#that's practically the only thing you CAN do with it; i suppose you can use it to get akechi's head out of his ass wrt not being unique

[keferon]

Sigh. I wasn’t strong enough to stop. I wrote a fic too

———————————

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

Organics are fragile.

Most of the ones Jazz had met were, at least. Flesh is more susceptible to environmental influences than metal. Flesh accumulates damage faster, both external and internal. It often generates it itself.

The processes and causes are often a mystery to Jazz, but he's familiar with the general concept.

Organics are fragile.

That's why Jaz isn't very surprised by the crowds of medical personnel scurrying around a human military base.

As Prowl explained to him, humans don't have the built-in ability to open a HUD and perform self-diagnostics. Most of the time all you get is a vague signal in the form of pain in the injured area or nausea or changes in body temperature and things like that.

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine. It's weird for Jazz. He's used to coming in for physical exams only when something's obviously wrong. Pilots are supposed to get checks just in case anything about them in theory could start breaking down in the future.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

He spots the scientist in purple pretty quickly. A crowd of white-haired pilots is a nightmare to identify but this particular organic catches his attention almost instantly.

He's quite...extravagant looking. And he's practically glued to Prowl. They're involved in something together that Jazz isn't sure about, but Prowl looks...wobbly...when he returns from his visits to Tarantulas. And not in a funny way.

Tarantulas holds a special interest in Prowl. Special access, too. Whenever Prowl is injured, Tarantulas is the one who must be contacted immediately. Prowl's mech system needs an upgrade - Tarantulas must be consulted.

Tarantulas slips into the crevices and oozes between the plates. His hands are all over Prowl's personal space and Jazz doesn't really know what he should do about it because Prowl apparently doesn't mind.

Tarantulas dictates what he can and can't eat. What medications he should take and what software he should use.

Tarantulas gives him these little white bracelets with the information he writes on them for the other medics, because Prowl is special for some reason and only Tarantulas has instructions for him.

Knockout wipes his hands with some kind of special napkin and jerks his head around

“If you're looking for Prowl, he's in the labs for a physical.”

Jazz pretends this information is as mundane to him as it is to everyone else on this base

“Why can't you or the other medics examine him?”

“None of us have time to deal with the creepy experiments Prowl is constantly involved in” snorts Knockout ”Last time I checked his blood could dissolve plastic. Haha figuratively of course! Don't look at me like that!”

Jazz smiles, but there's no friendliness behind that smile

“Is this scientist doing experiments on Prowl?”

“Ah. As a matter of fact. Yes. Listen...” Knockout hastily picks up the first aid kit and walks towards the med bays “You'd better ask him yourself. My shift ends in ten minutes, I'm not in the mood to start anything now.”

Jazz nods

“Suuure , no problem.”

“Can I ask what you do in there?”

Prowl has this...look. The one that shows up usually after he gets back from the labs.

In his head, Jazz calls it “'Wobbly.” It's like Prowl's little organic body's joints are coming loose. If he had joints of course (Wait, humans have joints? Right?).

Prowl squints glumly, looking up at him

“Working on improving my mobility on the field.”

Jazz lets out a quiet “oooh.”

Then pulls himself back together

“Shouldn't that involve working on your armor, and not ..uh. you?”

Prowl leans his back against the wall.

“Installing new thrusters on a mech of my class doesn't make sense. They'll increase its speed, but they'll also burn fuel faster.

And installing larger fuel tanks is something reserved for Strikers. There's no way Orion would approve such an upgrade for me.”

Jazz carefully sits down on the floor next to Prowl. It still doesn't give him a good angle on his human's face, but Prowl stares at the floor anyway so...

“And you found some kind of loophole huh?”

Prowl gives a barely perceptible shrug.

“I did some calculations and noticed that the fuel used to run the Heavy Mechs is much more efficient. It's slower to burn out, and gives significantly better performance. Which makes sense, considering it's needed to compensate for the weight of the heavy armor. Used in my mech, it would give me a ten percent increase in speed and twice as much active usage time.

Jazz glares at the top of Prowl's head.

“Sounds like an epic idea, but I'm sensing a 'but' coming...”

“But it's highly toxic.”

“It's what??”

Prowl rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers

“Only heavy mechs can run this type of fuel because there's enough room in them to insulate the cockpit well enough from any possible chemical exposure.”

Jazz nervously pulls the servo toward Prowl but hesitates at the last second and places it on the floor next to him.

“Prowl. Prowl your armor is lovely but it's anything but heavy.”

“It is” nods Prowl “There isn't enough room in my mech to shield me from any negative effects, so Tarantulas is working on making me immune to them.”

“But that....kind of...why are you letting him? I'm no expert, but sitting inside poisoned armor can't be good for you. I don't know what he told you, but if you had asked even one other medic...”

Prowl finally lifts his head and stares into Jazz's optics for a couple seconds

“He didn't convince me of anything. I asked him to do it myself.”

“Prowl...”

“People have biases against Tarantulas but I assure you, he doesn't do anything I didn't consent to him doing. He likes to go outside the box in his research. He doesn't dismiss my ideas as too harsh. We collaborate.”

“.....”

“The result will be worth it. You'll see.”

Jazz is uncomfortable admitting it, but he sees.

The result is impressive.

Prowl can not only move fast, he can do it for a long time. He's getting more efficient (again), faster (again), better (Prowl's subjective assessment).

The maintenance team wears special masks when working on the internal systems of his mech. The fuel is toxic. Not to Jazz, but even Jazz wouldn't want it to get on his plating.

And humans are fragile.

All organics tend to be fragile.

And Prowl... little flesh-and-blood Prowl gets into this poisoned armor and it's considered acceptable? Because his organic body seems to have developed enough resistance to this kind of damage he only gets a “”mild, easily treatable“” poisoning? And Tarantulas adds another white bracelet to his arm with notes on what substances Prowl needs to put in his drinks to keep his internal components from accumulating damage.

Jazz isn't sure what to think about this.

Jazz doesn't know what to do about it.

And frankly. Does he have the right to get involved if this is what Prowl has chosen for himself?

Tarantulas is a creepy, haunting shadow hanging over Prowl at the slightest opportunity. Tarantulas takes Prowl to a lab and runs poison through his veins. Tarantulas adores Prowl for allowing him to do this.

Prowl insists that Tarantulas is helping.

Jazz doesn't think Prowl is getting help.

[sheeezu]

How to shift

(From my point of view, it is a well articulated one I hope it at least gives someone the confidence that you can change realities regardless of mindset or whatnot)

I am of firm belief that you can shift any way you want, you can get ancient scripture from divinity and rehearse them before sleeping to shift, or rawdog it. There is a lot of shifting material on my blog, the community has evolved mainly to promote the idea that shifting is attainable by living in the movement. First of all, yes. This post is a little different because although it follows the structure of how a method would, but, according, to, ⚠️my personal opinion ⚠️ this is how someone shifts.

Background.

This is all depended on letting go (temporarily forgetting) of the previous reality, and completely blending in with your intended reality. The switch, is made to seem natural, and not forced. Why I believe in this? Well. I shifted with doing something similar. (FOREVER GRATEFUL I BOW DOWN)

I still actively support you can shift by plain affirming, regular methods, and while still being aware of the previous reality. But you can use this if you've tired yourself out by other practices and need a definite guide. Rest assured, this is me milking out all my shifting experience and knowledge.

As. @trasecase asked, (I did see your ask, this strangely corresponded to this post I was about to make) yes yes yes, moving doesn't matter while shifting. You can be dancing or swimming in your physical environment, the only hiccup that you can possibly perceive is your mind getting distracted mid change of reality, when you're thinking like your dr self and your thoughts divert to your cr. That's why someone can say to minimise the distractions in your environment, but physical distractions are nothing in comparison to the effect of your own mental space on your reality. (....before someone attacks me, I am talking entirely in the pov of this post, I don't believe in blockages, ty, back to the text)

How to shift

Your environment is unfortunately still at play. But you can shift, sitting up, lying down. (You know this already I won't get into this) just makes sure you have space to think.

Observe. When you lay down, your mind starts to recall either events of today, or what's going on in your conscious/subconscious. Your first realization would be that "I should attempt to shift" you can take a few minutes to set things straight in your mind. When the intention registers, you can start affirming. And don't get pissed off at your mind, or demotivated when the affirmations don't or barely give you symptoms. Your goal is to determine which direction points to your dr. This will release the pressure or responsibility you have with shifting. The more time you spend in this state is better, because your wakefulness will start to dawn; you'll get sleepy. With sleep, you slip out of your mold and the lightness you feel is due to you merging with your true self.... and obviously, shifting is instant in this state. (What? :) it is)

Void. that- that body of yours is stuck like glue and the weird song you've heard from the commercial you've heard is still going on. You can force your thoughts to go blank. For a minute, you can still let the intrusive thoughts pass by, just don't give them importance. This way, this bridge in your river of thoughts is paused for you to jump your attention upon your dr.

dream. When I research shifting, I always look at how dreams work. Why we dream. The surreal nature of them. ...something from my drafts:

"That's why dreams are so comforting. There is no second guess. There's no regret. Everything is a blurry, silly mess of your consciousness. It's an artistic masterpiece. It's a realm centered around you. It is an exploration of the world inside of you. It's free from laws or morals. It doesn't take place in the 3d. While they hold deep meaning, they're always unserious as they play out. That's how your reality is supposed to be. That's how you're supposed to shift or manifest. Dreams are your first introduction to creation.

They pass on a note to you, that you can shape the next moment. You just need to become lucid. Whether in a dream, or right now, when you lay down to shift, you need to be awake to witness and use your own power."

There's this discussion, how you should visualize or imagine during shifting. the superior advice is to barely do so, or that you don't need realism at all. Others say, you should imagine it clean and sharp; I say it should be the quality and alike a dream. Logically and theoretically they are the rehearsal of your consciousness, a blurry and nonsensical mess through which your brain rewinds the reality you're in. It's a remembrance. It's a push. To wake up back in your usual reality. When the picture of your dr that goes by is projected as a normal day to day occurance. While not rejecting the need to imagine your dr, that's your first step to normalising being in your dr! Tldr. Imagine, romanticise, think about your dr.

??? Be there. There's this type of stubborness only someone aware of their own potential and power can possess. It doesn't include the constant asking or checking of "am I there?" It's telling yourself. (If you check your environment due to intrusive thoughts just give yourself the "yes" it's a lonely little world in your mind 😔 until you wake up to your s/o's snoozing face--> back to the text) this is where the "senses shift last" comes in. You should properly trust this beforehand. I believe you'll be in a haze. If you're not, you should stop being hyper aware of everything; symptoms, mainly. There's a way to utilise symptoms as well, you can assume theyre your vibrations raising higher and higher (...if youd like). The hazy mindset means, you'll be relaxed and it wouldn't appear to you that you're trying to shift. Take this thought completely out of your mind, that you're shifting.

Blend in to your dr. Like grass grows out the soil; let your soul blossom naturally. You spend so much time reading posts on tumblr, they all tell you you're in control, you consider and accept their words. But why do you panic while and before shifting? You choose to shift. Either directly or indirectly. Anyways, philosophy aside. You should think like your dr self; or you there. Plan your day. Hear the voices in your dr. Develop the impulses, the reflex actions that usually enable you to sit up on your bed, like in this reality, you have certain actions you replicate each morning. Replicate those for your dr. Train yourself to perform five senses in a trance state. Have long rants about a certain events in your dr self's voice, without calculating or weighing them. You script for so long. You plan your dr self for so long. You can be naturally like your dr self as well. Start your cross over and don't stop. Don't dissolve in the artifical sweetener. And don't force yourself.

Epilogue. You tell me yourself. What's left behind? What's there to return to now. When you've embraced all your dr is, when you yourself bestowed your soul back to your dr, you're there.

This is not at all what I expected it'll turn out to be, disclaimer, the actual method is linked somewhere in the post, you can go see how to practically implement all this... rant ? This might be rushed, because it is. There's another fish to add in my bucket of posts. I felt the need to make a post. Anyways, if any questions then ask away. (Put them in my inbox)

This is probably not the detailed guide I promised in the poll.

[starwovenkiss]

Sleep Tight, Soldier

The 5 times you and Kyle accidentally fall asleep next to one another + the 1 time it’s on purpose.

content: female reader, explicit smut (18+ MDNI), slowburn romance, childhood friends to lovers, dual pov, fluff, angst, grief of a loved one,light depictions of PTSD/trauma, emotional vulnerability

word count: 15.2k

a/n: this started as a drabble that quickly spiraled out of control. i don’t know what else to say other than if you read this whole thing, ily ♡

also for anyone doing the math: technically, kyle is canonically 24 in MWII (per Activision) and somehow also 34 (per the game). i’ve decided to split the difference and go with his wiki birthday: 1993. trying to make the canon timeline work gave me a literal migraine and age is just a number. i love him either way.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ───

October 11, 1999 - 01:36 A.M.

Kyle looks up from his football just in time to spot two wide, curious eyes peeking over his backyard fence.

The sun beams down on his back, and he’s still getting used to the fact that he can go outside to practice football whenever he pleases. It was so different from the gray skies that seemed to permanently haunt London in the springtime, so when he looked up at the clouds to examine if the sky could really be that blue, he wasn’t expecting to see a girl with messy hair and a bright smile staring straight at him.

He had known that there was a girl his age who lived next door, had caught small glimpses of you while you went on walks with your parents, but had never had the chance to speak to you until now.

“‘Lo,” he mumbles. He hears his father in his head, guiding him to speak louder and stand up straight so he tries to follow the direction. Tries to appear older than he is at six years old.

“Hello!” You giggle, and suddenly, he sees the rest of you, sitting on the edge of the nearly five-foot fence separating the two backyards. He briefly wonders how you managed to get all the way up there, and if American kids had some sort of superpower climbing skill that British kids just aren’t aware of. Before he can test this theory on his own climbing skills, you’ve already done a crawl-shimmy-jump down the fence and landed with a flair that only a six-year-old could when jumping into a pile of dirt.

He takes the time to examine his new neighbor with the flushed skin and polka dot dress and scraped knees (’no doubt from climbing other kid’s fences,’ he thinks). You’re the picture of Americana, down to the melting red, white, and blue Bomb Pop you carry in one hand and a Barbie in the other. Kyle does notice, a little bitterly, that you are a few inches taller than him.

“What’s your name?” you ask, a toothy smile on display, and Kyle begins to shuffle his feet when he sees your bright grin up close. He fights the urge to turn away, feeling a similar way to when he looks at the sun for too long.

“Kyle. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and Kyle smiles. It fits, all sunshine and bubbly, the way you seem to be. Kyle’s about to ask if you want to play when you pause from eating your popsicle to stick a hand on your hip like you’re sizing him up — and Kyle has no idea what you’re looking for.

“You talk weird,” That’s …. not what Kyle was expecting, and is a little ironic. Yes, he does have an accent, but you do whistle while you speak on account of your two missing front teeth.

“No, I don’t,” he argues back.

“Yes, you do,” you determine with that huge smile, seemingly unaware that your insistence is causing his brow to furrow and his fists to clench.

“I do not!” he huffs. He almost stomps his foot, but quickly remembers that he is supposed to be acting more …. grown up in this situation.

You shrug and turn around, taking this as a cue to examine his backyard. You carelessly toss your Barbie next to the side of the fence you landed on, taking in the green grass and tall pine trees that surround the yard.

As you continue to skip around the perimeter of the yard, Kyle takes the time to examine you. He’s never seen someone his age be so sure of themselves, so certain of how everything should be in the world.

“Do you play soccer?” you ask, and it takes Kyle a beat to register what you’re saying, so lost in his thoughts.

“Soccer?” he questions and you point to the ball at his feet like he might be a little stupid.

“You mean, football?” he clarifies, and you laugh, running over to hand him your sticky, melting popsicle.

“See, you do talk weird!” you grin and move to kick the ball from his feet.

Kyle hesitates, heading to the trash to toss the mess you gave him. He shakes his head as he goes. He talks like Mum and Dad, and they don’t sound weird to him. So why would he?

To his amazement, when he turns around, you’re carelessly kicking his football around, chasing after the ball, and sometimes pausing to cartwheel in between as if you’ve forgotten what you’re doing. He’s never seen anyone play so…. wildly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching as you skip after the ball.

“Playing soccer!” you smile, and Kyle fights the urge to shake his head again.

“That’s not how you play soccer! You clearly don’t even know what you’re doing,” he says like he’s some expert, so confused by the way you’re running that he doesn’t even notice that he calls it the American name.

“That’s not true. I play on a team with my friends and I was voted best player.” For the first time since meeting you, you don’t have a smile on your face. Your brow furrows and you look at him disappointed. Kyle doesn’t really believe the best player story, but he can sense that he’s on the verge of hurting your feelings so he changes the subject.

“What if we play something else?” he suggests. That seems to appease you and you brighten again, back to the smiley joy he didn’t realize he was already used to.

“Sure! I have my favorite Barbie doll with me, but I don’t know where I put it!” Your brow furrows again as you turn wildly to find where you tossed your Barbie.

It’s at that moment when Kyle steps back to give you some space, he hears a crack that sounds suspiciously like a Mattel doll being fractured in two. Kyle freezes, hoping that if he doesn’t move any further, you won’t notice the fractured Barbie underneath his right cleat.

You turn to him with a glare in your eye.

‘Oh no,’ Kyle thinks to himself.

♡ ♡ ♡

When you open your eyes, Kyle’s nose is about two inches away from yours, and his chest rises and falls slowly and steadily. You cross your eyes to count 35 freckles scattered across his cheeks and chin. Most annoyingly, he is currently cuddled up with your teddy bear that you insisted on bringing to this sleepover.

After a very dramatic Barbie funeral, you reluctantly accepted that Kyle wouldn’t be going back to London (it took stealing your brother’s encyclopedia and two very long conversations with your Mom to understand that you can’t just deport a six-year-old for Barbie homicide - no matter how justified it feels.) So you’ve decided to try and befriend him, mostly because your mother says you have to.

It hasn’t been going well.

Kyle warmed up to you quicker than anyone expected, and somewhere between April and October, the polite British boy you first met was replaced by a full-blown menace.

Every time you try to play house in the backyard, he chases you with frogs. You give him daisy-chain flower crowns; he shoves mud pies into your hands. You want to pick sunflowers, and he’s more interested in running wild with your older brothers and playing “football” as he calls it.

As far as you can tell, Kyle has little to no interest in being your friend, and frankly, you’d be okay if he stayed on his side of the backyard forever.

Which leads you to this predicament.

You two, at another kid’s sleepover, are stuck sharing a sleeping bag, and he is hogging both the blankets.

When one of the other kids forgot their sleeping bag, everyone figured that since you and Kyle were being raised like siblings at this point (and fought like it too), there was really no issue with you two sharing.

You actually had fun for most of the night, painting ghosts and smiley faces on your pumpkin, sneaking extra candy, and laughing with the other kids — until one jumped out from around the corner and tossed a rubber spider on you.

The weirdest part of all is how Kyle had been acting. You had expected him to laugh along with the others when you screamed at the spider, but he pushed the kids aside, mumbling “It’s really not that funny.” before pulling you with him.

After that, he was weirdly nice the rest of the night — he even snuck you the last sugar cookie, even though it was his and you’d already had one.

Despite his kindness earlier, Kyle doesn’t really understand the concept of sharing— at least, not when it comes to sleeping bags — and you watch irritably as he gets more and more comfortable under the blankets as the room gets chillier.

You tug, and he tugs back. And you’re seconds away from losing your mind before he begins to blink, slowly coming to.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asks, rubbing his eyes blearily, and for a moment, you see Kyle as his real age. You know he tries to act older and more mature, a product of his father's upbringing and all, but it’s rare to see him so childish unless he’s tormenting you. You secretly wish he would act more like a kid, even if it means it’s at your expense.

“You kept stealing the blankets,” Both of you aren’t whispering, not really understanding how to be quiet, but you do see another kid turn over and quickly put a hand over Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle looks at you bewildered, and you fight the urge to laugh. When the other kid finally settles, you remove your hand as both of you break out into silent giggles.

He seems to finally notice that he has taken over the entire sleeping bag, and shuffles to give you some more blanket space. His skin burns slightly red as he wordlessly hands you your teddy as well.

”I’m sorry,” You’re not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, since they’re just blankets and you’re almost 90% sure you probably kicked him in your sleep, but it seems important to Kyle, so you decide to hand him back your teddy bear.

He smiles as he gets comfortable, and soon, his breathing evens out next to you, falling back into those slow and steady rises, and you let yourself relax too.

It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to Kyle for a night, either.

So, you simply pat his shoulder and turn to the other side.

Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind Kyle sticking around for a while.

♡ ♡ ♡

July 28, 2005 - 11:42 P.M.

“Kyle.”

That can’t be right. Kyle’s solving an equation he can’t quite remember the formula for. That’s not what confuses him, though. It’s you, sitting next to him like you belong there. He doesn’t understand why since you have language arts when he’s in maths, but there you are, staring at him urgently. He wants to respond and ask why you’re here, but instead, he focuses back on the algebra problem in front of him.

“Kyle!” Your whisper comes across more urgently and he whips his head to you, trying to figure out what it is that you could possibly want. You sound annoyed, which is common in conversations with him, but there’s something more. He feels a slight breeze and wonders why you’re leaning towards him before a blunt punch in the arm jerks him awake.

“Ow,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his arm, already sure there’s a bruise here.

“You sleep like the dead,” you respond matter-of-factly, upside down over his head as he wakes up. Kyle knuckles his eyes slightly, trying to adjust to his surroundings, quickly realizing that he’s not actually in his year six maths class, but still at the summer camp your parents shipped you both to every year since you were seven.

“_____,” he hisses, sitting up to look around him. “You’re not even meant to be in here.”

The rest of his cabin mates seem to be asleep, unaware of the girl standing at the edge of his bed in a strictly boys-only cabin, and for a moment he worries that his counselor will walk in and catch you two.

He stands up, ready to walk you out the door until he really looks at you.

Your eyes are glassy, tears streaking your cheeks in the moonlight, and Kyle forgets about getting caught. You’re crying, and that makes his stomach twist worse than any trouble could. He knows that camp had been rough for you this year — your braces are just the latest thing. Every week, Cassidy Shelton finds something new to pick apart.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I’d never laugh at you.”

“Even when I fell down during the pep rally?” You raise a brow at him, and even though he tries to stop it, he does snicker at the memory. You laugh quietly as well, before rubbing at your cheeks to wipe your tears away, and Kyle’s heart sinks even further.

“C’mon, let’s go for a walk,” He suggests, already grabbing his jacket. He notices you’re holding his blanket, and grabs it to tug you slightly towards him.

“We can’t leave. That’s against the rules,” You hiss, eyes wide with terror. He holds back a laugh, knowing that the two of you are already pushing it with the amount of noise you’re making and someone is bound to wake up soon for a midnight pee or something. Only you would break into a boy’s cabin, breaking the biggest rule of all, but be terrified by a midnight walk.

“No worse than you sneaking into the boys' cabin, is it?” He shrugs, already headed to the door. If it wasn’t for the midnight quiet, he would’ve missed the barely audible whisper of ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’

The darkness in front of you seems to stretch for miles only illuminated by the tiny sliver of the moon above. The earth is slightly damp beneath your feet as you follow Kyle further through the campsite.

You don’t know where Kyle’s taking you, but you trust him — just like you trusted him enough to climb through the window of Cabin B in the first place.

He’s been a constant in your life for the past six years, and you’re unsure where the shift from childhood neighbors turned into tween best friends. You’ve never had to wonder where you stood with Kyle — he just showed up.

Lately, you’ve needed that loyalty more than you’d like to admit.

Cassidy’s been relentless all summer, never far away with a comment or a look. She made fun of your swimsuit during pool day, made a joke about your retainer when the boys were around, and “accidentally” left you out of the cabin photo.

But today, she made sure to taunt you in front of the entire cabin, everyone crowded in the bathroom to get ready for bed.

“The braces help, seriously” she says, brushing out her hair in long, perfect strokes. “At least now you have a feature people will notice before your nose.”

You tense, trying to rush through brushing your teeth so you can crawl into your bunk where she can’t bother you.

“I mean,” she sighs wistfully, like she’s offering life-changing advice. You know better, know that what comes next is nothing but the punchline to one of her cruel jokes. “You’re just so lucky you’re funny. Some guys like that more than looks.”

A few girls snickered, and that had been the final straw. You felt the need for comfort, missing home more than usual and your feet found there way to Kyle like they always did.

There’s a slight breeze that tickles the ends of your hair, and the crickets slowly fade into a melody in the background as you realize that Kyle is leading you toward the lake. You cross your arms at the chill in the air, and Kyle turns to frown down at you. He’s gotten so tall since the beginning of the summer, and you know deep down that he’s happy he no longer has to look up at you anymore.

He stops in front of you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you almost run into him. He sets his blanket down next to the canoe racks, and you smile. The first summer you spent here, you and Kyle had accidentally capsized a canoe after arguing over the correct way to steer. The next day, the counselors made you both sit out, and you spent the whole hour just talking. It’s become one of your favorite spots to hang out at between activities since.

He sits down and looks up at you, eyes searching yours. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, already feeling kinda childish and guilty that you had dragged Kyle out of bed to comfort you. He has always seemed so mature, and even now, you feel unsophisticated as you clumsily move to sit down next to him. Where you had been teased and picked on this summer, Kyle seemed to blossom over the past few weeks, breaking records for the fastest time in rock climbing and always being first to be picked in dodgeball.

Everyone wanted to talk to him, and no one seemed to understand why he was always so content to just hang out with you.

Kyle’s silent, and you wish for a second that you could know what’s going on inside his head. You turn to look at him but find that he’s already staring at you, and you both quickly look away.

”Look, you can see Orion tonight.” You look over at him and follow where’s he pointing to the brightest constellation in the sky. He lies down on his back, and you follow his lead, both of you gazing up toward the night sky. “And there’s Andromeda.”

You try to look up to where he’s pointing, but can’t make out the shape. Your hand brushes his as you point upward.

”Where?” you ask, and he grabs your hand, tracing the outline of the shape in the stars. You pause, taking in the fact that you’ve never seen so many at once, before quickly realizing that Kyle is still holding your outstretched hand, and both of your faces burn as he quickly drops it.

”How do you know all this?” Kyle shrugs the best he can while still lying down to your question.

”We learned about it in science class a few months ago, and I thought it was interesting. I read some books from the library, too. They all have these crazy stories behind them. Like Andromeda. She was like…brave or something. And Orion’s a hunter.”

Kyle begins to get excited as he starts to ramble, and you smile. Not only is he great at sports, but he’s also one of the smartest people in your grade, and loves to show off whenever he can.

”That’s Ursa Major, and there’s Ursa Minor. They’re both the bears. And that one’s…. well, I forgot the name, but it’s the prettiest one. And it’s always right there. Like you.” Kyle stops talking so fast it knocks the breath out of you. Your head spins.

You’re not sure what you expected him to say, another fact, maybe a joke, but definitely not that.

You feel Kyle squirm next to you, clearly mortified, and you’re certain that if you turned to him, his face would be flushed from the heat of his unexpected confession - if you could even call it that.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him trying very hard to keep his gaze fixed on the stars, like maybe if he doesn’t look at you, the words won’t count.

And somehow, that makes you smile.

You’ve never even thought of Kyle that way— sticking to daydreaming about boyband members and teen actors, so you don’t know why your pulse keeps stuttering at his revelation. It’s Kyle, and you know the girls in your grade are already starting to become interested in him, have already started whispering about who he might ask to the seventh-grade dance next year and how they hope it’s them.

You wonder how Cassidy would react if Kyle accidentally compared her to the prettiest constellation in the galaxy.

”You shouldn’t let what they say get to you,” he whispers, and you find that he’s looking at you this time.

”Who?”

”Cassidy and them. I don’t know why you care what they think. You’re way cooler than them.” He stares at you intently, and now it’s you who has to look away, who focuses intently on the constellations above instead of the boy next to you.

”Thanks, Kyle,” you sigh, moving to get more comfortable. All of a sudden, you feel exhausted—the day finally catching up to you. Kyle grabs his jacket, draping it over you.

“You’re way cooler than them too,” you mumble, and from the corner of your eye, you see Kyle smile.

The rippling of the water and the cricket sounds slowly lure the both of you to sleep until the next morning when your counselors find you hidden after spending the past hour freaking out over two missing campers.

You both get dish duty for a week. But at least you’re together.

♡ ♡ ♡

April 7, 2010 - 12:57 A.M.

Kyle feels like his black bow tie is choking him, and for what feels like the thousandth time that night, he tugs at the collar of his tux. He’s not sure if it’s the collar that’s making it hard to breathe, or if it’s just you.

Sweat beads lightly on his forehead as he forces another bright smile under the camera flashes.

”One more! Do not make that face, Kyle! It’s only one more picture. I just can’t believe how big the both of you have gotten,” his mother coos, sentences trailing over one another in her excitement. You’re applying a fresh coat of lip gloss as your mum fixes your gown, and Kyle can’t stop looking.

It’s the night of your senior prom, and Kyle originally had no plans on going. But after your date stood you up, he grabbed the black suit from the back of his closet to accompany you on the night you had been looking forward to for the past year.

And Kyle had always known you were beautiful.

He just didn’t know it could make his chest ache the way it does now.

Up until now, Kyle thought he’d seen you in every outfit imaginable. But the blush pink gown wraps around you like a whisper, like you might break if the wrong hands touch you. His throat dries as your glossy lips catch the light as you press them together to smooth everything out. You seem to glow, an outright supernova that somehow made its way to Earth, a divine cosmic intervention that Kyle could only count himself as lucky to experience.

He knows he’s being dramatic, but when you look over at him, eyes bright and smile wide, he feels like he could write a sonnet about you just like he learned in English.

He makes himself keep his eyes on yours, even as the slit of your gown sways closer with every step. He thinks the lights are making him delirious because he swears you float to him in a cloud of tulle and shimmer.

”Okay, one more, and that will be the last one, Beth,” your mother chides, guiding you to stand next to Kyle. He looks down at you, at how you now barely reach his chin, even in your strappy high heels.

”How much do you want to bet this isn’t the last one?” You mutter under a beaming white smile, and for a second, Kyle sees the same six-year-old who once crawled over his backyard fence.

He shakes his head, pulling you closer to him. It takes everything in him not to breathe you in and hold you tighter.

Kyle hasn’t left your side all night.

Which is normal for Kyle. You two won “Class Inseparables” for a reason, but what isn’t normal is just how clingy he’s being.

Kyle had spent the year making it extremely clear that he didn’t want to go to prom, and while he didn’t outright say it, you know that with the recent death of his father, he’d much rather stay at home and do…… whatever it is that Kyle wants to do.

You had struggled to be there, as he shut you out more and more while dealing with his grief. You blamed yourself for not knowing the right things to say, what to do, and most of all, feeling like nothing you did was ever enough to show him he wasn’t alone. It was just something he had to work through on his own, and you made sure to always be a shoulder for him when he called.

So when your mother found out that your date canceled on you last minute, she spoke to Kyle’s mother, and the both of them decided that it would be good for the two of you to go together — one last adolescent celebration before you two fully entered adulthood.

And although you hate to admit it, they were both right. You couldn’t have imagined spending the night any other way, dragging Kyle through all the cliches of photobooth pictures and slowly dancing to pop songs. His laugh infectious as he clumsily dips you to the floor, almost dropping you in the process.

So when the two of you made it to an afterparty, you were surprised to not see him next to you as you exited the living room barefoot to the backyard deck. Already buzzed on a few drinks, your head pounds to the bass of the song blaring and you welcome the muffled quiet you get as you shut the door behind you, heading to the railing to look up to the sky.

Only a few moments later, you hear the sliding glass door open, and without looking, you know Kyle has found his way back to you.

“I can’t believe this is it,” you whisper, eagerly welcoming the bottle of water Kyle slides your way. He takes a sip from his own, and as you dazedly watch him swallow, you notice that he ditched his bow tie somewhere between the limo and the shot of Smirnoff you took with your friends. The first few buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, and he looks more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a long time.

“What’s it?” He questions, and you smile at his accent creeping through. In addition to class inseparables, Kyle also won the senior superlative for best accent (a category you’re almost certain they created just for him), and to this day, you don’t know how he maintained it despite living in America for most of his life. A part of you thinks it’s due to the yearly trips to England he takes with his family, and another part thinks that it’s just the way it’s meant to be because he wouldn’t be Kyle without it.

“I mean, we’re done. No more high school,” you sigh wistfully. The big decision of ‘what’s next’ seems to loom over everyone’s head as graduation creeps even closer. You had already committed to a college for the fall, but Kyle had kept unusually silent about his decision on what to do next. You tried not to pry, knowing that he was already dealing with more grief than anyone your age ever should, but it worried you that he didn’t have a plan, and a tiny voice in the back of your head won’t stop whispering he’s keeping something from you.

“I thought you, more than anyone, would be glad to be done,” he laughs, taking another sip of his water.

You suppose that’s true, school had never really been your favorite. But the thought of leaving Kyle to go out of state? You’re not sure how to feel about it. He’s always been a fence away, and your hands begin to twitch as you’re suddenly overcome with a weird urge to hold his hand.

You don’t know what to call your feelings for Kyle. If anyone ever insinuates that there could be anything more between you two, you almost immediately deny it. Tell everyone and anyone who can hear that “he’s just a friend, more like one of my brothers than anything else,” but late at night, in the wee hours when you feel the darkness can hide any thought you’re too scared to say aloud, you entertain the idea of ‘what if?’

You had tried - once in ninth grade because everyone said that’s what two people with “chemistry” like yours were supposed to do, but Kyle had too much of a crush on an upperclassman girl to focus on you properly and you had always felt like your “dates” felt too much like hanging out as friends to ever take it seriously.

But now at the cusp of adulthood, you’re beginning to see Kyle as something more, and it terrifies you slightly.

“Of course, I’m happy to be done. But I don’t know what I’m going to do without you next year,” you admit, softly, the truth coming out before you can bottle it back down. “I mean, you’re my best friend, Ky. Promise you’ll come visit me next year?”

Kyle doesn’t look at you, letting out a heavy sigh.

”Of course, I’ll visit. It’s just-” He stops himself, running a heavy hand through his hair, and looking up towards the sky. Your heart begins to beat faster, trying to anticipate what he’s not saying, and for once, you wished Kyle spoke as carelessly as you did instead of watching every word to make sure he never said the wrong thing.

“What is it, Kyle?”

He takes another drink of water, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt before turning to you with his full attention, staring you deep into your eyes.

”I’m moving back to London at the end of the summer. I’m going to enlist in the military.”

You recoil at that bombshell. You know you shouldn’t be that surprised; Kyle’s dad was in the military himself, and with everything that’s happened, it makes sense that he’d want to follow in his footsteps.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You hate how selfish you sound, knowing that it’s not about you, and the edges of the room start to blur as you try to catch your breath.

”It was just never the right time, and I couldn’t figure out how. Plus, you were so stressed about college applications that I didn’t want to add that on to everything else you were dealing with.”

You try to see how that logic would make sense to him, but as the timeline catches up to you, you start to realize that you have a little over 100 days until Kyle is almost 4,500 miles away from you.

Your heart begins to beat even faster.

You want to be happy for him — proud, even. Because of course, Kyle would do something so brave and selfless. But your stomach churns as you think about everything he’s still carrying and whether running towards something like this will really let him outrun his grief.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” You murmur, eyes burning as you slide down the railing to sit on the deck.

”Don’t do that, love. You’re going to get your pretty dress all dirty.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes because only Kyle could be focused on the state of your appearance while you’re on the verge of falling apart. “C’mon, let's go inside.”

He leads you through the crowded living room, ignoring the whistles and cheers as he takes you down the hall to find an unoccupied spare bedroom.

As soon as the lock clicks, you lay face down on a scratchy pillow, a violent sob racking your body.

You feel the bed dip as Kyle sits beside you, gently stroking your back until your tears quiet. You wonder if he thinks you’re being melodramatic about this situation, if his leaving is as big a deal to him as it is to you. You count down every moment you two have spent together, and wonder if he’s done the same since he’s decided to enlist, if he’ll cling on to the same memories that you will a year from now.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper. You don’t want to say it, not wanting to ruin this momentous decision with your own emotions, but you feel him slipping away, and selfishly, you want to hold on as tight as you can without letting go.

“I know this can’t be easy for you either… but I just — God, I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you,” you sniffle slightly.

”I’m going to miss you more, darling,” he whispers back, moving to lay beside you. He cuddles up behind you, holding you tightly, and the comfort of having him near you is enough to calm you down. You lay in silence for a few moments, letting the sounds of the party outside drown out every fear you’re not ready to name.

“Y’know, when we were six, I wanted you to move back to London,” you laugh, and he snorts too.

”Did you? Why was that?” his embrace softens, and you begin to feel quite tired as the heat from his body envelopes you.

”You broke my Barbie and made fun of my ‘football’ skills,” he laughs at the exaggerated posh accent you put on before you continue- ”As far as I was concerned, you were enemy number one.”

“How lucky am I,” he drags, sarcastically. “that I changed your mind to keep me here.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” you murmur, your voice small now. “Because now I don’t want you to go.”

He stiffens slightly before relaxing into you more.

And just like that on a borrowed bed in your formal wear, you reckon with the fact that this is the last night of your childhood.

You grab Kyle’s hand and drift off to sleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

November 28, 2014 - 3:19 A.M.

Kyle hasn’t seen you in two years, and yet here you are, sitting in front of him in the tiniest black dress he’s ever seen in his entire life.

Both of you are crammed into a booth in a dark, sticky club, and he tells himself it’s the bass of whatever EDM track is rattling the walls that’s making his head spin — not the way your chest presses together when you lean over to grab your drink.

He takes another sip of his own. You’re spending the summer interning at a finance firm in London, and Kyle secretly hopes they’ll offer you a job after graduation — just so you’ll have a reason to stay. Which is how you found yourself out with him and his friends to celebrate their first deployment going so successfully.

They’d started the night at a proper pub; pints, darts, and all — much to your confusion when you showed up like you were headed to a rooftop in Miami.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, eyes scanning over the smokey makeup and sky-high heels that stood outside of the door of his flat. “You do realize we’re going to a pub, yeah? Why the dress?”

“You said we were going to a bar.” You push him to the side since clearly he wasn’t going to move to let you in, and toss the oversized leather jacket you were wearing onto his couch without a second glance. “This is what you wear to bars.”

Kyle’s almost positive he didn’t say that, any American slang, wiped from his vocabulary since moving back to the U.K., and despite growing up together, he still isn’t sure how the two of you manage to miscommunicate.

You turned to him then, lips already pouted, eyes bright with mischief as you looked him up and down.

“What, you don’t like it?”

The problem is Kyle likes what you’re wearing a little too much which is how he found himself in a basement club in central London. You had gotten along well enough with a few friends he made while away, gleefully sharing embarrassing stories with his new military friends (“Kyle, mate, why didn’t you tell us you used to do ballet?” “Piss off, I was like seven.”). So, when you light up at the suggestion of going dancing, staring at him pleading when his friend, Elliott, mentions a club nearby, he grabs his jacket instead of heading home like he wanted, where he’s found himself spending way too much money on drinks and watching how your skin seems to glow under the flickering strobe lights.

You giggle at something Elliott whispers, no doubt a joke at Kyle’s expense, with the way you flash him a wicked grin afterward, and Kyle’s jaw clenches. He takes another sip of his drink as you lick a drop from your lips.

Kyle knows that he needs to stop watching. That soon you’re going to catch on that he’s looking at you in a not-so-friendly way.

But whatever it is, he can’t stop watching the way you move. Can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to pull that dress up around your hips and slide his hands over the skin he’s been dying to touch since you walked through the door.

He tells himself to stop looking and keep his thoughts chaste as you unintentionally pout your lips as you look at him to see why he’s so quiet.

But, fuck, he can’t stop the way he feels.

Like a live wire pulled too tight, every look tossed his way hitting him in his chest. In his gut. Lower.

You were always beautiful, but this — this is different.

Grown. Self-possessed.

Devastating.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, both men watching as your hips slightly sway as you try to find your balance.

“Jesus, mate. You never said you had a girl like that waiting on you.” Kyle watches Elliott for a moment too long. Watches the way he’s already looking at you like a challenge that he could win you over. He’s seen that same look in almost every guy at this club when they look at you tonight, and his fists clench.

“She’s not my girl. We’re just friends.” A sour taste forms in his mouth as if he’s swallowed something acidic, and he watches Elliott light up at the info.

“Really? Is she seeing anyone? Or keen to be?” Kyle almost chokes at the waggle of Elliott’s brow at the last part. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling this way, you’ve both dated other people before so this is nothing new, but the thought of you going home with anyone other than him makes his chest hurt.

“Dunno. You’d have to ask her.” Kyle shrugs, but it comes out too sharp, too fast. He swallows hard. It’s not a joke to him anymore. He takes a proper look, assessing the man sitting in front of him. It would never work between you and Elliott, would it? He’s military, too determined, too focused — too much like Kyle. And if you were going to be with somebody — why couldn’t it be Kyle?

“Gonna check on her, yeah?” he murmurs, rising before he thinks better of it. The rest of the drink burns on the way down, but it barely registers. Not over the heat crawling up his spine.

Admittedly, you got a little lost on the way to the bathroom, the three drinks catching up to you all at once. The club pulses and spins around you, lights strobing as the bass vibrates within your bones.

What was supposed to be a quick trip becomes a full lap of the dance floor, and you’re flushed and slightly dizzy when you walk up to the bar to order another Sex on the Beach. You’re halfway leaning over the counter to pass your card when someone drops theirs ahead of you.

The scent hits you before anything else: sharp, clean, with that rich warmth you’d know anywhere. Tom Ford. Kyle’s favorite.

You go still. Heart thudding.

You don’t turn around to look at him yet, suddenly, feeling too warm, too aware of the way your dress clings to your skin, the way your breath stutters in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just Kyle.

But it’s not the same Kyle, is it?

The one standing at the bar is taller now, sharper around the edges, all quiet confidence and serious demeanor. His gaze tracks you like he’s hunting, like he’s already read your next move and is deciding what to do with it.

And then there’s his body.

He’s broader now, chest and shoulders stretching the sleeves of his shirt, arms thick with the kind of strength that isn’t just there for decoration, but for utility and purpose.

Sun-kissed skin, dark mustache, and a lean athletic figure that has enough stamina to go for hours, whether that’s on the battlefield or —.

But the thing you find yourself staring at the most are his hands. What were once smooth are adorned with callouses, each one holding a war story that he’s yet to share. Like they’ve seen battle and want to learn softness now. Like they could leave bruises shaped like constellations on your hips if you asked nicely.

You take a large gulp of your drink like it might drown the thoughts clawing their way through your head. The alcohol burns, but it’s not nearly enough to dull the way your body thrums when Kyle gets even closer.

You turn around, and there he is — smiling dangerously like he’s hyper-aware of what path your thoughts have taken. His voice is a whisper in your ear, low enough to curl straight down your spine.

“Thought you were looking for the bathroom?” he murmurs, and you hate that your first instinct is to lean in like two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Got a little lost,” you say, breathier than you mean to, and take the straw into your mouth again slowly this time, just to see if his eyes drop to your lips again.

They do.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, and you push your cup toward him without thinking.

“Try it,” you say, soft. “It’s all juice and sugar. You probably won’t like it.”

You expect him to grab the cup and tip far from his mouth like he always used to when you were kids, but instead, his fingers skim your jaw, and he catches a drop from the corner of your mouth. You freeze.

Then he brings it to his lips.

“It’s sweet,” he says, slow and deliberate, still watching your mouth. “I like it.”

Your heart punches against your ribs, wild and frantic, and you barely stop yourself from chasing the taste on his lips. You fumble your drink with a clatter, cheeks hot as if you could be any less smooth.

He grins, cocky and all too pleased with himself, and slides in closer, setting the cup aside like nothing else matters.

The scent of him hits you — cologne and sweat and something deeper — and suddenly it’s like your entire body is one raw nerve. Your thoughts scatter. Your pulse stutters. You want to touch him. You want to climb into his lap. You want him to grab you by the hips and ruin every thread of self-control you’ve ever had.

He’s your best friend.

Somehow, you don’t care.

You try to collect yourself. Breathe in. Out. Focus on your heartbeat. On anything other than the way your skin is still buzzing from where he’s touched you.

But when you glance up, Kyle’s already looking at you half-lidded, pupils blown so wide that you almost have to squint to make out the thin ring of gold surrounding them.

You don’t even realize you’re moving closer to him until your hand brushes his, chest mere inches as you drink in Kyle in front of you. He takes your hand, fingers tracing the inside of your wrist. Your pulse skips a beat.

His doesn’t.

He opens his mouth, whether to speak or kiss you, you’ll never know as two of his friends come barreling in, ripping him away with slurred words and half-assed apologies.

“Oi, Kyle, some tosser thinks I’m flirting with his bird. Tell him he’s having a laugh, yeah?”

And just like that, the moment shatters. The lights, the music, the crowd pressing in — it all rushes back at once.

You even register the annoyed looks from people trying to squeeze past the two of you.

How long had the two of you been standing there?

“Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds,” He mutters, catching his breath. His hand lingers on your wrist as mouths ‘be right back.’

You reach for your drink, spinning the liquid as if it’ll hypnotize you to keep your thoughts from spinning too.

“He’s pretty good, right?” Elliot slides in next to you, watching Kyle make his way through the crowd. “He was always the most level-headed in basic training. He probably broke up more fights than he was in them.”

You smile at that — of course, Kyle would gain the reputation of being the strategist, the fixer, always thinking things through.

“—- told him in training to go after what he wants, but it seems like he still hasn’t listened,”

You tune back in at the end of his sentence, narrowing your eyes at Elliott.

“I’m sorry?”

Elliott just grins.“Lemme buy you a drink, yeah?”

You should say yes- he’s cute, really fucking cute, and obviously interested by the way he’s been flirting with you all night.

But as you shift you weight from one foot to another, deliberating, your gaze slides to the other side of the club where Kyle is already watching.

You swear his jaw clenches when Elliott moves in closer to you.

“Oh,” Elliott laughs, catching the look. “You’re both a little fucked then.”

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head, something almost kind about his expression. “Better that I’m not the one to tell you, right? But -“

He stops himself like he shouldn’t be saying something before shrugging his shoulders and tossing back the rest of his drink.

“Plenty of the lads at basic had birds back home. None of them ever talked about their girls the way Kyle talked about you.”

Your stomach twists at Elliott’s words, but you’re not sure if it’s from the implication or the confirmation. You’ve known Kyle was acting different tonight — the stares, the softness, the tension that always seemed just shy of crossing a line. You want to ask what Kyle said, how he said it, when he said it, take every sentence and dissect it syllable by syllable. But you don’t get the chance.

Because Kyle is back.

And he looks… different. Not just under the strobe lights, not just with his shirt rumpled and curls damp at the nape of his neck. He looks like someone who has made a decision.

His eyes skim over Elliott, land on you, and stay there.

You barely register Elliott muttering something about giving you two a moment before disappearing into the crowd. Kyle doesn’t say anything — not at first. He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every feature on your face like this is the last time he’ll see them.

“What did he say to you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you might admit that you’re shaking. That something about this — him, you, tonight — has shifted past the point of pretending. You don’t know how to flirt with Kyle because it never felt like you had to. But right now, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, you want to be brave. You want to try.

So you just say, “You already know.”

Kyle blinks. His jaw twitches. Then he grabs your hand.

He pulls you into the crowd, the bass drowning out every thought except the feel of his fingers tangled in yours, the way his body moves ahead of you like he’s cutting a path through the world just to get you somewhere quieter, darker, closer.

Your skin sparks under his touch. Your blood hums with electricity.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped moving until you’re suddenly chest to chest, breath to breath, the rest of the world nothing more than sound and color. Hidden in some back hallway away from any interruptions or prying eyes. He stares down at you like you’re something divine. Like if he blinks, you’ll disappear.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says like it’s a confession pulled from his ribs.

His palm slides against your lower back, anchoring you to him as if any distance will push you away. You smile, ready to make a joke, to tease him, to play into this push-and-pull you’ve somehow found yourself in.

But the look on his face punches the air out of your lungs.

Any ounce of self-control has fled from his body, replaced by a primal desire that seems to bleed from him. His hand trails up your spine, every hair on your body standing on end as you come to the complete and utter realization:

Kyle is going to kiss me.

And before you can even process what that means for your friendship, his mouth is on yours.

Suddenly you can’t think, all thoughts flooding straight from your brain as they’re replaced by one single, repetitive thought: ‘Holy shit, Kyle is a really good kisser.’

His hands find your waist, then your hips, then your ass, like he doesn’t know where to hold you because he wants to touch you everywhere. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, tasting like gum and pints of lager, and a hint of the cigarette he bummed earlier, and that combo would be so disgusting on anyone else, but of course, it works for him, and you hear yourself gasping into him.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans deep and low like the sound is being pulled straight out of his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, lips moving against yours. “Why do you taste so fucking good?”

He kisses you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, and you think it’s working. You will never be able to kiss anyone again without thinking about the way Kyle took you apart, thread by thread, with just his mouth. You pull him in closer, feeling slightly depraved and insane. You want to crawl into his skin, get under him, inside him, anywhere where he can hold on to you like this forever.

You shift, and your thighs brush against him, forcing you to feel him — thick and hard through his jeans and pressing right against your hip. You moan before you can stop yourself, and he grips you even tighter, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re driving me insane, sweetheart,” he rasps in your ear, dragging his mouth down your jaw. You drag his face back to yours, and he kisses you again —deeper, messier, needier— but it’s still not enough. You want more, need more, need to know what it feels like for him to be inside you, fingers buried in his hair as you fall apart for him over and over again.

But for now, you just let him devour you. Kissing you with a promise of what’s to come, like he’s starved and you’re the first taste he’s allowed himself in years.

You break away first, barely breathing hard as you take in Kyle’s swollen lips and chest heaving as if he just ran across the country.

His hand is still gripping your waist like he’ll fall if he lets go, and he rests his forehead against yours. For a second, you think he might kiss you again until he exhales hard, coming to terms with the situation that just happened.

”Fuck, we — we weren’t supposed to do that, sweetheart.”

His voice is wrecked like he’s ashamed of how badly he wanted it. Of how badly he still wants it.

You don’t move. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, and your neck still tingles from where he dragged his lips across it. You finally open your eyes to look at him.

And when your eyes meet his, he looks absolutely ruined.

“Stop looking at me like that, love.” His hand twitches like he might pull away, but he doesn’t. Just takes a deep inhale. “We’re friends, right?”

The words don’t match the way he’s staring at you, with lips parted, pupils blown, and you still feel the weight of him fully pressed up against you. And whatever line you two were pretending existed has already shattered.

So, you look up at him, bold and tipsy, and braver than you have any right to be, and whisper in his ear: “I don’t want to be just your friend tonight, Kyle.”

Something settles in between you two, the words impossible to take back, so Kyle just gives a deep nod before calling a cab.

You slide into the cab first, and Kyle follows, close enough that your legs touch, close enough for him to smell the sweet sting of your perfume and whatever’s left of the drink on your lips.

The door shuts, and for the first time all night, it’s too quiet — he hears his heartbeat in his ears, and his nerves continue to dial themselves higher and higher.

You shift, and his gaze drops down to where your dress rides a little higher from the movement. He can’t help himself, his hand settles heavy over your knee, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles on your bare skin. It feels delicate, pretty, soft and he wonders if you’d feel that way all over.

Your skin warms instantly, and he can feel the heat coming off you in waves. You glance up at him, eyes silently begging for him to move again, for him to kiss and touch and worship you like he craves.

And God does he want to.

Kyle leans in closer, mouth brushing just behind your ear, making sure to keep his voice low enough that only you can hear,

“If we weren’t in a fucking cab right now…”

You still.

“My hand wouldn’t just be on your thigh.” He makes sure to draw a deliberate line up the inside of your leg, stopping just short of where your dress ends, hiding where he wants to see you the most. “It’d be under that fucking dress, halfway to making you come again.”

Your breath hitches. The driver coughs once, and Kyle forces himself back,hand still on your leg, grip just tight enough to remind you that he’s still here, just as wanting as you.

You don’t say a word for the rest of the ride.

Neither does he.

The car slows to a stop, and before Kyle can stop himself, he tosses a large tip to the driver before taking your hand like a man possessed and dragging you into his flat.

The second the door clicks shut, Kyle’s mouth is back on yours.

He barely registers kicking the door shut before he’s got you pinned to it, hands firmly gripping your waist to anchor himself to this moment. He wants to take his time, to memorize how you feel under his hands, how you sound when he kisses your neck, commit this to memory in case he never gets the chance to again, but desperation takes over, and all he can think about is how badly he wants more. How badly he wants you.

Your purse hits the floor, but he doesn’t really care. You let out another gasp into him, and he’s never been angrier at himself. For pretending, for years, that this was inevitable.

He drags his teeth against your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to suck and bite until it’s flushed red.

Instead, his hands move free of his control, down your thighs, under your dress, until he’s rubbing the front of the thong you have on, and he moans slightly into your mouth.

You’ve completely ruined yourself, underwear drenched, and your hips jerk as he presses a light circle to your covered clit.

He smiles, using his other hand to pin you to the door, and he feels you shaking like you might detonate against him as he continues to draw light circles around your covered heat.

“Kyle,” you whine, and it feels like a livewire has been cut deep inside him as he moves your panties to the side, and slides two fingers inside of you.

And all he can think to say is, “Fucking finally.”

God, you’re tight, warm, and just fucking perfect. Your hips jerk against where his hand is moving, like you’ve been shocked and he feels his breath stutter against the high-pitched moans you make, raw and startled like you didn’t know you could want him this much.

Kyle presses his forehead against yours, cursing when you gasp at the curl of his fingers. And he feels the confession bubbling up, tries to push it back down where it’s supposed to remain hidden and locked away, but you sound so sweet when you whine his name that he just starts … rambling.

“I’ve thought about this,” he rasps, voice wrecked and low. “I tried not to, sweetheart, I really did, but you were always there in my mind at night. What you’d sound like, what you’d look like coming undone, what you’d feel like when you finally let me touch you.”

Surprisingly, you don’t jerk away from his confession, call him a creep, or tell him that he’s supposed to be just a friend. Instead, you clench tightly around his fingers, moaning a little bit louder throughout his admission, and adoration begins to fill your eyes.

It only takes a few more pumps of his fingers, before you fall apart, and Kyle holds you through it, hand steady, mouth skimming your jaw as he tries to brand the shape of your body to his memory.

You’re still trembling in his arms when he pulls back, and he watches you blink, dazed and flushed and impossibly beautiful. He’s never been so hard before, and you reach for his belt, his body slumping forward as you brush a delicate hand across the rough outline of his cock.

He wants you so badly it hurts. But it can’t be like this. Not the first time.

“Baby,” he rasps and you whine at that, grasping the print of him a little harder and he grabs your hand to still you.

“I want you so badly right now.” He cups your face, brushes against your cheek, and whispers against your lips, “But our first time will not be against a bloody door.”

He pulls you in again, lips pressing as he drags his tongue against your mouth, hands drifting down to take a firm grip of your ass.

And just like that it shifts.

Kyle picks you up like it’s nothing, and cradles you close, as he carries you through his flat to his bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. Lays you down so softly like you’re made of glass.

And then you kiss again, softer, slower, as if he’s truly taking his time to learn who you are. He reaches down, pulling your dress off of you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

He looks as if he’s seen a divine being, wanting nothing more than to lay you down at the altar and worship you until you bless him.

So, he does.

He takes his time, kissing down your chest, your ribs, your hips, like he’s tracing down a map to something sacred. He removes the last barrier you have, the last of your clothes, and you open your legs for him. His eyes darken, the edges lazy with want, and he sucks a deep, bruising kiss at the apex of your thigh.

And then his mouth is on you. If you could even describe something as monumental as simple as that. As if you could describe the starburst that floods your vision with such a crass term as “eating pussy.”

Kyle lays everything out with the broad strokes he licks into you, groaning as if he can’t imagine anywhere else as perfect as in between your thighs.

You cry out, one hand flying to the wall, the other buried in his hair, as he traces soft circles into you.

You hear yourself call out his name, all your senses locked into the way he smiles against you. ”Been dreaming about the way you’d say my name.”

He sucks at you like he wants your legs to shake, like he won’t be satisfied until you come completely and utterly undone for him.

So when you come for the second time, it’s no surprise that it’s with a broken cry that leaves him shuddering.

You think he might stop there. Takes the time to let you recover as he strips himself. But he’s above you again, and you take the time to run your hands across broad shoulders that lead down to a tapered waist adorned with a perfect set of abs.

He hangs hot and heavy between your legs, and you sigh as he takes you in for another kiss, briefly tasting yourself on him before he pulls back,

“Is this still okay?” He whispers, eyes looking for any doubt.

You nod. “More than”

And he sinks into you with a groan that’s been clawed from his chest.

His pace is unhurried and measured, forehead against yours as you clench around him when he presses a kiss against your forehead. His pace falters before picking back up as he mutters “fuck, love, you feel like heaven.”

You lock your ankles around his waist as he laces your fingers together. His mouth catches yours mid-moan and refuses to let go. You wish it felt wrong like this is a dark and dirty secret that will never be touched, but as you come for the third time, you know that you’ll never be able to live peacefully knowing what it looks like to have Kyle fall apart above you, mouth on your neck as his whole body trembles into yours.

He slowly pulls out of you, lying next to you before pulling you close to his chest, and pressing a familiar kiss to the top of your head.

You’ve never felt so serene, so calm, so at ease, and you want to say something to break the moment. To bring you both back down to the level you normally operate at, with friendly jokes and ribbing and teasing.

Deep down, you feel that coil snap, that something’s changed between the two of you. You wonder if he feels that too, but when you look at him, the only thing you see is the same devotion he had a few moments earlier.

So you shove all your thoughts away and close your eyes

You wake up missing the familiar weight of Kyle next to you. The bed is cold, the sheets pulled into a precise military fold, and the only sign he was ever there is the dent in the pillow next to you.

You grab something discarded from the pile of clothes on the floor, Kyle’s shirt, and tug it on before padding out barefoot to the kitchen.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice still scratchy with sleep.

He startles just slightly at the sound of your voice and straightens before turning around.

There’s a small smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite meet and doesn’t feel as genuine as it should be.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, standing on the other side of the island. He nudges your cup towards you, tea prepared the way you’ve always preferred and you hold the burning cup in your hands, lines forming between your brows.

“I’m fine. How do you feel?” you ask, guarded.

Kyle looks exhausted, not the face of someone satisfied after a night of good sex, and you start to second-guess yourself. You’ve seen Kyle with ex-girlfriends, and he’s the picture of romance - flowers, kisses, constantly holding hands and all over them.

For a moment last night, you thought you saw that Kyle when he was with you, but you don’t recognize the man in front of you- guarded, drawn back.

Off-kilter, you take a sip of the tea you’ve been holding, dropping the mug when it burns your tongue. The clatter echoes through the quiet flat, and you immediately bend down to grab the mug, muttering apologies as you check for chips in the ceramics. ”Shit — sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says quickly, already kneeling to help. His hand grazes yours, and you both freeze.

You look at him, and his eyes stay firmly trained on the mug. The silence stretches across the apartment until becomes unbearable.

“I just — I wasn’t expecting you to be gone,” you say, voice childishly quiet. “When I woke up.”

Kyle runs a hand through his hair, already mussed from sleep, and still refuses to look at you. ”Didn’t want to wake you.” He sounds just as young as you just did, and your heart does an unusual pitter-patter.

“That’s it?” you ask. “After everything?”

His face falls, and the expression tells you everything you need to know. He’s already halfway gone, leaving you again like he did when you were both 17.

You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know.

“Do you regret,” you pause, struggling to get the words out. “what we did last night?

Kyle’s head whips to you, eyes panicked. “No,” he says. “It was… Fuck, it was—” He swallows hard like something is lodged in his throat. “This just isn’t something I can do right now.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

His eyes meet yours like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time all morning. “I leave in six weeks.”

“And?”

“And I’ve watched what happens when people try to wait,” he says. “What it does to them. I’ve seen it ruin people and wreck lives. And I care too much about you to let that happen to us. To you.”

Us.

Your chest caves a little at that.

“So you thought it’d be better to fuck me first?” You laugh sardonically. The words come out sharper than intended, and you see the hit land.

Kyle flinches. “That’s not — don’t make it like that. It wasn’t like that.”

You hug yourself, pressing your lips together to hide the wobble in your voice. “Then what was it?”

He doesn’t say anything, sits across from you in silence, and you understand. That knowing the truth would hurt too much. That Kyle is still trying to protect you from all the things that could hurt you in this world.

Only this time it’s from himself.

You nod once, jaw tight. “Got it.”

You turn to leave, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.

♡ ♡ ♡

December 24, 2022 - 10:24 P.M.

Kyle listens to the fire crackle, as cousins, aunts, and uncles trickle into his grandfather’s house. The first Christmas he’s spent with his family in years is a big one, and he briefly wonders how they’re all going to cram into the tiny sitting area.

He pulls the tartan blanket over his cousin sleeping next to him before moving to sit next to his mother. In 29 years, he’s never seen his mother look so tired, so weathered, so worried. He knows that it’s because of him, that it must be impossible to sleep at night, knowing that there’s no guarantee that your son will return to you safely. The chime of laughter coming from the kitchen brings him down from where he feels he’s floating a million miles away. He takes his mother’s hand and runs his thumb gently across her knuckles, grounding himself there.

”How are you doing, mum?” he asks, softly, and she turns to him with bright eyes. Kyle’s mind wanders to what if his dad were still here. Would he still have joined the military? Entered the SAS? Met the 141? Maybe he would have ended up here anyway. But the look on his mother’s face says otherwise.

”I’m just so happy to see you here, Kyle.” Her eyes water up, and Kyle knows instantly what’s not being said. He tries not to think about that day too much, the bullets ricocheting off the helicopter, as the only thing keeping him alive is a fraying rope. It’s become a bit of a legend amongst new recruits.

“Can you believe the sergeant fell out of a helicopter and survived? I heard he took out 5 men while dangling from a rope. No, it was six.”

A ringing starts to fill his ears, and he focuses back in on his mom who’s looking at him with concern again.

”I’m happy to be here, Mum.” He mumbles, and suddenly, he feels exhausted. Being tired isn’t a new feeling - he hasn’t had a real night's sleep since before he joined the military, but this exhaustion feels deeper, like it’s carved into his bones. He’s so used to waking up at six a.m. and running 5 km that the stillness of a peaceful night is almost foreign to him.

“He would’ve been proud of you, y’know?” Kyle jerks up at that, turning to his mom. She doesn’t often talk about his father, doing the small things to keep the memory alive on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, but the pain always seemed too much to bear. “He would always say when you were younger, ‘My boy, he’s going to accomplish great things.’ He just would’ve been so proud.” Her voice wobbles a little before she catches herself.

”I know, Mum,” and the funny thing is he believes that. He knows that he’s accomplished everything his father had dreamt for him, grown into the man his father started molding the second he was born. Yet he still feels like something’s missing.

Kyle hears the door open, and close, wondering who the late addition could be. At this point, every family member has arrived.

“Darling, you mustn’t be upset, but she has no family out here. We’ve had her over every year since she’s moved,” His mother rushes out, worry quickly replacing the melancholy that lined her voice.

Before he can even process what that means, who he could possibly be upset about seeing, he hears a voice he hasn’t heard in over 8 years—

Yours.

A part of you thinks it’s weird that you spend every Christmas with Kyle’s family despite not speaking to him for 8 years.

Your job had brought you to London a few years back, and you were more than happy to spend the day eating Chinese takeout and rewatching old Christmas movies. But your mother found out and gave a call to Kyle’s mother and well, “Family doesn’t let family spend the holidays alone, do they?”

Which is how you find yourself at their Christmas Eve dinner every year.

Kyle never shows up, always on duty or leave, but you find yourself holding your breath every year hoping he’ll walk in.

And you’re disappointed every single time.

You shouldn’t be, you don’t even want to be and you don’t know why you anticipate him being there as if he wasn’t the one who said you two were better off as friends and then slowly stopped responding to your texts and calls.

Your friends all tell you that you’re better off, that Kyle fucked up and doesn’t know what he’s missing. And you try and pretend that you don’t look for him in every guy you see, looking for brown eyes and a protective heart in every Bumble date and one-night stand you meet.

So when Kyle turns around, your breath hitches, shallow and fast, like your body’s bracing for impact.

You thought of this moment for years, the moment where you can yell at him, scream and curse, and cry for breaking your heart. Inflict a fraction of the pain he caused you back onto him, make him feel all the nights that you spent crying, mourning the loss of your best friend.

But what stops you in your tracks is how absolutely exhausted Kyle looks.

He’s still Kyle, but his whiskey-colored eyes are rimmed with dark circles and wrinkle a little more when he smiles. His beard has grown a little more, a rarity for Kyle who has liked to be as clean-shaven as possible since the moment he started growing facial hair.

You had heard about the accident, how he barely survived — and his mom had begged you to give him a call. But every time you reached for the phone, something stopped you.

What do you say to someone when there’s so much that’s been left unsaid?

The door creaks shut behind you, breaking the awkward showdown you’ve found yourself in.

“Darling!” His mother is the first to react, walking over to where you awkwardly hesitate in the door, one step away from bolting. She brings you into a warm embrace, running a comforting hand through your hair.

”I’m so happy you could make it. He won’t say it, but I know he misses you. Still puts up the ornaments you two made in primary school,” she whispers in your ear. Your eyes catch Kyle’s across the at this, and you press your lips together in a firm line. You don’t want to be bitter but if he really did miss you as much as she said, why is he still there — still putting distance between the two of you?

She lets go of you, helping you out of your winter coat, and then a few of Kyle’s younger cousins are dragging you to the kitchen, wanting to gossip about all the things you normally do when you come over, and you forget that once again, Kyle is watching you walk away.

And despite his presence being so loud in the middle of this party, you’re able to continue like you normally do. You laugh and eat roast and mince pies, and even participate in Secret Santa, where you receive an absolutely horrid sweater that will never see the light of day. And it all feels so normal that your heart swells, that if you keep your focus on certain parts of the room, it’s like Kyle isn’t even there.

But whenever your eyes meet, Kyle goes completely still — like something has knocked the breath out of him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s seeing a ghost he thought would never come back to haunt him.

Your stomach churns — it was a bad idea to stay. You should’ve feigned an illness as soon as you saw him there because unhealed wounds are starting to bleed the longer his wide-eyed gaze follows you around the room.

So, you begin to pack up. Walking around from family member to family member to say goodbye, accepting all the kisses on the cheeks and leftovers to eat for the next few days. It’s not until you’re standing by the coat rack to put your jacket on that you shiver from the feeling of a large figure behind you, your body remembering him before your brain can catch up. He’s silent on his feet in a way that can only come from years of military training. He had never been so quiet before.

“Are you leaving already?” he rasps, and your knees almost buckle from hearing his voice for the first time. Your stomach flips like it’s trying to turn yourself inside out.

“Yeah, I need to start driving back now before it gets too late,” you whisper, not wanting to speak too loud as if he’s an apparition that’ll disappear with any quick movements.

“What’s this about you driving home,” Kyle’s mother interrupts, eyes narrowed. You didn’t even realize that she was standing there, but from her crossed arms, you knew that you fucked up.

“It’s only a short drive, Ms. Garrick. Swear, I’ll be home in twenty minutes,” you promise, hoping she won’t beg you to spend the night. Tonight had already been heavy. You spare a glance at Kyle, but his gaze is solely focused on his mom, listening intently to what she’s going to say next.

“But it’s already so late. Why don’t you just spend the night here? You can stay with Kyle, it’ll be just like when you two were kids again,” she beams, and you don’t have the heart to say no.

“Mum,” Kyle protests, already beginning to form an argument but his mother silences him with a wave.

“Really, Kyle? You’re going to make her drive home alone in the dark. I would’ve thought I raised you better than that. Besides it’s just one night,” she dismisses the two of you with such finality you have no choice but to follow Kyle upstairs as he shows you which room he’s staying in.

“I can sleep on the floor- or the couch, give you some space,” and for a moment, you’re tempted to take him up on his offer. But the way he’s slumped, you knew it would be awful to subject him to subpar sleep because of an 8-year grudge.

“It’s fine, Kyle. I’m the one intruding. You take the bed,” you say, and are already grabbing your pillow to head to the door to go back to the couch.

For a moment, it’s just you and Kyle and the ghosts of a hundred sleepovers past — whispered secrets under shared blankets, the safety of knowing he’d always be there

But now there’s an invisible line between you, drawn sharp and painful, and neither of you know how to cross it.

Kyle shifts closer, hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You pause in the doorway, pillow clutched awkwardly to your chest. Kyle shifts on his feet, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low and rough from exhaustion. And suddenly it’s just the two of you, standing in a too-small room with eight years of distance stretching between you.

“Why don’t we just share? My mum would kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the couch.”

“Okay,” you whisper, following Kyle back to the bed, shakily pulling the covers back one by one if anything to delay sleeping next to him again.

He follows your lead, slowly crawling under the bed, back towards where you’d be sleeping. You sigh softly, before following suit, back facing his.

You don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight, feeling overwhelmed by every shift and movement Kyle makes, the heat of his body next to yours, the careful distance he keeps between the two of you to make sure you don’t touch.

You wait, counting as the seconds turn to minutes in your head. Waiting for him to say something, anything to acknowledge that he has his back turned to what was once the closest person in his life.

It’s all too much, and your throat begins to burn. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry.

Then you feel it.

The lightest brush of Kyle’s fingers against your hand, hesitant and trembling, as if asking for permission.

You freeze.

He doesn’t grab, doesn’t force. He just …. waits. His pinky hooked barely against yours, a question hanging between you.

For a second, you want to pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you shift your hand just a little, letting your pinky catch his.

You wait, wondering if his graze was accidental or if he’s going to acknowledge where you two are linked. You feel your stomach twist, and you watch the trees gently sway under the moonlight. You try to calm yourself down and inhale as quietly as possible before exhaling when you just barely hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you get hit with a familiar feeling. Of you two sharing a bed before and him whispering those same words.

You feel as if you should turn, and face him to see what he says next, but you are still frozen, petrified that any moment, you’ll wake up to find you’re still in your apartment and Kyle is still a million miles away from you.

“I don’t know why I didn’t call you or talk to you. I - I was 21, and you were the most important person in my life. I, I just couldn’t lose you.” his voice cracks at the end, and he sounds absolutely wrecked at the idea.

“And then I did.” he continues “It was stupid, but I didn’t know how to be your friend after knowing what it’s like to kiss you, to hold you, to be with you. And it fucking killed me, it - it haunted me. And every day we didn’t talk, I didn’t know how to reach out to you. And then you were gone completely.”

You’ve gone completely still. Of all the things, you expected him to say, you didn’t think that would be it.

“Please, just say something, love. Anything.” he pleads, and releases a bone-rattling sigh.

“Kyle,” and you hear your voice tremble. “I was in love with you. And you- you left me.”

As soon as you say the word love, you hear Kyle shift over, and turn to face you, and you know you should follow suit. Turn to face him and brace this reconciliation, but the thought of dealing with his rejection again keeps you in place.

He shifts, moving to grab your hand but pausing. The burning pressure behind your eyes is throbbing, and you have no doubt that you’re fully crying at this point. You feel Kyle’s stare at your back, and you crawl into yourself more, leaving only your hand outstretched for him to still anchor onto.

"That day," Kyle starts, voice cracking a little, "the one where I fell out of the helicopter..." He swallows hard. "The first thing I thought of was you.”

You suck in a shaky breath, clutching the blanket tighter.

"I thought about—" His voice catches. He scrubs a hand over his face like he's trying to pull the words out by force. "I thought about how if this was it, if I was gonna die, you'd think... you'd think I didn’t love you.”

You’re certain that the entire house could hear the sob you let out at that. Without even realizing it, you’ve turned over to him, and Kyle looks just as devastated as you do.

Kyle’s eyes are red-rimmed, his mouth pressed tight like he’s holding back everything at once. He starts to reach for you, then pulls back, and fists the sheets instead.

"I wanted to call you," he says hoarsely. "A thousand times. I just—" He laughs once, brokenly. "I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know what to say to make it better."

You stare at him, blinking hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

"I just..." His voice goes nearly silent. "I missed you so much, love."

He lets the silence stretch between you. A lifetime of things unsaid crowding the room.

"I'm sorry," he says again, almost inaudible. "For all of it."

You don’t say anything, close your eyes for just a moment to process what was just said to you. Kyle continues to breathe shakily, closing his eyes as well.

He’s thrown out his lifeline, laid every card on the table, and you feel your heart break — for all the words unsaid, for all the time missed.

You tentatively grab his hand, intertwining your fingers together fully.

Kyle chokes on a sob, shifting closer so your foreheads touch, closing his eyes to breathe you in, holding tight to the fact that you’re just there, close and in his arms once again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and you two stay like that, fingers intertwined as you fall asleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

October 12, 2024 -  1:28 A.M.

Kyle mentally runs through the wedding planner’s checklist to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, like tripping on an untied shoelace and face-planting down the aisle.

He glances down at the daisy chain wrapped around his wrist, something you had woven for him the day before, tucking it into his palm with a kiss to the cheek before vanishing behind closed doors until today.

It took time to get here. To rebuild the foundation, and Kyle wishes he could say it was easy. That things simply slid back into the place the way they used to when you were kids.

He took the time to learn you again, the woman you’d become in those eight years, no longer just the girl who climbed over his fence or the teenager who spun with him under disco lights.

And the more he found, the more he fell.

Nobody was surprised when you finally announced that the two of you were dating. Both your mums claimed they knew all along. Kyle suspects they did.

Then the violins start.

Everyone stands.

And Kyle has to remind himself how to breathe.

Your silhouette appears at the end of the aisle, and his heart pulls so tight it aches. You glow, so soft and radiant in white, and walking arm in arm with your father. And suddenly he’s seven years old again, dressed in his favorite Easter outfit, as a circle of stuffed animals bear witness to your first “wedding.”

The memory clings to him now, tugging at his ribs like a second heartbeat.

You catch his eye, and he smiles widely.

You smile back even brighter.

You take your time crossing the aisle, careful with every step, the train of your dress sweeping heavy behind you.

After Christmas Eve, everything shifted. Kyle called every day, texted when he could, and reached out in whatever way to let you know he was thinking of you. And you, despite everything, met him there, refusing to run and instead letting him show up.

After what feels like an hour, you finally make it to the front of the alter, your father kissing your cheek before handing you off and you step in front of Kyle.

“Hi,” he whispers. His cheeks flush pink, and suddenly you see the six-year-old boy you met all those years ago, with red skin and scraped knees, and honeycomb-colored eyes that you secretly hope your kids get.

“Hi,” you whisper back, sounding so giddy to your own ears. If anyone were to look at you, you’re sure you're glowing with love as you look at the man who is about to be yours forever.

You hate to admit it, but the ceremony blurs by you until it’s time for your vows, and Kyle is shakily unfolding a piece of paper.

“The day we met, I remember I was so amazed that I could be in a place so bright compared to rainy London.” The audience laughs lightly at that, as the rain drums steadily against the chapel roof above, like London itself is blessing your vow.

“And then you came along, somehow making everything brighter. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything changed.

You’ve been in my life so long, I don’t remember a version of myself without you in it. You’ve seen me through every season —every good bit, every broken bit — and you never stopped showing up. So today, I’m promising to do the same. To show up. To love you properly.

You’ve always been my home. And I’m so bloody lucky I get to spend the rest of my life coming back to you.”

You can’t hide your tears if you try, and you hope that the officiant finally says you can kiss the bride by the time you lunge toward Kyle and pull him towards you. Luckily, Kyle is just as eager and he kisses you like he’s waited half his life for this moment, the audience laughing as Kyle flips off Johnny’s suggestive coughing.

The hotel is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after hours of laughter and champagne and dancing until your feet ache. You’re still in your dress, the zipper half-undone, your lipstick mostly gone, when Kyle carries you through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.

It’s calm, the way you know he is, arms around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, fists balling the fabric of your dress like he can’t bear to let go. Like he might go another decade without you again.

He sets you down gently on the bed, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You stare at one another, drinking each other in. You know every line of his face, could sketch a portrait blindfolded and backwards, but tonight he looks new. Lit from within.

In love.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless with happiness, and Kyle follows the sound like a prayer. His lip finds yours, and he kisses you slow, deep, and steady. Taking his time to permanently cement this moment.

He unzips your dress like he’s unwrapping something sacred, fingertips dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. You tug at his shirt with clumsy hands, and he chuckles in disbelief into your mouth, letting you pull it over his head.

“What?” You ask, smiling a little breathlessly at him, and he runs his thumb across your cheek.

“I just can’t believe it’s you,” he says, awe in his eyes and in his voice. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, moving down to your shoulder, your ribs.

You don’t have a clever reply. All you can do is kiss him, slow and deep, like saying me too without words. Your hands cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the slight curve of his smile, and you think about how you’ll always get to kiss him like this.

When he finally moves between your legs, it’s patient, worshipful. His hands fit perfectly against your hips, like he was made to hold them, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively, already breathless from the weight of him against you.

“Sill okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Always,” you whisper back, and he slides into you with a groan so soft and reverent it nearly breaks your heart.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

There’s no rush, no teasing, just him rocking into you slow and sweet. His hands lace yours again like he did all those years ago, and he kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t put into words. Like saying I love you isn’t enough so he has to show it with his body.

You cry a little when you come. It’s embarrassing and messy and overwhelming and Kyle just holds you tighter, kisses your cheeks, tells you how good you’re doing, how beautiful you are. He follows soon after, soft curses pressed to your throat, hips stuttering as he falls apart with you.

You stay like that for a long time, just holding one another. Breathing each other in.

“I love you,” you whisper, tracing a light thumb over his cheek as he smiles at you.

“Forever and always,” he whispers back and kisses the inside of your wrist.

You smile against him as sleep pulls you both under.

Like gravity.

Like home.

[pureshadough]

crk reread - prologue

(long post with lots of images under the cut!)

why the fuck are the prologue cutscenes so low quality and bitcrunched?

are the ancients ever referred to as just The Five anywhere else in game? i think it's literally just in this single instance. very strange

soul jam's nature was so Dubious during prelaunch. are they unique to the virtue holders specifically, or a universal concept given a title and Emphasis for these exceptionally strong instances of them? we have soul stones which are described as having their essence, but its never been particularly clear if each individual cookie has a soul stone as like, their actual SOUL or not, and if souljam is moreover supposed to be synonymous in this use-case. i think devsis probably didn't really know themselves until a bit of a ways in. interesting to look back on

i have a deep appreciation for how all of the ancients get crowns & diagrams of their kingdoms behind them EXCEPT for lily

and if you didnt manage to catch on to the fact she was the odd one out of the group, this quad shot spells it out even clearer

do we ever see the flags for hb and gc's kingdoms outside of this cutscene? can't remember. surely we do

I still have no fucking idea how she's here for this.

god damn kim has been putting her heart into every single pv line since day one. i need more people to listen to the korean voice acting for this game the delivery is genuinely so fucking excellent across the board

the use of eternity in this sentence is. Interesting.

IVE NEVER NOTICED THAT THEY BOTH START TO CRUMBLE DURING THIS??? dark moon magic is some wild shit my dude

these early early game (practically prototype) cutscenes are SO strange looking by comparison to today. lily looks like shes from a newgrounds flash animation from 2008 here. wet cat

ever wondered why the vanilla kingdom is permanently airborne?

Yeah

it wasn't always airborne

you can also briefly catch the souljams scattering across earthbread in that shot!

small detail people often forget about: while many cookies have indeed escaped the witches grasp after being baked before, im of the understanding here that gingerbrave is uniquely the only cookie to have ever escaped from inside the oven itself, mid-baking process. the kid also manages to avoid most every hazard for the unknowable amount of time he was running before he at last passed out from exhaustion after attacking a wolf. King shit

corporate wants you to find the difference between these two images

oh what the fuck i COMPLETELY forgot about this. all of them knew each other pre-game! what! sure!

okay now This.

are we ever gonna come back around to this one devsis because What the fuck are you talking about. Why. Does this not completely undercut everything going on with white lily. In the first 15 minutes of playtime. WHY DOES STRAWBERRY PROCEED TO NEVER BRING THIS UP AGAIN. GINGERBRAVE DOESNT EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE THIUS AT ALL IN THE MOMENT???? ITS SO DARK IN HERE

the sugar gnomes immediately approaching three Actual Children when they happen to congregate within the ruins of the old kingdom they lived at and going REBUILD SOCIETY is so fucking funny to me

i know the intentions of most of this is near-exclusively to teach the player the base game mechanics but the concept of cookie cutters as they function in the gacha being a Real Thing in this universe is so. ????!?!??!?!?!??!?

i recall wizard gets disproven here a few chapters later but Man even the game cant decide on which variation of its lore to go with

SUMMONING BEACON

ahhh yes good old chili pepper and her singular personality trait of Is A Thief. i will be skipping most of her dialogue henceforth

will we EVER elaborate on what this fucking power from "The Legends" is supposed to be. Ever. We are so far removed from this initial plot at this point. devsis has the opportunity to bring back the funniest chekhovs gun in all of fiction

custard cookie's korean performance makes him INFINITELY more tolerable to listen to. dare i say its Cute, Even. he's just a little guy.

thats about it for prologue besides a bunch of really short & unvoiced tutorial cutscenes. I am forever haunted by the fact like 70% of the details established in this like 45 minute stretch have been pretty much completely abandoned in the modern day. GOD I WISH THEY DID ANYTHING WITH STRAWBERRY SEEING A COOKIE GET EATEN. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. i remembered she had *a* scene involving a witch encounter but not whatever the hell they were trying to do with THIS. The missed potential for her to have the most insane possible conversations with DE/lily. A literal nine year old coped better with seeing god consume its own creation than her. Fuck.

[seraphrelic]

⟡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ DEADLINE DARLING — Stephen Glass x reader.

SUMMARY: Being an intern at The New Republic wasn’t supposed to mean running errands for Stephen - but somehow, it always does. He’s charming, persistent, and maybe just a little too good at getting what he wants. You know you’re being used. You just can’t bring yourself to stop him.

A/N: first of all — i’m so sorry this is so short!! i just wanted to get something out there <3 and second, can we talk about how FINE hayden was in this movie?? #ilovehotnerds

reblogs appreciated !

WARNINGS: stephen being the little manipulative shit he is but it’s okay, doormat energy, kind of delusion if you squint but we’ve all been there

──────────────────────

being an intern wasn’t necessarily everybody’s dream job, but for you — it was the chance to get a job at the new republic, something you’d have to be stupid for to throw away.

of course, any additional work was immediately left for you to deal with. Running errands, printing paperwork, bringing everybody coffee, it was quite tiring. constantly having your hands busy with something.

although, since your first day at the building, a certain somebody caught your attention. stephen glass, one of the writers. quite the interesting one at that.

he appeared to be well respected and liked within the community, the others always including him into their plans and intently listening to what he had to say.

and despite that, he still behaved as if somebody was watching him, like he was wearing a mask, covering the real him. it was, intriguing? something you were convinced only you noticed.

now, stephen also became familiar with you being the new intern, using that to his advantage. he’d search for you in the building, make small-talk, then somehow manage to have you complete his daily tasks, just like that.

you asked yourself, how hard could it be to just simply say no, it wasn’t comparable to being held at gunpoint, right?

well, not exactly. whenever stephen wanted something, he’ll do anything to achieve just that, even if it means reeling you in with his untrue claims.

„Please, Y/n, I’ve got three articles to finish today. You wouldn’t want me to get fired, would you?”

oh, how desperately you wanted to decline his pleas, but it was no use. his puppy dog eyes were only causing things to be more difficult as you battled against the smile that was slowly forming on your face.

stephen was currently looming over you, scanning you entirely with those piercing eyes. he’d fix his glasses occasionally, his notebook snug within the pocket of his pants. that’s where he probably kept his information for future articles.

noticing that you weren’t fully convinced, he simply let out a devastated sigh, once again, having to pull out the big guns.

„I’ll say a good word about you to Chuck?” his expression softened even more, his eyes practically begging for you to take all of his duties — despite already having a full schedule, surely a few more hours wouldn’t hurt?

„Okay, Stephen. Good luck with your articles.” was all you could reply with, not even regretting your agreement, not like it mattered, anyway.

was he actively manipulating you, making you do things he was well aware he could’ve done himself? well, yes.

but was it insanely hot? the way he’d only pay his attention to you, trust you with his errands, occasionally check you out, catching him staring intently only to watch him look away almost immediately, his cheeks flushed a scarlet red shade. it all made it worth it.

maybe, being told what to do wasn’t so bad after all.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

[anneangel]

Are the dynamics of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship unhealthy?

It's quite enlightening to watch Good Omens season 2 knowing the ending, because Aziraphale and Crowley's behavior in the first episode already tells us why they act the way they do in the end.

In the first episode of the second season, Aziraphale is the kind person who is dedicated to doing what is fair and sensible, even if it gets him in trouble, and even if it can get him in hurt, he does what he thinks is right. You see, he is the one who decides that he will help Gabriel, even though Gabriel has been snobbish and cruel to him from the beginning, when the archangel arrives defenseless at his door, Aziraphale decides to welcome him immediately, without thinking about the consequences that will come. Aziraphale is a true angel, so to speak.

On the other hand, Crowley is more practical than kind, and he doesn't see a problem in being that way. He's a demon, it's 'ok' for him. For him the situation is easy, he simply wants to "send" Gabriel far away. Crowley is almost selfish, it doesn't matter that Gabriel is in trouble and needs help, Gabriel's not his friend, he doesn't like him, so Crowley doesn't see himself as having an obligation to help him. Crowley only cares about himself and the people he loves (Aziraphale), in the logic of "I only care about you and me" (us).

They have an communication problem when using "exactly." Aziraphale wants to help Gabriel "exactly" because he has no friends who can help him. But Crowley doesn't want to help "exactly" because they are not Gabriel's friends and it is his own fault for not having any friends.

Aziraphale is firm in his decision to do what he thinks is right (keep Gabriel, regardless of the problems that may arise from it), while Crowley wants to do what is easier and more practical for both of them (send Gabriel away so they can continue to live their lives, without problems).

Aziraphale claims that he will help Gabriel regardless of Crowley's help. And says that if he won't accept the idea, he can leave. And Crowley does!

That's exactly what happened in the end. Aziraphale, when given the option to go to heaven, saw it as an opportunity to do the right thing, to better deal with the "fights" between heaven and hell, and to protect the earth. He assumes that by being in a higher position, he will be able to do more. He is being an angel, he thinks he can do good, more and better, if he accepts the position offered.

On the other hand, Crowley is not interested in the supposed greater good that they can achieve if they go to heaven. He is more practical. For him, things are very simple. Heaven and hell don't matter, he doesn't like either and doesn't see why he has to ally himself with one or the other, even earth may no longer be a viable option for him, all that matters is him and those he loves. For him, it is normal to suggest that Aziraphale stay with him and that they both run away. An "us", just like Gabriel and Beelzebub, an "us" that doesn't involve the others.

They have a communication problem again, Aziraphale wants to go to heaven "exactly" because he believes he can do more for the earth from there. But Crowley doesn't want to go "exactly" because he doesn't believe in that.

This is the dynamic of S2E1, when Aziraphale does what he thinks is right, while Crowley wants to do what is best for "us" only.

We know that, after seeing that he won't persuade Aziraphale (even after kissing him and everything), and knowing that he won't accept Aziraphale's idea (about going with him to heaven), Crowley leaves. But let's remember what happened before… In S2E1 Crowley returns when he realizes that Aziraphale could get into "a lot of trouble", it's because he cares about Aziraphale, that's why he returns.

He doesn't help Gabriel because he really wants to, he helps Gabriel because he loves Aziraphale enough to give up his own will and do what Aziraphale needs him to do, he gives in and does what Aziraphale wants. So he returns (because Aziraphale needs him, and because Crowley loves him, he wouldn't stop helping his angel), and he is also the one who apologizes (for being the one who selfishly suggested not helping and abandoning Gabriel. Aziraphale, being the angel that he is, was taking the right stance of trying to help Gabriel, even if it was inconvenient and difficult. Crowley recognizes this, and that's when he realizes that Aziraphale is right, because Aziraphale is using higher principles, of kindness and empathy. And because of that, Crowley recognizes that he was wrong: he wanted to do what was easy and what was best for him [for both of them, for "us"], instead of helping Gabriel).

On the other hand, at the end of S2E6, Crowley walked out the door and didn't come back. Aziraphale, in this view, doesn't abandon Crowley. It was Crowley who abandoned Aziraphale, when he refused to go along with Aziraphale's plan. Aziraphale, by going with Metatron, is just moving forward, just doing what he told Crowley he would do, go to heaven. It's Crowley who doesn't back down. This time, unlike S2E1, he can't give up his own will. He can't give in. He can't tell himself that he's wrong, not this time. So he hopes Aziraphale will then go back. he hopes that this time it will be Aziraphale who gives in and backs down. And we know that this doesn't happen, because he enters the elevator.

I would be very angry if in the final special/movie, Crowley was the one who changed his mind and helped Aziraphale, realizing that he needed to do so. I would also be angry if he was the one who did the "apology dance/ I was wrong dance". Because if something like that happens, it will be a replica of what happened in S2E1.

The big issue is that, for a proper conclusion, it would be good for them to have adequate communication. And also that it not be limited to "one being right and the other wrong".

A healthy relationship cannot be based on "one being right and the other wrong", this is a toxic structure that both learned from the "Heaven vs. Hell" dynamic, and are replicating in their relationship without realizing it.

So it's not interesting that Crowley does the apology dance, nor that Aziraphale does it. They need to talk and apologize for hurting each other (because they both got hurt from that situation).

They both have to learn that they need true and honest communication, respect for each other's individual boundaries, and that yes, they must support each other and have confidence in the relationship dynamics they have…

… But for this trust to exist, they need to learn to value each other's individuality (there can't be this thing of one having to be right and the other wrong, being in a relationship is understanding that your partner won't always have the same opinion as you, and that's okay, you shouldn't try to make the other the 'the wrong' in the situation because of that, nor make he/her/they feel inferior or degraded by having to apologize), they will also have to learn to never do anything that affects each other's self-esteem (like when Crowley calls Aziraphale an idiot, fool, naive [or any epithet that suggests something like that], or when Aziraphale infers that Crowley's status as a Demon makes him inferior or terrible [whether when he does it jokingly, or when Aziraphale suggests that Crowley could be something better if he went back to being an angel]).

In other words, in a healthy relationship, both people should look out for each other's well-being, even when they are not in tune, even when they are expressing divergent opinions, even when the other person is not acting/being/doing what you want.

If there is a problem to be discussed, they should acknowledge each other's points of view, respectfully and trying to put themselves in each other's shoes, and find a solution that satisfies both, without one dominating the other, without saying anything that affects each other's self-esteem and individuality.

This is the dynamic of a healthy relationship, and unfortunately Crowley and Aziraphale do not seem to have this yet (as much as we hope they understand each other and are happy, they need to learn all this to be a healthy and exemplary couple). Will they be able to achieve this?

[angeliteeyes]

Hihi

Could we get reader S/O who is getting harassed/bullied somewhere like work and their partner finds out? I’m kind of curious how a jokey character like Hu Tao would react or handle this situation but if you would have another character you would prefer that’s cool too.

Have a lovely time of day!

Hehehe... Hu as in "Who upset my darling S/O?" and Tao as in "They need to geT OUt!" Hehe.... No, not funny?

Lmao anyway—hope you enjoy ;p

Hu tao x Reader - How She'd React to Finding Out You're Being Bullied at Work

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

You weren't always like this.

Hu Tao knows your reaction to her startling you like the back of her hand—or at least, she used to. Heaven knows how many times she's coaxed it out of you, after all; the way your eyes would widen in shock as you let out a shrill little shriek was simply too adorable to pass up. But lately... something has been off. Your muscles would tense far tighter than they used to. When your eyes met, they bore into hers the way a scared stray's would, an innate layer of fragility coating them. And perhaps worst of all, you lost your signature smile when you finally recognized her, it being replaced with a fake, plastic mockery of the joyful expression she loves so dearly.

That same fauxness appears every time your job comes up in discussion, she's noticed. Time and time again, it's always the same pleasantries about work going "well", and never any actual details, despite her regular poking and prodding. You also get particularly cagey when the topic of coworkers pops up and endlessly end up shying away from further questioning, much to her chagrin.

As she paces around her abode, the weight of her dilemma presses against her tiny shoulders. How is she supposed to help you out when you won't even tell her what's going on? Oh, if only she could just curse whatever pesky person's bothering you...

Her feet come to a halt.

"Curses, huh..." An eerie grin stretches across her face as her eyes narrow in mischievous excitement. Soon, the walls echo with bone-chilling giggles, the kind only someone with as strange a sense of humor as her could produce.

"I guess I can figure something out after all."

-

Hu Tao's odd behaviors were nothing new to you, including her strange penchant for gifting you items you couldn't recognize. Whenever you'd ask about their meaning, her answers were, at best, roundabout and unclear. At worst, she'd merely giggle creepily, following with cryptic deflections. Things like that you "shouldn't worry about it" or "you'll understand eventually".

Perhaps that's why, as she determinedly pushes an amulet into your palms right before work with a stern warning to keep it on the whole workday, you listen without question. Why wouldn't you? As much as you aren't anywhere near as skilled or knowledgeable in spiritual matters as her, you knew better than to doubt her own talents and wisdom. That's practically a death wish (both literally and figuratively).

It's only once your colleague comes over that the true meaning behind her actions becomes clear. You brace yourself, awaiting a crude string of words like you've come to expect, when—

Growwwllllll.

The two of you stand in confused silence for a second, processing the sound. More important than the actual noise, though, is the source of it. And based on the way that they're clasping their arms over their stomach... No way. Really?

Grooooowwwwlllllll.

Even louder this time, you stare in complete bewilderment at the sight before you. At this point, they've hunched over so severely that they're basically bowing at you, a gesture you know for a fact they'd never do under any other circumstance. It's taking everything within you not to burst out into laughter, honestly, but you somehow manage to hold it back. Just in time, too, as they sheepishly whisper an excuse to leave and run off towards the nearest restroom.

On a typical weekday, their comments would stab at you like thorns all throughout it. Not today, though. Turns out their intestinal issues put them out of commission for the rest of your shift, granting you much-needed peace and quiet. You would feel sorry for them, but... well, what goes around comes around, right?

You pull out your newly acquired amulet and smile—a real, earnest one this time. As much of a jokester as Hu Tao may be, you know better than anyone else how serious she gets when it comes to important matters. Even if her methods still retain her signature eccentricity, the heart behind them was, and always has been, painfully sincere.

-

As you return to your shared home, a familiar face pokes out from behind the entranceway walls, goofy grin and all. Her eyes are swimming with amusement and anticipation as they make contact with yours.

"Yo! How did work go? Anybody end up bothering you?" Her tone is laced with joyful giddiness as she awaits your response.

The mention of your job stirs up plenty of negative emotions and discomfort—or at least, it would've any other day. But this time, a wave of relief courses through you, finally understanding that you don't have to struggle on your own any longer. You pull her into a warm hug and gently nestle into her. This time, she's the one that ends up wide-eyed in surprise, her normal fiery energy temporarily being quenched by your arms.

"I had a wonderful day. Thank you."

A few quiet seconds pass before you feel her own limbs snake around your torso. It's moments like these in which you get to glimpse a softer, shyer side of your lover, an honor you try to cherish every chance you get.

After some time, Hu Tao pulls herself back and, to your surprise, she's now pouting at you. Usually, this expression of hers is reserved for petty attempts to get out of things like chores or consequences for her pranks that went too far, yet the one before you right now feels different. Softer, perhaps.

"Just don't hide this sort of thing from me again, got it? It's no fun when you get all sad and mopey." Her face contorts, an attempt to make her pout and words appear more playful. You're not buying it, though. And so, you respond to her thinly veiled plea with the genuine affirmation she desires.

"I promise."

[pixiedurango]

Lucanis to F! Mage! Rook (Yvonne) Mercar

Post Veilguard, Rook is busy participating in the repairs of Minrathous. With his obligations Lucanis was forced to go back to Antiva and he miss his lover

Ding Dong! Antivan Postal Service back to deliver! Thank you so much for your ask and the interesting backstory you told me bts about how sweet your Rook and Lucanis' dynamic is. I hope I do it justice and you (and Yv) enjoy.

Transcript:

Yv. My beloved.

One would think the Ossuary would have taught me at least the ability to endure time, but it seems, missing you is a whole new kind of torture. Call me dramatic, but after all you knew what you are in for with an Antivan man. We live and breathe drama and elevate it to whole new levels.

But even without the added drama: I still miss you. Every now and then I see a flower that I know you love, or taste food that is one of your favorites. Even worse… or good… when I catch a scent that reminds me of yours and I am catapulted right back into sweet memories of times, cherished together.

The other day I went to see a ballet. It wasn’t even in the Dellamorte Opera House where my attendance as First Talon would have been obligatory, no! I fully inflicted the sweetest of torments on myself by walking into the Treviso Public Theater to watch Swan Lake. I wished, we could have shared this experience. But since I know it’s not possible at the moment - even with the luxury of short travels via the eluvians - so it was the closest thing I could do to feel like we’re sharing a moment together.

See, Yv, mi amor - it’s hard to top the drama that is an Antivan man, let alone a Crow, when they… feel. And, Maker! Do I feel! Almost forgotten, buried under years, decades - a lifetime of pushing away every emotion in order to be able to to what I was supposed to do. You saved me. In more ways than you think even possible.

Mierda! I had intended to write a lighthearted letter to you, telling about my days as First Talon and only in a sweet undertone there was supposed to be an even sweeter hint of ‘I miss you, hurry, my heart, so we can be together soon again.’ Well, I guess, I royally messed that up! But I am not ashamed to admit it, either. Because I know, that my words will make you smile as you read them and that alone is worth everything to me.

Of course, if you can’t come for a visit, soon - a letter will have to make do, but I hope you’ll tell me everything about how your days are going and how Minrathous is rebuilt up to thrive soon again. But it’s also the little things I long to hear about. Do you eat enough? Sleep well? What made you smile? How many cats have you petted and are you recharging after doing a lot of magic, mi amor? Do you take time off your busy day to do something for yourself? Nourish the soul? Read a novel, listen to the bards, practice your dancing, buy yourself a treat? If not, and I highly suspect, that more often than not, you tend to forget, promise me to take an hour away from duty every day and use it for something beautiful just for yourself.

And of course, if you can’t come over to Treviso any time soon - be assured, that I will elope from my First Talon duties (which are not as tense as first suspected, since Caterina is still technically in charge and unwilling to let go, yet), and find you in Minrathous. I can help with what ever needs to be done and I know you don’t like to accept my gold - but you surely won’t reject the honest work of two willing hands which don’t shy away from getting dirty. And I mean that not even in a Crow way, but quite literally.

So, I’ll let myself be surprised which will find me first - a letter written by your sweet hand, or you in person, which of course I’d vastly prefer.

Stay safe. Try not to kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it and promise me to at least try to do any of the things I suggested above. It will do you good, believe me! It makes a difference - I can tell, because I try to remember and take times off like this for myself more frequently. Remember? To live life, means to live it fully. We may not have been able to do it back then - but we can choose to do it. From now on and forever. I love you!

Yours always ~ Lucanis

find all the other Antivan Postal Service letters here Rules for application to get your own letter here Veilguard faction dividers from here, thank you @flowersforthemachines

[strwbiris]

you'll be like everyone else.

yandere! popular! boy x average! fem reader trigger warning: dark themes, emotional abuse, stalking, psychological manipulation, obsessive behavior, god complex, power imbalance, paranoia, subtle mentions of suicide. (if i miss anything, do let me know.) note: this story is focused more on the mental toll of psychological manipulation, obsession, and stalking of the reader. read at your own discretion. this story is not yet proofread and will be edited soon. also, if you do know the artist of the art in the banner, do let me know. :)

yandere! popular! boy is the kind of guy everyone in school knows. If you haven’t heard of him by now, are you living under a rock? With his keen good looks, charming words, and annoyingly perfect smile, he has the entire students wrapped around his finger. Girls swoon, and boys either admire him or silently wish they were him.

yandere! popular! boy isn't downright cruel, but he's far from a saint. He skips detention without hesitation to attend his basketball practices. He steals a look at someone's paper during test, and he attends every party, frequently leaving with someone on his arm. It's just who he is: irresponsible in a way that only adds to his appeal.

He's a natural extrovert who exudes charm. With a single flash of his pearly whites, people fell in line. He can turn strangers into friends in minutes, as if it was second nature. If he even acknowledges your presence, let alone speaks to you, consider yourself lucky.

As captain of the basketball team, the school's pride and the bringer of every trophy and medal, he’s practically a hero in the eyes of the staff. The coach treats him like a golden child, and his teammates envy or admire him. He wasn't chosen as a captain for no reason after all.

And then there’s you. A typical student, slipping into the background as you always have. You're not a loner; you have a small group of friends and participate in a few extracurricular activities after school.

Everything about you is average. Your looks, your grades, your hobbies, even your personality—nothing too special. You’re not the type people turn their heads for, and you’ve grown used to it. You’re content floating under the radar, doing your own thing while the more noticeable people take the spotlight.

But for some reason, he noticed you. You do not worship the said boy. Sure you can agree that he's fairly attractive, but you're well aware that there's probably something deeper going on behind that charming smile and polished appearance. Hell, you won't be even surprised if he's doing drugs behind everyone's back. It’s just human nature—no matter how flawless someone appears, there’s often something far less admirable lurking beneath the surface.

It all started when you bumped into him in an empty hallway on Saturday afternoon. He came to school because he still has basketball practices despite the weekend, and you were supposed to pass an essay that you did for one of your extracurriculars to the president. Absorbed on your phone, messaging your friend, you just suddenly collided with something or rather someone.

You immediately apologized, feeling a little intimidated under his gaze. You’d never interacted with the yandere! popular! boy before—only heard a few scattered rumors, so you had no idea what to expect. To your surprise, he just offered a quick smile, helped you to your feet, and gathered the papers you’d dropped without a word of complaint.

You thanked him and walked away, rushing because you were short on time. All you wanted was to get home, collapse into your bed, and indulge in your favorite snacks and shows. Behind you, he watched, his eyes following your retreating figure until you disappeared from his view. There was something about the way you left that held his attention. You weren’t awestruck like the others. You didn’t look at him with admiration, longing, or curiosity.

The interaction had been simple—brief even, but something about it felt raw, unfiltered. From the way you carried yourself, he could already tell you weren’t like the girls who usually threw themselves at him, all trying to impress with flashy curves, tan lines, and revealing outfits. There was a quiet defiance in your indifference, and it stuck with him. Your resistance—it irritated him. But more than that, it intrigued him. For the first time in a while, he felt a spark of genuine excitement. A challenge. And he was more than ready to make you worship and praise him, just like everyone else eventually did.

After that brief interaction, you started seeing the yandere! popular! boy everywhere. And I mean everywhere. You’re in the library, absorbed in a novel you just picked up? He’s there too, pretending to read, but clearly watching you. His eyes follow your movements, the way your fingers turn the pages, how your gaze stays locked on the words like the rest of the world has faded away.

You're in the cafeteria, laughing with your friends over lunch? Of course he's there, but out of all the empty tables in the room, he picks the one right next to yours. At first, you brushed it off. Maybe he just likes that spot. No big deal. You even told yourself you were overthinking it. Because there’s no way he’s actually interested in you, right? You’re not his type. You're sure of it.

Everywhere you went, he was there. And what began to gnaw at your nerves was his constant gaze. Even when he was surrounded by friends, laughing and chatting, his eyes never fully left you. Always watching, always lingering.

The paranoia you'd been trying to ignore surged to the surface, as you were walking home alone one late evening. The sun had long disappeared, leaving the streets draped in darkness, broken only by the glow of flickering streetlights.

You’d walked this path late before, never once feeling afraid, but tonight felt different. The lights seemed harsher, too bright in their unsteady flicker. And the silence wasn’t comforting — it pressed in around you, heavy and cold. For the first time, every step echoed too loudly, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t walking alone. You glanced over your shoulder, heart pounding, but there was no one there. Just you and the flickering lights. You told yourself you were overthinking — letting your mind spiral for no reason. But deep down, you knew exactly why.

It was him. Ever since that day, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his gaze, heavy and sharp, even when he wasn’t there. It clung to you like a shadow. Everywhere you went, you could almost feel his eyes, his smile: watching, waiting. Even if he wasn't even there, his lingering gazes were engraved in your mind.

You shook your head, feeling ridiculous for letting your thoughts spiral. No one’s here—just me and my shadow, you told yourself, trying to steady your breathing. You picked up your pace, hoping movement would drown out the unease curling in your chest. As you hurried past a narrow, unlit alleyway, your eyes quickly took a glance in the alleyway. And there he was. Standing silently in the darkness, his figure barely visible, almost swallowed whole by the shadows. His eyes were fixed on you, unblinking.

Your own eyes widened in alarm, and before you could stop yourself, you were running. You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to know if he was really there or if your mind had finally caved under the weight of all your overthinking.

Meanwhile, he watches, hidden in the shadows, and it excites him. The way your fear unravels in front of him, how your grip on reality loosens, unraveling bit by bit. You’re different, he tells himself, a twisted sense of satisfaction creeping through him. You didn’t fall for him like the others did—didn’t chase after him, didn’t look at him with longing or admiration. So he’ll make you break. He’ll make you kneel in front of him, worship him, even if it means shredding your sanity piece by piece to do it.

The yandere! popular! boy's lips curled into a slow, mocking smile. Come on, now. I won’t hurt you. Just... don’t push me to. He stepped out of the alleyway, his gaze fixed on your running figure, a quiet chuckle slipping from his lips as he watched you stumble in your frantic state. Now, I’ll be constantly in your mind. Just like everyone else.

The following days, he starts talking to you more, always with that sickly sweet smile. His words are coated in honey, but there’s something sharp underneath, something that makes your skin crawl even when he’s complimenting you You try to pull away, to avoid him, but he closes the distance every time.

You were beyond confused—and terrified. Why was he doing this to you? You were just an average student, someone invisible to most people. So why was he so obsessed with you? The thought sent a cold shiver down your spine. It was all too much to comprehend, and it terrified you to the core.

Desperate, you tried to talk to the police, hoping someone would listen. But they brushed you off without a second thought. His family was well-known in town, too influential for your words to carry weight. They didn’t believe you. And that feeling of being completely powerless settled deep within you.

With the police refusing to help, you realized there was no one you could turn to. Who would believe you? The golden, untouchable boy of the school stalking you, a mere normal student? You could already picture the looks on their faces—the disbelief, the mockery, the ridicule.

You were slowly losing your sanity. Every corner you turned, every shadow that crossed your path, felt like it belonged to him. It was as if he were always just behind you, watching, waiting for you to let your guard down. The paranoia started to consume you. You could barely sleep anymore, dreading the thought that you might wake up one day to find him standing there—just standing in the corner, that eerie smile on his lips. It didn’t stop there. He even began appearing in your dreams, haunting you, following you everywhere you went, no matter where you tried to hide.

As the days dragged on, everything around you started feeling off, like the world you once knew wasn’t even real anymore. The usual buzz of daily life faded, replaced by this creepy silence, like the calm before something bad was about to happen. His gaze never left you, that constant feeling of being watched sticking to you like a second skin. Every corner you turned felt like it was hiding something—someone—and the shadows seemed to grow thicker, more suffocating, with every step you took.

Weeks have passed, and your apartment remains shrouded in darkness. The once fresh scent of your space has long dissipated, replaced by the faint but distinct odor that lingers in the air, ignored by the landlord, who has long since stopped knocking. The curtains, still unwashed and forgotten, sway gently with the breeze, a haunting reminder of days that have slipped away, unnoticed.

Your phone, abandoned on the countertop, vibrates with an unrelenting stream of notifications. The messages pile up, voices from a world that has slowly forgotten you. You don’t bother to check anymore, the endless pings echoing in your mind like a song you can no longer remember, but one that still feels so familiar. They’re all the same. Concerned, worried messages from people who no longer have the right to ask.

Your absence hasn't gone unnoticed, not entirely. Your teacher, concerned by the sudden emptiness at your desk, assumes you’re simply taking a break. After all, your exhaustion had been so visible in the days before, your sleeplessness growing as your mind seemed to crack under the weight of something unseen. You were always distant, eyes flickering like you couldn’t quite grasp where the world ended and you began.

The yandere! popular! boy carried on with his loud, vibrant life, keeping up the flawless image everyone admired. His smile remained perfect, flashing to the world as he moved from one conversation to the next, always at the center of attention.

No one suspected the truth hidden beneath his charm that he had unknowingly destroyed someone's world. Your absence, your empty desk, never seemed to faze him. He never questioned it, never acknowledged it. Instead, he wore his smile, pretending everything was fine. And as the world continued to praise him, he kept on smiling, never admitting the role he had played in your silence.

[starryoak]

Making memes out of my headcanons, part 3, swinging bats at hornets nests edition!

[bugdogg]

im teetering on the edge of something or another, feels like a breakdown but its more so falling back on old unhealthy habits that feel comforting to do but ultimately don't help me in the long run

anyway im coping somehow by comparing myself to dogs and going "haha im young, i got a ways to go before my evil villain arc"

[tearlessrain]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[inbabylontheywept]

she was dead silent on the drive home, but that was okay. sometimes, after band practice, she was just out of words. it was a short drive to her house. the only part where it actually felt weird was after i pulled up her parent’s driveway. 

after that, the silence stretched so far it smeared and left a weird residue. she kept looking at the car door like she wanted to leave, so i looked at the door too, then she looked at me, and i looked at her, and my first thought was that she was going to tell me that the door was stuck. i was used to that car always doing some damn thing. it was the car me and all my siblings had learned to drive in, and it was really beat to hell. there were dents all over the body, which we’d unsuccessfully tried fixing up with spackle. it had looked nice for maybe a week, but then the sun wrecked it - the spackle cracked up like the mud on the bottom of a dry riverbed and turned a sort of off yellow-white that made the car looked like it had been molded out of chicken shit. it also had a bullet hole it through the cabin that whistled like a toothless old man whenever the car went above 40, so loud it could drown out the radio, and a cabin that smelled so strongly of bugspray that even the arizona summer we drove everywhere we could with the windows down.

(if you have kids one day, you will maybe, possibly, begin to understand how much i loved that car.)

anyway, i was thinking about what else could possibly be wrong with the chickenshitmobile, and she just kept looking at me, and then i wondered if there was something on my face, and she just kept looking at me, and then the penny dropped and i realized she was trying to work up the nerve to break up with me. 

now, i’d seen her work up the nerve to do things like this before – it could take quite a while. and knowing it was about to happen made the waiting immediately unbearable. 

so i said hey. 

and she looked at me, very startled, and said hey back real small. like she’d been caught. and in a way, i suppose she had. 

and i said it’s okay. you can just say it. i’ll be okay.

i’m always okay. 

and she said: i’m really sorry. 

i loved her, you know? it was highschool, but teenagers are capable of love. the way people love changes over time just as much as the way they stand, or the way they talk, but things don’t stop existing just because they're different. opposite really – a thing only stops changing when it's fully gone.

and i said, nothing to be sorry for, and i meant it. she looked a little relived, and i was happy to give her that peace. then she left. i watched her make it through the front door, because that was just habit at that point, and then i sat there a while afterwards, checking how i felt. and the answer was not good, but good enough to make it home. good enough to limp on. 

so i put my car in reverse, took my last look goodbye, and immediately backed into her neighbor’s car. 

crunch. 

air bags didn't go off, which was good. i left a decent dent in the bumper of the other car. genuinely couldn’t tell if i did anything to my car – anything wrong with it just kind of blended together into the general ecosystem of hand mottled, sun cracked, chickenshit spackle. 

i checked my glove box, and my car insurance info was, of course, out of date. my phone was dead too. as a teenager, my phone was less my lifeline to my friends, and more my tether to my parents, so i wasn’t particularly conscious of keeping it charged. both my fault.

i sat there a few minutes, trying to think of the best way to handle things, and there was only one answer i could think of, and i hated that answer, so i spent a few more minutes trying and failing to think of a better one, and then a few more coming to peace with what had to be done. 

then i went back to knock on my now ex’s front door. 

her dad opened, which i was very relieved over, even if he seemed less than thrilled. he looked me over, and in a firm, but slightly apologetic way said: she does not want to see you right now. 

(i think he assumed i was going to try and talk her out of the break up?)

and i said not here for her. i just backed into your neighbor’s car, and i need to call my dad, but my phone’s dead. could i borrow yours?

and he looked at me, then back at his neighbors car, which sure enough was dented, then he looked at the chickenshitmobile, and if there was something wrong with it, it just kind of blended into the general Wrongness of the car, then back to me, and i could see him imagining the last ten minutes from my pov: getting broken up with, backing into a car, having to walk up to your exes door and borrow a phone, calling my dad to tell him that i just reversed into someone.  

and his expression shifted from stern and apologetic to truly sad, which felt more kind that i deserved. things only got here because i kept fucking up - forgot to look behind me, forgot to replace the insurance forms, forgot to charge my phone. it was my mess, but his sympathy meant the world to me. i probably would’ve cried if he said sorry, or patted me on the back or called me sport, but instead he said

stay out here – i’ll bring you a phone.

and then he left.  

i found a nice spot on the lawn in the shade under a sycamore, then settled into his grass.i was trying not to freak out, and was doing an okay job. he came out a minute or so later, not just with a phone, but a juicebox and a jar of green olives, which really threw a wrench in the whole try not to cry thing. soon as i saw those, a few tears squoze out. i was still hoping i could pass them off as Manly Tears but then he told me that he’d gotten the olives a few weeks before and had been meaning to hand them off to me, and that this was his last chance for that. then i made a sound like a horse drowning in a bog, and he patted my back pretty rough, four solid thumps, like he wasn't sure if i was crying or choking on an olive, and was trying to cover both bases at once.

then he went back inside, and i made a few more bog horse noises while finishing off the rest of the entire jar of green olives, and then i called my dad.

he was about ten minutes away that day, and luckily was home. he drove over, and we went to the neighbor’s house, and from there things actually went quite nice. the neighbor was a retired man who actually said he could fix the dent himself, no need for insurance. he said he appreciated that i didn't just drive off, and i said i was really sorry about his car, and he said he was really sorry about my car, and then he gestured to the chickenshitmobile and i laughed because it really was a disaster on wheels.

then we left.

i thought we were going to head straight home, but instead we went to a gas station, and we both got several slim jims that we folded into thick enough coils that we could put them on a hotdog bun because the growing up mormon equivalent of having a sad brewski with your dad is just choosing to make bad decisions sober. then he took me to the canals and we watched the sun turn all orange and pink, and he looked over at me and said:

brains are good at remembering bad days. so you gotta make sure that a bad day has a good part in it, so you can remember that too. remember that when you have a kid. try to do a good job on days like that - they're going to be a big part of how they remember you.

and then he gave me a big hug and said he was never going to eat another slim jim again.

---

the year after that i went to college, which kicked my butt in new and exciting ways. and on a lot of those bad days, after a test that went sour, or a faux paus that was particularly embarrassing, or some other hardship of my new adult life, i’d stop by the gas station and pick up leathery, half jerkied hotdog before heading to the canals to watch the sun set. i’d take a bite and imagine my dad next to me, grimacing through the slim-jim wad, asking what good thing i was going use that time to remember. 

and in my head, i’d say you, dad. 

i’m going to remember you.

[trainsinanime]

I wonder: Do Americans know about american school buses? Not their existence in general, but how they're seen overseas.

Over here, they're one of the symbols of America, on par with the Statue of Liberty, the flag, the Eagle, and well ahead of any chain restaurant you can name. People won't know any US states, but they will know these vehicles.

The thing is, here in Germany, we don't have dedicated school buses. The general idea is that kids go to school on their own. When that's not practical, they're expected to use (and given free tickets for) public transit. Public transit is designed around this requirement; there are many places where there is a bus, and anyone can get on it, but the route and timetable really only makes sense for school children. In case a dedicated school bus is really needed, that's generally subcontracted out, and the lines either use something like a Sprinter Van for smaller routes, or a normal city or interurban bus (often a used one that's a bit older). School trips are normal public transit, or a rented bus, typically a coach or regional bus.

It's not a perfect system, in the past couple of years there's been an epidemic of people bringing their kids to school in their cars instead of letting them walk, which is less than ideal. It is what it is. But building a dedicated network of public transit lines only for students, and building dedicated vehicles only for that, has never occurred to anyone here.

Of course we know about these buses, from movies and such, but they're as foreign here as cacti or pick-up trucks (actually we're seeing more and more of these here) or yellow cabs (all europeans will assume all cabs in the US are yellow until they actually visit).

You do see these buses here at times, because people still generally like the idea of the US, even if they have a lot of issues with a lot of details, and so folks bring them over, along with stretch limos and stuff (also not really a thing here). And of course, if someone goes to all that trouble, they don't do it to haul school kids, they rent it out for city tours or as a party bus or whatever.

So you see these yellow things as a symbol of faraway places, scenic vistas, some vague undefined idea of freedom that doesn't necessarily hold up to any contact with reality, and it's just a huge part of the whole US aesthetic.

And then you go to a student exchange with the US, and you finally get the chance: You yourself get to ride in one of these iconic chrome yellow buses! It looks just like in the movies! You get in, you drive in them a little…

…and you realise they're shit. Just the worst buses in the western world. Terrible suspension. Uncomfortable seats with weirdly high backs (so they don't have to put seatbelts in, they just restrict how far kids can fly in an accident). Everything made out of the cheapest materials. Turns out the reason why the US uses school buses like that instead of normal modern city buses, which the US has, is to save money and because they just hate kids.

And then it hits you why US Americans say "as American as apple pie", a dish that is made and enjoyed literally anywhere in the world, instead of "as American as yellow school buses". Of course the Americans already knew all this. They got tortured by these things forever. It would never occur to them to see this as a symbol of America, it's just a normal part of life for them. It's a symbol of school and school life and sometimes normalcy, and tells us that these actors getting out of it are supposed to be teenagers, nothing more.

But most people in Europe have, of course, never ridden on these buses. So when they see them in movies and TV, that's a giant big yellow signifier that we're not in Hessen or Wallonia or wherever anymore. A symbol of a different world, one that may be at most a once-in-a-lifetime-experience for most people, just like a picture of a tropical beach, Mayan Pyramids, the Great Wall of China, or Hildesheim (there's no reason to go there twice). And I think Americans don't know that, and that's fascinating.

[apatheticsunday]

Single Dad Dead on Main

AKA "Danny is the ghost-equivalent of a foster parent for de-aged Dani and Dan. Jason's just wondering who the hell these two feral meta children are." prompt idea!

Danny thinks he's doing an okay job at being a single dad of two. They're living in a quaint two bedroom apartment in Park Row, he's managing his Ghost King money well, and the kids haven't died (again). (He's definitely not getting a "World's Greatest Dad" mug anytime soon, but, hey, at least the house hasn't burned down yet!)

...Until he wakes up from his nap to an eerily silent apartment.

If there's one thing he's learned over the last few months, it's that silence is not good. He's scrambling off the couch fast enough to give himself a headache, practically flying down the hallway so he can get to the kids' room. Ellie is wedged halfway under her bunk bed. Dan's also squished under the bed but quickly squirms out when he realizes Danny's standing in the door way. He's holding... a socket wrench??

"...do I want to know what you two are doing?" Danny deadpans.

Ellie scrambles out as well, smears of something oily on her cheek. For a seven and eight year old, they have surprisingly convincing I'm innocent! expressions.

"I dunno," Ellie singsongs while Dan simultaneously barks, "Nothing!"

Danny squints. The kids squint back. Yeah, there's definitely something under the bed that's not supposed to be there. Since Dan's holding a wrench (and where the hell did he get that?? Danny doesn't even own any tools aside from maybe a little rubber mallet he found in the hallway closet), Danny hopes thinks it's not an animal.

It takes a minute of arguing in which Danny promises not to be mad, let them eat ice cream, and let them stay up an hour later than curfew for the kids to even let him near the bed without biting him. (Jokes on them, the ice cream is sugar free and Danny's going to reset the clocks to an hour before. Check and mate, bitch! Parenting is so easy.)

And then Danny pulls out... a tire. No, a rim. Two tire rims. Oh, Ancients. Engraved on the tire rim is a red Bat symbol. His stomach nearly drops to the floor; everybody in Crime Alley knows what the Red Hood's symbol looks like. "Eight Heads in a Duffle Bag," Crime Prince of Gotham with a gang big enough to take over all of Park Row. And yeah, Danny could easily beat the guy, but that doesn't mean he wants to. He doesn't want to uproot Dan and Ellie from their schools, move cities, run from yet another organization that wants them dead.

"How did you get this?" Danny asks, utterly dumbfounded.

"I dunno," Ellie says, just as Dan's saying, "Nowhere."

(Danny takes it back. Parenting is definitely not easy.)

"Danielle. Daniel. Where did you get these tire rims?" Danny asks again, more stern this time, to which he only gets shrugs. And that's when he notices the window is open and the screen his missing. "You're kidding me. Did you climb out the window? We're on the third floor!"

"We flew, duh." Ellie rolls her eyes, only shooting a wide-eyed, guilty look to Dan when he elbows her with a vicious shuddup!

"I-okay. Here's what we're going to do. We'll... just return the rims. It's not like the Red Hood saw you two steal them-," Danny stops when Ellie and Dan give each other a side-eye. He knows that look. It's the same look he and Jazz used to give each other when they had a silent agreement about something. Oh, no. No, no, no.

"...he didn't see you, did he?"

Another side-eye look. Oh, Ancients. At least there's no way the Red Hood knows where they are, right?

(Jason stares at the kids playing with his bike. He's not stupid enough to think they couldn't have been paid to sabotage it, but the way the little girl hikes herself up onto the seat and pretends to rev the engine makes him think otherwise. It's cute. The boy mostly seems interested in the engraved bat symbol on his tire rims, scraping at it like it's a 3D decal.

"I wanna be a bicycle-rider when I get bigger. I'll wear the jacket and everything!" The little girl laughs, deepening her voice before saying, "I'm a bicycle-rider! I'll beat you up!"

Jason snorts. He's leaning against the fire escape balcony overhead and it's dark enough for them not to see him, but they both freeze at the soft sound. When nothing happens, the kids relax again.

"It's a motorist, stupid. C'mon, help me take this off and I'll build you one."

"You wanna take the tire? Why?"

"'Cus of the symbol! It's the Batman symbol, do you know how scared people are of 'em? Show 'em this and nobody'll mess with us."

The kid's got a point. Crime Alley knows Red Hood's symbol like the back of their hand, but somehow Jason doesn't think rolling around a tire rim is going to have the same effect. Jason's about to step in when the kid bends the fucking metal with his bare hand. His fucking bike. It looks like the kid barely broke a sweat, too; just wiped his hands on his jeans and started prying apart front of his motorcycle.

Jason's voice is more biting than he means for it to when he shouts, "Hey!" He swings over the fire escape, landing with a heavy thud, before hauling ass towards the kids. Almost immediately the boy yanks the girl behind him and snarls... and his eyes go Lazarus-green. Jason stops abruptly. His voice is softer, gentler, when he tries again.

"Hey, kid. Don't you know not to go tearing apart people's bikes? C'mon, at least do it the right way."

That makes the boy pause, looking momentarily baffled and the green turning into bright blue. Jason takes that as an in and says, "Y'know, it's a lot faster when you use tools. I've got a wrench in my bag. If you use it like this..."

Jason spends the next thirty-five minutes helping the kids steal his own damn rims. He shouldn't. But he's curious about who these meta kids are and they're almost painfully easy to talk with, they just blabber like they've never heard of keeping a secret before in their lives. They talk about their dad, school, their favorite tv show. And then they talk about "the bad men" and Jason's stomach drops. "The bad men" who drive white vans, capture people, and experiment on them. And that sounds an awful lot like a meta-trafficking ring in his city, dead set on coming after the kids and their dad.

Then he's very, very grateful he's letting the kids take his rims home. After all, what Bat doesn't put GPS trackers in their symbols?)

[webism]

pornstar!nanami, who has a ritualistic approach to his job—go in, deliver a stellar performance, give his co-star a real orgasm, get paid. he gets a lot of action out of his job, and rarely seeks out... personal trysts.

but pornstar!nanami meets you in a bar, as cliche as it is, and whiskey-dick must be a myth because there's no way he could ever struggle to get it up when you look like that. and he's a gentleman, he swears it, but the sight of you in even the most simple of situations makes him want to be a bad man—do bad things.

pornstar!nanami who buys you a drink and somehow convinces you, in your heavenly stature, to come home with him. he feels like a virgin all over again, wracked with excitement and electric nerves all the same. he feels bad for being so forward with you, but he'll make you breakfast in the morning to make up for his degrading lust.

pornstar!nanami who just can't wait to get home, despite you agreeing to come spend the night. he's upset with the lewd forefront of his mind, but doesn't give himself long to lecture his own self before he's urging you into the dingy bathroom and attaching his lips to yours.

pornstar!nanami who wants to be a sweetheart, wants to swoon you, but his dick is just too hard and the noise you make when his hand swats your ass is too good to deny himself. he's so used to a camera crew being present when he's having sex that bending you over the sink and kneeling down to eat you out from behind feels more intimate than filthy.

pornstar!nanami who makes you cum on his tongue in record time: he has the practice after all. you're a shaking mess of moans when he finally stands straight to meet your gaze in the mirror. who smiles at the way you already look so fucked out, and he's hardly had his way with you yet.

pornstar!nanami who thinks your moans are made for porn when he turns you and pins you against the bathroom door—the one that doesn't lock—to catch your lips in a hot and messy kiss that has you dizzy already. before you can register his movements, he's hoisting your legs up to wrap around his waist and pushing into you with a torturous ease, like he's fucking made to fill you.

pornstar!nanami who, as he starts to thrust into you, letting your back hit the door with each snap of his hips, keeps thinking about how miserable taking his next job will be. how's he supposed to dramatise pleasure when he's felt something as perfect as you? clenching around him, each gasp you take from his breath as he fucks you to the edge of pleasure and back. nothing is going to compare.

pornstar!nanami who starts to ramble, his mind reeling with need and pleasure and want and everything on the path to infatuation. "you're so petty wrapped around my cock like this," he grunts, fucks into you faster, deeper. "fuck, i dont believe in fate but—shit—this... god i'm made for you. just for you."

pornstar!nanami whose words force you both over the edge, and you cum in blissful unison. eyes squeezed shut and kento's teeth sinking gently into the skin of your shoulder as he empties his balls. he debates telling you what he does, inviting you to film with him for a private shoot, something for him to keep and lock away for his eyes only.

pornstar!nanami who watches as you melt into his arms, eyes wide and watching every beautiful feature of his face as he stays seated inside of you. you're about to part your lips and admit that you know who he is, that you've seen him a hundred times before when the night is dark and your fingers slip into your panties at the sight of him on your phone screen, that you'd do anything to see him again, that you'd star for him, do anything he'd ask... when there's a knock on the bathroom door :)