as she’s going to get. She sighs, pressing a kiss to Sonny’s forehead before gently laying her down between Alexia and Maks. She tucks the blanket around them, smoothing it over Maks’s shoulders before slipping out of the room.

///

The apartment is finally quiet. Yelena leans against the doorframe for a second, exhaling.

There’s still a mess in the kitchen. Crumbs on the floor. A juice cup on the counter. One of Maks’s socks mysteriously on the bookshelf.

She should clean. She should read some reports. She should do literally anything productive. Instead, she drags herself to the couch and collapses, rubbing her temples.

Tomorrow, she has to take them back to Kate. And that, as always, is the part she dreads the most.

///

The morning is a blur of cereal bowls and half-packed backpacks and Maks losing his shoe. Again.

And then they’re in the car, and the drive feels like it always does. Soul annihilating. The car is mostly peaceful, filled only with the occasional hum of the radio and Maks mumbling half-formed stories in the backseat.

When she pulls into the garage, Kate is already waiting. Leaning on her car, parking spot next to her empty. This has become their routine. Yelena doesn’t know what she expects. Maybe another fight. Maybe some passive-aggressive remark about their scheduling. But when Kate steps forward, she doesn’t say anything at all.

She looks…off. Kate isn’t cold. Not exactly. She’s distant. Detached. It’s subtle. So subtle that if Yelena hadn’t known Kate for two decades, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. But she has. And she does.

Kate’s always been a controlled kind of chaotic. Loud but focused. A hurricane with a purpose. But now? Her energy is different. Unsettled. Her clothes are rumpled, like she just pulled them out of a pile on the floor. Her hair is messier than usual. And her eyes…fuck, her eyes…there’s something off about them. Even the shade of blue looks Not Right to Yelena. Like she’s too wired and too exhausted at the same time. But Yelena doesn’t say anything right away.

Kate helps Maks unbuckle his seatbelt. Alexia lingers, hesitating before stepping out. Sonny is half-asleep in the car seat, unaware. Yelena quietly works on unstrapping the toddler.

Alexia and Maks barrel past them into the elevator area, barely giving Kate a passing glance before heading inside. Kate doesn’t react to them, doesn’t make any move to pull them into a hug or ruffle their hair. That’s weird. Kate has always been the one who reached for them first. Always touched their heads, their shoulders, their backs. Subtle, barely-there things that had nothing to do with a greeting and everything to do with ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’. But now? Zero. That’s not something her old Kate would do.

Kate takes Sonny from Yelena’s arms without a word, shifting her weight like she can’t stand still for too long. Her jaw is tight, her eyes unreadable, like she’s narrowly holding something together.

“You okay?” Yelena asks, watching her carefully.

Kate glances at her, startled.

“What?”

“You look…” Yelena hesitates, watching Kate more closely.

Kate’s expression falters for just a second before locking back into something unreadable.

“Just tired.”

It’s too fast. Too defensive. Yelena frowns.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Kate scoffs, shifting Sonny on her hip.

“Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Yelena crosses her arms, softens.

Kate’s expression tightens.

“It’s not your job anymore.”

There’s a heat behind her words. Not full fire…just embers, waiting to catch.

“Kate.”

“I have to put Son down for her nap.”

The finality in her tone is clear. Yelena doesn’t push. Kate turns and walks into the elevator area without another word. Yelena watches her.

The kids move inside the elevator, dragging their bags with them. Maks waves at Yelena with a smile. Alexia glances back just once before disappearing through the door. Kate doesn’t linger. She steps inside. The door closes.

Yelena stays in the car for a moment, staring at the elevators. She doesn’t know what she just witnessed. But she knows Kate. And something isn’t right.

After a long pause, she pulls out her phone and dials. Susan picks up on the third ring.

“Hi! You still owe me that girls night by the way. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Yelena forces a laugh.

“We will. I promise….When’s the last time you talked to your sister?”

Susan goes silent, then sighs.

“What did she do now?”

“Nothing…That’s the problem.”

“Define ‘nothing’.”

“I don’t know. She feels off. The kids ran inside, and she barely looked at them…When did you last talked to her? Saw her?”

Yelena waits.

“Not for a while.”

“Why?”

Susan sighs. “Yelena…”

“I’m not starting anything,” Yelena says quickly. “I just…I know her. And I can feel it.”

“I love that loser, I do. But she’s a goddamn mess. And I can’t…be around her energy right now. She doesn’t listen. So why would I bother talking? I’m letting her sit in her shit for a while. She needs a time out.”

Yelena hesitates, debating how much to say. She doesn’t want to stir the pot if there’s nothing there. But she knows what she saw.

“She seems…I don’t know.” Yelena admits. “Something’s not right. I’m worried.”

Susan doesn’t argue. That silence says enough. Yelena’s stomach twists.

“You are too, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know either.”

“I don’t buy that.”

Susan groans.

“You two are so annoying. Always in each other’s business even when you’re divorcing.”

Yelena tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

“She’s technically still my wife…For a couple more weeks at least.”

Susan doesn’t say anything at first. Then…

“…I don’t think she’s okay, but that’s her own doing. If it makes you feel better, I’ll check on her.”

“It would make me feel better. Thank you…And, uh…let me know, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They hang up.

Yelena sits there for another beat, staring at her phone, waiting for something she can’t quite name. But nothing happens. So she starts the car. And drives away.

/// — \\\

Kate’s days without the kids are nearly unbearable. Time stretches in all the worst ways. Dragging. Bleeding into itself until she loses track of it completely. She hates them.

She never used to feel alone in her own house. Even before the split, even if she and Yelena weren’t speaking for whatever stupid reason, there was always noise. The kids. T he creaky floorboards. The way Yelena would sigh dramatically over some work thing as she sat at the kitchen table, tapping her pen against her laptop. Even if they weren’t talking, Yelena had been there. Had been there for years. And now she’s not. Now the apartment is dead quiet.

Kate wakes up early out of habit, but there’s no reason to. No Sonny babbling. No Maks breaking anything. No Alexia blasting cartoons way too damn early. No one to force her out of bed except herself.

Some mornings, Kate stays there for hours.

Other mornings, she gets up and makes too much coffee for one person. A habit. She drinks one cup and lets the rest sit on the counter until it goes cold. She doesn’t pour it out. Just leaves it there, staring at it like it might do something.

Without the kids, without anything to distract her, it all comes creeping in. The resentment. The regret. The rage. She’s so fucking angry. At Yelena. At herself. At this entire fucking situation.

She tells herself she doesn’t miss Yelena, because that would imply some kind of softness, and she’s not soft about this. The divorce was necessary. Yelena didn’t fight for them, so Kate had to do what she always does…fix the problem. Cut off the loose ends. Move the fuck on.

Except she hasn’t moved on. She can’t. She sees Yelena constantly. At custody exchanges. At the kids’ school. In Maks’s stubborness, in Alexia’s face, in Sonny’s little mannerisms.

Kate spends half her time trying not to think about Yelena, and the other half convincing herself she doesn’t care what Yelena does anymore. But she does. She does care. And that pisses her off more than anything.

Because Yelena is fine. She sees it. At drop-offs, at pick-ups. The way Yelena carries herself now. Like she’s lighter. More put-together. Like she’s thriving in a way that Kate isn’t. She looks good. Not just physically, but okay. Relaxed. Settled. Like this divorce didn’t fucking gut her the way it has Kate.

It makes Kate want to fucking scream. Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Yelena was supposed to hurt too. Yelena was supposed to fucking fall apart, and instead, she’s just…fine.

Kate should be happy about that, right? The mother of her kids is handling this well. She’s adjusting. She’s making it work. So why does it make Kate feel like she’s losing the divorce? Even if its not a game, she feels like she’s losing and that enrages her most days.

The days without the kids stretch into themselves. Her routine is shot to hell. Work doesn’t keep her occupied the way it used to. The company is fine…thriving, even…but she’s not focused the way she should be. She’ll sit in a meeting and barely process what’s being said, mind wandering to the clock, to the calendar, to how many more hours until she has nothing to do. Nothing to drown out the noise in her head.

She works late, not because she needs to, but because it keeps her occupied. The company has become less about her career and more about noise. She takes meetings she doesn’t have to. Stays long after everyone else has gone home.

She fills the silence with anything she can find.

When the kids aren’t with her, she goes out. Not with friends. Not with anyone who actually knows her. She’s pushed all those people away. So Kate finds noise. Bars. Places where she can be something else, someone else, even if it’s just for a few hours.

She drinks too much. She flirts with people she has no interest in. She lets herself get swept up in meaningless distractions, lets strangers talk at her, lets the bass of whatever music is playing drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of her mind.

It’s all so fucking empty. And the second she’s alone again, it crashes back down. The house. The quiet. The space Yelena used to take up. She doesn’t let herself sit in it for too long. Because that would mean acknowledging it. And Kate refuses to do that.

///

The days with the kids are different. With them, she has structure. Purpose. She wakes up early because she has to.

Sonny cries and Kate moves without thinking, scooping her up, pressing kisses to her hair as she soothes her. Maks is up within minutes, bouncing into her room with a thousand questions before Kate can even blink. Alexia takes longer to wake up. She’s always been like that. Slow in the mornings. Pensive. Observant.

The house is loud when they’re there. It’s never been clearer how much of her life is defined by them.

She moves through the morning on autopilot. Breakfast. Packing lunches. Chasing Maks down to make sure he *actually* has underwear on before they leave. Getting everyone out the door before they’re late for…whatever it is they're supposed to be doing that day.

It’s normal. It’s the only part of her life that still feels like hers. The only time she feels like herself is when they’re here.

But they’re only here half the time. And when they leave, it’s back to square one. Back to silence. Back to wondering why the fuck she let this happen.

///

Kate hears Susan before she sees her. It’s impossible not to.

She’s barely had time to get the kids settled in when the telltale shuffle of sneakers against hardwood floors and the exaggerated sigh of a six-months-pregnant woman reaches her ears.

“Jesus, Katherine. This place is depressing,” Susan mutters as she drops her bag on the entryway table, hand pressed to her lower back. “You know they make lamps that don’t give off ‘abandoned psychiatric ward’ vibes, right?”

“What are you doing here?”

Susan rolls her eyes, shrugging out of her coat.

“Came to see my favorite nieces and nephew.”

“They’re the only ones you have.”

“That’s why they're my favorite. Also…”She glances down at her stomach, patting it. “…the parasite inside me is demanding spaghetti and I know you have to make them dinner so…you might as well make me what I want for dinner too.”

“Does it look like I take requests?” Susan simply glares. Kate huffs a laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “I’ll start some water.”

The kitchen is bright compared to the rest of the house. Not warm, necessarily, but it’s lived in…mostly because the kids exist in it. There are dishes in the sink, half-empty snack boxes on the counter, and an unclaimed sock near the fridge that Kate refuses to acknowledge.

Susan doesn’t hesitate before making herself at home. She drops into a chair at the dining table, stretching her legs out with a groan.

“Where are they?” she asks, rubbing a hand over her belly.

“Sonny’s napping. The other two are probably in their rooms,” Kate says, filling a pot with water. “Leo is still bouncing off the walls from whatever sugar Yelena let him have before drop-off, and Alex is acting like I personally ruined her life by asking her to unload the dishwasher.”

“That one’s your clone, you know.” Kate glares at her, setting the pot on the stove. “Just saying.”

The sound of small feet pounding down the corridor interrupts whatever insult Kate was about to throw back. A second later, Maks appears in the doorway, wide-eyed, slightly breathless.

“SUZU!”

Susan barely has time to react before Maks launches himself at her, arms wrapping around her in a bear hug. She grunts but laughs, ruffling his hair.

“Hey, bug. Miss me?”

“Yes,” Maks says, muffled against her shoulder. Then he pulls back suddenly, eyes dropping to her stomach. “Is the baby still in there?”

“Nope. I already had it, and I just like walking around with a fake belly for fun.”

Maks frowns, considering this. Alexia appears in the doorway a second later, arms crossed. She takes in the scene, then sighs heavily.

“You’re going to make her back hurt.” Alexia reprimands him.

“My back already hurts. Kid’s gonna come out with his arms crossed if the attitude I’m dealing with in utero is any indication.”

“It’s a boy?!” Alexia’s lips twitch in a half smile.

Susan shrugs.

“Dunno. Doctor won’t tell me.”

“Why?” Kate inquires, confused.

“Because we told them we don’t want to know.” Susan smirks at her sister.

“You don’t want to know?” Maks’ face scrunches in disbelief.

“Nope. Gonna be a surprise.”

Maks looks appalled. Kate watches them interact, something unsteady curling in her gut. It’s too normal. Too easy. Too much like how things used to be. She turns back to the stove, stirring the water just for something to do.

///

Later, after dinner, bedtime is a full-blown event.

Susan tries to help, but Kate stubbornly refuses the assistance. So Susan sits back and watches, arms resting over her stomach, amusement clear on her face.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” she points out as Kate struggles to get Sonny settled in her crib.

“I don’t need your help.” Kate glares at her, jaw tight.

Susan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just waits.

Eventually, Maks and Sonny are both down, Alexia disappears into her room with her headphones in, and Kate trudges into the living room, exhausted.

“You can go now.”

“Yeah, no. We’re not gonna do that.”

“Do what?”

Susan gestures at her, at the house, at the entire situation.

“This thing where you pretend you’re fine when you’re very clearly not.”

 “Suze…” Kate grits her teeth.

“You look like shit.”

“That’s not your problem. Not anyone’s problem.”

Kate begins to tidy up. Just to do something. Just to not have to look at her sister.

“You always do this.”

“Oh, great. Here we go.”

Susan doesn’t let Kate get away with it. She pushes off the couch and steps forward, voice steady. Aimed.

“You’re too old for this, you know?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Susan takes a step closer, eyes narrowing.

“It means you’re too grown to be acting like DJ.”

The room goes silent. Kate’s whole body locks up. There are certain things you don’t fucking say. Certain things you don’t bring up. Certain wounds that have been closed…or at least buried so deep they should be closed. Susan just cracked one wide open.

“You need to watch yourself.”

“Why? Did I hit a nerve?”

Kate flinches. Her fingers twitch at her sides, hands curving into fists. Susan doesn’t stop.

“You remember how Deej used to tell us he was fine? How he always had some excuse for why his life was going to shit?” Her voice is razor-sharp now, hitting Kate exactly where she doesn’t want to be hit. “How it was NEVER his fault? How it was everyone else who didn’t understand? How he could quit whenever he wanted, how it wasn’t THAT bad. You…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Kate snaps.

Susan does not.

“YOU are doing the same fucking thing. You’re making the same excuses, telling the same fucking lies. And you want to know the real kicker? The thing that set DJ down that road was them. It was Mom and Dad. It was growing up in a house where love felt like a fucking death match where no one ever got out whole…Just like the house you’re making your kids live in now.”

Kate feels her vision blur with rage.

“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

Susan tilts her head, giving her this look…an almost pitying, disgusted look.

“You’re not even Mom. You turned into Dad, Kate.”

Kate sees red.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

Susan doesn’t even flinch. She just stands there. Watching her. Kate’s breathing is ragged. Her pulse is roaring. Susan doesn’t even look shaken. Just…resigned.

“You really think you’re better than him?” she asks, voice softer now. “You really think you’re doing something different?”

Kate’s throat burns. Susan stares at her for another long moment. Then, she shakes her head.

“You know what’s funny?” Susan tilts her head, voice deceptively casual. “I told you this would happen. I told you, years ago, the first time you tried to pull this divorce shit, that if you actually went through with it, Yelena was going to thrive, and you were going to be miserable. And, huh…Look at that.” She gestures at Kate. “I was fucking right.” Susan shakes her head. “I know this isn't even how bad it’s going to get because, how do you think its going to feel when she starts seeing someone else. I also told you that, remember? Your wife…”

“Ex-wife.” Kate corrects venomously.

"YOUR WIFE is one of the best people I've ever met. I don't even know how she's still single. But she won't be for long. So what happens to you when you have to see that? Hmmm? Her. With someone else. Your kids in another family. And you won't be able to say shit about it."

Kate wants to hit something. Wants to break something. Wants to scream 'You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about', but she can’t. Because deep, deep, deep down…a part of her knows Susan isn’t wrong.

“You don’t get to be mad at her for moving on when you did this..." Susan surveys her. Takes in her rigid stance, her baller up fists. She shakes her head. "Deej resented you for being okay. For being able to come out of it fine. To have a life after all that shit when he couldn't. You're doing that now. You're Deej. And you're dad. How sad, Kate."

“Fuck you.” Kate’s voice is raw when she finally speaks.

Susan’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t look mad. Just… disappointed. Like she expected more. Like she’s done.

“Yeah,” Susan mutters, grabbing her coat. “Fuck me, I guess.”

Susan watches Kate for another long beat. Then, she heads for the door. She doesn’t even slam the door when she leaves.

The quiet is worse.

Kate stares at the spot Susan just vacated, chest heaving, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles are white.

She rushes to the living room bar cart and pours herself a drink. She drinks it too fast. It burns. She pours another.

The cacophony in her head doesn’t quiet.

Kate doesn’t even bother with a glass the third time. She reaches for the whiskey bottle and drinks straight from it. She barely registers the sting. She just takes another gulp. And then another.

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and exhales hard through her nose, blinking rapidly, as if that’ll stop the fucking shaking in her hands.

She’s fine.

She just needs something to take the edge off. To drown out Susan’s fucking voice still bouncing around in her head.

You're Deej. And you're dad. How sad, Kate.

Kate tips the bottle again. She isn’t her father. She isn’t. She just…fuck. FUCK!

Kate grabs her phone, swiping through contacts she has no intention of calling. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want a conversation. She wants noise. She wants a distraction. She wants to drown in something. Anything. Whatever isn’t this feeling.

She closes her messages and opens a dating app instead.

The profile pictures blur together. Smiling faces, sultry smirks, bio after bio of meaningless bullshit. She barely reads them. Doesn’t care. She thumbs through them, swiping right on the ones that look like they won’t talk too much. She has her first match within seconds.

Hey.

Hey.

What are you up to?

Nothing. You?

Nothing. Want company? Come over.

Kate exhales slowly. The resounding ‘yes’ in the response might be the best word Kate’s heard all day.

///

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at her door.

Kate barely remembers which one she picked, but it doesn’t matter. She opens the door, and there’s a girl standing there. Brunette, short skirt, black boots, waaaaay younger than Kate should be fucking. This girl is the exact opposite of everything Yelena is. Was that intentional? Kate doesn’t know.

“Hey,” the girl purrs, leaning against the doorframe like she’s done this a thousand times before.

Kate could not care less.

“Yeah. Come in. You have to be quiet. My kids are sleeping.”

The girl steps inside without hesitation, glancing around like she’s sizing up the upscale apartment. Kate doesn’t offer her a drink. Doesn’t ask about her night. Doesn’t bother with the niceties. She doesn’t fucking want to know this girl’s name. She just grabs her by the wrist and drags her to the bedroom.

To her bed. The one she used to share with Yelena. The girl giggles.

“Someone’s impatient.”

Kate doesn’t answer. She just pushes her onto the bed and crawls on top of her.

It’s easy. Mindless. Lips on skin. Hands tugging at clothes. A body beneath her that doesn’t fight her. That doesn’t argue. That doesn’t demand anything from her. The girl moans and sighs and moves the way Kate wants, and for a little while, it’s quiet in Kate’s head.

///

An hour or so later, they lay in bed. Catching their breaths. The girl leans over to grab her purse, digs through it.

“You want a bump?”

Kate freezes. The girl is grinning at her, lazy, sated, pulling a little baggie from her purse.

“Or…nah?” the girl teases, shaking it between two fingers.

Kate stares at it. Her pulse kicks. She hasn’t done coke (or any drugs for that matter) since she was a dumbass college kid with no responsibilities and no consequences. Since before that night Yelena caught her getting high and ripped her a new one.

The smart thing would be to say no. The right thing would be to say no.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Kate’s never been known for being smart or right.

The girl grins wider and dumps a little onto the nightstand. Kate watches, detached, as she takes the first hit, then taps her finger against the surface.

“Go for it.”

Kate hesitates. For a second. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she leans down and does the line.

Fuck.

She tips her head back. Blinks. It’s been a long time. The burn in her nose is familiar. The rush that follows is instant. She exhales hard, and it’s like everything loosens.

“That good, huh?” The girl laughs, pressing closer.

Kate grins. For the first time all fucking night, she grins. And then she rolls the girl onto her back and fucks her again.

She doesn’t think about the fact that this is the same bed Yelena used to fuck her in. She doesn’t think about the fact that she doesn’t even remember this girl’s fucking name.

She just chases the high, drowns herself in it. And when it wears off…Kate simply does another line.

///

Kate leans against the bathroom sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her pupils are blown, her skin flushed. She looks awake. Alert. More alive than she has in weeks.

She sniffs hard, then runs the back of her hand under her nose just to be sure. The girl…fuck, what was her name?…is still sprawled out in her bed, half-asleep, looking as wrecked as Kate should feel. But Kate doesn’t feel wrecked. She feels good. She feels…quiet.

It’s the first time in months that her head isn’t roaring with noise. The static is gone.

Kate steps out of the bathroom, grabbing her phone off the dresser as she moves. 4:58 AM. The kids could wake up any second. She shakes the girl’s shoulder.

“You gotta go.”

“Mmm, rude.” The girl groans, cracking one eye open.

“I’m serious. Put your clothes on.” Kate doesn’t humor it.

The girl groans louder, stretching like a satisfied cat, then finally starts pulling her clothes on.

“At least let me have coffee before you kick me out.”

Kate doesn’t answer. She’s busy checking the nightstand.

There’s still a little left in the bag. She rolls it between her fingers. The girl catches the movement and smirks.

“Want another?”

“Yeah.” Kate has zero hesitation this time.

She takes two more lines before walking the girl to the door. She doesn’t feel tired. She doesn’t feel drained. She feels ready.

By the time the kids wake up, Kate is on it. Breakfast is already going, lunches are packed, backpacks are lined up by the door.

Alexia steps into the kitchen, brow furrowed.

“You’re happy.”

Kate grins, flipping a pancake.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re…smiling. It’s different.”

Kate tosses a pancake onto a plate and slides it in front of her.

“Mom just woke up in a good mood.”

Something pricks at Alexia…but she just nods and lets it go.

Maks, oblivious, scrambles up onto a chair and immediately launches into his morning monologue about some game he’s playing on the iPad. Sonny happily plays on her mat.

Kate moves through it all effortlessly. No headache. No irritation. No exhaustion pressing down on her ribs. It’s easy. They’re loud. But she’s quiet. The right kind of quiet.

///

Kate gets them to school on time. No scrambling, no forgotten homework, no yelling over missing shoes. She even remembers that today is Sonny’s picture day and gets her all dressed up.

It’s perfect.

And then…Kate looks down at her phone.

Seven missed calls.

Fifteen messages.

Her assistant’s name dominates the screen:

Where are you??

You have that Impact Co. meeting in ten.

KATE!…

The meeting started.

ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

Kate blinks. The noise rushes back.

She was supposed to be at work an hour ago. She groans, forcing herself to think. She can still make it. She can just blame it on traffic, make a joke about how it’s been one of those mornings…

But her feet aren’t moving toward her car.

She looks up.

The bar is still there.

The same one she used to drag DJ out of. The one where she got her head bashed in for trying to fight with the dealers.

It’s still standing. Still open. Still servicing its…special clientele. The smart thing would be to keep walking. To go to work, fix her fuck-up, act like everything is normal…But Kate doesn’t feel smart right now. She doesn’t want to be.

She shoves her phone into her pocket and steps inside.

The smell is the same. Stale beer, sweat, something funkier underneath.

The bartender doesn’t even look up as she slides onto a stool. She orders whiskey. Downs it in two gulps. Then she looks for someone who can sell her what she really came here for.

It doesn’t take long.

///

Kate walks out of the bar with a bag of coke in her pocket and no intention of letting the noise get the better of her until she has to pick the kids up from school.

[mapofsouthdakota]

Both a headcanons and request kind of because your Bear AU has been rattling around in my head nonstop rent free. Maybe it’ll happen in the story but if you did an interlude of some sort where MC is tasting Caleb’s cooking and giving a genuine compliment or really likes it? I know there was the monkfish competition but like maybe a scene where she praises his cooking because I feel like in game Caleb is feral/has an itch to cook and provide and feed maybe I’m rattling just needed to get this out from another fic on Ao3 I read

Aaaa thank you so much for the kind words on the Bear AU! Aaaand yeee, I have a couple doodles in the good ol’ notes for at least two more chapters, so knowing people enjoy it makes it feel even more fulfilling, like I’m writing with you all, not just for myself! 🫶🏻

Now, over to your ask: You know what? This is so interesting! Especially after that little bit of lore from his myth—it really hit me that Caleb was the one who made the MC experience taste for the first time. Sweet, bitter, savory. And honestly? That’s probably why he’s got a bit of a feeding kink (lol) with her—in the softest, most tender way possible (I think? who know with this guy lol)

Here’s the thing though—I feel like this dynamic really needs the soulmate MC (not one of my AU simps accidentally falling for Caleb) to hit full emotional impact. So with that said…

450ish words of Caleb cooking, and you (as Pip-squeak aka the MC) tasting his cooking. Hope this scratches your itch, dear reader!

🧡 Taste this (Caleb)

You step into the kitchen, drawn in by the warm scent of something buttery and faintly spiced, your curiosity piqued the moment you heard the soft clatter of pans earlier. Caleb’s back is to you, his attention completely wrapped in the task at hand—like the rest of the world’s gone quiet around him and only this dish exists.

“There’s my favorite test subject,” he says without turning, voice laced with that trademark smugness. “Perfect timing, Pip-squeak.”

The counter is a quiet chaos of intention—chopped herbs, a small bowl of lemon zest, and two elegant plates already warming beside the stove. “Test subject?” you ask, leaning on the counter with a playful arch of your brow. “I thought I was your favorite person.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile that’s just short of wicked. “That too. But you’re especially useful when I want to try something new.” He turns fully now, holding a wooden spoon. “Taste this.”

As you step closer, he lifts the spoon to your lips. The sauce is rich—earthy with mushrooms, a whisper of wine and cream, and something bright you can’t quite place.

“Oh wow,” you murmur. “That’s amazing. What’s the sharpness in there? Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and a dash of white balsamic,” he says, clearly pleased you noticed. “I’ve been tweaking this one all week.”

You grin. “You’ve been workshopping a mushroom sauce? For me?”

Caleb shrugs, stirring the pot again with a casual confidence that only makes the room feel warmer. “You liked that porcini risotto the other night. Thought I’d push it further.” A beat. “I like seeing how far I can take something when it’s for you.”

Your heart does this little flip, and he just keeps stirring like he didn’t say anything at all.

“I really appreciate it, you know,” you say softly. “All of this.”

He doesn’t look up, but there’s a small, satisfied nod—like he’s letting your words settle somewhere deep. Still stirring. Still focused. Then, with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth: “Finish your bites first. Then you can shower me in praise.”

He plates with care, like he’s putting on a private show. Even the final drizzle of something green and glistening feels like a signature flourish. When he’s done, he steps back with a quiet little nod. “Alright,” he says, satisfied. “Moment of truth, Pip-squeak.”

“Wild mushroom ragù on a bed of soft polenta with garlic confit and parmesan crisp,” he announces, placing the dish in front of you with a flourish. “A little fancy. A little comforting.” He gives you a smug little look. “Lovingly made by yours truly, of course.”

You take the first bite and immediately groan—not dramatically, but it slips out, honest and completely involuntary.

Caleb freezes.

“That,” he says, eyes narrowing in a pleased, dangerous kind of way, “is why I love cooking for you.”

Before you can come up with a reply, he steps in and pulls you into a one-armed hug. His chin brushes the top of your head, voice lower, softer. “I mean… why I only cook for you.”

[persephone11110]

rain is a good thing

Jake‘Hangman’Seresin x Reader

Chapter 1 : Astraphobia

warnings: astraphobia(means fear of storms), mentions of storms—raining, mentions of bleeding—blood,protective jake seresin, YOUR HONOR THEY STILL LOVE EACHOTHER

Chapter Summary: Two things Y/n hates—one how loud the thunder and rain is outside and two how much even as an ex Jake Seresin still knows her like the back of his hand.

author note: I realized that chpt1 sucked really bad and so I decided to rewrite chpt 1 AND IM SO SO SORRY TO ANYONE WHO READ IT!!!, I just re-read it and its not good at all— i wrote like it was 2+1 and not a chapter. Instead meeting Jake in chpt 2 like I originally planned hes gonna be here chpt1— erase CHPT1; A Trip Down Memory out of your mind PLZ

WC: 1K

Previous | Next

Series Masterlist

—

Jaw clenched, you stood at your bedroom window looking out the windows staring at how angry the clouds looked— you were glued to the spot as the EAS that was broadcasted more than couple minutes ago made the agonizing thoughts you had about outside worse “Remember Y/n its normal for it to rain during the summer because its so hot”. Dr. Michaels voice was in the back of your mind reminding you to stop spiraling.

Glancing back at the clouds from the rain you finally decided to walk away. Lying flat on your back, you attempted to close your eyes, If he was here he would lightly chastise you—for laying on the floor. That one day your going to get stuck on the floor, stuck in a human shaped star position. Reading did always take your mind off the real world, you enjoyed putting yourself in character.

You groaned as you got up from the floor your back loudly cracking, unkindly reminding you aren’t in your a teen anymore. Did you fall asleep while reading because the book was perfectly laid on your stomach while, the cup of juice you brought from the kitchen was knocked over. “Thats just great Y/n now you actually have leave the comfort of your bedroom”. You murmured to yourself— aggravated with how clumsy you were.

Sighing, you rubbed at your temples as you looked at the red mess behind you— would it be bad if you left the sticky mess right where it was?

Ants, those tiny ass insects scared you. How could something so small cause so much destruction?

As both sides of your brain fought with you smartly decided to go to your kitchen to grab napkins.

The sound of a lighting strike outside your apartment caught you by surprise making you drop the cup filled with on the kitchen floor. You hate when this happens-your vision was already becoming blurry and hand started to slowly tremble, you swallowed hard listening to the sounds of rain drops smacking into the window.

“Just get up, and focus on something else”a thought enters your mind. Using the strength you have , you decide to try and pick up the glass shards around you, not l thinking of the prickly feeling in your fingers, or the smell of blood coming from your hands. Just focus on something else Y/n you repeated to yourself.

Should’ve stayed somewhere safe Y/n— your back was doing that weird tingly thing again. It felt like something crawling under your skin.

Maybe Dr.Michaels was still in her office?

Your eyelids heavy with tears, you grab your phone out of your pocket. You drag your trembling fingers over the screen typing in Dr. Michaels emergency number-listening to the phone dial out, you lift the phone to hear waiting for her calm voice to be on the other side.

“I can’t answer your call right now, however please leave your name, number and message— I’ll get back to you as soon as I can”.

“Please help me, I’m so scared.. I’m so scared”. A sob escaped from your mouth, your entire body rattling with fear.

Thunder rumbled through the sky, the rain sounded like bullets hitting the window and you were pretty sure you getting closer and closer to death.

You didn’t attempt to move again not knowing if you got up would your feet fail you. The thunder got worse and the sounds of bullets turned into a heavy pour, you leaned your body aganist your kitchen counter-using it as a bed and a chair.

The sound you heard next wasn’t thunder getting louder or a tree branch breaking because of the wind. At first you ignored it, hoping if you didn’t acknowledge it wasn’t real.

But apart of you wandered what was making the awful loud sound. What is your imagination?, were you having a nightmare?

The sound was getting louder and louder, you finally realized somebody was at your door-knocking.

What crazy ass person would risk their life?, who wants to get sick in the middle of summer?

It be rude to let the person stand outside even longer, making yourself get up you fall into the counter while getting up.

“Sweetheart”.

You fell into his soaking body not caring about the wetness. A sound of relief falls out of your mouth, you eyes squeezed shut not wanting to see the angry clouds.

“C’mon darlin don’t want you getting sick”. Jake tightly wrapped his hands around you-gently pushing you back inside. “Shh, follow my breathing Y/n”. Somehow your sitting on the couch and Jake sitting on the table infront of you.

“J-Jake”, you whimpered. “Scared”.

“I know sweetheart don’t listen to outside just listen to my voice”. Jake grabs your hand and pulls it to his heart. “Your alive darlin, just your mind playin tricks on you again”.

Finally your breathing back normal, your mind kind of still foggy.“Jake why are you here w-with me?”.

“You called me darlin”. Jake rubbed at your knuckles,“As soon as I heard your voicemail I left Javys and drove like a bat out of hell”.

You leaned your head aganist Jakes bare chest, unable to make eye contact with him—blushing with embarrassment you’ve could swore the number was Dr. Michaels.

“You called me Y/n, you called and I answered as simple as that”. Jake hums a tune from a Nina Simone song that you can’t remember right now, “I got you darlin”.

Taglist :)

@chocolatefartstrawberry , @buckysteveloki-me , @dontletthemtakeyoualive, @kellyls04

[notsogothgf]

You're Gonna Kill For Me Or Die For Me

Johnny Slaughter X AFAB Reader⭐18+ MDI⭐

CW: Blood, Gore, kidnapping

CHPT: 1 Escaping Basement

Oh god things couldn’t have possibly gotten any worse. Every corner I turned the rooms looked the same, filled with blood and bones. I was never going to make it out of here. To think I actually listened to Leland. I just wanted to help Ana look for her sister, but of course this lug head wanted to check out the man with the beat up truck coated in blood. How they never got pulled over for questioning is beyond me. We went poking our noses where we shouldn’t have. Now I’m stuck in a stupid basement full of god knows what. I especially didn’t want to know who or what these bones came from. It was freaking me out the longer I was around them.I tried my best to avoid touching the bones in between the doors. Trying even harder to distance myself from the maniac with a chainsaw. While peering down the dark tunnel ahead I failed to hear the footsteps behind me.Two hands quickly grabbed at me one keeping me quiet and the other holding me still. Gasping and grabbing the hand around my mouth the assailant spoke.

“Sh sh shhh. It’s just me sweetheart.” It was Leland.

I quickly turned around punching him in the chest, “Jesus Christ you oaf you scared the shit outta me!” He smiled, wrapping his arms around me. 

Overcome with so many emotions: fear, anger, sadness, maybe even a little bit of guilt. I held him tightly, shedding a few tears not knowing if this would be our last hug alive.

“Hey now it’s gonna be okay we’re going to make it out of here. Okay?” He held my face wiping my tears with his thumbs.

I nodded, leaning into his palms.

“Now, I’ve made up a couple bone shanks to keep us safe. We just need to stick together and find a way out.” Leland gave my face one last squeeze before letting go.

I let him lead the way as I felt like I was only going round in circles. Before moving too far he handed me one of those bone shanks. I didn’t pay much attention where we were going, opting instead to watch and listen for that rattling chainsaw. The smell of decay and mildew was overwhelming. Made me miss the smell of home real bad, hell I just missed home in general. Bet Ma is worried sick. Leland stopped quickly shooting an arm out to grab me pulling me in a closet. About to open my mouth and question him, the look he shot me told me I needed to be quiet. Holding my breath and looking out of the little slit I saw the owner of the pick up truck slinking by. 

“M’ on yer tail I know y'all ‘r round here somewhere..”

Looking at Leland with wide eyes he just put a finger to his lips. The heavy thuds of his boots circled behind us heading down the rest of the hall. Leland peaked his head out first, slowly stepping out and offering me a hand. Taking it and following him back down the hall opposite of that psycho path. We ended up in what seemed to be the room.

“You see that tin thing? I need ya to open that for me. You know how butter fingered I am” He nodded towards what looked like a pigpen door.

I slowly opened the pen crawling through into the red lit room. I gasped as I saw all the different skulls littering the walls. He crawled out right beside me letting out a small ‘oh god.’ He quickly turned my head and led me to the large metal door.

“Do not turn around, understand me.” He stated as he started fiddling around with the lock on the door.

Everything in me wanted to turn around. “Why?” I whispered. 

He sighed, shaking his head, “ It’s- It’s Ana. Now please don’t look darlin’.”

I needed to know what he meant by the way he sounded. It couldn't have been good. What if I just did a quick look no longer than two seconds? I did and I wish I wouldn’t have. Grabbing Leland’s shoulder and letting out a sob. Ana was sat on some kind of meat hook. Limp. There was blood all around her. Leland sniffled, still picking the lock as he knew I looked and couldn’t spare the time to stop. This was no longer just some scary prank but a fight for our lives. Once the lock popped open he hugged me tightly. He pulled away, grabbing my face lightly.

“We’re gonna make it out of here and we’re gonna go get help. Whatever happens I love you and ‘m sorry I dragged you into this mess.” He kissed me softly.

He was always so gentle with me.” I love you too. Nothings gonna happen. Ya hear?”

Nodding he gave me one last squeeze before letting go. “Now I’m gonna open this door and we’re gonna book it. Do. Not. Stop. Running.”

I wasn’t ready but I had to be if we were going to make it out of here. Leland counted on his fingers as soon as it hit three he flung the door open and started sprinting. I fell behind not being able to keep up with his long strides. I had no idea where we were headed. I just knew I didn’t want to lose sight of him. Playing football really paid off for him though he was fast and agile. He ran through the maze of doors and bones until we stopped at what we thought was the front door. Grabbing the door knob twisting and pulling. It was locked.

“Shit, I don’t have a lock pick.” He whispered.

“I don’t either.” I looked around closely trying to find anything worth using, but not leaving the room. I fear if I did I’d get lost.

“Leland the stairs.” I point to a staircase leading to the second floor. “Maybe we kind find somethin there.”

[flowerfan2]

Casting in the Dark

Drarry, 8k, M.

Summary:

The first time Draco has an orgasm with Harry, he’s not sure Harry even notices. In retrospect, this might not have been ideal.

A story about eighth year sexy shenanigans, boys who are not particularly experienced at either sex or communication, and first times that don’t always go smoothly.

A note of interest: I was inspired to write this story when someone recently left a very lovely comment on a Klaine fic I wrote years ago (Dancing in the Dark). This Drarry fic starts out the same way, but due to the fact that these are rather different couples, it then took on a life of its own. This is evidence, however, of how leaving comments can sometimes result very directly in more fic!

Casting in the Dark (read on A03):

The first time Draco has an orgasm with Harry, he’s not sure Harry even notices.  In retrospect, this might not have been ideal.   

It’s eighth year, an extremely convenient concept that McGonagall came up with when she witnessed students losing their collective shit as the end of the summer after the war approached.  No amount of cooperatively fixing up the castle had prepared their cohort of traumatized survivors to move forward with adult lives just yet, so McGonagall and the castle, apparently, improvised.  Instead of having to fend for themselves, the group gets another year of food provided to them three times a day, schoolwork so they have something to think about other than fear, and rules that are familiar, if not always welcome.

There are some differences, of course.  The eighth years now live in a new house on the grounds that is a tad too rustic for Draco’s taste, a cross between a Swiss chalet and a hunting cabin.  Their bedrooms are haphazard with little rhyme or reason to them, and instead of being assigned they all just wandered in and set up wherever they landed.

Draco and Pansy are in a room on the second floor, overlooking a grassy hill that swoops dramatically down to the lake. ��Blaise, Millie and a Ravenclaw girl are next to them, with two Hufflepuffs and Longbottom across the hall.  Thomas and Finnegan are downstairs, next to the kitchen, along with Weasley, Granger, and a few other students.  In a move that surprised no one, moments after they all filed in the house had shifted and popped a third floor, giving Harry a room all to himself.  

The common room has a high ceiling and heavy wooden beams, thick rugs in faded colors, and scattered chairs and sofas that look worn but are on the whole surprisingly comfortable.  And it’s here that it happens.  Afterwards, Draco wonders if he should mark it down somewhere, whether maybe there’s a special way to commemorate such a first.  If he should dig out his baby wizard book from a trunk at the Manor and make a new page:  Draco’s First Partnered Orgasm.  Mother would be so proud.

It's a Saturday in early December, almost the end of term.  After dinner someone puts music on, louder than normal, the kind that thrums through your body and rattles your bones.  Between that and the bottles of elf wine getting passed around, Draco’s feeling fine.

Millie and her Ravenclaw friend are dancing, hands above their heads and hair flying.  They are soon joined by Pansy and Granger, who have formed an odd friendship, and Blaise, who’ll dance with anyone.  Lovegood’s there too, turning the music up, and Longbottom arrives bringing more beverages, along with a group of seventh years that traipse in after him.  Finnegan is fucking around with the candles, charming them to shine in shades of pink neon and tangerine.  It's not the first house party of the term, but it’s shaping up to be the wildest.  Despite that, Draco’s content to hang back, watching the colors flash and reflect against the tall windows that line the sides of the room. 

Later Harry flops down on the sofa next to him, flush with alcohol.  His eyes gleam in the flickering candlelight as he turns to Draco and hands him a glass.  “Try it.  It’s pretty good,” Harry says, leaning close to yell in Draco’s ear.

Draco takes a sip and grimaces as the liquid burns going down.   It tastes like fruit flavored acid. “Is this Longbottom’s?” He leans close too.  Yelling is so gauche.

Harry’s hair brushes Draco’s cheek.  “Yup.  He claims it’s punch.”

“Sure.”  Draco braces himself and drinks the rest of the glass.  “Where’s yours?”

Harry shrugs.  “Finished it already.”  He holds Draco’s gaze, and Draco can feel his whole body tingling.  He thinks he knows where this is going.  He really, really hopes he knows where this is going.

By now most of the students have abandoned the dance floor for more dimly lit corners of the room, the charmed candles accommodating the mood by blowing themselves out.  The music is still loud, pulsing through Draco’s brain to the tune of the alcohol flowing through his veins.

Harry gives him a look that is probably meant to be sultry, but even as ridiculous as it is, it gets the point across.   “Wanna…?” Harry asks, a smile dancing around his lips.

Draco nods, and before he knows it Harry has cast a <i>notice-me-not,</i> and then they are kissing, hands in each others’ hair, messy and free.  After a while Draco shifts and stretches his legs out, optimistically pulling Harry down with him, but the soft isn’t big enough for them both to lie down and they wind up on the floor, half under the coffee table, laughing into each other’s faces.

“You’d think we’d never done this before,” Harry says, his grin stretching his cheeks, and Draco nearly chokes with glee because, to be clear, <i>they have never done this before.</i>  Not with each other.  Not even once.

“But you wanted to,” Draco says, regaining his composure, as much as it is possible to do while avoiding what he is hoping is a puddle of spilled wine and not something even more vile behind his head.

“Yeah, I did,” Harry says.  “For ages.  So did you.”

“I did.”  Draco takes in a deep breath, and then leans in, wondering if Harry will kiss him again.  He does.

Harry is an energetic kisser, and Draco tries to pay attention, tries to match what Harry is doing.  Harry is generous with his caresses, but keeps his hands firmly above Draco’s belt, and his hips canted away, so Draco does the same.  It’s more than fine with him, frankly, because he’s not all that interested in giving his fellow students a show, even if the room is dark and no one else is paying a damn bit of attention to what’s going on underneath the coffee table.

They kiss again and again.  It’s fantastic.  Harry drops kisses along Draco’s chin, and then down his throat, nosing his way into the open collar of his shirt.  It makes Draco shiver with delight.  Eager to make Harry feel just as good, Draco runs his hand over Harry’s chest, pausing to circle his nipples as he feels them harden through Harry’s thin t-shirt.  This apparently works as intended, so Draco does it again, and Harry moans wantonly in appreciation.  The sound shoots straight through Draco, and then he’s jerking his hips, pressing them to the floor and letting out his own embarrassing noises, ones he can only hope are muffled by the music.

Moments later, when feeling has returned to his legs, Draco shuffles to his feet.  He just came in his pants.  From kissing Harry Potter.  He can hardly believe it.  “Be right back,” he says, pointing towards the bathroom.  Harry, looking a little dazed, just nods.

When Draco returns from cleaning himself up, Hermione and Ron are bracketing Harry on the sofa, clinking glasses together.  Harry shoots Draco an apologetic look and turns back to his friends.  Draco goes to his room, pushes all of the night’s confusing feelings away, and, helped along by the relatively high level of alcohol in his bloodstream, falls asleep.

The next morning Draco panics.  He’s not really surprised that something happened between him and Harry – the UST, as Pansy calls it, has most definitely been building.  But he’s got no idea what’s going to happen next.  After Harry testified at Draco’s trial and McGonagall assigned them to work together mending furniture in the Great Hall, it became easier to get along.  They’ve even been on a mostly first name basis since Harry’s birthday, as a result of a gillyweed-inspired game of truth or dare.  More recently, the eighth year house has done its job, providing a cozy, safe space for the two of them to relax and breathe.  Draco knows that as strange as it seems, he and Harry are friends.

Still, it’s one thing for the wizarding world’s golden boy to demonstrate how good and forgiving he is by allowing a former Death Eater to hang with him.  It’s quite another to snog him.  

So when Harry knocks on Draco’s door that morning and asks if he wants to come play Quidditch, Draco is very pleasantly surprised.

When a week goes by and there has been zero additional kissing, however, Draco is not so happy.

He hasn’t told Pansy about what happened, or anyone else.  He doesn’t want to inadvertently screw it up before he knows what Harry wants.  He doesn’t even know if Harry has kissed a boy before, how Harry identifies, or if he’s out.  

Draco is, more or less.  After the war, and after it was clear he wasn’t going to Azkaban, he told Pansy and Blaise.  He’s not trying to keep it a secret, not any more.  He thinks his parents already knew, but kept it quiet so that it wasn’t one more thing putting them at risk, one more vulnerability for Voldemort to exploit.  

He doesn’t think Pansy saw Harry kissing him at the party, because if she had, she absolutely would have said something to him by now.  Regardless, she seems to know something is up, giving him quizzical looks and questioning him on his plans in the evenings.  He’s not quite ready to tell her, though.  Not yet.  Besides, he doesn’t need to confide in her to know what her advice would be.

Talk to him. Ha.

Read the rest on A03.

[mechdeer]

Whumpril Day 26: The Kind One Snaps

Set shortly after this post.

Warnings: guns, female whumpee, teenage whumpee (not the POV character), sexist language, violence, abuse, death threats

Florence sat at the top of the stairs, her shotgun across her lap. Humid air, drifting in from the broken window behind her in the stairwell, brushed her neck. Sweat itched beneath her clothes.

A series of knocks rattled the metal door at the foot of the stairs. Then, a muffled voice: "It's Carter! Let us in!"

Florence stood and descended the stairs. She balanced the shotgun on one shoulder as she undid the complicated series of locks and bolts, then swung open the door.

Carter, Wells, Lacey, and George stood silhouetted against the washed-out backdrop of the city, cracked stone and broken windows slowly going green with moss and rot. Cicadas buzzed from somewhere off in the distance.

The group was lugging filled sacks, which was a good sign. They'd found something. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood except Wells, who was scowling. Florence stepped aside to let them through.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Fine," Carter grunted. "Could've gotten more if Wells wasn't a pussy."

"I'm sorry!" Wells whimpered, clearly not for the first time.

"Just skip his rations," George said. The burly young man shut the door behind him with a clang. "Maybe next time he won't be so generous."

"He hardly took anything," Wells protested, even as he shrank back against the wall.

Carter rounded on him, slamming an arm across his neck and smashing him into the wall. Wells yelped.

"Maybe I should've let that zombie get you," Carter snarled. "I keep giving you chances, and you never man up. We aren't running a charity. It's kill or be killed out here, little bro, and you're a fucking liability."

Florence was grabbing at Carter's arm and yanking him back before she could think to stop herself. "He's just a kid!"

Carter swung the rest of the way around and punched her. Florence fell back, pain bursting through her face, and stumbled into George, who shoved her off him with a grunt. She lifted a hand to her nose and felt blood.

Carter gripped her hair and yanked her head up, making her eyes water. "I should kill both of you now, couple of fucking pussies. Save us all some trouble."

Copper filled Florence's mouth as blood dripped over her lips. Her nose screamed; it had to be broken. She saw Wells through the haze of tears, still cowering against the opposite wall.

"Come on," Lacey said, breaking through the sound of Carter's heaving breaths. "They aren't worth it."

Carter let go of Florence's hair and she slumped to the ground. He sneered down at her. "Too bad about the nose. You were already ugly enough." He turned away. "You should probably get back to your post."

Florence pushed herself shakily to her feet as the group shuffled past her, thundering up the stairs. Her stomach ached where the edge of her shotgun had dug into her when she fell.

Wells hesitated a moment, his expression sympathetic, then lifted his bag and hurried after them.

[thecandywrites]

Monster March 2025 Day 20- Angel

Part 2. Mrs. Hebriel Kriestiel.

Again, huge inspiration from Lethal Cosmetics, and thier amazing eyeshadows. Because again, in a world of modern "monsters" there would be specialists for the various kinds of beings that would cohabit with us, and some, catering to a certain kind of clientelle. And I know, if I was lucky enough to have wings to fly, I would not only want them to be functional, but very pretty too. And of course, some Bad Omens sprinkles on top for flair. Because yes, I know it's cliche at this point, a demon married to an angel and blah, blah, blah. But I'm just tickled that I could quintessentially make this a two parter and have each part centered around the subject that fits the prompt.

Huge thanks to @borealwrites for thier Monster March 2025 Prompt List.

Monster March 2025- Day 20- Angel

Wings Unlimited, 

Part 2 Mrs. Hebriel Kriestiel 

“Mrs. Kriestiel?” The technician, Alessandra asked as she smiled at Hebriel who practically leapt from her seat to quickly walk over to her. 

“So, I did it!” Hebriel quietly squealed in delight. 

“Did what?” Alessandra asked curiously. 

“I got Belriun to get something other than Dark Matter.” Hebriel tried to keep the volume of her voice down but her sheer excitement was unmistakable. 

“So what did he get? Stargaze?” Alessandra guessed. 

“Nope, Eclipse!” Hebriel nearly squealed in delight. 

“No way, really?” Alessandra asked in sheer shock. 

“Yeah, so, obviously, I want something to match in a way that most couples do but I don’t want like- an exact replica, but definitely Jade for sure. Maybe even Clover. Clover would be good. Otherwise my favorites were Antimatter, Supernova, Ceres, Parsec, Singularity, Opal, Fluorite and Genesis, but Belriune, urged me to get Opal on the Secondaries, but get Jade on the coverts, then top it all off with Singularity to tie it all together.” Hebriel rattled off. 

“Do you want to go with that, or would you like to give him a whirl with something else?” Alessandra asked as she brought Hebriel to her station. 

“Please, tell me what you were thinking, you’re the expert.” Hebriel invited. 

“Ok, so, if Mr. Kriestiel is getting Eclipse, that’s green with a deeper maroon-ish purple, obviously you want to play off of the green, but there are others that you didn’t list that would be a light version of Eclipse, that would give you those same greens and purples in flashes of color but obvious, a white base instead of a black one. But you would absolutely look like the perfect pair once you’re back together. Like totally, instagram worthy- couples goals hashtag.” Alessandra offered. 

“I trust you, do you whatever you feel would be best.” Hebriel offered. 

“Ok, so what I’m thinking is we go for more pigmented colors closer to your body, and then the farther out you go, the more sheer but yet the more intense the shifting colors would be, but still stay in those color families. But obviously, with an angelic and a feminine twist.” Alessandra offered. 

“Yes, exactly, just as long as there’s a Opal in there, a Jade and a Singularity in there somewhere, I’ll be happy.” Hebriel offered. 

“Ok, so let me show you some swatches of what I’m thinking of…” Alessandra offered before she took the classic white feathers that had the various colors of the different treatments to use as swatches for Hebriel to use with a mirror to see how that would look with her and her wings before they made a plan of action, which was mostly what Belriune had suggested, granted with a fun twist here and there but definitely, once Alessandra sent a message to Zach to make sure that the couple would “match” to a degree and to find that not only had Belriune had gotten Eclipse, but with Nebula on his coverts, that gave Alessandra more than enough to work with to turn Hebriel into a proper diva, practically her own goddess. And granted, it took twice as long as Belriune’s did, but that extra time ensured that Hebriel was over the moon and stars over her own transformation as she even used the pigments that they also sold as eyeshadow to redo just the lids of her eyes to really make her face just as beautiful as her wings. And when she exited the booth, nearly every guy with a pulse, who was also a client whistled lowly as she strutted past them as she giggled to hear so many of them ask their technicians if she was single or married, which only made her feel better about her choices to trust Alessandra before she checked out, granted, with all the extra pigments and all the extra time and techniques used, her bill was four times as much as Belriune’s was, but it was worth it. But now she feared if Belriune was going to like it or love it as much as she did. 

“His jaw will drop to the floor.” Gail tried to encourage when she saw Hebriel hesitate to leave the rescheduling desk to the waiting room again. 

“True.” Hebriel offered as her stomach reminded her that she should have had lunch an hour before it growled rather loudly. 

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t get a headache from them being too busy.” Hebriel breathed.

“If you two have been together for literal millenia, I’m sure he’d love you without any wings at all.” Gail encouraged. 

“Damn girl, I’ll bet you make every angel willing to fall from the skies to enter your personal heaven.” Another client as he came up behind her. 

“One was already more than enough.” Hebriel smiled politely before she stood taller and flipped her blonde hair to her back and then strutted out into the lobby to see Belriune half asleep. 

“Oh Darling?” Hebriel called out and that jolted Belriune awake and his eyes nearly popped out and his jaw did quite literally fall away. 

“Wow. Like, you’re always beautiful and gorgeous but wow! Just, you’re stunning and exquisite, I love this combination.” Belriune praised which restored Hebriel’s confidence. 

“Figures.” He muttered as he left which made Belriune pause and pull away from Hebriel to stare after the retreating form of the other angel who had been in back there with her. 

“You don’t think it’s too busy?” She asked with a wince.

“Babe, it’s you, your inner and outer beauty has always been dazzling and divine. You’re practically a goddess. And I am truly humbled to call you mine.” Belriune reassured her as he stood and kissed her softly yet soundly before the guy that had checked out behind her looked at them and scoffed. 

“Ignore him Dearest, let’s just get lunch.” Hebriel encouraged. 

“Did he say anything to you back there?” Belriune asked. 

“That just about every angel should fall from the skies to enjoy my “personal heaven”, whatever that would mean.” She repeated with an air of dismissal. 

“Yeah, he tried to flirt, very badly, at me. Obviously, he was not pleased when I shot him down and instead came out here to you.” Hebriel confessed.

“My Dearest Darling, what did he say?” He asked as he held her beautiful face in his warm hands. 

“Besides, I have you, and you are that all I have ever needed and will ever need either.” She reassured him. 

“Now, about those tacos…” She encouraged him by proudly taking his arm and having her escort them both out of there, looking better than ever.

[rom-e-o]

The REverse pulling a parallel story from the timeline I've always had of Bess and Wolf being de facto-guardians of a baby for a while. In the og timeline, Bess is approached by a somewhat rattled-looking young mother at the market and asked if she could hold her child a moment while she runs to "take care of something". Of course, Bess obliges. Minutes pass. Bess starts to worry. Then an hour goes by and Bess begins to search for the mother only to discover she's vanished. The police get involved but the babe won't settle for anyone but Bess, so it's decided she and Scrooge will take in the child as the investigation is carried out.

Eventually it's discovered the baby's mother is a young widow with an abusive family who intends to sell her child and then marry her off to the old man they originally promised her hand to before she eloped with her true love. She disappeared to avoid the betrothal and left the baby with the couple that's proclaimed to be one of the richest and kindest of couples in London, probably hoping they would use their influence to protect her child or, perhaps, even take up the offer to buy her child from her family. Her instincts were right to suppose the Scrooges would use their influence to keep the child from her family's grasp, because Bess and Ebenezer absolutely do not surrender that baby back to the family, and take the child as their own until the mother eventually turns up again.

Now, how could we translate this to the REverse aesthetic?

Ohhh, this is a fascinating ask!

First of all, that poor mama. She was in a terrible situation, and made the choice to give a baby a fighting chance. Leave it with people who can care for them. It's not an easy choice, but it's better than the alternative. She can't giver her baby a good life, but she can give her baby a good life with another family. ;;

OHHH, okay, now translating that into the REverse.

We kind of see that happen with Sherry, a bit. Her mother has gone mad and her father is a mutated monster, so Claire and Leon pretty much adopt her! So, it's not an uncommon scenario, haha. It's one that feels right at-home, actually.

So, for translating the scenario into the REverse, I imagine that perhaps Bess is on the ground somewhere. Maybe after Umbrella has looped her in as a double agent. When there's the aroma of a new virus in the air, they send her in. She's survived Raccoon City, after all. Girl knows her way around an outbreak more than some of the other greenhorns that would basically be clay pigeons amidst the zombies.

Bess is scoping the scene and helping evacuate some survivors from an encampment. Some people are showing symptoms, and intervention is essential.

Perhaps this is where Bess meets the young mother? She goes to Bess and says, "I can't leave yet - my family is here! Please, take my baby. I'll follow shortly."

Bess, of course, would take the child. There's not a choice.

Does the young woman get out? Probably, but once that helicopter lands, she splits. She's got some plans to enact before she comes back for her baby, and has to move fast. She will follow shortly - it just might take more than one helicopter ride's length of time.

Bess is left with this child, and even worse, a child that might be infected, and she doesn't know with which variant.

I can see her rushing the baby to the medical unit at the Umbrella base. As soon as Wold hears Bess has returned, he goes to meet her. I'm not sure where in their relationship they would be at this point (they definitely don't have a great start in this universe, thanks to the Twins literally investing in a world-ending initiative before they knew better) but he does feel an obligation to see her safe. She's cleaning up his dirty work, in a way. He may start off squashing his feelings, but the attraction is there.

If they're a couple, I see him running to meet her. Fine suit and proper attire and all, and he runs and hugs her. He's surprised to see her in the med bay, as she appears fine, praise be. Then, she mentions the baby that's currently being monitored in the newborn unit.

"The mother left her with me."

"She ... gods, I can't imagine."

"What can we do? The poor thing can't stay in the med bay. We're already overflowing with the latest group of survivors, and that includes infants. We can't--"

"We have plenty of space."

"No, we don't--"

"In our apartments," Wolf clarifies. "They can stay with us."

And he leans into it. The first nights require some makeshift arrangements like making a pillow-wreathed bed on the floor so the baby can sleep safely. Maybe they both sleep on either side of her, staying up talking to pass some of the time.

As the time goes on, they get diapers, formula, some toys. Maybe they even take a night off to go baby shopping. Together. Picking out onesies and tiny pairs of socks, all while the baby gurgles in Bess' arms.

When there are mission, Wolf brings the baby to meetings. He gets a little play area to go in his office so that the baby can always be in his sight.

I'm sure others at Umbrella roll their eyes at how seriously they take the responsibility, but they can't deny ... they make a pretty damn good team. ;; <3

[bridgyrose]

Cinder as Astarion or Vice Versa

(I... really need to do more with BG3 and actually learn more about the breakable vampire twink)

Cinder clutched her head as she swore she could hear Salem’s voice rattling around her mind, her breathing starting to become heavy as the scars on her back started to burn. It had been years since she was allowed to be near anyone, the other spawns like her kept separated from her while she was punished for yet another failure at seducing someone to bring to Salem. 

“You know why I keep you, dont you?” Salem’s voice echoed around Cinder, almost as if she was in the same room. “You… are precious to me.” 

“I-I didnt mean to fail you,” Cinder half whimpered as the burning of her scars started to die down. “There was an attack-” 

“I dont care about why you failed me, I care that you werent able to follow simple instructions.” 

Cinder winced as she felt Salem slap her, watching as the woman appeared in front of her. Her hand went to her cheek, feeling the blood that had started to drip. “I… I’m sorry…” 

“And because you’re precious to me, I’m going to give you another chance.” 

“You… you are?” 

“I am.” Salem pulled away from Cinder with a smile. “Bring me another soul, and I’ll give you a little freedom.” 

Cinder nodded and knelt down in front of Salem, nearly shaking at the opportunity. “O-of course, goddess.” 

“Do not disappoint.” 

Cinder looked up and watched as Salem practically dissolved like smoke, her body still in pain as she began to dress herself. Years of isolation made her desperate to please her goddess as she stood up and started to make her way to the door. She paused as she placed a hand on the doorknob, keeping still as she tried to determine if the sun was out by the heat of the metal. Once she was sure the sun had set, she opened the door, relaxing and let out the breath she held as she felt the cool night air against her skin. 

She took a deep breath and made her way out into the village she had been locked away in, pulling the hood of her robe over her head to help keep herself from getting noticed. All she had to do was seduce someone she could bring to Salem, and she could be in her good graces once more. Though, the longer Cinder thought about it, the more she wasnt sure who would work anymore. Salem wasnt picky, just as long as she had bodies to feed from, that was all that mattered, but even then, there were those who didnt seem to last long, disposed of almost as quickly as they were brought. 

Still, as long as Cinder followed instructions, she’d be safe. That much she knew. A smile crossed her lips as she looked around a corner, watching a couple thugs mug one of the villagers. Her fangs slowly started to grow as she made her way over, almost as quiet as the wind itself. 

“Is that all you have?” one of the thugs asked with a scoff as he dumped out the contents of a woman’s bag, disappointed with the lack of anything worthwhile. “You’ve gotta have more.” 

The woman’s voice started to break as she tried to pull away, finding her back against a wall. “T-that’s everything I have-” The woman’s words were cut off with a scream as the second thug slashed a knife against her arm. 

“Maybe we’ll have to find another way to get what we want out of you,” the second thug said, wiping the blood off her blade. “A pretty thing like you will fetch a nice price.” 

“Leave her alone,” Cinder said as her amber eyes started to turn red, fangs peeking out of her smile. “I’m sure you two can get your money somewhere else.” 

The first thug looked over at Cinder, pulling his knife at her. “And what do we have here? Looks like we’ll have another one for him.” 

Cinder smirked and gripped the hilt of her blades as she watched the thugs walk closer to her, gently tapping the pommel as she counted quietly to ten. “Ten,” she said just loud enough to be a whisper as she pulled her blades from her sheaths and sliced into the thugs arms and kicked his leg in. 

“Gah!” the thug yelled out as he dropped his knife, falling back. “Leave that one and get her!” 

The second thug pushed the woman away and rushed at Cinder, knife at the ready. “Right!” 

Cinder grinned and sliced into the second thug, pushing him over just like the first. She licked her lips as she smelled the iron in their blood, nearly salivating as she hungered. She knelt down next to the first thug, licking her lips as she made a small cut along his neck, letting a little blood trickle down. With a quick swipe of her finger, she took a little blood and smiled as she savored the taste. “A little meal before I finish here wont hurt-” 

Her words were cut off as she heard a *crack* in the sky as a portal opened up, the hair on the back of her neck as the air felt… off. A growl-like roar echoed out in the air above her as she looked up to see a nautiloid fly overhead. Cinder got up to start to run, feeling a tentacle grab her, body practically disintegrating as she lost consciousness.

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

The Mafia Princess Part III: The Meeting

Okay, I have a lot of information to throw at you guys so here we go! First, I told you I would make a new post for this story since it was getting so long. Second, I'm compiling all of this onto AO3 for easier reading! The polls/voting, of course, will still be taking place here on tumblr at the end of each update/post.

Mafia Princess Masterpost: https://www.tumblr.com/ibelieveinahappilyeverafter/743113275016937473/the-mafia-princess-masterpost?source=share

AO3 Full Story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54008686?view_full_work=true

Winning Result: Duck and cover and hide behind a dumpster.

---

Elsa didn’t waste any time thinking or wondering if, instead of a gunshot, it had been some kind of firework on those annoying poppers they sold around the 4th of July. Instead she figured better safe than sorry and ducked into the closest alleway, trying to be quiet as she wedged herself between an overflowing dumpster and a brick wall.

Forcing herself to try and not have some kind of panic attack, Elsa was pretty sure her heart stopped when she heard rapid footsteps followed by someone slamming up against the dumpster she was hiding behind. She fought the urge to try and move further back or scrunch herself up more and instead focused on staying as still as possible as she listened to what was happening. 

She felt the dumpster rattle briefly, as if someone had pushed against it before stopping. Considering she heard harsh, breathless panting, she had to assume whoever had slammed into it had then used it to get their balance back. 

Straining to hear anything else, Elsa almost flinched when she heard a deep voice suddenly talking. “Alleyway. Somewhere between 6th and 7th over by Broad. Get here. Now.” Alright. Definitely a man who had come slamming up against the dumpster and he had probably just talked to someone on a phone. It was a fifty-fifty considering where she lived. 

Feeling the dumpster rattle again, Elsa swallowed and tried to think on what she should do or if she should just stay still and hope and wait whoever it was would leave soon. She then jumped all over again when she heard yelling and screaming coming from what was probably only a block or two away. 

It took a couple seconds for her to make anything out, but eventually she heard, “-fucking find him and take him the fuck out!” 

“Fuck,” the man swore, harsh and quiet, before a few moments of silence passed. Then the dumpster was moving away from the wall. 

This time she was absolutely certain her heart stopped — even more so when she looked over to see that the man was slipping between the dumpster and the wall to sit down and hide like she had and was now looking right at her. 

She debated screaming for help, but ruled that out when she remembered about the yelling about taking someone out (which meant killing, she was certain of that). She then thought about crying and looking pathetic and sad enough that the idea of killing her wouldn’t even occur. Then she actually looked at the man sitting beside her. He… didn’t look good.

What was once probably a nice suit was now torn up and scuffed and soaked with blood, Elsa noting that the man had been shot at least two or three times and maybe even stabbed once. One of them looked to have been way too close to something important in his chest and Elsa was pretty sure most people died when they had two or three bullet wounds along with a possible stabbing. 

Tearing her gaze away she saw that the man was looking at her just as intensely and Elsa was now absolutely certain that she had no idea on what to do. 

The yelling was only a street away, too.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Many Roads Diverge in the Woods - Part Five

A JSE Interactive Fanfic

The Beginning | Previous

The results are in.

Your path has been altered. Strange how such a small choice can change so much.

THE KEEP READING IS BACK! XD The poll to decide what happens next is beneath it. The poll is only open for one day, expiring on October 14th at 12:00pm PST. Part Six will be up on October 16th at the same time.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

“Okay. Okay, I got it.” Marvin takes a deep breath. “It’ll be hard to take care of Jackie while in the car. H-he needs to keep laying down, and there’s not much room to do that in there.”

“Right.” Chase nods. “The car seat’s pretty narrow. So’s this sofa. A bed would be better. Can we handle getting him up the stairs to a bedroom?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

JJ lifts up the gauze. Then he puts it down to sign, I think the bleeding has slowed down.

“Good.” Marvin nods. “Now we just need to clean and pack the wound, then we can move him.”

That takes a couple minutes. Even as they work, the three of them can’t help but glance around. The wide-open, many-entranced living room is exposing. Being in here is nerve-wracking. Chase finds his eyes drifting towards the basement door more than once, expecting the attacker to burst through at any moment.

“I think... I think this is good.” Marvin steps back. “Or, as good as we can do. I-it’ll last until the police get here.” He takes a deep breath. “Now we move.”

Chase, help me, JJ says. Jackie is half-leaning on him, a bandage wrapped around his chest.

“No problem.” Chase spares a moment to grab the medical kit and Jackie’s hoodie—maybe he’ll want to put it back on when he’s recovered more—and then helps JJ lift Jackie to his feet. “Up the stairs we go.”

It’s slow-going, but after a couple minutes they make it. Without even talking, they head to Jackie’s room near the end of the hall. It’s the smallest one, barely big enough for a bed, a small wardrobe, and a desk with a chair, but they all find somewhere to fit. As soon as everyone’s in, Marvin locks the door. JJ and Chase gently lower Jackie onto the bed. “Put him on his side,” Chase says. “That’s supposed to be good.”

JJ nods. The two of them step back. How long until the police get here again? Ninety minutes? Do we just wait here until then?

“Yeah, that was the plan,” Marvin says.

“What if the guy tries to get in?” Chase whispers, setting Jackie's hoodie and the kit on the desk.

Block the door? JJ suggests.

Chase tries to push the desk, then the wardrobe. He shakes his head. “I think they’re bolted down. Weird.”

“What? Okay...” Marvin looks confused. “I... we could go out the window?”

“We can’t get Jackie out of a two-story window!”

As if on cue, Jackie groans and raises his head slightly. “Wha...?”

“Jackie!” Chase gasps. He kneels by the side of the bed. “How are you? How do you feel?!”

“...bad.” Jackie closes his eyes. JJ reaches forward and snaps his fingers in front of his face, making him open his eyes again. “Don’t... do that.”

Don’t close your eyes, JJ says. You’re not supposed to close your eyes like this!

“Wait.” Marvin holds up a hand. “Do you guys hear that?”

Everyone goes silent. And that’s when they hear the footsteps walking down the hall. Chase inhales sharply. JJ steps forward, as if trying to hide Jackie behind him. The footsteps get closer. They can hear the bathroom door opening, then closing again. Marvin and Chase back away towards the window.

The footsteps stop right outside the door. Silence follows, deep and deafening. Then it is broken as the doorknob jiggles, clattering as it tries to turn despite the lock. It clatters louder. Then stops abruptly. A strange scraping sound drifts down the wood of the door.

BANG BANG BANG!

JJ jumps back. Chase covers his mouth and swallows the scream in his throat. Whoever’s on the other side of the door is banging on it, trying to break it down. And it might work. With each impact the door rattles in its frame.

Marvin looks around the room, eyes wide with panic. Now what?! he asks in sign language, not wanting to say anything out loud.

We came up here to hide it out, JJ says. Surely they can’t get in. There’s not even a lock on the other side. We can wait. But as he says that, the banging on the door just gets louder, his face going paler with every echoing BANG!

What if they do get in?! Marvin asks. We can’t get Jackie out of here! This was a bad idea!

Jackie groans again. “Guys,” he whispers. “It’s... i-it’s...”

Chase shushes him. “Save your strength,” he whispers.

“No, y-you need... to know.” Jackie is breathing heavily. “Schneep... attacked me.”

The other three go silent, identical expressions of disbelief on their faces. He wouldn’t do that, JJ signs slowly.

“He did,” Jackie says quietly. “Open... the door. You’ll see... he’s...” His strength fades, and he puts his head back down.

The banging sound on the door is joined by a strange thunk!ing, like someone is throwing something against the wood. The doorknob rattles. Marvin shivers. We can’t open the door! he says. Can we?!

Chase presses his hands against his ears. It’s hard to know what to do! What do they do?!

[okinawa-division]

It’s just that Japan has turned around into the midsummer —The perfect time to enjoy a beach trip for most people.

Once a certain jet-black car has reached its destination at one of the best hot-spots being reviewed in Okinawa, the boy with reddish hair has been spotted stepping out of the car …with a number of boxes in his arms. 

The seashell chimes hanging above the bar’s doors let out their lovely rattling sound as he gets inside.

“Good afternoon, mister. Are you perhaps Mr. Young of Eagle’s Nest? I’m Yuuya Kanata from Nara division. I’m here today to relay the birthday presents from my team.”

“This box is my gift. They may look all yummy but they are in fact scented candles I found nice. If by any chance, I think they will make good decorations to your bar at nighttime. Their smells are quite something too. This one has a vanilla scent, this one is strawberry milkshake, this one is butter cream, and many more —Well, they all smell like desserts in my opinion.”

And then he brings out a cooler box. 

“Okay, these ones are actually edible haha. They’re Monaka ice cream made from my teammate despite him telling me that making ice cream isn’t really his land of expertise. Even so, he expects something cool like ice cream would sell off rather well in summer and more particularly; maybe somewhere with a tropical climate like in Okinawa. And in case you want to be more creative with them, the empty shells (crispy wafer) are also available in the additional bag.”

“From Saigo-san are the beautifully painted ceramic plates and the last one is from Mr. Chishio —Hmm, the latter is like… the assistant of Saigo-san? Honestly, just how many jobs this guy has been carrying under that title. I don’t know why, but Mr. Chishio seems to know your place rather well even before we entered the DRB. He even asked me to tell you ‘Thank you for the trading’ and give me his own gift for you.”

Inside the box from the guy called Chishio are a collection of kitchen knives for various uses ...Just don’t get the wrong idea. Japanese are known for using different knives for each different role in the kitchen. So, the ultimate motive behind this gift is only for cooking …Definitely, not for murdering someone, maybe?

“And that’s all we’ve got for you today. Lastly, Happy Birthday Mr. Young —EH? YOU ALSO GOT A KITTY?” 

Seemingly distracted for a minute, the boy soon keeps his composure back from petting the kitten a couple of times. 

“…It’s a shame that I’ve to fetch some seafoods for my teammates before dinnertime, so let me say a good-bye for today. Nevertheless, hope you and your teammates all have a nice year!”

——— BONUS: about fifteen minutes ago

Chishio: We’ve already arrived at the bar so why don’t we order some liquor on our way home?

Yuuya: How do you forget that I’m still underage and alcohol seems likely to be downright sedative to me? What wicked humor you have today, Chishio-san. At least don’t convince your minor to be your drinking friend!

Chishio: *chuckles* Aren't you 19 this year, kid?

Rashaad smiled at the handful of gifts he had received from the Nara Division. Truthfully, he wasn't all that familiar with them, though he did know of them. It was one of the many perks of being a bartender; you knew just about everyone in Japan, whether they had revealed themselves or not. He made a mental note that he'd have to interact with the Nara team later on when he had some free time. Before he departed, the bar owner disappeared quickly into his bar before returning with a bottle of sake and some cups.

"For Chishio-san and Fuyugami-san," Rashaad stated, handing him the bottle and the cups. "Tell them to make sure it's thoroughly heated first."

Bidding the young teenager a farewell, Rashaad looked at the gifts he had received. Out of all of them, the candles were perhaps his favorite. Opening a random one, he quickly lit it with his lighter. In a matter of seconds, the entire bar seemed to smell like some fruity cereal, making Rashaad nod his head, enjoying the aroma.

Sitting down on one of the stools in his bar, he chose the vanilla and chocolate parfait as he began digging into it, eating it was his hands. He heard a small 'purr' from above and looked as it was his kitten, Coco, whom Rashaad had forgotten was on top of his head. Looking up at him, he placed a small thing of ice cream on one of the plates, Fuyugami-san had given him.

The feline, not needing to be told twice, dug into the sweet milky treat, using his small tongue to eat it. The scene made Rashaad grin; this birthday was truly shaping up to be, perhaps, his best upon leaving the States.

Thanks for the gift!

[halcyen]

The fact that she's merely busying herself while the couple in the doorway exist quietly with one another seems obvious. Sophie feels as if she's been shoved up onto a stage and made to perform, though she'd be the first to admit that the absence of her ostensible audience's eyes, namely those of Skizm's Killer-Queen, is of some comfort. The short-lived glimpse she'd received of Arthur's wife's too-wide stare was sharp, and cold. She wields those eyes like she does blades in her hands. Everybody knows it.

Working to swallow the judgement that which stems more from discomfort and feeling like she doesn't currently suit her skin, is harder than Sophie would like. She locks her jaw momentarily to answer her old neighbor with a friendly hum, grinds her teeth for only a second ere catching the slip, then rolls her eyes toward the half of Arthur she can see from the kitchen sink.

" That's because you were lucky enough to be out of here, " Her 'admonishment' is well-meaning, benign, and comes with a smile meant to tease as well as self-depreciate for jest's sake. " And looking. " The squeak of the sponge against a plate laden with suds almost makes her wince. In the terse air every sound feels far louder than it should. Her breathing's rattling in her ears. She thinks she can even hear Arthur's fingers comb through Nix's hair from here.  Something about those eyes... Sophie feels gooseflesh on the inside of her skin somehow. Everything's crooked. 

She continues, " I don't even know where you'd put one in this box. "

Arthur's focus is on his wife, ostensibly working to overlook her glazed eyes for some attempt at ease for her sake. If it's working, Sophie has no way of telling. The occasional sniff from around the corner is begotten by Nix. That she knows. She thinks she hears the snapping of teeth occasionally too.

" You'd need an extension. " He agrees contemplatively, though the subject itself holds about as much weight as the air should around them. It's gotten thicker, static and prickling at the napes of their necks.

" Out on the fire escape, maybe. " She says, balancing the last of her dishes on the rack with a certain expertise that comes with years of performing the impossible feat in such a small space. Sophie leaves the detritus to drip dry, instead reaching for a towel to pat her hands clean.

She clears the modest kitchen once again, chancing another reveal of her face to the woman in the doorway. She's never seen someone cut so sharply. Nix's profile's pale against the shadow of the hallway she still lingers in. Not a toe over the threshold. " You know, " Sophie lures her attention again, stern and immovable as the walls. She isn't even sure if Nix has blinked once while looking at her. " You really can come in. I'm not gonna hold you hostage in the hall. "

Her blonde head tilts in the way a lioness' would, observing a gazelle. Nix watches her husband's would-be paramour as she pretends she isn't swallowing a lump in her throat with all the same presumed indifference. There's something more embittered behind the eyes, though. Nix feels it even herself, as something painful, acidic. A long-drawn breath does nothing to soften her edges, and she's tired of every attempt. She lifts her hands, wordlessly pulls the towel from her hair, and therefore Arthur's stroking hands too, and draws a tempered smile.

" I'm good. " Now Nix swallows, and it's something rotten that will continue to hurt and fester somewhere in her chest. Working so hard to welcome her, Sophie's natural balm only deigns to scald her. It really is no wonder Arthur's drawn to her. That truth is a blade shunted up her neck and through the roof of her mouth. She suffers the wound because there's no other choice, turns her face to her husband but not her eyes, and says, " I thought you wanted me to come get you. "

Her lower lip trembles whenever used to shape a word. She hates it. Hates herself. Hates where they are. She swears she's seen her husband's attention drift up the hall to 8J, to the other lure still pulling him to this dilapidated building instead of the home they'd supposedly built for one another. Heart trembles too. She feels it, uncomfortable and grieved and biting at her breastplate. It wants out of her chest as much as she'd find comfort in seeing it land at her own feet.

Allegorical noose around her neck, and those honeyed bullets launched her way from Sophie's warm eyes, she's about as unwelcome here as any putrid thing. In spite of assurances. How she feels the rot eating away beneath her skin promises her much the same. Arthur's naked face, rare and yet so ostensibly comfortable here, only seeks to urge the allegorical maws to chew her faster. And so she avoids looking. Can't help it. 

Sophie agrees with her, but almost chokes under that stare of broken blue glass. Her presence alone is a poison to the woman opposite her. She wants to apologise without even knowing her true fault. There's no salvaging Nix from whatever pained truth sits behind her eyes, but she can help to free her from the cage of her apartment seems to be. " It is late. "

“Yeah,” Sophie candies that retort as much as she can without patronizing the wild-eyed nymph at her husband’s side.

Nix clutches his waistcoat with such tenacity, she might shear the polyester with her nails. Terror’s shrunk her pupils to pinheads, leaving two clear blue pools no less cold than Sokol’s stare. The wolf-dog side-guards his master so Nix has more range without worrying about accidentally stepping on a paw or tail. Joker averts his eyes to note how close her feet are to his, then cradles the back of her head and guides it forward for a kiss between her eyes.

Despite the rain ostensibly drenching him, his touch exudes all the warmth of a hearth. Nix finds herself blooming toward it like a flower to sunlight. Her shoulders, however, have caved. She’s deflated. Mist clings to her eyes and stains her sclera bright red. Compared to Sophie, she’s a pasty bag of bones with stringy wet hair and clothes that wear her. Nix blinks. A mascara-stained tear slips from her waterline and trickles down her cheek. Joker pads it away with his thumb, then kisses the upturned tip of her nose and massages her scalp in lazy circles.

He turns on an angle, one shoulder toward Sophie and the other pointed at the door so he can keep Nix tucked against him. She’s too quiet. Each breath leaves hastier than the last until she hyperventilates with little dramatics. Her chest hardly moves. The warm stained glass light fixtures hanging both in the foyer and kitchen blur and swirl.

Joker, too, feels the living room twist into a funhouse tunnel. The ceiling sweeps to the wall, floor, opposite wall, and back around. He staggers where he stands. Nix lays a palm across his chest to catch him, then follows his eyes back to Sophie. She still holds his wet jacket with little direction in terms of how close she can get to the wild animal trapped against his chest. Perhaps he’d debriefed her on why she should keep her distance from Skizm’s former top player. Joker’s veneer softens into a smile that Nix can see isn’t meant for her. It’s a scalpel through the chest, but she grips his waistcoat and burrows half her face so one pale eye watches his former neighbor from the safety of his waistcoat. Joker kisses Nix’s temple again, then noses her hair as he proffers a hand to receive his only blazer. 

“Thanks,” he says before the jacket even touches his skin.

Sophie crosses the room slower than intended and hands that damp blazer off with a touch of reluctance since it’s still wet. 

“Probably should’ve taken the hair dryer,” Sophie pantomimes using it like a blowtorch.

Joker scrunches his face and pushes his tongue down so his laugh is a little cleaner than usual. Phlegm still pools in the back of her throat, but pushing his tongue lower helps the sound be less grating. He then drapes the damp garment across his forearm. All the while a crisp blue eye watches Sophie unblinkingly. The other’s burrowed in her husband’s shoulder even though Nix is marginally taller. That dying star scintillates with the lightning. A chill shoots up Joker’s spine to prepare him for thunder. When the clouds finally collide, the entire apartment shakes. Sophie doesn’t gasp, but looks up as if nervous that one of the sallow light fixtures might fall and crack someone in the head.

“It’s happened before,” she doesn’t give much context, but doesn’t need to. Werewolf has spread her legs a little further than shoulder-width apart and follows her eyes to the light fixtures. She makes her golden eyes wide and presses her mouth for as ‘silly’ a smile as she can manage given the awkward situation. “Do you remember when we had that little earthquake?”

“The one that the press played up like we live in L.A.? Yeah,” he reaches into his pocket for a new cigarette to slide in his mouth. Without unsettling Nix, he fishes his lighter out next. Three flicks of a spark wheel finally produce a flame, which Joker holds to the tail and waits for a smoky finger to let him know it’s lit. Nix will likely steal it in a minute. “I don’t even think I felt it.”

“Someone’s desk shook for maybe half a second at work,” Sophie rolls her eyes. Then her attention settles on Nix, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” though she cautions extending a hand. She busies them by snap-clapping like the harried host she’s become and gestures toward the kitchen, “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, water, maybe I’ve got a few chasers in the fridge…?”

“No, thank you,” Nix speaks in a soft monotone that she’s fully aware doesn’t become her. The bony fingers latched around her husband’s waistcoat shake. Should she turn her left hand, hot pink and rainbow spangles from her diamond and ruby-encrusted wedding rings will dance across the floor and walls.

Joker kisses her crown and strokes the back of her wet head before catching Sophie’s eye. He asks, “D-do you have a hand-towel or something? She’s soaked.”

“I don’t need it,” Nix lacks any inflection. She stares into the kitchen. That same cyan glow once flooded the kitchen of Apartment 8J. Now she’s certain the power has been cut by the landlord. No one lives there. No one should. 

He presses a kiss against her hairline. The ends of his free fingers already work on combing out the ends so her hair separates and isn’t so staticky. Nix burrows half her face deeper into his chest, smearing her eye makeup on his clothing. He pays no mind. Joker scoops what damp hair has been trapped between her shoulder and his chest like Spanish moss and slings it behind her shoulders so he can start finger-coming those locks out. She keeps that same lidless eye pinned on Sophie as she nods and disappears in the inverted version of the dark hall inside 8J. She returns with a towel large enough to wrap hair in and tosses it at Joker. He jostles his own jacket until Nix helps him by taking the garment and tucking it against her own chest. It still smells like him after rain. All that’s left it is cigarette smoke, though she watches that exhaust trickle north and bloom across Sophie’s ceiling. Had she proper lighting, the off-white paint would probably be blackened — and not just from Joker.

This building has a mold problem, though Joker says he never had any in his apartment. Wouldn’t matter if it’s in the walls. Maybe that’s to blame for his chronic respiratory infections.

Tucking the cigarette between his teeth, Joker snakes his arms up and around his wife so he can begin towel-drying her hair the way he would their daughters’. He’d felt her spine go rigid at first, then relax as his fingertips work the terrycloth through her scalp and comb out the ends so she isn’t saturated.

“It’s still raining,” Nix would stake herself were she a fly on the wall. She feels her teeth chatter.

Joker braces as brontide announces another lightning strobe. Sophie twists to check the bedroom for Gigi. When the coast is ostensibly clear, she drifts into the kitchen so as not to crowd the couple’s space. She has a few dishes that can be washed. 

“If I had a dryer, I’d have thrown it in for five minutes,” Sophie speaks of the towel being worked through Nix’s hair. The sink’s ‘hot’ water is lukewarm at best. She’s numb to the lead-contaminated sludge that in her nightmares sometimes runs brown. In reality, it probably has more than once. “Number one on my wishlist.”

“What, a washer and dryer…?” Joker echoes what went unspoken, but his eyes only stray from Nix so he can gauge where Sophie is. They then lower so he can continue working the towel through his wife’s hair. “I wouldn’t even look at a unit without them when we were moving.” 

[heich0e]

bittersweet - vash the stampede/f!reader (trigun stampede): 7k, listen there's only been 2 eps and i don't know the lore so i am loudy and emphatically declaring creative license, in my mind this is set before the start of stampede but not by much, heavy on the wild wild west core here, light angst, smut, fingering, needy vanilla sex, domesticity, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, boot-throwing related violence. 18+ NSFW MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

The desert smells bitter.

You wouldn’t think that sand would smell like much at all, but the fragrance that hangs perpetually in the air is heavy, singed, and acrid with the heady scent of life and its misery. Waste and runoff make their unpleasantness acutely known on the hottest days, and the fumes from old machinery that’s barely functioning thanks to age and disrepair—that no one can afford to fix, so they have to hold out hope it keeps running—clogs up the already noxious atmosphere as it rattles on throughout the day. 

Mama used to tell you that outside of Jeneora Rock, the world smelled different. There’s somewhere else past the walls that mark the edge of the only town you’ve ever known, even past the wastelands—a place where almost no one ever goes, but that your Mama saw once. Or at least she said she did.

She told you it smelled clean. Sweet. Untouched by anything but the sun’s heat and the five moons’ glow. 

Mama’s gone, has been for a long time now, and even though she never had much to give to you in the first place, that story is the most precious thing she left behind. You think about it almost as often as you think about her. 

The end of another long day is marked by a familiar heaviness to your bones. Between the suffocating heat that makes you groggy and a hard day's work, there’s a palpable weight that bears down on you as you climb the never-ending metal stairs to your front door—your feet drag a bit more with every step.

The lock to your home is getting hard to turn. You’ve noticed it a few times now: a resistance as you slip your key into the keyhole, a pressure as you urge the mechanism to turn and let you in. There may be sand built up in there to clean out, or maybe it needs some oil.

But oil costs money, of which you don’t have much, so you really hope that it’s the former rather than the latter. 

You examine the keyhole once you manage to force the lock open, dropping to your knees outside your door to peek into the narrow opening on the tarnished face of the lock. It doesn’t do you much good because the sun’s already dropped dark, and even if the light of day still hung overhead you doubt it would be enough to make the issue any clearer. You drag your thumb idly along a little scratch beside the keyhole that's probably been there for years; the metal is still warm to the touch from the heat of the day that still hasn’t quite broken, the surface a little rougher where the score is chipped in.

You sigh, picking yourself up off the ground and dusting off your skirt, and turn the knob into your home. 

It’s dark when you get inside, but something feels wrong.

You shut the door behind you as you enter, pressing your back flat against it as your eyes struggle to adjust to the dark. Your home, like every other one in town, isn’t really much to look at even in the plain light of day. You’re luckier than lots of people though, you’ve got a couple rooms all to yourself where some families have no choice but to cram many people into just one. Papa left you this house, cause now he’s gone too just like Mama, but not much has changed since the day he left it to you—except now there’s less empty bottles rolling around underfoot, and you get to call the little bedroom off the main room yours.

It takes a second for your eyes to get used to the dimness with the door shut tight behind you, so you blink hard to make it happen faster. You see the rickety little table against the wall near the door, and the chair on the other side of the room where you sometimes sit by the window to mend your skirts when they wear and tear—but only when you get home early enough to catch the last few moments of sun, cause Mama always used to warn you about sewing by lamplight. The shutters on the window are closed and locked now, but there’s no light outside them to let in anyway. 

Something shuffles in the dark.

Papa left you a gun, too. Even taught you how to shoot it. Mama hated that. She hated how good you were at it even more. She used to say that shooting was gonna be your husband’s job someday, and that even in a world this wicked Papa was teaching you things you didn’t need to know.

But now Mama’s gone. And Papa’s gone. And the world is still wicked. And you’ve got no husband, but you have a gun you know how to shoot.

You keep it and a little stash of 7 bullets underneath your bed where you can get to it quick, but it’s on the other side of the house, and even though that’s not very far away you don’t know what’s waiting for you between the door and your bed. You don’t know if it’s faster than you are, either, so running for it would be a fool’s errand. 

Inside your chest, your heart starts pumping a little harder, ‘til you can feel the wet thump, thump, thump right in the back of your mouth.

You know you need light. You need to be able to see. You can’t make any decisions until you know what’s between you and your Papa's gun tucked up safe underneath your bed.

Slowly your eyes flicker over to the lamp on your table, just within reach. 

You suck a little gasp into your lungs to steel your nerve. The air is less sour in here—more familiar, a little more comforting—but the acrid scent of the desert still lingers on the edge of each breath. Slowly you reach towards the lamp and flick it on.

“PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME!”

The frantic plea frightens you so terribly that it sends you tumbling to the hard floor, landing flat on your ass with your back thumping painfully into the wall beside your door. In front of you is a face that has no right being as familiar as it is; eyes wide in panic beneath a round pair of glasses, blonde hair tousled in disarray, two hands (one flesh and one crafted) lifted in innocence. 

Your heart is beating even faster now under the tight pull of your laced waistcoat. 

“Are you an idiot?” you hiss, instinctively tugging your boot off your foot and lobbing it forcefully at the unexpected intruder. “You scared the daylights outta me!”

The man sidesteps the projectile easily, and it clatters to the floor. The expression on his face morphs from one of panic to something a little more chagrined.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, drawing out the word. His tone sheepish, and his lips pull into an apologetic little smile.

You place a trembling hand on your chest, pressing down on the spot where you feel your heart thumping the hardest and willing it to slow. You stare at your scuffed floorboards and take a few breaths to ease the frenetic beat of your pulse, and feel yourself begin to wilt as the adrenaline in your veins starts to fade. 

“How’d you get in here, Vash the Stampede?” you ask, looking up again at the man in front of you from your place on the ground.

“I knocked first,” he says with a grimace, “but you weren’t home and I…”

“Broke in because you’ve got someone looking for you?” you finish his explanation for him, your tone flat and entirely unsurprised.

He sighs, shoulders slumping dejectedly as his head hangs forward. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He lifts his chin only enough to guiltily meet your gaze.

“It’s just for one night,” he murmurs the plea, his bottom lip weighed down by a pout.

You shut your eyes tight, hands balling into fists over your skirt to hide the way they tremble.

“Fine.”

Vash falls to his knees in front of you, hands pressed to the floor as he gets right up in your face with a wide, cheerful grin. He’s almost nose to nose with you, the light of the lamp glinting in his glasses.

“Thanks so much! I promise I’ll be outta here before you know it!”

He doesn’t need to tell you that, because the pang in your empty stomach tells you that, even unspoken, you already knew it to be true. 

Vash is travelling light again, just like the last time you saw him. He’s only got one bag that he begins to unpack onto the rickety table in your kitchen, leaving you to quietly go about your own business like you would if you hadn’t found him in your home that night. On the other side of the kitchen you unpack the meagre amount of food you’d managed to buy for yourself that day from little satchel you carried it home in. It’s barely enough food for one, and now you’ll have to stretch it between two. 

“Where’s your father?” Vash asks as he fiddles with his gun at the table behind you. “I thought it was him coming through the door, and I thought for sure he was gonna blow my—“

“He’s dead.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Uncomfortable, even. Vash’s hands still even as yours keep quietly peeling the sad, withered skin from the vegetable in your hand with the blade of a half-dulled knife. 

“I’m sorry,” his next words are quiet. “Your father was a nice man.”

“My father was a drunk who got himself shot in a bar fight with a merchant who came to town and was talking big. He just worshipped you because you saved the plant.”

That same uncomfortable silence creeps in again in the wake of your words, but after a few moments you hear Vash pick up his tools and start tinkering away at whatever he’s working on once more. 

“Is the plant still running?” Vash is the first to speak again, though a fair amount of time passes before he risks another attempt at conversation.

“More or less,” you remark, setting a little pot on the stove to boil with whatever ingredients you’d been able to scrounge together into a meal. You watch the flame of the element burst to life as you flick the switch, a little hiss as the fire licks at the edges of your only copper pot. “Some days it’s more reliable than others. But whatever you did seems to be holding up all right.”

“Good!” Vash says behind you. “That’s good.”

You turn to face him, the unevenly mended hem of your skirt swishing around your ankles. You lean against the little countertop behind you, with your arms crossed behind your back.

“I’ll pop by the plant before I leave town—” 

You watch as Vash’s fingers nimbly fiddle with his gun, broken down into its component parts to be cleaned and maintained. You’re sure it doesn’t need it—are certain he’s fired less shots from that gun in the two years since you’ve seen him than you’ve heard in town this week alone—but it’s kind of nice to watch him work, to appreciate how certain and precise his every move is, and to see how concentrated he is while he goes about it. 

“—just to make sure everything’s still in good shape.”

He looks up at you, like for the first time he feels your gaze as it traces the lines of his profile. He smiles again, that same wide, willful expression of cheer that he always endeavours to wear even though he might be the person least entitled to it.

You hum. “I’m sure everyone would appreciate that. You should stop by to see Rosa too, she’ll box my ear if she finds out you blew though town and didn’t go see her.”

The two of you eat across the table from one another in silence. Just the scrape of cutlery and the occasional loud swallow passing between the two of you. Vash seems hungry, but appears to be trying his best to be at least a little restrained as he eats with you. Even though you’d given him the larger of the two portions, he’s still finished his plate before you’ve finished yours, but he sits patiently across from you waiting for you to swallow your final bite.

“I’ll take these,” he jumps to his feet before you have the chance to even push your chair back from the table, snatching both of your dishes up into his hands. “I’ll clean up, since you’re letting me stay.”

You don’t deny him, and instead slump back into your seat, dragging your wrist along your forehead. Your skin feels grimy from the hot day and the filth outside. Normally you would have bathed before you cooked, but you hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day—and Vash looked like it may have been even longer than that. 

“I’m gonna wash,” you say, standing from your seat. You pause, your fingertips tracing against the rough, rutted surface of the tabletop. You know you don’t have enough water for two baths in your tank. You used to bathe with your mother when you were little, then once you were older and Mama was gone, you got the bathwater first and Papa would get in after you were done. It’s never been an issue until now. “Er—Vash?” 

At the sink where your uninvited house guest is scrubbing at the dishes in the washbasin that you’d filled ahead of time, Vash pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. He’s taken off his familiar red coat, left hanging off the chair he’d been seated in at the table, and the black turtleneck he wears beneath it stretches taut over the musculature of his back as it faces you.

“The bath… there’s only enough water to fill it once. I don’t…Do you want…?” you aren’t sure what you’re even trying to ask him, but whatever is coming out of your mouth is even less clear than the thoughts running through your head.

“I’ll bathe second, don’t worry about me.” 

Vash’s smile is gentle and obliging, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they narrow into little crescents. You nod stiffly, feeling heat flush through you at the softness in his expression, and shuffle off towards the other side of your home while avoiding his gaze.

The walls of your home are paper thin, and you’re certain that Vash can hear the splash of water in the tub as clearly as you can hear the scratchy, garbled sound of his radio from the other room. Once your skin’s been scrubbed clean of the day, you sit in the water with your knees pulled to your chest and your chin tucked between them. You strain to try to make out what’s being broadcast, but it’s difficult to hear since the reception in town is always so piss poor, and whatever coherent bits of news you manage to catch are just as abysmal as always.

It’s strange, hearing someone else in the house. It’s something you didn’t realize had become so foreign to you in the time you’ve learned to live alone. The idle puttering in the other room is a sound you didn’t realize you had missed. You lean back and dunk yourself into the water, where everything goes quiet. 

The bathwater never gets very hot to begin with—tepid at the best of times, which seems unfair given the climate—but you know it’s not fair to waste time in the tub when someone else is waiting for it. You pull yourself up out of the metal basin, careful not to disturb the stopper in the bottom of the tub, and dry as much water from your skin as you can. Once you’ve deemed yourself sufficiently towelled, you pull on your nightdress and a threadbare housecoat overtop.

Vash looks up from the chair in the corner by the window when you emerge from the bathroom, and he meets your eyes so unwaveringly it feels decidedly like he’s trying hard not to let his gaze wander elsewhere. You fidget under his stare, fiddling with the fraying ends of the towel around your neck that’s catching the droplets that fall from your hair. He must realize that he’s unnerving you, because he averts his eyes to a point on the wall over your shoulder after a moment. 

“My turn?” he asks, his tone chipper but polite.

“All yours,” you nod, stepping into your bedroom and leaving him to his business.

There’s an old trunk at the bottom of your bed where you keep some of the things your father left that you haven’t yet been able to sell or make use of. You find an old shirt of his near the very bottom, soft and worn-thin from years of washing. It’s something you could have easily sold or traded by now, but that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to part with—though you’re certain the day will inevitably come when sentimentality can no longer outweigh your basic needs.

You stand outside the bathroom door for a moment, your father’s shirt clutched tightly in your hands. You can hear the splash of bathwater you’re sure has gone cold from where you stand, only a few feet and a thin door between you.

You muster your nerve and tap your knuckles lightly against the door.

“I have a shirt if you need something to—“

The door opens, and you find yourself unexpectedly facing the bare chest of your one-night housemate, still damp and glistening from the bath, lined with silvery scars that the low light catches on.

You toss the shirt at him unceremoniously and turn quickly away, and Vash himself makes a little sound of surprise.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect you to be—“

“It’s fine,” you answer before he can even finish his apology, still refusing to meet his gaze. You gesture vaguely over your shoulder without turning. “Just take that.”

The bathroom door clicks closed again, and you clutch the belt of your housecoat over your diaphragm. 

You need a drink. 

You cross your home to the cabinet in your kitchen, reaching to the back of the nearly-bare shelf and pulling out a dusty old bottle that’s been there since your father died. It wouldn’t have lasted a day if he were still living, and you’ve made it years without ever so much as cracking it open. 

Today however, you feel it’s well-deserved. 

The dust caked on the bottle smears against your palm as you open it, and you wipe the grime furiously against the material of your housecoat as you pour a long glug of the amber liquor into a waiting glass. It’s vile, lukewarm from the constant heat of your home, and burns every inch of the way down—but as you set the empty glass back onto the counter, you still find yourself grateful for it. 

You pour another drink. 

“Take it easy,” you hear a voice say behind you, accompanied by a breathy little laugh.

You turn and see Vash hovering not far from you, his black turtleneck folded over one arm and your father’s shirt over his no-longer-bare chest. His hair is wet, a towel draped around his shoulders just like yours, and he’s taken off his usual eyewear. The mole underneath his eye seems more prominent now that he’s scrubbed himself clean.

Your empty glass dangles from the tips of your fingers, the acerbic taste of the liquor lingering on your tongue. You hold it out to him in offering, and he scrunches up his nose a little bit. 

“I really shouldn’t—“

“It’s rude to turn down a drink your host is offering you, y’know.”

Things like rudeness don’t mean anything to anyone these days, least of all yourself. Decency is a luxury few people can afford. 

Vash sighs, still smiling, and takes the glass from you. Your fingers brush as it passes from your hand to his, and then you take the bottle and pour another healthy splash into the waiting cup. He brings it to his lips, wincing against the fumes alone that waft up from the glass. 

“It’s better if you don’t sip it,” you offer him, though even then you know the guidance doesn’t help much.

He tips it back and drains it.

Two drinks were enough to have you feeling woozy, but you pour yourself a third for good measure. You spare Vash the pain of another, much to his apparent relief, and let him off with just the one before tucking the half-drained bottle back into the cupboard you’d dug it out of. 

When you turn around again, Vash is crouched down, examining something on the ground. 

Your boot. The one you’d thrown at him earlier. 

He peers up at you from the floor, he lifts the shoe slightly. 

“It broke again.”

A memory floods back to you then, unbidden. 

Sitting side by side with Vash on the edge of the steps outside the same house you live in now, but when the way you lived was different. The plant had just been repaired, and there was a palpable feeling of effervescent joy sizzling through the town around you. An uncharacteristic camaraderie amongst the people of Jeneora Rock as the celebration of Vash’s handiwork spreading through the narrow, grimy streets. The two of you were away from it all, sitting quietly together in a strange sort of celebration of your own.

You were less a woman than you were a girl back then, but still somehow neither. He’d patched the sole of your boot back on when it had ripped loose. And you’d laughed when he handed it back to you with an endearingly clumsy flourish, the sound as high and bright as the sun that hung in the sky overhead. You still remember the way your laughter had made his smile grow.

The patch job had lasted a year. You’d sobbed the day it came loose again, just shortly after the death of your father. You’d been using twine tied tightly around the toe of the boot to hold it together ever since.

Vash blinks up at you from the ground as you stare down at him with what you’re sure is a vacant look in your eyes. 

“I brought you something,” he says, hopping up and skittering over to his rucksack with your boot still in his hand. He rifles around in the bag for a moment, his mechanical arm shoulder deep as he roots for what he’s looking for. His eyebrows shoot up and he grins when he locates it—a wide, brilliant smile splitting across his face as he pulls his arm out. 

He holds his find up in triumph. 

You look at it with narrowed eyes.

“What… is it?” you ask, after a moment of trying to identify the small, relatively unremarkable little container in his hand.

“Boot glue!” he says excitedly, waving it in front of your face. “I thought of you when I saw it! The merchant wanted an arm and a leg for it but I managed to—”

Tears have sprung up in your eyes against your will, and you quickly turn away from him to hide them from his sight. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Vash’s voice is softer now, less enthusiastic and more concerned. 

That softness is what upsets you more than anything. Tenderness is a foreign thing in the desolation of the wastelands.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, scrubbing your hand over your stinging eyes. 

For thinking of me.

For knowing that you’d come back.

You leave that part off, but you feel it just as much as what you say.

You drain that third glass that’s been sitting on the counter waiting for you, hoping the burn of the liquor as it sloshes down your throat to your stomach will give you something else to focus on. Or, if nothing else, that it might numb the sudden pain that’s laid roots down in your core.

Vash sits at the table as he patches up your boot under the lamplight, much like he had the first time. You watch him from the chair in the corner, under the shuttered window, with your knees drawn up into your seat with you. You’re more shameless now than you had been while he cleaned his gun, observing him keenly as he scrubs your boot with a rag and leftover water from the dish pan. He makes sure no more grime clings to it before he carefully smears a thick layer of the glue along the sole, pressing down firmly to make sure the adhesion takes. He holds the boot up in front of him when he’s done, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, eyeing it from every angle to survey his own work.

You watch him just as raptly. 

He turns in his seat once he’s satisfied, holding the boot up. 

“All done!” he says, hopping up to his feet and shuffling towards you. He crouches down in front of you and holds out his hand expectantly. Slowly, you stick your foot out, and he cradles it gently in his roughened palm.

Carefully he slips the boot onto your foot, tightening the laces once it’s fully in place. 

“How’s it feel?” he asks you, peeking up at you from his place on the floor. 

“Feels good,” you reply, with an equally breathy tone. 

The lamplight doesn’t reach this corner of the room quite as brightly as it does at the table, but you can still make out a blush that sits high and pretty at the top of Vash’s cheeks. You wonder if he’s starting to feel the flush thanks to the liquor, or if maybe it’s something else entirely. 

“G-good!” he stammers a little, fiddling with the laces at your ankle. “I’m glad!”

“That glue must have been expensive,” you say. “Thank you, Vash.”

He shoots you a smile as he loops his fingers through the laces. “It's the least I could do, especially with you putting me up for the night.”

For the night. 

Just for the night. 

The reminder makes you ache a little.

Vash helps you slip your boot off again, carrying it over to the door and setting it down beside its mate.

“I’ll leave this here for you, in case you need it again,” he says, screwing the top back onto the little pot of adhesive at the table. “There’s not much left, but there’s some.”

You nod from your seat in the corner, one leg up and one leg still down—your nightdress drawn up to your knee from when he’d helped you into your boot. 

Vash ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck, dry now after his bath. Yours remains a little damp, but you’re sure it won’t last long as the residual heat from the day still hangs in the air even though the sun has long set. 

“It’s late,” he finally says after a moment. “You should sleep.”

You hum in agreement, moving to stand from your chair. The room spins slightly around you, those three glasses you’d knocked back sneaking up on you while you’d been sitting down. Your foot hooks in the hem of your nightdress because of the way you’d been sitting, but before you can stumble theres a strong arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. A warmth pressing into you as your face meets a heaving chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Vash murmurs, his grip on you tightening for the briefest moment. 

Your hands clutch at his shirt, and you don’t meet his eyes as you nod, letting him lead you towards your bedroom. 

Your hands fumble at the belt of your nightdress, pulling it off and tossing the garment across the end of your bed as Vash helps you onto the mattress. You tuck your feet under the thin sheet before leaning back against your pillows, and Vash is quick to turn and head towards the door after helping you pull it up to your waist.

“Wait,” you call to him before he can retreat. He pauses in the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Where are you going to sleep?”

You hadn’t thought much about this, and you ought to have considered it earlier. You only have the one bed, but you have two pillows you can share and a spare blanket in the trunk at the end of it that you could offer him if he wants to sleep on the floor. 

But you don’t want to tell him that.

“I’ll just take the chair,” he says with a blithe smile, jutting his thumb towards the armchair in the other room. 

It won’t be comfortable. You know that from experience, having fallen asleep there a few times yourself after a particularly gruelling day. The stuffing is lumpy and the springs are painful if you press against them the wrong way. You know he won’t complain about it. You even know that it’s probably still more comfortable than lots of other places he’s rested his head over the past two years. 

But you want to be selfish.

For once you don’t want to be alone. 

“Vash,” you say quietly, and you watch his entire body go rigid at the sudden bare vulnerability of your tone. “Please stay with me.”

You’d asked him the same thing once before, but different. The words once murmured desperately against his lips as you clung to his red jacket. Staring at him with eyes full of hope and a freshly patched boot on your foot. 

He’d looked at you the same way back then too. That smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. As gentle of a no that he could ever offer you.

“I know you have to leave,” you murmur, eyes downcast to your hands as they rest atop your lap. “I don’t expect anything like that from you. I know it’s just for tonight.”

“Please don’t cry.”

The bed dips beside you, and Vash tilts your face up towards him. He looks troubled when you meet his gaze, even in the dim light of your bedroom you can make out the conflict on his features. It’s strange to see him not smiling, wrong almost.

But your eyes are dry.

“Stay,” you repeat yourself, meeting his gaze resolutely. You swallow hard over the lump in your throat, bracing yourself for the impending sear of rejection. 

Vash cups your cheeks in his hands, and you can’t tell if it’s your cheeks or his touch that feels so warm.

“You deserve someone that can say yes to that and mean it properly,” he says ruefully, not dissimilarly to what he’d said the first time you’d asked the very same thing of him.

“I’m not asking anyone else,” you whisper, “I’m asking you."

You wonder if your mouth still tastes like liquor as Vash’s tongue dips inside of it, hovering over you as you lay sprawled across your bed. 

It didn’t start like this, of course. The first kiss had been gentle, hesitant even—like Vash wasn’t quite sure if he was going to see it through at all, poised to flee at any moment. But neither of you could deny how right it felt when his lips brushed yours, an immediate wash of relief and of unadulterated want inundating you all at once. You’d been the one to crane up and bridge the gap, but soon Vash was crawling into your bed overtop of you, easing you back to lay flat as he succumbed to the same need you felt thrumming through your veins.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now—a gesture that earned you a pitchy, needy little groan from him as your fingers twisted through the blonde strands. It only seemed to make him more eager as he parted his lips against your own in a deeper kiss.

There’s something a little clumsy about it all, an eagerness and inexperience to every touch and graze. But it’s not the same as it was at first, no longer hesitant or wary—his reservations have been peeled away as surely as the clothes the two of you are wearing, until you feel nothing but his skin against your own.

Vash’s hands are as greedy and rapacious as his mouth; touching, grabbing, grazing anything he can reach. His calloused fingers cup themselves around the swell of your chest, squeezing lightly, and when you reward him with a little moan it stokes the flames of his curiosity, and his touch moves to the pebbled bud of your nipple next. He rolls it tentatively between his fingers, pinching ever so slightly, and when you gasp against his mouth, arching further into his touch, he makes his own little pleased sound of surprise before lavishing your other breast with equal attention. 

His metal hand touches you more gingerly than the other, and he tends to favour the one made of flesh and bone. The contrast in sensations is a little disorienting—smooth, hard metal versus the life-roughened heat of skin on skin. It’s dizzying. You want more.

“Vash,” you murmur against his mouth. 

Your lips are stinging now from the constant kissing. He’s scarcely left your mouth uncovered by his own since they first connected, but at your hoarse whisper of his name he pulls back slightly, watching your face for any sign of reproach. 

“Touch me more, please,” you say to him, cupping his cheeks as he presses his forehead into yours, both of you sharing the same breath in the little space between you.

He makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a hum, nodding a little, and kisses you again as his hands slip further down your willing, waiting form.

If he’s surprised by the wet wet heat he finds between your legs, it doesn’t stop him. One finger and then two find their way inside you slowly; he moves in gentle thrusts and scissoring motions that have your jaw going slack. His palm presses against the swell of your clit, and each time your hips jump it grinds into the heel of his palm, earning a keen from the back of your throat.

“Feels good?” Vash trails kisses up the top of your cheek until his lips are by your ear. His breathing is laboured and the air of each breath is hot as it ghosts across your skin. Your tongue feels leaden, but you nod repeatedly, wrapping your arms around his neck and keeping him close.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to breathe out, “’s good.”

It’s even better when you feel the stretch of him pressing himself inside.

The sound that’s pulled from the depth of Vash’s broad chest as he carves his way into you makes your toes curl—high and sweet and desperate.

“’S hot,” he slurs, his hips giving a shallow, desperate thrust.

He’s needy, pulling you closer as he moves you how he wants you. He loops your knees up over his elbows, his mouth frantically finding it’s way back to yours as the weight of his entire body bears down on you. 

The next thrust is harder, deeper. And the pace only increases after that.

The rickety headboard of your old bed knocks against the wall each time he brings his hips down against yours. It’s loud, but so is the sound of skin on skin, and you have the distant thought as the bed frame creaks that it sounds like it might splinter underneath you—but you don’t find it in yourself to care as the pressure in you core steadily builds, threatening to burst. It blinds and deafens you to anything but the pulse that pounds in your throat. It makes your fingers curl against the skin of Vash’s shoulder blades until your nails dig into skin.

He’s still kissing you, wet and messy and noisy as his tongue presses into your mouth. He never stops kissing you.

It's nice to be with someone. To be touched. To feel wanted and needed.

Especially by him.

Your eyes flutter open, and as though he can sense your gaze on him Vash’s do the same. His expression is heavy-lidded as he pants, a little drop of sweat sitting high on the edge of his blushing cheek. He smiles a little, a soft, gentle expression you’ve never seen before.

A tenderness in his gaze unlike any you’ve ever experienced.

The pressure in your core comes undone.

He takes your face in his hands as pleasure rips through you like a sandstorm, blistering and unescapable. He’s still kissing you. Keeping you so near. In the haze it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins, everything clouded into something thats both and somehow neither. Something new.

“Close,” Vash whines, grinding his hips down against your own.

Your muscles ache, the pleasure has worn you raw, and your lungs are pricking with the need for a full deep breath you haven’t been able to draw into them now for some time. But even so, you don’t want it to be over. Can’t bear the thought of being apart.

The headboard rattles a few more times, and then the pressure between your legs is gone as Vash pulls out and spatters his spend across your stomach with a long, low groan.

It’s hot. The mess on your skin, the sweat that clings to you, the paltry breaths of air you draw into your lungs. Even the sheets of your bed have absorbed the heat from both of your bodies, sticking to your skin as you collapse into them in boneless heaps, chests heaving and hearts racing side by side.

You tilt your face towards the boy crowded into your narrow bed beside you, and find him watching you expectantly.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a piece of hair away from your eyes.

You hum, leaning into his touch.

Vash’s gaze travels down your body, eyeing the mess he’s made of you with wide eyes. He pops up suddenly, clambering out of bed and tripping clumsily over the sheet that’s fallen half-way off the mattress as he skitters out the door. You’re not too worried that he’s going far, considering he’s still stark naked, but you watch the doorway curiously as you wait for him to return.

When he does, he has a cloth in hand—still damp from your bath earlier in the evening. As gently as he can, Vash cleans you up; the cloth cool is against your sticky skin, and feels nice. Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he presses a kiss to the valley between your ribs, lifting his face to smile up at you.

You shoot him a feeble smile back.

He slips into bed beside you once more, crawling up towards the pillows and pulling the rumpled sheet up to your chins as he goes. He settles in, and with one sweep of his arm he tucks you safely against his chest, with your ear resting over his heart. His hand pats gently along the back of your hair down your spine, keeping you close to him.

Vash smells good. Clean and comforting. It makes you think of the place your mother told you about once. You wonder if he smells like that place, or maybe even better.

You wonder if he’s ever been there before.

You wonder if he’d tell you if you asked.

You open your eyes, though the effort pains you in your exhaustion, and you see him peering back at you. Vash’s lips pull into a smile, but it's one of the ones that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. An expression that you know is more for you than it is for himself.

You think the two of you have a lot in common, then. That maybe the two of you understand the same loneliness. The same feeling of being haunted.

Your ghosts live on in the trunk at the end of your bed and at the back of your cupboard, covered in dust, tucked away out of sight. 

Vash’s live on inside of him, and it’s where he seems determined to keep them. 

In that moment you know that even if you were to ask, he’d tell you nothing—and he’d do it for your own sake.

Tomorrow you’ll wake and the air will smell bitter and burnt, and he’ll be gone, but your boot will be mended, and the little pot of glue will remind you he was there. But tonight you’ll dream about the place your Mama told you about, and tomorrow you’ll still have the smell that clings to your sheets. So for now, the world smells different. 

And that has to be enough.