#seriously i should not still remember this

[burningcheese-merchant]

I like the fact that the devs agreed and added the parallel that the ancients are all very kind to themselves, even at their worst, how vulnerable they can be. In chapter 10, HB accepts Lily's wrongdoings, and despite the fact that it took her a while to process her trauma, she tries to make peace with her.

Now with the beasts, it's so different because, if you notice, despite having a problem, they don't try to change their ways. That's why most of them don't understand each other; their philosophy clashes greatly. Despite one of them claiming to be very close, in reality, each and every one of them feels so alone. It's undeniable how many people still believe they're close.

It's fascinating to see their parallels. It's good to know they're not close; it's complex and interesting. I want to add about episode 10 i feel outraged by the fact that no one talks about how complex ES's character was the last part of the episode made me cry because i know she only had one purpose when she was created and the fact that HB proposed to her to leave their garden and go with her was the most painful and touched me so much. (seriously my friends asked me if i was okay because i cried a lot LOL) everyone thinks it's an unrequited love, if it wasn't reciprocated HB wouldn't take the time to understand ES and explain to her that the world doesn't have to be perfect like she describes it. it's an episode with a queer tragedy explained in the hardest but sweetest way possible... And the game is from a country that litteraly is a sin to be like this or not good received as well.

All of the BxA r Indeed were pure art but with different narratives as well

Yeah definitely!! I've always loved the parallels between the Beasts and Ancients - not just individually, but as groups. While they both endured equally great suffering, in the end, the Beasts chose the easy way out. They chose darkness and despair. They chose to inflict their suffering onto others instead of properly addressing themselves and their shortcomings. And what's fascinating is that, for a time, the Ancients chose similarly: Golden Cheese succumbed to delusion and hid herself in a fantasy world in order to assuage her grief, Hollyberry abdicated and ran away from her family and her people and her life, drinking and fighting and partying her woes away, Dark Cacao built literal and figurative walls around himself and shut everyone out, Pure Vanilla was an amnesiac for a while, thus technically foregoing truth (albeit not necessarily by choice), then he allowed himself to be a Cookie of Deceit for a while, White Lily... we know what happened to her lol. But they managed to save themselves because they had each other. For each and every one of them, their salvation and enlightenment came when they remembered their bonds with each other and with others they care for. It was that sense of connection and community, which never ever broke despite everything that happened to them. And then opposite to them are the Beasts, who broke apart and descended into villainy because they themselves did not have those connections; not just in reference to them never having had the chance to live as normal people, but in reference to their bonds with each other specifically. I believe now more than ever that they never REALLY cared for each other. That they were never REALLY friends. If they were, why didn't they help each other when they started corrupting? Example, Burning Spice: I believe that what he needed the most was assurance that the cycle of change is not and does not need to be inherently painful or bleak. That there is good and meaning in that endless repetition. What would've helped was him having a constant in his life; someone or something that was always there with him even while everything and everyone else slipped away, as the cycle of change mandates. For all intents and purposes, the other Beasts should have been that constant; they're immortal too. They're gods too. They're his friends. They WERE his friends. Or... were they not? I don't really think so anymore. What the Ancients have together, the Beasts either had a very weak and fragile copy, or never really had at all. IF they were ever friends, they were pretty shitty ones lol. And that's a big part of why they corrupted, and why they're all so bitter and lonely: they each feel as though no one ever understood them or their struggles, not even their supposed "friends". Then these 5 thieves come along and inadvertently give them that lifeline, to which they all react differently (in how they express their attachment, I mean. They're all obsessed but they let it show differently and to different levels), but underneath those differences lies a shared feeling: "oh God, someone finally understands me, someone finally feels what I feel, I can't ever let them go, I need them". It's so horrendously sad and disturbing and darkly fascinating. I love it. I love these pairs, I love talking about them, I can do it forever

And I agree with you that Eternal Sugar is a complex and very interesting character, and I'm disappointed in the people that think otherwise (I hate saying this, but a lot of the complaints kind of sound like they're just butthurt that Eternalberry was canonized and they're looking for any excuse to tear the update down because of it). She seems to be a step above Mystic Flour in that she really, truly thinks she's doing something GOOD (MF behaves this way as well, but ES is legitimately delusional). She actually thinks she's helping people. Deep down, she DOES understand that she's a bad person and she's only hurting those she claims to care for, Hollyberry included, and this dialogue demonstrates such:

She seems to have succumbed to a form of insanity above that of other Beasts; she is still clinging to her old desires to carry out her godly duties and make people happy, but her perception of such has become so warped that she actually thinks things like keeping people in jars forever is making them happy. Furthermore, she purposefully orchestrates situations that "prove" her mindset and ideals correct (allowing people to leave the garden if they wish ("see? I'm not controlling! I'm not desperate! I'm not a dictator! You can leave, it's ok!"), but having them leave while smelling like the perfume that permeates the whole area so Beast-Yeast monsters are drawn to and attack them, thus forcing them back into the garden and further convincing them that it's a safe haven and they belong there). So much confirmation bias with Sugar, it's crazy. SHE is crazy. She is LEGITIMATELY crazy, a sort of crazy that the others aren't, not even Shadow Milk. It is delightfully awful. She is delightfully awful

And oh... Holly... Holly and Sugar... Passion and Sloth... Them...

One begs the other to stay... The other begs them to wake up and leave. Holly is now the second Ancient to fully, directly express understanding and sympathy towards their Beast. She's now the second to fully, directly state that she wants to be with their Beast.

She's HAPPY at the prospect of them being together. Of being two halves of a soul. She would GLADLY complete Sugar and let Sugar complete her... but Sugar has to wake up first. She has to see the error of her ways. She has to leave her garden. And Sugar agrees to this. She probably didn't really mean it, she was probably just swept up in the Yuri Wave and saying what she thought Holly wanted her to say, but even so. I think it's meaningful. Out of all the Beasts, I think Sugar has the best shot of being redeemed. And she has just the right Ancient to help her with such a thing. (Tbh I think they can all be fixed. Not easily, not right away, absolutely not. It would take time and effort and a lot of very painful conversations and realizations on everyone's part. But I think it can be done. Each of them has shown that one little seed of doubt, of regret, of disillusionment. Each one of them has faltered, if only for a moment. Because of that, I think somewhere deep down inside of them is someone worth saving. But that's just me haha) Beast x Ancient is 5 different, delicious flavors of a beautiful and compelling tragedy and they kill and resurrect me several times a day

[womanofwords]

Darling Demon (Part 7)

Yandere!batfam x betrothed!neglected!male!reader x yandere!demon!spouse

TW: sex jokes.

You woke up to the feeling of something lightly combing through your hair. "Damian, stop poking me." you groaned.

"Do not compare me to that brat," a low voice grumbled.

Azrir.

You were about to scream, but they covered your mouth before you could let out a sound. "Hush, little prize," they murmured. "I merely want to see how you are treated. Is this some paltry guest bedroom?"

"No, this is my bedroom," you admitted, once Azrir let you talk. "It's . . . just a little plain."

"It's positively threadbare," Azrir noted in disgust. "Does your family know? What about your father?"

"He doesn't come here often."

"Subpar, but not unexpected." Azrir looked at you wolfishly. "Would you like me to help?"

"Um . . ." You shrank. "What will happen to me if I agree?"

"Nothing that isn't already happening. Your soul is already damned to hell, thanks to your mother. And I want my little prize to have a nice place to sleep." Azrir squeezed your face together so your lips exposed your teeth. "Would you like me to help?"

You felt a spring jab you into responding. "Yes. I would like nicer things, please. Like a mattress that doesn't hate me."

"Of course, dear bounty."

Your room shifted before your eyes. Your bed became softer and more plush, your blankets became thicker, and you now had a bedfellow.

"FLUFFY!" you squealed, hugging your favourite stuffed bear tightly. "How did you get him back? Damian destroyed him years ago."

"I have my ways," Azrir said proudly. "Now, you should eat something. You must be hungry."

Azrir took you out of your now sinfully soft bed and escorted you to the kitchen. "Hello, just here for a meal," they said, as Dick foamed at the mouth.

"Hi," you said, as Azrir sat you down for cereal. Jason reached for a gun.

"I mean you no harm. I am merely making sure that Y/N gets to eat the breakfast that he wants. I will make sure that Y/N gets everything he wants."

"How are you here?" Tim spluttered. "We put crucifixes and salt circles around Y/N's bed! How are you still here?"

"You'll have to try harder to repel me from my prize," Azrir said, hugging you tightly.

"You sick monster," Damian growled. "Leave Y/N alone! He's ours!"

"We have watched this family for years. None of you have any claim to Y/N that is stronger than my own. You never remembered they were there unless you needed to torment someone. Your beloved sibling." Azrir scoffed at Damian. "I suppose it is a phyrric victory. We gain a wonderful new human to add to the horde of human spouses that demons take, and yet we lose a fine soldier in you."

"I would never join you!" Damian yelled.

"Funny. I thought you were already one of us." Azrir shoved Damian out of the way when Alfred came around with a pot of tea.

"This is awfully early for a house call," he said.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" Stephanie screamed. "Isn't this obviously insane to look at?"

"This is out of the ordinary, Miss Brown, but I don't want to be rude to Y/N's . . . spouse," Alfred replied.

"Azrir didn't marry Y/N! He's going to rape him!" Dick screamed.

"They're waiting until I agree," you said. "If I agree, it's not rape."

"You can't seriously be preparing for this," Bruce said. "What Azrir plans to do to you will be painful."

"I know it will. It's why I've started stockpiling lubrication," Azrir whispered to you. You burst into laughter.

"Azrir, you're funny!" you laughed. The rest of your family suddenly felt nauseous.

"Azrir is seducing him so he agrees to sex acts," Jason muttered. "Sick bastard."

"Well, we can lure him away from that demon. Just a bit of brotherly love and assurance, that's all he needs," Dick whispered. "Maybe I can take him furniture shopping. He'd like a new bedframe and a new mattress."

"What's wrong with his old mattress?"

"It's old, lumpy, and the embodiment of misery." Dick lowered his voice even more. "And everything we don't do, Azrir will do, and he'll use it to seduce Y/N."

You ate without looking up. It wasn't the first time that your family had talked in front of you while thinking (or pretending) that you weren't there. You drained your cereal and left the table.

"Y/N, maybe you should test out the new bed I got for you?" Azrir said loudly. "Strong enough and large enough to fit three people onto it."

"No!" Jason yelled, grabbing you tightly. "Y/N is . . . going to be spending the day with us!"

"What?" you spluttered.

"Yeah, we're, uh . . . getting ice cream! And some new clothes!" Jason insisted. "Big brother needs to bring you nice clothes so you can be a real head-turner, huh?" He hugged you tightly, too tightly.

"I don't get it. Why are you holding me?" you asked.

"We just want you to spend time with us." Dick had teleported to your side. "That demon trying to consummate a marriage you don't understand must be terrifying."

"Your brother understands plenty," Azrir said. "When we consummate the marriage, it will have a foundation of love and mutual understanding."

"HE'S A BABY!" Dick screamed. "AN INNOCENT BABY!"

"I'm not a baby," you said. "Not anymore, and I never will be again. You never spent time with me back when I counted as a kid, anyway. You were all busy. You don't have to worry about forgetting my birthday if Azrir celebrates it with me. You can just let him do everything for you."

"You're scaring us when you talk like that!" Stephanie said.

"And why are you even mentioning your birthday?" Tim asked.

"I haven't had a birthday party since I was eight, with my mother. I was going to make myself a birthday cake when I was interrupted. It's much later than I wanted, but . . . I'd like to make my cake. For my eighteenth birthday."

"Of course! Alfred can help you, and we'll stay so close to you all day," Dick bargained.

"Is there anything you need? A baking tin, a sugar thermometer?" Bruce asked. "Tell me what you want, and you'll have it."

"I already bought myself everything," you said. "And I want to make the cake myself, the way I always do."

"Are you sure you don't need our help?" Bruce asked.

"Quite sure. I've baked on my own before. I've done it since I was twelve," you said. "It's soothing."

"Little war bounty," Azrir purred. "If you want me to give you some distance, I shall do it."

"You can stay, Azrir," you said.

"What about us? Don't you want any of us to stay with you?" Tim asked.

"We'll be the best baking assistants ever, Y/N!" Dick pleaded.

You thought about it for a few seconds. "Alfred can stay, but only Alfred and Azrir."

"Y/N, you really shouldn't be alone with Azrir," Bruce said. "You could get hurt."

"I won't be alone; Alfred's with us. And Azrir is not going to consummate a marriage in front of him."

"I have no inhibitions, but Y/N does," Azrir said. "I will respect his desires to not be seen having sex in front of his grandfather."

"See?" You gestured to Azrir with an innocent smile. "I get to bake my own birthday cake and keep my virginity. Stop fantasizing about them 'having their way'. It's gross."

"Utterly sick," Azrir scolded, eyes roving over you. "What an innocent little head to be corrupted by you people. I'll take care of you, Y/N."

"No! Y/N, Azrir's lying! Get away from there!" Barbara wheeled over to you, hand outstretched. "Please come with us. We can find you someone nice."

"Azrir is nice to me."

"He's trying to get into your pants. He treats you as something to taunt us with. He's brainwashing you against us."

"First of all, Azrir is genderless. Second of all, they don't have to brainwash me." You looked through Barbara with blank, lidded eyes. "You all left me alone, mocked me for trying to spend time with you, and forced me away from you every time I wanted to bond with my siblings. This is kinder treatment than I've ever had in my life."

Bruce got up and dragged you away from Azrir. "It's about time you had a father-son birthday dinner," he said, hugging you tightly. "You can eat whatever you want, I promise. Money will be no object."

"Are you sure it's actually going to happen? I don't want to just wait around for nothing," I said.

"It will happen, I promise," Bruce said. "You will be my pride and joy. We might even get you a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. So long as it's not Azrir."

Azrir roared in horror. "HOW DARE YOU DENY ME THE HONOUR OF TAKING HIS VIRGINITY!" Azrir's claws and teeth sharpened. Their horns grew thicker and longer. "HE IS MINE! I FOUGHT FOR HIM! I DECAPITATED DEMONS TWICE MY SIZE FOR HIM! I PROTECTED HIM FROM HIS BLOODTHIRSTY, CARELESS SIBLINGS! YOUR OFFSPRING!"

You shivered with terror. Everyone was so angry over you. You needed air. You were about to slip away, but Azrir grabbed you with their tail and put you on their lap. "Unhand him," Bruce ordered.

"No," Azrir said. "I don't trust you, and neither does your son."

"He's my son!" Bruce said. That got your attention; you'd never heard Bruce call you that before. It was . . . weird. Like he was saying something wrong.

"You're not usually this possessive," Azrir noted. "Getting jealous?"

"He can't go with you," Barbara said. "He belongs here."

"Don't lie to me. He was left in a miserable little room where nobody could see him! He should be worshipped and pampered." Azrir's lip curled into an aroused smirk as they looked at you, still perched on their lap. "Just for him, I'll make the altar of worship the most comfortable bed he's ever known. He'll never want to leave."

"Stop talking about him like that! It's disgusting!" Dick looked like he was going to be sick. "Your hands are constantly groping him, and-and that look on your face! You're constantly undressing him with your eyes! I bet your head is full of sick thoughts about what you'll do to him!"

"You think about that even more than I do," Azrir chuckled. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to look inside your head, Richard." Dick took large steps back as Azrir gazed around at your family.

"Leave this home and give us our little boy," Bruce demanded.

"So, you want your precious Y/N back after years of distance." Azrir snickered while petting your head. They were the villain, and you were the pet. "Due to their mother sacrificing their soul and me winning that soul in a battle to the death in hell, I can't do that. But, for two weeks and two weeks only, I will let you have Y/N to yourselves. I will not visit the house or contact them in any way, even if Y/N begs and pleads for me."

"What's the catch?" Tim asked.

"I want to see Y/N naked first."

"Knew it," Stephanie muttered.

You merely nodded. "That's OK. I'll go upstairs and strip. I mean, if I do it, I finally get to spend time with my family for real. No being sent away or told to make friends or get a hobby. I don't want them to send me away again."

"We don't want to send you away, either," Jason said. God, you looked so naive, like a dog who didn't understand why it couldn't have chocolate. And Azrir was probably loving the ethical quandary they'd engineered. "We just don't think that it's good for you to entice the lustful demon twice your size."

"But I already belong to Azrir!" You showed off the bracelets Azrir had lovingly placed onto you. "Doesn't that make it OK?"

Bruce looked like he was going to have a heart attack. "You really enjoy putting us in difficult positions."

"No, Bruce. That's what Y/N is for," Azrir said. "I haven't heard any agreement yet. I assume Y/N can keep his clothes on, his familial expectations low, and his demonic lover close?"

"You can't let Azrir have this. They'll do whatever they want to him and we won't be able to stop them," Dick said.

"Maybe this will be what makes Y/N truly hate them," Tim theorised. "He'll be so disgusted that he'll never want to be near Azrir again. We can get him back from Azrir's clutches after that. We'll soothe him after the demon becomes lecherous."

"Both of you need to stop talking," Bruce said. "I need to think about what is best for Y/N."

Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @c4xcocoa, @darkmoka, @fightmebissh, @bloobewy, @chi1lllb, @cqerrz, @heart-cream, @noone1233nobody.

First

Previous

A/N: This is a plot point that can be decided by popular vote. I'm going to need a few days after the poll is concluded to write more chapters reflecting the answer that I get. It's a serious fork in the road. Sorry if this disrupts the routine you've gotten used to, but I really need this time.

[devinescribe]

At Your Service

Knight! Jason Todd x Princess! Reader

Warnings: swearing, uhh slightly suggestive comments, I think that’s all!

I’m in love with Jason Todd, and have been for forever. I love all the Batboys :3

The Wayne family had been protecting yours for as long as time itself.

It was lucky that your parents had only had one child, and Bruce Wayne had only 4. It was like extra protection all the time.

All. The. Time.

Since you were closer to the same age as Jason, he had been assigned as your personal knight. He followed you like a second shadow.

Even when you were kids, he'd be by your side, holding your hand to go across the street or the paths.

He was 7 when he was appointed as your ‘knight’(knight in training at that point), and you merely 5.

——

“Go on dear… say hello,” you mother said softly, watching you hide behind her, gripping her skirt, barely peeking over at the boy.

“Jason Peter Todd, do you accept the duty of guarding over the princess, protecting her at all costs?” Said one of the important people in the court who you frankly could not remember the name of.

“Yes.”

The boy stood with a seriousness, almost like he was already a knight.

He looked over at you, and your mom shoved you forward softly. You stumbled forward, almost tripping over your dress, and Jason’s hands quickly steadied you. There was a moment of silence as you both stared at each other, before you slithered to his side, gripping the sleeve of his tunic.

The court “awwww-ed” at the sight, seeing as you took such a quick liking to the knight in training.

——

He followed you around, two steps behind, watching silently. Like he always did.

You walked through the garden and past the fountain, to the big old willow tree at the end of the royal gardens.

“…Jason…?” You said softly, turning to face him.

“Yes your highness?” He responded.

You pouted, having already told him to just call you by your name.

He noticed and corrected himself, “My bad… um… yes, Y/N?”

“…Do I talk too much?” You asked, fidgeting with your dress as you sat on the grass beneath the willow tree.

Jason’s eyes widened as he heard the question, and he kneeled in front of you.

“Who said that?”

Your eyes met his and a chill ran through you. There was a dark fury behind them, as if you had just told him someone threatened to kill you.

“I-I… just… some maids…” you mumbled, now finding the grass very interesting.

Jason sighed, and sat next to you as a soft summer breeze whistled through the long branches of the willow.

“They’re wrong. You don’t talk too much, you talk just enough. You talking this well at your age is like… really… you’re really smart,” he babbles it out, like he’s not really thinking much, just saying.

You nod, nuzzling into his side.

“Will you read to me again?” You ask quietly.

“Of course Y/N.”

——

Now, you were 21, and he was 23. And things were the same. You still clung to him, and he still followed you around. Two steps behind. He still read to you whenever you asked.

Jason had always thought you would end up being bratty and spoiled. You were a princess, why should you care about those who were below you? But you didn't. You were kind, and charitable. Always caring about the people you would one day rule over. And he loved that about you.

Dawning a simple ochre yellow dress and flats along with your favorite jewelry, you walked down into the dining room.

"...Dick? Have you seen Jay...?" You ask softly. He wasn't at the table and he hadn't gone to get you as he typically did for breakfast.

"He’s uh... not feeling well," Dick responded, looking away.

Your brow furrowed in worry.

"Is he sick? Does he need something? He shoulda said something I woulda-"

You were cut off by Damian's annoyed grumble, "He's not sick, he's pissed the ball tonight is to find you a spouse and he can't be in the running-"

"Damian!"

The other two men called his name in a scolding manner. It was no secret to the Wayne boys that Jason had a crush on you. It was a fact that Jason kept very secret from you.

You pouted.

"...He's mad at me...?" You whimpered, not really understanding what Damian was getting at.

"No he's in lo-"

Damian's sentence was cut short by Dick's hand over his mouth.

"He's not mad at you. He's just tired is all. Did you need to go into town or something Princess?" Tim said, trying to save face for Jason.

You nodded softly, looking over at Tim before explaining, "Got a new dress for the ball... have to go pick it up... Jay was gonna go with... He promised.”

"Well, I'll go with you and by the time we're back I'm sure that Damian and Tim will have talked some sense into Jason," Dick suggested, sort of shoving Damian towards Tim.

The younger boy glared at his eldest brother, but said nothing as he stood with Tim.

You nodded and went over next to Dick, holding onto his arm as you walked out of the castle. Dick had always been like a big brother figure to you, always kind and having a big goofy grin.

"So...you excited for tonight?" He asked, hoping this would sort of change the subject.

You sighed heavily before responding, "not really but... if it's what I must do..."

He felt bad for you. I mean here you were actively miserable, walking to get a dress to an event you didn't want to attend.... Having to have the attention of every man in the room as they all fight for who gets to court you first.

"But it's okay... because Jason is gonna be there to keep me safe... I like Jay.... a lot. He makes me happy and makes me feel safe," you mumble, looking at the cobblestone path in front of you.

Then it hit Dick. Did you like his brother? Is that what you just admitted that you liked Jason? Instead of questioning you he just smirked to himself.

"Yeah? You excited about all the suitors at least...?" He asked, knowing full well you weren't.

You frowned and looked up at Dick with a glare. He knew you would rather die.

——

Jason was sulking in his room. Tonight was the night you'd get whisked away by some guy that wasn't him.

The heavy crimson black out curtains you had bought for him were drawn closed, blocking all light from getting in. He had locked the door that lead into your room because he knew that if he saw you today before the ball, he'd spill his guts to you.

His bed was too big. You ordered he get a bigger bed because he was so big himself... and on the rare occasion you couldn't sleep you could have a spot.

However, in his thinking, he had forgotten one door. The main entrance to his room. Damian and Tim came in, basically slamming the door open.

"Wake up dickhead," Damian grumbled as Tim opened the curtains. The sunlight beamed through, hurting Jason's eyes as he struggled to adjust.

"What the fuck-"

"Enough sulking, she thinks you're mad at her," Tim said, going to Jason's closet.

Jason took a breath. The thought of you being upset made his insides hurt. Literally, his stomach was churning at the thought of your sad face.

"She... Y/N thinks I'm mad at her? Who the hell told her that?!" He growled, almost yelling, but not quite.

"No one did dipshit. You didn't go wake her up and you didn't go to breakfast. You promised you'd go with her to get her dress, but lo and behold, you're fucking sulking in here," Damian cursed, rolling his eyes in annoyance at his older brother's anger.

"...what Damian is trying to say is... she thinks you're upset with her because you are acting strange... you're the first person she asked about. She got worried and thought you were sick... she cares about you-" Tim tried to reason, still looking through his older brothers closet, but got cut off by Jason's sharp tongue.

"It doesn't fucking matter how much she cares about me, she's a princess and I... I'm just a knight. I'm just a street kid that's lucky Bruce saw any potential in me, and took me in. I'm not good enough to have her."

There was silence in the room for a moment, both brothers taking in what Jason had just relayed to them.

"...how will you know if you never try?"

Jason looked up at Damian as he spoke.

"The hell are you talking about kid?"

"You won't know how she feels until you tell her. So stop being a pussy and just tell her. I'm like...99% sure she feels the same. So screw labels and what your job is. In all technicality, we are nobles, who decide to be guards to the royal family. So... the status thing doesn't work."

Jason laughed and shook his head.

"Alright kid....alright."

“And would you look at that, you even have something to wear for tonight.”

——

When it was time for the ball, you waited for the court announcer to say your name. You looked down and smoothed out your black and red dress.

It was a big ballgown style dress that was a dark red fabric with black lace detailing. The bodice had a sweetheart neckline that was adorned with gold and pearls. As usual, you used your favorite jewelry and this time, you had your crown on. A golden crown adorned with jewels.

You picked it out because it reminded you of Jason. You couldn't wait to show him. You hoped he was here... He had to be, right? He was your night…

The announcer introduces you, and you walk into the ballroom. There's hundreds of people staring up at you, and you felt a bit overwhelmed.

No sooner had you reached the bottom step before you were crowded around by men, dukes, barons, lords, nobles, princes, kings of all ages and from every kingdom.

You tried to be cordial but were so overwhelmed and crowded around.

"Oh my lady, you are absolutely stunning-"

"You seem like you'd be a good mother-"

"Oh do save me a dance-"

"I assure you, you'll never have to work a day in your life again-"

"Take my hand and let's go dance-"

You tried to excuse yourself but it was no use. Until you hear the deep and rough voice behind you. The voice you had missed all day long.

"Alright alright, move along and give the princess some space can't you see she's overwhelmed?" Jason said protectively, guiding you through the crowd.

"And who do you think you are kid?"

"Jason Todd, her personal knight. What do you fuckheads want?" He scoffed.

"J-Jason! Language in the court!" You scold softly as the nobles gasped.

Yet none dared to follow or stop him. Who would? Jason was big. Like… really big. He wasn’t just tall, no he was also extraordinarily strong.

He just pulls you away from everything. Away from the noise. Like the knight in shining armor he is.

"Thank you..." you whisper, clinging to him.

He looks down and his hard glare softens to look at you. He stops walking and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You're looking up at him with those wide puppy eyes that make him melt.

"Of course... couldn't leave you there with those creeps..." he mumbles, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your cheek, cupping your face.

The tension is so thick, he could cut it with a knife.

And the whole time all Jason is thinking is just how beautiful you look as he stares, the moonlight reflecting off of all your jewelry.

Your eyes take in what he’s wearing. A black suit, much like many of the other men, but with a red undershirt, and golden details on the edges of the jacket, his family crest embroidered secretly amongst the pattern on his lapel.

It matched your dress.

“You look wonderful Jay…” the words fall from your lips and he feels the air leave his lungs.

"You're... so… fucking beautiful..." he whispers, choking the words out.

You blush and look up, before holding his hand that isn't busy caressing your face. You don’t even scold him for his cussing. You weren’t in front of anyone… to hell with being proper. He needed to know, you had to tell him.

"Thank you... I-... Jay I need to say something..." you say, your hands fidgeting with his fingers.

He shakes his head, "Don't say anything princess..."

He leans in, watching for any sign of discomfort or any sign he should stop, before he pressed his lips to your own. In shock it took you a moment to register he was kissing you... but when you did, you kissed back, inexperienced and needy.

Your lips were soft, and your lipgloss was sweet, making him kiss you more feverishly. He was inexperienced, but he made up for it with his enthusiasm. You tried to keep the pace, but failed miserably.

He chuckled into the kiss and pulled away, "You've never kissed anyone?"

"No... have you?"

"Nah... to busy making sure you didn't get kidnapped... to busy thinking of you to even form the thought of kissing another girl..."

A giggle escapes your mouth and you stare up at him, happy. Elated. This was what you wanted. Him.

You could not care less about anything else. The crown could be stripped from you, your parents could have a male child and him be the heir, and you wouldn’t care, as long as you kept him.

Jason felt similarly. In every scenario he had been in… all he cared about was coming back to you. He could be disowned the next dawn, and all he would care about is if he still got to be your knight. Your protector. Yours.

"...Do you like my dress?" You ask, leaning into him.

"Of course I do. You look great," he complimented, his arms wrapping around your waist. He muttered something you couldn't hear, so you look up and ask him to repeat himself.

"I'm sure it would look better off you.”

You didn’t think he’d actually repeat it louder. This man had no shame.

Pause.

A moment of silence.

"Jason Peter Todd!"

Your scolding tone does nothing to compensate for the blush and the bashfulness your face shows. Maybe he would get to see it off of you in the future.

You shake your head of the thought.

Suddenly, Jason lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

"I can't have you princess and you know that... some fucking... stuck up prick gets you. It fucking sucks."

You look confused.

"Jason... you're part of the Wayne family... you're a noble," you say, a tone of confusion in your voice.

"Yeah, and?"

He was so very smart but so very dumb...

"Nobles can court royalty."

"Oh, cool. Oh. Oh."

You laughed at the look on his face as he figured it out. A smirk was plastered on his handsome face before he grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, taking you to your room.

While you protested about being on his shoulder, he continued, opening your door with one hand, closing it and locking it before sitting you on your bed.

"Let me get that corset off you..." he whispered, tracing your shoulder.

You innocently nodded, turning your back to him. Jason… bless his heart, wasn’t exactly knowledgeable on ladies undergarments, especially not that damn corset. He growled at how hard it was to undo, messily pulling laces, until he was able to get it off. You slid out of your dress, in your bloomers and camisole.

“Tada!” You laughed as if you had just preformed a magic trick.

“They should’ve never put you in a corset… your body is already beautiful without it…” he whispered, carefully putting your dress on your vanity chair as you got your nightgown and towel to go take a short bath.

Jason took the door to his room and you frowned. You thought he would stay…

You pout, and head to your bathroom with a soft, “hmph.”

——

After your bath, you came in, dressed in a (F/C) nightgown, and saw Jason sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Jay…? I-I thought you-“

“Yeah yeah, you thought I just left like nothing happened. Nope. You’re mine now…. Um… yeah,” he said, almost hesitantly.

You smile, placing your towel up to dry, and go crawling into your bed next to him.

“Will you read to me Jay?” You ask, looking over at him.

He laughs quietly and nods, “Of course I will.”

“…I love you Jason…” you whisper, laying your head on his shoulder.

His hand reaches for yours, intertwining your fingers together as he says, “I love you too, Princess.”

[geeinthejungle]

wasteland, baby.

Summary: Your journey with Auston during the 2024 playoffs, where everything changes.

We need to talk.

Four words no one EVER wants to hear from their partner. Or read. Or...anything.

Auston had sent the text exactly 18 minutes ago and you’d been spiraling ever since.

You were sitting in your car outside his condo for at least ten of those minutes, engine off, fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel as if you could throttle the meaning out of that one vague, horrible sentence.

Did he want to break up? Did he cheat? Did he ask for a trade? Had he realized that dating you was some sort of colossal mistake and now he had to fix it before playoffs?

Your chest was tight, stomach twisted up in a knot that might never come undone.

You don’t even remember walking up to the door.

With a trembling hand, you forced yourself to knock. It’s not loud. Just a soft, uneven tap-tap-tap that gives you away before you even open your mouth.

The door swings open.

He's standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hat on with tufts of hair sticking out of the back, curls damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looks tired—more than tired. Haunted by back-to-back home losses and whatever weight comes with being Auston Matthews in April. Even in the midst of leading the league in goals.

"Hey," he says softly, voice lower than usual. His eyes flick across your face like he’s reading your pulse in every blink.

"Hi." The word barely escapes your lips. You clear your throat, forcing your chin up. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean ‘get it over with?’”

You laugh—but it’s brittle, edged in panic.

“Auston, you literally texted me ‘we need to talk.’ That's the universal code for ‘I think we should break up.’ Everyone knows that.”

He hesitates for a second and you're seriously regretting every decision you’ve ever made because it has led you to this very moment.

And then he laughs—a short, exhale of disbelief—and runs a hand down his face. “Babe, no. Oh my god. No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

He steps back, letting you in. Felix trails behind him, tail wagging like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. He noses at your leg, whines softly.

You blink down at him. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears. Felix presses into you like he can sense the leftover adrenaline in your bones.

Auston waits until you take off your shoes before tugging you into his arms, wrapping you up like he needs to feel you breathing to relax.

He kisses the top of your head. Then your temple. Then your lips—slow, careful, like he’s afraid you’re still going to vanish.

If this is the last kiss you’re ever going to get, you want to savor it before he gives you whatever earth shattering news he’s holding onto.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve phrased it better. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, settling against the warm skin of his back. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. It’s a little fast. Yours still hasn’t slowed.

“Then what did you want to talk about?” you ask, quieter now.

He sighs and guides you to the couch, where Felix hops up and curls into his usual spot. Auston sits beside you, close enough to touch, but still a little tense.

“The playoffs,” he says, voice low. “I just, I wanted to be honest. The schedule’s brutal. I’m gonna be gone a lot, and even when I’m not physically gone, I might not feel totally here, y’know?”

You nod, throat tight. He glances at you and keeps going.

“I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring you, or losing interest, or pulling away. I care about you. So much. More than I expected to this early on. But I also—this is the biggest part of my year. The goal is the Cup. It always has been. I need to be locked in with the boys, and I just didn’t want that to come off like I was locking you out.”

There’s a pause. You let his words settle. Let yourself believe him. Trust him.

You take a breath. “I get it, Aus. I do.” You curl your fingers around his. “This is your job. Your dream. I’m not here to get in the way of that. So thank you. For saying it instead of just disappearing.”

His shoulders relax just enough that you notice it. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll miss you like hell. But I’d miss you even more if you lost yourself trying to split in two.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. His eyes soften, the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“God, you’re so great.”

“Yeah, I know,” you deadpan, nudging him lightly. “So great I thought you were going to break up with me and still came over.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—gentle, warm, apologetic. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

You nod. “It’s okay. Just…please try your best to come back with the Cup.”

He laughs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “That’s the goal.”

“Ah, I see what you did there.”

The hours pass too quickly, the evening a blur of quiet conversation, shared silences, and Felix curling up at your feet like he’s guarding something precious. When it’s time to leave, Auston walks you to the door, his fingers laced through yours like letting go would physically hurt.

You're not ready either.

You pause just before reaching for the handle, turning to face him. He’s already watching you— his honey brown eyes hooded and warm, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face in high definition for the days he won’t be able to see it. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist—barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” you ask, teasing, but not really.

His smile curves, slow and deliberate. “You have to go,” he murmurs, stepping closer, close enough for your bodies to brush. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna forget every single thing I just said about staying focused.”

You tilt your chin up, matching his energy. “I wouldn’t complain.”

He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips. “You’re not helping. At all."

Then his mouth is on yours.

It starts soft—sweet, even—but there's a heat humming beneath it, a current that builds as his hands slide to your waist and pull you flush against him. You melt into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers diving into the curls at the nape of his neck. He groans softly into your mouth, a low, involuntary sound that makes your stomach flip.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make the next nine days disappear. Like maybe if you pour enough of yourself into this moment, it’ll last.

His grip tightens, then roams—up your spine, firm and steady, anchoring you to him. Your hips brush, and the spark of contact lights you both up from the inside out. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, until your knees weaken and your back finds the support of the wall behind you.

He pulls away just enough to whisper against your lips, breath ragged. “You really know how to test my self-control, don’t you?”

You smirk, dragging your nails lightly across the back of his neck. “I like seeing you flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” he lies—then kisses you again, harder this time. Like he’s trying to undo the inevitable. Like he’s trying to burn the taste of you into memory.

Felix huffs from the couch, dramatic and perfectly timed.

Auston leans his head back and laughs, breathless. “Cockblock.”

You both laugh, but when you meet his eyes again, the moment hangs heavier. The goodbye lingering between you starts to settle.

He reaches for the door again, but your fingers curl around his wrist.

“I just need one more. Something to hold me over while you're gone,” you murmur, already stepping into him.

He walks you backward until your hips bump the kitchen counter, then lifts you up like it’s nothing. The cool surface meets the backs of your thighs, but all you can focus on is him—his hands holding your face, his mouth crashing into yours. This kiss is heat and want, all breath and desperation, his tongue sliding against yours with a low, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

One of his hands disappears into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. You feel him everywhere—his chest against yours, the pressure of his fingertips, the tension barely leashed in the way he moves.

When he finally pulls back for air, his lips hover against yours. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, forehead resting against his. “Just giving you a little extra motivation.”

You hop off the counter, legs a little wobbly, and reach for the door again.

“Call me when you land in Boston?” you ask, fingers lingering on the handle.

He nods. “I will. Promise.”

You step outside. The air feels colder somehow.

He doesn’t close the door right away. Just watches you walk to the elevator. You glance back just before the doors close.

Auston is still there.

One hand braced on the doorframe. A ghost of a smile.

Eyes on you like he’s trying to count the seconds until he gets to see you again.

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does he.

You just keep looking.

Until the doors close, and he’s gone.

The next nine days are a blur. Deadlines, meetings, scrolling through your phone like it might bring him closer. But living in Toronto while dating one of the city’s biggest public figures?

Painful.

He’s everywhere. You see his face on billboards during your drive to work, his voice sounds in commercials over brunch, he's on highlight reels in the background of bars. And yes, you’ve texted here and there. A few “good mornings,” the occasional “how was practice.” But it’s not the same. It’s not his voice in your ear, or his hand on the small of your back. It's not him.

And no one really knows. You haven’t told your friends—partly because you’re not ready to share, partly because you know what would follow. Questions, curiosity. Some would want to meet him. Others would ask for tickets. Everyone would have something to say. You’ve only said you’re seeing someone. That you’re happy. That’s all they need to know.

Auston’s not known for putting his business out there anyway. Rumors, speculations, grainy photos in the offseason—but two public relationships in eight NHL seasons tells you all you need to know. Privacy matters. And the last thing you need is someone digging up photos of you from grade eight.

Game one in Boston? A disaster.

5–1. Not the kind of start anyone wanted. Not you. Not the city. Definitely not the team.

You didn’t hear from him that night. Twenty-one minutes of ice time probably left him drained and face-first in a hotel pillow before you even left your friend's house, where you'd been watching the game. Still, the next morning you texted him—something simple. One game doesn’t define the series. Game two is yours.

You didn’t expect a reply. But he liked the message. Sent a single blue heart.

And somehow, that was enough of a boost of energy to get you out of bed.

You cleaned your apartment, packed a week’s worth of clothes, and drove downtown to Auston’s. Melissa, his dog sitter, greeted you warmly. Felix had already gone for his walk, she said, and was snoozing by the window when you stepped inside. The second he spotted you, though, the fluffball practically launched himself into your legs, whining until you scooped him into a hug.

Being with Felix felt like being with Auston. He was spoiled, dramatic, and occasionally too smart for his own good—but so, so sweet. The two of them were more alike than you’d ever tell them.

By the time puck drop rolled around for game two, Felix was tucked against your side, one paw on your thigh, his head resting on it like you were a human pillow. He stayed there the entire game.

And Auston? He played out of his mind.

One goal. Two assists. A 3–2 win to tie the series.

The second the final buzzer sounded, your heart jumped into your throat. He was coming home. And the only thing you wanted was to kiss him. Talk to him. Feel him.

You felt like some army wife waiting for her husband to return from war—only, you weren’t married, you were staying in a million-dollar condo, and his version of war was a high-stakes hockey tournament with a thirty-pound silver trophy at the end of it.

It was just past 1 a.m. when you heard the door open. A soft shuffle, the click of keys hitting the counter. Then—

There he was.

Auston didn’t even bother putting his bags down properly. He just dropped them by the door and walked straight into the living room.

Right to you.

You barely had time to register him before he dropped onto the couch, onto you, arms wrapping around you like he could fold you into his chest.

“You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to suffocate me?”

“Suffocation’s my love language,” he mumbles, shifting so you’re straddling his lap. “Now, there's something I've been thinking about since the minute you left last time.”

He kisses you slowly, thoroughly—like he’s trying to remember every curve of your mouth. His lips are soft, his hands warm on your back, and God, he smells like hotel shampoo and his usual cologne and a little bit like sweat and flight delays. You breathe it in like oxygen.

He’s home.

One of Auston’s favorite things about you—though he’s never really said it out loud—is that you’re his escape. With you, he’s not #34. Not the guy expected to carry a franchise. You don’t pepper him with stats or ask him about power plays or bring up what the Toronto media thinks he should’ve done on the penalty kill. You just... talk. Or don’t. Sometimes it’s enough to sit in silence and let the noise of the outside world fade.

Tonight, you talk about the Biebers’ baby announcement. How he wants you to meet Justin and Hailey soon. You ramble about brunch—some crème brûlée French toast you swear changed your life. He insists his chef Chris needs to steal the recipe immediately.

“I missed this,” he whispers into your neck. “Nine days was a really long time.”

“It was,” you admit, jaw cracking with a yawn. “I hated it.”

“Me too.” He yawns too, stretching with a groan. “You ready for bed?”

You nod, letting him pull you up off the couch, stealing a quick kiss.

Felix sprints up the stairs the second you stand—clearly knowing the drill. You both brush your teeth side by side, bumping shoulders in the mirror. Auston hands you one of his shirts—your favorite, the worn-soft one with the tiny hole near the collar.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, legs tangled, his breath warm on your hair.

And for the first time in over a week, your world feels like it's moving at a normal pace.

2:47 a.m.

Auston had passed out the second his head hit the pillow. The kind of dead-to-the-world sleep that only happens after a grueling game and days of travel. It lasted exactly thirty-two minutes.

He’d felt off since the plane landed—achy, sore, heavier than he should feel two games into a series. At first, he’d chalked it up to playoff wear and tear. But now?

Now his insides were twisting violently, like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his throat. A cold sweat had broken out along his spine. He threw the duvet off, rolled onto his side, curled in on himself, and clenched his eyes shut like that would stop it.

He was overheating, but shivering. Skin on fire, teeth nearly chattering. He took long, slow breaths—counting them like he could outlast it.

He couldn’t.

An hour later he was lurching out of bed, barely making it to the toilet before he vomited so hard it knocked the wind out of him. His arms trembled as he clutched the rim, back arched in protest, body betraying him over and over.

The sound of retching yanked you out of sleep like a violent thunderstorm.

Your first real night of deep sleep in days, wrecked in seconds.

Immediately, you sat upright, heart pounding, reaching for Auston. All you found were empty sheets. Then you heard it again. Guttural, awful, the sound of someone being ripped inside out.

You scrambled into the bathroom.

“Oh my god, baby.”

He was on the floor, hunched over the toilet, dripping sweat. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through. His hands were white-knuckled on the porcelain, arms visibly shaking from the effort.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you whispered, kneeling beside him, your hand rubbing firm circles over his shoulder blades.

“F—fuck,” he panted, head hanging. “It hit so fast—I couldn’t—”

He gagged again, jerking forward violently, ribs seizing. You winced as he coughed and spat and gasped for breath, his body wrung dry but still convulsing.

“Okay,” you murmured, trying to sound calm. “Um—I’m gonna grab some water. Don’t move.”

He groaned. “I honestly don’t think I can.”

You flushed the toilet for him. He slumped forward, resting his head on the cool ceramic, breathing hard. Felix padded in behind you and curled up beside him protectively, like he sensed something was really wrong.

You bolted downstairs—panic fueling your movements. You grabbed water bottles, painkillers, a bottle of Prime, and, miraculously, a thermometer from the back of a guest bathroom drawer. You returned to the bathroom moments later, breathless.

Auston had managed to rinse his mouth. Barely. He looked like hell. Pale. Damp. Eyes glassy with fever. Felix now sat practically in his lap.

You dropped to your knees and pressed the thermometer into his mouth. “Here, water. Just sip. Slowly. Do you feel any better?”

He shook his head, lips pressed shut around the thermometer. You soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the back of his neck.

Beep.

You looked down.

103.1

Your stomach dropped. Your brain short-circuited.

Auston was sick. Really sick. And no one knew. Not the team. Not the media. Not his coach. Just you. And game three was in thirty-seven hours.

You watched, helpless, as he threw up again—water, this time. His body couldn’t keep anything down.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

Once the worst of it passed, he let you help him stand. He was dead weight against you, legs barely cooperating. You guided him to bed, peeled off his damp shirt, and laid a fresh towel across the pillow before easing him back down. You laid the cool rag across his forehead.

He blinked at you—eyes glazed with fever.

“Baby,” you said gently, “I need to unlock your phone. Just for a second.”

He didn’t argue. Just barely raised his head as you held it up. His face unlocked it, and he collapsed right back onto the bed.

Who the hell were you going to call? You'd met Steph Marner in passing, once. You didn't even know if Sheldon Keefe knew you existed so that was out of the question. You scrolled through his extensive contact list and settled upon your safest choice.

Judd.

Auston's agent and basically his right hand man. Judd went with him everywhere. He would know exactly what to do. You shared the contact with yourself and put Auston's phone back on the charger, immediately calling your new lifeline.

You shared the contact with yourself, put his phone on the charger, and hit call.

No answer. His phone must have been on Do Not Disturb. You weren't surprised, it was barely 6am.

You called again.

And again.

Finally—on the fourth ring—his sleepy voice on the end of the line hit your ears. "This is Judd. Who is this?"

“Hi—it’s me. Y/N. I’m really sorry, I know it’s early, but—Auston’s sick. Really sick. And I didn’t know who else to call.”

There was rustling on the other end. A sharp breath and a few curse words. “How bad?”

“Bad. His fever’s 103. He can’t keep water down. He’s sleeping now but I don’t think he could stand up again if he tried.”

“Okay. Okay, good job. I’ll get the team docs over within the hour. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” you exhaled. “Seriously.”

“You did the right thing. Just keep him cool. I’ll see you soon.”

Just like Judd promised, Dr. Forman and half the Leafs medical staff arrived in what felt like minutes, filing into Auston’s bedroom with quiet urgency. It was like watching a pit crew descend on a totaled race car.

They took vitals, blood pressure, checked his pupils, asked questions you didn’t know how to answer—when did the vomiting start? Was there a fever spike? Had he eaten sushi in the last 48 hours?

The moment they hooked up the IV and you saw the clear liquid drip into his arm, you had to swallow hard against a wave of emotion. Auston didn’t even flinch. His arm lay limp at his side, barely twitching when the needle went in. Even though the man was covered in tattoos and built like a linebacker, that scared you more than anything.

His skin was graying. His lips looked painfully dry. And he hadn’t said a full sentence in over an hour.

The doctors promised to monitor him throughout the day and said they’d reassess later to determine his availability for game three.

You already knew what Auston would say. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t sure he'd be able to get out of bed today, let alone play a full game tomorrow.

They were gone within the hour, replaced by a series of soft knocks on the front door.

You padded downstairs, assuming it was Judd again—maybe back with more electrolytes or a doctor from Switzerland. Instead, you opened the door to four people...and immediately wished you were wearing literally anything else.

Two older adults stood in front, both holding suitcases. The woman had warm, curious eyes. The man had a neutral expression, the kind that probably didn’t change much in crisis—or weddings. Behind them stood two younger women, both staring at you like they’d just walked in on a very intense hostage situation.

There was a pause.

You suddenly became extremely aware of the fact that you were in one of Auston’s oversized hoodies, with a visible stain near the pocket, and your hair looked like you’d been electrocuted during a tornado. Which was, coincidentally, how you felt.

“Hi,” the woman said gently, stepping forward. “I’m Ema. Auston’s mom.”

You immediately stepped aside, trying not to panic. “Oh—hi! Yes! Come in, sorry. I just—yeah. Sorry.”

“This is my husband Brian,” she continued, gesturing. “And these are our daughters, Alex and Bre.”

“I’m Y/N,” you said quickly. “I...I don’t know if Auston’s mentioned me.”

“He has,” Bre said, grinning. “I forced it out of him a couple weeks ago when I caught him smiling at his phone like an idiot.”

Alex snorted. “Let me guess. He didn’t tell you we were flying in?”

You shook your head. “He, um...didn’t really get the chance. He’s—he’s actually really sick. The team doctors just left. That’s...kind of why I look like a raccoon who lost custody of her kids.”

Brian frowned instantly. “He’s sick? When did this happen? I talked to him last night and he seemed fine.”

“It started early this morning. He woke up feeling awful and he’s been completely out of it since. He couldn’t keep anything down. He’s upstairs resting now. They gave him an IV.”

Ema’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dios mío. My baby.” And without waiting another second, she turned and made a beeline for the stairs.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Bre said, blinking. “Auston—my brother, Auston—threw up. In front of you. And let you take care of him?”

You gave a half-smile. “He didn’t exactly have a choice. He was on the bathroom floor clinging to life. I thought he was gonna pass out cold.”

Alex looked vaguely impressed. “Wow. He must really like you.”

“I think he just physically couldn’t argue.”

“Oh my God,” you said suddenly, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t even offer—do you guys want water or coffee or anything? Help with your bags?”

“No, you’re good,” Bre said, already dropping her purse and sitting on the couch like this was a regular Tuesday. “But we do have a few questions for you.”

Brian sighed like a man who’d done this song and dance before, taking his and Ema’s bags to one of the guest rooms without another word.

Meanwhile upstairs, Ema stepped into the master bedroom and nearly staggered at the sight.

Her son—her baby boy—was curled under a blanket, IV in his arm, lips cracked and colorless, cheeks flushed with fever. He looked ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. She moved quietly across the room, hand to her chest, tears threatening.

She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his damp curls back from his forehead.

“No hockey,” she whispered softly, fiercely. “No games. No cameras. Just rest. You get better, okay? That’s the only thing I care about.”

Alex and Bre settle on opposite ends of the sofa, coffee mugs in hand, eyes flicking over you like customs agents. They’re polite—smiles and thank-yous—but every question has a security-checkpoint edge. And you really couldn't afford to be put on their No Fly list.

Bre starts her expert questioning, “so… what do you do when you’re not reviving my brother from the dead?”

“I'm a Global Wealth Management Specialist at Scotiabank.” And currently an unlicensed ICU nurse, you almost add.

Alex speaks up next. “And you two met… ?”

“At a charity gala in October. If he’d felt human this morning, he’d have warned me you were coming. Believe me, I’d have surrendered the hoodie and staged a hair intervention.”

Both sisters laugh but the appraisal lingers—part protectiveness, part hope.

Before the next interrogation round, the front door bangs open and Judd strides in, half-jogging up the stairs. Twenty minutes later he trudges back with Ema, looking as if someone replaced his blood with cold coffee.

Judd sinks down onto the loveseat, “he’s a statue. The man hates sitting still and hasn’t even twitched.”

“Doctors think it’s really bad food poisoning, maybe viral," you inform him. "They’ll said they'll reassess this afternoon.”

Ema’s eyes sheen. Brian’s palm lands gently on her shoulder. She snaps into mom mode.

“I need tortilla-soup ingredients, oatmeal, Sprite, ginger…Chris just got here—I’ll text him a list.”

Kitchen drawers bang, phones beep. Brian and Judd start muttering about ‘contingency plans’—code for what the hell do we do if he can’t skate tomorrow? Bre and Alex retreat to grab a nap. You finally steal five minutes, gather a change of clothes from the master closet, and slip into the guest bath. The hot water drums your back, drowning out the clatter of voices downstairs.

Auston surfaces from fever-dream sludge, every muscle aching like he played three overtimes in full gear. His eyes track an unfamiliar tube taped to his forearm. IV. Throbbing headache. Lips cracked.

Phone. 10:04 a.m. Training-staff text: REST. NO RINK.

Another from Dad two hours ago: Landing soon.

They were here. His family. They were in this house. And you—his girlfriend of four months—had met them without him even getting a warning out. No prep. No soft launch. No time to be your buffer, your protection. No time to clean the puke off his hoodie or the fear out of your eyes.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, attempting to sit up. His muscles screamed. Felix moved from the foot of the bed and curled close under his arm like he knew his dad was unraveling.

Auston dropped his head back against the pillows.

“It’s gonna be a long day, Snuff,” he mumbled, gently stroking the dog’s fur.

Just then, his door creaked open.

His mom slipped in like she always did when he was sick—soundless and soft, already reading him before he could speak. He felt like he was five again.

“Auston,” she breathed, clearly relieved to see his eyes open. “It’s good to see you up a little, papi. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a Cybertruck,” he muttered, his voice dry and frayed. “Glad you guys made it though. Um…” He swallowed. “Where is she?”

Ema raised an eyebrow. “She?”

“Mom,” he said, almost groaning. “Where’s Y/N?”

Understanding dawned on her face.

"She’s fine," Ema said, her voice easing into gentleness. "She's showering off whatever germs you tried to gift her. We like her, by the way. She’s been a warrior all night.”

“Did I scare her off?” His voice cracks.

Ema smiles, settling into the little bit of room Felix left on the other side of Auston. “No. If anything, she’s more worried about you than hockey, and that tells me plenty.”

Auston sags back, relief and fever combining in a light-headed swirl. “So…you met her.”

“I did,” she replied, walking toward him to check his forehead again. “And she’s still here, so clearly we didn’t scare her off.”

“I didn’t tell her you were coming,” he said, eyes drifting closed again for a second. “I forgot. I didn’t warn her. She met everyone and I wasn’t even there to—”

“Auston.”

He blinked open at the tone in her voice.

“She handled it. She’s kind. Smart. We like her,” Ema said simply. “She’s been up all night taking care of you, by the way. She looked half-dead herself when we walked in, but still stood at the door and let us in like she was the hostess and not your fevered nurse.”

He winced, pressing a hand to his eyes. “God, I hate that. I didn’t want her to have to deal with any of this. I didn’t even… we didn’t even talk about meeting families yet.”

“I figured,” Ema said, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. “But life happens. And sometimes, it throws up all over your plans. Literally, in your case.”

He laughed weakly, coughing halfway through. “Mom…”

She kissed his forehead again, warm and grounding. “You need to rest. I’m making your favorite soup, the team doctors are coming back this afternoon to reassess, and once she’s out of the shower, I’ll tell her you’re asking for her.”

He nodded, eyes already sliding shut again.

“…Tell her I’m sorry,” he murmured, “that she had to meet the circus without the ringmaster.”

Ema smiled, smoothing back his damp curls.

“She’ll hear it from you soon, mijo. And don’t worry. I think she likes the circus.”

She left quietly, heart clenched and full at the same time.

Outside the bedroom, she found you barefoot in the hallway, towel slung over your shoulders, hair damp.

“He’s awake,” she said softly. “And asking for you.”

Your lips parted. “Really?”

Ema smiled. “Go on, mija. He needs you.”

You stepped past her, breath catching in your chest.

Whatever this was—messy, unplanned, sickly and chaotic—it was also very real. And in that moment, as you reached for the doorknob, you were more sure than ever: you weren’t going anywhere.

You push open the door softly, just enough to peek in.

"Aus?"

He's propped against a few pillows, eyes open and hazy, hand resting protectively over his stomach like it’s a wound. His face is pale, lips cracked, and a thin sheen of sweat still clings to his temple. But he manages a small smile when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “Come here.”

You don’t hesitate, crossing the room so fast Felix lets out a grunt and scrambles off Auston’s lap, hopping to the far side of the bed like he needs quiet but still refuses to leave his side.

You sit gently on the edge beside him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling, patient zero?”

“Very funny,” he rasps, voice still dry but amused. “I feel…better, honestly.”

You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a second.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I do. And I’m playing tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I'm shocked.”

He leans his head back against the pillow, wincing slightly, hand still rubbing light, unconscious circles over his abdomen. “Let’s talk about the real emergency, my family. First of all, I’m so—”

“If you’re about to apologize for getting violently ill and forgetting to mention that your parents and sisters were flying in, please don’t.” You shake your head gently. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

He looks at you with a soft guilt behind his eyes.

“They’re great,” you continue. “They’re sweet, and they absolutely adore you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I know, but still…” he exhales shakily. “I should’ve been there. You met my entire family in a ratty hoodie with puke on it and no warning. I should’ve helped make it less scary. And instead, I was in a full-blown fever coma while you played hostess and nurse.”

“Baby,” you say gently, placing your hand over his on the blanket. “This wasn’t exactly something you could plan for. It’s fine. You’re good. You’re here. I just want you to get better. Preferably soon, because I’m pretty sure Judd is five seconds away from crying.”

Auston lets out a weak laugh and immediately presses his hand firmer to his stomach. “He’ll be fine. I’m sure he and my dad are downstairs right now crafting about eight contingency plans.”

“That’s actually exactly what they’re doing.”

He closes his eyes and smiles. “Of course they are.”

You let yourself lean into him slightly, forehead just brushing his shoulder.

The two of you sit there in silence for a beat. Then Auston’s face twitches. His nose scrunches.

“…Wait. Do you smell that?”

You lift your head. “The soup?”

His entire face goes slack with dread.

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes suddenly wild. “That’s my mom’s chicken tortilla soup. I can smell the lime and cilantro—”

He lunges weakly forward, grabbing the trash can from the floor and dragging it close just in time. His whole body curls as he vomits again, nothing but bile this time, and your hand immediately finds his back, rubbing slow, gentle circles over his shoulder blades.

You whisper something soothing, but he can’t really hear it.

Auston’s breathing is shallow, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-shut. You’re about to wipe his mouth again when he croaks out—

“Can you…grab the mouthwash?” His voice is strained, almost pleading. “I’m gonna puke and I can’t deal with the taste.”

You nod immediately, hopping up to grab the travel-size bottle from the bathroom. By the time you’re back, he’s already gripping the trash can again with both hands, knuckles white, swaying slightly like he’s trying to out-stare the wave coming for him.

You kneel beside him, unscrewing the cap as fast as you can, but it’s too late—his whole body tenses, and he heaves again into the bin. It’s dry, painful, and drawn-out.

Downstairs, you can hear the shift in the house like a needle dropping on a record. Bre’s voice from the hallway: “Is that him again?”

Judd’s already halfway to the stairs. “Shit.”

In the kitchen, Ema freezes with a spoon in hand. The pot on the stove simmers behind her, untouched.

Brian closes the fridge slowly. “That sounded bad.”

Alex appears in the doorway to the kitchen, lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s still throwing up?”

“He couldn’t even smell the soup,” Judd mutters grimly walking back down, grimly looking toward Ema. “As soon as it hit the air, he lost it.”

Ema puts the spoon down like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I didn’t think—he always wants that when he’s sick. That’s his comfort food.”

“I know,” Judd says gently. “But his stomach isn’t ready. None of him is.”

Ema brushes at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I feel helpless.”

Bre leans against the wall, arms folded but face softening. “I hate this. I hate hearing him like that. It sounds like it hurts.”

Alex nods, trying not to tear up herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this sick.”

Judd looks toward the stairs. “She’s been up there with him nonstop. She hasn’t even eaten.”

Ema turns, wiping her hands on a dishtowel with sudden urgency. “I’m taking it off the stove. Maybe he’ll handle crackers later. I can make some tea instead. Something gentle.”

Brian squeezes her shoulder. “That’s good. That’s what he needs.”

Back upstairs, Auston finally slumps back against the pillows, eyes glassy and skin gray. You hand him a wet cloth and he presses it over his eyes, completely spent.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“Stop apologizing,” you whisper, placing the mouthwash next to the bed, though he doesn’t have the energy to use it yet.

You stroke his hair back from his forehead and glance toward the door, already hearing the cautious footsteps of someone heading up to check on him again.

“Do you want me to tell them you’re okay?”

He shakes his head weakly, eyes still closed. “No. Just…just tell them not to make any more soup.”

The consensus, unanimously, is that Auston needs to sleep.

He’s still curled up on his side, one hand resting over his stomach like a weight he can’t put down, eyelids heavy and glassy. You’re half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Why don’t you nap, mijo?” Ema says softly from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying not to physically hold him from afar. “Your body needs rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” he mumbles, though he’s clearly fading again. “It’s boring.”

“You threw up soup smell, I think your entertainment privileges are revoked,” you murmur.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh, but he doesn’t argue again. A few minutes later, he’s out. Not just lightly dozing—fully, deeply asleep, breathing even, chest rising in slow, heavy intervals like his body has finally given in.

When the medical staff returns a few hours later, they’re more serious this time. They adjust his IV, add another bag of fluids and administer a low-dose antibiotic to jumpstart recovery in case it isn’t just food poisoning. They check his vitals, talk quietly to you and Ema while he sleeps, and promise they’ll be back in the morning to reassess.

He stirs as they leave, blinking sluggishly at you. “I’m not throwing up.”

“You’re not,” you say gently. “That’s a win.”

His stomach rumbles, just loud enough to make Ema perk up with too much hope.

“Wait—do you think you could eat something?” she asks.

“Maybe.” He shifts upright slowly. “Something easy.”

You fetch him a small bowl of oatmeal while Judd cracks open a sleeve of saltines like it’s treasure. Auston manages to eat a few spoonfuls, sipping at water in between bites. When he swallows his last cracker without flinching, Ema nearly bursts into tears.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, hand covering her mouth.

You catch her expression—her whole body trembling with relief—and without saying anything, you shift on the bed and pat the spot beside her son.

“Here. You take over,” you whisper. “You’ll sleep better near him anyway.”

Ema doesn’t hesitate. She crawls in, careful not to disturb Auston too much, and immediately rests her hand on his back, rubbing slow circles just like you had earlier. Felix shifts to lie at the foot of the bed, quiet and unbothered, the perfect nurse.

You stand, brushing your hands off on your leggings, and lean over to kiss Auston’s forehead. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?”

“Mm,” he hums, barely conscious, already halfway back to sleep. “Thanks.”

The house stays quiet that night, but no one truly rests.

Brian is in one of the guest rooms, seated in a chair with the lights dimmed. He’s dozing in and out, arms crossed, brow furrowed deep with worry. He knows Auston won’t sit this game out without a fight, and the idea of him playing through illness makes his stomach churn.

Bre and Alex are in the other guest room, whispering before falling asleep. Neither one wants to admit how scared they were seeing their brother like that—pale, limp, quiet. He was always the strong one. They don’t know how to help, so they do the only thing they can. They sleep. They’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow.

Downstairs, you’re on one couch, curled under a throw blanket with your phone face-down beside you. Judd is across from you, hands behind his head, legs dangling over the arm of the sofa. Neither of you says much before sleep wins.

“You good?” he asks, just once.

You nod. “We’re getting there.”

Judd closes his eyes. “It’s gonna be a hell of a couple days.”

In the master bedroom, Ema doesn’t sleep.

She stays tucked beside her son, smoothing his hair every so often, watching his breathing, wiping the sweat from his brow when it resurfaces. Felix sleeps with his chin on Auston’s shin like a little guardian. Ema whispers prayers in Spanish that she used to say when he was a baby. He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t vomit. Just sleeps.

When morning comes, Auston wakes with a bit more color in his cheeks, a little less weight in his eyes. He sits up carefully, stretches, feels the IV port still taped to his skin, and groans.

Ema jolts. “¿Todo bien?”

He nods. “Better.”

She doesn’t cry again, but she comes close.

“I think I can go in,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “Just drive there. Slow. Take it easy.”

“You sure?” she asks, hopeful but hesitant.

“I need to move,” he says. “Game three’s tonight. I’ve got time.”

Ema watches him get up and head to the bathroom, steady but still a little fragile.

She doesn't stop him. She just whispers a thank you to no one in particular.

Auston miraculously makes it through morning skate. He looks pale and gaunt in the locker room, tugging on his gear with slow, deliberate movements, but he doesn’t complain. He takes his usual pregame nap—it lasts longer than normal, nearly two and a half hours—but no one says anything. Not because it isn’t noticeable, but because they’re all too afraid of what it might mean if they do.

Nothing about this gameday goes according to routine. First, there's too may people around, watching him like he's a ticking time bomb. Second, he’s quiet. Too quiet. No chirping, no pregame playlist, no nervous jokes to loosen the mood. Just a heavy, unsettling silence. He’s dressed and ready to head out, suit hanging off his frame a little looser than usual, eyes sunken and complexion dull.

"I'm going to be fine," he says, preemptively, catching the stares. “This is the playoffs. Nobody’s playing at 100% right now.”

"Nobody’s playing at less than 40% either," Alex mutters under his breath, crossing her arms. “Just—be careful. If you aren’t feeling well, don’t push yourself too hard. It’s a long series.”

He nods, offering hugs and quiet see-you-laters. You don’t say anything when it’s your turn—just wrap your arms around him and hold on a little longer, resting your head against his chest. You feel how warm he still is, how shallowly he’s breathing. You don’t want to say don’t play. You know he wouldn’t listen. So you hope the hug says it all.

23 minutes and 16 seconds.

That’s how long he plays.

You have no idea how he made it through the entire game, and neither does his family. Ema and Brian look physically ill through most of it—hands clenched, eyes wide, shoulders taut with tension. Bre and Alex don’t speak during the third period. Judd is glued to the railing in the box, jaw locked, watching Auston like he’s waiting for him to keel over on the ice.

After the final whistle, it takes over an hour for Auston to come out of the locker room.

The players who’ve done interviews are already trickling past the tunnel where you’re all waiting. You try not to look as worried as you feel, but it’s getting harder with each passing minute.

“Can you…” you murmur, glancing at Judd, “…maybe see what’s happening? He’s been in there for a while.”

Judd doesn’t argue. He gets on the phone immediately, pacing and whispering, hand braced on his hip like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. You hate that you’re trying to read his face, but the more he nods, the more your heart drops.

He hangs up and sighs, running a hand down his face.

“He’s getting another IV. He was super dehydrated. Almost passed out in the locker room. They’ve got him in the trainer’s room right now getting fluids. Should be out in 10 or 15.”

No one says anything. Not for a long time.

When Auston finally appears, he looks… wrecked.

He didn’t bother putting his suit back on. He’s wearing team-issued grey sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up despite the sweat beading at his temple. His face is ashen. There are faint tremors in his hands, one of which is pressed to his stomach like he’s trying to keep it from caving in. His gait is sluggish, unsteady. Like he’s walking underwater.

You rush to him the second you see him, hands reaching for his elbow instinctively. He gives you a weak, apologetic smile and silently presses his car keys into your palm.

“Can you drive?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I really don’t think I should be behind the wheel right now.”

“Of course,” you murmur, cupping his jaw for a moment. “You ready to go?”

He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah. Just… slow, please.”

In the car, he reclines the seat back the second he’s in, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. He flips on the AC and angles all the vents toward his face. His breathing is shallow, every exhale an effort. You keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, gently rubbing circles.

“You okay?”

“I’m good,” he says, but the sound he makes a second later—a faint groan as he shifts in the seat—betrays him.

Five minutes from his building, he suddenly sits up. “I need you to pull over. Now. Please.”

You swerve to the shoulder just in time. His door flies open and he’s bent double, vomiting violently onto the side of the road. You reach out instinctively, but wait until he’s done before resting a hand on his back.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “Okay. Okay, I’m good.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod. “Let’s get you home.”

By the time you get to the condo, it’s all hands on deck.

You’re half-carrying your 6'3" boyfriend from the car to the elevator, and once you’re upstairs, Brian and Judd are waiting. They each take an arm, helping him up the stairs to his room. Auston doesn't speak. Doesn’t even take his shoes off. He collapses face-first onto the bed and passes out instantly, hoodie still clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

You let him sleep. He needs it.

Judd and Brian spend the next hour on the phone with the team doctors, weighing options, asking pointed questions about whether this is sustainable—whether they should consider pulling him from the lineup. Ema sits at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair off Auston’s forehead, tears in her eyes. Her son just gave everything he had, and it's not enough. Not if this is what it costs.

Bre and Alex peek into the room, exchange a worried glance, and silently retreat. They’ve seen Auston exhausted before. But not like this.

You stay close, watching the rise and fall of his back, and wonder how much longer he can keep doing this—how much more his body can take before it forces him to stop.

He wakes up just past midnight.

Not gradually. Not groggy.

Suddenly and completely awake, blinking up at the ceiling like he has no idea where he is. His skin is no longer ghost-white. The pounding in his skull is gone. His stomach is calm. He’s…sweaty, yes. But otherwise?

He feels almost human.

He slowly pushes himself up and glances at the clock. 12:17 a.m. He shifts and hears a soft voice.

“You’re up,” you say quietly, sitting forward in the chair.

Auston turns toward her, surprised. “You stayed?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you alone like that.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed and gives you a long look. “You’re too good to me.”

You smile, small and tired. “You were really sick, Auston.”

“Still don't feel 100% back.”

“But…?”

He stretches a little. “But I don’t think I’m dying anymore.”

You laugh under your breath. “Progress.”

He stands slowly, testing his legs. “Gonna shower. I smell like the flu.”

You walk out to the kitchen, where Auston’s mom is stirring a mug of tea.

“How is he?” Ema asks.

“Awake,” You reply. “Wants a shower.”

Ema doesn’t even pause. “Go in there with him.”

You blink. Bre snorts and Alex elbows her. “Sorry—what?”

“Just to make sure he doesn’t pass out and crack his head open,” Ema says calmly, sipping. “He lost a lot of fluid. And that boy’s stubborn. He’ll say he’s fine and then he'll slip and crack his head open.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t he—like—want you?”

Ema smirks, giving you a look. “For some reason, I highly doubt that. You should probably go.”

You knock on the bathroom door. “Auston?”

“Yeah?” he calls back, water running.

“Your mom’s making me come in and make sure you don’t pass out in here.”

He's quiet for a moment, letting the warm water continuously run over him. Then, “sure she is. You just wanna see me naked.”

You push the door open and shut it behind you. “Trust me, Matthews, I’ve never seen so much vomit come out of one human being in my entire life. Sex is the very last thing on my mind.”

There’s a pause. Then a raspy laugh from behind the frosted glass. “God, don’t remind me.”

“You projectile vomited on the side of the road. I will never forget that.”

He laughs again, then groans. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re thoroughly turned off.”

“Yup. You’re officially on a very unsexy probation.”

You sit on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed, listening as he soaps up. He’s slow about it, and you doesn’t blame him. You can see the outline of his large frame behind the fogged glass, the slight wobble in his movements.

“You okay?” you ask after a moment.

“I think so,” he says. Then quieter: “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile to herself. “Anytime, Aus.”

There’s another pause before he speaks again. “You know, you could join me in here. For safety reasons.”

You snort. “You’re lucky I’m even in the same room after watching you puke a piece of your soul."

He laughs softly, “still worth asking.”

You shakes your head, smiling despite yourself, and get up to grab a clean towel.

The sun filters through the bedroom curtains just enough to make the room feel gently lit, the kind of soft, quiet morning light that doesn’t demand anything from you. Auston stirs first. His body feels… normal. He blinks up at the ceiling, surprised by how much better he feels—like he’s been pulled back from the edge.

The chills are gone. The tight grip around his ribs has loosened. His stomach has settled into silence. He’s still tired, sure, but not sick anymore.

He turns his head slowly and sees you curled on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other still resting gently on his arm like you never stopped making sure he was breathing.

God, he loved you.

He watches you for a moment. The tangled mess of your hair, the dried salt of worry still dusting your lashes. You're wearing his hoodie—still. It dwarfs you, but he loves that you haven't taken it off.

Without thinking, he reaches out and runs his fingers along the curve of your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You stirs slightly, then blink up at him, bleary and beautiful in that real, undone way that makes his chest ache.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he says back, softer. “You stayed.”

Your mouth curves into a sleepy smirk. “Didn’t think you could survive another six hours without adult supervision.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Just outside the cracked bedroom door, Ema Matthews is halfway up the stairs with a fresh towel and a cup of ginger tea in her hands. She pauses when she hears voices—he’s awake. She steps silently back, giving them privacy. Listening for just a second more, her heart aching in the best way.

Inside, Auston shifts so he’s lying on his side, facing you. “What… day is it?”

“Thursday,” you murmur, stretching slightly, your voice warming. “You’ve been pretty out of it since Monday night.”

“Feels like I missed a month.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his arm as he snuggles closer beneath the covers. “You didn’t miss much. Just that my boyfriend was violently puking enough to fill a couple bathtubs, I met his parents while smelling like his vomit and wearing the same hoodie three days in a row, and I’m pretty sure I’m best friends with Judd now.”

Auston lets out a low, scratchy laugh, the sound hoarse but warm. His eyes crinkle, still glassy with exhaustion but glowing just a little brighter than before. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shift to face him, curling slightly into his side. “He doesn’t think I’m a blood-sucking gold digger anymore. I think I finally won him over.”

He chuckles again and lets his head fall onto your shoulder, cheek resting there like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. The laugh vibrates softly against your skin. “Sounds like you weren’t busy at all.”

“Not really,” you murmur, wrapping an arm around him without thinking. Your hand rubs gentle, absent circles across his back, feeling the faint tremor in his muscles and the heat still clinging to his skin.

He goes quiet for a beat, like he’s trying to find the right words—or maybe bracing himself for them.

Then, slowly, Auston lifts his head and looks at you. His eyes, even tired, are steady and full of something heavier than gratitude.

“Thank you.”

You blink, confused for a moment. “For what?”

“For staying,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “For dealing with all the chaos. For taking care of me. For…not running away when I couldn’t even stand up without help.”

Your heart clenches. You cup the side of his face, brushing your thumb along the rough edge of his jaw. “You’d do it for me.”

“Still.” His throat bobs. “You didn’t have to. And you did. You didn’t even hesitate.”

The intensity in his gaze knocks the wind out of you. It’s not polished or pretty, it’s not the effortless charm he wears on game days. This is Auston raw—sick, worn down, scared—and still trying to love you the best way he can.

You nod, and without another word, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s slow, gentle—hesitant at first, like he’s afraid he might break something if he pushes too hard. The kind of kiss that says I missed this even though it’s only been a few days. The kind that lingers. No urgency. No need to rush. Just him, and you, and the quiet acknowledgment that this means something more.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“I don’t feel like I'm dying anymore,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.

You smile. “Well, your breath is slightly better,” you tease, brushing your nose against his. “So I believe it.”

He groans and drops his face into the curve of your neck, lips barely brushing your collarbone. “I knew I should’ve brushed my teeth first.”

“Too late now,” you whisper, fingers threading into his hair. “I’m already exposed to every bodily fluid you’ve got.”

That earns you a weak laugh, muffled against your skin. He pulls you closer, like he still can’t believe you’re here.

And then it happens.

The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them—soft and unsure but impossibly real.

“I love you.”

You freeze. Just for a second. Your heart skids in your chest, but not from fear.

You pull back just enough to see his face. He looks terrified. Like he said it without meaning to. Like it slipped past the defenses he’s spent years building.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t run.

You lean in, smiling gently.

“I love you too.”

Relief crashes over his features—messy and immediate and so full of emotion that you feel your own eyes sting. He kisses you again, quicker this time, smiling against your mouth like he can’t believe this is real.

“Say it again,” you whisper. “Please.”

His thumb strokes along your cheek as he looks at you like you hung the moon. “I love you.”

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Again.”

He laughs, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you. I'll say it all day if you want me to."

Outside the bedroom door, Ema presses her hand to her heart, a tear slipping down her cheek as she listens.

Her son is going to be okay.

And better than that—he’s found someone who will love him through the sickness, through the sweat, through the chaos and the ugly, and not once ask for anything in return.

She tiptoes away, the smile on her face soft and certain.

[flights-of-fandom-fancy]

NO BECAUSE SERIOUSLY. I noticed that the first time I watched the episode, I remember pointing it out to the person who showed it to me. Let me rant for a second.

It gets away with subtle stuff through the whole episode: making Rose a lunch lady while the Doctor gets to be a big important teacher, the whole exchange with Mickey after he screams—

“And you decided to scream.”

“It took me by surprise!”

“Like a little girl?”

“It was dark, I was covered in rats!”

“Eight years old. I’m seeing pigtails, frilly skirt.”

(Equating femininity with cowardice, as if he hasn’t been lucky enough to travel with amazing kickass women for his entire life.)

—and don’t forget Mickey’s line about “the missus and the ex! Welcome to every man’s worst nightmare.”

But Rose and Sarah Jane’s “rivalry” really was the main event. From the moment Rose sees Sarah Jane it’s “who’s this?” And Sarah is depicted as being civil and polite while Rose is jealous…? It’s clear that Sarah Jane immediately understands Rose is the Doctor’s companion, and has no problem with that, even when Rose implies they’re something more (“look at you, tiger!”)… but for some reason, Rose is still jealous. Keep in mind, this is before the Doctor even explains who Sarah Jane is. Once she does learn, she only antagonizes and prods her (“he’s never mentioned ya!”) and even insults her age later on, the very thing the Doctor was calling her beautiful for.

And then after he explains, and they’re catching up and bonding, she’s still bitter—towards Sarah Jane, mind, less the Doctor. “With the big sad eyes and the robot dog?” As if Sarah Jane should be criticized that she’s sad and has a relic of her and the Doctor’s shared past.

I think it would’ve been much easier to make Rose hear Sarah Jane’s story, and get angry at the Doctor for just dropping her, maybe worrying if the same would happen to her. Maybe Sarah Jane is a reminder that she will, inevitably, not be able to travel with him forever. And RTD KNEW THIS, BECAUSE HE ADDRESSED IT, in the conversation she had with the Doctor outside of the restaurant! But considering who Rose is, I’d think this would bring her closer to Sarah Jane, not give her a weird jealousy complex with the first human woman the Doctor has a past with.

And then, of course, the first and only thing they bond over is their experiences with the man they’ve both been with.

I guess considering how she was written with Mickey, this was RTDs attempts at writing a “silly teenage girl”. But that episode annoyed me for a while, because Sarah Jane was so cool and good, I loved how the Doctor thought she looked amazing years later, their working together, all of it was so good. But RTD being weird about women just messed up the entire vibe of the episode.

Anyway rant over, Sarah Jane I love you, RTD I’m in your walls

not sure why everyone is surprised that russell t davies and his eras have had issues with writing women but since we're here: school reunion

[cecilysass]

One Hand Tied (9/13)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Wednesday morning

“Rise and shine.”

Scully drowsily blinks her eyes, her entire field of vision taken up by the blurry outline of Krycek standing over the bed. As her eyes focus, she sees he’s peering down at her with a smirk, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“I see you two made it into bed,” he comments. “Cute. Start rousing yourselves, because we’re on our way soon.” He heads towards the bathroom.

He’s talking to her and to Mulder, who’s surrounding her like an exoskeleton, his body curved tight around her back. He’s so close she can hear the tiny rhythms of his breathing change as he progresses through the stages of waking up. She expects him to roll away from her at any moment, but he doesn’t.

She should buck him off and take charge of the situation. But though her neck and shoulders hurt from having her hands bound behind her for so long, his closeness, his warmth feels good. Too good.

From the other bed, someone unexpectedly pops up from the pile of covers. It’s an attractive topless young woman.

The woman sits up, stretching her arms outward luxuriously, exposing her breasts to the world. She has short brown hair and an athletic body.

Scully doesn’t react, too taken aback to move.

The woman—Lila, Scully remembers—slides out of bed, still stretching her neck and arms. She notices Scully and Mulder and looks down on them curiously, her nude form just inches from Scully. Scully’s unable to sit up easily with her hands bound, so she tries to politely keep her eyes trained on Lila’s face.

“Oh,” Lila says indifferently. “Hi.” She appears to have little self-consciousness about being naked. Scully feels some surprising, involuntary admiration for her confidence.

“Hello,” she answers Lila awkwardly. Mulder doesn’t say a word. No doubt he’s just taking in the spectacular view.

The woman leans down and picks up a white satin robe tossed on the floor, slipping it on her feline body and tying it around her waist. She tips her head and gives the two of them a contemplative look.

“You know,” she says analytically to Scully, gesturing with her head to Mulder, “I think you might have picked better last night.”

“Fuck you, Lila,” Krycek says, coming in from the bathroom with a toothbrush. He turns on the TV, flipping to a channel with the national weather.

“Don’t take it personally, Alex,” Lila says. She winks at Mulder and Scully. “I’m just saying … he’s a pretty one.”

Scully wonders if Lila has failed to notice their hands and feet are bound, doesn’t care, or assumes it’s for some kind of recreational purpose.

“Yep. Pretty and dumb,” Krycek says dismissively, not looking away from the TV. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Exactly my type, too.”

Lila rolls her eyes. “He apparently knows how to cuddle, too.”

This statement seems to motivate Mulder to scoot away from Scully a little, as though he’s just realized how close to her he is. She’s relieved, of course, although she also immediately misses his warmth.

Krycek begins picking up items of clothing off the floor and handing them to Lila. “Well, it’s been fun. Best be on your way,” he tells her pointedly. “We have to hit the road soon.”

“What a fucking gentleman,” she says. Krycek turns his attention back to the weather report on TV. She unties her robe again and begins to change.

Feeling uncomfortable, Scully rolls over to look at Mulder, anticipating that his attention will naturally be drawn to the beautiful naked woman changing in front of them. Instead, he is watching her, biting his lower lip like a schoolboy working up to a confession.

“I’m sorry about the, uh, cuddling,” he whispers seriously. “If that seemed disrespectful to you.”

Scully blinks slowly, trying to comprehend. “Disrespectful,” she repeats.

“Yeah.” He looks over towards Lila and Krycek, who are both not especially focused on them. “I just don’t want you to feel … the way you said. Like I don’t respect you. I want to make it crystal clear that I do.”

“You’re not serious,” she whispers back. “Surely you understand that this wasn’t the kind of thing I was talking about.”

“No, I…” Mulder looks distraught. “I know. Well, I think I know.”

There’s a knock on the motel door. “There’s my dumbass brother,” Krycek says cheerfully to Lila. “Time for you to go, babe.”

“Can I put on my shoes at least?” she says acidly.

“You were easier to deal with last night,” he says conversationally. He alters his voice into a breathy and desperate parody. “Yes, Alex. Whatever you want, Alex.” Lila throws a pillow off the bed at him. He ducks.

Scully takes the opportunity of this additional distraction to lean closer into Mulder. He looks tired, bedraggled, several days of facial hair growing. His eyes are soft and mournful.

“I provided you with very credible evidence that Diana’s dirty,” Scully tells him in a low, measured voice. “You dismissed my concerns like I was a stranger. Like you had no reason to take me seriously. You showed me outright contempt.”

Krycek swings open the motel door, and his brother stands beaming on the other side, holding a pink cardboard box. “Good morning, Lyosha,” he sings as he walks in. “I see your girl’s still here. You want a doughnut, beautiful?” He extends the box to Lila.

“No thank you,” Lila says coldly, pulling her shoes on with a jerk. “And don’t worry, I’m leaving. Don’t call again, Alex.”

She grabs a coat and marches past Sergey out the door, giving Krycek one more disdainful look and huff before letting it slam behind her.

“You always make the ladies so happy,” Sergey says, patting Krycek’s shoulder. “Doughnut?” He offers his brother the box, and Krycek, shrugging, picks one up and takes a giant bite.

Scully feels Mulder’s eyes still fixed on her, searing her with pure intention.

“I know you warned me about Diana, and I should’ve listened.” His words race out in a fast whisper. “But I’d never show you contempt. I’d never—”

“No.” She presses in towards him further, until their noses are practically touching, trying to keep her voice firm, trying to keep it from shaking. “You slept with her. After I showed you she was collecting data on female abductees. What word besides ‘contempt’ is there? What could justify it? Did you want to get laid so badly, Mulder?”

His eyes slightly widen, as though she has sincerely shocked him, and it almost throws her off. She continues fearlessly, willing herself not to betray even the flicker of an eyelid, any vulnerability at all. “Or maybe this is about more than physical desire. Maybe your loyalty to me—maybe that just couldn’t compete with … whatever deeper feelings you have for her. I don’t know. I just thought your commitment to everything that we’ve worked for might have…” She breaks off.

“Scully,” Mulder whispers urgently, with strange tenderness, “no. No. That’s not right. I didn’t sleep with her. Not recently. Not for years.”

“Why would you lie to me?” she whispers back, trying to study his eyes for any clue. “I know you did. I saw her car … on the surveillance footage at your apartment. It was there overnight. I heard her voice in the background when I spoke to you on the phone in the morning. You used a condom …” Her voice is low and lifeless. “I had to find it.” Now a few tears are breaking through yet again, and their faces are so close she can’t hide it at all, and she hates it, she hates it.

Mulder’s face freezes. “A condom?” He blinks, the tiniest indentation in his forehead. “At my apartment? That’s not—”

“Interesting. What are you two whispering about over here?” Krycek says in amusement, walking to the edge of the bed. “Seems really intense.”

“Fuck off,” Mulder growls, desperately keeping his gaze on Scully.

“Your boyfriend’s mad, baby,” Sergey comments. “Y’all have a fight?”

“I think it’s gag time again,” Krycek says, nodding pensively. “And Sergey? Make it tighter this time.”

***

Gagged and cuffed again—but this time with his feet unbound and his cuffed in front—Mulder is led to the van by Krycek in a kind of numb stupor, his mind still turning over what Scully said inside.

Not just what she said, but how she said it.

I had to find it.

Those words held a weight of sorrow for her he would never have anticipated. Like they concealed another story altogether.

So she’d gone to look for him in his apartment. She’d found this condom in his trash—visceral, concrete evidence. Just exactly what would convince her.

It’s still early morning, but Krycek wants to avoid attention, and he’s looking all over the parking lot for any witnesses. Mulder crawls back into the van at Krycek’s rough encouragement. Once he has scrambled into his old position, sitting across from Scully, he tries to look at her again. She’ll look anywhere but at him.

He closes his eyes and pictures what she must have experienced in too much detail.

Her standing solitary and small in her long black coat in his bedroom, staring at the trash can, at this repulsive false evidence. Imagining him in bed with Diana. He’s known sleeping with Diana would have meant betrayal to her, but this fragile quality in her voice—it makes him wonder for the first time: what kind of betrayal, exactly?

If he found a used condom in her bedroom? Jesus, he would punch a hole in the wall. Or go back to his apartment, turn out all the lights, and not emerge for three weeks.

He opens his eyes and studies her, once again sitting across from him in the van. She has her eyes closed, too, her knees drawn up to chest. For warmth, probably, but it persistently shows a tantalizing amount of thigh and ass.

Mulder moves his mouth futilely against the gag, frustrated by his inability to tell her anything right now.

He can’t explain that it isn’t true. That Diana, for reasons he can’t really entirely fathom, apparently did go to a lot of trouble to set things up so she would think they’d been together. That he truly wouldn’t have slept with Diana. Not now, not ever again. That there are no “deeper feelings”—not for Diana, anyway.

He can’t apologize again either. And whatever else is true, somehow he managed to make the only person who really cares about him in the world feel this sad. So he should apologize again. Shouldn’t he?

She stretches her head from side to side, her eyes still closed, and Mulder lets his gaze roam over her pale neck, the expanse of smooth skin over her chest, plunging into the top of her low cut shirt, where there is a surprisingly steep slope of breast visible. He knows instinctively how his lips would feel against this exposed skin.

He’s in love with Scully. The most obvious revelation in the world, and yet it’s not. He hasn’t felt this particular form of love before, and it took him a long time to recognize it as something different from an intense variation of the bonds between comrades-at-arms, fighting in the trenches together.

When he’s been in love before—like with Diana, for example, or other girlfriends—it felt tightly tied up with passion, with emotion, with Big Feelings. Love like a storm: intense, overwhelming desire. It passes over you; it can also pass right by you. You try to demonstrate its presence with nice statements, with flowers, with sex.

It’s not that the Big Feelings don’t exist with Scully. They pass across his emotional radar, and they roil him in weird ways. But that’s where the similarities end. His love for her is qualitatively different; it’s also always just there. It doesn’t sweep through dramatically and dissipate. It is obvious, fundamental, present. A fact. A law of science. Almost too easy to take for granted. The sun rises in the East, the Earth revolves around the sun, objects in motion must stay in motion, and Mulder loves his partner. Deeply, stupidly, obsessively. It doesn’t require proof. It just is. It always will be.

He’d actually sort of thought the current arrangement was for the best. He’d believed this was the right way to love her. Keep it to himself, mostly, minus some nearly involuntary, ill-considered and impulsive confessions that don’t really seem to buck the status quo. Express feelings in a weird, dysfunctional, coworker way. She rolls her eyes and moves along.

Now he considers the possibility that she’d been standing in his apartment crying because she didn’t know. Imagine she’d been crushed because she thought she found evidence of exactly the opposite. Scully always wants her proof.

I had to find it.

Maybe this is all one hundred percent wrong. Maybe he is deluding himself. Maybe her fury is all about plain old professional betrayal, which he did really well, too. Maybe she would roll her eyes at his mushy bullshit. Maybe her feelings are really and truly squared away, as he’d thought.

Or maybe not.

Scully sighs out of her nose, her shoulders rising and falling. He feels overwhelmed by the impulse to comfort her, to protect her, to love her.

He makes a decision.

Gingerly he pushes himself across the van with his feet so that he is sitting next to her. He feels himself shivering, and he knows it’s only partially the draft.

She stiffens, opening her eyes and glowering at him, her eyes dull blue opal. And he just stares back. Willing himself to find a way to neutralize her anger without words. To communicate every soft and tender thought he’s ever had about her only through his eyes.

Miraculously, her brows lift slightly in confusion, like some idea he’s been sending her way has telepathically penetrated her mind. Her jaw works back and forth nervously under her gag, and he can practically see her debating with herself. Her eyes blink. He just keeps staring.

Finally, defensively, she turns towards the opposite side of the van, huffing dismissively through her nose, like he’s made some ridiculous suggestion, even though he hasn’t said anything at all.

Very carefully, very slowly, he leans his head over and touches his forehead to the top of her head, resting it there lightly, prepared for her to knock him off abruptly.

He feels strangely like he is giving her some kind of benediction, like she is a knight receiving the questionable adoubement of his frontal cortex. He imagines he’s a vessel tipping his thoughts, every truth he wants to impart, straight from his forehead into her cranium.

To his surprise, she allows him to do it. He can hear her breathing pick up, but she doesn’t jerk her head away.

He gently burrows his face into her hair, inhaling subtly. He loves her hair’s scent, something unidentified and clean and floral. He loves being able to secretly place a kiss on the top of her head, on top of her singular mind, without her being able to fully realize. And he loves the way it feels to touch her like this, with unapologetic tenderness.

He loves what it feels like to love Scully. He only wishes he could do it and hurt her less.

***

Some unspecified length of time later—hours, Scully thinks—the van begins to lurch and slow. She can see the clipped top corners of street signs and billboards through the window, and she suspects they’re pulling off a major highway.

“You see that blue van behind us?” Krycek’s voice carries back.

“No, Lyosha,” Sergey says patiently. “I haven’t seen it in miles. I told you, it wasn’t following us.”

“Or the driver is good,” Krycek grumbles.

“Bathroom and coffee break,” Sergey calls back cheerfully. “You two going to be good?”

She should be seeking out some distance from Mulder right now, trying to get some healthy perspective. But how can she? He’s been leaning against her this whole drive like she’s the only thing keeping him upright.

She shouldn’t put up with this. She should shake him off. He left her, she reminds herself. He had his hands all over Diana’s treacherous body.

But her shoulders ache, she’s worried, and she doesn’t know where they’re being taken. She wants his comfort. She wants his affection so badly she can feel her skin aching for his touch.

“Up ahead I see a gas station that has a bathroom separate from the main building,” Krycek points out to Sergey. “I’ll send them in one at a time. You go inside and get coffee.”

“Sure,” Sergey says. An uncertain tone. “Should I get them coffee, too?”

“Jesus, no,” Krycek says in exasperation. “Do you think you’re on a spring break trip here? Coffee for you and me.”

Scully exhales regretfully. Some hot coffee sounds excellent, actually.

Krycek gestures for her to use the restroom first, and she scoots out of the van with uncharacteristic obedience. At very least she’s looking forward to stretching her legs, and maybe spending a few moments to herself.

It’s still early, no later than mid-morning, but the temperature is noticeably warmer outside. She scans the license plates of nearby parked cars as she walks the few steps to the bathroom door. She sees a small selection of plates from all up and down the east coast, but more appear to be from North and South Carolina.

They must have driven south, then. She suspects they’ve turned off of Interstate 95, judging from the garish landscape of fast food restaurants, motels and gas stations visible from this large parking lot.

“Go use the bathroom, Dana,” orders Krycek, clearly preparing to keep watch outside the door. “Stop standing around.”

They’re outside a small wooden building with one door only, apparently a single unisex bathroom. Scully manages to raise her hands a little behind her back, rattling her cuffs, trying to draw his attention to them. How can she use the bathroom with her hands cuffed? Yesterday in the motel room she’d been uncuffed for bathroom breaks, and she sees no way around it.

“All right, fine,” Krycek sighs. He reaches in his pocket and produces the key, unlocking the cuffs and slipping them from her hands. “Get in there and get out. Don’t do anything dumb and make me take it out on Mulder.”

It’s an enormous relief to have her hands free, and she spends a moment in the bathroom just stretching her shoulders and arms. She’s mid-triceps stretch when Krycek bellows at her to hurry. It doesn’t have the effect of making her feel particularly rushed.

She slides her fingers under her gag slightly. She knows if she takes it off entirely, Krycek will just promptly pull it back on when she exits the bathroom. But she remembers how useful it was when Mulder’s was slightly loose yesterday. She very slightly pulls on the gag so that it isn’t quite as tight, and she reaches behind to slightly weaken the knot. Not too much, but just enough to be able to have some wiggle room later.

After she’s used the facilities and enjoyed a moment more of having her arms free, she steps out of the bathroom to directly face Krycek waiting with the cuffs. He spins her around and locks them on her wrists immediately.

“That sure took fucking long enough,” Krycek snaps. “Back in the van. It’s Mulder’s turn.”

Krycek drags a bleary-eyed Mulder out of the back and quickly uncuffs him, too, gesturing to the door. Almost simultaneously he yanks Scully’s body next to him on the open rear of the van. He withdraws her service weapon out of his coat pocket and holds it conspicuously to her rib cage.

“Go piss, Mulder,” Krycek says. “I’m gonna sit here sort of cozy next to Scully. You know, with this gun. Just in case.”

Mulder looks stonily at him and then at Scully, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. She can practically see the elaborate machinations at work in his mind.

She feels herself tense in anticipation of his next action. Mulder is certainly capable of unexpected moves.

At last his shoulders fall, as if he is accepting the situation. He reluctantly turns and enters the bathroom.

“Thank fucking god,” Krycek says, relaxing. “I don’t want to get blood and shit all over me before I even have coffee.”

Scully eyes him with a mixture of loathing and perverse curiosity. She suspects, not for the first time, that he’s mostly bluster, but casual indifference is definitely his defense of choice.

“Speaking of which,” Krycek says, gesturing with her gun to Sergey, who is walking towards them across the large parking lot with two coffees in his hands. “Here comes the world’s slowest coffee boy.”

“Long line,” Sergey complains as he gets closer. “I had to wait. Like twenty fucking people waiting for their drinks ahead of me. Did you already get the gas?”

“I couldn’t. I’ve just been sitting around waiting for you and watching them pee,” Krycek snaps. He accepts the coffee from Sergey gingerly in the hand that isn’t holding the gun and immediately takes a sip.

“Relax,” Sergey says soothingly. “We’re good on time, Lyosha. You’re very tense.”

Something catches Krycek’s eye, and he lifts the coffee cup and reads the words scrawled in black marker on the side. “Arnold DeLoach.” He frowns at Sergey. “Who the fuck is Arnold DeLoach?”

“No idea.” His brother examines his own cup. “Mine has it, too.” He raises his eyebrows. “I guess maybe I picked up the wrong order?”

Krycek rolls his eyes. “I swear to god you’ve never failed to fuck up a food run.”

“Well, it’s black coffee. What we ordered anyway,” Sergey says with a cheerful shrug, taking another swig. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Krycek takes another drink, too, but then lowers his cup to look at it again, his expression troubled. “It’s just that the name sounds familiar to me for some reason,” he says.

The name sounds familiar to Scully, too.

Someone named Arnold DeLoach was once an instructor at the Academy. She hadn’t known him, but she knew he was a grizzled old timer everyone had battle stories about. He’d died of a sudden heart attack at work before her time—possibly before Krycek’s, too—but she thought he’d instructed Mulder.

She doesn’t have very much time to ponder this coincidence because three things happen in quick succession.

First, Sergey stumbles somewhat abruptly, attracting both her and Krycek’s attention.

He doesn’t pick himself up right away. Instead, he takes a few sloppy, off-balance steps and then grips the side of the van—anxiously, like he’s afraid he’s going to plummet from a great distance.

His coffee cup has slipped from his hand and is rolling sideways on the pavement, creating a rivulet of brown liquid snaking down the parking lot.

“Seryozha,” Krycek says, leaping to his feet. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She’s surprised to notice a slight slur in Krycek’s words. A fuzzy quality to his consonants. As he walks towards Sergey, she sees that he’s also not walking entirely steady.

Krycek turns away from Sergey, and his eyes abruptly meet hers, some dawning sense of horror growing there. He blinks, slow and stunned, and she notes that he is also struggling to keep his balance.

“What … is this?” Sergey manages to spit out, sliding down the side of the car to land with a jarring thud on the pavement next to the car.

“Drugged.” Krycek’s coffee cup falls to the ground, too, the cup bouncing once and splashing dramatically, flying drops of the hot liquid nearly reaching Sergey’s legs. He stands and stumbles to lean against the van next to his brother, but he can’t maintain his balance. He begins to gradually slump over, falling to his knees.

Just as he falls, the second thing happens: Mulder emerges from the bathroom, his hands still uncuffed and his expression oblivious.

When he steps from the door, he stops on full alert, his eyes darting wildly around to take in the details of the scene: the two men on the ground, the spilled coffee, Scully sitting in the van frozen in disbelief.

Sergey is losing the battle to stay conscious, and his body continues to crumple towards the pavement until his cheek is flat against it.

But Krycek seems to force himself to look at Mulder and gesture towards him. “Same drug,” he attempts. “Same … drug.”

He doesn’t finish. His eyes roll back and he seems to collapse, lowering from his hands and knees to a position prostrate on the pavement. He seems to no longer be conscious.

Mulder’s eyes, still round with surprise, shift from Krycek’s prone body up to Scully. She sits without moving, feeling shock flow over her. Mulder reaches up and tears the gag from his mouth.

“Jesus,” Mulder whispers.

She wants to scream at him to grab her gun, which is now pinned unseen under Krycek’s body. She starts to scramble out of the car to try to get it herself.

But before they can react or to do anything else at all, they’re distracted by the third thing: the roar of engines in close proximity.

Two stretch limousines pull next to them from seemingly nowhere. Each one parks at an angle to effectively pin them in.

Mulder leaps over to stand protectively in front of Scully. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck. I know what happens next.”

With a sinking feeling, Scully realizes she does, too.

One of the limo doors opens, and a long leg in a black pump emerges, shortly followed by Diana’s lithe body. When she saunters out of the vehicle towards them, Scully can see she’s wearing dark oversized sunglasses, a fitted black designer suit with a pencil skirt. Her hair spills in glossy mounds over her shoulders.

“Fox,” she says, striding directly to Mulder, a tone of concern. “My god, are you okay?”

Scully wants to scream against the gag. She wonders if she should try to work it off her mouth now, if it would be worth it to shout out Diana’s treachery to the heavens, to anyone who could hear her.

“Gee,” Mulder says flatly, “I was poisoned with coffee, kidnapped, imprisoned in a fucking dungeon, kidnapped again, and tied up in Alex Krycek’s bathtub. Now it looks like I’m about to be kidnapped a third time. So I guess I’ve been better.”

Diana seems to regard him appraisingly. “Yes,” she says after a moment. “Right. I see why you’re upset. But I hope we can have a conversation that will clear up—”

“Tell me something,” Mulder interrupts, and his pent-up anger radiates off him in waves. “Was it the whole time, Diana? From the moment I met you?”

On the word “met” there’s a tiny, boyish break in his voice. Scully heart aches. She doesn’t wish this pain of betrayal on him, no matter what lesser variations he might have inflicted on her.

Diana’s expression is impassive under her sunglasses, her lips a line. She gestures to someone behind them, and several men in black suits approach, expertly restraining Mulder and lifting Scully from the car to the pavement.

“And there’s the answer,” Mulder says in fury as the men cuff his hands again. “I was always a job, wasn’t I? When I told you about my sister, you already knew, because your bosses had told you. Right? Do you know what happened to her? Do you know what happened to Samantha?” Diana stares back like a statue. “And what about when you told me you loved me? When you said you believed in me? What about that?”

“Gag him, please,” instructs Diana.

“No,” Mulder protests. “I have to clear up your lies.” He turns to Scully quickly as the man behind him begins to yank the gag back up his neck. “Scully, it was a set-up,” he spits out. “Diana set it up. You have to believe me. The condom, that wasn’t real—” The man manages to work the fabric strap in his mouth again, and Mulder groans in frustration.

“Better,” says Diana quietly. She goes still for a moment, her expression discomposed. Then she speaks to her men. “Restrain Alex and his brother, too, and put them in one of the cars. They’re coming along.”

Mulder growls at her through the gag.

“I’m sorry you don’t understand, Fox,” she says. There is a somber, subdued quality to her voice that makes Scully wonder if she does, in fact, experience regret in some inscrutable way. “I might have done things differently, but this just can’t be helped.”

She turns to her men. “Are you ready?” She pivots, striding towards the car. “We have quite a drive ahead.”

***

[nickythehickey]

...yall are fuckin fast lmao. i did not expect such an overwhelmingly positive response in such a short time

anyway, i'm so very glad everyone's been so appreciative of the list! i kinda just randomly thought of doing it and then it ended up being (pleasantly) surprisingly long and a major task and ngl by the time i got to the end i was pretty tired of looking at it so i just said fuck it and posted what i had. as you could probably tell haha. i wasn't joking about the "taking me seven hours" thing. you could probably also tell which plays i like most based on the detail levels, cough cough tree bandits cough milkman

and, just like i expected, a lot of you pointed out things i'd missed. and just like i expected, the one's i'd left off initially were almost all from shows i haven't seen yet. naturally.

ahem *emcee voice* so, presenting as promised,

an update to my list of disability rep in the sfthverse, using your contributions!

*same rules as before apply

canon (either explicit or heavily implied)

how in the world did i forget that sherlock is a cane user. that's not even exclusive to tomlock, seriously how did i forget that??? he also very clearly has some form of dementia in midnight circus, which i also absolutely knew and just forgot to say before. clearly we're professionals here at nickythehickey dot tumblr dot com (thank you @spacedustmantis and @fairy-princette for the reminders)

so @spacedustmantis suggested watson (specifically midnight circus watson) could have psychosis or a dissociative disorder in the vein of did. honestly im not sure i can claim either of these as accurate, i need to rewatch midnight circus bc from what i remember that whole situation was really vague in terms of what's happening psychologically. but i won't deny them for now

the pianist (death for a dollar, which i haven't seen yet) is missing fingers (from @fairy-princette)

mama twillitger (green leaves on a summer's day... which i haven't seen yet, shocker) has a glass eye (from @ethernitty)

here's one i found on my own- the keeper of the oil (the lighthouse) has back problems. pretty severe back problems too based on luke practically standing sideways to portray it

pinnochio (the grape depression). also should be here but idk what to call whatever his deal is. he's just generally fragile and weak

mrs jeffery (the milkman) makes a comeback! this time for her bad hip. i actually didn't forget about this one, i didn't include it at first bc for some reason the implication i got was that it was an injury rather than a disability, like i swear i remember david saying she fell or smth, but now im realizing that apparently i just made that up and the nature of her condition is never specified. so im down to add it to the list for ya, @spacedustmantis

jimmy (toby's secret pocket) also gets an update! bc @sosbanfach64 pointed out dyspraxia and im kicking myself for not thinking of that myself! especially since i already addressed autism with him and autism and dyspraxia have like an 80-90% comorbidity rate iirc (could be wrong).

patreon haver @bewilderednobody has graciously informed me that the-middle-child-maybe-named-johnny (oh no it's a door) has a stutter. that absolutely counts for the list, and had i known before that it was a thing i would've included it

the bard (the bard with a scar) gets to join john hobson sr in the ptsd club (from @fairy-princette)

madame petrova (ballet on the battlefield) switching from performing to teaching after an accident left her with limited mobility is another one i was just big dumb about. excellent addition @sw33t-transv3stit3

headcanons (still implied like at least a little bit but mostly up to interpretation)

@ethernitty, would you believe i only left tobias (wine under the bridge) off the first one bc i forgot his name? but yes you're very real for intellectually disabled tobias, to me it kinda goes with what i said before about troll-son and allegories and the play being about finding yourself and embracing your differences even when society outcasts you for them

@sosbanfach64 i also rewatched tsp and sure why not dyslexic doohickey

i finally have words for the absolute specimen of a man that is titch (the unrelenting aubergine), and get ready bc it's a lot of them. @sw33t-transv3stit3 put it really well- "I also get autism vibes from Titch. He reminds me of me, in that he’s 100% suffering from gifted kid burnout and the pressure to succeed, causing him to lash out and feel physically weak/tired all the time. maybe that’s just me projecting… idk" this is absolutely what i was trying (poorly) to get at before. "gifted kid burnout" is an excellent way to sum it up. he's so much like me in those ways that i wasn't sure if i was projecting and making things up. also he hits that very specific brand of "everything has to be this exact way and someone will die if it isn't" that could go to both autism and ocd and i haven't been able to make a call about which (leaning more to autism though)

yeah sure, @cuntvonkrolock, i can adopt that into my belief system

@rocketfromthefrog i thought a lot about your chip did theory, and i do have to say it doesn't really work bc 1) from what we see there aren't really any dissociative periods (which is a pretty important diagnosis criteria considering dissociative is literally in the name of the disorder) and 2) french chip isn't a fully separate identity, he's very much still chip, just french. if anything it would be osdd, but that isn't the best fit either due to the aforementioned lack of dissociative periods (DONT TAKE WHAT IM SAYING AS GOSPEL THIS IS BASED ON KNOWLEDGE FROM AN ENTRY LEVEL COLLEGE PSYCH COURSE)

didn't watch, but read about priscilla's final petal and i like feels like too positive of a word take interest in the idea of annabelle having postpartum psychosis, causing her violent behavior and ultimately her death

okay i lied about going to sleep earlier so i really do need to go to bed now. love yall

*emcee voice* hello sfth fandom, by the request of myself and literally four people (hi @not-an-idiot @very-confused-alpaca @chaostributary97 @bbatcat), i give you

my best attempt at a list of disability representation in the sfthverse

*for the purposes of the list, "disability" includes physical/mental/developmental disabilities, neurodivergence, chronic illnesses, and mental health conditions

*i went through and added as many as i could think of but easily could've missed some. also i can't get the patreon rn so there's no patreon exclusive characters, sorry. if you know of some more feel free to reply/reblog and i'll add them!

canon (either explicit or heavily implied)

bubba (inside the mysterious cube) is stated to be an amputee with prosthetic legs

peter steven (the milkman) is stated to have adhd; granted its a throwaway line but i think it's true. since adhd has a large genetic component, that implies that either janet or david or both likely also has it- my money's on david since peter seems to mostly take after him

post mortem, L (the creak in the attic) is mute and uses mime/sign language and possession as forms of aac

donnie (the detective vs. the christmas tree bandits), my personal blorbo, is explicitly stated to have adhd and a seizure disorder- likely photosensitive epilepsy based on the mentions of the lights in the strip club. "i was never good with numbers" could be interpreted as dyscalculia as well. frankie may also have adhd bc again genetics, but if he does he can mask like a motherfucker

chip (the cardboard stegosaurus) has an unspecified seizure disorder (although i can't find one that turns you french), and while she isn't present, we learn that his mother marie-claire was suicidal

queen of representation that she is, amanda (clarissa's diy wedding) is all but confirmed to have prosopagnosia, or face blindness

according to divorces and teddy bears, the entire north pole elf population has adhd. congrats on the diagnosis luke i mean snowball

"that one gas station man" as @doodle-ratz called him (the pilot's final flight) is blind

mrs jeffery (the milkman) was blind at the beginning of the scene, they ended up not going with that but she probably does still have poor vision

the bartender (the hare who wore a sweater) slut dropped so hard his knees exploded, and that's now a sentence i've said on the internet. im.... not sure what to count this as tbh, but as a person with vague undiagnosed joint fuckery myself, he makes the list regardless

they don't like... SAY IT say it, but john hobson (the creak in the attic) with the whole "thunderstorm killed my parents" thing probably has ptsd. like yall see it too right

based on body language, granddad (wine under the bridge) appears to use a walker, suggesting mobility issues

headcanons (still implied like at least a little bit but mostly up to interpretation, this is mine)

*(this one's messy, its more me sensing vibes than anything else, there's almost definitely some projection in there, honestly you can disregard it if you want. spoilers its mostly autism bc that's me)

frankie (the bard with a scar) says that he can't run fast, maybe implying mobility issues? i like to think so

i don't think their ages are ever established so i may be completely off base and they're just meant to be children, but jimmy (toby's secret pocket) and jeffery (party quirks) are both autistic teenagers/young adults to me. jeffrey specifically bc he reminds me immensely of how i acted the first and only time i threw a party

i get... a vibe. from titch (the unrelenting aubergine). im not sure what it is, but its there

fellow autistic people yk how there's this weird kinda split that happens where when you're a kid people think you're mature for your age but then once you're older people think you're immature? yeah johnny and janae (the neighbor's under the bed) are the extreme incarnation of that dichotomy

someone in the comments of ballet on the battlefield pointed out alexa stimming after she befriends janusz and i love that so im saying she's some flavor of neurodivergent

troll-son (wine under the bridge) probably has some kinda allegory for something idk

because of the way i visualize character designs for sfth, pretty much any character luke played while wearing glasses (like andrew (all eyes on nigel) or fullset o'hands) also wears glasses. im not gonna list them all just know they're included

i've been working on this list for seven hours. i feel like sysiphus (thats a very smart reference). im going to bed

[mytragedyperson]

Did I ever talk about the horrific body horror type shit I found in a BNHA x OC fanfic? Like I wasn't prepared for it but it was really cool but also just horrific to think about? Well allow me to discuss than now. If body horror type things disgust you, maybe skip this post. Like I'm not going into too much detail but, you know, it's fairly gross so if that's not for you, maybe skip this one. If you've ever read Freeze Frame by good old Strawhat_Pirate, who I've mentioned before because I love their BNHA fics, you may know where this is going. Hint: Monoma. Congratulations, you now have a memory that you may not have thought about since reading it, unless that didn't help at all. Again I may have discussed this before but, well, its time to discuss it again.

So let me paint a picture for those who haven't read Freeze Frame or did reas it but need their memory refreshed. Freeze Frame is a BNHA x Female OC fanfiction. There's a lot that happens in this fic, a lot of it traumatising for the characters and its fairly angsty. At first, it seems like the OC is going to get with Shinsou but she ends up getting with Bakugou instead. The friend group is the OC, AKA Lillian Faust, shinsou Hitoshi, Neito Monoma. Todoroki, Bakugou, Deku and denki later join the friend group. There are also adults involved, but most of them are OCs or would spoil other things, and I really want there to still be surprises for those who choose to read it.

So it's time for the apprenticeships. And Monoma, in this fic, likes boys and likes Hitoshi. When he first starts exploring this, the apprentice ships are coming up, he applies to join Jay (I believe his hero name is Songbird or something), an openly gay hero. At first, things seem to be going well for Monoma, he seems to be learning about his sexuality and having fun, he even goes to a pride parade with Jay and meets his husband. I'm sure the husband is named but I can't remember his name.

Then, for a few chapters, nothing. No Monoma POV. The only mentions of him come from his friends who haven't heard from him. Other than that, he's just gone, until he drags himself into a hospital. Now he is dead, or at least he should be, bit then it turns out he's not. Turns out Jay, and everyone in his agency, were killed, including Monoma, who I'm pretty sure was decapitated. "Well, mytragedyperson, what happened? How is he still alive?"

Let's turn our attention for a moment to Jay's husband, shall we? Jay's husband has a very interesting quirk. He can essentially make people immortal, as long as he's in contact with them. And he's been missing since the attack on the agency. "So what? Was Jay in contact with Monoma when he was decapitated or after?"

Technically, yes. See, Jay's husband, along with about four or five others, have been turned into nomus. Now, let's recall, Monoma's quirk, shall we? He can temporarily copy the quirk of anyone he touches.

What does this have to do with body horror? Well it turns out, someone had a little fun with Monoma's organs, as each of the people turned into a nomu has had one of their organs put in Monoma, and I think, recieved one of Monoma's in return. Including Monoma now having Jay's husband's heart. So Jay's husband's heart is, technically, always in contact with Monoma, who is constantly copying his quirk and, in turn, keeping the nomu alive. And he can hear Jay's husband and possibly the others in his head. So the nomu are immortal and also Monoma is functionally immortal but also kinda technically a zombie. This, right here, is a horrifying thought. And the thing is, with a shitty writer, it would sound dumb. But because it's revealed piece by piece and treated seriously, it becomes yet another traumatic event.

Also it's a really cool idea even if the idea does give me some sort of crisis. And it's stupidly smart in the villains' part.

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Historians having takes on frev women that make me go 😐 compilation

Sexually frustrated in her marriage to a pompous civil servant much older than herself, [Madame Roland] may have found Danton’s celebrated masculinity rather uncomfortable. Danton (1978) by Norman Hampson, page 77.

The Robespierres sent their sister to Arras because that was their hometown, the family home, where they had relatives, uncles, aunts and friends, like Buissart who they didn’t cease to remain in correspondence with, even in the middle of the Terror. There, among them, Charlotte would not be alone; she would find advice, rest, the peace necessary to heal her nervousness and animosity. Away from Mme Ricard, who she hated, away from Mme Duplay, who she detested, she would enjoy auspicious calmness. It is Le Bon that the Robespierres will charge with escorting their sister to this neccessary and soothing exile. […] If there is a damning piece in Charlotte Robespierre's case, it is this one (her interrogation, held July 31 1794). She seems to be caught in the act of accusing this Maximilien whom she rehabilitates in her Memoirs. She is therefore indeed a hypocrite, unworthy of the great name she bears, and which she dishonors the very day after the holocaust of 10 Thermidor. Charlotte Robespierre et Guffroy (1910) in Annales Révolutionnaires, volume 3 (1910) page 322, and Charlotte Robespierre et ses mémoires (1909) page 93-94, both by Hector Fleishmann.

Elisabeth, as she was popularly called, was barely past her twelfth birthday, younger even by three years than Barere’s own mother when she was given in marriage. On the following day the guests assembled again in the little church of Saint-Martin at midnight to attend the wedding ceremony of the handsome charmer and the bewildered child. Dressed in white, clasping in her arms a yellow, satin-clad  doll that Bertrand had given her — so runs the tradition — she marched timidly to the altar, looking more like a maiden making her first communion than a woman celebrating a binding sacrament. Perhaps the  doll, if doll there was, filled her eye, but certainly she could not fail to note how handsome her husband was. Bertrand Barere; a reluctant terrorist (1962) by Leo Gershoy, page 32.

The young nun who bore the name of Hébert did not hide her fate. She did not wish to prolong a life stifled from her childhood in the cloister, branded in the world by the name she bore, fighting between horror and love for the memory of her husband, unhappy everywhere. Histoire des Girondins (1848) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 8, page 60.

Lucile in prison showed more calmness than Camille. Before the tribunal, she seemed to possess neither fear nor hope, she denied having taken an active role in the prison conspiracy. What did it matter to her the answer they were trying to extract from her? They said they wanted her guilty? Very well! She would be condemned and join Camille. This was what she said again when she was told that she would suffer the same fate as her husband: ”Oh, what joy, in a few hours I’m going to see Camille again!” Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un couple dans la tourmente (1986) by Jean Paul Bertaud, page 293.

What did it matter to Lucile whether she was accused or defended? She had no longer any pretext for living in this world. She was one of those heroines of conjugal love who are more wife than mother. Besides, Horace lived, and Camille was dead. It was of the absent only that she thought. As for the child, would not Madame Duplessis act a mother's part to him? The grandmother would watch over the orphan. If Lucile had lived, she could have done nothing but weep over the cradle, thinking of Camille. Camille Desmoulins and his wife; passages from the history of the Dantonists founded upon new and hitherto unpublished documents (1876) by Jules Claretie.

Having been widowed at the age of 23 [sic] years, Élisabeth Duplay remarried a few years later to the adjutant general Le Bas, brother of her first husband, and kept the name which was her glory. She lived with dignity, and all those who have known her, still beautiful under her crown of white hair, have testified to the greatness of her sentiments and austerity of her character. She died at an old age, always loyal to the memory of the great dead she had loved and whose memory she, all the way to her final day, didn’t cease to honor and cherish. As for the lady of Thermidor, Thérézia Cabarrus, ex-marquise of Fontenay, citoyenne Tallien, then princess of Chimay, one knows the story of her three marriages, without counting the interludes. She had, as one knows, three husbands living at the same time. Now compare these two existances, these two women, and tell me which one merits more the respect and the sympathy of good men. Histoire de Robespierre et du coup d’état du 9 thermidor (1865) by Louis Ernest Hamel, volume 3, page 402.

Fel free to comment which one was your favorite! 😀

[screwpinecaprice]

Would connverse kid(s) be given any sword training or self-defense (despite era-3 being more peaceful)?

Sorry in advance, I could not English right now. Hope I'm understandable at least. 😅

With my connverse kids, Ebony would be very interested in Gem stuff and going around different places and planets. Apart from hostile environments, there are still rouge and corrupted gems out there though. Best to know combat.

Rohini really likes swordfighting, but she mainly have used it to compete athletically. Sometimes it's useful when she tags along Ebony.

/Sakura/* saw her older siblings their swords, and she just thinks fencing is fancy. 🤷‍♀️ Whether she'll get over it or not, I don't know yet. Haha

/Zachary/* would not be interested with swordfighting at all.

*Sorry, STILL don't know what to officially name the twins. 😅

Also, can I use Steven's healing ability as an excuse for him and Connie still looking younger than their age and hide my inability to depict age? 🥺

[tacagen]

one of the things that fascinate me about thawne: yes, he CAN be normal with kids! surprisingly normal!

((not at all times, though. his mental illness still spills through and as usual he, in trying to manipulate or hurt others, spits out at them the exact stuff that would hurt him (or have in his childhood/barry's rejection interpretation) the most in the first place lmao))

but at the same time. his like second instinct when doing his bullshit is FUCK THEM (as) KIDS

(and, well. whatever this classifies as)

[srebrnastal]

“Archaeologists don't care what you identify as, they will define you by your biological sex.”

My honest reaction to archaeologists misgendering my bones 2500 years after my death:

[squintsintwink]

ea continuously refusing to add bands into their game upon every release that would be perfect for a bands feature makes me clinically insane

[deus-ex-mona]

sometimes, i think about how ☝︎this rando☝︎ from the [redacted] anime inspired me to tl idol sengen out of spite for her butchered characterisation

[quadrantadvisor]

Normally I'm more into human -> mutant rat Splinter than rat -> mutant rat Splinter, because it makes more sense to me for this stoic Ninja master to have been human around some point than some rat who knew ninjitsu. The direction Mutant Mayhem took with him was so good, though. Like, he actually felt like a rat who became a single father. Them taking up martial arts to protect themselves (from training videos) works PERFECTLY in the cartoon logic of the world. Nothing takes itself too seriously but nothing is so weird as to break immersion. Wow this movie is good.

[melonthesprigatito]

History of Detective Pikachu

2013: "Too bad this game is never going to be finished"

2016: "Too bad this game is never going to get an English translation"

2018: "Oh my god, they actually released it outside of Japan? Oh, it ended on a cliffhanger. Too bad it's never going to get a sequel."

2019: "Ex-fucking-scuse me??????"

2023:

"WHAT"