#peace of mind fic

[gerrystamour]

here i have found some peace of mind

Rated E | Steddie | 7 Chapters | Complete WC: 60,000

Additional tags: Modern AU, Transmasc Steve Harrington, Switch!Steddie

Steve Harrington works at a hotel in Chicago, responsible for making and managing reservations for groups of all kinds: corporate, tours, entertainment, you name it. When some famous metal band signs a contract for rooms three months ahead of their concert date, Steve is swept into a flirtatious back-and-forth with someone he as been led to believe is the tour manager, Chris Cunningham, and quickly finds himself falling for the man... Eddie Munson is a rockstar still riding the high of Corroded Coffin finally, finally making it big, but with the fame he finds himself almost lonelier than he was before. So when he answers his tour manager's phone and a nice guy with a cute voice starts calling him "Chris," Eddie plays along and maybe gets a bit carried away...

[ READ ON AO3 ]

Links to read on Tumblr below the cut.

spent all winter waiting for the sun to arise

longing for isolation, for starlit skies [[ART]] [ CW: contains grief/loss, brief transphobia ]

dreaming of the forest, the whispering pines [[ART]]

soon as the summer comes, i will step out of time [ CW: contains smut ]

now i'm going out into the wild [[ART]] [ CW: contains smut ]

for once in my life i feel alive [ CW: contains smut ]

here to stay until the day i die [ CW: contains smut ]

OFFICIAL CORRODED COFFIN SETLIST

[wildsaltair]

Stalking Tiger

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: M (some non-descriptive spiciness, lots of angst and hurt/comfort)

Word Count: 8.6k

Author’s Note: It's time for some Spaniard adoration! This is actually part of a larger narrative (everything is the same except Maximus was single AU) in which reader is a slave sent to entertain Maximus in the gladiator school, but they end up falling madly in love and kind of living in agony day to day worrying that something will happen to the other. This is a really special story to me, and I hope y'all will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“I fight Tigris of Gaul tomorrow,” Maximus whispers to you. His mouth is right beside your ear, his breath warm on the side of your neck.

His words register with you a moment later, and you stiffen as you consider the implications. Tigris of Gaul is the only undefeated champion in gladiator history, known for his brutality and ruthless efficiency at killing. The thought of your love facing him is frightening, no matter how capable you know he is.

You’ve been lying with your back against his front, his arm wrapped around your bare waist securely, but you shift to lie on your back so you can see his face.

He moves with you and props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with such fondness that your heart nearly melts. He strokes your hair from your forehead with gentle fingertips, as if he’s forgotten the subject he just brought up.

“Tigris of Gaul?�� you whisper back, knowing your eyes betray your concern. “They told you?”

He sighs softly, eyes tracing over your features with care. “Proximo warned me. He fears that it may be a trap from the Emperor. A way to ensure my death.”

You shudder. It’s no secret that the Emperor wants your lover dead, especially as his popularity among the people has grown.

And what would your life be without him? This Spaniard, this indomitable gladiator, has become your whole life. Months ago, you began as a stranger, a slave sent to entertain him for one night, but every time you look in his eyes, you see the love in your heart reflected in him. You are his hope, his peace, his joy, and he is everything to you.

He feels your shudder and draws you close, burying his face in the side of your neck while you wrap your arms around him. Neither of you needs words to communicate in moments like this.

He presses his lips tenderly to the side of your neck, once, twice, three times. His free hand touches your side and strokes your skin comfortingly, as if you were the one about to face possible death tomorrow.

“Are you afraid?” you breathe into his ear, gently stroking his bare back. His skin is so warm, so smooth between the scars.

He hesitates, just breathing against your skin, then his hand slowly slides up the side of your body. “I fear nothing,” he whispers, “except losing you.”

Tears well up in your eyes immediately at the sweetness in his words, the soft passion in his touch. His fingers trace the swell of your chest, the fragile length of your collarbone, the soft column of your throat. He is still nuzzling the side of your face with his nose, his eyelashes brushing your cheek.

These moments are treasures to your lonely heart — jewels you carry in your chest for the endless days when you are apart.

“Do you think Tigris will cheat?” you ask him softly, trying to think of how this fight might be rigged.

He kisses you again, with the pressure of a feather, just below your ear, and a tremble of pleasure runs through your body. “I am sure that the Emperor will have an added layer of danger to the fight. Single combat is too commonplace for an event such as this.”

He sighs when you drag your fingertips down his shoulder blades, tracing the faint notches in his spine. He dips his head so that his forehead is folded into the crook of your neck, his hand lowering to trace your curves again.

“You will win,” you assure him, though your heart pounds at the thought of him facing a battle already slanted against him. “You always win.”

His hand stops wandering and presses flat against your chest, directly over your heart. He can feel it pounding like a drum beneath his palm.

“I will win for you,” he murmurs, pressing his body more firmly against yours when you lay your hands flat on his back. “I will win if only to see you again.”

Again, tears rise in your eyes, threatening to choke any response you might have. He feels the emotion coiling in you somehow, wraps his arm around your waist to pull your bare body close against his. Your legs tangle with his, your arms hooking around his back so you can bury your head in his broad shoulder.

“Let me come watch,” you beg him quietly, already knowing the answer from many similar conversations.

He shakes his head vehemently, arms locked around you firmly. “No, my love,” he whispers. “I do not want to see what your master forces you to do, and I do not want you to see what mine forces me to do.”

“It’s different with you,” you insist, your voice breaking. “A thousand strangers see you fight every week.”

“You are not a stranger. And I would not have you see the side of me that has won me the favor of the people.”

You know the truth of his words, and in all honesty, you do not wish to see him fight. Despite your curiosity, the thought of seeing your beloved fighting for his life in an arena, facing insurmountable grotesque odds, while all around you people cheer for someone’s blood, makes you sick to your stomach. You know seeing him fight would only increase the fear you already feel for him every moment.

You kiss the base of his neck tenderly, and he responds as he always does: with a faint shiver and a sigh of pleasure. “I will honor your wish,” you promise. “But my heart will be with you every moment.”

“I know,” he breathes against your skin. “That is the thought that has carried me through many dark hours.”

Your designated time is close to being over, so you cling to each other with all the passion tethered in your hearts. Moments like these only serve to remind you of how easily all this happiness could vanish, of how fragile and dangerous such a love is. You are slaves, and your moments together can only last so long as the gods are merciful.

So you just hold each other, basking in the warmth of one another’s skin, and the steady beating of each other’s hearts, and the even cadence of each other’s breaths, perfectly in rhythm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A roar from the crowd. Deafening, then muted, then scattered, then horrified, then deafening again.

You are perched by the window of your room in your master’s house, your ear closely attuned to the sounds of the crowd in the arena several streets away. You would never violate your promise to Maximus and go to watch his match secretly, but you cannot help listening to the sounds of the crowd to ascertain how he is faring in the fight.

The crowd is chanting his name now, over and over like a refrain. He must be entering the arena.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

They scream his name, yell it like a battle cry. It is a chant, an anthem, a moniker for a fierce warrior and entertainer.

Only you know his true name. Maximus. Only you breathe and whisper and cry out his true name, night after night, cradled in his arms, in the intimacy of his bed, while he looks deep in your eyes and coaxes the sweetest pleasures from you.

And only you have the joy, the privilege of hearing your own name tumble from his lips again and again and again, night after night, when his head falls back and his eyes soften with pleasure and contentment while you thrill him with your own coaxing.

You have been imagining the match in your mind all day, wondering what will be awaiting him when he steps onto the sand. He is such a capable fighter, such an indomitable force, but every man has his limits. The Emperor, you know, will test each of them.

Another deafening shout, his name mingled with the screams of horror and fascination as the match resumes.

Your heart is pounding as loudly as you can imagine that it would if you were in the arena beside him.

You do not know when you will see him next — as far as you know, your master has not arranged for you and the other slaves to go back to Proximo’s gladiator school for at least another week — and you ache at the thought of having to wait that long to see him again. To hold him, to examine him for injuries, to whisper your love to him and feel his body pulsing with life.

You fear for him every day, but these days, the stakes are so much higher, the risks so much greater for both of you.

Another deafening roar shakes the whole street, and you pray silently to every god you have ever heard of that your love is still alive.

How long can this go on? This compassionate allowance to let you and the Spaniard share your love once a week or so? How long can you expect fate to be so kind, so merciful to let you find peace and surrender in his bed, in his loving arms, before one of you is ripped away forever?

Tears spring anew to your eyes at the thought. He could be killed, or seriously wounded and sent somewhere far away. You could be bought as a live-in lover or sent somewhere else permanently.

As it is, Maximus is the most successful gladiator in Proximo’s school and therefore the most likely to be allowed to have you continue coming to him on certain nights. You, on the other hand, have no such power, and your favor with the Spaniard can only last as long as he does.

But what would it matter? If he dies, all your hopes die with him. Your master can sell you as lion bait for all you care, if you have to live in a world without the comfort of your love’s embrace.

The crowd suddenly goes silent, and so does the beating of your heart. Your mind swims with the possibilities. Is he dead? Is Tigris dead? Has something even more unthinkable happened?

Your hands are clenched into fists, your eyes squeezed shut as you wait for something, anything, to give you a sign about what has happened.

The whole world seems to stand still as you wait.

And then, from several streets away, the arena erupts into cheers and screams: Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

And your heart sighs as you drop into a chair, suddenly exhausted from the strain of worry. The shouts continue to ring down the street, and people outside your window take up the shout as well, acclaiming Rome’s greatest hero since Caesar.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

All their shouts are drowned out by the beating of your heart and the relief that floods your mind.

He lives. He lives. He lives. And you will see him again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You are thoroughly shocked when a messenger from Proximo comes to you that night, requesting that your master send you to the gladiator school alone.

Your master’s look is skeptical and disapproving, but the weight of gold coins in the purse sent with the message prevents him from making any comments.

You slip through the front gate of the gladiator school in a matter of minutes, heart flying at the thought of what might be happening, why you could have been summoned here alone by Proximo himself.

You’ve heard what happened in the arena, of course. Everyone has been speaking of it all day. Maximus and Tigris of Gaul, evenly matched, fighting ferociously with swords and axes. Man-eating tigers leaping from hidden trapdoors, barely tethered by chains and swiping at the two fighters. The Spaniard, gaining the advantage and winning the match. Then defying the Emperor’s death command and sparing Tigris’ life, to the massive approval of the crowd.

Your heart swells with pride to think of it, as well as worry, as you slip into the main chamber of the gladiator school and wait for Proximo to appear.

Proximo is waiting for you, you discover, assessing you with cold eyes. “What is it that so fascinates him about you?” Proximo wonders aloud, scanning your body as thought he might find something everyone else has missed.

“He cares for nothing but you,” the gladiator trainer continues, pacing with a feigned air of casuality. “Every time I ask him what he wants as a reward for the fame and riches he brings me, he only asks for you. Over and over. Why?” Proximo’s question hangs in the air, weighty like a storm cloud.

You have no answer for him, of course, and he knows his questions are rhetorical. He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of the gladiators’ cells.

“Go to him,” he commands you with an odd air of defeat, as though you have somehow bested him by remaining a mystery. “He has won the day and the affection of the mob. Again. All he asked in return was for you to come to him tonight.”

Your heart soars as you fly through the hallway. The guard unlocks the cell door, and when the door clangs shut behind you, barely a moment passes before you have flung yourself into your love’s strong, welcoming arms.

Maximus holds you slightly off the ground for a moment, his face buried in your hair while he breathes you in. It’s when he exhales jerkily that you feel something wrong.

You pull back slightly, hands resting on his broad shoulders while he sets you back on your feet. “What’s wrong?” you ask, sensing his apprehension.

He shakes his head, gazing deep in your eyes as though he is amazed to see you. “I did not think Proximo would let you come,” he wonders, running his fingertips through your hair gently. “He must have been very pleased.”

“He was,” you confirm. “He said he was willing to offer you whatever you asked. And he was confused as to why you only care about me, instead of anything else he offers you.”

Your love’s brow crinkles into a frown at that. “He spoke with you?”

“Only for a moment. I think I puzzle him — he doesn’t understand what you see in me.”

Your words are light, teasing, but the Spaniard fixes you with a gaze that could melt steel. He tightens his hold around your waist, pulling you close so you can feel his every breath.

“Am I the only man with eyes to see you?” he wonders, leaning forward to press his lips lightly against your cheek. “Can it be true that no one else recognizes you for what you are?”

Your heart warms at his praises, because you know he means every word. Other men, including your master, see you as unimpressive, plain, suited for little more than gladiator entertainment. But to this man, this Spaniard who loves you so much more than his own life, you are a precious treasure whose every movement bewitches him.

You smile in return, and he lets his lips travel over your face — your jaw, cheeks, nose, chin. His tender affections are right in character for him, but you can’t shake your concern.

“Why did you ask for me tonight?” you ask cautiously, eyes closed as he kisses your forehead with the utmost tenderness. “You have never asked for me on a night when I was not already to be sent to you.”

He sighs, resting his lips against your forehead. For the first time, you realize that he is trembling slightly in your arms, as though nervous.

“I needed to be with you,” he says simply, dipping his head to rest in the curve of your neck.

His words worry you. Perhaps his fight with Tigris frightened him more than he is willing to admit aloud.

Wanting to comfort him, you stand on your toes and wrap both arms around his neck, stroking his back soothingly as he breathes into your shoulder. When his breath catches, a pained gasp escaping his throat, you freeze, afraid of hurting him.

“What is it?” you whisper, loosening your hold on him even as he cradles you in place.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, shakes his head slightly. “It is nothing,” he assures you. He thinks for a moment, strokes your spine with his warm hands. “I just needed to have you near tonight.”

Still concerned, you put your hands on his chest and push a few inches between your bodies. Looking into his eyes seriously, you ask, “Are you hurt?”

He gives you a soft smile, fingers tracing patterns on the sides of your ribs. “I am all right,” he says vaguely, not answering your question the way you hoped.

Still, he does not protest or stop you when you pull out of his embrace and step to the side to look at his back, which seems to be the afflicted area based on the way he flinched at your touch.

When you finally see his injury, you cover your mouth with both hands, eyes filling with tears of horror, anger, and sorrow.

His back is razed with four long claw marks, stretching from his left shoulder blade to his right hip. His tunic, although clearly fresh, has soaked through with the blood, staining the fabric a deep red. A series of small cuts on the backs of his arms, neck, and spine betray more abuse at the hands of his opponent.

Tiger claws. Your love was clawed by a tiger in the arena today, in addition to nearly losing his life to a fierce opponent.

And he seeks your presence as his comfort, you remind yourself. You are his peace, his solace, his only joy.

Your heart swells at that thought, but it aches and weeps at the sight of his terrible wounds, at the pain he must be enduring even at this moment.

He turns to face you, his eyes shadowed but soft on your features. “Do not cry for me, my love,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

You shake your head vehemently, pressing your lips together to keep from bursting out in emotion. “How can they do this to you?” you whisper harshly. “You have done nothing, yet they torture you with this terrible pain.”

“The pain is nothing,” he assures you with a gentle smile. “All I feared was that I might die without saying goodbye to you.”

Your heart breaks again, over and over, at the sincerity in his voice.

“You thought you would die?” you ask in a whisper, leaning in to his touch. He is still stroking the side of your face tenderly, but you are afraid to touch him again, to possibly worsen the pain you know he must be in.

He thinks for a moment, eyes trailing down to your lips. “I came closer to death today,” he finally admits in a quiet voice, “than at any other time in the arena.”

So that is the reason for this midnight visit, you realize. A narrow brush with death. The knowledge that he is not invincible. That he could have been killed by a stray swipe from a tiger. Perhaps his first real encounter with fear since he became a gladiator.

Eyes burning with more tears, you squeeze your eyelids shut and reach up to clasp his hand in yours. “I knew something was different about today,” you mutter. “I could sense it, even last night.”

He nods, still letting his eyes focus on your mouth as though afraid to meet your eyes. “The Emperor grows bolder,” he agrees. “More intentional.”

Again, your heart flips in your chest at that thought. The most powerful man in the Empire, with his sights set on death for the man you love.

“I am glad you called for me,” you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “I want to share in everything with you — your joys, your sorrows, your fears, everything.”

The look he gives you is so sweet, so tender, so full of gratitude and adoration, that your heart melts again.

He doesn’t speak, just cups your jaw with his hand and pulls you close for a kiss. Not wanting to hurt him, you rest your hands lightly on the inside of his elbows, stroking your thumbs over the sensitive skin. He sighs into the kiss, lips moving gently against yours.

When he tilts his head to rest his forehead against yours, you whisper, “Are you in pain?”

He hesitates, then presses another soft kiss to your lips before answering. “Not unbearably,” he whispers back.

Which is as close to admitting his pain as he will ever get, you know. Knitting your brow in concern, you tilt your head back to look up into his eyes. The top of your head is level with his chin, and he smiles down at you with such fondness and love.

“Let me take care of you,” you request quietly, stroking the sides of his face. He closes his eyes and relaxes into your touch, sighing in pleasure at the contact.

“I did not bring you here for that,” he counters with the faintest smile, eyes still shut as he basks in your gentle touch. “I only wanted to be with you. Do not worry about the scratches; they will heal quickly. Proximo vowed that I would not have to fight again until next week to give them time to heal.”

His words hardly reassure you, and you slowly run your hands down to the sides of his neck. “Let me take care of you,” you repeat, gazing at him passionately. “I want to.”

Your lover opens his eyes, and his expression softens even further. You can sense in his manner that he did not intend for you to care for his wounds, but that he is grateful and pleased that you want to anyway.

“Do whatever you wish,” he murmurs, leaning in again to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, “so long as I am close to you.”

What love could ever be sweeter than the tenderness he feels for you, that in his moments of greatest fear and pain, he longs for your calming presence?

When your lips part, you step out of the circle of his arms, ready to begin your job of tending his wounds. You survey him carefully, looking for any injuries you may have missed when you threw yourself into his arms earlier.

There are a few small cuts on his face and a bruise forming under his right eye, but nothing particularly grievous. You notice a slice across the top of his left hand, but it has been crudely bandaged with a linen strip.

Meeting his intense gaze, you motion for him to take off his tunic so you can get a better look at the tiger’s claw marks on his back. Wordlessly, he does as you ask. Watching him undress is nothing new for you, but when his tunic is off, the damage to his skin is even more obvious. Your throat clenches when you see the deep cuts on his back.

“You will be scarred from this,” you whisper, hands hovering over his back but afraid to actually touch him for fear of increasing his pain.

He smiles softly over his shoulder at you. “I do not mind the scars,” he teases you, “so long as you are here to ease the pain.”

His body bears further evidence of the fight now that you can see his bare skin. Deep cuts on the backs of his arms and shoulders, and one shallow one running down his side. He’s covered in bruises as well, from his breastbone to his ribs. Every time he breathes, you sense the painful movement of his bruised skin.

Another wave of emotion strikes you at the sight of his wounds. Your hand still hovers over him, afraid to make full contact, and he turns his head to look at you.

A moment later, he turns fully and wraps you in his arms, clearly ignoring the pain it causes. You bury your face in his bare shoulder, blinking back tears.

“I cannot stand to see you like this,” you tell him, your heart breaking as you think of all the pain he has borne. “I cannot stand to see what they do to you.”

He lays his cheek against the top of your head, rocking you back and forth in his arms as if you were the one in need of comfort. “They can do nothing to me that I am not fitted by nature to bear,” he promises you in a soft voice, the one that you know is reserved only for you.

You do not bother trying to argue him out of that philosophy, choosing instead to rest your hands lightly against his waist. He does not flinch, but his muscles relax at your soft touch.

Several moments pass in that way, just holding one another close, enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the world. Your times together are always so brief, so bittersweet, and your heart aches at the thought of having to leave him like this tonight.

I will make it worth it, you promise yourself. I will take away his pain, even if only for an hour.

Without a word, you lift your chin and look deep into the man’s eyes. He gazes back at you steadily, firmly, lovingly. His hands are feather-light on your waist.

Just as silently, the moment passes, and you take one of his warm hands in yours to lead him toward the bed. He follows you without a word, then sits on the edge of the bed when you indicate for him to do so.

His eyes widen in surprise, however, when you do not join him on the bed. Instead, you kneel down at his feet, between his legs, and lean forward to press your lips against his bare chest. Lightly, with the pressure of a breath, you kiss every bruise on his body — from his collar, to his breastbone, to his ribs, to his stomach. He breathes deep and slow while you trail your lips over his skin, never flinching as you take care not to press your kisses too hard.

When you have finished with his torso, you lean back on your heels and take his hands in yours. Still, he looks down at you with such wonder, such abject shock that you are paying these careful attentions to every inch of his weary body.

He nearly shivers when you press a kiss to the tops of his hands, then each of his fingers, riddled with cuts and callouses. All you want to do is shower him with the love you feel, the love you always worry you will never have another chance to express.

Over his palms, his wrists, his sensitive inner arms with pulsing veins, you continue kissing his skin with utter softness. He raises one hand to rest on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair.

Sitting up on your knees, you push yourself to be at eye level with his chest. Another brief moment of eye contact, his gaze searing into yours as your souls communicate without words — I adore you, I lay my entire life at your feet, for the rest of my life I am yours.

Then you rest your hands on his thighs, leaning forward to press your lips and tongue to his neck, right where he is most sensitive.

He does exactly what you want him to do — he shudders from head to foot and draws a quick breath, overcome by the pleasurable sensation. His hand is still gripping the back of your head, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair.

You still intend to care for his wounds, but right now, all you want him to know is how much you love him, how much you desire to pleasure him the way he always pleasures you.

Passionately, your lips move against his neck, and your whisper is so soft you wonder if he will even hear it. “Show me where it hurts,” you request. “Show me where to touch.”

He is so vulnerable for you in this moment, his body bared to you and his eyes closed, head tilted back while you explore his neck with your lips and tongue. It’s the most intimate position he can be in, with you so close to his exposed throat and heart. No one else sees him this way: no one else has his trust the way you do.

One of your hands reaches up to rest against his chest, which rises and falls more quickly as his pulse accelerates. The faster he breathes, the warmer his skin grows, and you grip his leg more firmly with your other hand.

His own larger hand falls to grip yours there. “Touch me wherever you please,” he murmurs, breathless and shivery. You are thrilled by the way he responds to you, and you can sense that this is what he needs now — to take comfort in your touch, in your love.

“I will be careful,” you promise, nuzzling his neck while your free hand rubs circles on his chest.

He moans, the softest, sweetest sound you have ever heard in your life, and he whispers, “I am at your mercy, my love.”

And, indeed, he is.

You are careful, just as you promised you would be. He seems to finally let down his guard in front of you now, to stop covering up the pain. You can sense it in his ragged breathing, his flushed skin, his faint winces when he leans forward or back slightly.

Wanting to help him release his tension but also knowing he cannot lie back or rest against the wall, you go back to your kneeling position on the floor. While he takes a deep breath, you lean forward again and touch your lips to his stomach. The muscles there are tight, but he softens and relaxes when you press kisses in a trail lower, his hips moving in an involuntary response.

You’ve reached his lower abdomen, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the pressure of his hand on the back of your head, when he stops you.

“No,” he whispers, voice hoarse with strain. A thin sheen of sweat has broken over his skin, and his eyes are glassy as he looks down at you, breathless.

You rest a hand on his waist again, stopping immediately. “Did I hurt you?” you ask softly, heart aching at the thought.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. “No,” he assures you. “It feels so good.”

You smile at that, leaning forward to kiss your way down his torso again, but he stops you a second time.

“Not that way,” he insists, and suddenly you realize what he means. He so rarely lets you get on your knees and pleasure him — just him — without regard for yourself. He much prefers for you to reach your pleasure together, both of you achieving rapture at the same time if you can. You’ve gotten into such a rhythm now that you can manage it nearly every time.

You want to ease his pain this way, to focus only on pleasuring him, but he won’t let you — not even when he’s throbbing and aching for you so badly. You should have known he wouldn’t.

“You can’t lie on your back,” you remind him gently, enveloped by the warmth of his gaze as he frames your face with both hands. “And if you straddle me, your cuts might open again. We need to be careful.”

He smiles back at you, stroking your hair. “We will,” he promises. “Stand up.”

You do as he asks, reminding yourself that you wanted to satisfy him tonight, and if this is really what he wants, you’ll give it to him. As always, you are struck by the selflessness of his gesture — he cannot stand the thought of simply using you for his pleasure if he cannot bring the same feeling to you.

He stays seated on the edge of the bed, but he pulls you close to him with his hands on your waist. Gently, and slowly so as not to inflame the scratches on his back, he lifts the hem of your shift and helps you tug it over your head.

Undressing you himself is one of his favorite parts of lovemaking, you’ve discovered. He delights in slowly uncovering your skin night after night, baring you himself, seeing your reaction to his first touch.

A moment later, his hands are gently pressing onto your bare body, gripping your hips to pull you forward. You finally understand what position he is angling for, and you climb onto his lap with his assistance.

And thus are your next moments spent. He drags his lips over every inch of your skin he can reach — your neck, shoulders, chest, collarbones. Every sensitive spot he has memorized, he attends with his tongue. His hands are tender on your lower back while he holds you in place, smiling into your skin each time you gasp and shiver at his touches.

When he finally pauses to take a breath, you seize your opportunity and do the same to him. He shudders in your arms, nearly comes undone for you when you lean forward, touching your body gently against his.

Every breath is in rhythm with each other, every movement perfectly in sync. While you press open-mouthed kisses to the curve between his neck and shoulder, he aligns your body right where he needs you, holding your waist with his strong hands.

He sets the rhythm, and you follow his lead while he moves you back and forth — always in control, even in this position. Sometimes he winces in pain or tenses when he pushes too hard, but he never stops his pace. He leans forward occasionally to kiss your lips or neck, and you let your hands wander over his broad shoulders, his heaving chest.

Unexpectedly, just as tension begins to coil in your belly, tears spring to your eyes. Even in the heat of passion, your lover looks up into your eyes with such sweetness, such tenderness.

Sometimes his eyes flutter shut when he gasps in pleasure, but he always opens them again, fixes his gaze on you while he makes love to you.

What could be sweeter than this? you wonder. To gaze deep into one another’s eyes while you pleasure each other?

There is no shame, no apathy, no indifference. There is only love in his eyes, sheer joy at being close to you, wrapped up in your limbs and heat and affections.

It’s true intimacy, you know, to have each other’s bodies memorized, and to still be content to look so deeply into each other’s eyes.

He reaches his release first, one arm tightening around your waist. He moans again, deep in his throat, and his head naturally falls back, eyes closed, lips parted. You drag your hands through his dark hair, swipe at the sweat on his temples.

He whispers your name, once, twice, three times, opens his eyes and looks deep into yours while he tenses and relaxes in rhythm with you.

You reach your own climax a moment later, encircled firmly by his strong arms, still moving in rhythm with his body, and you only have the strength to lean forward into his embrace, your head tucked into his neck, while you breathe his name over and over.

The moment is perfect, utterly perfect, in a way that only true lovers can experience.

You are still catching your breath when he dips his head against your shoulder, still breathing deep to recover from his intense release.

“I love you,” he murmurs passionately, “with all my heart and soul.”

You try to reply in kind, but his lovemaking has left you so breathless that you can barely make a sound.

But he isn’t finished. “I am yours,” he continues, lips brushing your neck as he speaks in a voice only meant for you. “All I am and ever will be is yours.”

“I know,” you finally manage to reply, breathless and soft.

“If ever I should die without saying goodbye to you,” he whispers against your throat, “know that I died loving you with my last breath, and that your name was the last word on my tongue, and that I will wait for an eternity until my soul meets yours in the afterlife.”

If you were not already overcome by emotion before, his impassioned confession brings you nearly to sobs. Carefully, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull his body fully against yours.

“My beloved,” you whisper, and he sighs softly at your endearment. “I have nothing to give you but my heart, and it has long been yours. My every heartbeat is for you alone.”

In the wake of your passion, sharing every breath and shiver in your close embrace, your feelings seem to spill over like a waterfall, and he kisses the base of your neck to hide his own surge of emotion.

“You are my only joy,” he tells you. “My only peace. My world is cruel and dark and brutal, but your light wraps around me and gives me something to live for.”

“And you,” you say tearfully, “are the sun in my sky. You are the first ray of morning and the last ray of evening. I have no light but you.”

He rests his forehead on your neck and breathes you in deeply. “I am yours,” he repeats, softly, like a prayer. “I am only yours for the rest of my life.”

Your response is to tighten your limbs around him and rest your head against his shoulder. No more words are needed, for you both can understand each other without speaking.

And in this silence, your lonely heart is comforted, his pain is eased, and your love is only sealed further by the sweet assurance you feel in each other’s arms.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You know you only have an hour with him, so once both of you have caught your breath and taken your fill of each other’s soothing touches, you finally disentangle yourself from him and sit down beside him on the bed.

Just as you feared, the deep claw marks on his back have reopened after your passionate lovemaking, blood trickling down his back again.

“If I thought reopening wounds could be so enjoyable,” the man tells you teasingly, “I would ask to fight a tiger every day.”

You can sense that he’s covering up his pain with the teasing tone. He is shaken — far more shaken than you have ever seen him — but he’s trying to be strong for you.

Sitting beside and slightly behind him, you are kneeling on the bed. You didn’t bother putting your clothes back on, as both of you have become so comfortable with one another that it seems to make no difference, especially since you’ve just finished making love.

Biting back the wave of emotion that threatens to overtake your words, you give a sighed laugh. “You do not need to risk your life for my attention,” you say, only half-joking. “It is yours whether you are clawed or not.”

After a brief look around the room, you find the one courtesy the gladiator school has provided your injured lover: a bottle of liniment. Fetching it from the table, you fold yourself beside him on the bed.

“Face the wall,” you instruct him softly. “I will rub this into your scratches.”

He does just as you ask without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. You can sense the tension in his strong frame, the effort it is taking to keep from betraying how much pain he is in.

Tendrils of blood are still running down his bare back, so you first wipe away the blood with the washrag on the table. He gasps at the first touch of your hands, then relaxes a bit at the relief.

“What was the purpose of giving you ointment,” you ask lightly, trying to distract him from the pain, “if your scratches are impossible for you to reach yourself?”

He relaxes a little more, a laugh shifting his position. “Perhaps they were counting on you to be my nurse,” he replies.

You only smile at his words, rubbing the liniment onto your fingertips and beginning to apply it to his skin. The tiger’s scratches are deep, ripping his skin from corner to corner. He tries to hide his reactions, but he can’t keep from jerking a quick breath anytime you press ointment into his cuts.

“Did anyone even look at your wounds?” you ask him, still trying to keep the conversation light but edging toward sensitive territory.

He breathes, deep and slow, before answering, his voice strained. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Proximo had them examine me after he saw how much I bled. The physician said he did not need to bandage me, so he just gave me the ointment to keep infection away.”

Another gentle press of your fingers, and he arches his back slightly in pain. You’ve only just finished tending the first scratch, shoulder to hip, so you pause and lean forward to press your lips to the back of his neck. He sighs contentedly.

As much as you despise Proximo’s gladiator school and its cruel treatment of your beloved, you take a small consolation in knowing that you are the one who gets to care for his wounds.

The thought of anyone else putting their hands on him, of anyone else seeing him undress and touching his body, is distressing to you. You know he is violated in so many other ways — forced into life-or-death situations every day in the arena — but you have always taken comfort in knowing that he does not suffer at others’ hands the way you do.

You push such thoughts from your head. Right now, all you care about is that he is yours, body and soul, and that he craves your gentle touch to ease his pain.

You resume your ministrations to his back, alternating between wiping away his blood and applying the thick ointment to his scratches. He works hard to hide any pain, your only indication being his white-knuckled grip on his thighs.

“Will you be able to sleep tonight?” you ask quietly. He usually sleeps on his back, but that will be impossible until his scratches are healed.

He just nods, clenching his teeth to keep from betraying his pain. You are rubbing ointment into the last of the four cuts, and you notice that he is trembling again, probably from the pain and the exertion of trying to hide that pain.

You finish as quickly as possible, then wipe away the last of the blood from his back. Eager to comfort him somehow, you lean forward and kiss him softly on the back of his right shoulder, where there are no scratches.

The shiver that runs down his spine, and the breathless moan he elicits, are like music to your ears.

“Are you all right?” you whisper, lips brushing his skin softly.

He draws another shaky breath, nods his head. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You simply lay your cheek against the back of his shoulder. You long to wrap your arms around him, to hold him close to your body and share your warmth with him, but the scratches make that impossible.

Instead, you indicate for him to turn around again, and he does so, moving slowly so as not to irritate his scratches again. When he is facing you, you begin using the washrag on some of his other injuries.

“Proximo is sending you back into the arena next week?” you ask, dabbing at the cut running down the side of his ribs.

He winces slightly but does not make a sound. “Yes. The Emperor has called for another holiday, and I will be expected to fight in the games.”

You press your lips together. His eyes have fluttered shut, and his hands are still gripping his thighs, all from the pain of you tending his wounds. You can’t imagine him being ready to fight again in only a week.

You say as much to him. “It is as though Proximo does not care whether you can lift a sword or not.”

He smiles sardonically, eyes still closed. “I finished the fight today after being clawed by a tiger,” he says lightly. “He knows I will do whatever I must to stay alive.”

You are grateful that his eyes are closed, because you can’t suppress the worry and sorrow that cross your face at his words.

Every fight brings him closer to his inevitable death, a vicious slaughter to the shouts of a fickle mob.

You bite back tears that threaten to spill over, determined not to burden him with your own pain.

“Who will tend your wounds,” you ask, “if I am not here for the next week?”

He opens his eyes at that, gazes at you deeply, as if suddenly remembering that no fights mean no nights with you.

“I do not know,” he says quietly. “It does not matter.”

It matters to me, you think, but you just give him a sad smile and continue your ministrations. Delicately, you wash the bloodied cuts that form a lattice over his neck and collarbones, then swipe the cloth over his bruises. He winces again when you press the cloth against his chest, and you reach out your free hand to steady him.

“Is it too painful?” you whisper. Your heart breaks to see him like this.

But he shakes his head, biting back the pain and smiling tightly at you. “No,” he assures you as you set the cloth aside. “You have no idea how much it means simply to be with you.”

His gaze swallows you whole, wraps you in an embrace that warms your soul. He lifts one hand to stroke the side of your face fondly, and you lean your face into his touch.

“I do,” you tell him coyly, covering up the wellspring of emotion in your chest. “Did I not just remind you that you are my one joy? My only peace?”

He drags his fingers down your jaw, your throat, the swell of your chest. His eyes follow his fingertips, and goosebumps break out over every inch of skin he brushes. A shiver runs up your spine while he traces his fingertips on your lower abdomen gently, almost without thinking.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, his lips pulled into a smirk. “You like that?” he teases, dragging one fingertip up the center of your body.

You can’t keep from shivering again, harder this time. The pleasure you just shared with him is still fresh, your skin still sensitive.

“You know I do,” you smile, arching your back. “I live for it.”

With a smile, he tilts his head to the side and continues tracing one finger over your most sensitive areas. He seems weary, you notice, especially after making love so passionately. His attentions are languid, curious, relaxed.

When his fingertips return to your face, tracing the shape of your lips, you raise your own hand and touch his chest lightly. His skin is still warm and flushed, and you press your palm gently over his heart.

It thunders under your hand. At the contact, his eyes close for the briefest moment, his lips parting, but he opens his eyes to fix you with a heated stare.

“It beats for you,” he breathes, swept up in the moment. “Only for you.”

He lifts a hand and presses it against yours, flat against his chest, while he just looks at you with all the love and passion within. Your own heart starts pounding wildly in response, and you impulsively reach for his other hand to press it against your chest.

You sit like that together for a few beautiful moments, just enjoying the familiar rhythm of one another’s heartbeats. One day his heart will stop beating, you remember unwillingly, and you’ll be left alone.

This is the burden of loving a gladiator: never being able to enjoy your time with him fully, because you always have that knowledge in the back of your head.

You push those thoughts aside again, determined to be strong for him the way he’s strong for you.

“It will not take long,” you murmur, leaning forward to press your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You will heal quickly.”

He hums in response, fingertips still tracing quiet patterns on your bare chest. “I will heal as quickly as I can so you can return.”

“Do not risk yourself only for that,” you warn him. “I would rather wait a bit longer than have you go into the arena too soon. You have to get your strength back first.”

“You are my strength.”

Your love bows his head then, resting it on the curve of your neck so he can breathe you in. Your hour is drawing to a close, and you are reminded once again that in his moments of greatest pain and fear, he only longed to be with you.

You can feel his warm breath on your neck, his hot skin burning against yours. The pain is catching up to him, you realize, and he needs to rest now. You know this, but your heart breaks at the thought of leaving him.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, tears filling your eyes once again.

He swallows hard, lifting his hand to cup your jaw. He’s still nuzzling your neck, as though basking in your warmth for the last time. “Beloved,” he whispers back, and his voice breaks, and you know that this time you have shared is different, more painful, more precious for both of you.

If only the rest of the world could see the Spaniard this way — completely vulnerable, intimately surrendered to the one he loves.

You trace careful fingertips over his shoulder, down his strong arm, then over his ribs, his waist, while he nestles his face against your neck. You wish you could hold him and comfort him all night, reassure him of your love every moment.

But the guard pounds on the door just then, signaling that your time is over.

He grips your jaw a little tighter, presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then releases you. If the look in his eyes is anything to judge by, he feels the same bereavement at your parting that you do.

You dress in silence, motioning for him to stay on the bed and not aggravate his claw marks. He watches you thoughtfully, transfixed by every movement as you put your clothes back on.

“Will you send me word?” you ask him quickly, in a hushed voice. “If your injuries worsen, I mean? Or if anything happens?”

His smile is faint, pained, but grateful. “Yes.”

“And you will not rush Proximo to put you back in the arena? You will wait until you are healed?”

“I will.”

You’re dressed now, just lingering because you don’t want to go. The guard pounds the door a second time, but you just can’t tear yourself away.

Taking a quick step forward, you stand before your love, cradle his face in your hands. You press a kiss to his forehead, and when you straighten, he is looking up at you with the sweetest eyes you have ever seen.

His gaze is one of peace, and contentment, and adoration, and tenderness, and longing, and a thousand other soft emotions that he only shows to you.

He tilts his head to the side, kisses your inner wrist as you caress his face.

The door slams open, and the guard loudly informs you that your time is up, but Maximus just holds his lips against your wrist for one more moment, feeling your pulse as it races at his touch.

Then he is releasing you, and you are walking backwards to the door, and even as the door shuts, you can read the message in his eyes.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[mikakuna]

why do anti-jason fans always have an opinion on his characterization and how we write him in fanfic as if they've read anything beyond comics where his character is completely assassinated and written by individuals who despise him?

"you're not actually a jason fan if you remove everything that he's done in canon"

answer me truthfully: would you accept a comic as canon if it was written by someone who hates your favourite character? i'm not a tim fan so i'd mess up his entire storyline if i wrote a comic for him. would you read that and happily accept it as canon? because i assure you that i'd purposely mess his entire character up just because i dislike him. it would be full of bias because i don't understand his character as well as an actual tim fan does. would you still accept this comic as canon?

literally the majority of jason comics are written by people who don't like him and don't even know his source material. why shouldn't we nitpick what we wanna accept as canon??

[eye-merely-jest]

uhh uhh nightcrawler n stuff or whatever idk 👎👎 (boo traditional sketchbook stuff 👎👎)

shouting into the void I LOVE THESE SILLY LITTLE X-MEN SO MUCH !!!!!! they make me SICK. it's not even funny i need to absorb everything with kurt and logan this very INSTANT im fucking insane about them

[omo321]

“Are you crying?” Fina exclaims in alarm. Tsurumi is equally startled when he wipes at his face and his hand comes away wet. Not once had he shed tears, not even when he’d lost them. Pulling a chair up to him, Fina dries his cheeks with soft dabs of her handkerchief. With her hand on his shoulder and her beautiful, bright eyes soft with more love than Tsurumi can bear, she waits for an explanation that he cannot give.

gnawing on "theatre" by Saengak again... it's free serotonin to me

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Death of Peace of Mind | Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part 1: Altitude. Altitude.

summary: life with a pilot isn't all it's cracked up to be. a/n: hi friends! welcome! entry, please! i told you i would be back :) unfortunately, it took a lot longer than i expected. i moved states this year, started a new job, found a loving and healthy relationship, traveled internationally for the first time... i.e. i have been super busy, but i'm out of my depressive slump and finally got the urge to write (and post) again. i won't say that consistency is back, as my social calendar has obviously been slammed, but i will try my best <3

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Thunderous.

That’s the only way to describe the sound of hundreds of boots pounding down the ship’s stairs toward the dock below. While Hangman had only been aboard for a few weeks, many of the crew had been deployed for months on end. He, and a few other Top Gun members, made the vessel their temporary home while they completed a brief mission. Nothing like the Dagger mission, just simple recon; but the security was top-notch, and the admiral wanted his best on the case.

Hangman rolls the toothpick between his teeth with his tongue and shrugs his duffel higher up his shoulder. He laughs at a dig Phoenix makes at Rooster and claps a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Phoenix. How I’ll miss you and your quick wit,” he sings, the sun hitting his face as his boot hits the dock beside her.

Phoenix shakes her head as she pulls her aviators from her shirt and settles them on the bridge of her nose. “And I will miss nothing about you, Hangman.”

“Ouch! Brutal! You wound me, Natasha.”

“See ya next time, Hangman.”

“You won’t have to suffer too long, Rooster. I’ll be in your dreams tonight, per usual.” He nods in the other man’s direction. “Rodeo, it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’ll never understand why you boys can’t seem to get along.”

Bob’s cousin, Rhett Abbott. Related by their twin mothers, almost identical themselves. A skilled pilot and proud country boy, with a heart of gold. Not to mention, entirely tolerable. Unlike his buddy, Bradley. Hangman and Rodeo clap hands in a firm handshake, smiling at each other. “It’s not in my blood, cowboy.”

They say their final goodbyes and are about to split up when a tiny voice shouts, “DADDY!”

Usually, this wouldn’t be uncommon. They’re on a dock, where families had come from all over Texas to welcome their servicemen and women home from a long deployment. It’s an emotional affair, albeit happy, but emotional nevertheless. However, when a little blonde girl they don’t recognize (again, not uncommon, usually) gets closer and closer, set on a path in their direction, confusion is written all over their faces. That confusion only increases tenfold when Hangman breaks into the biggest, most genuine smile they’ve ever seen him wear, and takes long strides in her direction.

“DADDY!”

Hangman drops into a squat, holding his bag in place on his shoulder, and grabs the child with his other arm. “Hi, baby!” he exclaims and fervently kisses her cheek. “I missed you so much!” 

He can’t remember the last time his heart felt so full. He understands now, why so many people have their families show up after every deployment or mission. Watching his daughter, who somehow managed to find him in the crowd, run up to him with so much excitement and love was entirely different than walking in the front door.

Although, it’s been a while since that’s happened.

He shakes the thought from his mind and scoops her up with his arm while he stands again. Her little arms go right around his neck, hugging him tight. He’s gently rubbing her leg when he asks her, “Where’s your mom?”

He’s fully aware of the absolute circus in the minds of his fellow pilots in the background. They haven’t spoken a word, silent, but he doesn’t have to look to know that they’re probably standing in the same spot. Unmoved, jaws on the floor. What Hangman does do is look around, keeping an eye out for–

“Mama!” the little girl yells, waving her hand frantically at the woman approaching.

“You found him! I’m so proud of you, Daise!”

Jake Seresin was an expert at keeping his personal and work lives separate; or he thought so, at least. Work often bled into personal, but never the other way around. Any piece or crumb the crew knew about his life outside of work, he had fed them willingly and with intention.

“Would you…want to come to port?”

“...What?”

“Only if you want. I know it’s a long drive for Daise–”

“No, no. We could fly. I’m just…surprised. You’ve never…”

“We’re docking in Corpus. The crew asked if I would show them around while we’re on leave. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to introduce you. And Daisy. Especially with…”

“That sounds nice. We’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll send you the info.” Silence. “Thanks, Red. I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you for including us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

“You’re fixing it. That’s all that matters.”

He thought that he had mastered work-life balance, too.

Apparently, not.

You give him a short side hug, partially blocked by his familiar duffel. His hand lingers on your arm after you pull away. 

“Hey. Thank you for coming.”

“Happy to. I wish you could’ve seen her face when I told her. Didn’t complain once the whole drive here.”

“Really? Isn’t that something?” He turns his attention back to Daisy. “Were you good for Mama?”

Jake listens intently to your daughter’s jumbled, excited retelling of your journey, and you occasionally butt in with light banter. He hadn’t been gone long, but from the speed and fervor at which Daisy was talking, you’d think she hadn’t seen him in months. This goes on for a bit until someone interrupts your daughter’s babbling. A male voice barks his callsign, and he peers over his shoulder in their direction.

He looks back over at Daisy with a gasp. “Daise, would you wanna meet Daddy’s coworkers?” he asks, his eyebrows quirked in faux shock.

“For real?!”

“Yeah, for real.”

“Yes!”

And that’s what you do. Jake nods in the group’s direction, and you follow his lead, sticking close to his side. He had obviously done an excellent job at keeping his family a secret; you can tell from a mile away that the band of pilots is trying to quietly deduce what the fuck is going on while you approach. Daisy is practically ready to launch out of his hold in excitement, giggling and wiggling like a little worm.

“Alright, don’t get yourselves in a tizzy.” He hikes Daisy up on his waist. “Daisy, this is Rodeo–”

“Like the rodeo at home?” she asks, in her curious, pitched voice.

“Just like that. Rodeo, this is Daisy Mae.”

“Pleasure.” The man holds his hand out to her, and she takes it, bursting with giggles again. The sound is like music to your ears, and you just know that Jake is absolutely reveling in her joy. Rodeo has a charming smile and a warm personality. You’ve heard just about every complaint under the sun from Hangman (and he has plenty), but he’s bitched about Rodeo the least. Although, when he bitches, that usually means he cares.

And he complains about Rooster a lot. A lot.

Rodeo then moves on to you and offers the same gesture. “Rhett Abbott. Miss…?”

“Seresin. I’m his wife,” you say, shaking his hand while you tell him your first name and insist that he drop the formality. You can sense Jake, your husband, looking and smiling down at you like you’re his moon and stars. You make a feeble attempt to avoid meeting his gaze but it’s futile. You make eye contact, and you know you won’t live the admission down.

You’ll talk about it later.

“You have a hat like Daddy’s,” your daughter says, and reaches out to touch the brim.

“Do I, now?”

“Moving on.” He turns her a little, “And this is Rooster.”

Daisy’s button nose scrunches in distaste, and her brows furrow together, before “…Ew.”

The man with a mustache, Rooster, clicks his teeth. “Seriously, Seresin?” he exclaims, exasperated.

“You know it. Up top, pumpkin.” Daisy throws her whole body into the high-five. You laugh as they smack hands in the air, and Jake shakes it off as if it were the crispest he had ever received. “Ouch. You’re gonna have a nasty right hook one day. You know who else throws a good punch?” He turns them to the next person, the sole woman of the party. “This is Phoenix.”

The dark-haired woman smiles brightly. “Hello! Phoenix is my work name. You can call me Natasha,” she says as if they’re sharing a secret. She’s very pretty, you notice, and you already like her. You hope the two of you can keep in touch, maybe even become friends.

You thought you would be more nervous, meeting the people Jake spends most of his time with, but you feel at ease. Sure, there’s anxious fluttering in your stomach, but it’s minimal. You’re in his sanctuary, his church, for the first time ever, and the magnitude of that isn’t lost on you.

“N…Tasha.”

“Exactly. Tasha’s okay too.”

It almost feels like before. Before Jake, Hangman, blew right past the hard deck of your relationship and left a fiery pile of rubble, which he was now attempting to repair.

But this isn’t before.

Then

Altitude. Altitude.

Not being selected for the mission stung; but being put on standby (babysitting duty), twiddling his thumbs on deck in favor of Rooster, stung even more.

Hangman knew deep down what Rooster was capable of. He said so during their training exercise. He had all of the skills to complete the mission just fine if he would just buck the fuck up. He didn’t have the confidence, too cautious for his own good. He hoped Maverick was right, that Roos was ready to get the job done.

“We got two minutes to target.”

“Copy. We’re a few seconds behind, Rooster. We got to move.”

“Thirty seconds to tomahawk impact on enemy airstrip.”

“Dagger, Comanche. We’re picking up two bandits. Single group, two contacts.”

They would be fine. Nothing to worry about.

“Sir, Daggers two and four are behind schedule. Time to target, one minute-twenty.”

“Rooster, where are you?”

“Come on, Bradshaw, pick it up…”

“Come on, Rooster. Bandits inbound. We got to make up time now. Let’s turn and burn.

Good, Payback. Kick his ass into gear.

“Guys, we’re falling behind! We really gotta move!”

“If we don’t increase our speed right now, those bandits are gonna be waiting for us when we reach the target.”

Hit the gas, Rooster. Do it.

And he did. By the sound of it, Roos had blown his wingmen out of the water with the way he took off. He nearly left them in the dust, to Hangman’s surprise and pride. Maybe the other pilot had taken a page out of his book.

“Dagger one is hit! I repeat, Dagger one is hit! Maverick is down!”

He had considered at least one of the lieutenants not making it back. Whether it was Rooster for being too slow, or Payback and Fanboy going down with him for his hesitation. He was fairly certain Phoenix was safe, with the legendary captain as her wingman. But losing Maverick wasn’t anywhere close to his radar. He started adjusting in his seat, checking his buckles and legroom while holding his mouthpiece up. “Dagger spare, request permission to launch and fly air cover!”

There’s a beat, before Comanche’s response. “Negative, spare.”

And like a good soldier, Hangman listened. Begrudgingly, and with great frustration, he listened. Even as Rooster disobeyed orders. Even as he located a somehow living Pete Mitchell. Even as he crashed like their leader. By that point, they were sure to be dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

That is, until–

“Daggers two, four, and spare. Be advised, a supersonic F-14 has been detected with Rooster’s headset. Unconfirmed occupants. Do not engage.”

“What?” Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes darted to Phoenix in her cockpit. She was looking between Hangman and Dagger Four just as confused as he was. “Did they say–?”

Payback lifted his mouthpiece. “Comanche, repeat.”

“Rooster headset has been picked up in the air.”

Going after Roos and Mav was a split-second decision. He knew he shouldn’t have done it the second his wheels left the carrier.

Pull up. Pull up.

And by then, it was too late to turn back.

“Dagger spare, do not engage! You do not have clearance for take-off! Acknowledge!”

“With all due respect, Comanche, not acknowledged.”

A man’s voice, likely the vice admiral, suddenly cut in. “Hangman! Stay put! That is a direct order!”

If he was going to get written up, potentially court-martialed, for disobeying direct orders, he was going to make the most of it.

“Sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

Hangman didn’t respond to the slew of orders and cursing. He engaged the jet canopy and sat in silence with his hand over his right breast pocket, where three small photos were safely tucked away. One of you, in your pajamas with your hair up and an ice cream spoon in your mouth, eyes crinkled as you grin at him. Another of him and Daisy, and a third of the three of you.

You’d better be worth it, Bradshaw.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking.”

“Hey, Hangman. You look good.”

“I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.”

You were standing by the door, rifling through the pile of mail from the day, when you found an official-looking letter in the middle. “Jake, baby, there’s a letter for you.”

Altitude. Altitude.

“Does it say ‘confidential’?” he hollered from the kitchen.

You turned the thick envelope over, then back again. “No, it’s just addressed to you,” you said, shaking your head as if he could see you.

“Go ahead and open it.”

The paper and adhesive tore easily around your finger as you approached the kitchen. You pulled the single page out of its sleeve and quickly skimmed the letter to give a summary. But that cursory glance sent an icy chill up your spine, choking back the first line that you had meant to read aloud.

You stood between the living room and kitchen, letter in hand, frozen; a reprimand.

“What’s it say, babe?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, let alone move. Your eyes meticulously crawled through the slip, unblinking, tears pooling helplessly at your lashes. Eventually, your body couldn’t take the stillness and your lashes fluttered. The gathered drops raced down your cheeks and soiled the paper.

LETTER OF REPRIMAND FOR FAILURE TO FOLLOW ORDERS

MEMORANDUM FOR Lieutenant Jacob Austin Seresin

FROM: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson

You are being reprimanded for violating Article 92, Failure to Obey an Order or Regulation. During the [REDACTED] mission, you, Lt. Seresin, were ordered to remain grounded. You neglected to do so. As your commanding officer, the risks and outcomes of the mission were weighed carefully. You decided, on your admission and recognizance, to steal government property and engage in air-to-air combat with an enemy force that had already shot down two of your fellow airmen.

Said action could have resulted in your death, as well as the deaths of others. As a lieutenant and military member, you are expected to be a leader and obey all lawful orders. This behavior is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. Any future occurrences of failing to comply with Navy Standards will result in stronger disciplinary actions.

After reviewing the sequence of events, and given the outcome of your actions–

You didn’t need to read the rest; the course of action Jake’s command had decided upon wasn’t important. You’d had enough. Your face suddenly felt hot. And your insides, your insides, too. The wet streaks on your face and neck suddenly burned; or was it the heat under your skin turning them to vapor? Eventually, after Jake prompted you again, an echo in the ringing in your head, you managed a quiet, “Get out.”

“Can’t hear you. What?”

Through gritted teeth, you turn to stare at him, gaze like hot daggers, and growl, “Get. Out.”

He turned to find you, the epitome of feminine rage and nearly cowered back. In the years you had been together, he had never seen you so angry.

“W…hat do you–”

His confusion only made your fury worse. And so your rampage began. Your heavy footsteps cut him off and you all but ran to your shared bedroom, and slammed the letter on the kitchen island on your way past.

“Red–” The thought died in his throat when he scanned the mail.

Fuck.

A bag flying into the living space from the hall broke him out of his stupor. Jake quickly moved toward the source, and asked, “Red, what are you do–” When he crossed the threshold, a pressed uniform smacked him in the face.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out, GET OUT!” you screeched, lobbing clothes and other small objects at him.

His pants, his socks, his fucking underwear–

Out. Get it all out. All of it. Fuck him, fuck his shit, fuck his job–

“Baby–!”

“Fuck you! Don’t call me that!”

“Red, baby, please! Stop!”

That finally sparked a coherent thought in your mind. You were sobbing, choking on your cries, but you managed ragged breaths to string together a sentence. “We just talked about this! You promised me! You promised that you would do better, and I believed you! MOTHERFUCKER!”

A phone charger smacked the wall where Jake’s head once was; he swatted at a pillow that came in his direction when he straightened back up. “I…Sweetheart,” he stuttered, desperate sounding. “I couldn’t–they would’ve died! I’m so–”

Hearing him about to say he was sorry made it so much fucking worse. You don’t know what else to do but just…scream. Like a banshee. That was when the heavy shit started–the remote, a picture frame, a vase, a lamp. During your blind frenzy, he managed to get close enough to grab your arms when you turned your back, searching for another projectile. He pulled you to his chest, practically crushing you against him, so you would stop fighting and trying to injure him. But you were vicious; screaming obscenities and insults, writhing in his iron grip. You managed to get your legs up and kick at the bed, which sent Jake stumbling back and forced him to plant his feet. If he were honest, he would admit that he struggled to keep you contained, even for a moment.

His body, his flesh touching yours was too much, and your sleep set didn’t offer you much relief. Your skin crawled like you might just burst at the thought of having to be in his proximity any longer. Amidst all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about your toddler, sleeping soundly in another room.

“I can’t believe I trusted you! You’re fucking killing me! And you do it like it’s nothing! Like we’re nothing! I’m done! I’m fucking done!”

Pull up. Pull up.

You kicked again, and Jake let you go, instead holding your face to make you look at him. But you shoved him away before he could get the chance. “Red, you have to understand–!”

“I’m done understanding! I don’t care about them! I don’t care about the military! Why should I give half of a shit, when my husband would rather die for them than live for his fucking wife and child!”

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. What could he have said? To apologize, to make it better, to prove that. He’d already groveled to get to where they were then, and he screwed it up so quickly. 

The battlefield that was his mind wouldn’t cooperate. He was barely keeping his head above water lately, let alone while trying to mitigate the damage he had done to his wife. Damage that he didn’t—couldn’t—see, and still didn’t quite understand. You brought up your feelings, over and over again, and he did his best to keep his promises.

He did his best. Why wasn’t that good enough?

“You don’t get it! And I don’t know how to make you understand. I’ve begged, I’ve made threats, and it’s not working. So I’m telling you again. GET. OUT!”

“Red!”

The neighbors called the police. They heard your fight from next door, through the hum of their TV while their family ate dinner. How your daughter slept through it, even with taking after her father with his heavy sleeping, you’d never know. Jake sat on their doorstep shell-shocked, a cop around his dad’s age hovering over him with a sad look.

“I just want him gone. I need to be left alone,” you choked through tears, wiping your sleeve across your face. “I’m always alone.”

How did we get here?

Daisy’s faint cries flooded through the doorway from her bedroom. Your husband instinctually went to get up and tend to her, but was met with a firm hand on his shoulder. The man shook his head, and Jake slowly sank back down. If he could’ve sunk into the concrete, he would’ve. What kind of man was he, if he couldn’t even tend to his daughter?

The officers told each of you separately that charges weren’t necessary for a case like yours, which you were grateful for. Jake would never hit you, and you told them as much; you’d just reached your breaking point and needed space. The older man followed the pilot through the house as he went to fetch some clothes to last him a few days. It took everything in his being to ignore Daisy’s cries for him from behind her closed door; it was enough of a challenge that the officer had to nudge him past when he paused at the painted entryway, adorned with her namesake.

With instructions to restrict contact to Daisy’s needs for the next few days, to give you both time to cool off, your husband left peacefully. You didn’t watch as he tossed his bag into the backseat of his truck, or when he pulled out of your driveway. You simply thanked the officers and closed the door, leaned back against it, and sobbed into your palm. You don’t have long, your daughter having gotten louder with each passing minute she was left unattended. You let her cry for just a bit longer to get it out of your system before fetching her.

Even though you had just kicked your husband, the love of your life, out of your family home, you still managed to be incredibly gentle with your toddler. It felt like your soul was torn to pieces, one of them on his way to a motel or parking lot, no doubt.

You shushed her quietly as you scooped her into your arms and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mama’s here. It’s okay.”

Altitude. Altitude.

Copyright © 2024 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[arandomatlafan]

As disappointing as it is, this isn’t the first time a remarkably bland straight ship has been made canon so shippers will continue to do what they always have and ship anyway.

Though I will say I do wish Ururaka hadn’t ended up with Izuku. I think it wouldn’t been really nice to subvert the classic trope and have her truly move on from feelings she had as a teenager, especially since so much of her character is becoming her own person and hero seperate to her feelings for Izuku. I would have loved if she hadn’t ended up with a man (especially with that man being Izuku) but because she is written by one, maybe I should have guessed this would happen.

The dudebros have already become annoying under bkdk and tgchk posts which is a shame but hopefully they’ll quiet down soon rather than becoming jjk fandom 2.0

[canisalbus]

the ask about marriage recently made me think of that thing i thought up when we were chatting about Separation: Machete reading up about how there were some same sex marriages in pagan Rome ages before and disregarding the church for once to have a little ceremony with Vasco out in the countryside. and i thought your tumblr readers would like to think on that

Oh yeah, I remember that! I actually think about it every now and then, but I've yet to do any meaningful research on the idea.

Machete is kind of an antiquity fanboy and it wouldn't be far fetched to say that his fascination and admiration for ancient Greece and Rome might've made it a tiny bit easier for him to accept his orientation. And even if he'd feel uneasy about acting behind his church's back and the ceremony would be purely symbolic, the need to have their union recognized and sealed in some type of way would be immense.

[foliosriot]

LOVE’S THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND ♱ PART TWO

noah sebastian x reader

WARNINGS!!

none, just very short :(

TAGS!!

@malice-ov-mercy @measuredingold @crimson-calligraphyx @chels3a-smile @misspygmypie @veronicaphoenix @loverofagoodbeard @catj422

masterlist. tdopom masterlist.

“Hello?”

“I’m fucking panicking.”

The line is silent for a few beats, and it has you worriedly thinking if Jolly just hung up on you. But then there’s a deep sigh that has you feeling momentary relief.

“Why, exactly, are you fucking panicking?” Jolly asks carefully.

“I texted Noah,” you tell him, nervously nibbling at the tip of your thumbnail.

“That’s good! I’m proud of you for finally communicating with him,” Jolly praises you.

“No, it’s not good, Jolly!” you fire back. Stress is eating away at you, anxiety bubbles violently in your stomach. “I have never felt such panic since Fall Out Boy’s hiatus after Folie à Deux!”

“Wow, okay. That’s … That’s a strangely niche reference I haven’t heard you talk about for a long time.” Jolly looses another sigh. “Okay, I’ll bite. What happened?”

“He told me he misses me.”

The line goes silent again. Your leg is bouncing as you sit atop one of the stools under your kitchen counter. Your phone is face-up on the counter on speaker, and you know Jolly hasn’t hung up because the call time is still ticking. But that still doesn’t calm your nerves by any means as you wait for his response.

It’s been two days since you texted Noah, two days since he replied, two days since Bad Omens released their third album THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND. You hadn’t known how to go about Noah’s response so you’d thrown yourself back in to work and whatever chores needed to be done around your apartment. Your resolve had finally cracked when you shamelessly listened to the record for the sixth time (at least you think it was the sixth listen).

As soon as Miracle had ended that last time, you immediately called Jolly. You didn’t know who else to talk to. And thankfully, Jolly knows both parties personally and is the one who had told you to text Noah in the first place, so it was simply logical, actually.

But that hadn’t made it any less aggravating to wait for him to answer the damn phone call.

Finally, Jolly says something, but it has you wishing he had just hung up on you.

“He does miss you.”

God, and isn’t that just fucking wonderful information? The single sentence brings tears to your eyes. You fold your arms on top of the counter then rest your cheek against them.

“Jolly, he—“

“Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.” Jolly’s voice is firm, and it almost feels like a parent scolding their child. You bite your tongue anyways. “You told me you were the one to stop texting in the first place. You said your feelings were all messed up and didn’t know how to talk to him about any of it. Don’t think that your decisions didn’t hurt him, because they did. Noah wanted to talk to you about what happened but you ignored his calls, right?”

You hate how well Jolly knows you. You say nothing.

“There’s so much of you in the album, it’s fucking crazy,” Jolly continues. “Noah misses you so much more than you think he does. He wanted to figure this shit out with you. But he ended up just compiling all of it into those songs because you couldn’t pick up the damn phone.”

Tears are spilling down your cheeks now. Jolly’s words hurt — god, they really fucking hurt. But he’s speaking with so much honesty and sincerity it makes you sick. Because yes, you were the one to ignore Noah’s calls and voicemails when you first started losing touch. You couldn’t deal with what you were feeling, nor could you express how you felt at the time. You don’t think you’d be able to now.

But you need to. All of these feelings and emotions have been festering inside of you for years and years. They were nearly overflowing the first time you and Noah were intimate, then they finally flooded every inch of your body the last time you spoke. You just didn’t care enough to acknowledge them.

However, as your vision is blurry with tears and you’re quietly sniffling, you know what you need to do.

“I miss him, Jolly,” you whisper in a broken voice, scared it won’t carry through the speaker. “I miss him so much.”

“Then talk to him,” Jolly says, gentler this time.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, relenting only when you see fuzzy stars and nebulas accumulate beneath your eyelids. More tears slip down your face as you blink repeatedly.

“I’ve lost him once already. I don’t wanna do it again.”

“You haven’t lost Noah, trust me,” Jolly assures you. “To this day, he is still your best friend, whether you realize it or not.”

“What do I do, Jolly?” you ask timidly. You’re scared by his potential response, but you are already mentally writing down what you want to say after this phone call ends.

“Text or call him, and set up a time to meet,” Jolly suggests. “If you don’t, you’re gonna drive yourself insane. I mean, you’ll be our number one Spotify listener for the entire year, but let’s avoid that this time around, okay? I’d like to prevent that from happening for a bad reason.”

You chuckle a bit at Jolly’s antics. But you find yourself nodding, even though Jolly can’t see you. You push up off the countertop with a spark of something settling in your stomach.

“Okay, I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” you tell him. You sniffle then stay quiet for a short minute. “Thank you, Jolly. I’m sorry for dumping all of this onto you.”

“Don’t worry about it, dude,” he responds. It’s evident that he has a smile on his face just from the tone of his voice. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Yeah, for sure. Love you. Bye.”

“Love you.”

Jolly hangs up and you’re left in the quiet of your apartment.

Now, after having talked to your older brother figure — who made you cry, that fucking asshole — you feel a sliver of determination embedding itself into your ribcage. You can feel it burrowing into the bone and marrow, slowly spreading across your entire skeleton. It infects your organs and veins and bloodstream, until it’s all you feel.

You wipe away any tears that had fallen in the past couple minutes. Your skin is hot beneath your fingers and you can your pulse in your palms. But you ignore the heat radiating off of you as you open your phone with shaky hands.

A moment later, Noah’s contact is staring at you. You’re hesitant to open your shared text thread and ask if he wants to meet up and talk. But Jolly’s encouragement echoes from every corner of your skull, each word reverberating into the tissue of your brain until it is the only thing you can remotely think about.

Then you’re typing and sending off your message before you can think twice about it.

You gingerly set your phone back down on the counter. Deja vu ripples through you, a scene in your bedroom playing in your head from just a few days ago.

But you shove that memory away as you stand up from the stool. The leg that had been bouncing hurts a bit from constantly jittering, but you ignore the ache as you begin your way to your room. You purposefully leave your phone behind.

After gathering clean clothes and a clean towel for your shower, you head back into the kitchen to retrieve your cellphone. And you see there’s a new text notification present on the screen — one from Noah.

Your heart nearly stops at his reply. You aren’t sure what you should be feeling right now. But he definitely did just say he wants to see you.

You’re shaking uncontrollably as you read the text over and over. It’s almost like you’re waiting for Noah to say this was a joke, that he never wants to see you again for as long as he lives. But it never comes as you continue staring at it.

Noah wants to see you.

Noah wants to talk to you.

Noah wants to—

Meet tomorrow night?!

You must have read that last part wrong. You read through the text several more times to make sure you didn’t misread anything or mistook what he meant. Because Noah asked if tomorrow night at your place works. At 7:00pm.

You almost decline, saying that you picked up another shift from work at that time. And you’re about to begin typing out that gentle rejection when Jolly suddenly texts you.

Jolly🎸☀️: Noah just ran in to the living room telling me you texted him. Fucking smiley bastard. Just know that I’m very proud of you for doing this!

Well, shit. Now you have to accept the meet time.

So you do, standing in the middle of your cramped hallway with anxiety on the verge of spilling out of your mouth. You swallow harshly, choking back the bitter taste as you’re typing out your answer to Noah.

But you can’t help feeling hopeful. It almost overpowers the anxious tugging in your belly. And you let it remain confined inside of you as you take your shower, letting each and every possible scenario for tomorrow night play in your head.

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

♱ foliosriot 2023

[sulky-cabbage]

AU: Where Sukuna Wins

Part 1

Part 2 here

Imagine an alternate universe in which Sukuna triumphs, dominates over Japan, and endures a lonely existence for many centuries, while allowing some humans to live.

They hold a grudge against him, of course, and want to kill him. They train at Jujutsu High and have some great fighters that occasionally provide Sukuna with some entertainment. 

They are so desperate for salvation, they can only find solace in prophecies about a figure with powerful blue eyes that will defeat the king of curses and rescue Japan.

And do you know what Sukuna does in response to that? One might expect him to go full Pharoah mode and kill newborns, but NO!!

HE DOES THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE !!

Whenever he ravages a village and devours the women and children, he ALWAYS spares the blue-eyed infants.

All the curses know better than to kill an infant with blue eyes. The last time a curse did that, Sukuna made sure to make an example of it.

Killing a member of the Gojo clan is also off limits, as well as anything that could delay the reincarnation of this certain person.

These humans are not the only ones waiting for salvation.

Sukuna is also WAITING...for his wretched existence to end at the hands of this person.

The ONLY one worthy of having the honor to do so.

[oh-biwan]

[rattling cage] Do you have any Obikin fics that you've enjoyed? Your beautiful art made me slip right down the ship rabbit hole and now I need recs, any rating/theme.

-blushes, clears throat- Hi!

I like a lot of different flavors but, to keep it simple, I'll try to match my recommendations to the theme I'm cultivating on this blog so far.

First of all, I have to mention skyl_tales, they wrote some of the absolute Obikin classics and I love their work, it's very dear to me. If you haven't read anything from them yet, I strongly recommend taking a look at their works and going for anything that captures your attention!

Alright, now my conscience is clear and we can move on:

Armageddon Game by posthumous_vigor

One of my more recent obsessions. Basically, padawan Obi-Wan gets captured by Sith Anakin and then groomed to the Dark Side. What I enjoy about this one is how, even despite the unfavorable cards that Obi-Wan has been dealt, he cleverly chases down his goals... but not without twisting himself in the pursuit as well. He is an active actor in this play and ultimately it is not Anakin who Obi-Wan plays against. And by recommending this I'm recommending the whole series :).

Untouched by objectlesson

This fic has one the most predatory padawan Anakin I've ever seen. This child is just so deliciously fucked up in the head. I... I think I'll just let the author's summary speak for itself: In his darkest moments, Anakin began to think of it as his right. To control Obi-Wan’s sleeping mind, force it into a box, shut it up so he could take what he deserved. Warm skin, slack face, soft snores. And then—then—more.

pleasure, little treasure by objectlesson

A guilty pleasure of mine. And probably a very hard pill to swallow, so careful there. In this one, Vader goes back in time, kidnaps Jedi initiate Obi-Wan, and makes him his apprentice. Yes, it's very dark, a psychological horror, but this author writes with such skill and poetry that I trusted they could make me enjoy reading stuff I'd normally avoid... And I was right. The beauty in the abominable. That's why I love this author, the things they write are so refreshingly daring and so deeply fucked up on so many levels, but served in a way that makes me swallow it all up without question. (oh, I should probably mention that as of now this fic is unfinished, I seldomly pick up unfinished works, but with this one, I have no regrets :))

hold my heart more gently than you do my throat by tennessoui

This is a role reversal omegaverse AU. Master Skywalker has been captured by the Separatists, and behind the Council's back, his omega Padawan sets out to save the master in distress. It is debatable if the master in question needs the saving -noises of massacre in the background- (he did need the saving, in my opinion :)). What I really love about this fic are the horror vibes of little Padawan getting chased down the hallways of the enemy base full of dead bodies, and an unknown monster breathing down his neck, but the only thing on his mind is how to find his master and rescue him. Also, I enjoyed the final twist and how the story unfolded in the end. Satisfying. If omegaverse is your thing I definitely recommend this one.

game plan by treescape

Out of all the recommendations, I consider this to be the tame one. If all of the above made you hesitant to try, this is the one to go with. The summary: Vader keeps capturing Obi-Wan during the Wars. Obi-Wan keeps escaping. It's kind of a thing. I'm recommending this one for the banter. Some of it is just next level. Very amusing to read. Chef's kiss.

[badassomens]

I've had a little idea for an AU in my head for a long time, and I'm thinking of writing it here. Let me know if you'd like to read this

[midnightsilver]

Mr Smith meet Mr Smith - It was my thought that they would hate each other…. at first.😁

My art pitch for @crack-in-the-chassis was chosen by @masoena who wrote a story for it 😄 you can find the summary info here.

[dendroaspis-viridis]

I'm always a slut for Leyendecker edits.

This was the reference pic, btw.

I can't wait to crank that height slider to 100% when I get my little goblin hands on the character creator. Katareth is gonna love fawning over her short (to her) king and talking about anything and everything with him 💚

[canarydarity]

(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain? 

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment. 

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot). 

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling. 

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling. 

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground. 

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first. 

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard. 

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood. 

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on. 

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?” 

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did. 

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.  

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still— 

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant. 

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion. 

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.  

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out—Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!” 

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!” 

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace. 

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone. 

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone. 

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once. 

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely. 

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.” 

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare. 

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.  

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?” 

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction. 

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse. 

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances. 

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?  

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?” 

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind. 

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage. 

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing. 

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned. 

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind. 

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.” 

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back. 

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?” 

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused. 

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—” 

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for. 

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes. 

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too. 

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now. 

“Yes...” 

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration. 

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment. 

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. 

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.” 

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—” 

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!” 

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after. 

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him. 

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks. 

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid. 

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!” 

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention. 

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too. 

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew. 

And Tango wasn’t mad. 

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night. 

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—” 

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit. 

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.” 

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit. 

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!” 

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.  

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did. 

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe. 

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate. 

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak. 

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same. 

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force. 

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks. 

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired. 

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore. 

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own. 

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there. 

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact. 

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.” 

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about. 

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it. 

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations. 

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had. 

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault. 

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this. 

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down. 

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

[katsmtmsdoodles]

Day 4 of drawing Matt's teen facts because the Li Wilsons make me sad!!

S2E5: Link is always a Chelsea player for Halloween and his dads go as his biggest fans :>