#my body will be absolutely fucking dying for the first couple weeks probably but hopefully it’ll get better 🥲🤞🏻

[threnodians]

had a good first night at work, i am obnoxiously out of shape which was and is so fucking embarrassing and mortifying (we took the dogs for a walk along a trail and the fact that it was 80 degrees and literally 100% humidity paired with how out of shape i am caused me to basically be panting and heaving by the end but luckily my boss didn’t say anything; i am definitely bringing my inhaler from now on) and my back is absolutely killing me right now but i desperately need this job because it’s only 15min away and a 3hr shift in the evenings which is so perfect for me and i finally have a way to go on walks and, like, do things and be more active again! did some yoga when i got home which helped and hopefully sleeping will help even more! 🥲🤞🏻 working again tomorrow with someone else coming in to work with me (hopefully they’re nice otherwise i’ll cry) and then again on saturday with the owner coming in to work with me again as well so 👍🏻 for now i am going to take my meds and hopefully pass tf out asap because i am exhausted and i have to get up early and start some more laundry 💀

tldr; i am in so much pain right now but i am excited to go back in tomorrow ✨

[sammysdewysensitiveeyes]

"Hand me that loofah."

Keeping his face carefully averted, Pyro picked up the sponge, and tossed in Fabian’s general direction.

An angry “Watch it, you idiot!” indicated that the loofah had struck it’s intended target. Then there was a low chuckle.

“I get it. You’re a married man, after all. You can’t bear to look upon me, lest you completely lose your self-control. Don’t feel bad, you’re hardly the first.”

Pyro was, in fact, struggling not to lose his self-control, but was fighting the urge to vomit.

“You should have invited me to the wedding,” Fabian continued, accompanied by splashing sounds as he apparently flopped around in the tub. “Are we not friends?”

That sentence was technically true the way Fabian had phrased it.

“Yes,” Pyro responded simply.

“But I can understand that, too,” Fabian continued. “You didn’t want to be upstaged at your own nuptials, and my presence certainly would have captured all the attention.”

“Dominic and I thought you might be a bit too busy,” Pyro said, although the truth was less “thought” and more “hoped.” “We didn’t want to intrude on your valuable time.” He was absolutely going to relay this whole horrible conversation to Avalanche tonight over drinks, with a very exaggerated impression of Cortez.

“Well, I always make time for the little people!” Fabian exclaimed magnanimously. “Hand me that towel.” Water sloshed and Pyro was hit with a fine spray as Cortez stood up in the tub. At least it sounded like he was standing up, Pyro wasn’t going to look. He grabbed the nearest towel and thrust it blindly at the demanding voice.

A hand grabbed his wrist and yanked Pyro around, so that he was face to face with a dripping, naked Fabian Cortez, with soap suds sloughing off his glistening body. It was actually a very nice body, that was the worst part, with with a “package” that partially explained the man’s unearned confidence. But the smarmy, arrogant smile completely ruined the picture.

“Looking’s free, you know,” Fabian grinned.

Directing credit, Pyro thought fiercely to himself. Executive producer.

“Why don’t I give you some privacy to get dressed?” He said aloud, plastering a fake smile on his face. This would all be worth it when show’s profits started coming in, and then Pyro would get himself and Dominic matching His and His jet-skis.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how he wound up in this position. It had started with Shinobi pitching a reality show to the Council, which had somehow, inexiplicably, gotten a majority approval vote, possibly because Krakoa hadn’t been attacked in the last few weeks and the Council was bored. It was Survivor meets the Bachelor, in which groups of male and female mutants competed to win the hand of the handsome, debonair, and, most importantly, ridiculously wealthy Shinobi Shaw, through date nights and dinners and pointless jungle challenges of strength and skill.

Pyro had just made a few innocent comments, that was all. Just a couple of suggestions to Emma, who had wound up saddled with the bulk of the responsibility, about story arcs and pairings and how to arrange scenes for maximum drama and pathos. He understood that stuff, after all, as a romance novelist it was his bread and butter. (And he was a bit of a soap opera fanatic, but he wasn’t going to admit that freely.) Emma had listened with an eager, almost hungry glint in her eyes, and there had been a short conversation that had somehow ended with Pyro agreeing to serve as a writer, director and general creative supervisor, in exchange for a percentage of the profits and fairly massive salary. (Massive to Pyro, anyway, probably a drop in the bucket to Emma “Swimming in the money bin” Frost.)

And it actually had been kind of fun. “Reality” TV presented a unique challenge, in that he wasn’t allowed to directly tell the “performers” what to say, but he could do absolutely anything else to construct his creative vision. He could ask leading questions in the talking head interviews, edit scenes by splicing completely unrelated shots together, and put volatile contestants in a room with plenty of alcohol, then poke at them until they exploded.

Unfortunately, his duties had somehow gradually expanded to include talent-wrangling both on and off-set, which left him stuck making nice with Fabian Cortez, the most “colorful” (obnoxious) and, unfortunately, most popular, of all the contestants. Iceman would probably win the show as the nice, relatable, boy-next-door type, but Fabian was what kept viewers tuning in.

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” Fabian purred. He contorted his body as he toweled himself off, appearing to pose for nonexistant cameras. “I’m a generous man, I can spare you a bit of eye candy, even if our relationship must remain professional.”

“Yes, that would be best. Listen, we need you to do another challenge with Sienna Blaze.”

Fabian’s “generosity” quickly withered away.

“I will NOT get in front of a camera with that maniac! Such an uptight, ill-mannered, man-hating – well, I’m too much of a gentleman to use the word that she so richly deserves! She nearly killed me last time! Over a simple compliment!”

Yes, Pyro remembered it well. Fabian’s near barbeque had garnered record-high ratings. And hopefully tossing them into a mud-pit together in bathing suits would produce similarly explosive results.

“Oh yes, I know, Fabian,” Pyro cooed, hating himself a little. “She’s very difficult, and you’ve been such a professional about it.” He pulled up comforting mental images as he spoke. Jet-skis. Wagyu steak. Insanely expensive whiskey. Him and Dominic having a long honeymoon in Bali, Sydney, Seoul and Tokyo. All those zeros at the end of the check that Emma had given him.

“Well, a professional shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of shabby treatment!” Fabian said haughtily. He was finally wrapping the towel around his waist, to Pyro’s great relief. “I asked for Norwegian strawberries in my dressing room, and that idiot assistant brought me French!”

“I’ll look into it,” Pyro assured him, fully intending to send Fabian the exact same strawberries (which were, in fact, grown on Krakoa) with his apologies and a fake Norweigian label.

He had a vague notion in the back of his head that Emma should be handling this, Emma was supposed to be in charge! And yet she’d gradually eased the responsibility into Pyro’s arms, only sashaying onto set once every few weeks for a “status report,” and spending the rest of the time off performing mysterious and supposedly very important duties for the Hellfire Trading Company and the Council. She never picked up her phone or responded to voice mails.

It was okay, though. Pyro could handle this. He was a damn writer, and he was good at it, and he would poke and prod his stars through the storyline he had planned, because he was absolutely brilliant. Even Emma had said so.

“Anyway, don’t worry about Blaze,” Pyro insisted, his voice dripping with sticky-sweet honey. “We’ve given her a talking to about her behavior.” He had done no such thing. “I’m sure she’ll be much nicer to work with. In fact, we think the audience will really enjoy you putting her in her place. Really demonstrate your masculine superiority.” Was that too much? They couldn’t have Fabian dying on camera, after all, even though it would be hilarious.

“Well, I should hope so!” Fabian said, rubbing lotion carefully across his pecs. “I’m obviously carrying this entire show, and I will be treated with the respect I deserve.”

“You know,” Pyro added slyly, “I think she’s actually got a bit of a crush on you. You know how some women are.” No, this was definitely too much. Oh well, they could edit around Fabian’s inevitable death and resurrection, and in the mean time they’d get some amazing footage.

“Oh, of course,” Fabian said, with a leering understanding creeping across his face. “I suspected from the very beginning. She couldn’t handle my raw sensuality.”

“Who can, really?” Pyro hated this, he really hated every second of having to pull on the polite mask of social niceties and insincere compliments. It always seemed almost obscene. May as well just flip the other fellow over and start tongueing his arsehole, right? Except that was actually fun in the right circumstances.

But he’d done it before, as a journalist dealing with self-important sources, as a novelist schmoozing with publishers and book sellers. He could do it now, for the astronomical salary that Emma was paying him, and for the Prime Time Emmy Award for Outstanding Competition Program that was hovering in his sights. Emma had assured him that it was a strong possibility. Just imagine rubbing that in the faces of all the critics who had called him a talentless hack! They’d say…well, they’d probably say that an Emmy for trashy reality TV was the highest possible honor for a hack like him, but Pyro wouldn’t give a fuck, because he’d have an Emmy and they wouldn’t.

“C’mon, then, we’ll give you a quick touch-up with bronzer. We’re shooting the scene in fifteen minutes.” Pyro began to guide Fabian, still clad in only a towel, towards the bathroom door.

“We’ll shoot the scene when I’m ready, and not a second before!” Fabian insisted. It would probably be another hour of Fabian demanding and sending back expensive snacks before they could even get him to the set. Luckily, they were actually scheduled to shoot the scene in two hours.

“Yes, of course, whatever you want,” Pyro wheedled, imagining the satisfying explosion of flesh and blood that would very likely occur when Fabian and Sienna Blaze came into contact. And Fabian was going to do it, that much was clear now. “I know you’ll do a fantastic job. You’re brilliant you know, absolutely brilliant……”

For a moment, Pyro trailed off as a crack opened in his mental wall, and memories slipped out into the light. Emma pouring more wine into his glass during their monthly meetings, assuring him again and again that he was absolutely brilliant, a true artist, that the show would thrive in his capable hands.

“No, that’s completely different,” Pyro muttered to himself, shaking his head.

“What was that?” Fabian twisted around, the towel slipping dangerously low on his hips.

“Oh, nothing,” Pyro exclaimed brightly, slamming the mental wall shut again. “Now, let’s get you into make-up, ya big handsome star!”

[darlingandmreames]

A Thousand Ways to Say It

(also on ao3)

Prompt: Love Languages (a bit of a loose take on it, but my brain latched onto Arthur telling Eames he loved him in ways other than outright saying it and just Ran With It, so here we are)

Summary: Arthur loved Eames. He knew that, and he tried to tell him in his own way. Just never in so many words. Or 5 times Arthur didn’t quite say “I love you”, and 1 time he didn’t need to

@arthureamesmonth

Arthur reloaded his clip and got off four shots before the incoming fire forced him to duck back down behind cover. They would've been fine, the mark's subconscious was only partially militarized so stealth would've been effective enough for them to do the job without any major resistance, but then the other extractor had managed to run directly into the mark. That'd been more than enough to alert his sub-security, and now they were stuck facing a load of gunfire on what should've been an easy job.

“This is why I hate working with amateurs." 

Arthur nodded, glancing over at Eames. He had a few cuts, likely from flying glass, but thankfully seemed otherwise fine. "Issue is when you don't find out they're an amateur until after you start the job."

Eames let out a clipped laugh. "True." He raised up briefly, taking out two projections before dropping back down again. "Any idea where our lovely colleague is?"

"Probably dead."

Eames nodded. "You have any sort of plan? Because all I've got currently is 'try not to get shot'."

Arthur looked at his watch. Just over 15 minutes. That was more than enough time to get the information if they could get the mark's projections off their backs at least a little. Which, given the current state of things, was a pretty big if. He peered around the corner of the bench they were currently hiding behind. "How do you feel about our chances of making it to that hallway over there without getting shot?"

Eames followed his gaze, ducking back down just in time to avoid a bullet. "Questionable, but if we lay down enough covering fire we might be able to make it."

"I'll provide cover as we run." Arthur held a hand up to cut off the objection he knew was coming, flinching as a ricochet sent bits of stone flying in his face. "You're the dreamer. If I die it'll just be a little inconvenient. If you die the dream collapses and the job's fucked." He paused, taking advantage of the lull in incoming fire to take out another projection. "Once we get into the hallway and have more cover we'll split up. The projections will follow you while I find the safe and finish the job." 

Eames grimaced. "I'm not a particular fan of this plan."

"Me neither. You ready?"

Eames nodded again, crouching. "On your go."

Arthur gripped his gun, body tense, and waited for another lull. It was slowing…slowing… "Now!"

He stuck close to Eames' back, providing a general round of fire as they started running. He switched to more focused bursts as the projections took cover, targeting whatever figure he saw first. Cover fire was only useful as long as he had ammo after all, no point in wasting it. The distance between where they'd been taking cover and where the hallway started was thankfully relatively short, and the return fire had only just started up in earnest when they reached it. Arthur turned and ran normally as soon as he was out of line of fire, keeping pace beside Eames as they ran down the hallway.

He stopped at the first intersection they came to, looking around the corner carefully in case it was being patrolled. The hallway was empty though, the only sounds coming from behind them. He turned to Eames, reloading. "You good to distract the projections?"

"Course."

"Eames." Eames had already started off down and hallway when Arthur called after him. He turned to look at him, confused. "Be careful."

Eames gave him a small smile, expression softening slightly. "You too."

Arthur nodded and turned, setting off down the other side of the hallway. "See you in 15 minutes."

I love you.

XXX

Arthur was already in bed by the time Eames got back to the hotel. He had been for a while. It'd been a long couple of days, waking up early and staying late to finish up his research, and it was starting to catch up to him. He could normally stay up until the early hours of the morning with no issue, but now it was barely 10pm and he was already having trouble keeping his eyes open. 

Eames opened the door and slipped in quietly, looking at Arthur with surprise. "Figured you'd be asleep by the time I got in." 

"Almost, but not quite." Arthur stretched out under the covers, trying to stifle a yawn. "Productive evening?"

"Very. Business dinners are always a great context to observe someone in." Eames took his jacket off and dug through his bag. "Guy's your average run of the mill slimy businessman. I could probably forge him in my sleep."

"Hm, we do work with quite a few of those, don't we?"

Eames grinned at him. "Practically our bread and butter."

Arthur went back to scrolling mindlessly through his phone as Eames disappeared into the bathroom. He'd spent the past hour half-heartedly reading through the news as he tried to stay awake, and that seemed like a good way to continue occupying his time until Eames had finished getting ready for bed.

"You heading into the workshop tomorrow?" Eames' voice drifted out of the bathroom over the sound of the sink.

 "No, I was thinking of working in a cafe somewhere." He shrugged. "We're in Rome, I might as well take advantage of the quality espresso."

"You," Eames wandered back out, drying his face with a hand towel, "don't need espresso. You're sleep deprived enough as it is, you don't need to add more caffeine to the mix."

"I'll get a good night's sleep tonight, it'll be fine." Arthur sighed. "And I'll try not to drink more than four shots tomorrow. Sound fair?"

"I suppose." Eames pulled the covers back and climbed into bed, turning the lamp off as he did so. "Mind if I join you?"

Arthur smiled and moved closer. "You're just trying to make sure I don't overdo it on the espresso."

Eames laughed. "Maybe." He shifted, making space for Arthur as he nestled against his side. "Can't I just enjoy your company though?" Arthur hummed happily as he curled against Eames, not even bothering to reply. He could already feel sleep pulling at him as Eames' arm settled around his shoulders. Eames laughed again quietly, pulling him close. "You really are tired, aren't you?"

"Mm, a bit."

"Why did you stay up? You could've just gone to bed." 

Arthur gave a small shrug as he started to drift off. "I sleep better next to you."

I love you.

XXX

“You’re okay.” Arthur brushed Eames’ hair back from his forehead, his other hand rubbing gentle circles on Eames’ back as he threw up. “You’re alright.”

Eames rarely got sick. He might get the occasional cold or bout of food poisoning if he wasn’t careful, but that was usually it. When he did get sick, though, it was bad. The sort of bad that knocked him out and put him out of commission for a week or two straight. Or, in this case, had him bent over the toilet throwing up for hours at a time for the third day in a row. They were supposed to be working a job right now, a quick and easy one extracting information from an old man on behalf of his estranged son, but Eames had come down with whatever the fuck he’d gotten on the the second day and that had put a quick end to their involvement. Well, to Eames’ involvement technically. But someone had to help take care of him until he was a bit more recovered because Arthur learned rather quickly that Eames would do a terrible job of it if left to his own devices. 

Arthur filled a cup up with water and handed it to Eames once he seemed to have gotten through this round of throwing up. “Try and drink at least a little. Otherwise you’re going to get dehydrated.”

“‘M not going to be able to keep it down.”

“I know.” He crouched behind Eames, going back to rubbing his back gently. “But you should try to drink a bit anyways.” Eames managed to get half of it down before setting the cup of the floor and resting his head against his arm. Arthur moved the cup up onto the counter. “Do you think you’re going to be sick again soon?”

“Don’t think so, no.”

“Why don’t we head back to the bed then? That’ll be more comfortable than the bathroom floor.” Arthur helped Eames up slowly. He looked terrible, with dark circles under his eyes and his skin pale and clammy. Arthur remembered the first time he’d seen Eames properly sick; he’d been shocked by the change and had briefly and irrationally wondered if he was maybe dying. He’d gotten more used to the sight, as uncommon as it was, over the years, but he still felt a stab of concern each time. 

Eames was curled against Arthur’s side as soon as they were back in bed, face pressed against Arthur’s t-shirt. That was the other thing he'd learned: when Eames was sick, wearing anything he actually liked was inadvisable at best and downright stupid at worst. So until Eames was more recovered it would be sweatpants and cheap t-shirts that he didn't have to worry about keeping clean and could just throw out when they invariably got something gross on them. Arthur could still feel the slight heat of Eames’ fever through the cloth, but it was far better than it had been the past few days. Hopefully it would break for good sometime this evening. He looked down as Eames muttered something, his voice too muffled to actually make out what he was saying. “Come again?”

He tilted his face up slightly. “Said you’re going to get sick too after this.”

“Maybe. I’ll be fine though.” Arthur ran his hand through Eames’ hair. He was, to be fair, absolutely right. There was almost no way he was getting out of this without catching whatever it was Eames had. When he got sick though it was usually far milder. He'd feel like shit for a few days, but nothing like what Eames was going through. “I don’t get sick like you do.”

“Still. You don’t have to stay.” Eames started to sit up unsteadily. “‘M fine.”

Arthur sighed. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going anywhere. Now lay back down." Eames was back against him almost immediately, arms around his waist. Arthur laughed quietly and went back to running his fingers through Eames' hair. Eames was quite affectionate to begin with, and when he got sick he was almost downright clingy. It was sweet, honestly. "Someone has to take care of you."

"I can take care of myself." Eames' voice was muffled again, but at least a bit more understandable.

"Not when you're sick, you can't." 

"You had to drop the job though."

Arthur settled back against the pillows. "Well, it's not like either of us really needed the money. And it wasn't a particularly exciting one, so I doubt we're missing much." He was about to say something else when he felt Eames tense. Arthur gripped his shoulders and pushed him up; he knew all too well what that meant. "No no no no do not throw up in the bed."

It was close, but Eames managed to make it back to the bathroom in time. Arthur crouched behind him, rubbing Eames' back gently as his shoulders shook. He moved back and sat against the tile wall after a few minutes when Eames seemed to have finished throwing up, shifting so that Eames could lay between his legs, head resting on Arthur's chest. "Maybe it's best if we just stay in here for a bit."

Eames groaned, gripping his shirt tightly. "Sorry for making you do this."

"Don't be. I'm certainly not sorry for being here." Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, holding him close. "Let me take care of you."

I love you.

XXX

The fourth drink was, as were most things with Eames, both a wonderful and terrible idea. Arthur hadn't planned on getting drunk, in fact he'd planned on specifically not doing that, but Eames had asked if he wanted a second drink with a smile that had made it clear he was hoping the answer would be yes, and Arthur had never been very good at saying no to that smile. Two drinks turned into three and eventually into four and at some point Arthur had ended up back at Eames’ place, settled quite happily on his lap, the world warm and blurry around him. He wasn’t exactly sure when or how that had happened, but he wasn’t going to complain.

He leaned his head back against Eames’ shoulder. “If I’m hungover tomorrow I’m absolutely blaming you.”

“All I did was ask if you wanted another drink.” Arthur could see Eames grinning out of the corner of his eye. “You could’ve said no.”

“Not when you’re asking, I can’t.”

“Really?” Eames wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist, holding him close. Arthur moved with him easily. “I had no idea I had such an effect on you.”

Arthur laughed. “Yes you did.”

“Well, okay. I maybe had some idea.”

Arthur hummed contentedly in response, settling back against Eames’ chest. It was wonderful laying here like this. He knew he’d regret those extra drinks in the morning when he’d almost definitely wake up with at least a mild hangover and have to go back to working on the job, but right now he couldn’t think of anything better than sitting with Eames' arms around him, curled against him. Eames chuckled, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, you know that?”

Arthur tried to cut off the giggle he could feel building up in his chest, but was only partially successful. “I’m not cute.”

“You get a couple of drinks in you and you start blushing and giggling and invariably end up on my lap like some sort of intoxicated cat. You,” Eames kissed his temple, “are an adorable drunk and you absolutely can’t convince me otherwise.”

“And what about you?” Arthur looked up. He tried to fix Eames with a serious glare but based on Eames’ grin he seemed to have failed. “You’re just as drunk as I am.”

“That’s true.” Eames raised an eyebrow. "You saying you think I'm also cute when I'm drunk?"

"No." Arthur frowned. That hadn't been what he'd been trying to say but, to be fair, he wasn't entirely sure what he had been trying to say. He searched for some sort of comeback. "You're always cute. Not just when you're drunk."

Eames stared at him for a moment, surprised, before laughing and pulling Arthur in close. "Shit, you really are drunk."

"Hm, maybe. You're still cute though." He slipped his hand into Eames', train of thought derailing slightly as Eames squeezed his hand back. "You have…you have this smile. It's not your normal one, you know, the polite one you use when you're trying to be nice or friendly. Your real one. The one you use when you're happy or something made you really laugh. Or sometimes you just look at me and suddenly that smile is there for no reason. Your entire face lights up and you…" He shrugged. He knew there were probably better words he was trying to find, but none of them seemed to be coming. "You're cute."

Eames ran his thumb over the back of Arthur's hand, tracing small circles. "Apparently you're a sentimental drunk too." His tone was teasing but even through the haze of alcohol Arthur could hear the fondness behind it.

"Shut up," he giggled. 

"Never." Eames shifted and Arthur slid off his lap slightly and onto the couch beside him, draping his arm across Eames' stomach and nestling against his side. Eames kissed his forehead. "You're a cute, sappy, sentimental drunk and I refuse to ever let you forget it."

"I can't stand you, you know that?" Arthur buried his face against Eames' shirt as Eames laughed. It truly was wonderful laying here like this. It struck Arthur as Eames ran his fingers through his hair that he would be perfectly content to lay here in Eames' arms for the rest of his life. "Can't stand you in the least."

I love you.

XXX

Arthur had some strong opinions about Toronto's downtown architecture, most of them rather negative, but he'd always liked the train station. It was a classic building, with it's high, arched ceiling and wide open atrium, and Arthur may have gotten his start in extraction with strange and paradoxical architecture but he still appreciated a well made classic when he saw it.

He hated it now though. Being at the train station meant morning had come already and it was time for him and Eames to part ways. Again. Three days together after almost four months apart hadn't been nearly enough, but it was all they'd been able to manage. He leaned against Eames, trying to savour the feeling as best he could. 

"Don't look so sad."

Arthur looked down, trying to hide his expression. He both loved and hated how easily Eames could read him. "I'm not sad."

"Yes you are." Eames chuckled and tilted his chin up. "You get sad every time we do this."

"I just don't like goodbyes, that's all." Arthur kept his gaze down, not looking at Eames. It felt childish but if Arthur looked at him he'd see the soft expression he knew was on Eames' face, and that would just make it worse. "I've never liked them."

"It's just a couple of weeks. A month at the most." Eames' hand was against his face and Arthur leaned into the touch, trying to commit the feeling to memory. "We've had longer goodbyes before."

"I know." Arthur reached out and adjusted Eames' collar, frowning slightly. Anything to occupy his attention. "Doesn't make it easier though." His hands drifted slowly down to Eames' waist, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. Finally Arthur looked up and met Eames' gaze. His chest hurt slightly as he saw Eames' expression; it was just as soft and gentle as he'd imagined. "I'll miss you."

Eames grinned at him. "Careful, or I might start to think you actually care about me."

Arthur frowned again. "Careful, or I might decide I don't." 

"Empty threats, that's all you have." Eames' expression softened again, and he ran his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone. "I'll miss you too, darling. I always do." He looked up as an announcement echoed over the loudspeaker. "Well, I think that's you."

"Yeah, it is." Arthur looked back down, fingers still playing absentmindedly with the edge of Eames' jacket. He knew he needed to go, but he couldn't quite bring himself to pull away. Part of him was tempted not to. To stay here, miss his train, forget the job he was supposed to start tomorrow. To not say goodbye. Not again. He was tired of that, tired of weeks, of months, apart. But that was their life. Maybe it wouldn’t be one day- he hoped it wouldn’t be one day- but for now it was. After a moment he sighed. "Be safe?"

"Always." Eames kissed his cheek before pulling away. "I'll see you around, love."

"Yeah." Arthur gave him a small smile that he knew was laced with sadness. "See you around."

I love you.

XXX

Arthur was pissed.

Well, not really. He was worried. Eames had been gone for over an hour. Which wouldn’t be concerning under normal circumstances, but it most certainly fucking was when they had people trying to kill them. They’d been laying low in a safehouse Eames had used in Amsterdam previously for the past few days without any issues, but the client who’d put the hit out in the first place had deep pockets and access to resources. Arthur doubted three days was enough for things to be even remotely safe again.

They’d needed food though. There hadn’t been much in the safehouse when they’d gotten there, and it hadn’t been long before they’d worked through most of what was there. Arthur had tried to insist on going but Eames had pointed out that his Dutch was better and they needed to attract as little attention as possible right now. Arthur had begrudgingly agreed; he knew Eames was right, but that hadn’t done anything to calm the discomfort in his chest as Eames had closed the door to the rundown apartment behind him or tamp down on the restlessness that had made him start pacing back and forth in the small space as the minutes ticked by.

By the time an hour had passed Arthur was well and properly anxious. There was a store nearby, it shouldn’t have taken Eames this long to pick up enough food to last them another few days. Unless something had gone wrong. Unless he’d been made. Been captured. Been killed. Their client had a reputation and Arthur had met men like him before, men who were vengeful and violent and cruel; he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he got his hands on Eames. Couldn’t think about it. His mind wouldn’t leave it alone though, running through the possibilities. Of how Eames might’ve been killed. Of what might happen to him if they had taken him alive.

So Arthur wasn’t angry. Not really. But anger was easier than the worry and anxiety that was gnawing at him so he focused on that instead, letting it build until he could almost ignore the growing fear that something had happened. Not quite, but almost. 

He stopped in his tracks, hand dropping to his gun as the door lock turned, tense and alert. He relaxed as he caught a glimpse of god awful but familiar paisley though, and a moment later Eames was in the apartment closing and locking the door behind him. “Well, we won’t be eating great, but we should be-”

The relief didn't last long, anger flaring in Arthur's chest. “Where the fuck have you been?!”

Eames blinked, clearly surprised by Arthur’s tone. It was admittedly a little harsher than he’d intended, but not by much. He gave Arthur a confused look. “I went to the store, darling. Thought we’d already discussed that.”

“The store is three blocks away. You’ve been gone over an hour!” Arthur tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t quite seem to manage to get a full one. “It shouldn’t have taken that long!”

“The line at the store was long and then I thought I might’ve had a tail so I-”

“A tail?!” Arthur wasn’t quite yelling, raised voices attracted attention and they very much did not need that right now, but it was getting harder to control his volume. “How careless were you?!”

Eames set the bags he was carrying on the floor with a frown. “Arthur, calm down, I wasn’t-”

“No, I’m not going to fucking calm down.” It was harder to take a breath now and he knew he was getting louder despite his best efforts to stay at a normal speaking volume. “You could’ve been killed, Eames, you can’t be this careless! You can’t…”

“Arthur.” Eames’ voice was quiet but firm as he took Arthur’s hands. “It’s alright. I’m alright. Just breathe.”

Arthur gripped Eames’ hands, trying to take a deep breath again. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had flared up, leaving him feeling shaky and unsteady. “I just…you were gone for so long and I…”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Eames pulled him into a hug and Arthur leaned into the touch gratefully. “I didn’t mean to worry you."

Breathing was a little easier with Eames' arms around him, the pressure grounding him. Still a bit shaky, but easier. "I kept thinking something had happened." He relaxed slightly, the solid feeling of Eames against him helping dissipate some of the anxiety in his chest. "Sorry I got…worked up. I just…I worry sometimes. About you."

"It's alright." Eames pulled back just enough to kiss Arthur's cheek. "I love you too."

Arthur blinked at the words, surprised, before smiling slightly. He'd known how he felt for a while, but he'd never said it out loud. He hadn't known how. Leave it to Eames to figure it out anyways though. He buried his face in the crook of Eames' neck, a gentle warmth replacing some of his worry. "Am I really that easy to read?"

Eames laughed quietly. "Absolutely."

“I do, you know.” Arthur pulled back and looked at Eames with a serious expression. “Love you. I mean it.”

"I know, darling. I've known for a while.” Eames kissed him gently. “And I mean it when I say I love you too.” He smiled. "Now what do you say we eat something? Like I said, it won't be the best meal ever, but it'll be better than the stale crackers we've been eating the past few days."

Arthur smiled back. The anxiety in his chest hadn’t fully disappeared, but it was far better now, and Arthur knew it would be gone soon enough. It was alright. Eames was alright. "Sounds good to me."

[shutupandshipit]

Little Life - Ch. 3

Summary:  A baby could ruin his career before it had even started. If anyone found out, he would be kicked out of the Hero Course at the very least and UA at the very worst. Even then, how was he supposed to care for a baby once it arrived? He was a fucking seventeen-year-old boy, not a twenty-nine-year-old omega with their shit at least somewhat together.

…..

Or where Katsuki get pregnant, but is determined to make it to graduation. No matter what it takes.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language mostly)

Chapter: 3/16

Previous <- Chapter 2

Chapter 4 -> Next

Master Post

Chapter 3: 1 Month

"Kacchan, we shouldn't," Izuku whispered below him, mouth swollen and red from Katsuki's kisses, eyes closed in pure bliss as their bodies slid together despite their boxers still creating a barrier between them.

Izuku was intoxicating. Had always been. His face, his eyes, his mouth, his voice, his body, his scent. Everything sending Katsuki closer and closer to the abyss of his volatile emotions.

It had taken Katsuki the better part of two years of high school to pull his head out of his ass to realize that all of the fantasizing and skirting around each other when they were close to their cycles meant something. That it had always meant something. That it wasn't just his body's natural reaction to a nearby alpha, and that it wasn't going anywhere. He was around alphas all day every day which was just an occupational hazard of working to become a hero, but he'd never once imagined himself being with any of the others the way he almost religiously fantasized about Izuku. The one time he'd tried in first year had resulted in several days of no eye contact with Kirishima.

Even after they'd finally fallen into each other, taking that headlong dive off of the cliff they'd always been teetering on, they'd been careful. Condoms. Birth control. Suppressants. They never did anything close to their cycles, Izuku happily bottoming often times, kept their hands off each other during the day as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed as it inevitably would though, and Katsuki was starving.

His body was heated almost to discomfort, his cycle right on the cusp of kick starting, and he needed Izuku. Needed him like a dying man needed water.

"Need you, Deku. Want my mate, want you," Katsuki rasped against Izuku's throat as he gently scented him, "Need my alpha, Izuku."

Izuku positively keened beneath him, turning his head to catch his mouth again in another slow, searing kiss.

Izuku had gone pliant beneath him, following his lead as he stripped them of their boxers and straddled his hips. They'd been less careful that night, indulging in each other. Drunk on each other. Relying on the birth control.

Their sex had been different that night, slow and steady and loving as Katsuki took everything his body had been screaming for. He reveled in the heat and feel of Izuku filling him, moving inside him, gripping his hips with bruising force, coming apart beneath him.

When they were both panting and sweat drenched and satiated, Katsuki marked up Izuku as his without sinking in his teeth like he so desperately wanted to. Deep red love marks were his next best option, and he readily used them. Then they lazily made out for hours before passing out together.

Katsuki had never felt more fulfilled in his life.

.....

Katsuki woke up retching which was absolutely the worst end to the best dream, and before he could puke in his bed, he hung his head over the side to use the trashcan he'd put next to his bed just for that reason. "Ugh," he groaned, rolling over onto his back when his stomach was empty.

His bed was empty, and he felt worse for the fact that it was his own fault.

That night... that night had been one of his best experiences in recent memory. He couldn't bring himself to regret any moment of it, every moment of bliss and touch and silent communication.

Even during, he was pretty sure he knew. He knew in his bones that even if they'd used a condom, he still would have ended up pregnant. No matter how careful they were, this would have been the outcome. He'd heard of horror stories like that from other omegas, but he never thought it would actually happen to him. They were all just stupid. They had missed a pill or forgotten to get their shot or they were in the full swing of their heat. Something, anything, to pretend like he wasn't like them.

Here he was though, reliving a blissful memory and puking in a trashcan without his alpha to comfort him. He was no better than any of them. Worse because he was a teenager, still in high school.

He didn't regret that night, but it didn't feel worth it in that exact moment with his mouth tasting of bile and his throat burning.

Rolling out of bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on him as it did more often than not in the past weeks, he staggered into his bathroom. He readied himself for another grueling day. Another day of constant roiling nausea, of napping on the roof at lunch instead of eating with his friends, of fielding questions from Kirishima, of ignoring or all together hiding from Izuku.

All of it just made him that much more exhausted.

He dug out one of the shirts he'd stolen from Izuku's drawers that only smelled faintly of him and pulled it on. The nausea eased just barely, but he hissed as it slid over his overly sensitive nipples. So sensitive that rather than being pleasurable, the stimulation was painful. He hadn't figured out a workaround yet. Women had bras, and he figured that probably helped. Their nipples wouldn't be subjected to the constant shift of fabric. He had half a mind to start tapping gauze over them or something, but he didn't think there would be any explanation that would make sense when the others saw him in the locker rooms.

He finished getting ready, biting back snarls of irritation every time the fabric rubbed, and stuffed a bag of ginger candies into his pocket.

.....

Training got harder. He knew it would, but he wasn't expecting just how intensly.

With his heat, training would be at the very least uncomfortable as those days approached. His body would get heavy, mind wandering more easily, tiredness making a home in his bones, nausea curdling his stomach.

Being pregnant was similar to his heat, but ten times worse for the simple fact that it never stopped. There was never a point where it all became easier, where the nausea faded and he was suddenly wide awake. That, and his tolerance of his idiot classmates had plummeted to levels relevant to his first year of high school.

The thing was that his heat had a designated end. He had no idea when this was going to end. He'd read that the symptoms usually faded by the end of the first trimester, but he was 99.9% sure he wouldn't make it through another two months.

In training, it was embarrassing how hard he was panting from less than half of what he normally did. His head and vision swam, his legs jelly beneath him as they barely held his weight. Luckily, no one was paying attention to him, focused on perfecting their own techniques. Except, of course, for Kirishima who seemed to possess a sixth sense for the slightest change in Katsuki whether emotional or physical. In soft quiet moments when his head was nearly empty, he'd had thought that if Izuku hadn't been the only mate truly worthy of him, he probably would have chosen Kirishima in the end.

He shook head, trying to clear out the weirdly affectionate thought and his vision.

"Hey, Katsuki-" Kirishima started towards him.

Katsuki's legs buckled beneath him. Before his hit the ground, strong familiar arms wrapped around him and cocooned him in Izuku's ever calming woodsy-minty scent. He hung limply in Izuku's arms, just allowing himself for inhale his alpha's scent. The first inhale steadied his legs. The next eased his stomach. The last cleared his head enough for him to shove Izuku away from him with a snarl, "Don't fucking touch me, Deku!"

Izuku's expression was fiercely uncompromising as he glared back, the green lightning of his quirk crackling along his skin and in his eyes. "What's going on, Kacchan? Are you sick?"

"Stay out of my business!"

Aizawa and All Might both took steps in their direction, ready to break them apart.

Expression hardening further, Izuku took a purposeful step forward. "What is that supposed to mean? You are-"

Kirishima slotted himself between them, hands up in supplication and neck bared in submission. He grinned disarmingly. "Alright, you two, let's not start something right now. You've been doing really good not starting unnecessary fights. Let's not end that streak, yeah?"

They continued to glare at each other over Kirishima's shoulder, but after a moment, Izuku calmed and softened until he took a step back. "You're right."

Scoffing, Katsuki turned his back on the pair. He knew Kirishima followed after him when he heard his quick footsteps catching up to him.

"Maybe you should call it a day. You haven't been in top form the past couple weeks. You should rest. Maybe we can talk?" Kirishima asked hopefully, but when Katsuki shot him a glare, his hands raised again, "Okay, okay, but at least rest."

"No." Just the short time with Izuku's scent had nearly completely cleared out his symptoms, and his rolled his shoulders. "I don't need a break, I need a fight. Let's spar."

Kirishima frowned, but followed him to an empty portion of the gym.

[sunflowerdabbles-blog]

hello and welcome!! sooo can u do something w/ ben about him and reader being coworkers and he has such a crush on her and she's clueless so someone else tells her and he's all nervous around reader and all that cute funny stuff? thanks !!

hi there! thank u so much!! i’ve been in the fandom for a couple months now but only made this blog like two weeks ago? anyways. this ended up being longer than expected bc i have no self control i guess? but i hope you like it!! have 1.4k of ben full on pining.

(oh and like i said before, english isn’t my mother tongue. so this is a weird mix of american and british english djfgkjs. and a lot of parenthesis and italics because that’s how i roll).

*

Like most things in Ben’s life as of recent, it was Joe’s fault.

See, he was perfectly fine, actually minding his own business and feeling a lot more comfortable on his own skin after finally getting over a quite messy break up. He was putting himself out there (exclusively for a good time), having fun with his friends, and his auditions were going pretty well too (sometimes people even called him first, things were that smooth, mind you).

So, naturally, Joe fucked it all up. And not even on purpose. The first time he mentioned her they were just catching up on his flat, one of the few times he could be bothered to go to London instead of expecting everyone to show up in New York. And that was it, really. Just one mention of this new friend he made the last time he visited: that was, in a way, all it took. Her name was [Y/N] and she had only moved there recently, working occasionally as a dialect coach and accent expert of sorts, and was somehow shy yet one of the funniest people I have ever met, Benny, I swear to god. You would like her a lot, I think.

And wasn’t that the whole problem? He just, fuck, he just liked her so much it was ridiculous (and quite embarrassing, as the annoying little voice on his head that sounded suspiciously a lot like Gwilym’s would like to add). After that first mention, Joe would just casually bring her up sometimes and not even three weeks later, fate (if you want to call it that) started playing its part as well. If he hadn’t given that much thought to the lovely woman that apparently made his friend cry of laughter once (Joe had this way of taking everything out proportion and besides, he’s just having fun now, right?), Ben was in no way prepared for the absolute angel he met on the first day of production for his most recent movie.

It was kind of humiliating, to say the least. Ben was not used to losing his breath when he met a beautiful woman but, it seemingly turns out, there’s a first time for everything. And it was definitely not the last. It was almost seven am and the weather wasn’t helping a lot in terms of motivation, but her nose was red from the cold, her body shaking a bit under many layers of clothing, a big yellow scarf almost swallowing her up, and Ben was falling under and fast even before she talked and moved him completely: her name was [Y/N] and, because the movie was a historical fiction book adaptation, it was her job to help him practice a swedish accent until it hopefully sounded native (or very close to it, at least). And things just got worse from there, really. Ben’s pretty sure he’s been dying a very slow and painful death for the last two months and, even worse (!), he couldn’t be more obvious about it even if he tried.

He even feels like a creep sometimes. They practice every day and yes, his voice quality seems to be getting a lot better (something about using a lower tone helping the accent roll easier on his tongue), but it’s like his skin can’t stop itching no matter how much he tries. He was, in all seriousness, pretty much shaking the first time they were alone, her small hands helping him correct his posture so he could reach a better pitch; and if he’s being honest with himself, every time after that. It’s like’s he’s restless al the time; the smell of her hair and perfume staying on his memory long after their last hug (and yet not quite enough), her laugh making his heart jump quick whenever they talk, the possibility of seeing her again actually motivating him to get up at five am (!) and the mere thought of kissing her until her knees were trembling was enough to lead to certain uh, interesting thoughts when’s alone in bed at night (or at the tube, the market, the fucking bookshop that one time he prefers not to think about).

The thing is he’s so obvious about it that everyone has noticed. And he doesn’t mean just his co-workers (which is already bad enough!) but also his friends have quickly caught up on his incapability of shutting up (whining, according to Rami) about her and, as expected, they’ve been completely insufferable ever since. Hell, even his mum called him the other day asking when she’s meeting the girl that has him so interested. Fuck Joe, honestly. Why does he even talk to her on the phone, anyways? It’s like he just needs to tell everyone (and well, uhh).

As if he wasn’t already easy to pick on; by all means, he could just put a big sign on his head announcing his feelings into the entire world and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. But, funnily enough, [Y/N] seems to have no idea, even though he’s been torn between (unknowingly) dropping hints constantly and wanting the ground to swallow him whole for a while now. It’s just, she’s probably used to having a ton of people interested? Or maybe she’s been trying to tell you she’s just not that into you and you’re a clueless bastard that she has to deal with because it’s her job? The possibilities are endless, you see.

—Hey, can I– are you busy right now? do you have a minute? –she asked, closing her umbrella and stepping into the trailer, the rain just starting to pour down outside.

Oh.

—Su-sure, of course. Is everything alright? I thought you were going downtown with- –he said, cleaning his now very sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants but stopped abruptly after taking in her blotchy cheeks and shaky hands, holding them with his own before moving one to gently caress her jaw– Hey, did something happen? You’ve been crying, I can tell –his voice caught on his throat upon seeing her eyes fill up with tears again, now holding her face with both hands and trying to get her to look at him– Did someone do something to you? Please, you know you can tell me anyt–

—I talked to Joe –[Y/N] replied, remembering the phone call that had taken place not even half an hour ago, her heart still so hopeful it ached from it– He– Ben, be honest with me, okay? Okay, so, he said, well I guess he implied that– that you may have a crush on me, I think? But like, he could be wrong? Maybe he was joking.

Oh. Oh shit, this can’t be good at all. It was bound to happen eventually. But everything was so perfect (could be more, though, always more) when they were together, running over his lines and practicing impressions until their stomachs hurt from the laughter, drinking tea when it was still impossibly early in the morning and then talking about anything and everything in the afternoon and late into the night, that he forgot this moment was even a possibility.

—He– he did that? –she nodded slowly, not even daring to lift her head, so scared of what she could find in his eyes (is he upset? What if he’s angry, disgusted, even?) and, even more, of what it could mean for them– I– fuck, I could kill him I swear he– listen, I don’t. I don’t want you to feel obligated, alright? This is– I can handle it, really. But I can’t stop, [Y/N], I swear I’ve tried but hell you’re just so– you. And I like you, okay? I like you so much it’s not even funny and if you give me a little more time maybe I can get over it and we’ll still be– umphh– –it felt like he was melting from the inside and bursting at the seams; her lips were soft and chapped from the cold, the absolute best thing he’s ever felt, his hands going from her face to her waist, not knowing where to settle, where to even begin. Months of waiting and craving seemed like nothing (and yet, meant everything) now, knowing that this was at the end of the line.

—You’re an idiot, you know?

She giggled and he fell in love all over again.

Maybe he would thank Joe, after all.

[ltjlily17]

Oh, can we call it a night?

What’s the most played song on your iPod? I don’t iPod anymore these days, but theres a site that will aggregate your Spotify listening, and the song I’ve listened to the most all time on Spotify is In Your Atmosphere by John Mayer. What is one quality you admire most in others? People who know what they want to do with themselves. What would you do with a million dollars? Invest it, maybe? Buy a new car. Start a non-profit that will save the world. Or just a small part of it. What’s your favorite song to dance to? All of them. What would your ideal birthday party be like?

No idea.This year I went to my favorite pizza place with a couple of friends, my mom and husband. Was pretty good.

If you could be reincarnated into anything you wanted, what would it be? I’m not sure I believe in any of that. What talent would you like to have? I wish I was ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC at something. I’m good at most things, and can get by, but I’m not outstanding at any singular thing.  Are you ticklish? Nah. What’s the longest you’ve gone without sleep? 3 days or so. I basically had the flu and felt like I was dying. Not like the real flu either, theres this illness you get when your body hasn’t slept in too long. What New Year’s resolutions did you make? None. What are three songs that mean the most to you? Mayonaise by the Smashing Pumpkins, Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton and Bornand Raised by John Mayer. Someone else used these italics and I’m just running with it.

Who is the one person you miss the most? No one? What do you think of your parents? They are flawed people. I make the best out of my relationship with my mom, but I’m just not sure I want to bother with my dad. What is one thing you would do to make the world better? Instill a sense of community. People would be so much better off if we all gave a shit about the other people we are on this planet with. What is your favorite kind of sandwich? Hot, cheesy, some kind of sauce. Other than that, I’m flexible. If you had a puppy, what would you name it? I got a puppy 2 years ago and his name is Finn. We wanted a Star Wars name and Supreme Leader was the runner up name. If you could be invisible for a day, what would you do? I can’t think of anything I’d wanna see. What people do behind closed doors is their business lol. How much cash do you have on you right now? None. I’m in pjs, but beyond that, I rarely use cash. What do you think makes you attractive to other people? Humor or personality? Would more money make you happier? I don’t know. We have a comfortable amount now, minus paying for healthcare. Steve may have a job offer that would cover the healthcare, but would I be happy not working? Would I just turn into a loser slug? What is one of your favorite memories as a child? I really don’t know. My parents pretty much screamed and threw things all the time until my dad moved out. Then they played horrible games with me in the middle. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t even remember about being a child. I’d say the good stuff started happening when I was a teen and could seek refuge in my friends and their stable houses. I had one friend in particular, Andrew, whose mom and dad were super nice and he had a fun little sister- every time I was over there, which was VERY often, it was like a slice of the good life. What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do in your life? This was on another survey and I didn’t know how to answer it. I think once it’s done I just move on, I’m really a dweller. How do you measure intelligence? Unsure. I guess you just get a feeling for someones intelligence as you’re interacting with them.

What cartoons do you watch? None at the moment. I did just get Disney+, so that may change, but there aren’t really any cartoons I’m planning on watching. Have you ever used drugs? Nope. If you were a Skittle, what flavor would it be? The purple one. Sleeper hit. How would you describe your style? Hmmm. Casual indie bohemian with a side of lazy fat person. If you had to spend $1,000 in one hour, how would you spend it? The internet. Generally, my money goes to clothes or Halloween decorations. I really wanna buy some regular decor for the house though, so maybe that. What’s your favorite smell and why? I don’t have one. Something not flowery or overbearing. Something fresh and natural. Where do you buy your clothes? Anthropologie, ModCloth, Target, Gap, Old Navy, Loft. What’s your favorite kind of cake? Birthday cake? Funfetti? Does intelligent life exist elsewhere in the universe? I have absolutely no idea. I used to think that it was just statistically impossible that there wasn’t, but fuck I don’t even know how any of this got here, so I no longer have an opinion. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be? MilkBar birthday cake. Are you into tattoos? I guess so? I like the art of them, I follow a lot of tattoo people on instagram and keep up with their work. I just got my first tattoo a week ago and I’m 35, so it’s not like something I do a lot, ha ha. Do you like photography? I do. I have illusions that I’m a photographer sometimes. I should be currently editing a wedding right now, but here I am. I’m just not sure I’ll ever be the kind of photographer I’d like to be, so I don’t know what I wanna do with it going forward. If you were a holiday, which one would you be? Halloween 100% Do you have any siblings? Nope. If you were to get a tattoo, what would it be of? I just got one. It’s a bat pusheen. I really wanted a bat of some sort and pusheen is my favorite so I just went for it. I always thought my bat tattoo would be a little more dark, but it is what it is lol. What’s the biggest celebrity you’ve ever seen in real life? I hid behind a dumpster when I was like 14 and 3 of the Backstreet Noys walked right by me, ha ha. I have some photos with me and the guys from Good Charlotte from when I was a wee teenybopper. How many pushups can you do? Absolutely zero. What person in history do you admire most? None? I don’t think I admire anyone. These surveys are quickly informing me that I don’t believe in anything or look up to anyone. Am I inert? Who is your favorite actor? I don’t have one. Ha ha, see above. I like most of the stuff Chris Pratt is in. Robery Downey Jr as Iron Man is iconic, but I’ve never seen any of his other movies. I like Adam Driver in Girls and Star Wars. What is the most daring thing that you have done in public? Spoke. Have you ever lied about your age? I don’t think I’ve ever had cause to. Have you ever cried while watching a movie? If so, what movie? For sure. Everything makes me tear up in my old age. Last movie was probably Endgame, though. Are you afraid of anything that most people are not afraid of? Not like huge, life changing fears, but I’m always afraid a bug will get caught in my hair and I can’t touch drains because they freak me out. Where do you see yourself five years from now? I’ve never been one to make plans. Hopefully happy with more direction. What is your favorite candy? Fun Dip, Nerds, Starburst. Have you ever watched someone struggle with addiction? Not someone suer close, but there are lots of auxillary people I know that have and do. Who do you look up to for your style? No one in particular. I see things on the internet I like and try to incorporate that, but its always varied sources. Who is your favorite sports team? I don’t follow sports. How often do you drink alcohol? Once every two weeks? Even then, its usually just one drink with dinner. I don’t much care about drinking. It seems like a lot of work to fill myself up with something I don’t really like the taste of just so I can potentially feel bad later.  What is your life in three words? Evolving yet bland. If you could be anything in the world, what would you be? I knew that, I’d be working towards it. Would you have a pet dragon? If so what color would it be? Sure. Whatever color dragon is fine with me. What’s your favorite sport? The only one I even kind of pretend to care about is baseball. Do you believe that homeless people are dangerous? No.  If you could be skinny and miserable or fat and happy, which would you be? I’d always pick happy. If your life flashed before you, what do you wish you would have done? Hmmm, I don’t know. I don’t have like any huge regret at the moment so probably just wish I’d have enjoyed myself more. If you were to invent something, what would it be? Hopefully something that makes the world better. Some kind of climate change related thing?  Who would you like to get to know better? This wholesaler real estate guy that has been selling us properties. Maybe if we knew him better, he would give us better deals, lol. Have you ever had a near-death experience? Near drowning when I was seven. Do you fear death? Yep.  What is the strangest food you ever ate? Hmmm. I like food with interesting combinations. Like smelly cheese or beet pesto or something, but I’m not on board with weird meat and I don’t eat seafood. Do you think you’re cool? Nah. What reality show would you like to be on? None. I don’t watch any of them. The only show like that I ever watched was the Osbournes, ah aha. What’s your favorite thing to order at a Chinese food restaurant? Whatever is gluten free. Ususally no choices for me at most chinese places. PF Changs has pad thai and general tsos I can have and another place nearby has general tsos too, but thats about it.

I loved lo mein and crab rangoon in my former life, though. Are you happy with your life? For the most part. If you could name your own planet, what would you call it? I’d need some plantary details before coming up with a name. If you could live another 200 years. What would you hope to see? People learning that we need to work together. Would you rather be hot or cold? Well, I’m cold like 90% of the time and that sucks, but at least you can do something about it and layer up and get blankets and such- if you’re hot, you’re just stuck. How would you rate yourself? What am I rating here? I’m like a 0 at makeup skills, but like an 11 if you need someone to pick you up in an emergency. 10 at playlist making. 1 at doing the dishes. Would you ever move to a different country in an attempt to start over? Maybe not to “start over”, but I would definitely consider a dream job in another country if all the details worked out. If you could be a character from any book, who would you be? No idea. I read a lot of Stephen King and none of those characters are alright.  Do you prefer taking baths or showers? I’d love to take a bath, but I’m a little big for the tub. Do you still collect toys from Happy Meals? Nope. I never ate happy meals even as a kid, so I never did. What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done? I drove two states over for a sandwich once. It was like a 15 hour round trip. In your opinion what is the greatest challenge the world faces today? People being willing to fuck over every one else if they think it will benefit them in any tiny, miniscule way. You are destroying everything by being an asshole and letting the people that really have all the money get away with it. Do you like dogs or cats better? I was 100% cat until I got a dog 2 years ago. I’m mostly dog at this point. Don’t tell my cat. What have you achieved that you once thought was impossible? Hmm, I don’t know. I’m a lot better off than my parents were. I just kind of thought the constant worrying about the car breaking down or the bills being paid was grown up life, so its nice to get here and know that I worked hard to not have those problems. If an ex texted you out of the blue, how would you respond? I don’t think I would. I’ve been with Steven for a decade, so theres def nothing that needs to be said to anyone that far back. Do you have a favorite poet? I don’t. I really like some poems I’ve read randomly in my internet travels, but I’ve never really been able to sit down and read a book of poetry. What have you tried to quit, but weren’t able to? Eating too much food? Would you rather go on a shopping spree with $200 or put it in the bank? I’d rather go shopping. I might save it, though. What was the last rumor that you heard? No idea. I don’t really have rumors around me at this point in my life. My friends aren’t like that and I’m not working anywhere at the moment. What country star would you most like to meet and why? I don’t really know who any of them are. Have you ever been in a car accident? Yes. One of them happened when I was like 15 and it pinched a nerve in my neck and half of my left hand went numb. My mom didn’t believe me for a really long time that there was something wrong until she watched me try to pick up a glass of milk with my left hand and it just fell to the floor. Are you an organ donor? Yes! What is the most dangerous thing you have ever done? Unsure. I’m fairly adventurous, but I don’t do super dangerous things. I guess just trespassing in old abandoned buildings when I was younger could have been dangerous. What is the meaning of life? Moments of joy. For you and others. What word do you like the sound of? Nothing in particular jumps out to me. Isn’t Cellar Door supposed to be lovely? What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Hmmm. I don’t know. Its more about the brand I think. I usually get Jeni’s or the other fancy ice cream brand when I get the chance. 

I always get the cake flavored froyo, though.  Do you prefer cupcakes or muffins? Cupcakes. Are you an athlete? Ha ha, no. What did the last text message on your phone say? From my brother in law. He’s doing the work on the house we just bought, getting it ready for a renter. He wants more money, lol. What is the funniest movie you’ve seen in your whole entire lifetime? Man, I don’t know. I think maybe Grandma’s Boy was the funniest I had seen at the time. I usually don’t even like movies like that. What’s the worst nightmare you’ve ever had? I had this dream when I was a kid that I left the scissors out and they flew up and cut my moms fingers off and the whole dream was dark and black and white because it was night, but at the end, she picked up the phone (landline, because cell phones weren’t a thing then) and the only color was the green light coming from the phone that illuminated the numbers and she was trying to dial 911 with her fingers that weren’t there. 

I probably had that dream close to 30 years ago now and it’s still clear in my mind. 

What do you know how to cook? Lots of things. I’m especially good at carbonara or alfredo. What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had, and what was it from? I fell down the stairs and broke several bones, severely sprained both ankles and ended up getting surgery to fix the cartilage in one ankle. What’s your favorite amusement park ride? Any that my fat ass can fit on. What do you wish you were doing right now? Well i’m doing this instead of things I should be doing. Who are your musical influences? I don’t play music, so I’m not really influenced? What was your favorite band or musician when you were 12? The Smashing Pumpkins, Bush, Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson and the Back Street Boys, ha ha. What’s the best pick-up line that’s ever been tried on you? I don’t think anyone has ever given me one. How many drinks can you handle? I don’t really know at this point. Getting older changes things. I know that if I have one drink and then stop, I get a headache, lol. What was the longest phone conversation you’ve ever had? Hours and hours. Like 7 or 8 probably? Back in my day you could only talk to boys on the phone because we didn’t have cell phones or text messaging and you only had dial up internet. What’s your favorite candle scent? I got one from Anthropologie called Riviera that was my favorite candle scent ever. I bought two, but they are sold out now and I am very sad.

[isobel-thorm]

I don’t have a quote or anything for a prompt but I’d love to see your take on your deputy meeting Sharky, or maybe some random crazy incident with cultists. Just general Sharky shenanigans please lol

Sharky’s Angels (The Good, 70′s Kind) 

(Putting both of my Deps in again because I need to buck up and write Grant’s fic)

After all the shit Deputies Nic and Grant go through, Sharky invites them for a night out on the town. It goes about as well as a night on the town hosted by Sharky could go: Shit’s on fire, John gets a confession, and there’s a giant chunk of the last night missing from their memory. At least one of them wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I mean, seeing as y’all helped liberate the place, you should come out for a night. See how we really live it up in Falls End!”

For Deputy Grant Lyons and Nicolette Raylan, Sharky’s invitation for a night out was just what they needed. Their time in Hope County was a bigger clusterfuck than either of them could have anticipated, and after almost dying twice daily for the last week, they needed a fucking break, and a beer sounded great. 

They felt bad that Staci and Joey weren’t there to join them, but they hoped the others would do the same in their shoes so they accepted.

And then word got out that they were showing up to party, so nearly every single townsperson had shown up for a drink and to encourage the two deputies to unwind.

Of course, their idea of unwinding after everything was picking the corner table in the bar, nursing a couple of beers each and watching everyone have fun. They didn’t want to let their guard down, considering they had discussed that if the rumor that they were going out for the night reached the entire town, it would probably get back to John, and he’d gladly crash the party.

However, by 10pm, the only danger was Sharky nearly elbowing every single person on the dance floor as he did some odd, hilarious combination of the little jumping jig he did when they had first met him, the robot, and disco moves.

The pair of them were nearly in tears when Sharky stepped on his tenth victim’s toes, jumped back and blubbered a quick apology before getting right back into it- but not before he tried to wave them over.

They had waved and promised to get on the dance floor ‘in a little bit.’ Sharky had taken it upon himself to give them a ten-minute limit. He had come back, done a couple of shots and dragged the pair of them onto the dance floor. They had caved for his sake, danced together for a couple of songs, and then retreated quickly back to their table.

Sharky had drifted back a song later, taken another shot and declared “Shark Attack is on the prowl!”

Within minutes, Sharky had been hanging off of every third girl in the bar. Grant wasn’t sure who to feel worse for, the women or Sharky. He liked the man and considered him a friend- something both of them had very few of. But watching the man in action when all he talked about was his prowess in eating women out, well, it was... something. Once he caught a few of Sharky’s attempted conquests women giving him a pleading look with a side helping of bedroom eyes, he felt even worse.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, either. Nicolette had spotted a couple of them and full-on cackled. “Oh, Grant, you’ve got some admirers…”

“Shut up,” Grant elbowed her.

She didn’t. “The blonde over there is sexy.”

“If you’re into that,” Grant countered.

“I kinda am,” Nicolette replied.

Grant chuckled. “Careful, John’s liable to get jealous.”

“Shut up.”

Grant laughed. “I’m not the one giving the enemy sex eyes every time I’m in a hundred-foot radius of him.”

Nicolette opened her mouth, then shut it firmly and jabbed a finger in his face.

Grant grinned, til he realized what it meant. If he knew about any of her trysts before they arrived in Hope County, he’d give her shit, and she’d respond with something about him pining over Staci. And now out of the genuine goodness of her heart, she couldn’t bring herself to mention Staci with all the trouble he was in, miles away and in Jacob’s clutches. He forced a smile and kissed her cheek to make up for the mistake he had essentially forced on her. 

She smiled reassuringly at him, then looked at the other women who were still looking to Grant for help. She turned back to him, reached over, and finger walked from his abs to his chest and grinned that little up-to-no-good smile of hers. 

Grant smirked as he caught on and tried to look like a man very much in love with the woman beside him - which wasn’t far off. If platonic loves of someone’s lives existed, she was his. 

Still, the show worked, because the women immediately seemed to fall for the trick and disappeared back into the crowd. 

“Thank you,” Grant sighed. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The sound of someone being slapped echoed throughout the room and they turned towards it to see a redheaded woman storming away and Sharky holding his cheek that had the visible edges of a bright red handprint on it.

“Oh, Honey…” she sighed.

“You gonna go Legally Blonde him or save him in general?” Grant asked.

“Legally Blonde,” she replied. She rose to her feet, tossed her hair and stuck her chest out- then promptly stopped in her tracks when she noticed the redhead talking to a bulky man who was easily a foot taller than Grant and a few inches wider. “Abort, abort, save him, save him now!”

Grant was already halfway across the floor before she had even corrected herself. He tossed one arm around Sharky’s shoulders to block him from view as he dragged the man through the densest crowd and slid out the side entrance before Mr. Tall and Menacing could find him.

“The fuck man?! I was just getting somewhere with Ellie May-”

“Yeah, and the last one’s boyfriend was gonna make you Sharkbait. Ya get me?” Grant hissed.

Sharky stared at him for a solid few seconds like he very much did not get Grant, but after a few added seconds, the lightbulb went off. “Man, you guys are so cool, swoopin’ in with a rescue. Like my own personal angels without the bliss. Ha, you’re Charlemagne’s Angels. But yeah, Harry’s a dick.”

Grant blinked at him. “You mean you know that guy… you know what, nevermind. I don’t wanna know.”

Sharky waved his hands, then looked around. “You know what would make this party way better? My black label.”

“Your what?” Grant asked, just as Nicolette finally rejoined the group.

“Liquor I made! I don’t even remember what’s in it or what it’s supposed to be. I just remember trying to blend whiskey, moonshine and absinthe and hopin’ for the best.”

Nicolette sighed and cupped his face in her hands. “Sharky, I love you, but how’re you not dead?”

“Will to live, disco, and pyromania,” Sharky replied without missing a beat- like he had rehearsed it.

The two deputies merely exchanged glances, but said nothing.

Sharky looked between them. “So, you in or not?”

Nicolette sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I do kinda miss letting loose.”

Sharky absolutely beamed, then looked at Grant hopefully.

Grant sighed. “Someone’s gotta make sure you two don’t fucking die.”

“YES!” Sharky jumped up and down. “Wait, goddamn it, John ruined that word. HOO-RAH! That’s your word, right Grant? Wait, Jacob ruined that one too.”

Grant immediately felt some of the buzz he had accumulated fade out at the reminded that he had the Army in common with that fucking psychopath. “Let’s just go, Sharky.”

“YEAH! … Wait-”

“SHARKY!”

“Okay, let’s go.”

——————————————-

The moment Grant came to he knew two things:

One, he was never ever drinking again.

Two, he was never ever trusting Sharky again.

He let the night sky come into focus, and prayed he had only lost a matter of hours and not days in whatever drunken stupor this clearly was. He was dimly aware of orange glows spotting the edges of his visions, but the fact that the last time he had seen this exact sight was after the fucking helicopter crash, he immediately had one giant glaring priority. “Nic?!”

There was suddenly a reassuring pat on his chest. “I’m here, but at what cost, holy shit. I can’t feel my body.”

Grant merely groaned in agreement. “Where’s Sharky?”

No idea. “I kinda want him to stay lost right now,” Nicolette supplied.

“What the fuck is on fire?” Grant asked.

“Kind of been terrified to look.”

“… On three?”

“On three.”

“One… “

“Two…”

“Three,” they said together, then awkwardly tried to help each other into a sitting position and turned towards the larger mass of orange off to their right- and promptly stared in awe as well as confusion.

Sharky was leaning casually against what they could only assume was the Telecom Tower- which was somehow rigged with burning ropes or sheets,  spelling out ‘FUCK YOU JOHN’ in giant letters that anybody within a few hundred feet of the tower could see clearly. 

The moment the man spotted them, he beamed, and they were horrified to see that he looked no worse for wear when they weren’t entirely sure they had survived the night. He jogged over. “There y’all are! Man, you two sure know how to party more than anyone expected.”

“Who…?” Nicolette asked, motioning at the sign.

“Why?” Grant cut in.

“Oh, that was a mutual decision on all our parts,” Sharky explained. “We wanted to do something that would annoy the man but not enough to get him to come and ruin the fun. Man, Grant, you scaled that thing so quick, it was some Spider-Batman shit.”

Grant gawked at him, then at the top of the tower. “I did…?”

“Hell yeah you did! Nic tied the shit together and stayed on the ground to run damage control in case John did show up and she could and I quote ya, Nic, for the record- ‘take one for the team like Addie suggested and get us out of it.’”

Nicolette gripped Grant’s arm tight enough that the man knew he’d have a bruise. He pried her hands off of him.

Sharky looked between them again, then grinned. “Hoooolllllly shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. You guys don’t remember shit, do you? That’s hilarious.”

“It’s really not,” Nicolette objected.

Sharky waved at her dismissively. “Whatever. I got you guys to unwind. You’re welcome.”

After ten seconds of dead silence and Sharky shrugging, announcing he had to take a piss and leaving the area to do so, Grant finally spoke. “… … I’m gonna kill him.”

“I might actually help yo-oh my god, don’t turn around.” Nic cut herself off and reached for him.

“What, you see his dick?”

She sighed. “The other thing that was on fire, you idi- NO I SAID DON’T-”

But Grant had, and stared as he saw smoke billowing out of the windows of what used to be an orange pickup truck.  “IS THAT MY TRUCK?! BOSHAW!”

Nicolette flinched, not willing to see whatever carnage was about to occur when Grant stood up and faced Sharky. 

“What?! You were insistent that ‘fuck you John’ needed an exclaima- fuck you run fast for a big guy with a hangov- OH GOD.”

Nicolette winced harded at the sound of the pair of them hitting the ground, Sharky yelping a couple of times, and then the familiar sound of Hungover Grant Regretting All His Life Choices. Well, Sharky was spared- for now. They just needed to find a new truck. Wouldn’t difficult in the long run.

The radio at her hip clicked on, and she reached for the transmitter. “Fuck off, John.”

“… I understand the sentiment entirely, but I ain’t him.”

Mary May. “Fuck. Sorry. Flight Captain Asshole’s been really adamant about talking to me lately.”

“Honey, you were kinda adamant about talking to him last night,” Mary May cut in.

“Funny thing about that is that I don’t remember any of it so I can willfully deny it,” Nicolette countered. 

“Plead the fifth. Charming.”

“Plausible deniability,” she corrected.

“God, Nic, do you remember anything?” Mary May asked.

“Should I?” she replied.

Mary May was silent for a moment, then laughed. “Aaaand another victim falls to Sharky’s black label. We’ve all been there.”

“Should. I?” Nicolette repeated. “… What the fuck did I say to John?”

“Oh, nothing to him, thank God. You just kinda tried to yell at him through us because ‘he always does it to you and it’s annoying as fuck’,” Mary May replied. “My personal favorite was ‘John I’ve got a confession for you. I confess to thinking you’re a little bitch.’ But that was really early in the night. Was that other message to John at the tower your doing too?”

“Apparently.”

“Shit, you really don’t remember. Well, turns out y’all took a bunch of pictures  before you disappeared.”

Right, so this was probably going to be their version of The Hangover. Fantastic. “Please tell me I’m fully clothed in all of them.”

“Uh, well, it looks like you are in the latest few, but now I’m afraid to check.”

“We’ll be back at your place in ten.” Her body throbbed at the mere implication it was going to have to move soon. “Make that twenty.”

“I’ll expect you in half an hour.”

“Thank you. Love you.”

“See ya later, Nic.”

Nicolette switched the radio off, groaned and then leaned back again, only to hit her head on something. She glanced to the side and saw some sort of liquor bottle. She picked it up, opened it and gave it an experimental sniff. The resulting full-on assault of her sense of smell confirmed that it was whatever this Black Label was. She could dimly hear Grant snoring in the distance- the very stuff in the bottle she was holding had provided a hangover that could knock people back unconscious. It was a damn mess. She swore, then after making a quick, all-life-choices-questioned decision of her own, took a quick pull. Hair of the dog that bit you seemed like a smart idea if it ended that bad after a bender. She regretted it immediately since every part of her body burned as it went down and it left an abhorrent aftertaste.

“Hey! Nic! You still with me?!” Sharky called after a moment.

“Yeah, still with ya!”

“Awesome! Woman outlasts the fucking man, good for you!”

She merely groaned again. “Sharky, I hate you. So much.”

“No, ya don’t.”

“Kinda wanna right now.”

“As if you could ever. You got this far, you’re stuck with me. Ride or die, Darlin’!”

“Ride or die,” she chorused. She cracked one eye open, and as much as it pained her to admit it, his answering ear to ear grin made the whole entire fiasco worth it.

[simplifyingforces]

Prepare to Interface [AO3 link]

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Red vs. Blue Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

The Temple of Procreation has an algorithm. Simmons doesn’t understand it.

Simmons' HUD vitals flashed ominously at the edge of his vision as he stumbled down the hallway toward the base's storage wing. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Years of waiting, hoping, wishing -- all undone by something as monumentally stupid as this.

He stopped for a second to catch his breath, slamming his hands against the wall. If he could just make it to those sweet, solitary, air conditioned storage units, everything would be fine. Perfectly, forgettably fine. Like he wasn't about to lose his virginity courtesy of an alien-made, planet-wide aphrodisiac fine.

God, he hated Blue Team sometimes. Stupid Tucker and his stupid alien sword, casually activating temples without even entertaining the possibility of something so minor as actual, real life consequences.

Statistically, the number of pregnancies alone would put the planet under a level of strain so severe that it could cripple the entire infrastructure before they even had a chance to rebuild. He'd said that at least twice, along with a lot of other good, solid reasons backed up by peer-reviewed empirical data. He just couldn't remember them all at the moment.

"Never thought I'd see someone so set against losing their virginity," Simmons whispered to himself mockingly. That had been Tucker's only response to his perfectly sensible objections. Like it was all personal for him.

Like anyone wanted their first time to be someone coerced into wanting them.

And there it was. The other main reason for his concern, otherwise known as consent and immediate impact on individual, familial, and communal dynamics! Just because it sounded like the subtitle to a scientific study didn't make it any less true.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t open to the potential merits of the temple. He’d conceded that Chorus might benefit from a jump start to the reconciliation process, and it made some kind of weird sense on a macro level to give everyone 24 hours of ”ravenous sexual frenzy” as a means to accomplish it. He supposed.

But his own micro level life didn't need that bullshit.

Forget what Santa had said about sensitivity to the intricacies of consent as plotted into the temple's algorithm, too; if someone had been interested, they would have spoken up by now, what with him being a war hero and all. Tucker had made that perfectly clear. Tucker had also been much more of an asshole than usual lately.

Simmons absently rubbed at his collarbone. Even with the slightest pressure from the armor bearing down on it, he imagined the stitches pulling against his skin and drew his hand away. They'd been so lucky, again. Again and again, and hopefully they would no longer need to be. Church wouldn’t need to, at least.

He violently pulled his thoughts away from the Staff of Charon and started back down the hall. The heart rate monitor in his HUD placed him at 142 BPM and rising. What would happen if he didn't fuck? Santa hadn't even talked about that. He could already see the headline: War Hero Dies, Determined to Remain a Virgin.

Grif would love it at least; assuming Grif wasn't also dead from a decided lack of temple-induced fucking. He hadn't even been there to know that there was temple-induced fucking to worry about. Grif had shown zero interest in showing up at the temple today -- or for any other mission lately, for that matter. Maybe if he had been there, they wouldn't be in the position they were currently in. Grif could have-- could have-- well, probably not done anything at all, if Simmons was being perfectly honest, but at least he'd have been aware. At least he wouldn't be on his own, wondering what was happening to him right now and why.

And how would Grif be taking all this, exactly? His physical fitness had always been notably well below par. The effects of the temple already felt like the slow grip of imminent death to Simmons and he was at least ten times healthier.

It was also impossible to forget just how much Grif had completely disregarded his own safety on the Staff of Charon. His chest had absorbed countless hits of enemy fire, just because he’d insisted on taking point with the Grif Shot halfway through. The exact sound of Grif’s small grunts of pain had played in surround sound via comm as Simmons bled out through his armor. It wasn’t until the end -- Tucker surrounded by dead and dying and the room suddenly horribly quiet -- that Grif had stepped down, armor burned black and smoking.

He didn't need to contact Grif. Grif was probably absolutely fine. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Usually. At least forty percent of the time. When they weren't in a crisis situation.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on him. Just a casual hello, maybe a little update on the temple.

Simmons switched over to their private channel and signaled in. Grif almost always picked up there.

No answer.

He swallowed drily and started walking faster. What if Grif was with someone? What if he wasn't and was already dead? What would Sarge say if sex (or lack thereof) literally killed half of the Glorious Red Team?

Anxiety roiled in his gut, and he groaned in irritation. Ugh, he couldn't think about Grif right now! It wasn't like he could do anything for him anyway.

The storage wing doors came up on his left and he keyed in the entry code. A couple of lieutenants ran past him as he went through the doorway, completely oblivious to his presence as they giggled and tripped over one another on the way out. His eyes followed them as they passed, face warm and heartbeat racing as he took in their roaming hands. Jealousy was stupid. Who would he even want to fuck on this planet, anyway?

He closed his eyes as a deep shudder ran through his entire body. Fucking someone, anyone, right now sounded incredible. He was actually amazed at how good it sounded. He'd put a lot of effort into not thinking about sex for so long, circumstances being what they were.

Did it matter if he thought about one person over another? Say, Tucker versus Donut, or Carolina versus Kimball?

As if on cue, images started flowing in. Very graphically.

He slapped a hand against his helmet hard enough to sting.

Focus, Simmons. Keep moving.

Around the next corner, he finally spotted the individual unit doors and let out a sigh of relief. One of them had to be available.

He yanked on the handle of the first one and let out an angry noise when it didn't budge. It wasn't like he wanted to fuck all over the canned vegetables! He just needed space and time alone, where he didn't have to worry about running into anyone and embarrassing himself for the rest of his military career. The thought of actually seeing Carolina, Kimball, Tucker, or Donut right now made him want to throw himself off a cliff.

"Let me in, come on, one of you, any of you," he demanded as he went down the line, pulling at each handle. Locked, locked, motherfucking locked. Sweat was starting to form on his brow. Heart rate at 155. He was steadily ignoring anything below his waist.

Focus.

His eyes finally lit on a door wedged open with a broom handle in the far right corner. "Thank you, god," he whispered as he bolted in, kicked the broom away, and let the door swing shut, darkening the unit almost completely. He unclasped his helmet and let it fall to the floor as he leaned back against the wall. Cool air blasted from the ceiling vent onto his sweaty hair, pushing it downward.

If Simmons had been himself, he would have checked his surroundings on entry. As it turned out, intense manufactured arousal made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than...well, being aroused.

And in that time, someone else in the unit had noticed him.

"Simmons?" that someone else called out from behind a wall of opened, empty cans of food. "I think there's something wrong with me." The voice paused. "Like, really, really wrong, dude."

Simmons' eyes shot open in panic.

"What the -- Grif?!"

Most of the people Simmons had met over the course of his enlistment held the same ideas about the existence of a higher power. Sim troopers, freelancers, and the people of Chorus had no reason to believe some omnipotent being looked after them from behind the scenes. Not with everything they'd been through.

Simmons had never been in that camp. No, he was confident that God existed -- in fact, God had always had it out for him specifically. He'd known that since his fifth birthday, when his dad made him cry in front of his entire kindergarten class for getting last place in Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Moments like this just continued to confirm it for him.

"Why are you in here?!" He pushed off the wall and gestured angrily at Grif's canned food wall. Grif was just on the other side of it. Close enough to touch, if he just took a few steps forward. Not that he wanted to or anything.

"I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass! Why are you in here?!" Grif responded in kind, and maybe if Simmons had been thinking straight, he would have thought about the likelihood of Grif holing up here with endless amounts of food and dark space and silence. He would have just assumed Grif's laziness for not answering a comm instead of being dead or in the middle of orgasm. But he didn't, because half of his blood was no longer in his brain.

"God damn it, Grif!" He kicked his helmet away and slid to the floor. If he held his arms against his cheeks, he could cool himself slightly off the armor metal. It helped him focus well enough to hear Grif's indignant, irritating response.

"What the hell, dude? I tell you I'm sick -- after you barge into my space, by the way -- and you get mad at me?" Grif began to haul himself up and make his way over to Simmons' side of the room.

"Stay back!" Simmons scooted away hurriedly, slamming his back against the door. Grif didn't know. He didn't know anything, and that was dangerous as hell.

"Okay, chill," Grif said, taking an exaggerated step backward. Simmons saw his head tilt down slightly, taking him in. "Wait. You look like how I feel, which, by the way, is really, really shitty. What's going on?" Grif picked Simmons' helmet up off the floor, sweaty skin shining off the dim light of the HUD as he peered into it. He clicked the headlamp on and set the helmet on a shelf so that they could see each other more clearly.  

Simmons slightly hated him for that.

"Well, if you had bothered to come to the meeting today, you would know." Simmons rubbed his temples, looking away. Of course Grif would hang out in the storage closet in his undersuit -- why wear full scale armor anymore? The war was over, and Grif's bruises probably felt a lot better that way. Unrestricted beneath breathable fabric and open to the cool, cool air. Simmons swallowed thirstily.

Silence reigned for a moment, until --

"Seriously, that's all you're going to give me? I'm trying not to die of heat exhaustion and--and-- whatever this is," Grif said as he flailed his arms in confusion, "and you're going to hang missing a meeting over my head? Cut the shit, Simmons."

"I am trying," Simmons said measuredly through ragged breath, "to focus." He clenched his fists tightly before setting them to work on his own armor. Grounding himself in simple tasks could work. Plus, he was just so hot. Maybe if he could cool off a bit, he could warn Grif. Grif needed to know.

"Focus here then, Simmons, and tell me what's going on," Grif said shortly. Simmons could see his fingers tapping against his folded arms in stiff, agitated motions in the lamplight. It was very un-Grif-like. Simmons could grab them, just for a second, put them where they'd be of better use, and --

With shaking hands, he pulled his chest piece off and placed it on the floor. Santa's algorithm was clearly bullshit. He took a knee and started methodically working on a leg, staring intently at the ground. Cool down, Simmons. Cool. Down.

"Simmons," Grif ground out impatiently, and fuck his voice, honestly, for sounding so beautifully gravelly deep.

"Grif," he said hoarsely, fumbling with the clasp on his calf. "Stop." He'd never thought of Grif's voice as beautiful before. Once he got out of this mess, he was going to write these reactions down just to prove how right he'd been.

"Stop what? You stop! No, wait; you start! Tell me why I woke up feeling like I have the biggest case of blue balls known to man!"

"Fine!" Simmons yelled, and it felt good to do it, like the smallest, greatest release. He stood and pelted the wall with the rest of his armor, satisfaction growing with each loud rattle to the floor.

"If you had gone to any of our meetings since the battle, you'd have known that conducting alien tech research is a top priority for Chorus right now." He paced as he drew on his anger to maintain his train of thought. "And Tucker's sword makes us the perfect candidates to do it. Not like you care, since you've been MIA for every mission." He paused for a second to let that truth bomb sink in, a bomb so full of truth that he actually wanted to hear Grif's inevitable excuse-laden reaction.

Instead, he got nothing but silence. "Are you even listening to me?"

And then, he made the stupid, stupid mistake of looking at Grif's face. It was unnerving how intently Grif was staring at him. Grif's body had lost all of its usual studied calmness and looked ready to spring. At him. Imminently.

Simmons let out a long, shaking breath and felt himself sway slightly, the room closing in on him and Grif in the small beam of light. Was he getting lightheaded? What was his heart rate right now?

"Forget it." Grif's voice cut through the quiet, hurried and high-pitched. "You're totally right, Simmons. I don't care enough, so you should just go ahead and take your nerd explanation somewhere else. Yeah."

"Um," Simmons responded eloquently. His anger had dissipated, leaving nothing but wanting in its wake. He should turn around and walk out. He should stop staring at Grif. He should move his ass, immediately. Right now. Any moment --

"Look," Grif continued, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. "You can tell me later, okay? I can't do this right now, with you -- I mean things! Being, you know --" He trailed off and fluttered his hands in Simmons' general direction.

The thing was, Grif had never really been the type to tell Simmons what to do. That had always been more of a Simmons-to-Grif dynamic. So Simmons should definitely go. It would be reasonable to leave. If he could bring his body back online, he would honor Grif's request, because he was someone who did the right thing. Really, he was. He didn't want to do this to Grif. He didn't. He just needed a second. Just a second to --

Without warning, Grif lurched towards him. Simmons fell backwards as Grif gave him a graceless shove, almost as if he were undecided between pushing Simmons or falling down himself. And then, inexplicably, Grif's hand clamped down hard on contact, and he pulled Simmons back towards him, making their heads bump together in the whiplash.

Simmons hissed through his teeth. Grif's touch burned through the fabric of the undersuit, and Simmons felt every part of himself radiate toward it.

"What the hell," Grif whispered, wide-eyed and half-shadowed from the narrow beam of the headlight. This close, Simmons could see one iridescent eye, and it was the clearest he'd seen Grif maybe ever. As long as Simmons had known him, he'd been awed and slightly jealous of Grif's uncanny ability to maintain the most dull and uninterested stare, regardless of person or situation. To add insult to injury, Grif's eyes were so dark that his pupils were practically invisible, giving him an added layer of immunity from the betrayal of any instinctual reactions.

Simmons had actually thought for an embarrassingly long time that Grif's eyes were black. It hadn't been until after the surgery, when Sarge had shined a flashlight in Grif's face during an implant check-up, that he'd finally realized they were a deep, warm brown. Hidden depths, he'd thought ridiculously at the time, but it didn't make it not true.

Now, Grif's closeness had let Simmons see everything, and it was so much. Too much.

"Grif," he said, and it was whiny as fuck, so annoying, he hated everything about it. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't equipped to handle this. Grif didn't know. It wasn't his fault. It definitely will be Simmons' fault if he lets this happen.

Grif released a heavy breath through his nose before releasing his grip. The loss of contact felt like losing a piece of Simmons’ own self, and it was...sad? How could a body be sad? What was the temple doing to him?

"Simmons, just...leave." Grif paused. "Please." His hand was now running through his hair, fingers agitatedly pulling at the strands as if to keep it from flying forward onto Simmons again. But he looked more at ease now. That was good. Safe.

"Well," Simmons tried to say lightly, "if you're going to bust out the niceties." He fumbled blindly for the door handle behind him.

"It might help to turn around," Grif said absently. He dragged his hand down to rub at his cheek. "Just a...just a thought."

Simmons tore his eyes away from Grif's hair, which now looked really well-tousled instead of like its usual greasy tangle. "Right." He spun around clumsily, banging his shoulder against the door.

"Fuck," he breathed, jiggling the handle. His arm still burned where Grif had touched him. "It's locked." He paused. "Wait. Why is it locked from the inside?"

Realization hit him like a lightning bolt. I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass. Weeks in which Chorus leadership had noted in meetings -- meetings Grif had skipped! -- a concerning drop in food supplies and begun creating fail-safes against smuggling. Grif's exceptional fatassery had finally gone a step too far. Why hadn't he thought for one second about the purpose of that goddamned broom handle.

Simmons stared at the door as if he could will it to open. There was nothing else to do. If he turned around, though -- if he looked at Grif -- his body sang at the thought, and he pushed down on it, hard.

"Simmons," a voice suddenly whispered against his neck, because Grif was shorter than him and holy fuck when had he gotten so close? "Simmons." Grif's exhaled breath tickled his skin, and he shivered. All he could think about was Grif touching him again. Why hadn't Grif touched him again? Grif couldn't touch him again, or it would all be over.

Simmons braced his hands against the door to stop his knees from shaking. There had to be another way out of here; all he needed to do was find it. Then he wouldn’t even have to explain the temple. It would be the most sound, practical solution to this...problem. For the best, really.

"Something's wrong with me," Grif muttered against his neck. "Talk to me, Simmons, come on, you always talk, say something, give me anything--"

Okay, Simmons, think. No other exits, no windows, nothing but Grif and his helmet’s headlight shining on their backs.

Wait. His helmet?

"I'm sorry," he said to the wall, and then pushed back hard, sending Grif sprawling with a yelp of surprise.

Simmons turned and leapt forward, fumbling for the helmet, the light careening wildly against the walls. "Come in, hello? We're stuck!" he cried out as he jammed it on his head. His hands itched to touch Grif's skin. "In here. Alone. Anybody?"

Comms couldn't be down, not for all of Chorus. That was impossible. He scrolled frantically through his HUD until he got to the alerts screen and read:

COMMS SHUT OFF FOR DURATION OF TEMPLE EFFECTS BY ORDER OF PRES. KIMBALL

"Right," he sighed, shoulders drooping. "Of course. Privacy is important, and," he let out a short, defeated laugh, "who'd be able help us right now anyway?"

He pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the floor. The light faced somewhere left of them, leaving them in semi-darkness. Below him, Grif was concerningly silent.

“Grif?” He looked down, heart pounding. “Did I kill you?”

“No. Not yet at least,” Grif muttered. Unlike the unnerving panic attack from earlier, he’d seen Grif like this before. You know, relatively calm, but also bright-eyed, slightly flushed and...wriggly, for lack of a better term. It had never been personally directed at him. Some things you just couldn’t avoid after sharing a room for long enough. Especially when your roommate decided to look at porn with you in the room.

This still wasn’t personally directed at him, Simmons reminded himself firmly.

“Look,” Grif said from the floor, "can we be real for a second?" He bit his lip and let out a soft, frustrated noise as he shifted restlessly. "I need to get off. Like, now."

Simmons could actually feel the flush that spread across his cheeks as he took Grif’s words in. This is happening. This is happening. This is happening, his brain supplied helpfully. His body stepped in to painfully remind him that it was completely and totally on board.

Grif glared up at him. "Come on, dude. Throw me a bone here.”

Simmons swallowed. Grif was proposing it, so it was fine, right? Or the algorithm made it okay for Grif to propose it. And for him to accept it, if he was understanding it correctly. "Me...me too. I guess.”

Grif nodded in satisfaction, and squirmed on the floor for a bit longer before settling on an apparently slightly more comfortable position. "So, obviously neither of us are happy about it or anything. But I -- we -- gotta do it, man."

"Right, okay.” Simmons paused. “Do what exactly?"

Visions swam in his mind of what Grif could say. What he wanted Grif to say. Correction: what the temple wanted him to want Grif to say. Obviously.

"Uh, the bare fucking minimum. Also, losing your virginity like this would be pretty awful, so. Win-win."

"Win-win," Simmons echoed, voice cracking slightly.

He was going to touch Grif, and they were going to get off. Together. Grif was going to touch him and he wanted him to. He could admit that, right? It was the temple, after all.

"Okay," he said, heart in his throat.

"Okay," Grif repeated, and it was so anxiously giddy, Simmons felt himself grimace. It wasn't Grif's fault. It wasn't Grif at all actually, so Simmons might as well make it easier.

He knelt down next to Grif. "Uh." What came next, exactly? He made an aborted motion towards Grif's chest. “Should I...?”

Grif reached out and pulled Simmons on top of him by his undersuit.

The effect was immediate. "Oh god," Simmons breathed, eyes squeezed shut. He could smell Grif's sweat. Only two layers of undersuit separated his suddenly embarrassingly hard dick from Grif's leg.

Grif let out a pained sound before his hand landed on the back of Simmons' head, sifting through his hair in a way that would have been soothing under literally any other circumstance. He reflexively bucked against Grif instead, scalp tingling from Grif's fleeting touch.

When Grif pushed back, he felt hardness against his hip and moaned. Actually moaned, like a horny teenager. Jesus Christ. The sound of it rang out disgustingly in the almost silence.

Almost, because of Grif's loud breathing, which Simmons had attributed to Grif's general state of health until he actually listened to it. He'd never made anyone respond like Grif, not in almost thirty years of living. It's the temple, his mind whispered at him, as he hitched a thigh between Grif's legs, craving another breath, another sigh, another anything at all.

"Fuck," Grif choked out, chest vibrating against Simmons. He slid his hand down to rest on Simmons' neck. The heat of it felt like jumping into a hot tub on a cold day, scalding water that made his skin break out in goosebumps.

He clenched his jaw tightly to suppress a new wave of noises from escaping into the room.

And now he sounded like a duct taped hostage. How incredibly sexy. The temple was a miracle worker if Grif’s libido survived all of that intact.

Wait, why did he even need to sound sexy? Simmons shook his head, planted his hands on either side of Grif, and pushed up and away for better leverage. It was so much easier to remember how things stood from here. They had been forced into this, Grif was the least intimidating person he knew, and so if it had to happen, who better? Just two guys helping each other out in their time of need, totally casual and mutually rewarding. So what if Simmons could still feel everything: Grif's fingers digging into his wrist and Grif’s stomach expanding outward to brush against his arms and Grif’s dick grinding on his leg, gradually making his undersuit wet? That was fine. He was just the most convenient option.

Simmons closed his eyes and concentrated on the steady, agonizing slide of pleasure until it began to lead to a rhythm that made his mind go hazy. Below him, Grif kept taking in long, shuddering breaths. It was the perfect spot, perfect pressure, more euphoric than any jerk-off session.

And then Grif did the worst possible thing. An unforgivable thing. He started fucking talking.

"Holy shit, Simmons," Grif whispered frantically, bringing him completely out of the moment. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit." Simmons felt Grif's hands on his hips, patting him as if to convince himself that Simmons was actually there.

"Simmons, ah --" His breath hitched and he arched up, hands gripping tightly. "That's good, so good, it's perfect -- you're perfect --"

Simmons jerked forward roughly enough to move both of them a good foot across the floor. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

"Simmons? Do you like it?" Grif babbled beneath him. "Does it feel okay, or good, or --"

"Shut up," Simmons said tightly as he pressed down against Grif's leg. He desperately fixated on Grif's Adam's apple, ears prickling. It wasn't Grif. It wasn't him. It felt so good, though, hearing his name that way.

From Grif. His mind stuttered and came to a halt.

The lazy back-and-forth that had been so mind-numbingly good before was now woefully inadequate. He felt impatient with need. It burned him from the inside out, and he leaned into it.

“Okay.” Grif’s voice broke and wavered. Simmons jumped slightly at the sensation of Grif’s fingers running against his stitches. It was a weirdly gentle gesture. “Good.”

Simmons sniffed loudly as the pressure mounted under his skin. Grif’s irritating, insistent touch made him want to scream. Why were his eyes watering?

And then, Grif’s soft, shaking fingers slid away and upward to stroke his cheek, less delicate than clumsy. He could look up; it would be easy enough. Grif swallowed hard, the Adam's apple slid downward, and Simmons felt his stare, but kept holding on and away, grinding down hard and fast and panting. He was close, so close, fuck.

If Grif would just stop talking, they could finish getting off and forget this ever happened. But Grif had never listened to Simmons, not once in all their years together.

"You -- your face -- Simmons," Grif stuttered, and it was wobbly and wanting and full of unspeakable things. Grif pushed up hard and let out a startled sound from deep in his throat before falling limp, chest heaving.

"Goddamnit, Grif," Simmons gasped. "I'm gonna -- gonna --" He went taut as he shuddered into climax. "Nnnngh."

He let himself lay on top of Grif for a moment and tried to catch his breath. He had never even hugged Grif before, and now he felt like he was falling into a chasm, dark and terrifying.

He needed to get up.

"Uh, Grif, about the temple," he started haltingly, before he lost his nerve. "It causes --"

A rumbling snore interrupted him.

Simmons sighed and shifted slightly over to Grif’s side. There was come drying in his undersuit and Grif shouldn't have this much pressure on his bruises. But he was warm, and there was nowhere else to go. Also, sex with another person had been a lot more tiring than Simmons had thought it would be.

For awhile, he lay in a state of sleepy semi-panic. Should he get up? Would Grif think it was weird that he hadn’t gotten up earlier? Who cared what Grif thought anyway? Did he care? The algorithm had clearly been all wrong -- it had made two people who couldn't even procreate fuck, hadn't it? So neither of them should care about any of it, least of all some post-coital napping.

But what if Grif did?

"Shut up," he murmured to himself as he concentrated on Grif's even breathing. Eventually, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Simmons woke to bright light flooding behind his eyelids.

"Oh look, Freckles, we have found more best friends laying down together in the dark!" Caboose's helmet stared down at them, framed by fluorescent light. "Santa says you can come out now."

Simmons pulled away from Grif so fast, his head hit the floor. "Caboose! Uh..." He looked up from the ground and groaned when he saw pink armor.

"Heyyyyy, guys! I can't believe it! I mean, I can believe it -- well, we all can, really --"

"Fuck. Off. Everyone," Grif's flat, tired voice came from behind Simmons. Simmons sat up abruptly and discreetly checked himself for decency. Somehow, Grif had found the time to put his own helmet back on. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Fine, Mister Grumpy Pants," Donut pouted. "And here I'd thought you'd be a little more happy." He stared meaningfully at Simmons before following Caboose down the hall, leaving Simmons scrambling to catch the door before it closed.

He cleared his throat as Grif made his way back behind his canned food wall. "Do you, uh, want to talk about it?"

"Did you or did you not hear me the first time, Dick?" Grif said, voice devoid of anything beyond irritation.

"Oh, thank god." Simmons grabbed his armor and fled, propping the long-forgotten broom handle in the doorway on his way out.

Simmons never directly tells Grif about the temple. He knows Grif knows when he joins Simmons at the lunch table the next day and says, "Fucking Santa and fucking Tucker," and they leave it at that.

When Donut and Tucker come in and ask for a million details, Grif threatens to gut them with the Grif Shot, and Simmons is infinitely grateful. It’s honestly better than any other conversation they could have mustered up on their own.

Simmons is also infinitely grateful that Grif doesn’t bring up his terrible sex noises or his pathetic almost-tears.

No one mentions the algorithm at all.

Simmons sees Grif in the showers later and locks eyes with the wall until he leaves. No one says anything to anyone, really, since most of the room's got their own horror stories and the scars to prove it. Thank god he has his own quarters. He has no desire to see anyone else out of armor for the foreseeable future.

That night, he jacks off and thinks of Grif's voice, just to see. Simmons, you're so good, Grif-in-his-mind says, you're perfect. He thinks of how Grif's open face might have looked, his gasps, all the things the temple made him do.

It fucking sucks.

[liliumwallichianum]

just an update

I haven’t written in a long ass time, like actually written and not just venting writing, but I feel like writing is important. Even if I’m the only one reading it, it’s important. So here’s the good and bad of the past couple weeks (maybe months?) cause I have to write if I’m at a Starbucks amirite amirite. 

So let’s start with something that’s on my mind the most - MCAT. Ironically, the one thing I should be doing right now as well... lol. I haven’t gotten the ball rolling and I’m a little worried.. I feel like I should be doing way way way more and I’m not. I think I need to move back home but like all of my stuff is at wayne. my life is at wayne. my home is wayne and I’m scared to let it go. This doctor/nurse/health care professional popped into starbucks right now btw should i talk to him? probably wont since im writing. but anyways, I really think I should bring a bunch of my essentials back home for a while and just fucking MCAT. i need to MCAT. i need to i need to. it’s pointless for me to be wasting precious studying time at Wayne getting high or cuddling with my fucking useless boyfriend instead of fucking grinding. It’s stressing me out a little. but I know I will do it, and I can. I need to start having more faith in myself I feel...

The next thing I think about a lot is my fucking gas issues mainly cause i’ve been burping SO GODDAMN MUCH. I hate this. I hate not being in amazing health conditions. I love where my body is at right now and I love where it’s going, even though it’s going kind of slow, but this burping is making me second guess it. I feel like since i might not being eating as much as I used to, my stomach is (hopefully) shrinking but because of that I’m burping so much because of all the empty space. Not sure how to fix it but hopefully it’ll be better soon. I also started putting menthe and coconut in my oil (jk today is the first day cause I facetimed ajji and appa and they told me to do this) but hopefully i’ll start getting my hair back as well. I’m trying really hard to have my life together, but everyone keeps saying that I shouldn’t be worrying about that right now, but I’m curious.... did Ajay have it together? Did Anita? Did they break down and cry about silly things at night? were they insecure? how do successful people handle their insecurities and how do they still manage to be successful without focusing on their problems too much?!? Need to know. sigh. 

The last thing I want to talk about is the album 17 by xxxtentacion. This. effing. hit. me. like. a. tRUCK. like BRO. I think the reason I like it so much is because in the midst of all of this hype and chill music put out, it’s raw and real and depicts my emotions. I realized therapy did absolutely nothing for me because none of my real insecurities were addressed except maybe the mcat stuff but besides that nothing was really addressed. I didn’t talk about how I think about death all the time, how i think i have some type of ocd that is really fucking annoying, how i have the same anxiety from my mother which really bugs me because I see myself turning more and more like her, how my boyfriend doesn’t try to talk to me about what happens in therapy even though I’ve told him so many times I have issues, how i really want kids but probably will talk myself out of it because I can see myself becoming my mother and the last thing I need is a child if I’m like her... is my mom a bad mom? no she’s the best. My upbringing was amazing - my sister and I are amazing children. we’re respectful, we have amazing morals and values and we were raised amazingly, but look at what it did to our parents. My dad is trapped in a land he doesn’t want to be in, he just wants to be at home with his parents in his home land. My mom is at a job she doesn’t care for and tries to fill her void with religion which maybe brings her happiness, but I can tell she stresses about things unnecessarily because of my and preethi. All of her worries are from us and I don’t want to be like that. maybe it’s selfish not having kids, but I’ll probably do it for my mental health which is fair. See I’m sitting here worried about stupid shit getting anxiety about stupid shit that I shouldn’t be focused on, and I think it’s because of the anxiety. I just overthink all the time and it fucking sucks. But I think that’s why I love this album. It’s real and it’s raw, it makes sense to me. I feel his pain when I’m listening to it, and I feel like he can hear mine. Thanks XXX, i love you.

To the one person reading this post aka urself, ily stay good stay strong stop thinking about dying love ya

p.s. I think weed is making me indecisive and also makes me talk to myself and I really wanna stop goddamn but I feel myself addicted and it’s bad. I need to stop 

[nervousinpublic-blog]

The Death Card

My girlfriend’s dog and my struggling band died just a few months apart in the fall of 2014. Barney was kind and warm and easy. You’d get home after work, and he’d shake his old, fluffy, orange dog body all around as if to say, “Hello! Welcome back to the apartment!” If you got down on the floor with him, he’d put his head on your shoulder and press into your chest for a hug. It took so little to make him happy. I wish I could be more like Barney. It was hell to see something that wonderful die.

My band was old, but decidedly less warm and content than Barney. After five years and three different band names, we finally began to receive some acclaim. We found a manager, opened for some respectable national bands, and enjoyed a few enthusiastic write-ups in Denver and around the country. In 2012, we played a music festival in New York City and signed a publishing deal. As the years rolled on, however, creating and producing music as a band became a process fraught with tedious negotiation and a thick tension that we couldn’t seem to dispel. By the end, my band was a machine that toured and wrote press releases. I wanted to be a machine that made music.

At the advice of our manager, we toured the west coast twice in six months with little success. I wanted to stay home and write another album, but the band thought we should keep touring to build our national presence. I hit a breaking point one night when our venue in Oakland forgot we were playing. A guy had to come in on his night off to open the bar and run sound. Save for the venue staff, the other bands, and a friend we invited from Berkeley, no one was there. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” I told my girlfriend Ella over the phone on a post-show walk. The last show we played was with a band called Minus The Bear in Denver. It was sold out and the crowd was incredible to us. I turned 30 later that fall, and a week after my birthday, it was all over. Other than a few texts and emails about finances, we haven’t spoken since.

Ella and I spent a tumultuous year planning what to do next. We had no old dog or band to tether us down to Denver anymore. We could go anywhere now. The original plan was to move to New York City, get jobs, and pursue creativity inside one of the world’s greatest cities. After a few months, though, it became obvious that we wouldn’t have enough money to live in New York, so we started looking at apartments in Philadelphia — a tenacious, culture-rich east-coast city where we’d have the best chance of not going broke.

To accommodate my dead band’s demanding tour schedule, I worked for eight years as a freelance guitar and piano teacher, and after the breakup, it dawned on me that I didn’t have to do it anymore. Working for myself allowed me to take weeks off at a time to tour, but it didn’t provide much in the way of income or professional development. The thought of pursuing a new creative life in Philadelphia was a huge relief to me. Ella, an artist, wanted the same thing, more or less. We needed new blood in our lives, and we figured the only way to get it was to machete our way out of the jungles of complacency and routine toward a life that would hopefully match more of what we wanted and who we really were as creative people.

We looked to the burgeoning sharing economy and beyond to fund our move. We signed up with dog-watching websites and rented out our downtown Denver apartment through Airbnb, and I drove for Lyft and wrote blogs for content mills. Businesses have figured out that providing frequent blog content increases the online visibility of their websites. Websites like Blogmutt and iWriter connect writers with businesses that need original content.

Content mill writing, or “working down at the ol’ mill,” as I like to say, is probably the lowest form of writing, but it did show me that people would actually pay me to write. I wrote hundreds of blogs, marketing every sort of company you could imagine: Houston real-estate firms, dumpster rental companies, rehab centers, and even a company that makes tiny silk sacs that help to keep the scrotums of especially sweaty-crotched men dry and odorless. Yes, this exists. Google at your own peril. I also wrote short sex advice blogs in which I inhabited the voice of a kinky, wine-drenched woman in her 50s. The woman advised readers that polygamy and risky public sex were the best ways to save a dying marriage.

As if moving across the country to a strange new city wasn’t enough work, Ella and I also started playing music together under the moniker Straight White Teeth. She hadn’t played drums in a decade, but we worked hard and planned a tour that coincided with our move out east. It was too much. We’d rehearse and talk about our future and argue about money and then I’d lie in bed with my heart slamming up against my chest in a rhythm I wasn’t able to decipher or control.

And suddenly it was November. We drove out of Colorado to play 15 shows and lead new blinding-bright lives on the east coast. The first few shows were near-complete disasters. This wasn’t due to Ella’s drumming, but because of my own lack of experience with live sound. In my old band, everyone had jobs to do and none of my jobs was live sound. After the third show, I figured out a fix to our sound issues and things improved significantly.

I was surprised by how warmly we were received for being a completely unknown band. The shows I played on tour with Straight White Teeth actually reflected the sort of shows my old band played after five years of trying to “make it.” At our show in Stillwater, Oklahoma, an enthusiastic woman greeted us at the venue and informed us that she liked the songs we’d posted online and that we could drink whatever we wanted for free. A drunk man in the 12-person crowd yelled words of encouragement between songs. “You both sound wonderful! Keep going!”

After selling our non-essential material possessions in Denver, we took the remainder of what we owned with us on the trip: computers, clothes, instruments, and Ella’s best drawings and paintings. This was the best of the best of her work, and she’d planned on showing some of it formally at a gallery in Philadelphia. Her pieces were stored in a waterproof luggage bag that was tied to the roof of our Honda Element. On our way to Lawrence, Kansas, for a show that proved to be absolutely worthless, the sky greyed and assaulted the Element with fierce rain and bursts of wind. Trusting that the bag was waterproof, we quietly assumed that the storm was no match for the strong construction of the bag.

Two days later on the morning after our show in Kansas City, we reorganized everything in the car and pulled the bag off the roof. Ella looked into the bag, eyes wide, tear ducts activating. Nearly every piece was destroyed, and the ones that were still recognizable were forever altered by the storm. Ella wept on the ground. All that work; all those thousands of hours; all those sacred images, gone. Barney dying was a painful loss, but he was old and had lived a life in which he was deeply loved. This was a loss devoid of meaning. It was pain for pain’s sake. What does a body of artwork mean if it’s never seen by anyone other than the artist? Does it even exist?

She gathered up the ruined pieces and placed them next to the Dumpster. I felt sick. “No, babe. Please don’t do this. We can save some of these, right?” She responded without looking up. “They’re ruined.”

In the end, about a fourth of Ella’s pieces survived. She was understandably silent for the next couple of days. We were prepared to give up almost everything in pursuit of a new life, but having her work wiped out from existence was inconceivable. How could we have let it happen? How could we have been so careless? What the fuck were we doing with our lives?

We finished the tour in New York City on my 31st birthday, almost exactly a year after the my band’s breakup. The room was packed and kind, and everything seemed to click. We stuck to the Philadelphia plan and found an apartment, new jobs, and surprisingly quiet, focused lives. I haven’t “arrived” as far as creative contentment goes, and Ella tells me I’m probably not ever going to. I’m a machine that’s built to want too many things, I guess. Ella’s new work bleeds with an urgency and resilience that only comes after suffering a loss like she has.

A few months after the tour, Ella received an email explaining that a woman had found her artwork in an alley. A copy of Ella’s resume with her still-legible email address happened to be thrown out with the ruined artwork. She mentioned that her friend had fallen in love with one of the pieces and that she was planning on getting it tattooed.

The things we presume dead can sometimes fracture and rearrange into glorious renewed forms. Is death just another word for change? “I’m going to give you your identity card”, Ella said one day, shuffling her Tarot deck. “What is that?,” I asked. “It’s just a way for you to understand your identity through a different lens, I guess. It’s just for fun.” I pulled a card from the deck. “Oh,” she said. “You got the Death card.”

[princesstadashi]

Get to know me tag

Tagged by @princess-kidatheart17​

Rules: Answer these 92 statements and tag 20 people

1. Drink: Mountain Dew (although I’m trying to cut down on it ‘cause I know it’s hurting my teeth... ^^;) 2. Phone call: NYOPE BYEEEEEEEE 3. Text message: Better than call, but still not great.  4. Song you listen to: “If I Die Young” (there’s a cover I love done by a guy but it was in an AMV and no source to the artist so I don’t know who sang it :() 5. Time you cried: Most days.

HAVE YOU: 6. Dated someone twice: Had a couple dates about two years ago but for the most part no reciprocated romance </3 7. Kissed someone and regretted it: Never kissed anyone.

8. Been cheated on: Nope.

9. Lost someone special: No one has ever died IRL that I’m close to, but I’ve had some people move away/move on that have been hard. Now if we’re talking fictional characters? ...I AM RIDING THE DENIAL TRAIN FAAAARRRR AWAY. 10. Been depressed: There’s an option other than being depressed? 11. Gotten drunk and thrown up: No drinking for me with all my mental illnesses.

LIST 3 FAVORITE COLORS: 12-14: White, pink, charcoal grey

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU: 15. Made new friends: Yeah, lots of awesome new tumblr friends this year! :D 16. Fallen out of love: It’s... Complicated. 17. Laughed until you cried: Oh yes, just last night XD 18. Found out someone was talking about you: Apparently the kids in my high school had rumors that i was gay. Joke’s on you guys, I actually AM gay and I can’t wait to see their faces at the reunion when I hopefully walk in with a girl on my arm XD 19. Met someone who changed you: Yes, my best friend <3 20. Found out who your friends are: Yeah 21. Kissed someone on your Facebook list: No kissing for me so far :P

GENERAL: 22. How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: Almost everyone--have a couple people from cosplay groups, but I don’t usually add strangers. 23. Do you have any pets: Sadly no, not right now. I want a cat! 24. Do you want to change your name: Sometimes I wish people IRL would call me Dashi. 25. What did you do for your last Birthday: Day of I worked, but my bro took me out to the mall the Sunday after and my birth parents took me to see Cars 3 the weekend before so that was nice. 26. What time do you wake up: If I’m on vacation/weekends, if I can I’ll stay up ‘til 4:00 am and sleep in until 2-2:30 pm XD 27. What were you doing at midnight last night: Crying about having to go home... 28. Name something you can’t wait for: For me and my best friend actually to live in the same state and hopefully have an apartment together! 29. When was the last time you saw your mom: Last week for my adopted mom and a couple weeks ago for my birth mom (which I’m not complaining about on the latter...) 30. What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: Main one is private, but maybe that all my online friends actually lived close to me? 31. What are you listening to right now: My best friend playing Disney Infinity 32. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: I had a teacher named Coach Thomas, if that counts! 33. Something that is getting on your nerves: When I go out of my way to be noncontroversial/spare other people’s feelings to be nice and then people don’t extend me the same courtesy. (Especially when it come to ships.) 34. Most visited website: Deviant Art or Tumblr ^^

LOST QUESTIONS. I JUST PUT IN RANDOM INFO ABOUT ME 35. Mole/s: Lots, but most noticeably one below my nose on the right side and one by my left ear (I worry that they might end up being cancerous so they might eventually have to be removed, yikes...) 36. Mark/s: A weird bump on my scalp, some old *trigger warning* self harm scars that show up when I tan too much 37. Childhood dream: Be a cowgirl (after seeing Toy Story 2), to run a bed and breakfast, or to be a mermaid (would still love that one <3), to publish a book (still working on that!!!) 38. Hair color: Dark blonde, almost brown 39. Long or short hair: Really freaking long. (Down to my waist, but I definitely want it longer!) 40. Do you have a crush on someone: My romance life is a hot mess, let’s not go there. 41. What do you like about yourself: I’m really good at writing and doing arts and crafts stuff. :) I also like that I’m apparently a pretty good listener ^^. 42. Piercings: Naw, I’m scared of needles ^^;  43. Blood type: O- (I think--I just know that I’m the universal donor!) 44. Nickname: Dashi/Nii-chan/Oneesan/Mein Schwester  45. Relationship status: Very much single with no real prospects.  46. Zodiac: Cancer 47. Pronouns: She/Her, but I’m genderfluid so I’m cool with They/Them or He/Him ^^ 48. Favorite TV Show: Oh man, too many to choose from! XD Star Wars Rebels come to mind for cartoons, and I also love Glee and Parks & Rec for live action shows!

49. Tattoos: None at present. I’d love to have Tadashi tattooed on my back and possibly a Baymax or Hiro on my right ankle ^^ 50. Right or left hand: Right. 51. Surgery: None, and terrified of anesthesia so hopefully none for a good long while... 52. Hair dyed in different color: Never permanent dye (sprayed it a couple times for Halloween as a kid), and I’ve considered long and pink or a boy-short chop and dying it black, but I like my hair the way it is for the most part so I just use lots of wigs for now XD 53. Sport: NOOOO. I mean, I did ice skating for a bit in 6th grade and it was fun, but other than that I absolutely hate them, watching or participating >.< 55. Vacation: Going to see my best friend, of course! And anywhere Disney! Me and the best friend want to visit all the Disney Parks at some point so there’s that! (I would also love to go to England someday!) 56. Pair of trainers: I’m assuming this means the U.S. word “sneakers”? I personally love high tops but only ever owned one pair and they’ve not particularly practical. ^^; Same thing goes for boots (my favorite type of footwear, although I only have, like, one pair that are pretty beat up at this point.) So usually I wear my really comfy plain black work sneakers if I want to be comfortable ^^

MORE GENERAL: 57. Eating: Nothing right now, but possibly some chips and french onion dip in a bit 58. Drinking: Sparkling lemonade 59. I’m about to: Get food, probably XD 61. Waiting for: My life to sort itself the fuck out  62. Want: Same as above. Fredashi and Hezra being canon would also be awesome. More realistically? To finish my book and maybe be lucky enough for it to be mildly successful. 63. Get married: Probably not unless things sort themselves out :/ 64. Career: Someday hopefully a librarian and an author

WHICH IS BETTER 65. Hugs or kisses: Probably hugs since I love cuddling but I’ve never kissed anyone so no real experience to go on. 66. Lips or eyes: Definitely eyes! 67. Shorter or taller: I like being short-ish for the most part--most of my friends are taller than me, but it is fun meeting people who are actually shorter than me XD 68. Older or younger: Probably older? Most of my friends are older than me ^^ 70. Nice arms or nice stomach: Nice stomach, maybe? TBH I have some body image issues/*trigger warning*mild anorexia so I try not to put too much focus on my physical appearance 71. Sensitive or loud: EXTREMELY sensitive 72. Hook up or relationship: Relationship, definitely. (I’m ace, so no hooking up for me ^^;) 73. Troublemaker or hesitant: Very much hesitant.

HAVE YOU EVER: 74. Kissed a Stranger: NOPE. 75. Drank hard liquor: DOUBLE NOPE. 76. Lost glasses/contact lenses: Yes, and also broken glasses. 77. Turned someone down: Yeah ^^; 78. Sex on the first date: Nope, I’m ace so none for me 79. Broken someone’s heart: I hope not, and if so, I’m very sorry!!! 80. Had your heart broken: Yep. 81. Been arrested: No, and I pray it never happens to me! (If I did, it wold probably be for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I try to avoid doing anything even remotely illegal ^^;) 82. Cried when someone died: Yeah, I cry about everyone and everything, IRL or fictional 83. Fallen for a friend: Yep....

DO YOU BELIEVE IN: 84. Yourself: Sometimes yes, sometimes no. 85. Miracles: I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for a whole bunch of miracles, so hell yeah. 86. Love at first sight: I believe in attraction at first sight, but I really think you need to get to know someone in order to truly be in love with them. 87. Santa Claus: I was brought up not believing in him, but I would love for him to be real <3 88. Kiss on the first date: Definitely not for me, a kiss is something very sacred to me. But if that’s your thing, go for it!!!

OTHER: 90. Current best friend name: KingdomHeartsLover! 91. Eye color: Bluish/Greenish, depends on what I’m wearing/lighting 92. Favorite movie: BIG HERO 6, you guys should know this XD

((Randomly doing this while on vacation for fun, but I probably won’t actually be on until Thursday--see you guys then!))