#the time line seems a little wonky on that front | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

steddieasitgoes · 26 days ago

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you can call me boyfriend for the weekend

I posted this earlier as a link to ao3 but I know some people like to read things straight on tumblr so this is for you people lol As noted, this was supposed to be a short little ficlet inspired by unfortunate "Black Out Wednesday"/hook up with someone in your hometown pre-Thanksgiving ritual and then Steve got a backstory and Eddie wanted a POV and it spiraled out of control like most of my work lol Also I wrote this all in twelve hours and it's not beta read at all lol but enjoy! And please ignore the wonky timeline. It's canon-divergent/no Upside Down. But basically in my head, all the normal things that happened to Steve/Eddie still happened in this universe and they got close during the Autumn months of 1986. I think that's all you need to know! wc: 8.8k | rated: M Read on ao3

The Hideout is unusually packed.

In hindsight, Steve should have figured as much. It’s not like he’s the only former resident in town who needs a shot or two (okay, maybe three, but who’s really counting other than the barkeep logging everyone’s tabs) of liquid courage before heading home to spend a few days with family. The overflowing parking lot and illegally double and triple-parked cars on the street are still a sight to see when he steps out of the Yellow Taxi.

Maybe he should have taken the cute stewardess up on the alcohol offer on the plane. Would have saved him a couple of bucks that’s for damn sure. Still, every time he was about to, Robin’s nagging voice would pop into his head, spewing one of her nonsense rambles about the importance of being fully coherent on an airplane, lest they have to land the plane as if he’d have the skills to land a plane in the first place. And yet, he remained stone-cold sober on the couple-hour flight into Indianapolis from Boston just in case.

Sure, there’s liquor at his parent's house — at least, he hopes they haven’t packed up the dry bar if they did, he’s really fucked this weekend — but he needs something now to keep the anxiety bubbling in his chest at bay. And last time he checked The Hideout is the only place within a twenty-mile radius that can serve up a quick, cheap drink. Plus, there’s the fact that the Yellow Taxi he took here from the airport has already disappeared into the night, and he’s not about to go inside to call another cab without buying something; that would be rude.

In yet another surprising twist, that shouldn’t be surprising given the parking situation; there’s a small line of people waiting to get in. In the nineteen and a half years he spent in Hawkins, Steve’s never seen a line in front of The Hideaway. He knows for a fact that the place never had a bouncer, much less one who meticulously cards everyone who walks in.

Well, everyone but him it seems.

Steve doesn’t even get his wallet open, much less out of his pocket, before the man is wrapping a bright orange ’21 and over’ wristband on his wrist. Which, like, ouch. He knows he just got off a flight after working a half-day shift at the stupid office, but he can’t look that much like an adult. Can he?

Thankfully, there’s no time to dwell on his fleeting youth as he’s pushed into the crowded bar with the rest of the customers who patiently waited their turn in the frigid Indiana November evening.

The familiar scent hits him the second he’s more than three steps through the opened doors — stale beer, nicotine, the undeniable musk bodies emit when they’re dancing and, well, horny. But there’s also something new going on, too. Crisp leather, a piney scene that can only be associated with floor cleaner, and something minty, peppermint, he thinks, maybe for the upcoming holidays. Gone is the stench of piss that no amount of power washing the concrete floors could ever scrub up. Steve notices the concrete floor is gone, too, apparently, as his shoes squeak against the shiny black laminate.

There are a few new booths from the looks of things, and the stage has gotten a major upgrade since the last time he was here to see… He shakes the thought from his head and keeps walking until he finds an open spot in the corner of the bar.

A bartender materializes the second his ass makes contact with the new vinyl seat. She looks vaguely familiar, too young to be in his class, but maybe someone from Henderson’s year. He figures he’ll be downing glasses of expensive wine when he finally musters up the courage to go home, so he orders a shot of tequila and a rum and coke in the meantime. She pours the shot right there, excusing herself to grab the rum bottle from one of the other bartenders working tonight.

He grimaces as he shoots it back, tequila burning his throat as it goes down before he sucks the sliver of lime between his lips. It’s impossible for the effects to kick in this fast, but he already feels the tension easing from his shoulders. He uses the reprieve from his anxiety to really take everything in. The Hideout may have gotten some major upgrades, but he can’t say the same about its patrons.

It’s a real who’s who of Hawkins High has-beens. Andy and a couple of younger guys he remembers playing ball with his junior year of high school, all wearing their Greek letter crewnecks, downing beers and slapping each other on the back. Jason’s in the center with his arm around a stereotypical-looking blonde who is clearly not from around here. Heather Holloway is unmistakable, pressed into a booth arguing with some guy Steve thinks was on their swim team while their three kids jump around unchecked. And is that Chrissy Cunningham with… Gareth? That nerd from Dustin’s D&D group? Steve makes a mental note to bring it up with Dustin when the little shit calls him next because holy shit.

It takes him a minute to spot Tommy and Carol, but once he does, he doesn’t know how he didn’t see them sooner. They’re pressed up against each other, practically dry-humping in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. Tommy’s got his tongue shoved down Carol’s throat, and her hand is fisted into his buttoned shirt that’s definitely a size too small.

Somethings never change, he thinks, rolling his eyes as the pair stumble their way towards the bathrooms at the opposite end of the bar.

Steve’s about to turn back around and disappear into the shadowy corner he’s found himself in when the static feedback of the seemingly brand-new speakers goes off, sending every patron in the bar covering their ears.

“Sorry! Sorry!” A man calls from the makeshift sound booth a few yards away from Steve. “Give it another go for me?”

“Check one, check one, two. Sounds great, Frank. We’re all set up here if you are,” a woman says from the stage. Steve figures she gets a non-verbal cue from Dave because then she’s talking again, her voice bright and way louder than it needs to be. The giggle that comes next is even worse. “Hi everyone! Lots of familiar faces in the crowd tonight.”

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the bright spotlight illuminating the stage, but when it does, he nearly falls out of his seat. Is that?

“Anyways, I’m Tammy, and these are the Townies, and we’re Tammy and the Townies!”

Holy shit! It’s Tammy Thompson. The Tammy Thompson. Robin is going to be so pissed when he calls and tells her about this tomorrow morning. She’ll probably say that he was just seeing things, blame it on the single shot of tequila he’s had since he’s still waiting for his drink, but he knows the truth. Especially when Tammy launches into the opening lines of “Santa Baby,” trying her best to be sultry but still sounding like a rejected Muppet.

Someone chuckles behind Steve, before an all too familiar voice says, “I haven’t heard that one before.”

His first thought is: Shit, did he say that out loud?

And then comes something even worse: Wait, I know that voice.

All the anxiety the shot of tequila chased off comes surging back to Steve, swirling in his gut, threatening to creep up his throat and out his mouth. No. He’s not going to throw up in The Hideout after one shot, not with the entirety of his high school class in attendance. And definitely not in front of Eddie Munson.

There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that it's anyone but Eddie Munson standing behind him and the bar. He would know that voice and chuckle anywhere, could pick it out in a line-up if he had to after the fall of 1985 when they— nope, not going there.

The way he sees it, he has two options. One, get the hell out of here without turning around. It’s dark in the corner, so there’s a chance Eddie hasn’t realized who he’s talking to yet; in fact, Steve’s pretty sure if Eddie knew who he just spoke to, he never would have opened his mouth to begin with. So, yeah, he could get the hell out of here, maybe leave a couple of bucks at the opposite end of the bar on the way out so he’s not drinking and ditching, and then hail a cab and head to his childhood house.

Or, he could woman the fuck up, as Robin would say, turn around and meet the gaze of a man he hasn’t seen since he was nineteen, confused and desperate to make something out of himself.

He weighs the cons: spend a few extra hours with his parents or face Eddie Munson, the only person other than Robin to ever see him. The real him.

The answer is easy.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, sizing Steve up with those big doe eyes of his the second Steve turns in his chair. “If it isn’t Steve Harrington in the flesh. What the hell are you doing around these parts? Thought you left to go make daddy dearest proud?”

Ouch.

Steve should have expected Eddie not to mince words, even if he is a paying customer and all. He doesn’t allow himself to get a good look at Eddie, meeting him with his own mean-spirited retort instead.

“Guess I should have known you’d still be around, Munson,” Steve snarks. Eddie wants to play? Steve’ll gladly participate. “Still flunking out of high school?”

“Now that one I have heard before.”

Eddie doesn’t stick around for a response. He slams Steve’s rum and coke on the bar counter and gives it a rough shove. The glass slides across the sleek countertop before crashing into Steve’s awaiting hand. The drink sloshes in the cup, a few droplets spilling out, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to wave Eddie down and demand a replacement, so he shuts up and brings the now half-empty glass to his lips. He takes a much-needed gulp and then another, alcohol going down better than the shot from earlier, dulling the regret from his mean-spirited retort with it. He sulks for a moment before letting his eyes drift behind the bar. Searching.

If The Hideout is crowded, the bar is just as congested. At least four bartenders shimmy around each other. Hands reaching for various bottles, glasses clinking as ice falls in. It’s the most people Steve’s ever seen behind the small bar top, and he’s willing to bet it’s more than they’re legally allowed.

Fire code and all that.

Not that he knows much about that.

Not yet, at least.

He will once he starts his Fire Academy classes in the new year.

That is, assuming his dad doesn’t kill him the minute he finds out about his career change.

That’s a problem for tomorrow, Steve thinks, shaking the thought away and chasing it further by draining the rest of his drink.

“Can I getcha’ another round?” The young bartender asks, reappearing like a damn bar fairy.

Steve’s not sure he’s fully thought his order out, too preoccupied stealing glances at Eddie, but his lips start moving anyway, words escaping before he has a chance to stop them, “Actually, can I get a Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice instead of pineapple.”

“Pickle juice? Are you sure?”

Shit.

No.

Yes.

Steve quietly contemplates changing his unusual order, tilting his empty rum and coke glass to his lips, desperate for another teaspoon of liquid courage. He’s met with the cool sensation of ice hitting his teeth instead. Another not-so-subtle sneak at Eddie, and Steve doubles down. “Yeah. Eddie should know how to make it.”

“Oh, uh, ” the bartender says, nervously glancing to her right.

Steve follows her line of vision, giving himself permission to do more than glance this time, and finds Eddie on the opposite end tossing around bottles and the shaker like he’s fucking Tom Cruise in Cocktails and not a super-senior who half the town was convinced was a Satanist.

“Let me see what I can do for you.”

Steve gives her his best customer service smile and a quick nod before watching her shuffle through the other bartenders on her quest to get to Eddie.

He lets his eyes linger as Eddie finally doles out the drink he’s been working on. Five years and some change has been good on him. His hair is still as unruly as ever, twisted back in a low bun at the base of his neck. Tending to the bar has clearly served his arms well judging by the tone biceps peaking out from under his black shirt. It’s done wonders for his entire body, if Steve’s honest, sizing up the way he finally fills out his jeans.

Eddie turns just so, new piercings catching in the reflection of the spotlight from the stage. Steve catalogs them, a few new ones to his ears, a hoop in his left nostril. There’s new ink, too, decorating his strong forearms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

Steve’s attraction to Eddie isn’t a surprise, especially after the Fall of ‘86. But it’s like a match has just ignited a new flame in the depths of his body. He looks good, is all. Really, really good.

Steve’s pulled from his not-so-subtle ogling when the young bartender finally gets Eddie’s attention. He can’t hear the conversation, but he spent enough time around Eddie to know what the man is saying without even looking at his lips. Her back is to him, but Steve knows the minute he brings up the drink because Eddie’s body goes stiff, his head jolting toward Steve, eyes growing wide as he glares at him from the opposite end of the bar.

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s truly fucked up. Well, more than he did five and a half years ago when he let his dad convince him to set him up with a job in Boston that forced him to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, least of all Eddie. But then he sees the moment Eddie’s stubbornness sets in, clouding his eyes and forcing his chunky boots to stomp through the hoard of sweaty bartenders.

“Did you come all the way home to fuck with me?” Eddie barks, still a foot and a half away from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Harrington,” Eddie snaps, hands smacking onto the countertop.

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Eddie rages on. If it wasn’t for Tammy Thompson’s wailing in the background, Steve’s pretty sure they’d have everyone’s attention right now. Thank God for Tammy Thompson.

“Seriously? Pickle juice!”

Steve’s hit with the familiar woodsy, nicotine smell he spent months chasing around town as Eddie drops to his elbows, leaning in closer to Steve. For a second, he thinks Eddie is going to deck him, at the very least fist his hand into his shirt and yank him forward, but he doesn’t.

“I know damn well you’re not ordering Vodka Party Punch with fucking pickle juice at the fancy bars wherever you ended up. What makes you think you can order one here now?”

“You’re right, I don’t order them in Boston,” Steve says, answering the question Eddie really didn’t ask. “But I’m ordering it now because you’re the creator of the drink, and I know you’ll make it taste right.”

Steve watches Eddie’s jaw drop. The bar is dimly lit but it doesn’t take florescent lights to catch the red tinting the tips of Eddie’s ears, fully exposed with his hair pulled back in a bun. It’s been a minute since Steve attempted this game with anyone, but Eddie’s always been a fun participant — especially when he’s pretending he doesn’t like it.

“I’m charging you double,” Eddie concedes, twirling the giant skull ring still perched on his finger.

“Better make it worth my dime, Munson.”

“You know I always do, Harrington,” Eddie taunts, clearly finding his footing in this flirtatious sparing match they’ve started.

* * *

By the time Eddie returns with his drink, Tammy and the Townsies have wrapped up their set for the night — thank god — and The Hideout slowly starts to empty out. With a few less bodies occupying the actual bar, Eddie has no problem sticking around, tossing his dish rag over his shoulder as he slides the Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice over to Steve, much gentler this time.

The drink smells exactly like he remembers, but the presentation has improved since their days of mixing them in the Munson’s crowded kitchen. A mini pickle is skewered through a toothpick as garnish, and the glass is tall and clean, a rarity in the mug-infested kitchen of that autumn.

Steve makes a show of his first sip, slowly raising the glass to his mouth without breaking eye contact with Eddie as he licks his lips in anticipation. Eddie’s eyes dilate the second Steve’s tongue makes an appearance, and it takes everything in Steve not to jump across the bar and shove it down Eddie’s throat a la Carol and Tommy style. He knows the Eddie from five autumns ago wouldn’t mind, but this Eddie might.

He does the next best thing instead, taking a slow sip of the drink, exaggerating when he swallows before punctuating the first taste with a low moan of approval. Judging by the smattering of pink moving to Eddie’s cheeks, it works.

“Delicious, just like I remembered.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it the minute the words leave his lips, and the flush on Eddie’s cheeks drains to a ghostly white , eyes turning to fire.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that,” Eddie scoffs, snapping his dish towel off his shoulder to wipe the counter.

“I just, I—“ Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. Leave it to him to be back in Hawkins for less than three hours and already fuck things up. “Thank you,” he finally says, eyes trained on his drink. “You didn’t have to make it, and you did, so thanks.”

“Whatever customers want, they get here at The Hideout.”

Steve can’t help but snort, “S’that a new motto?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

When Steve glances up, Eddie’s smiling at him. Not his toothy grin Steve loved to coax out of him, but his lips are definitely quirked into a grin which he’ll take as a win. Small victories and all that.

“That what they pay you the big bucks for? Slinging drinks like Tom Cruise and coming up with new slogans?”

“Something like that.” Eddie finishes wiping down the counter in front of Steve and moves half a step to his right, working on the next area that’s vacated.

Steve thinks that’s it. The beginning and end of their civil conversation, but then Eddie looks across the bar, no doubt taking in the empty state of things, before turning back to look at Steve. Really, look at him.

If it weren’t for the liquor coursing through Steve’s veins, he doesn’t think he’d be able to sit there under Eddie’s gaze. But he does have alcohol on his side, so he stays glued to his seat, his own cheeks heating up as Eddie’s brown eyes roam over his body, taking him in the same way he did with Eddie a while ago.

When he’s done, Eddie cocks his head to the side and tuts. “You’ve seen better days, Harrington. I think your eye bags have eye bags.”“Corporate life’ll do that to you,” Steve grumbles, taking another sour sip from his drink. When Eddie doesn’t throw a dig he knows is on the tip of his tongue, Steve breaks the silence. “You look good behind a bar.” Jesus, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. “I mean, uh, how long have you been working here.”

Eddie snorts, coming back over until he’s right in front of Steve. He drops to his elbows again, pillowing his chin in his hands as he makes direct eye contact. “About five-ish years ago. Right after I graduated.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I, uh, thought the plan was to get the hell out of here?”

Eddie hums. “It was. Took the job to save money so I could do just that.”

“And you ended up loving it?”

“Hated it at first, actually, but you know we’re not all lucky enough to be able to get the hell out of Hawkins just because people tell us we should,” Eddie says, eyes boring judgment into Steve’s own. “Figured if I have to stick around I might as well try and make it better for those of us still here.”

“That’s what you’re doing, then?” Steve asks, generally curious. He always knew Eddie had a savior complex, saw it firsthand when Dustin and the rest of the kids started high school, and immediately got swept up in Eddie’s inner circle of outcasts. “Making Hawkins better?”

“Trying to,” Eddie says, and Steve can feel the walls around him shrinking, only for them to harden in an instant. “Turns out it’s a lot easier when the assholes flee.”

Steve winces and downs the rest of his drink. When it’s drained, he sets it down and fumbles through his pockets for his wallet. He gets no more than three measly bucks out before Eddie is shooing him away.

“It’s on the house tonight.”

Steve shakes his head, digging back into his wallet “Don’t think your boss’ll be happy about that.

“Good thing m’the boss then.”

Steve gawks. He’s pretty sure his jaw is fully open, but it's worth it to see the pleased look on Eddie’s face. “Shit, seriously?”

“What, you think old Dave was the one to plan the renovation of this place? That cheapskate was slinging water tinted brown with food coloring to the regulars once they got drunk enough not to tell.”

Steve laughs, but doesn’t get distracted with the anecdote like he knows Eddie hopes he will. Eddie Munson might have his heart in his sleep, but if there’s one thing Steve knows about him, it’s that he hates being emotionally vulnerable. Steve can’t say he blames him, but still, he presses on.

“Eddie Munson, CEO of the Hideout. Who would have thought?”

“I don’t know about CEO,” Eddie says, fingers struggling with the elastic holding his hair back. It takes a second for him to get the strands untangled, and when it does, his hair cascades over his shoulder in those same unruly curls Steve tried to tame once or twice. Eddie’s hand immediately finds a strand, twirling it around his fingers and pulling it towards his lips. “Owner as of the first of the year, though.”

“Eds, that’s really fucking cool. Holy shit! Congrats! I feel like we should toast or something.”

If Eddie catches the nickname slip up, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe Robin’s patenting ramble so they can’t comprehend every embarrassing thing you’ve said method actually works.

Instead, he waves him off. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get another round of free liquor in you before heading home to the parents.”

“Damn,” Steve says, happy to play along. “Am I that obvious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but ducks behind the counter for a moment, popping back up with two clean cups. He blindly reaches for a top-shelf whiskey and pours just a bit too much to be considered a shot, but not a full serving either. They clink the glasses together in a silent toast before throwing back the over-poured shot like they’re nineteen and twenty again.

“You know,” Eddie says, closing the distance between them as he leans against the countertop again. “We’re looking for some silent investor, partner types to help out with financing. If you, uh, know anyone who might be interested.”

“Oh,” Steve says, liquor making his brain slower than usual.

Eddie pushes off the bar, shaking his head. “Don’t look too excited, Steve. I was just joking.”

“No, shit, I mean, yeah, I would invest. Love to even,” Steve rambles, desperate to keep Eddie from joining the rest of the bartenders in tallying up their tips. “It’s just, uh, I’m actually getting out of the investment world.”

“You don’t have to lie, Harrington. A simple no will do.”

“I’m serious. Today was actually my last day. I’m enrolled in the Fire Academy come January.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, that toothy grin finally making an appearance. “Way to bury the lede, Stevie! We should be toasting to you! Finally getting out from under your dad’s thumb!”

Unlike Eddie, the nickname isn’t lost on Steve, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Not if he wants to keep Eddie smiling, and dammit he does. It’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

“I mean, I still have to break the news to my dad. But yeah, assuming he doesn’t kill me, it’s happening.”

“Hey, Munson,” a bartender he realizes is Jeff calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Get your ass over here and close out so we can go home. Some of us actually want to see our families.”

Eddie flips Jeff off but doesn’t budge from his spot in front of Steve.

“I should probably head out, too,” Steve says, slowly rising from the stool. His legs are full of pins and needles, asleep from sitting so long, but he manages to stay upright.

“Wait,” Eddie says, shouting even though all Steve’s done is duck behind the counter to grab his duffle from the floor. “Did you drive here?”

Steve shakes his head. “Took a cab from the airport, gonna use the payphone out back to call another.”

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says in a rush. “I mean, I can’t let you waste your money on a cab when you’re unemployed now.”

“I’m not unemployed, I’m going to—“

“Fire school, yeah, yeah, I got that,” Eddie says, waving him off. “Just give me two minutes, and I’ll drive you home, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Steve makes a show of sounding inconvenienced, which earns a dramatic eye roll from Eddie and a victory for himself. His streak of pretending not to care actually working lives on another day.

* * *

Seven minutes later, thanks to a mathematical error and a hushed conversation between Jeff and Eddie, Steve finds himself in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”

“How is it any different from you still driving the Beamer?”

“How do you know I still drive the Beamer?”

“Please, the only thing you love more than that car is Buckley. Speaking of, where is your platonic other half?”

“Still in Boston. She got asked to write an article for her grad department’s journal.”

“Ah, so she sent you to the lion’s den all on your own,” Eddie teases, slowing to a stop despite the light still being yellow.

“Figured this was one Harrington vs Harrington battle she didn’t need to bear witness to.”

Eddie gasps, clutching a hand over his heart. “My, my, it seems like us lowly mortals are in the presence of the Great Sir Stevebert tonight.”

Steve can’t help but snort. He’s missed this. The easy teasing, the openness. Eddie and his silly voices and even sillier words. He can’t believe he’s gone almost six years without him.

“So,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowel. “Isn’t Dick going to be extra pissed off that you’re showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

“What time were they expecting you?”

“When are they ever really expecting me?” Steve laughs dryly. “I didn’t really give them a set date. Figured if I told my dad I was flying out today, he’d figure out the whole work thing so I told them I’d try to catch a late flight after I finished for the day and be there by Thanksgiving dinner at the latest.”

“So they don’t know you’re in town.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not unless someone at the unofficial Hawkins High reunion tonight ratted me out.”

“Jesus H. Christ you caught that too?” Eddie shouts, smacking his left hand against the dashboard. “I’ve worked plenty of Wednesdays before Thanksgiving, but none of them have pulled that many of our former classmates out. I don’t know why everyone is back in town this year.”

“Back in town or never left?”

“Hey,” Eddie scolds. “Watch it. Your life is in the hands of a Hawkins townie right now.”

Steve holds his hands up in surrender and is glad to see Eddie grinning at him when he musters the courage to steal a glance. He wishes he could offer a careless smile back, but the closer they get to Loch Nora, the more he feels the anxiety creeping in again. Eddie must sense it, too, because he slows to well below the speed limit.

“I wouldn’t mind having a roommate for the night,” he says nonchalantly. Like Eddie’s talking about the weather and not offering to spend the night in Steve’s presence. Steve, the guy who disappeared on him one day after months of fucking around — literally and figuratively. The same Steve who hasn’t been back to Hawkins because he’s been avoiding this exact situation like the chickenshit he is.

“Wayne probably will, though,” Steve says, trying his best to turn Eddie down without actually turning him down. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend the night with him. Hell, he’d sell his left arm for the chance. The problem is it’ll just be one night, and Steve doesn’t think he has that in him. Not when he wants all the nights.

“Good thing he’s not home.”

“Wait,” Steve says, turning in the passenger seat to look at Eddie. “He left you on Thanksgiving? Isn’t that against your Munson Family Code or whatever?”

Eddie snorts, mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like ‘I can’t believe he remembered that’ under his breath. “I told him it was okay. He’s up in Chicago spending the holiday with Scott Clarke’s family.”

“Scott Clarke? The middle school science teacher?”

Eddie nods.

“I didn’t know they were friends.”

Eddie breaks in the middle of the street, leveling Steve with a look he finds himself receiving from Robin all the time. She says people like them are supposed to know when other people are like them, but so far, Steve has yet to inherit that superpower.

“Oh, shit,” he says, finally. “I didn’t know your uncle was into guys.”

“Neither did I,” Eddie laughs. “It was a real memorable day in the Munson’s house when I found out.”

A comfortable silence falls between them as Eddie eases the van back on the rode. They stay like that for a light or two before Eddie rolls to a stop at a familiar intersection.

“Great Sir Stevebert,” he says, switching into his deep, DM voice. “It seems you have a choice to make. Shall you continue on your travels, taking the golden brick road to the lone castle on the hill, or shall you take the road less traveled and embark on the twisting journey to the Moors?”

Once again, the decision is easy.

“If you really don’t mind,” Steve says instead of a definitive answer.

Eddie whoops and makes the sharp right turn that’ll take them to Forest Hills. “Onward, Sir Stevebert, to the Moors, we go!”

_ _ _

Eddie has no idea what he’s doing. One minute he’s fighting with himself, desperate to keep his attention on the out-of-town in-laws of some Hawkins High alumni in need of a blissful night out before the family shit starts and not on the sulking figure of Steve fucking Harrington on the opposite end of the bar. And the next second, he’s ushering that same Steve up the steps of the Munson trailer like he did so many times before.

Jesus H. Christ.

He should have listened to Jeff. He should have called Steve a cab and paid for it himself if it made him sleep better at night. Hell, he should have kicked Steve out the second he mouthed off to him. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t.

Despite all the bullshit, Steve put him through, despite five whole fucking years without so much as a call, Eddie still has a soft spot for the goddamn fallen King. Time heals many things, but the love he has for Steve isn’t one of them.

Love?

No. Strike that from the record.

Infatuation.

A crush, maybe.

Not love.

Not anymore.

Eddie shrugs his shoulders, shaking the thought from his entire body, and moves to unlock the door. He gestures for Steve to enter, and Eddie trails behind, bending down at the entrance to untie his work boots and free his sore feet. He wasn’t lying when he told Steve this is the busiest pre-Thanksgiving shift he’s ever worked. He’s pretty sure his blisters have blisters at this point.

His knees ache at the position, so he lets himself fall back, ass on the worn welcome mat as he finishes the task at hand. It feels nice to get off his feet, and he lets himself linger there for a moment. A hand massaging the ache from the arch of his foot while his eyes drift up, watching Steve asses the trailer much like he did the very first time he found himself in the humble abode.

As nice as it is to get off his feet, the last thing Eddie needs is for Steve to turn around and catch him staring at him from a spot on the floor. With a quiet groan, he hoists himself back into a standing position and dusts his hands off on his jeans.

“Wayne getting rid of his mug collection?” Steve asks, breaking the silence. Eddie follows his pointed finger to the top, empty rack shelf the patterned couch.

“No, just relocated ‘m. He spends most nights at Scott’s house now. I basically own the place. Wayne refuses to let me pay the full rent, though, since it’s his name on the lease.”

Steve lets out a low whistle that doesn’t do anything, Eddie, nothing at all, and turns to face him with a look of mischief in his hazel eyes. “Now, who’s the one with a silver spoon.”

He can’t help but laugh at how absurd that sounds. As if inheriting the trailer is some kind of privilege, but in some ways it is, right?

“It’s no rent-free apartment in a big city, but it’ll do,” he says, trying his best to throw a dig back at Steve, but it doesn’t sting the way he wants it to. If anything, it makes Steve’s lips dip into a frown instead of stroking that familiar petty flame he knows stays lit in his gut.

“Come on,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “You think Dick Harrington pays for my place in Boston? The asshole got me a shit job and told me to figure the rest out. I was lucky Robin was already there when I showed up. Her RA wasn’t too pleased, but we made it work that first year.”

Great, now he’s the asshole.

It’s such a different picture than the one he’s spent the last five years painting in his head. That good ol’ Dick Harrington shipped his only son off, far enough away that the town freak couldn’t continue sinking his teeth (and dick) into him without him knowing about it. Set him up with a good job and a nice place to sleep at night that left Steve no choice but to stay even though he knew that’s not what Steve wanted. Never was.

But that’s not the story, is it?

The real story is that Dick Harrington is an even bigger prick than he thought, and Steve is a coward. Eddie can understand Steve staying away if his dad made his new life nice for him and kept him comfortable and just shy of miserable, but he didn’t. And yet, Steve stayed in a job he hated, in a dorm he had no business crashing in because Daddy Dearest told him to do it.

A part of Eddie wants to ask why. Wants to dig his grimy finger into the still-fresh wound in Steve’s chest, judging by the grimace on his face, and get to the bottom of what the hell his dad has over him to keep in line. But what good would it do, really?

Eddie opts for a different strategy instead.

“Why now?”

Steve cocks his head, brows knitting together in that cute confused face Eddie used to love coaxing out of him with a single nerdy phrase back in the day. “Why now what?”

Eddie sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. He could change the subject, shrug off his question, and steer the conversation into calmer waters to get them through the night. But that wouldn’t be fair to him or Steve. Not in the long run.

“It’s been five years since you’ve been in town, Steve,” Eddie says blankly. “Why now?”

“My parents are selling the place,” he answers, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Said they wanted one last family Thanksgiving in the place before it’s not ours anymore. It’s bullshit if you ask me. I can’t remember the last time we spent the holiday together, even when I lived here, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Steve groans, collapsing on the couch behind him. “I don’t know what it is about my parents that has me running to them every time they ask, even though they don’t give a damn about me 99% of the time.”

Eddie follows Steve's lead, settling on the couch but leaving the middle cushion open. An unofficial barrier between them. “I’m no psychologist, but it sounds like textbook daddy issues to me.”

Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move, too stunned by the sudden contact to do anything else. Steve’s hand leaves his shoulder as fast as it finds it, but the effects are already in motion. Eddie’s entire body vibrates under the ghost of Steve’s touch, skin alive and hot in a way it hasn’t been in years.

Eddie turns, expecting to find Steve staring off in the distance, but instead, he’s staring at him with those open, honest hazel eyes. All it takes is one look, one single slip of his eyes to Steve’s lip and back again, and Steve’s surging forward, closing the distance between them.

Steve tastes like cheap liquor and pickle juice, and all it takes is one swipe of Steve’s tongue, and Eddie’s transported back to the Fall of 1986. Of experimenting with whatever ingredients they had on hand in the kitchen and throwing back drinks to nurse their respective education wounds — Eddie not graduating again, Steve failing to get into college. Memories of playful shoves turning into wrestling matches turning hot and heavy until lips met lips and skin, so much skin.

Five years may have passed, but it feels like no time at all as Eddie sinks further into Steve’s embrace, fingers tangling in the wisps of hair on Steve’s neck, and Steve’s own hands find themselves tangled in his curls.

It’s only when Steve moves to straddle Eddie’s hip that the reality of the situation hits him. Eddie jolts away; hands braced on Steve’s shoulders to keep a respectable amount of distance between them. He hates himself the moment he looks into Steve’s cloudy hazel eyes, but he’d hate himself more if he let this continue without checking in.

With Steve an arm's length away, Eddie studies him. Squinting as he stares into Steve’s eyes, checking for glassy, unfocused eyes, excessive sweating, and flushed face — all of which Steve has, but maybe not for the reasons Eddie is checking for.

“You’re drunk,” Eddie says plainly.

Steve shakes his head, words, not even the least bit slurred when he says, “No. Maybe a little buzzed, but that’s it. I promise.”

Something snaps inside of Eddie at those two words, releasing the anger his horniess has been holding at bay. In an instant, he feels the rage boiling inside of him, and he shoves at Steve hard enough to send him back to his end of the couch.

“With much offense, Steve,” Eddie says, venom dripping from his lips as he spits out Steve’s name. “Promises don’t mean shit coming from you.”

And just like that, they’re back where they started the evening off. Opposite sides of each other, scowling and hurt in their own ways.

Steve sighs and shifts on the couch, not-so-subtly adjusting himself in his pants. “Eds,” he whispers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up, okay. I know I did, but what was I supposed to? My dad was threatening you just as much as he was threatening me, and it was just easier to leave.”

“Easier for you, maybe.”

“I—“

“What are we doing here, Steve?” Eddie asks, cutting off whatever lame excuse is coming next.

“I thought I was trying to apologize but clearly I was wrong.”

Eddie can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes him. “So you apologize, and then what? We fuck, you get one last blowjob by the former freak of Hawkins, and then poof, you’re gone again?” Eddie rises from the couch in an instant, sock-covered feet pacing the length of the living room. He steals one glance down at Steve and shakes his head. “I should have listened to Jeff. Should have listened to everyone and stayed the fuck away. This is nothing but a pre-holiday fuck, and I’m so fucking stupid for falling for it.”

“No!” Steve shouts, standing up now too. “I’m not, I mean, I didn’t even know you’d be at the Hideout. I just stopped there because I couldn’t stomach the thought of showing up to my parents' place sober.”

“You think that makes me feel better?” Eddie snaps. “Tell me this: if I wasn’t at the bar tonight, would you have come to find me?”

Steve says silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t even know you were still in Hawkins until tonight!”

“Bullshit! I know for a fact Henderson has mentioned seeing me when he comes back for the holidays. Just stop lying!”

“You want me to stop lying?” Steve shouts, stalking over to where Eddie’s stopped pacing. He boxes him in against the new bookshelf he installed in the corner where Wayne’s roll-away mattress used to sit. With his shoes still on, Steve’s got half an inch on Eddie and it’s daunting staring up into those eyes when Steve’s jaw is set in a hardline. “I fucking love you, okay? I have for years! And yeah, I was a fucking coward for leaving, and I could have, should have called in the years since, but I was scared, okay? I was scared you figured out that I’m not worth it and found someone better, just almost everyone else in my stupid fucking life and—“

It’s Eddie’s lips that crash into Steve’s this time. The words die on Steve’s lip, and for a maddening moment, Eddie wonders if he’s broken him beyond repair. That maybe he sould have left him keep spiraling and hit rock button, but then Steve kisses him back and it’s perfect. Well, as close to perfect as they can get considering they’re both angry and exhausted and Jesus h. Christ when did Steve learn to do that with his tongue? It’s headier than the kiss on the couch, leagues better than their awkward teenage makeouts from that autumn. They’ve both grown up, practiced, and found what works, and god damn, does it work.

When they pull apart this time, it's only to catch their breaths before diving back in. Eddie gets his hands on Steve’s shirt, rucking it up and over his head in a tangle of limbs, his own shirt isn’t too far behind, flying through the air with reckless abandon. Steve’s lips find his throat and Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to scream or sink into him further so he does a mix of both, a wanton moan falling from his lips as he pulls Steve closer by his hips and ruts against him.

They’re really moving now, stumbling down the familiar hallway until they’re crashing into Eddie’s unmade bed. Eddie hovers over Steve, admiring his flushed torso and blissed-out face for all of two seconds before Steve pulls him close, whispering want you and need you, and who is Eddie to deny Steve anything, much less mutual pleasure?

They fumble with each other’s jeans, hands shoving and hips lifting and twisting until there’s nothing between them but the thick, musty air. Eddie’s hands trail up and down Steve’s body, his lips and teeth following leaving marks on his favorite moles. He licks a stripe from the dip of his waist to his belly button and back down, and Steve keens under him.

“Please,” Steve whines. “Stop teasing.”

“It’s call foreplay, sweetheart,” Eddie chirps, but ultimately gives in, taking all of Steve in his mouth in one go.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve swears, fisting a hand into the sheets.

Eddie pulls away, eyes wide and full of mischief. “First you say no teasing, then you get mad when I take you? What do you want from me, Stevie?” He cups Steve’s ball, rolling them with enough pleasure to coax another moan from Steve’s lips.

“Just play nice, Eds.”

Eddie hums, then dives back in, slower this time but still just as desperate. He’s missed this almost as much as he’s missed Steve in general. Maybe even more, if he’s honest. There are a lot of dicks in the sea, but none as beautiful and responsive as Steve’s.

Eddie laughs at the cheesy thought, and the vibrations do something to Steve to elicit the most beautiful sound Eddie’s ever heard. He almost laughs again just to hear it again, but before he has a chance, Steve’s shoving him off and flipping them over.

“Wh— what’s going on?”

“M’too close, and I don’t want cum without tasting you first.”

Despite his protests, Steve dives straight in with no preamble and Eddie feels the familiar coil of pressure building in an instant. He’s not going to last, not if Steve keeps doing that with his tongue and Jesus h. Christ he’s never going to live it down if he cums two seconds into getting Steve’s lips on him.

He tries to think of anything else. The disgusting bathrooms at the Hideout he’s going to have to clean tomorrow and the grocery list on the fridge he has to brave the last-minute holiday shoppers for, but nothing seems to work.

Eddie squirms, tries his best to get away from Steve but Steve hand settles on his hips, holding him to the mattress as he continues to move up and down. Eddie sees the stars building in his eyes without even closing his eyes and his hand moves on its own volution, finding Steve’s leaking cock and wrapping his hand around it.

If he’s going to cum embarrassingly fast, so is Steve.

He matches his strokes with Steve’s and they both fill the room with their moans and cries until finally they collapse on each other. Eddie’s hand and chest are sticky with Steve’s cum, and his own is spilling out Steve’s lips, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Steve closer, capturing his lips in a searing, sweaty kiss.

* * *

Another round and an hour-long make-out session later, they finally get up to clean themselves up. Eddie leaves Steve in his room and disappears into the bathroom. One look at His debauched self in the mirror and Eddie can’t help the smile that breaks out. If someone had told him this was how he’d be spending the early hours of his first Thanksgiving without Wayne, he would have laughed in their face.

When he returns to the room a few minutes later, Steve’s back on the bed, the thin sheet doing little to cover his lower half while his torso lays on full display, light by the warm light seeping through the cracks of Eddie’s blinds as the sun rises outside.

“Hi,” Eddie whispers, suddenly shy as he slips back into bed.

“Hi,” Steve whispers back, shuffling across the bed and making himself comfortable on Eddie’s chest.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around Steve’s bare middle before bending the other behind his own head. He looks down at Steve, slowly drinking in the look of peace on his face and the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he starves off sleep they’re both desperate for.

“How long are you in town for?” Eddie asks and mentally curses himself. Fucking Munson, just enjoy the moment!

Steve shifts, chin digging into Eddie’s solar plexus as his sleepy eyes find Eddie’s. “The weekend, at least. Maybe a few extra days.”

“Yeah?”

“I could be persuaded,” he says, reaching up to wrap a lock Eddie’s hair around his finger. “I mean, I am unemployed until January, as you so kindly pointed out.”

A part of Eddie wants to laugh, maybe even apologize for the uninspired jab from hours ago, but there’s something more important he has to do. Even if it kills him. He tries to keep his smile intact when he opens his mouth next, whispering the words as close to Steve’s ear as he can so he can’t deny hearing them.

“I’m not asking you to stay. You have to make that choice on your own, Steve. Start living your life for you.”

Steve’s smile falters, lips twitching, threatening to turn into a pout, but they don’t. Instead, he nods, and Eddie feels the weight of his confession and the fear-strikes anticipation of Steve’s reaction evaporate from his own body.

Steve nods, turning to press a chaste kiss to the same demon that’s been etched there since before Steve became his all those years ago. “I know.”

Eddie hums noncommittally and drags his fingers through Steve’s damp hair, nails lightly stretching at his scalp in the way he knows Steve loves. “So then, what do you want?”

There’s a moment of silence and Eddie watches the seven stages of grief wash over Steve’s face before he opens his mouth again. “I can promise you the weekend to start.”

It’s not the answer Eddie wanted, but it’s the one he was bracing for. He knows better than to expect Steve to make a life-changing decision in their post-coital haze. Wouldn’t want him to even if he gave him the answer he wanted. All he really needs is the truth.

“Boyfriends for the weekend?” Eddie says. The word feels foreign on his tongue and yet just right. “Does that mean I get a front-row seat to watch you ruin your dad’s life when you tell him about the fire academy?”

Steve snorts, hot air tickling Eddie’s love-bite-ridden neck. “I mean, if you want. Might make things worse, though.”

Eddie hums in agreement. The last thing he wants is to make Steve’s day even harder than it’s going to be, no matter how much he’d love to get some face-to-face time with good ol’ Dick Harrington.

“How about this,” Eddie says, turning so they’re nose to nose in bed now. “I’ll be your getaway driver. Drive you over, and when you’re ready to leave, I’ll be waiting around the bend like old times sake. And then…” He trails off, nose bumping against Steve as he peppers his freckled face with kisses and nips. “I’ll bring you back here and we can make good use of this whole boyfriends for the weekend thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathy and more of a sigh than anything else but the sentiment is there. “That sounds perfect.”

Eddie hums and pulls Steve’s lips between his in a long, lingering kiss before separating. “The only condition is I get to be the one who leaves this time when you have to come back.”

“Not forever, though, right?”

“Well, that’s up to you, babe.”

Steve nods, swooping in to give Eddie his own version of a passionate kiss. “Okay, but then we’re even.”

“Yeah, we’ll be even.”

Eddie watches the smile slowly spread across Steve’s face before he hides in the crook of his neck. Eddie presses his own grin into the mop of sweaty hair on Steve’s head as they lay there, completely intertwined from their head to their toes.

“Boyfriends for the weekend,” Steve mumbles through a yawn before finally letting his eyes flutter shut.

“And then for life,” Eddie whispers, lips pressing into Steve’s forehead before his own eyes give in to the exhaustion coursing through his body.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie fan fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie smut #steddie angst #dani writes

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backseatsoldier · 20 days ago

Text

My Favorite Story

Pairing: König x Reader/You CW: Nada~ this is just Christmas cuteness! Prepare for fluff! (Ok it's... kinda sad. At first. But for a very important reason. I PROMISE-) Author's Note: Merry Christmas and happy holidays, @machveil! Thank you so much for your Daily König doodles! They're the highlight of my day, everyday <3

He can still hear their laughter. The laughter of everyone who made fun of how he looks. Throughout his entire childhood, that's all they would do - laugh at how he looks. Children can be so cruel. But that's why Rudolph would always be König's favorite. Rudolph was laughed at, made fun of - hell, the poor deer was even shunned. König couldn't possibly relate more to any character.

That's why, with a copy in hand, König intends on talking to the author/illustrator of a version of his favorite Christmas story. He will walk up to her and tell her thank you for giving him a beam of light in his life again and ask for her to sign the book.

He will.

When the line dies down.

During tomorrow's market.

At this point, the poor man is shaking with nervousness as he tries to convince himself to just walk up to her and ask her-

"Hey there! Doing ok? I see you have a copy of my book," she calls to him with a warm smile.

Oh... wow, she's pretty.

König gives her a quick nod of the head. He was going to speak, but he's not sure he remembers how to right now. Instead he's standing there with a copy of her book clutched tightly to his chest and wishing that he'd either find his voice or that the ground would open up beaneath him and swallow him quickly.

Neither seem likely at the moment.

"Well, come on over!" She waves him closer and he obliges, stopping just to the side of her booth. "I mean in here, silly."

She giggled.

König might melt.

Yet he listens, hunching over to step into her booth.

"I saw you at the charity event."

He nods again, shaking even more now that he's so close to her.

"Would you like me to sign it? It's ok. I don't mind."

Gott, she's so sweet. She saw him at the chairty event that was intended for people to have her book signed which means she knew he didn't approach for a signature there. Now she's just... offering to sign it for him? How could he say no?

"Bist du sicher?" he manages to push out.

The author's smile turns a bit nervous.

"Ah... Ja natürlich. Es ist kein problem."

König can't help the little smile that creeps onto his half-masked face. Her pronunciation is a bit... wonky, but he thinks it's cute. So he nods and - shakily - hands her the book.

She seems relieved as he nods and hands her the book. Then she pulls a metallic silver Sharpie from her coat pocket.

"Who should- oh. Wem... soll ich das mitteilen?"

As cute as he finds it when she speaks German, he doesn't want to make her anymore uncomfortable than he feels he already has.

"It is alright," he says softly. "I speak English. But, um... me. König."

Hearing him speak English seems to make her shoulders relax a bit and her warm smile returns, reaching her eyes again.

"Alrighty!"

Without another word she skillfully flips open the book and uncaps her Sharpie with her teeth. As she writes, she starts to hum Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Hearing her humming the song has König relaxing too.

She suddenly scribbles something quickly in the book - her actual signature, he assumes - then passes the book back to him.

"It was nice to meet you, King. See you around the market."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise over her translating his name. König doesn't have time to respond as she's already back to the line of fans in front of her booth. Not wanting to hover, he silently steps out of her booth and begins walking away.

When he returns home, he opens his book to see her signature- and a message?

"I hope Rudoloph brings you the comfort he always did for me. Happy holidays, König~"

Below her signature is what König can only assume is her phone number. Without hesitation, he sends her a quick thank you text and apoligizes for being so odd at the market.

You're so welcome! I wasn't sure you'd actually text me lol but... odd? I figured you were just nervous - I have social anxiety and your mannerisms felt familiar so I did my best to make things easier on us both :)

König can't help the butterflies in his stomach or the way his heart seemed to flutter at her quick response. And maybe even the fact that she actually responded.

Maybe this will be a merry Christmas season after all.

Translations (per Google Translate so I apologize if it's inaccurate!): Gott - God Bist du sicher? - Are you sure? Ja natürlich. Es ist kein Problem. - Yes, of course. It is no problem. Wem soll ich das mitteilen? - Who should I make this out to?

CoD Christmas (Meet) Cuties Masterlist

#backseat soldier #rhi_writing_adventures #call of duty #konig call of duty #fluff #christmas #gifts #christmas gift

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rumble-aint-a-rumble-without-me · 1 year ago

Note

hello, Dillo! Could I possibly get some headcannons or scenario (whatever you feel like writing) of a very bubbly, sweet, and awkward s/o that just- refuses to acknowledge they like Dally because they believe he'd never in a million years like them back? Like I'm imagining one day they're chilling with Pony and Johnny and they're not being as funny or playful like usual and the boys ask why and they just whisper "I wish I was Dally's type". So could I possibly just have something with Dally's reaction to it all?

if it's too specific or if you just don't feel like it, don't worry! <3

Not Into You

A/N: Hey, hey! This has been a long time coming, and I think it turned out sort of wonky and weird, but I'm kinda happy with it so I hope you are too! Please enjoy!

“They said what?”

Johnny just shrugs and looks over at Ponyboy, shoving a few more fries in his mouth. The plate in front of him is almost empty already, the small pile of ketchup he’d squirted out almost gone too. Ponyboy shrugs too and takes another sip of his coke. They’re both acting way too calm for what they’ve told Dallas.

“I’m serious,” Dally repeats. “They said that? You’re not kiddin’?”

“Why would we lie about that?” Pony runs his finger around the rim of his glass, pushing the straw around as he goes. “Y/N told us they thought you could never like ‘em back because the two of you are so different.”

Dally chews thoughtfully on his own straw and leans a little farther into the corner of the diner booth. Johnny and Ponyboy look unfazed on the other side of the table, the latter doing his best to steal fries off Johnny’s plate without being caught. It doesn’t work and Johnny sends him a small glare. Ponyboy backs off and takes another drink of his soda.

“You’re bein’ serious, right?” Dallas asks again. “Cause if you’re not, I swear, I’ll kill the both of yous.”

Ponyboy rolls his eyes and Dally has half a mind to reach across the table and smack him upside the head. “We told ya we weren’t, alright? They told us yesterday when we were hangin’ out.”

Sighing, Dally stays in his seat and thinks over what to do next. Stark blue eyes trace the lines of the table and the logo on the side of his drink as he weighs his options and works on making up his mind. When he finally does, he stands up with a smug smirk.

“Where are you headin’, Dal?” Johnny asks. He swats at Ponyboy’s hand without looking away from Dallas when Pony’s fingers stray too close to his fries.

“To find Y/N,” he says simply. “I gotta tell ‘em they were wrong.”

He finds them in the lot, kicking around a can that has definitely seen better days. They look smaller than usual. Shoulders drawn in, head down as they mutter softly to themselves. Dally starts to jog a little to cross the street and that’s when they look up. Their eyes find his and they seem to shrink a little more.

“H-hey, Dallas,” they stutter. One corner of their mouth quirks up in a smile that’s all too forced. “What have you been-,”

They’re cut off as the New Yorker reaches out for them, one hand landing on their hip, the other cupping the side of their face as he brings them close together, his lips landing on theirs. Y/N makes a surprised noise into the kiss but doesn’t pull away, so Dally counts that as a win and doesn’t let go. He’s pleasantly surprised himself when he feels their hands rise to the back of his neck, tangling in his hair and keeping him in place.

When they finally break up, they’re both smiling and breathing heavily.

Y/N looks a little lost, eyes wide and confused as they stare at Dallas, so he figures he ought to try and fix that. He leans in again and they meet him halfway and then they’re kissing again in the wide-open lot.

“You gonna explain somethin’ to me now?” Dally asks after pulling back. His thumb smooths over their cheek and Y/N leans into the touch faster than Dally thought they would. “Why in the world did you think I wasn’t gonna like you? And why did you tell Johnny and Ponyboy instead of talkin’ to me?”

Blushing, Y/N looks down at the ground but Dally gently nudges their face back up with a finger under their chin. He raises an eyebrow expectantly and the action gets a small laugh out of them.

“I just thought,” they started quietly, “that you wouldn't like me. We’re so different, y’know? I’m not really the kind of person you usually go out with. I figured you wouldn’t be into me.”

Dally rolls his eyes and pulls them into a hug, tucking their head into his shoulder. He rocks gently and squeezes them tight before dropping a kiss on their hair.

“You ever think about how none of the people I go out with ever stick around? You ever think that maybe since we’re so different we’d do well together?”

“I guess not.”

“We’ll maybe you should’ve, ya idiot,” Dallas chides without any anger or annoyance in his tone. “Maybe then I could’ve taken you out earlier.”

Y/N looks up at him, wide-eyed and shocked. “You wanna take me out? You’re serious?”

“You don’t wanna go out?”

“No! No, I do, it’s just that- you’re serious, you’re not jokin’?”

Rolling his eyes again, Dally leans in to kiss them again, pausing to talk before he connects his lips with theirs. “I’m gonna take you out. Promise. But right now, I’m just gonna kiss you.”

#the outsiders #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders hcs #the outsiders x reader #dillo’s writing #dallas winston #dallas winston x reader

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cottonlemonade · 10 months ago

Text

Stuck At The Airport

word count: 1057 || avg. reading time: 5 mins.

pairing: post-time skip Oikawa x chubby!Reader

genre: very suggestive, smut-ish, established relationship

warnings: mdni, nsfw

synopsis: you tease Oikawa over the phone while he is just aching to get home to you

a/n: I had a draft for Kuroo and Oikawa and liked them both, sorry if they’re too similar 🫠

You closed the front door with an exhausted sigh, dropping your bag onto the floor. Looking forward to two weeks off you shuffled to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The snow was whirling against the kitchen window and the frost settled on the sill.

You leaned against the counter waiting for the water to boil when you got a text from your boyfriend.

Tooru: Flight was canceled, stuck at the airport, I am so sorry, princess. I'll be home tomorrow, I promise. I love you ❤️x

Attached to the message was a picture of him pouting.

You groaned inwardly - you hadn't seen each other in weeks because he was away for a tournament and you were aching to be with him.

You missed him so much. This weather in particular called for serious cuddle time with your significant other.

After typing out a just as pouty response, you went to take a long hot shower to wash all the stress of the week away.

Oikawa was sitting at the airport, bored and antsy, bouncing his leg.

He wanted to be home with you. No stress, no hurry, just… you and him, cuddled up inside with a nice glass of wine, snuggling on the couch watching a movie and then spending the night making you forget your own name over and over...

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of these kinds of thoughts. It only made the wait seem longer.

He leaned his head against the wall, staring off into the distance, hardly registering the music over his headphones.

He closed his eyes trying to maybe catch some sleep to make the time go by faster.

A short buzz informed him of an incoming message.

At first glance it was just a picture of your bed, the headboard, slightly wonky from various intimate nights, decorated with fairy lights. It was cozy, sweet and made him feel warm inside. He wanted to be there with you.

For a minute he thought that you might snuggle up with a pillow and watch a movie without him, then he noticed something else that sent an electric pulse through his body.

On the inviting bedding glowed a small purple charging light that caught his eye. It belonged to a little something he gifted you before the last time he had to travel.

His throat suddenly felt very tight and he made sure to turn his phone so that no one could accidentally glance at his screen.

The line under the picture read:

You: Guess what I'm doing.

Tooru: My job.

Another buzzing announced a FaceTime call and swallowing hard he picked up.

You were smiling into the camera, hair damp from the shower, dressed in your favourite lacy nightgown, a mischievous glint in your eye.

"I'm guessing you're not alone."

He shook his head, his lips dry.

"Well in that case, baby, we’re gonna go back to the thrilling days of radio and you just gotta listen."

Oikawa’s eyes went dark at the implication and shifted in his seat, taking off his jacket and draping it over his lap. He wanted to tell you to stop, whine and complain that it was unfair and mean and not the right time but… the low hum of the small pink toy, your shallow breaths and quiet moans shut him up. He turned his phone around, so the screen was hidden from view (a crime really because he wanted nothing more than to watch you - but he did remember to make sure to start a screen recording), closed his eyes and listened.

You were gonna pay for this as soon as he got home.

It was a little before three in the morning when he finally unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark foyer.

The familiar smell of you made his heart jump and he hurried to take off his jacket and shoes, considering for a moment to take off his shirt to cut down on time. But he smirked thinking about how much you loved undressing him yourself so he made his way to the bedroom, anticipation tensing every muscle.

You were laying on your stomach, dressed in that short white nightgown from the afternoon, the blanket crumpled next to you. He swallowed, somehow his mouth felt too dry and too wet at the same time.

Oikawa sat at the edge of the bed, thinking about how to wake you without startling you too much. But he was also hungry… in the end he chose to run his warm hand along your plush inner thigh, while kissing your shoulders and exposed neck. His fingers just shy of where he desperately wanted to be he continued to rub, squeeze and kiss until you slowly woke up.

"Hey princess.", he said quietly, smiling against your soft skin.

"Baby, welcome back.", you mumbled happily. Turning to him you rubbed your eyes and stifled a yawn.

Oikawa licked his lips as he let his gaze wander over your body. The three weeks apart themselves had not been the problem. It was the promise of your warm form pressed against him and your teasing that made it insufferable.

"I missed you."

"I missed you more, baby." He leaned in for a kiss, bringing his hand further up between your legs and grinned at your moans.

"Do you wanna play a game?", he asked in that special teasing voice that he knew had you surrendering every time.

"What kind of game?"

He chuckled and kissed your neck again, applying more pressure with his hand, making you gasp for air.

"I like to call it Letting the neighbors know I’m back."

You let out the most adorable giggle that might have stopped his heart if all of his blood hadn’t already rushed somewhere else.

"Yes, sounds good."

"Good girl. But first, I think I should make you pay for what you did to me yesterday, don’t you think?"

He reached into your bedside drawer and took out the small pink toy you had teased him with.

"Be good, princess, and I'll reward you after."

With a devilish grin he pulled you towards him and leaned down for a deep kiss, setting the toy against your clit, pressing the button to start.

#oikawa x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #oikawa x reader #hq oikawa #haikyuu oikawa #oikawa tooru #oikawa smut #chubby reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x curvy reader

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guitarstringed-scars · 6 months ago

Text

on stage- s. hinata

act two, scene two: hell week

masterlist

you slam open the door to the auditorium, students already rushing about. the stage is being set up with set pieces, and you wave to kenma in the lighting booth. you spot keiji as you walk in. he stands addressing a group of actors as you approach him.

“ready for the first dress rehearsal?” he asks you, smiling weakly.

“never been more ready!” you turn to the gathering of actors, “you should all head to the costume closet and get ready, yachi should be ready down there.”

they nod and head out. it isn’t until a few minutes later that shoyo shows up, coffee in hand. he rushes up to you grinning.

“hi!” he says, a little breathlessly.

“hi!” you smile as he catches his breath.

“this is for you!” he says, handing the coffee to you, “i think its what you like, but i’m not 100% sure.”

“oh! thanks so much sho!” you take a sip, it’s your favorite. “it’s perfect!”

you both stand for a second staring at each other smiling. keiji clears his throat.

“oh, you should head down to the costume closet to get ready.” you say, keiji bringing you back to earth. shoyo nods and rushes off.

“seems like you two are back to normal.” says keiji.

“ugh he’s too perfect.” ”don’t get too distracted.” keiji finishes.

there is no way to get distracted when just a short 15 minutes later you are starting a full run through of the show. you and keiji sit in the audience, and you sip your drink as you take notes. at intermission you take a quick break to give notes. you stand on the stage in front of everyone. ”hm…kenma, lights looked great for the first half, just a few wonky cues. sound was great, costume changes were good, and for the cast… over all, the first act was okay. lines need to be picked up wayyyy quicker, and i need more energy. shoyo and toru should be the bar to meet on energy, especially shoyo. hope to see improvement in the second half!” you finish, handing it over to keiji.

as he speaks, you can’t help but zone out a bit. it’s already 9 pm, and you have all of act 2 and clean up to do. this coffee is the only thing keeping you up. as keiji wraps it up, you two head back to the audience. shoyo approaches you again. ”do you think you could give me some more personal notes before act 2?” he asks, looking genuinely interested, “i just really trust what you have to say.”

“sure.” you smile, “i think that you are doing a really great job with everything except for picking up the lines quickly. i’d be willing to help you run lines for a bit after the dress rehearsal today if you wanted?” you offer.

shoyo doesn’t answer for a second.

“sorry, was that too harsh? i’m not trying to be me-” you start. he cuts you off. ”no, it’s okay! i’d love to run lines tonight with you! thanks!” he smiles, and rushes off stage.

“you are down bad.” keiji says beside you.

“shut up.”

and he does, only because the lights are up for act two.

the second act of the show is much shorter than the first, so it goes by quickly. the whole time you are slightly distracted by the thought of running lines with shoyo afterward. once it finishes, you send everyone to get out of costume and clean up. you decide to save the notes for tomorrow, and wave goodbye to the actors. you know the tech people will stay a bit later perfecting everything for tomorrow. shoyo comes up to you, swinging his bag on his shoulder.

“where should we go run lines?” he asks cheerfully.

“let’s just go outside, i need to lock up behind the tech people so i don’t want to go too far.” you say, leading him to the front steps of the building. you pull out your script, and start to practice with shoyo. he paces back and forth in front of you, and really his line delivery isn’t bad, he just isn’t very confident in himself.

“i think you are a really great actor.” you say.

“…wait! what scene is that? i don’t kno-”

“no, like you shoyo. i think you are a really great actor.” ”ohhhh. i get it now. you had me stressed!” he says, looking relieved.

you both laugh.

“i’m surprised you never joined theater sooner, you sure have the personality for it.” you say.

“i’ve always been more focused on volleyball, but i’m having a lot of fun!” he finally sits down next to you.

“it’s getting late, i should kick tech out.” you say, looking up at the stars.

“i’ll walk you home?” he offers.

“sure, i’d like that.” you say. the both of you walk in to lock up the doors, and start your trek back home.

you figured the walk would be awkward, due to whatever clouded relationship you and shoyo currently have, but it’s actually not bad. you make decent conversation, and you attribute this to his outgoing and kind personality. as you reach your door, neither of you really know what to do, having flashbacks to the last time the two of you stood in these very spots. you give him an awkward wave. ”alright… uh, bye.” you say, unlocking your door.

“goodnight y/n!” he smiles, before turning and leaving.

you sigh.

another late night of rehearsal. it’ll be okay this time. you go through the run through again, and give your notes again, and shoyo asks you to run lines again, and you tell him yes again, even though he doesn’t need to because he’s doing absolutely perfectly. so thats where you find yourself, sitting on the front steps of the theater building, this time all of the tech crew gone.

shoyo slumps down on the stairs next to you. ”i want this to be perfect.” he says.

“you will be.” you assure him.

“i don’t know, i’ve never done this before.” ”well i have, and i know you’ll be perfect.” you say.

“will you hate me if i’m not?” he asks.

“what?” you look at him. he has a look of genuine concern on his face. “i could never hate you shoyo. i don’t think anyone could ever hate you.” you say.

“i don’t want to mess up your play when you’ve worked so hard.”

“you wont. i promise.”

“okay. i’m going to try my hardest!” he says.

“i know you will.” you smile at him.

“i really like you y/n.” he says. your smile falters.

“i really like you too shoyo, but-”

“i know, just wait one more week. i will!” he says, standing up. “i’ll walk you home.”

and he does.

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq #hq x reader #haikyuu smau #shoyo hinata #shoyo hinata x reader #haikyuu x reader smau #hinata shoyo #hinata x reader

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timeclipsed · 4 days ago

Text

4 socially maladjusted orphans go to a mall, what happens next will shock you

Word count: 5649 Google Docs mirror: here! Summary: Literally what the title says. Strive and Nikki try to be good older siblings to their asshole little brother Tails Chronos who's trying to be a good older sibling to his asshole little brother Kit. Crack taken seriously. Crude humor, Kit with abandonment issues, cheesy cringe. Wonky perspective, it jumps to the inner thoughts and feelings of each character at some point.

ft. @hiswrlds, @sorrowfulsidekick and @vandalizedheart. Merry Christmas.💙 Notes: Characters may be OOC, I don't have a completely accurate grapple on Strive, Nikki or Kit yet, but I tried to ask as many questions as I could to get a good study.

Sorry if it's not that good. I worked on it for about 3 weeks because I really wanted it to be decent. I hope this is something! Or maybe it's just nothingburger... but I had fun writing it.

There are some vague allusions to each character being traumatized and having emotional issues, so you don't have to read it if you aren't comfortable with that!

Swinging open callously enough to threaten spiderwebs onto its adjacent window, illuminating those in the nearby vicinity to wafting pomades and clacking gears from within, the shop’s front door reveals the third member of the afternoon’s impromptu party. Grumbling about something or other, straightening out the creases in his ratty pilot’s jacket. Inky circles that line clear sky eyes accentuate the proverbial “I really wish I weren’t here right now!” button that might as well be slapped onto the antecedent lapel as they turn to face their company.

“Hi,” insipid as ever, Chronos only gives the simplest of greetings.

Wholly unfazed by his lack of joie de vivre, however, Nikki hops to her feet from the curbside she and the accompanying Strive had been lazing on while in wait, speeding over to wrap an arm around his neck and pull him into a mirthful headlock, delivering a well-overdue ruffle of the hair since their last meet.

“Heyyyy, lil’ bro!” Oozing a moxie obverse from the other, a grin spread wide across her face, she holds nothing back in greeting him with the warmest arms possible. Cracking the tiniest of smiles, Chronos (surprisingly) allows the display, although it goes unreciprocated.

“Brought a friend,” she adds coyly as they separate, pointing over her shoulder with a thumb, “hope you don't mind?”

Quiet for the majority of the greetings, Strive makes his way up behind Nikki. “Hey, buddy.”

“Oh,” creasing brows seem to annotate a train of thought towards the last-minute addition, but only briefly, as he shrugs his shoulders. “He's around here all the time as it is, I'm more surprised he actually got invited instead of crashing things.”

Scoff. “Hey, c'mon! What's that supposed to mean?”

“Three days ago I woke up in the middle of the night to you in my kitchen eating our cereal directly from the box. With your hands.”

Mouth hanging open, creasing into a wide smile, Nikki roars with laughter of which only gets deeper as she notes the way Strive's ears twitch and his face tinges with the slightest hint of a rosy hue.

“Can we go?” Hastily speaking over his mirror's uncontrollable guffaws, he tries to change the topic as fast as it had been laid out.

“Just a minute,” waving a hand, aloof as ever whilst laughter dies down, Chronos goes to light up a cigarette, “we're waiting on one more person.”

Noting the way they ogle him at the statement, he folds a rising brow, taking a long drag. “What, you can invite someone without asking me but I can't do the same?”

“Touché.”

Mimicking its oscillation from minutes before, albeit much more mellow, the door opens again, and seeing the individual who emerges, Strive sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. Shorter in height than the initial triage by a notable amount, cerulean fur standing out against the achromatic surroundings, tiny hands grasp at the xanthos backpack strapped around his shoulders. Immediately rushing towards Chronos, a wobbly, pencil-thin smile on his lips.

“Ready to go…!” He utters, intonation barely above a whisper.

Allowing a smile, completely genuine, to take over his consistently phlegmatic expression as he tosses his cigarette, Chronos crouches down and ruffles his hair. Compassion he's decidedly rarely capable of. Turning to look at Nikki and Strive as he keeps a hand placed on the other’s head, he stands up.

“I’ve told you guys about Kit, right?”

Noticing the additive of bodies, especially their appearances, Kit clings to Chronos' leg tightly, half-hiding behind him with a deep scowl lining his face, practically burning through their skulls with the sheer amount of disdain alone.

Clearing his throat, glancing away to allow his eyes to be anywhere but on the broiling glower willing him to drop dead, Strive lets his shoulders shrug up a bit. “...We’ve met.”

“Dunno him,” coolly swaggering up to the little fennec, crouching with hands on her knees, Nikki looks him over with a red-lipped smile. “You got yourself a little sidekick of your own, huh? I guess that checks out.”

Closeness prompting Kit to retreat further behind Chronos, he clasps on tighter, fuscous fuchsias unrelenting. “Do they have to come?”

Realization hitting him like a ton of bricks, he makes the palm of his hand the home of his face, groaning into it. “Right… you have a thing with Sonics too.”

Turning to face the boy, knelt on a single leg to get to eye level, he clasps one of his in both of his own larger ones. “If this isn’t something you wanna do, I won’t force you, lil’ buddy. I’m gonna go on ahead, but you can hang out, and I’ll be back.”

Relinquishing the grip slowly, wide-eyed dread blooms over Kit’s expression as he watches. Watches Chronos start to stand, watches him prepare to turn away, to disappear with Strive and Nikki, to leave him behind.

Two-handedly clutching onto Chronos' wrist, he squeezes tight.

“No!”

Jolted by the usually meek voice raising into a desperate cry underlying the spiraling attachment festering within the boy, Chronos looks down at him with open-mouth consternation, brows knitting together. Casting a wayward glance back to Strive and Nikki, who stare back somewhat awkwardly and with concern, he clears his throat and gives something of a vague smile, attempting to lasso in the precarious situation.

“O-Okay,” nodding his head slowly, he offers a pitch with benefits to sell the idea, “how about we all go, and then you and I can go solo for a bit? We can grab lunch, and then— you can pick whatever store you wanna go into and I'll come with? Just the two of us?”

Contemplating, grasp still not loosening, Kit looks down at the ground. “...W-Where are we going?”

“Ever been to a mall before?”

“Mm-mm,” the smaller fox shakes his head, which Chronos takes as a cue to scoop him up, holding him to his chest as he starts to stride off.

“You'll love it, lil’ bro! The variety this one has is crazy— tons of different kinds of stores, I can't even name ‘em. And when you walk in there's this huge fountain—”

“A water fountain?”

“You know it! Thing shoots up like 10 feet in the air or somethin’, and it's got all these levels…”

Rounding the corner, with Chronos raving over the experience to entice Kit, Strive and Nikki follow side-by-side, abaft to the pair. Fists latent within denim pockets, she observes the two with smiling eyes, a certain warmth pooling in her chest that travels down to her tummy. Induced by a kind of wistfulness at the display of siblinghood, she fights back a few forming tears.

“He's different,” she notes in a hushed voice, “around the kid. Kit.”

Strive nods, “kinda like…”

“Us?”

“Mh.”

Hardships and painful traumatic memories aside, the last few months had allowed Chronos the necessary room to grow, to open his heart a little. Surly and unapproachable as he'd been initially, recently the faintest of sunlight had moved in, finding ample reason to spread its golden rays to make something good out of the seemingly eternal rainstorm that raged.

Hopefully, a rainbow could bloom one day, even if its array of iridescence was only tangentially visible.

Still, the mystique of the specific events that led him down such a dark and lonely path are mostly unknown. Perhaps he'd be ready to tell them a ways down the road.

Peregrinating the vestigial trek to the mall is done mostly in comfortable silence, aside from Chronos hyping up the trip to Kit. Glass doors, illustrious under the winter sun, automatically slide open to greet the group, the sounds of vivacious clientele and their footsteps from all around filling their ears. Piqued immediately by the display of spritzing aqua, Kit tugs on Chronos' hand, pointing towards it.

“Chronos! There’s the fountain!”

Chuckling, he uses his free hand to ruffle the top of Kit’s head. “Wanna go see it, lil’ buddy?”

Ardently nodding, looking up at his surrogate brother, Kit allows himself to be led towards the watery apparatus. Obviously, Strive and Nikki keep their distance, although the sight ameliorates the experience all the more regardless.

“We should go into the back of Spencer's,” abruptly, Nikki suggests, piping up as she turns to stare at Strive, whose brows crease in confusion.

“Why? What's in the back of Spencer's?”

Simpering silently instead of offering an explanation, it takes every ounce of self-control to keep her expression for the bit as his own face contorts into something uneasy and awkward.

“Miss me with that shit,” he murmurs, shaking his head. Wheezing, she slouches forward a bit, hanging her head.

“No, no! Listen,” she starts, hands in front of her, “listen. I can't tell you, but—”

“Why not?!”

“S-Stop—” Increasingly growing more tickled by his reaction, Nikki slaps a hand over her mouth, “I'm trying to say you just gotta experience it blind!”

“What are you guys bitching about over here?” Making his reapproach just then, Chronos joins the pair. Behind him with a slight, and previously unforeseen bounce in his step, Kit also frolicks up. Seemingly reasonably content, clasping onto his big brother's hand, he allows his eyes to roam the surrounding areas.

“The back wall of Spencer's.”

Chronos snorts.

“I don't get it!” Strive cries. “What's the joke?!”

“You've never been in a Spencer's before?” Smirking amusedly at Strive's belligerent confusion, Chronos rests a hand on Kit’s head. The sight is too funny, but he'd rather not explain it to his little brother.

“No?!”

“We gotta show him,” Nikki states, “he has to know the lore.”

“What lore?! Just tell me already!”

“Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy,” Chronos answers, somewhat ominously, as he turns tail to start off further into the mall. Toddling after like a duckling, Kit trails his heels.

“I would! Come on!” Dashing after, he joins the pair, with Nikki not too far behind.

Thankfully those pleas for knowledge to spread and be shared don't go unanswered for much longer, the antecedent location being the first stop on the trip. To the grand merriment of Nikki and Chronos, Strive makes a beeline for the back of the store before they so much as even step through the entrance.

“Oh my God,” carried by the general lack of other presences in the shop concurrently, his voice reaches their ears. Whilst Kit has lost himself in the chromatic display of lava lamps, mouth open in astonishment, the remaining pair scuttle into the back.

“There it is,” Nikki states, faux-galvanized by the sight as she wipes away a single, nonexistent tear, “it's beautiful.”

Chronos, the mature teenager he is, begins snapping photos. “The place of legends. Only told in stories.”

“A fucking dildo wall?” Strive puts his hands on either side of his head, seemingly initially distressed by this information.

“Take a pic of me with them!” Jumping into frame, Nikki strikes a pose. Obliging, Chronos takes another photo.

“What… how am I supposed to feel about this?”

“I mean, happy? You are the fruitbowl blue bastard. This is your home.”

Turning wide-eyed befuddlement onto Chronos after his comment, Strive proceeds to lock an arm around him, holding him down.

“ACK! MAD BECAUSE I'M TELLING THE TRUTH!” Flailing and punching, struggling, he tries fruitlessly (pun intended) to escape his older brother's grasp.

“Don't fight the gravitational pull of Spencer's. Just accept it, get your picture taken in front of the dildo wall.” Chiming in, arms slung around Strive's shoulders from behind, Nikki starts wrastling him back, effectively freeing Chronos from the brotherly hold.

“I mean,” glancing towards the lascivious wall, then back, he finally shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, aight. Lemme get in on that.”

Getting into a stance in front of the wall, he strikes a pose of his own, causing Chronos to wheeze as he takes the photo. Proceeding to have an entire photoshoot with the dildos, the three rotate between photographing and being photographed for at least 3 and a half minutes, ignoring the workers staring at them.

Until the softest call of, “Chronos…?” rouses them. Perking ears twitch and instantly Chronos is swept away, scanning the store to find the direction the utterance had come from. Right outside the store, Kit looks frantically every which way, tears beading those puce eyes as he looks for his brother.

“Kit,” coming up from behind, a hand stretches out to rest on his shoulder, “what are you doin’ out here, bud?”

Startled by the sudden touch, Kit whips around with wide eyes, immediately, he throws his arms around Chronos’ waist.

“Where did you go?!” He cries.

“Woah, woah, hey!” Returning the desperate embrace, he hugs Kit close. “I was just in the back of the store. I didn't go anywhere.”

“I-I didn't see you,” tears threaten to spill freely as he stammers softly, wavering the cadence of his voice, “I didn't hear you. I thought…”

“I would never,” cutting that train of thought in half before it finishes, he kneels down to get onto Kit’s level and hold him. “Not in a million years. I'm sorry I scared you, buddy. I won't do that again.”

Sniffling, looking at Chronos, he wipes his eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise,” lifting him into his arms, he sets Kit onto his shoulders, “now c'mere.”

Giggling as he's pulled up, arms wrap around his brother's torso and he clings. Reconvening once they've left the shop proper, Nikki holds a bag at her side, Strive with arms resting behind his head.

“Everything okay?” Nikki asks.

“Yeah. We're just taking a minute.”

Floppy ear drooping against Chronos’ head, Kit turns his eyes to glare at both of them. He'd be cute, sitting up there how he is, if it weren't for the way he stares at them as if to will them to drop dead.

“Tough crowd,” Nikki murmurs to Strive, who nods.

“Hey kiddo, how about we grab something to drink?” Chronos suggests, raising his eyes slightly as they all start walking again, “you ever had a slushie?”

“No… what's a slushie?”

Momentarily pondering the answer, he lets out a hum. “It's kinda like… flavored ice?”

“Sounds icky.”

“No, no! It's actually really good,” he assures, lifting a hand slightly amidst explanation, “basically, they make the ice real soft, like snow. Then they add sugar and flavor… like uh…”

“Cherry, Coke, blueberry… y'know, soda or fruit flavors,” Strive finishes, to which Chronos nods.

“Oh, if they have fruit flavors then it's the perfect drink for y—”

“Nikki.”

“Okay, but I had to!”

Snorting into a fit of wheezy chuckles, Chronos can't help but to snicker somewhat at the quip. To be fair, Strive should've seen it coming from a mile away. Poor guy.

“Um… okay, I guess I could try it.”

“Cool! Then we can grab some real food later.”

Seemingly satisfied by this, Kit nods, pressing his face into the back of Chronos’ head again, nuzzling into the soft fur. Aside from the shit-eating grin Nikki is giving and Strive staring back at her with endeared mild annoyance, things start to quiet down again, but only for a moment or so.

“Sorry,” Chronos pipes up suddenly, addressing his older siblings without looking behind him, “if this hasn't been super fun so far or anything. I'm not exactly the take the day off and have fun type.”

Quick to reassure Chronos’ rising anxieties, Nikki answers. “Hey, this has been plenty fun so far, little bro!”

“We haven't been here a long time anyway, and there's still the rest of the afternoon to do whatever.” Coming up beside him, Strive claps a comforting hand onto his shoulder.

“Mm,” turning his eyes to study the patterned marble floor beneath, it's clear there's still a level of thought plaguing his mind. The kid just can't seem to relax.

Clearing his throat, Strive tries to make idle conversation. Chronos may not have been his little brother, raised by his hand, but he can typically discern what Tails is thinking about.

“How's he adjusting?”

Ears perking a little at the start of the topic, shoulders shrug diffidently. “Dunno. He's been a little more open with me lately, which is good— but he's still so nervous. I just hope I'm making headway with him.”

Peering at the dozing fox, clung tightly to the older, he gives a soft chuckle.

“I'd say he trusts you, if the way he's huggin’ on tight is any indication.”

Those words bring something of a relieved glimmer to his eyes, but he doesn't comment.

“How old is he?” Strive questions, noting the youngest’s small demeanor.

“I… actually don't know,” Chronos admits, brows knitting. “I'm not even sure if he knows. I can tell you that he's young young, though. Can't be older than 10.”

“10,” he repeats, voice softening a little, “God, that's awful.”

“It's wishful thinking,” the other starts as they all make their way into the food court, “but I'm hoping it'll all just start to feel like a bad dream the older he gets.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Most you can do is just try to be there for him. Let him know he's safe with you. He'll come to you on his own eventually.”

Surprisingly, Chronos actually cracks a smile.

“Thank you,” he replies, albeit rather impassively. Strive decides to count it as a win anyway.

Making their way up to the counter, Strive leans against it, elbow resting comfortably.

“What'd you say you're having?”

“I didn't,” Chronos answers with that same smile, now growing slightly, “cola.”

Like a movie, or a stageplay, with the pair firing off their lines rehearsed to the ear, picking up their cues so naturally. The flow of which they cut up together seems meant to be— a look into another life, with a happier duo.

“Hey, Kit, you can share with me. Give this a try,” Chronos urges, holding the cold drink up to the drowsy fennec. Lifting his head, he eyes the large cup with some hesitation, but accepts it, dwarfing his two little hands.

Reluctantly, but nevertheless obediently, he takes a sip. Immediately, those ears, appearing permanently pinned down in a meek way of being, prick straight up, and a moonstruck kind of expression paints his face. Tail wagging vigorously, a slightly open mouth plunges back down onto the straw, swiftly consuming the contents of the cup. Amused and endeared, the others share a chuckle.

“Or… I guess you can have it.”

“I-It's good,” murmuring abashedly, Kit shrouds his flushed face behind the cup, “sorry…”

“I'm more of a coffee guy anyway,” Chronos assures, reaching up to ruffle Kit's head again.

“Hot or iced?” Nikki quizzes.

“We usually only have hot coffee at the workshop, but I always vibe with a good peppermint mocha.”

“Interesting. And have you kissed a man before?”

Strive chokes on his cherry slushie, forcing down laughter. Chronos takes this in stride, however, barely emoting as he snatches Nikki's wallet from her pocket, combing through the available coinage.

“Well, sure,” he answers. He then fails to elaborate. This only makes Strive laugh harder, the joyful sounds fading as Chronos makes his way towards the coffee stand.

Strive sighs, “what a great kid.”

Nikki just pouts. He can't tell if it's because her curveball fell flat or because Chronos stole her wallet.

Coming hours prove just as comical and active. Between Nikki running up to every Victoria's Secret poster and throwing her hands over the womens’ thinly-garmented bosoms and getting scolded by Chronos (hypocrite he is, as everyone knew he'd be doing it too if Kit weren't present), to Strive having to drag everyone out of Hot Topic after 45 entire minutes of marveling and making excess purchases, to the ceaseless “top surgery at Claire's” jokes in the namesake store leading the group receiving a request to leave from making the other patrons uncomfortable. Now toting multiple bags and vociferating both tawdrily and jovially, they make their way through the long strip.

Pausing in their stride, Kit tugs on Chronos’ hand, who instantly turns his attention to the younger.

“What's up, lil’ bro?”

Staring into the window of the nearby shop, his trained stoic eyes fixate on one of the displayed attractions in particular; a larger, plastic water gun, coated in gaudy hues of lime and aqua and orange. The thing couldn't measure much taller than the boy himself standing up, he'd probably have to carry it two-handed everywhere— a mental image that makes Chronos’ ears flick and his heart leap. So cute…!

Despite his discernable desire for the toy, Kit makes no attempt to speak up to request it, merely pressing gloved palms against the glass longingly instead. Chronos feels his heart melt into a puddle, and quickly calls out to the others.

“Hey, I'm stopping in here real quick,” he announces, causing them to turn and gander at the sign.

“A toy store?” The query is more curious than judgmental, but regardless, he huffs and turns his nose up, revolving on heels with tails flicking as he makes his way into the store. Defensive in the telltale I’m about to do something nice, so don’t perceive me kind of way that he does sometimes. Toddling after like a baby duckling on its mama’s heels, Kit is of course, right behind.

Dramatically clutching his chest, Strive swoons in feigned distress. “So heartless!”

“A black hole where his heart is, exactly like he says!” Nikki cries, falling over the top of him, sending the two hedgehogs tumbling to the floor in a crumpled pile of azure spines. People stare at them before just stepping over and around.

“Get up,” insisting through a voice stifled by the floor, Strive blindly manhandles Nikki, limbs flailing to grasp her.

“Nah.”

“Get up!” Raising his head, he repeats himself. Firmer, but still playful.

Challenging his patience, she instead lounges on top of him, resting on her side with head propped up onto a hand, supported by the elbow driving into Strive’s calf. Brilliantly, the latter just begins crawling into store Chronos and Kit had gone into, instead of attempting to buck Nikki off himself.

“Carry me into battle!” She hollers, pumping a fist out.

Sneakers, hued a color similar to the two of them, obstruct their pathway a quarter of their jostle into the store. Akimbo, eyebrows woven together to complete a look of irritation, Chronos stands with two different freshly-purchased water guns under either arm. Noticing his stance, next to him, Kit quickly mimics his older brother, curled fists on his hips and a disapproving expression painting his face.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking for you,” Strive answers casually.

“Oh my God,” grumbling indignantly, he grabs Strive by the ankle, and starts dragging both him and Nikki along, ignoring the stares of those around them yet again in embarrassment as they leave the store. Seizing the opportunity, Kit snatches both the toy guns, clutching them to his chest in a hug.

“PLEASE,” practically shrieking in exasperation, helplessly flailing his limbs, Strive cries out, “THIS IS CRUELTY!”

Pausing, contemplating, Chronos slowly turns his head to look back at them both.

“Is this what they meant when they said Down With Cis bus?”

Nikki shrieks.

Continuing to pull them along whilst they’re both losing it in two different forms of the term, Chronos looks Kit’s way, smiling a little at how he bounds along after, the littlest bounces in every step. Noting the attention on him, Kit quickly becomes shy, half-hiding behind the boxed toys.

“Um… t-thanks,” he murmurs, “f-for the… water guns.”

Ineffably endeared by the sight, he has to resist the urge to coo and scoop the boy up, spinning him around. Instead, he opts to just chuckle. “Anything for you, squirt. What’cha hungry for, huh?”

“Ah, um…” Lowering his head, cogs turning in his brain as he attempts to discern an answer for himself, Kit falls quiet. Eyebrows clashing, eyes squinting, the thoughts all start to jumble together, and the expectation of being made to choose something on his own isn’t synonymous, and—

Resting on his shoulder, Chronos’ free hand pulls him close to his side, snapping him out of his intrepid trance. Instantly, he’d noticed the signs of panic and offered comfort; a series of motions he’d become quite eloquent in since the evening Kit found a place by his side.

“Or we can just let our appetite decide when we get back there?”

“O-Oh!” Nodding quickly, giving his prognostic agreement, he nuzzles against Chronos’ jacket.

Undeniably, he feels guilt deep down; being so consistently troublesome must be adding a whole new layer of stress for his older brother to deal with on top of everything else. Despite all of his issues though, his tantrums and screaming nightmares at all odd hours, his attachment issues and aversions, nobody had ever looked at him as patiently as Chronos had. Doting that he's still wholly unused to, but a type of loving kindness he's glad to have.

He just hopes that she isn't looking down on him for it.

“Excuse me,” piping up, a gruff voice from ahead catches their attention. Uniformed, trying far too hard to maintain the felicitous stance, one of the security guards stands in their way.

“We've received multiple complaints about the four of you disturbing the peace and acting as general nuisances during the last few hours. I'm going to have to ask you all to lea—”

Abruptly and without either thought or warning, in a single swift motion, Nikki chucks the remainder of her drink at the guard. She freezes.

Kit freezes. Strive freezes. Chronos freezes. The security guard freezes.

He moves first, baffled and soaked with cherry slushie, making to grab for his walkie-talkie off his belt. Instincts kicking in, Strive leaps to his feet, hoisting Nikki (who lets out a shriek of surprise) over his shoulder, chucking his own drink at the wall.

“SCATTER!”

Snatching Kit and Chronos, both held under the opposite arm, he races out, bursting through the front doors and maneuvering through the capacious parking lot. Sunshine gleams off stainless vehicles of reds, blacks, blues and whites, nearly blinding emerald eyes as they scour the metallic maze, following his fuzzied line of sight to the gateway exit.

Screeching to swift halt close to the streamside, he loses control of his compadre cluster as Chronos wiggles his way out and drops face-first to the ground. Nikki and Kit also go tumbling, the first cluttering painfully onto her little brother’s back and the latter landing in her lap with a gentle fwump!. Clambering up briskly, he tries to shove Nikki off.

“Get off— you’re hurting him!”

“Shit!” Toppling over, nearly tripping on her own feet, Nikki jumps up. “Sorry, sorry! You okay, bud?!”

“L-Let me help you! Don’t move…” Rushing to Chronos’ side, gingerly clasping one hand with both of his, Kit tries to lift him up. Face popping out of the ground, having left a distinct vulpine indent, he lets out a groan, allowing himself to be pulled up into a seated position. Crowding around, the three look down on him curiously.

“You alright?” Nikki asks again.

Soothing a newfound stinging headache with the pads of his fingers, Chronos gives a deep, vexed sigh.

“I’ll tell ya somethin’,” he starts, wobbling to his feet with Kit and Strive’s assistance, “I’m gettin’ pretty sick and tired of all the dumb things that go on around here…”

She smiles sheepishly. “Did you at least have fun before we got kicked out?”

Ludicrous! After the spectacle their collective presence alone had made? Imprinting permanently on the minds of others as that gaggle of stupid kids with no social awareness? Asking something like that in spite of how they had looked the whole time? Ludicrous! Absurd, so absurd that—

—That it’s funny.

Running fingers through bangs stained blue at their tips, the softest smirking chuckles turn into clamoring laughter. Ethereal, jubilant, a sound he’s not made in the presence of anyone, or even to himself, for a long, long time.

Within moments, he’s stricken with a pain deep in the gut, coiling arms over his stomach, tears from the physical exhilaration plaguing his squeezed eyes. Balance lost, he wobbles, swaying back to the ground.

Given pause, the triage stares in stunned silence.

“A-Are you okay?!” Kit asks, instinctively.

“Are you having a panic attack?!” Nikki cries.

Kneeling next to him, Strive tentatively holds his hands out, grimacing. “Hey, buddy…”

“You two are so dumb!” Chronos exclaims suddenly, voice loud but lighthearted, grinning wide at Strive next to him, “what’d you think— w-what’d you think would happen when you started crawling around on the floor?!”

Wheezing hysterically, forehead leaning against Strive’s chest, he fully collapses under the weight of his own cachinnation. Momentarily surprised, the other’s expression softens, allowing himself to be leaned into.

“And the slushies!” Thumbing tears from his eyes, he throws his arms up. “Why would you throw it at him?!”

Snorting, posture loosening, Nikki quickly counters. “Hey, I panicked!”

“So your first instinct was to throw something at him?!”

Now Nikki is laughing too, shoulders shaking in quick succession with the rhythm of her sounds, which prompts Strive to start chuckling too, rubbing a finger under his nose. Everyone with the exception of Kit has erupted into a fit at that point. Aggregating the discarded shopping bags from all around, he makes over to sit next to Chronos on his knees, who turns a lambet smile onto him.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before,” Kit states quietly. The others nod.

“It’s nice,” Strive notes, winking at him. Nikki just gives a thumbs up.

At that, Chronos pauses. Momentarily after that revelation being spoken into the air. Mimicking a gesture he’d caught from earlier, he rubs a finger under his nose, turning his gaze away to look out at the ruralish structures just across the stream.

“I can’t remember the last time I did.”

“Ah,” posture tensing, Nikki slowly nods, “same.”

“Yeah.”

Wrapping back around, just like that, a solemnly somber atmosphere plagues the present. Laughter dies down into giggles and hums, smiles wane into half-bright looks of sympathy, and a dawning remembrance of all that’s wrong in the world washes over everyone. They sit, silent, for the longest time, not much for speaking or otherwise offering anything further. Comfortable, but harrowing all the same.

Sensing the shift, a pang of urgency in his chest druthers Chronos to act. Repressed for a long time, a sort of social awareness that he hadn’t cared to preserve in all his days and nights of loneliness. Something that now felt tangible; precious, that would perhaps tick away like identical grains of ivory sand falling within an hourglass, becoming latent in the myriad of similarly dreary days.

Looping his arm around Kit’s shoulders, he pulls the fennec closer, nuzzling their cheeks together.

“I just realized, I never treated you to that lunch I promised,” he starts, resting the side of his face atop Kit’s head, “I guess we got into a little too much trouble this time around, huh?”

Kit doesn’t speak. Chronos swallows.

“Just like we always do.”

That triggers a small, wobbly smile— thin, almost drawn-on by sharp pencil.

“I-I guess so.”

Beaming, he jumps to his feet, holding the younger under his arms, high up in the air. “Tell you what! How about… we get all this crap back to the workshop, we kick Dr. FatFuck out for the night, and then big bro can make dinner for us? I’ve been told I’m pretty proficient in the kitchen!”

Looking into his eyes for a moment, that rattletrap smile grows, and between clenched teeth, Kit starts to chuckle. From behind, the others giggling along makes him jerk around.

“Wha–” head rapidly turning back and forth, he scoffs, “what’s so funny?! I can totally cook! It’s easy!”

That does it— this time it’s the others’ turn to burst into untamed, boisterous laughter all around him. Quiet, initially, an instinctive tongue-lashing at the ready to fall from suffused lips at the audacity, a particularly effervescent bubbling in his stomach hushes that urge. Memories of being surrounded by people he trusts most, cutting up and slinging playful insults at one another, flood in through his being, and he finds something familiar in being alive in that present moment.

The feeling of home.

Cupping his forehead with a hand, smiling and shaking his head fondly, Chronos puts a grin on his face, pointing back at himself with a thumb as he tucks Kit under an arm, playing into the apparent humor of the situation (which he’ll promptly rip into them about the next time it’s appropriate).

“I think we brought fresh salmon home from the market this weekend, could be good in the spaghetti I’m making tonight.”

“Wah?!” Squirming, wide-eyed, Kit’s hands rest on Chronos’ wrist, “fish in spaghetti?! That’s awful! Please don’t! Chronos!”

Strive and Nikki laugh harder, until the point Chronos slings his free arm out, toting each individual purchase from the mall in their respective bags.

“And I’ve got all my sick new threads ‘n’ shit to do it with!”

Gasping, Nikki teeters to her feet. “I JUST BOUGHT THAT EVANESCENCE T-SHIRT!”

Strive does the same. “Not my Snoop on a Stoop!”

“Your what—”

Turning tail, Chronos takes off down the road, Kit hollering under one arm and the bags ruffling audibly on the other.

“Bye!”

“Come back here!” Crying out, hands outstretched, Nikki gives chase, with Strive not too far behind.

“Chronos! Think about what you’re doing, buddy!”

Clouds having cleared up sometime during the afternoon, the evening gradient of twilight blankets the cold, vast sky, twinkling in vivid pinks, yellows and oranges. For just a moment, even amidst all the squawking and commotion, something about sempiternal reality feels welcoming again. Maybe it could always be like this.

Maybe, Chronos thinks to himself, chuckling tenderly, as long as you just stay close to me.

#( THE GARBAGE DUMP; DRABBLES. )#hiswrlds #vandalizedheart #sorrowfulsidekick

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bitimdrake · 6 months ago

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Um, I have a question regarding the Blackest Night arc. In which issue was it revealed that there was something wonky with Bruce's body (I think Hal discovered it and maybe told Dick + revealed that Hal knows Tim's on his Bruce-quest, maybe others do too)?

I'm curious and want to understand, since in certain fanfic, there's a thing about Tim being abandoned / seen as crazy by the hero community, so they didn't reach out to assist Tim (certain fans say it's likely influenced by Dick). I believe that one scene in Blackest Night has something to do with it.

The whole Tim being abandoned and seen as crazy thing is 100% made up fanon and it sucks and I have little more to say on that part. But I got plenty for you on comic recapping:

Bruce's body has a presence throughout the main Blackest Night mini, but the big one is #5 where he's "raised" from the dead.

Hal and Barry are the leading characters of this part of the event, and the ones who have the actual conversations about how Black Lantern "Bruce" was blatantly different from all the actual reanimated dead people, thus indicating that's not his real body (see BN#6 and BN#8 particularly). But the actual "reanimation" happens in a very public setting in front of a whole lot of superheroes, so it's really not a case of any one person discovering the information.

Dick and Damian and the rest of the bats aren't present at the time and I don't think we actually see who/when passes the info on, but they're aware a little later on in Batman and Robin, and start talking about Bruce returning circa B&R#10.

How this actually connects with Tim's story is...kind of awkward and not totally lined up, so I had to line it up myself for my chronological order. Tim returns to Gotham temporarily and is with Dick during the Blackest Night: Gotham tie-in, but then he returns to his brucequest in Red Robin, and later in RR#12 seems to be ready to present his findings as if he's still under the impression he needs to convince Dick--to which Dick is like well actually we have a lot to talk about there.

So I guess the implied order of events is (1) Dick and Tim fight black lanterns while, elsewhere, unknown to them, "Bruce" is "reanimated" and everyone else realizes that ain't his real body, (2) Tim peaces out immediately afterwards and so misses when, (3) someone comes to tell Dick/Damian/Alfred what they all saw with Bruce, making them start to realize things are strange here and be more open to the idea Bruce might be alive. Then (4) Tim returns, and off screen after RR#12 both sides share what they've each learned, and Tim convinces everyone of his specific theory.

A lot of the conversations and logistics and behind-the-scenes workings are missing, but after that RR arc I place B&R#10, and Dick and Damian talking about Bruce coming back. And then we have all the comics surrounding Bruce's actual return (Time Masters: Vanishing Point and Return of Bruce Wayne in particular), by which point everyone is aware of the whole situation, and a team of various heroes has come together to figure out how to get their Batguy unstuck from time.

#*#ask #anon #dc #*dc #bruce wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #blackest night #dc timelines #dc ref

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erika111111 · 1 month ago

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The Quarry and queer-baiting, part 2, AKA things I forgot to mention the first time and it was so much I might as well just make another part

See the first part here (it makes more sense to read this first if you haven't already)

On the topic of there being some underlying feelings between Abi and Emma, after they return from their little ride and Nick asks where they've been, Emma mischievously answers, "Wouldn't you like to know," which causes an annoyed Abi to inject "Ignore her, please!" Maybe it's just me, but I swore that was Emma alluding/joking about her and Abi having some kind of romantic getaway in the woods. And maybe Abi got annoyed because she said this in front of Nick, who she's crushing on, and didn't want him to think there was something going on between her and Emma already; little did she know her repressed feelings for Emma would come out in full later on in the game. Maybe I'm reaching as far as the eye can see with this one, but that was just my interpretation from the scene.

Back to the Laura/Max/Ryan/Dylan/Kaitlyn chain, I can actually make a bit of a comparison between how they treat the straight couple of Abi and Nick and how they treat the gay couple of Ryan and Dylan. A lot of people say that Ryan seems uninterested in Dylan (and everybody else), but people always point out the "Ryan seems interested" pop-up when Dylan is teasing about asking him out on a date. I mean, that should be game, set, and match for Rylan, but apparently not... I'd like to point out that when Abi and Nick kiss, the pop-up very directly says "Nick is falling for you." Not "he seems to be falling for" or anything like that, he very matter of factly IS falling for you. Whereas Ryan only "seems" interested. Again, it gives me queer-baiting vibes, as the game is very straightforward with explaining the state of the straight couple to you, but then it only gives you all these mixed signals and unclear crumbs for the gay couple. Not to mention, from my playthroughs and watchthroughs, it's much harder to get the "Ryan seems interested" pop-up than the "Nick is falling for you" pop-up as well. It's like they shove these things in your face on purpose yet make it extremely difficult to actually get at the same time.

Some people do like to argue that the "Ryan seems interested" pop-up is just from Dylan's perspective and probably not true, but that seems like a bit of a reach to me. I really don't think the pop-ups are supposed to be from the characters' perspectives, I think they're just supposed to give the player some insight and foreshadowing. For instance, "Travis will kill you." There's literally zero reason for Laura to assume and know that Travis will indeed kill her later, so it really doesn't make sense for that pop-up to be from her perspective. So I think that's a pretty weak defense for the Rylan antis. However, even if you get the "Ryan seems interested," pop-up, the firepit kiss, and every other positive thing about Ryan and Dylan's relationship, when talking to Laura later, Ryan can still always say his "maybe neither" line. So... you got me.

And yes, he doesn't always say the "maybe neither" line, but I also think that's a weak defense for the Lyan antis. I kind of doubt that Ryan only developed feelings for Laura during that very conversation itself. Even if he doesn't say that line/have that conversation, it doesn't mean he doesn't have feelings for her. Again, I don't think that conversation itself is what made him fall for her. Although, to be completely fair, it's not like they have very many positive experiences with each other prior to that moment, but Dylan and Kaitlyn insist on the sexy sparks, so... I don't know. I think the whole thing is rushed and Ryan really needed more time/positive moments with Laura before he started crushing, but I digress. The game's pacing can be extremely wonky at the times and I guess they worked with what they had...

Another defense people have for Ryan seeming uninterested in Dylan at times is that he's autistic. And while I 100% believe this and headcanon it myself, I don't believe this is ever stated directly in the game, so again, it's a bit of a weak defense. Please correct me if I'm wrong, though. Either way, it's obvious that Ryan is socially awkward and has a hard time communicating his thoughts and feelings with everyone. But people saying he's autistic and that's the reason he's unclear with Dylan as a fact is a bit weird to me because, as far as I know, it's not true/confirmed. But again, correct me if I'm wrong. Although, either way, it's not just his relationship with Dylan that's affected by this, it's his relationship with literally everyone. Dylan, Kaitlyn, Laura, Chris, Jacob, Emma, literally everyone he communicates with, and that is pretty clear. So it's not something that can just be applied to Dylan either way. This is more of a fanbase thing than an actual game thing, but I felt it worth pointing out because I see it a lot.

I believe I mentioned in my previous post about this that I feel the biggest Rylan scene, even more than their kiss because it was partially forced by Emma, is their conversation on their way to the radio hut, because for once Ryan seems 100% interested in Dylan and what he has to say. However, I believe this conversation wasn't included in the original version of the game, you could only get it from the pausing glitch. I could be mistaken, but I remember all those pause glitch videos from back when the game first came out and that they were considered these secret or removed dialogues and that Miles Robbins even alluded to it himself. So... there goes the biggest Rylan moment. The developers deliberately cut this moment out. It's literally like they fear actually pleasing the LGBTQ+ with the content they themselves created. I imagine they decided to add this scene back in the DLC due to the popularity of the ship, but still.

Another thing that's brought up constantly is the camera angles between the Ryan and Dylan kiss and the Ryan and Kaitlyn kiss. The straight couple, Ryka, gets a close-up zoom-in of their kiss. But the gay couple, Rylan, only gets the faraway shot. Seriously, what is the reason for this besides to annoy/disappoint the LGBTQ+ audience? Again, it's like they do this stuff on purpose. On a similar note, if you kiss Kaitlyn, you'll get the pop-up "Dylan seems a little disappointed." But if you kiss Dylan, it won't say anything about Kaitlyn. So this would seem to emphasize that Dylan might actually like Ryan a little more than Kaitlyn does. Or maybe he just takes rejection harder, who knows. But I thought it was something worth pointing out.

I'd also like to bring up the huge missed opportunity during Dylan and Kaitlyn's conversation on their way to the scrapyard. They joke that they finally found out Ryan's type, and that it's "pirates," because Laura is heroic and has an eyepatch. But literally two seconds ago, Kaitlyn is making a joke that they'll attach a hook to Dylan's hand and call him "Hooky McHook Face." You know... like a pirate?? I get that you wouldn't always get this opportunity given you can choose not to cut Dylan's hand off, but come on now. They make such a huge point out of it if you do, including in this very same conversation about the pirates, so why did they not add something here? Kaitlyn could literally just have one little line like, "Well then, maybe you do still have a chance after all," and Dylan could let out a small laugh or something. I mean, maybe they just didn't think of the idea. Maybe they thought it'd be insensitive for Kaitlyn to keep joking about it. I don't know. I just think it's a missed opportunity.

Another thing I theorized about is if the writers intended to pull the trope of "the rejected love interests wind up together" and pair Dylan and Kaitlyn up together; Ryan goes off with Laura and then Dylan and Kaitlyn are the duo now opposed to Dylan and Ryan. But, correct me if I'm wrong, the developers confirmed that Dylan is gay so... can't be that either. Regardless, I do know some people still ship them together. What is there ship name? Do they even have one? I'm calling it LynLan until further notice.

Lastly, as I said before, this post isn't intended to insult any ships, characters, or shippers mentioned. I just wanted to give the facts and also explain some of my personal opinions. At the end of the day, there's actually no endgame ships in The Quarry, which I guess is a good thing? Every shipper can enjoy whatever they want since we get no aftermath and they left it open anyway. It's totally okay to ship non-canon/non-confirmed ships, trust me, I've been there.

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insult-2-injury · 2 years ago

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A Worthy Distraction

Header by my wonderful and talented friend @drawlypsy. Please go check out their work, they're fucking amazing.

AO3 Link NSFW Dottore/femReader, murder couple, dirty talk, fingering, questionable coping mechanisms, over the pants feelies, villains will be villains, trauma

[This is a Genshin OC one-shot I wrote for friends and then rewrote into a reader insert. Some tenses and stuff may be a little wonky here and there, but I think I caught most of it. It is only a tad OC-centric, as reader does have a backstory, but it's minor and shouldn't make a difference. Idk. There's smut.]

The lowdown: reader has anemo vision w/ pyro delusion, has one metal claw hand and PTSD to match

~~~~~~

You lay on your side, sprawled out across an uncomfortable-looking exam table like a cat in a patch of sun, yawning and stretching as you awoke from a short nap. Head twitching to the side, Dottore acknowledged your entry into the waking world with a rigid nod and a tiny quirk of his lips, something that could almost be categorized as a rigid smile, before turning back to the subject on his table.

You shot him a cheeky grin, unruly tufts of your hair falling across your face as you did so. Your socked foot tapped a rhythm onto the metal beneath, warm now with the prolonged heat of your body. Your head thumped back against the metal… Bored. So bored.

Archons, you were just as ambitious as he when it came to testing out new ideas and just as prone to getting lost for hours in the mental process of it all. But he had been at this experiment for days, barely sleeping, hardly eating. Your best friend Ana was off on some secret Fatui mission, his more tolerable clones were deployed in Sumeru, and chatting up the locals was apparently a non-starter. Besides, it wasn’t your fault anyway that the local creperie burned down. And, unrelated, what kind of creperie ran out of fucking crepes?

You were bored. So completely and utterly bored. You sat up, criss-crossing your legs beneath you in order to better watch the Doctor work.

Dottore was a straight line– seemed perfectly content staying in one spot for an entire day, his mind single tracked and obsessive. You, on the other hand, took the path of a crack of lightning, your interests branching and changing rapidly, new revelations branching into new ideas and new ideas springing into new experiments and it was a wonder you ever finished anything at all. You always did benefit from someone who could help organize the near constant fusillade of inspirations in your head.

You used to have someone. Now they were the ghost in every corner.

You needed distractions. And a man possessed could provide no such thing. Your fingers twitched and the pyro delusion warmed on your hip. Then burned. You inhaled sharply, your heart rate picking up.

You blinked away at the encroaching visions that threatened to steal you, usher you inside. The disembodied voices and the ghostly feeling… the familiar mourning of the fiercest kind of love expanding in your chest but with no vessel, no discernible memory to hive it away in. So full yet so terribly out of reach and–

“You’re fidgety tonight,” Prime said calmly and you gasped, your eyes shooting open in time to catch the fire blossoming at your fingertips, having singed a small hole through the thin fabric of your shorts. Cursing, you swatted at the smoke as he continued evenly. “Go take a walk outside if you must.”

You allowed the span of a few centering breaths to pass as your gaze fell upon Dottore’s raven mask laying on the counter behind him. Your gaze darted back to his uncovered features and you found yourself drawn in, and not for the first time. It was a recent breakthrough, one he’d made no announcement of despite the shock when he’d removed the thing in front of you; a promising sign of trust from a man who so lauded in the unsettling air of mystery he exuded.

You fiddled with the mask in your own hair as you observed. The ancient scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and extended up to his right temple, eyes untouched, the rest of his face pale, smooth, and unscathed. The scar that he could easily remove with his scientific prowess yet he kept it just the same. You’d always reckoned it was a reminder of something; a tether of sorts.

And Celestia knows a mind without a tether was a dangerous thing. Yes, you thought, Celestia would know, indeed.

You let out a sudden shriek of laughter, unprovoked.

“Ah, shucks. You’re always trying to send me away,” you chided finally, rolling the singed fabric between your thumb and forefinger. “Besides, it’s the middle of the night, bozo.”

The stiff, weary shake of his head was indicative that he was now only slightly bothered by the plethora of nicknames that you’d coined to get under his skin. Good, you thought with delight, he’d better get used to it.

“I mean, heck,” you continued, throwing up your arms, “who knows what kind of monsters are skulking about out there?”

Dottore’s piercing, crimson eyes latched onto yours and you smiled at the clear meaning within.

Worse than me?

A familiar shock of yearning racked the length of your spine. You gnawed at the inside of your cheek, noting the way his eyes flicked to the motion of your lips before slowly drawing back up, almost expressionless. But you knew his little intricacies by now; the indiscernible twitch of his eyelids when you toed the line with him, the drumming of those long, elegant fingers against any available service whenever he was in deep thought.

How he studied you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You had always been attracted to the dark; where flame cast light upon a brick wall you were drawn to the shadows that slid effortlessly in between, morphing and making their quiet nests within the cracks in mortar. Yes, Dottore was indeed a darkly beautiful thing, you thought, not allowing your gaze to stray from his.

“I was under the impression you could handle yourself,” he said coolly, but the bladed glint in his unflinching stare was bright and calculating, even beneath the eerie shadows cast over his features by the medical lamp above. “Was I wrong to think so?”

Hmph. All work and no play made the Doctor cranky. Your nose twitched and you cocked your head, lips curling coyly.

“I can handle myself just fine,” you said, baring your teeth. “But you’d miss me, wouldn’t you?” You placed your chin in your palm to drum fingers against your cheekbones but didn’t wait for his answer. “So I’ll stay right here. For the good Doctor’s sake, of course.”

You winked.

“For my sake. Of course,” he murmured, examining your wide, inciting grin and the butterfly flutter of your eyelashes. A tiny quirk of his lips betrayed his forced impassivity before he put a pin in the expanding balloon of tension by turning back to the body on the table silently.

You swallowed down the uncharacteristic dryness in your throat.

There were different routes you could take to get your desired result, one that would ease the ache between your legs and provide you a worthy distraction from the ghosts in every corner. You were used to people winding up putty in your hands, pliable and needy; even the self righteous ones. You just had a gift about you, an impulsive need for control in all senses of the word that people just responded to.

Except him.

To have Prime in your greedy clutches would be nothing short of euphoric. But there was something ancient and omniscient about him that made him effortlessly superior to them all, as if he would slip like sand through the fingers of anyone who tried to hold him. He was patient, unhurried; a lone viper coiled atop its rock, full-bellied and confident in his supremacy, so many leagues above that he had all the time in the world.

Your lips twitched. But, so did you now, didn’t you? Cursed with immortality and ironically bestowed the power to alter time; a power that centuries ago you would have used to pulverize the very forces that had granted them to you in the first place. But time just wasn’t enough for you. You were a creature starved. You wanted to devour and destroy each moment now until nothing remained but the burning foundation. And even that must go.

Your mind strayed again and you fought to ground yourself. All must go.

You hissed between your teeth, leaping off the table to take up space beside Dottore, shoulder pressing into his as you studied his bloody work. You viewed his profile in your periphery; his bladed nose, the soft, steel blue curls that framed his face, the slight, disapproving curl of his lips downward as he was jostled.

“Need any assistance?” you said brightly.

“I do not.” His hands began to move carefully across the corpse, but you knew enough about his craft and were observant enough to see that his focus wasn’t on the experiment before him.

“Hm… You want a drink or something?”

“No,” he said shortly, and then as if remembering himself, “... but thank you.”

“Well, you must be hungry at least.” Your long fingers dared to wrap his elbow, fiddling with the rolled up arms of his blue linen shirt before trailing up to his bicep, squeezing. “Goodness, you’re all skin and bones, crazy you can even hold that scalpel like you are. It’s almost like… like… like holding a flimsy little test tube…”

Dottore’s chin dipped, the slope of his nose tipping down toward your mocking countenance, which faltered slightly when his gaze dropped briefly to the two fingers now trailing over the sharp buckles of his arm bands. You hadn’t touched Prime before besides the occasional brushing of shoulders and on the surface, he didn’t seem the type to enjoy such things. Maybe all it took was the right button.

But Prime only hummed, crimson red eyes rising.

“Your actions suggest you desire to take this man’s place.” His voice was soft but rife with danger. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and you cocked your head to the side like a mischievous crow. You seemed to share the same steady breath back and forth as you studied each other for a short moment.

“Suit yourself, old man,” you chirped, conjuring a gust of anemo to tousle his loose, hanging locks of unruly hair before releasing his arm abruptly and in a blur of motion swinging around to his other side. “You’re loads of fun, you know that? Have your harbinger friends ever told you what a dream you are?”

Friends. Maybe there was a segment of him that had what one could call a friend but Prime, you had observed, seemed to have no interest in any social dealings that didn’t involve the business of sinister diplomacy. The only person who came around here often enough was Pantalone, and you could hardly call a wallet a friend.

Not that you had many tried and true friendships besides Ana. There was, of course, the pink-haired stick bug that was a package deal with your best friend and he seemed to be warming up to you a bit, but on the whole, people just seemed to tolerate you. Not your fault. Social skills were a fucking bitch.

“Has anyone ever told you how exasperating you really are?” he retorted and then continued, softly mocking, like he was speaking to a child. “This experiment is a particularly sensitive one that requires a certain amount of space and time to complete. Space and time that you seem unwilling to provide.”

“Provide?” You giggled and leaned in close, voice a low purr in his ear. “You get awfully mean when you’re frustrated, Doctor.” And you swung from him, sauntering away.

On a shelf across the room, a little radio sat playing quiet soul music. With one slow stroke of your forefinger across the dial, you turned the volume up, wiggling your hips to the music as you bent across the counter. But when you peeked over your shoulder, he was paying you no mind. Worse, he was turned completely around, vials clanking as he fiddled with something in the depths of his cabinets. Your sly grin turned into a wrathful frown as you glared.

Taking the radio beneath one arm, you spun around to bow comically low, your free arm splayed out like the spread wing of a bird about to take flight. A gust of anemo slammed the cabinet door in his face and he paused, hand still mid air. Then, terribly slow, he turned, eyes hooded and serpentlike but otherwise expressionless. You waited for his full attention with a feral grin on your face before you flicked the volume up another notch and spun out of the stance.

Your socks slid clumsily across the rubber floor as you moved with exaggerated motions, using the radio as a dance partner, swaying to the egregiously loud music. And to add insult to injury, you sang along, too, belting out the words like you were doing all this to save your own life.

Dottore’s eyes were all that moved as they followed, crimson glowing in your periphery as you twirled. And even if he had raised his voice above the cacophony, you wouldn’t have been able to hear him. But his gaze challenged just the same.

You shrugged, turned the volume up to max and watched his eyelids twitch in contemplation before he started to carefully put the corpse before him away, zipping them into a body bag before rolling the table away and into the walk-in freezer. He returned, surprisingly gloveless fingers casually brushing down the front of his pants.

All the while, you danced closer, singing and laughing with frenzied glee, winding up to perform a full running slide toward him. But a small, abrupt twitch of Dottore’s wrist paired with a warning, devilish tick of his lips had you dropping the radio in order to conjure your polearm, spinning it elegantly above your head.

The cogs of a clock rotated before your eyes, a secondhand wheeling at an impossible speed. With practiced ease, you whirled it swiftly back, resetting the clock. You slid to a steady halt in front of him.

The giant needle, half the size of you, that would feasibly have torn into your flesh floated innocently now beside his head, gleaming in the fluorescent light. You searched him with razor eyes, a cocked grin on your face as you reached out with the deadly point of a clawed finger to prop under his chin while the other wiggled beneath the center strap of his harness to pull his face closer. “You weren’t actually going to use that little pin trick on me, were you? I was looking for a dance partner, princess,” you tutted, “not a fight.”

And not taking your gaze off his, you stretched out with your free hand to slowly turn the point of the intimidating needle away from yourself. “Ooh, that is sharp, though!” you remarked. “Very impressive, doctor, I should fashion you up a fancy shmancy corkboard to match. Because you know, I’m nice like that. Now, wanna tell me why you’d go and ruin my good fun?”

“Your good fun…” He hummed regretfully. The finger beneath his chin dug in and he chuckled, a dark blaze of interest in his eyes. “You are right, my dear, I may have overreacted. Well, I am sorry, for all that my word is worth. I simply had the strangest inkling you weren’t listening to me. But now…” The corners of his lips twitched just slightly. “Now you must think me quite uncivil.”

You grinned and met him in the middle of the playing field, the claw beneath his chin falling to round his neck. “You did forget your manners there for a second, huh?”

Dottore hummed, leaning unexpectedly forward and into the grip of your unmoving talons. It seemed every segment of the Doctor favored a nice side plate of anguish, and Prime was no different. They really were just flowers plucked from the same garden.

The talon of your thumb dug into his pulse point and he let out the softest groan, his breath tickling the strands of hair across your forehead.

One of his hands peeled your hold carefully from round his neck, holding it instead against his chest. You swallowed down a secret, hidden delight born of being held by a being who did not often seek out the pleasures of touch. In this moment, he was yours. Your Prime.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Doctor,” you said, “I can think of several ways to atone.”

Clawed hand laced beneath his, your free hand trailed down to his lower abdomen, pausing so as to peer up at him through your eyelashes. His breathing remained practiced and steady but there was no mistaking the muscles that twitched and jumped beneath his shirt as your fingers danced innocently from hip to hip. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his eyes rose to meet yours.

“I shudder to think what punishments a mind such as yours could dream up,” he said lightly.

Too lightly. Too unbothered.

“I’d only give as much as you’re able to take, of course.”

“Ah, of course.”

Dottore huffed out a dark laugh, his free hand rising up to almost tenderly stroke the ticklish outline of your jaw before falling to cup beneath. “I’ve been told I’m long-winded but you don’t give up do you? An admirable trait in some circumstances, I suppose. But you are a horribly impatient thing.”

His thumb pushed into the plush of your bottom lip, quietly admiring the give of it, the shades of red warping under his shifting pressure. “Although I suppose I have been quite busy, haven’t I?” he crooned and you felt a bright flicker of irritation at the implication that your entire time here had thus far revolved around a one-sided pining for him.

No, no. That wouldn’t do.

You had intended on taking him quick once he showed interest, but something bright and oddly delicate within the depths of your chest had you slowing down. Besides, you supposed a bit of teasing wouldn’t hurt.

“Being elbow deep in your funny little corpses all day makes you awful ornery. I just think you could use a break.”

Your hand dropped those final fatal inches, brushing along the front of his pants, fingers dragging a slow, lazy rhythm across the twitching hardness beneath. Archons, he was big. And he knew it, too. Had no reservations about pushing his hips forward and into your grip just to watch your eyes widen.

With a centering intent, you located and swiped across the tip, pressing there to savor the bead of precum wetting slowly through. His grip tightened painfully on your jaw and his own thumb jerked forward, sliding between your teeth. His eyes dipped closed almost as if to center himself, his finger resting on the pad of your tongue.

Dottore’s crimson gaze reemerged and fell transfixed upon the digit you pinched between your teeth before releasing. His voice was surprisingly even when he spoke again. “Tell me what you want.”

“You on your knees,” you said candidly, stroking along his length again, so hot against the palm of your flesh hand. “Some begging would be nice.”

His chuckle was a roll of thunder, sinister and foreboding. “Oh? How forward,” he remarked.

“And just a liiiittle bit of your time. Since like you said, you’ve been so busy. Then we can go back to pretending you haven’t wanted this since the very beginning. Is that so much to ask?”

The slow, wicked curl of Dottore’s lips would have sent anyone else running for the hills, but not you, a vicious thread of want unspooling between your thighs at the sight. To have such villainous lips pressing not only to yours but to your legs, your breasts, your everything.

The thought gave you pause, if only for a moment, a lapse that he took full advantage of as he dragged his palms up your sides with the leisure of a man with unlimited patience, his presence hot and solid, thumbs brushing, swooping purposefully along the outside swell of your breasts before trekking back down to settle on your hips.

“You just want a little bit of my time,” he repeated, nodding, “of course.”

You frowned. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. With a sudden, urgent need to unravel him, you yanked his hips closer with a tug of his belt buckle. “Then why don’t you kneel, hm? Or better yet, pet, why don’t you get on all 4’s for me?”

Dottore’s chest rumbled against yours. “You know,” he said gently, “you were right about me.” Something about his tone had your brows knitting with unease, stomach twisting.

“Was I?”

“I do get mean when I’m frustrated.”

With a single toss of his head, three things happened in sequence.

One, the needle beside Dottore’s head, the one your elemental skill had been holding in place, impaled into the tile behind you with a deafening crack. Two, there was a terrible sound of something whirring to life. And three, a cloud of winged darkness descended upon the two of you.

Ravens. Too many to count. With bright turquoise eyes and mechanical cries. They were jet black with gold stitching; the man couldn’t help but put signature pieces of himself into every one of his creations and these were no different.

A sudden, predatory step forward by Dottore sent you pedaling away, movement stalled by the backs of your legs hitting against the flat head of the embedded needle, too low to sit on, too wide to skirt around. Instinctively, your fingers found a stabling purchase in the center strap of his harness before you could topple backwards as he drove forward still.

In a terribly awkward mimicry of a ballroom dip, you hung off him, head whipping to the side to ward off the flurry of winged creatures that swept viciously past your faces like an ocean riptide. Spinning, they.painted an almost ethereal backdrop of black wings behind him for but a moment before they fell in a swirling formation around the two of you.

A tempestuous wind, one that matched the power and complexity of your frenzied mind, built with a vengeance around your feet as you swung your sharp gaze to his. Your taloned hand gripped into the blue linen of his shirt as you found an awkward balance, teetering backwards still, knuckles digging punishingly into his chest as you glared up at him.

“This isn’t fun for me,” you complained. “I’m not having fun.”

“Pity.” A thick laugh at your expense flowed like a dark lullaby from his chest as he addressed you with a sharp-toothed grin, ignoring the anemo tantrum even as his hair swept wildly across his face.

“Do you like control?”

“Yes,” you wheezed up at him, neck straining from the effort of holding your head up to glare at him. “I do. I really, really, do.”

“As it happens, so do I.”

“Oh well boo you, you absolute bore. You know, I was wondering where you kept that backbone.”

Both time and an unquelled fury had afforded you the capabilities to destroy a village with a single spin of your polearm. You both knew you could level the playing field if you wanted. And quite literally, too. But despite the terrible yearning to pin him into the nearest wall, to see him come apart at your hands, the storm remained strangely controlled. Even as you clung to him while he explored the notches of your spine gently, the movement clashing with that familiar lilt of cruelty with which he spoke.

“What was it you were searching for, hm?” he crooned. “For me to shirk the integrity of my research just for a meaningless dalliance? You seem to quite fancy the notion of vexing me into compliance, seeing how you’ve been trying to get this spine of yours bent over one of my exam tables for how many weeks now? You spoke of punishment earlier, well I’d like to subvert that notion entirely. Of what use are you having around at all if you only seek to meddle in my work?”

“Four,” you said simply and then in the following silence supplied, “four weeks I mean. And you’re in no position to be tossing around death threats. Not with those arms.”

“Aren’t I?”

Punishment came in the form of his fingers withdrawing from your spine, instead languidly dragging around to your lower stomach. Crimson eyes observed your reactions carefully as he slid a wriggling middle finger across the thin fabric of your shorts, mapping out and nestling between the hidden folds there. His eyes darkened with hunger at the intoxicating sound of your breath hitching. He pressed upward with the pad of that finger, carefully avoiding where you needed his touch most, circling your clothed entrance and basking in the heat emanating between your thighs.

“Shall I proceed?”

“Shall I proceed?” you mocked in a gruff voice. “What is this, open heart surgery? Pass me the scalpel, Doctor.”

“That could be arranged,” he responded, voice tight.

A quiet whine loosened from your throat when his arm slid around your lower back to better support his endeavor as he pressed his thumb into your clit. In a launched counterattack, you slashed four thin strips into his shirt with a flick of your wrist, then hoisted yourself up to his ear by wrapping the back of his neck.

“You want to look at my brain, too?” you said breathlessly. “You can finger fuck that, too, if you want.”

The arm around your back tightened painfully. He continued his exploration of the shape of your cunt, picking up a slow rhythm with two fingers circling your clit. The hand on your tailbone dragged up until it tangled into your hair, holding you there in the crook of his neck while he turned to whisper against your cheekbone.

“I wouldn’t put such temptations into my head, pet.”

“Nothing that wasn’t already there.”

“You are dangerously drawn to the profane, I’m afraid. Hm. What to do, what to do… I think the only way to silence such a perverse mind is to deprive it of what it craves most, wouldn’t you agree?”

He paused in his ministrations.

You were sure the glare you yanked back to sear him with could've taken out a small village. “No. I would not.”

Dottore chuckled low, but the tone was something you’d never heard, so tattered and almost restrained. Your eyes flicked down to the space between them and you smirked when you saw just how restrained he really was. He snatched your jaw and pulled your focus back to him, squeezing into the meat of your cheeks when you bared your teeth at him.

“You’re not incorrect, though, I have weighed the merits of studying such a specimen as you.”

“Ooh,” you grinned. “Intimately?”

He turned your face to the side to examine. “By and large, people are just a complex sum of their parts but you…”

You’re a person of jagged, scattered pieces I haven’t quite figured out yet.

“-You’ve been useful to me thus far. But all things fade and my patience wears thin.”

The murder of ravens dove back toward you with the command of an unseen signal and you closed your eyes and giggled as talons caught in the mask in your hair, knocking it completely off your head. But when the cold strike of metal wings slit into the sleeve of your shirt, slicing a thin crimson line across your shoulder, your eyes narrowed onto his with a deadpan, lethal focus.

“Do you want to know what happens if you keep pushing? Hm?” His fingers retreated until they splayed across your lower stomach instead.

“Do tell.”

“The bite of a single raven is painless when compared to, let’s say the bite of a scalpel against unsuspecting skin,” he murmured and his lips curled into a razor smile in response to the shiver that drove down your spine even as you vowed not to react.

“But just imagine in that creative head of yours… the onslaught of hundreds of tiny blades clipping away at flesh. Talons tearing into skin, muscle, perhaps even bone, reducing you to nothing but your base components in none but an instant. A deplorable thought, isn’t it.” The birds dive bombed again and you vibrated with the strangest kind of fever, your eyes fluttering shut as you teetered with the adrenaline, the hypnotizing lull of his voice as he spoke of Death.

Death. That big old thing with wings. Shy and sweet - that shadowed creature that flitted just there at the corner of your eye. Always there, gone no matter how swiftly you turned to look. Soft and unforgiving, a small comfort, as light as the feather of a single raven. That’s all they were, just feathers across time.

“Open your eyes.” You did with a whine, locking onto Dottore with a furrowed brow, your hands trailing up to bury into his shoulders, recentering yourself with reality. “After all, those would go first, I’m sure. Ravens are inclined to burrow, build their nests in high places. Ah, perhaps I’ll put your skull on my bookshelf. What a pretty sight that would be,” he crooned. His thumb swept up and smoothed across your brow almost comfortingly, circling down to rest on the crest of your cheekbone. Your head buzzed and a deadly impatience gnawed at the place his hand rested unmoving on your belly.

“It is a pain beyond the bounds of human comprehension, to die in such a way, at least from what I’ve borne witness to. Is it Death that you crave? I wouldn’t allow a creature such as yourself a tedious end, you know. No, you deserve something more… remarkable.” With an uncharacteristic bout of submission that had his head cocking in satisfaction, you allowed his hand to wrap your neck, the experimental squeeze like a trigger, your hips rolling needily into his.

“So I’d beg you the question, what comes next?” he asked. “What happens if you continue to push and push?”

Dottore’s erection dug into the soft of your stomach when you pressed forward, your palms rising to cup his face in wonder. Your eyes followed the track of his swallow.

Such a beautiful distraction he was.

“Oh, Dottore… Oh, please, Dottore,” you sang out like a damsel in distress before lightning quick, you wrenched his head to the side to hiss in his ear. “So poetic. Romantic, even. Death by a thousand cuts and all that. Listen, I’ll tell you what happens,” you panted, a pyro fervor rising quickly to the surface of your skin. “Birds or no birds, if you don’t make me cum, I’ll call every last scrap of power you so sweetly bestowed upon me just to incinerate this place to nothing but the ashes of your hard work. What a fucking waste that would be, hm? No punishment quite like the consequences of your own actions is there? Oop! Hello karma, let me introduce you to my good friend the Doctor!” You tittered when the muscles of his jaw clenched beneath your grip.

“And then, Doctor, when we’re both standing here in the rubble of this archon forsaken place, I will go out of my way to abuse the laws of time just to make sure you suffer over and over again and then I will burn you, Prime, I will burn you if you don’t move your fucking fingers right now-”

The rest of your sentiment was cut off by a fist clenching into your hair, tearing your lips away from his ear and crushing them against his own. With a shattered groan, he poured his frustration down your throat while he did exactly as you requested, picking up an intensely fast rhythm against your clit that had you clawing at his biceps, startled from the sudden friction, your squeal of surprise swallowed whole by the violence of his kiss.

There was nothing gentle about the way he moved against each you, hips grinding a relentless rhythm, lips bruising yours as he nipped and licked, hand fisting so tightly in your hair you swore he’d take a good bit of it with him if he ever decided to remove himself.

And nothing could have prepared you for the peculiar sensation - an uncharacteristic feeling of being completely unsure of what came next. Of being knocked completely sideways whilst never feeling more balanced. Like there was a pulsing thing in your sternum running parallel to your heart, some melancholy sensation that centered and secured.

That tethered.

Wind howled around them. Birds cried. And somewhere, somewhere in your addled mind, there was quiet.

Pleasure recycled from your mouth and into his as he drove you toward a climax that came fast but ferocious in its intensity. The borders of your vision faded until all you could do was wrap your arms around his shoulder and hold on as you shook against him, a high pitched whine spilling from between your lips. And his crimson gaze, glazed and almost desperate, remained open to study the way in which you unraveled; how your eyes screwed shut, your fingers finding purchase in his own hair, tugging it terribly hard to prove some semblance of control over him even as you came apart with nothing but his fingers.

Time, with no assistance, seemed to stand still as you came to, your nose pressed into the soft crook of his neck, arms still wrapping his shoulders. Papers were scattered, tables overturned. Some ravens flew still, riding the leftover anemo current above, while some perched, eyeing the two of them with a cold, mechanical disinterest.

A song played on that little radio somewhere, broken and skipping but still pushing through as he swayed back and forth.

“Are we… dancing?”

“Quiet.”

Soft wings brushed across the hollowness in your chest and you nuzzled further into him without much thought. Holding your breath, you dragged your fingers down his chest, intent to undo him in the same way, his cock still hard and insistent against you, but he swatted your fingers away. Once, twice.

“Hey. You haven’t even-”

“Be quiet.”

“Why do you get the lead?”

Dottore didn’t say a word, but his weary sigh tickled the back of your neck and you fell into the silence that comes with newness.

“Did you know ravens usually work in pairs to acquire their food?” you said suddenly.

There was a long pause. “...I did.”

“Hm.”

You said nothing else, and if he noticed the unsubtle way in which you stole back the lead, he didn’t say a word.

#dottore #il dottore #genshin impact #dottore x reader #dottore x female reader #dottore genshin impact #mdni #dottore smut

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pandagobrr · 21 days ago

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Okay so I was scrolling through YouTube shorts on my computer, cuz for some reason it's so much more interesting on there, and I saw this short, and immediately got possessed.

I do not need another au I do not need another au I do not need another au-

The narrator was almost done putting together his player, a nice, curious guy named Stanley. He drew small lines across Stanley’s hair, detailing the projection that would come to life to play through his story. He'd been working on this for a matter of weeks, yet Stanley still didn't look quite right. He'd tried his best but the render had gone a bit wonky, so Stanley ended up having paper white skin with void black hair, and he seemed a bit… well, flat, at least to the narrator. Oh well, perhaps when he came to life it would fix that, make him a bit more… 3D, or at least he hoped.

The narrator walked away as he finished the details on his player, and gave it one last look before shutting the door. Best not to dwell on things, surely it would fix itself in the morning when it came time to bring his creation to life. The narrator shut the door, thinking nothing more of it, having fully convinced himself everything would be fine.

Stanley sat in the creation room, limp and flat as the light from the projector beamed down hard on him. Maybe a touch… too hard. The light started to grow mysteriously in intensity, the room getting brighter and brighter until Stanley started to shake. His skin began to vibrate and his mouth twitched downward, itching to get out. Stanley shook until the light became too bright and powerful for even the outlet to handle, and short circuited the entire building into blackness. The narrator, of course, did not notice this, as he'd been gone from the building long before the lights started to flicker. He didn't think much of it, because everything would work out in the morning, it had to, he'd convinced himself, there was no other option.

Except for in the dark room where Stanley lay, twitching as the broken light flickered in front of him. Stanley barely lifted a finger, and he began to crack, right down the middle, a searing white light sliding itself down his face, his torso, and finally, his legs. It didn't feel like much, for Stanley could hardly feel anything at all. Even when his bright white eyes shot open, nothing but a single dot of black in them for his pupils. He looked around, struggling to get off the page, where was he?

*The Collector theme song starts playing*

...

My hand slipped. Think I'll call this The Collector au, I know, very creative, i'm open to suggestions. ANYWAYS, I think I'll probably write a little bit more about this guy. Y'all interested?

#tsp #the stanley parable #stanley #the narrator #toh #the owl house #crossover fic #crossover #the collector #i did this instead of getting ready for class #whoops #pandas stuff

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deityoftherain · 1 year ago

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now that you've won - Traffic Life Winners Fanfic

Rating: Gen

Relationship: Gen & M/M*

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Status: Completed Oneshot

Word Count: 4,603

Summary: They never tell you what happens after you win one of the games. Grian, Scott, and Pearl never talk about it so Martyn had nothing to bounce off of when he found himself alone in an endless purple void.

aka all of the winners of the life series/death games end up talking in the in-between

*There is some past Martyn/Ren mention and some Martyn/Scott sprinkled in there, but is otherwise just the winners vibing in a void

I GOT A REALLY CUTE DOODLE FOR THIS FIC GO CHECK IT OUT

@lynnospen on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/lynnospen/743504217925451776/now-that-youve-won-ananxiousghost-3rd-life (wow back when that was my ao3 username... so long ago but also not at the same time)

Full fanfic underneath the cut! Please reblog, leave kudos on the AO3 fic slash notes/likes here on Tumblr, comment either place, and etc if you enjoy the story :D

Martyn gasped as he exited a portal he didn’t remember going through. Where was he? What was the last thing that happened? His brain was a little foggy but he was starting to get very brief flashes of memories pulling themselves to the front of his brain.

“Welcome, Martyn InTheLittleWood.” Voices (yes, plural) seemed to be echoing around the wall-less void. The Voices felt like They were bouncing around his head and there were so many different voices speaking at once that he knew he couldn’t place them if he tried.

The united welcome seemed to be the only thing the Voices agreed on saying for everything else said was just too many different voices saying too many different things.

Martyn pressed his palms against his ears, trying to block out the words being spoken around him. He had tried to understand what They were saying but he failed. It was too loud and too jumbled. He wished for Them to quiet for They were overwhelming and he disliked it. Martyn squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head as if that would help him not hear Their loud muttering anymore.

The Voices slowly started to go quiet to the point Martyn could no longer feel Them invade his brain and assault his mind. He hesitantly uncovered his ears and opened his eyes. The Voices had gone silent and there was nothing around him but a shadowy purple void. The portal he came through wasn’t there anymore so he seemed to be stuck here. It was light enough to see his body clearly but dark enough to make him feel enclosed. He could easily admit that he didn’t like this situation so far.

There was some sort of concept of gravity here (wherever here was) for he could walk as one normally would. Each step he took echoed the sound of his boots against whatever surface made up the “floor”.

Martyn made sure to keep heading in the same direction in order to not get turned around. It is a method you might use if you were stuck in a maze. If you run your hand against the wall and follow it, you will eventually make it out.

He wasn’t sure if that logic would work here, you know, since there is no wall to follow but he could pretend and just walk in a straight line. It was straightforward and made sense enough for him. He didn’t exactly have many options seeing the situation he was in.

When you are surrounded by nothing except endless space, there isn’t much to distract you from your thoughts. All of the events from the last game (the game he won) came back to him the quickest.

Time always moved strangely in these games full of death but it was much more obvious in Limited Life how wonky it was. Limited Life had a timer constantly ticking down the time they had left before they would run out. The previous games didn’t constantly have time ticking down like that one did. The previous games didn’t make you so conscious of the passing of time. The previous games didn’t trap you in an hourglass until you suffocate from the draining sand and die. Days would go by and their timers didn’t represent that as one might assume. Twenty-four hours was the amount of time they were given to win yet it didn’t end within one day. They didn’t go through one day-night cycle and then all dropped dead. They experienced several days. They experienced so many days that he was sure no one kept track. They experienced times of quiet, times of joking around, times of battle, times of death…

In the end, it’s all a game. They were entertainment for those who Watched. No matter how much pain or suffering they experience, it was all for Their pleasure.

Did it matter though? Nothing truly mattered when it came to these death games. The bonds they forge and the lives they take (or lose) don’t affect them much once a winner is declared. A winner is declared and all their loyalties, grudges, and selfishness are barely more than a distant memory.

They all change.

Everything changes.

They are never exactly the same.

They might be similar but they never will be the same again.

Martyn supposed it’s probably for the best that they all change. Going through games revolving around murder and a limited amount of lives is traumatic. Especially when you have to turn on those who were once your friends and allies. In the end, it truly didn’t matter. Everyone dies and is pulled from the games until another game is created and everyone (almost everyone… not everyone shows up again) gets pulled back in. Even the winners die at the end.

Allowing the winners to die too (assuming that the games had to happen) is more merciful than cruel, at least to Martyn. Everyone is dead because the winner has killed to the top. No one was left in the world when a winner was declared and staying there, completely alone, would be isolating. He could say it would drive the winners mad but that is assuming they weren’t mad to start with.

Martyn laughed bitterly to himself, thinking about how it all ended. In the end, he had won. In the end, he had killed Impulse and… and Scott. Scott, his ally, his teammate, his partner…

He wondered what their relationship would look like in the next games. Would they talk? Would Scott be bitter? Would they hate each other? He doubted they would be a team again. He didn’t know if he wanted to team again. He didn’t know if he wanted to look Scott in the eye after burning him with lava and stabbing him through the stomach.

There was no reason he should be guilty. Everyone knew what they were doing from the start. Everyone knew that they would eventually die and that one would have to kill their allies. Even with that knowledge, we all just let ourselves indulge in our delusions. If you were in their shoes, you would do the same. It was the only way to deal with the stress, anxiety, and paranoia that came with constantly looking over your shoulder. It was the only way to hold onto your sanity enough to survive for as long as possible. Creating temporary but unusually strong connections was the only way to hold out on lowering your time, your hearts, and your lives yourself.

“Martyn?” The voice was so familiar that his head instantly snapped to look in the direction it had come from. The voice didn’t sound like the Voices that had greeted him when he arrived wherever he was. The voice didn’t sound like the Voices who had whispered into his ear before now.

“Scott.” Martyn blinked at the blue-haired man as his shoulders tensed. He didn’t mean to sound so flat but he did. He had just been wandering, not knowing where he was going or where to go. There was nothing but void and yet, he had found another person- and it was a person he knew! Martyn didn’t expect to actually find anything when he started wandering.

Scott looked very similar to his recent memories because of course he did. It was strange seeing him like this though. Martyn had grown used to Scott’s sea creature features and the coral that had once covered his body. They used to both have coral on them but now Martyn was the only one.

The only things that were the same between the last time he saw Scott and the Scott that stood in front of him now was the hair and some of his facial features. His hair was the same shade of blue (even if it was missing the red streak in favor of floating red particles) and he was giving him a similar small smile he’d seen many times before.

Martyn had seen it the night after he had taken some of Scott’s time from him. Everyone was trying to kill Scott and so he had told Martyn to kill him to get them off his back some. Both knew he couldn’t run forever. Martyn did as he was asked but instantly felt guilty when he saw the smile he was given when they greeted each other that night. This was when they were going to try and sleep while everyone had quieted down for a little bit. Martyn was tired and, based on how you could only hear a soft breeze outside, he assumed everyone else was too.

He’s also seen it… too many times to count, actually. The times were spinning around his brain and he couldn’t grab onto one to think about it more than three word sentence fragments.

Scott’s smiles weren’t always consistent with emotions that could be read by the smile. His eyes were what gave him away, so you could read him once you learned the cues. Currently, based on Martyn’s experience in Reading Scott’s Expressions 101, Scott was hesitant but happy to see him here.

“Are you two just going to stare at each other all day or are you going to say something?” Martyn would like to say he wasn’t startled and that he didn’t jump like a skittish cat but that would be a lie. He turned to Pearl, who was just watching them as she tied her red jacket around her waist.

“You didn’t have to startle him like that.” Scott’s words sounded like he was telling Pearl off but the tone of his betrayed that with how amused he sounded. He was probably used to her showing up out of nowhere. He might even do it to her in return. “He’s new here and probably doesn’t understand what is happening. You were similar.”

Pearl just tsked at that as Martyn straightened up. “What is happening, actually? I would like to know because I kind of just showed up here. If there is some sort of pamphlet, I didn’t get it.”

“This is where the winners reside after each of the games.” Pearl responded, ignoring some of what Martyn said, before Scott could. She gestured widely to the area around them as she spoke.

“At least a part of us does.” Scott whispered softly, pulling his blue jacket closer to him. He seemed to get drawn back into memories of loss and pain by the look in his eyes but Martyn didn’t comment on it. He doubted Scott would want him to and he really didn’t want to play therapist right now. “We don’t really have all the answers. Just a bunch of theories.”

Martyn glanced between them quickly before looking down at himself and back up at them. “Is that why you both look like that?”

“We look like we did when we won.” Scott rolled his eyes but otherwise looked as if he found Martyn’s words funny.

“You don’t have to sound so judgemental.” Pearl snorted at his comment. “At least we’re not stuck here looking as if we drowned.”

Martyn huffed out a laugh at that. He could respect Pearl’s judgment and her words had truth. The coral did look like it had started to grow around his dead body but he thought that was cool looking. “Touché. You’re sort of right, but it does help with the whole pirate aesthetic I had going on so I don’t mind it.”

He found his eyes wandering to Scott again. It was so strange seeing him without the fins, scales, and coral. Martyn had gotten used to them and found a weird sense of comfort in it. He lost count of how many times he and Scott had left gentle touches on each other. Martyn would softly run his hand over Scott’s scales. Scott would play with Martyn’s hair. They would cuddle together on nights when they felt safe enough to not sleep in shifts.

Those nights together had become more frequent as the games went on. You would think that would be the opposite and you would be right… if safety was really what they felt when they decided to curl up together.

It was better to have that comfort and that peace together than to lay in their shared bed alone. It was blissful to feel each other’s soft breathing and being in calm, peaceful proximity with another person. That wasn’t always something you could get in situations that they were in and they grew to cherish their time together more and more.

Plus, they weren’t idiots. They kept their weapons by their bed and blocked the door enough that you could hear it if someone came in but could also move it easily enough for if they had to escape. They had taken the precautions in order to spend those too-short nights together and it didn’t backfire on them.

Scott met Martyn’s eyes and held them for a moment. He then turned away and laughed awkwardly. “You know, we will all be here if Cleo wins next.”

It took Martyn a moment to process what was said and what it meant before he chuckled an awkward and somewhat airy chuckle. “Double Life was sort of messy between the four of us, wasn’t it?”

“No kidding.” Pearl summoned a chair and sat down on it. She leaned forward against the back of the chair and rested her arms and head on the top. “I don’t think I would ever want to go to the nether with you again- at least not first thing.”

Martyn couldn’t blame her for that but also refused to dignify her comment with a response.

“I think Cleo deserves to win in one of these games. At some point, anyway.” Scott ran a hand through his hair, glancing over at nothing… not nothing?

Martyn followed Scott’s gaze and finally noticed… Grian? He should have realized he would be here, seeing that Pearl said that all the winners were here. All of them must have just spawned in around him at different times because he hadn’t noticed them before they were referred to or spoke themselves. It would have been nice if they did that before he wandered for who knows how long. If they’ve been in this general area the whole time then Martyn would need to work on his spatial awareness.

Grian didn’t look like he did when he won Third Life. He had wings, for starters, but he also had a white cloth of sorts with a square purple symbol with a dot in two corners over his eyes. That was more unusual to Martyn than the wings. Grian seemed to be seeing something or another on the hologram screens in front of him because he was interacting with it. How could he see what he was doing if his eyes were covered? Perhaps he was seeing with the purple (a lighter purple than the dark purple that made up the void) eyes that were all around him. He’s seen those kinds of eyes himself before.

“He’s been like that since I arrived.” Scott’s arms were back to his arms, rubbing at them like he was cold. He honestly might be, seeing that there was nothing but space and only four people breathing. Scott seemed to be more hesitant and quiet than he was in Martyn’s memories. Perhaps spending all this time in a void will do that to you… or maybe it was Martyn’s arrival that had thrown him off balance. Martyn could understand the feelings he might be feeling though. He didn’t feel as confident and energized as he did during the games, especially during the end of Limited Life. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that covered the pit of emotions that threatened to swallow him whole. “Not exactly the best conversationalist.”

“I don’t think he’s said more than a few words to us since we’ve arrived.” Pearl also glanced at Grian before looking back at Scott and Martyn. “He usually doesn’t even yell at us when we get too close. He only told me off when I tried to mess with him but I wasn’t able to get him to move despite trying to knock him over or just get his attention to see what his deal was.”

“I’ve tried to peek over his shoulder to see what he was doing and it just looked to be a lot of planning for something.” Scott added to what Pearl was saying. “Based on what I gathered, I am fairly positive he’s planning out future games.”

Martyn hummed to himself as he took in all that was said here before diverting the topic of conversation. “So, what do you do between games here, then?”

“Mostly thinking,” Scott summoned a more comfortable chair than Pearl did and sat down, “or messing around with the ability to create what we want. Sometimes Pearl and I will spar just to pass the time.”

“How did you do that?” Martyn inquired, wanting to do what they had done as well. Pearl had done it and now Scott did as well so he was sure he could do it.

“Think of what you want and just kind of will it into existence.” Pearl pushed herself back in her seat with her arms on the metal frame of the chair. “I usually flick my hand in the direction I want it but Scott snaps.”

Martyn pictured what he wanted before flicking his hand in front of him. A table with a cake on it appeared and a shocked laugh escaped his lips. “It worked!”

He snapped, trying Scott’s technique now, and some chairs appeared around the table. Martyn smiled wide, pleased with himself. He grabbed the back of one of the chairs and pulled it back so he could sit down. “Would you like to join me for my birthday party?”

Scott raised an eyebrow at that but the ends of his lips twitched up. “It’ll be a smaller party than your last one but, hey, at least the Bad Boys aren’t here to blow it up this time.”

Pearl got up from her seat and went to sit down next to Martyn. “I have been told I had a claim to one-fourth of this cake, if not more.”

“Told by who?” Scott gave her a doubtful look but he was clearly amused. “Last time I checked, neither one of us said anything about that and we’re all aware Grian hasn’t said a thing.”

“I have my sources.” Pearl claimed with a lopsided grin. “Don’t question me.”

“Mm, I can and I will.” Scott continued the light banter.

“I think you would get sick if you ate that much cake.” Martyn inserted himself back into the conversation as he cut the three of them a slice of cake.

“You can’t get sick here.” Scott had ended up sitting on Martyn’s other side and across from Pearl. He gave Martyn a “thank you” nod when Martyn placed a plate in front of him and then Pearl. “We don’t have to eat and we don’t take any damage that doesn’t heal quickly. We’ve gotten our fair share of scraps and bruises from sparing or whatever else but they didn’t stick around long.”

“You keep whatever scars you got during the game you won, though.” Pearl stabbed a piece of cake she cut with her fork and put it in her mouth. She paused and, after she swallowed the piece of cake, she glanced at Scott. “I wonder what would have happened if you didn’t blow yourself up so I technically was the last one alive in Double Life. Or if a soulmate pair, in which neither of them have won before, were the last ones alive.”

Scott furrowed his eyebrows, looking down toward his cake but it was clear he wasn’t actually paying attention to the cake. “I… I don’t know. Maybe they would just both be here? It would be rather… strange to have two versions of myself here. Especially since I have memories outside of Last Life.”

“I don’t know if I could deal with two of you for the rest of time.” Pearl wrinkled her nose at that. “At least not for as long as we reside here.”

Everyone went quiet after Pearl spoke, contemplating over the speculations and the reality they were currently living. They didn’t even eat more cake as they sat in silence.

Martyn cut a piece of his cake off after several moments and stabbed it with his fork. He held up said fork with the piece of cake on it and looked at Grian. “Hey Grian, you’re invited to my birthday party too!”

Grian didn’t even look at him or do anything to acknowledge him. Wow, Grian was ignoring him during his birthday party. Rude. Martyn frowned at that before putting the cake in his mouth as something sweet to distract from the strange feeling he felt radiating from Grian.

“You summoned some pretty good cake, Martyn,” Scott called Martyn’s attention back. Martyn opened his mouth to explain what the cake was specifically but Scott beat him to it. “It tastes like the cake we had that one night. The one after your birthday party went wrong.”

Martyn felt some warmth build in his chest at Scott’s words. He remembered it too! Martyn didn’t even have to tell him. Scott really was the same person he knew… he just looked a little different. “Yeah, that is what I meant to do.”

Pearl swallowed the piece of cake she had been chewing and grinned as she spoke. “Well, I say you should have invited me over so I could have a slice because this cake is really good, but, based on the looks you’re giving each other, it is probably a good idea you didn’t. I think you two had more fun without me there.”

“Shhh, Pearl, I’m too tired for this.” Scott rubbed his eyes with a groan, his hands not doing much to hide the blush that graced his cheeks. “Why is my ex teasing me about my other ex? Why are my exes here to torture me?”

“Grian isn’t your ex.” Pearl pointed out with a quick glance to everyone’s favorite Watcher.

At the same time as Pearl, Martyn said, “At least you don’t have to worry about Jimmy ever showing up here.”

Martyn must have blinked too long because, next thing he knew, a pillow slammed itself directly into his face. It had enough force that it almost knocked him back in his chair. He was, luckily, able to grip onto the table and not fall backward. If he ended up on the floor because of a pillow, he would not be happy and may have to summon a diamond sword.

Pearl couldn’t hold back her laughter. She was laughing so hard she started to tear up. “Oh, Martyn, you deserved that. You deserved that so much. I would also like to throw a pillow at you but that would just be for fun.”

Scott was glaring at him, even as Pearl laughed. When Martyn met his gaze, Scott scoffed. “If you want to start teasing people for traumatic experiences, I can pull out my list.”

Martyn whistled a low tune and put his hands up in surrender. It was a low blow to mention the fact that you will not see or be with someone dear to you in the same way again. He was well aware of that and yet he did it anyway. It was kind of funny (humor is the best medicine), sure, but he could empathize. He didn’t always choose to but he could.

He… he felt the same way with Ren. But Ren isn’t here and he wasn’t in Limited Life. Martyn wasn’t sure if the Watchers had decided to never bring him back to the games or not. He wasn’t sure if he would ever show up again. He also wasn’t sure if he wanted Ren to come back or not. Ren was set free from the games (from what Martyn had gathered, anyway) but, selfishly, he wanted him back. Even though it won’t be the same as it was in Third Life. Even though it was likely they would be on opposite sides. Even though it will hurt. It has hurt! Relationships of any kind rarely work out well (or, at least, would not be the same) for anyone long term.

Martyn knew Scott had mixed feelings with Jimmy, especially after they were husbands in Third Life (none of them knew that the games would continue after someone won at that point, meaning they didn’t know how things worked like they do now which makes it harder) and Jimmy recently rejected him in Limited Life. Martyn knew Scott didn’t expect any relationships to carry over with significant meaning (that would be foolish to believe, especially after observing the four games that have occurred so far) but he also knew that didn’t mean Scott would like being at odds with someone he willingly gave some of his time to.

“Get over yourselves. You can’t change the past and you can’t control what happens in the games. We’re all different going in and coming out so holding grudges does nothing for you.” Pearl’s laughter had died down and she was shaking her head at them. “I would also not like to be stuck with you two bickering until we get pulled into the next game.”

“Okay.” Scott hummed noncommittally. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled at Martyn. The smile looked genuine but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. “Congrats on winning though! I don’t think I’ve gotten the chance to congratulate you yet. I was very happy to see that you won.”

“Even if I poured lava on you and stabbed you?” Martyn raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical of Scott's words.

“I don’t care about winning and someone had to win. It’s kind of how these things work.” Scott shrugged before taking another bite of cake. “As we just speculated, it would be strange to win twice. I don’t care to find out what that would mean for us in this little void we are stuck in. I'd rather have a new face to talk to than a copy of myself or no one. Besides, how could I be mad when my fellow Mean Gill won?”

The warm feeling was back and it felt wonderful but also strange. He returned Scott’s praise with a genuine smile of his own. “I mean, we were the best team there so I’m not surprised one of us won. We were a force to be reckoned with! Our whole team of two people did make it to the top three so that has to say something.”

Scott laughed at that, shaking his head fondly. He reached out to Martyn’s hand, entwining his fingers with Martyn’s. Neither Pearl nor Grian were there anymore and he wasn't sure what happened there. Martyn didn’t understand the rules of this place but he was glad they were left alone. This moment was nice and he didn’t mind holding on to some glimpse of what they had. In fact, he would greatly appreciate having a positive connection with someone (especially with someone like Scott) during a time they existed outside of the everyday fears of maybe not living to see the next day.

Scott rubbed his thumb against Martyn’s hand, eyes sparkling just like they did when they were on the Coral Isles together. “I never doubted us for a second.”

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libraryofloveletters · 1 year ago

Text

Messy

Aaron Ramsdale x Fem!Reader

Warnings: cheesy aprons, Aaron is more interested in eating the cookies than helping, some bad frosting, the two of you are sweeter than the cookies.

Word Count: 661

Author's Note: okay this is my first time writing aaron, I don't know if anyone will even read it but here you go anyways lmao

Aaron can’t help himself when he comes home from training and finds you baking Christmas cookies.

A year tradition; Christmas cookies lined the counters of your kitchen and dining room table.

You always baked cookies for your coworkers, to take to your nieces and nephews and for Aaron to hand out at work. Somehow you always ended up with nearly 400 cookies by the end of the week, slowly parceling them off and sending them to who they needed to go to.

Aaron wasn't shocked to find the house smelling like a bakery when he returned from training, in fact he sort of expected it. You had dragged him to the store over the weekend to get everything you'd need; flour, butter, eggs, sugar, chocolate, icing sugar, milk etc.

Your red apron tied around you, it was the one he had made for you. The Arsenal logo poorly painted onto the front with Mrs. Ramsdale on the top left of it.

He quietly walks over to you, his arms snaking around your waist as your back is turned to him.

"Aaron!" You jumped, smacking his arm lightly. "You scared me!"

Your husband laughs, his chin on your shoulder. "Sorry love," he's quick to kiss your cheek, making up for it. "How's the cookie making going?"

"Slow but it's going." You tell him, swatting his hands away from the hot tray you had on the counter. Aaron pouts a bit but he mumbles an okay when you push his hand away.

"Can I help?" He asks, watching as you frost the cookies carefully. He was always in awe of your skills; every colour mixed to the extra shade you wanted, the lines perfectly straight and you free handed the figures you put on the cookies.

You nod, stopping your frosting momentarily to dig out a apron for Aaron seeing that he was still in his training kit; kiss the cook - some cheesy apron he had picked up after he bought a bbq last summer.

He shrugs off his sweater, putting the apron on and letting you help him tie it. "You have to promise not to eat the cookies." Your finger pointed at the man.

His index finger makes an X over his heart, "I swear to god, I won't eat them."

You nod, satisfied with his commitment to the cookies when you start telling him about the different kinds; peppermint chocolate, gingerbread and sugar cookies.

"You can do these," you set a plate with 4 snowflake shaped gingerbread cookies in front of him. "Just make the lines and do the little edges like this," you show him one of the cookies you had frosted already; the lines making up the lines of a snowflake.

"Okay, easy enough." He nods to himself, carefully holding the piping bag you handed him.

Aaron is careful, his hands steady as he does the first line. He looks up as your cookie and back at his, pleased with himself before he starts on the other line. It takes him a few minutes of pure focus to finish the cookie but he seems to have gone wrong along the way.

the lines are all crooked and a bit blurred together, perhaps he put too much pressure and they merged.

He decided to take the easy route out, picking up the cookie and taking a big bite out of it, the frosting on his nose. You heard the noise and turned towards your husband to see what he's done.

"What happened to not eating the cookies?" You asked him, hands on your hips.

"I didn't."

"The crumbs on your face and the frosting on your nose say otherwise," you reach up to wipe his nose off with your thumb. Aaron smiles, shrugging. "It looked wonky, baby. It didn't look like yours but it tastes fantastic."

"That's because I have years of practice," you tell him, reaching up to take a bite of his cookie. "But it does taste good," you mumble, mouth full of cookies.

Aaron laughs, pulling you to him for a kiss.

#holiday extravaganza blurbs 23 #aaron ramsdale #aaron ramsdale x reader #aaron ramsdale x you #aaron ramsdale x y/n #football #football x reader #football x you #football x y/n #football imagine #football blurb

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plothooksinc · 1 year ago

Note

If you’re still taking prompts for the No Rest For The Weary adjacent fic, can we see the guys’ first trip back to Hueso’s pizzaria? With or without April and Mayhem tagging along?

Also, I just found the series and binged it in like 2 days

I'm glad you enjoyed it, anon! Because I can't shut up, you get the weeks preceding it too-- (Note: if the formatting is wonky I apologise but my first attempt to post it took every single space out, hngngngn) Niño idiota: >> aww dont sweat it bm ill be back to dazzle your customers soon!!

The message came in at lunchtime, and he didn’t see it until the rush had been and gone. Hueso scowled down at it as if Leonardo had personally insulted him and tossed it into the corner of the kitchen. Their first day re-opened was chaotic, with many customers seeking a sense of normalcy or not having access to their usual haunts—he’d like to say he was thinking of them by reopening so quickly, but in all honesty, Hueso was a businessman (and previously a pirate to boot) and knew the best way to recoup his loss from the enforced closure was to take advantage of the mess. That it was also an excellent way to take stock of who had come through the invasion unscathed had nothing to do with it, of course.

He didn’t get back to his phone until late in the evening, having fielded a number of annoying encounters along with customers over-ordering pizza like the invasion was just taking a brief intermission—and dealing with Hop, who timidly called him to make sure the ‘crazy lady with the knife’ was nowhere in evidence before he dared to front for his shift—and by then he was exhausted. But Leonardo had messaged him again—with a nonsense string of kissy faces and hearts followed by a row of question marks, and he sighed. A five year old’s need for validation, honestly.

Hueso: >> 💀💀💀✨✨

The boy seemed like his normal self. He told himself it was less of a relief and more of an annoying reminder that his break from seeing one of his most destructive customers-slash-temporary-waiters was destined to be a short one. He should take advantage of it while he could.

He didn’t hear from Leonardo again.

Days later, he attempted a call and found the phone was out of service.

He was not worried. One of the boys would surely come by for pizza now that he was open and he could make polite inquiries. Asking after a customer’s health was permissible.

(Michelangelo had said he was recovering. The phone was purely a coincidence. Leonardo had merely forgotten to pay his bill like the irresponsible boy he was, or he had been using it before being cleared by doctor’s orders and the phone had been confiscated with great prejudice by his brothers. That was all.)

---------

He did not see a single turtle in his restaurant.

He did, however, hear from someone else; a phone call that took him by surprise, coming in on the main delivery line and asking to speak to the manager. He came to the phone already annoyed, anticipating some complaint of my pizza is cold, or your special mystic sauce is flirting with my roommate! (It wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes his ingredients were very fresh.)

“This is Senor Hueso and I am busy,” he said curtly. “Your complaint had best be of a suitably drastic nature.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a woman’s rueful voice. “Ah. Welp. You weren’t a hallucination after all, huh?”

It took him a moment to place her, and then Hueso blinked and retreated into his office, closing the door behind him. “Mrs O’Neil?”

“Just Carol’s fine,” she said. “You, uh… I’m just trying to ground myself? A little? Things have been weird.”

“And so you decided to call the skeletal owner of a mystic pizzeria to feel normal again,” he said drily. “I see. It makes perfect sense.”

“You’d be surprised. Listen, I have two reasons to call—I know you’re busy so I won’t keep you tied up.”

He found he didn’t mind, actually. It was rare that a human willingly associated with the yokai, though it spoke volumes that the two humans he’d found that would do so were related to each other. “Go ahead.”

“First was just to, uh, touch base? And make sure you got my message, and—I meant it. You helped out a lot.”

“You are welcome, Senora.” He nearly added any time, but frowned and thought better of it. Hueso did not wish to encourage anyone to rely on him. That was foolish. “And the second?”

There was a brief pause. When she spoke again, she sounded almost sheepish. “...yeah. Uh… it’s another stupid question, probably.”

“Of course.” He braced himself for another inane question about skeletons.

“Yeah. Does your, uh… pizzeria… even though we’re human, um—”

He blinked.

And then, almost against his will, he smiled.

“Senora, that is a stupid question. Kindly remember all the times my employees have delivered to your daughter.”

“Oh, thank god. Or...whatever you guys believe in—”

“Quit while you are ahead, perhaps.” But now he was outright amused, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, noted. Okay. So some more spicy chicken…? Two, I think. We’re at a hotel right now, will that be a problem?”

“Not at all. I will pass the order on to the staff.” He hesitated. “At a hotel? Your apartment is a lost cause?”

“For now. April’s, uh, friends? Are paying for us to stay here, and I guess they’ll give us the all clear. Hopefully soon.”

Ah. Sometimes it did, in fact, pay to ask sociable questions. He leaned forward, voice rising eagerly. “You have met her friends? The—” Turtle boys. He stopped himself from saying it, because in all likelihood she had not met them and, annoying though they may be, that was a secret he would keep.

“No.” She paused, and then added shrewdly, “But April is staying with them, and I’m sure she’d have said something if they weren’t doing okay.”

He wasn’t sure April would have said anything at all, actually, given how tight-lipped she’d been on the topic of both mutants and yokai. But knowing that she was staying with the boys did give him some level of reassurance that they hadn’t just vanished from the face of the earth.

“Gracias,” he said anyway, and reached for his notepad. “I had lost contact with them, so was… curious. Tell me your hotel and room number and I will get your order ready.”

---------

His delivery girl came back with a hotel business card in one hand, Carol’s mobile number scrawled on the back, and a brief message:

Just in case. I’ll ask April about them in the meantime xx Carol

Well. That certainly was an offer. A perceptive woman, indeed.

He tucked the card into his business card book, face down so the message was hidden.

---------

Perhaps Leonardo was avoiding him.

The idea filled him with annoyance. He also knew it was extremely unlikely, but he far preferred this irritating potential reason over anything more serious. Hueso let himself believe this for a day and a half before he had to acknowledge that, foolish though the boy might be, he would not avoid the pizzeria just because Hueso had made a comment about an extra shift to pay for damages. He would own up to it, if only to make childish comments about how much Hueso could rely on him and filch extra slices of garlic bread when he thought nobody was looking. And potentially cause even more damage, because that seemed to be par for the course these days.

The thought made him smile faintly-- until he realised he was very close to daydreaming about Leonardo accidentally trashing his pizzeria, and he nearly snapped poor Hop’s head off when he fumbled a serving a few moments later. What a ridiculous thought. (And he was annoyed at himself, not the staff, so he made sure to let Hop leave a few minutes early as an apology.)

Perhaps Leonardo had attempted to open a portal while concussed and had accidentally stranded himself in some remote farmstead. That seemed as likely as avoiding him. Or he had been portal jacked by pirates, and any moment now Piel would open the door to his restaurant and drag the turtle in like some waterlogged kitten, draped in seaweed and clinging to his ridiculous sword and wearing both those ridiculous eyepatches again, good grief what had the boy even been thinking (clearly he hadn’t been) and Leonardo would beam at him and launch into a tale of all the mermaids he’d met and flirted with until Piel dropped him mid-spiel and stormed out again.

Perhaps he had quite deliberately portalled his family to Tahiti this time to recover in luxury.

...doubtful.

Perhaps…

Perhaps he was thinking about this too much.

Hueso put it aside and went to serve the family of googlyschmootzes that had just arrived and didn’t think about it again.

For a good twenty minutes.

---------

He broke.

Hueso: >>Buenas noches, Carol. Could I ask if you have any word? >>This is Senor Hueso.

Senora O’Neil: >>Evening! I will see what I can do. I’m sure they’re fine.

--------

They were not fine.

Carol did not text him. But the following evening, his waitress Gloriana knocked on his office door to tell him that one of the turtle boys had arrived and was asking for him, and he barely let her finish before Hueso was moving past her and through the kitchen at a speed a little too risky for an area full of sharp implements.

April was at his front counter, peering listlessly at one of the menus, and he took a moment to observe just how tired she looked before he took in the hunched bulk that was Raphael slouching next to her, and he froze. He already knew April had been injured—had seen her arrive with her face a mess, knew about the attack—but it was the sight of the large snapper that made him feel the first unfamiliar touch of… anger.

Fear.

Raphael’s arms were thoroughly bandaged, swathed above his plastron and neck, and his eye was covered in a patch that made him think nonsensically for a moment, ah, so it was pirates after all. But it was the large chunk missing from the curve of his shell that horrified him, the sight of a near miss that was far above and beyond their usual shenanigans.

They are children, he thought. This is too much for children.

If Raphael was the only one to visit him, how badly off were the others?

He did not ask. Instead, Hueso regarded them with a face he hoped was impassive, and tugged the brim of his hat down slightly.

“I see life has not been kind to you lately,” he said. “I hope you do not think this entitles you to a discount.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” April said politely, but the knowing smirk that curved onto her exhausted face warned him ahead of time. “Especially as we’re not here for pizza.”

...ah. Carol had ratted him out. Very rude, considering he had not once mentioned he was concerned. He flicked his gaze to Raph, who gave him a wan smile of his own, blinking slowly with his one good eye as if he were considering going to sleep right there at the counter.

Hueso sighed. It wasn’t the end of the world.

“I suppose you had better come through to my office.”

---------

April’s nose was newly bandaged and her bruises were that particular array of colours that always arrived in the process of healing. That was something, at least, though Hueso couldn’t help but note the smaller bandage patch behind one ear. She had been hurt more since he last saw her. Perhaps they all had. It made him fret over Leonardo’s last message and out of service phone all over again.

“My doctor insisted on checking it out, but it’s all healing well,” she said, taking the mug of coffee from him. She was sitting on one edge of the worn couch he kept in his office, slouching against its side with a carelessness that made him wonder how long it had been since she’d slept well. Raphael was taking up the rest of it, sitting there with his hands clasped on his knees and clearly trying not to fidget.

“I did not ask,” Hueso said levelly, and held out another mug to the turtle. He didn’t seem to notice.

“No, but I ain’t blind,” April retorted. “Mikey’s right, you are a big softie.”

He sighed. “A terrible slur upon my reputation.”

“Sure it is.” She grinned over the rim of her mug, and elbowed Raph in the side, who started and then finally noticed Hueso’s outstretched hand. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. Right, Raph?”

“Right,” Raph said automatically, taking the mug. Then he blinked. “Wait, what?”

Dios mio. Hueso raised an eyebrow. “Raphael. How long has it been since you slept?”

“Uhhh…”

The fact that he trailed off and frowned spoke volumes, and Hueso sighed again. Well, he hadn’t been fooling them anyway. Or, at the very least, he hadn’t fooled April. He turned on his heel and went to the cupboard. “I assume your mother asked you to stop by.”

“You assume right,” she said, relaxing back with her coffee. “Guess I’m doing a proof of life tour today. I checked in with her, she asked me to follow up.”

“I see. I feel you should have left this one home to sleep.”

Raph frowned at that. “Yeah, well, this one thought April could do with company. It’s been a, uh, week.”

That gave him pause. “Does this ‘a, uh, week’ begin before or after the zombie attack at the O’Neil apartment?”

“Man, don’t ask him to count days at this point,” April said wryly as Raph took on a more confused expression. “Just assume things have been chaotic as hell since the day the sky opened up and rained bubblegum on us.”

“Such a misleading way to describe an alien invasion.” Hueso snorted, hiding his worry. Not that it seemed to matter with this company. “That almost sounds cute.”

“Never had bubblegum in your hair, huh.”

Hueso served her with A Look. “In my clearly bountiful hair? No.”

Then he threw a blanket from the cupboard across, hitting Raph in the face, and pointed. “You, nap. You.” To April. “Tell me what has happened, and why Leonardo’s phone is out of service.”

Raph blinked as the blanket slid off his face and landed in his lap. “Wait, it is?” And he started to fumble for his phone, until April put a hand gingerly on his shoulder. “April?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s okay,” she said, eyes wide. “We didn’t know it was out of service, but it makes sense. I remember the last place he had it. I think Leo needs a new phone.”

That was at least vaguely reassuring that Leonardo was alive and in need of technology somewhere, but April’s dancing around the point only served to irritate him. “You are both very tired, it seems, if you did not realise before now.”

“Yeah well, you try dealing with two invasions in the space of a week,” April shot back. “Leo’s phone getting eaten is kind of less important than, you know, Leo himself. And Mikey. And everyone losing their freaking homes and—”

And Raphael put out one of his giant hands to settle her back on the couch before she could get to her feet, grimacing faintly at Hueso, and he put up his skeletal hands in a gesture of apology.

“I did not mean to imply any stupidity,” he said faintly, reeling a little at the sheer amount he needed to unpack in that small rant. “I am merely… concerned at how exhausted you are.” There, now he was being honest. What was the world coming to? He didn’t know where to start, so he started with the most bizarre. “His phone was eaten?”

“It wasn’t me,” Raphael muttered, and April broke into a laugh before she could help herself, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Hueso texted a message out to his kitchen staff and took a seat, feeling far more brittle than he had a few minutes ago. Teenagers. Very tired teenagers. The laugh had sounded less amused and more borderline hysterical, so when he spoke again, he was as gentle as he could be.

“Perhaps you ought to start from the beginning.”

---------

Gloriana knocked on the door ten minutes later with a platter of cheesy bread sticks and spicy meatballs. By then, April had finished telling him about the attack on the lair, Agent Bishop’s involvement and mistakes, and Leonardo and Michelangelo’s rescue. The mention of Bishop would have set his hair on end if he had any; he was familiar with the man, given his restaurant straddled the line between the Hidden City and New York, and there had been harassment before certain rules were put in place and Bishop promptly lost interest.

Raphael had fallen asleep during April’s spiel, and she had tucked the blanket over him without so much as a pause and carried right on, and the practised move was doing something unfortunate to Hueso’s emotions. Or perhaps that was just the realisation of just how terribly things had gone after Leonardo’s last message to him; how close the family had come to tragedy.

They were children.

(Also, Leonardo’s phone being eaten by a possessed train was nowhere on his spiralling bingo card--)

He took the platter with a nod of thanks and closed the door, sliding it onto the coffee table in front of them. April needed no encouraging and snagged two breadsticks with the flash of a grateful smile. He sat and politely let her wolf them down before he spoke again.

“They are all right now?”

“Mikey just overextended himself and is sleeping it off,” she said, and he wondered how much of an understatement that was. He did not pry. “Leo’s… not doing great, given the timing, but he’ll be okay with time. Might be a while before he’s back to pester you, though. Or take any shifts.”

“I will somehow manage without this added disruption in my life,” he said with a straight face. He was partly relieved; mostly, however, he was quietly calculating just how hurt the boy must be to be gone for a while. To be taken straight from a hospital bed before he had a chance to recover-- “And you say both of these aliens are now dead, yes?”

“With extreme prejudice,” April said with satisfaction.

“I am sure my customers will be relieved to hear the danger has fully passed, then.” He sipped his tea.

“Oh yeah, sure.” She grinned at him, snagging another bread stick. “And I’ll let Leo know you were worried about him.”

He frowned at her over his cup. “You will not. He is insufferable enough as it is and I will confess to nothing.”

“Hmm, I dunno…”

“I can still charge you for those bread sticks you are eating.”

“Man, you think my silence can be bought?” She waved at him with the bread stick in question before biting it in half, and he sighed.

“I was under the impression humans were easily corruptible, yes.”

“Oh, we totally are.”

The O’Neil women were definitely going to be headaches in his life, weren’t they. Hueso found he wasn’t particularly annoyed by that fact, but he made sure to sigh again. It gave him an opening in any case. “Would you like to take some food home with you? The family must surely be quite exhausted, if they are all dead on their feet like the two of you.”

“That would be amazing and my lips are sealed,” April said sunnily. “Only can we get stuff that isn’t pizza? We kind of, uh, wanna hold off on that for a bit. Long story.”

Odd. But he didn’t care enough to question it. She had overloaded him with enough stressful exposition already. “I will put together some other options. It...may take a while, if you care to rest until it is—”

A green hand landed flat on top of the meatball pile, and they both jumped. And watched as Raphael grabbed a full handful of meat and shoved it into his mouth, chewing slowly before letting out a snore and sinking back into sleep again.

Well, then. He was beginning to understand why Raph had defended himself about eating phones.

“Does he do this often?”

April cackled.

---------

Mayhem was in his kitchen.

Having a staring contest with Hop.

Hueso counted to ten. And then tapped the rabbit yokai politely on the shoulder, pretending he didn’t see the boy jump more than strictly necessary. “You have work to do. I will deal with the interloper.”

Hop nodded vigorously and then took off the front counter, stumbling over his own big feet on the way out the door. Hueso sighed. And took his place, staring down the tiny yokai with the most unimpressed look he could manage.

Mayhem stared mildly back.

“I am going to put together some pasta and burritos for the Hamatos,” Hueso said finally. “When I am done, kindly make sure it gets back to wherever they are staying and deposit the two in my office directly into their beds. Then I will consider us even.”

Mayhem tilted his head as if he couldn’t possibly know what Hueso was talking about; as if the little sneak hadn’t dumped humans in his lap not one week before. His tail dipped off the ledge he was sitting to wave dangerously close to a pot full of bubbling mince.

Hueso pointed a finger bone at him. “Do not threaten me, pequeña mierda. I know where you came from.”

Mayhem stuck his nose in the air and turned away. But his tail curled around him obediently and his ears twitched back.

Just so long as they were agreed.

---------

April was snoring on top of Raphael when he returned. He took a picture, careful to cut Raphael out of the shot, and sent it to Carol.

Hueso: >> You told her I was concerned. A lie and a terrible betrayal.

Carol’s response took a while in coming. He wondered if she was laughing at him.

Mrs O’Neil: >> Which is it? 👀 A lie or a betrayal it can’t logically be both

Hueso: >> We will have words about this later. For now, I am sending your daughter home to bed.

Mrs O’Neil: >> Gracias, Senor.

---------

Knowing the family were okay did set his mind at ease somewhat. His restaurant seemed much quieter without the turtles coming through, but it wasn’t as if Run of the Mill was a picture of serenity without them. Not with his customer list including mob bosses and smugglers and the occasional pirate, but largely his customers knew very well to treat his restaurant with respect and cause no issues (providing, of course, he did not double-book certain parties ever again.)

Life settled into some semblance of normal over the next week as the invasion became more distant; for the majority of the yokai it had been merely a source of hushed gossip, trapped as they were quite safely in the Hidden City’s lockdown. (Hueso was under no illusions. If the invasion had not been halted on the surface, the Krang would have found them all eventually. He kept that to himself.)

Carol messaged him some days later, minutes after closing, and he glanced down at the message and couldn’t help his faint huff of amusement:

Carol: >> YOU DIDN’T SAY HER FRIENDS WERE GREEN >> also thank you for the complimentary cheesecake how did you know

Hueso: >> I didn’t say they were human, either. >> I have my ways. You can work them out yourself I’m sure.

Carol: >> A lie and a terrible betrayal!!! >> You saw the delivery address. More stupid questions?

Hueso: >> I do not think that is the clever retort you think it is. I neither lied nor betrayed. I am an honest man* >> * Terms and conditions apply >> Also yes, but you are welcome. Your home is intact?

Carol: >> For the most part. Some minor repairs needed. >> The boys are fine. I only met one, but he’s charming in an awkward sort of way. They’re coming for dinner next week!

Ah. Hueso closed the door to his office, leaning against it, and felt… lighter. That was promising. In more ways than one. If the boys were going to a family dinner, they were okay. And Carol had met a turtle and invited him to dinner. Truly, a unique human being. He suspected he was going to enjoy their conversations.

(He wondered if she threatened the turtle with a knife first.)

Hueso: >> All of them?

Carol: >> As far as I know. Does that help? Would you like me to pass on a message?

“Like you did last time?” he muttered. But he appreciated the offer even so.

Hueso: >> That is quite all right. If they are well enough for dinner, I’m sure I will be seeing them myself sometime soon. Gracias.

He saw the dots come up and vanish again, then reappear, and he waited patiently.

Carol: >> You’re welcome 🥰

He wondered what she had been typing. But his curiosity was only mild, and it had been a long day; Hueso collected his briefcase, checked in with the closing staff, and made his way home in a surprisingly good mood.

---------

The following weekend, he woke to find she had sent him a picture. He opened it over breakfast and promptly spat milk across the table.

It was a picture of April, holding up her phone with a wide grin, her camera panned back to catch Donatello perched on the back of a couch like a menacing and mildly deranged vulture. Those strange machine hands of his were extended down with markers in their pincers, scrawling on the side of a sleeping Leonardo’s face. Michelangelo was leaning over one side of the couch with a marker in his hands but it looked like he was laughing too much to contribute, and he could just see Raphael—a much less exhausted and less bandaged Raphael, for which he was quietly relieved—looking at the camera with a grin and gesturing at his brothers, his mouth smeared with… chocolate? That was probably chocolate--

Carol: >> Proof of life 🎊🎊

Hueso: >> A terrible invasion of their privacy.

Carol: >> I’m innocent! My daughter is the fiend here. You don’t hae to worry, I didn’t say a word >> *have

If Leonardo was sleeping at this dinner, he was still healing—but clearly in safe territory, if his brothers were… well. Being brothers. He’d certainly woken up several times as a child to find his bones decorated in all kinds of rude messages. Hueso grimaced at the memory and took a closer look.

The boy had lost weight. Not enough to be frightening; enough that Hueso contemplated whether he could get away with inflicting more food on them without the repercussions of Leonardo’s smarmy grin and assumptions. Probably not. Besides, he had faith that Carol would have fed them well and Michelangelo was an excellent chef in his own right. He was not needed here.

Hueso: >> Gracias. >> Is it all right if I print this?

Carol: >> You may do with it what you like. April knew what she was doing.

Like mother, like daughter. The girl was a menace. But in this case… he smiled and tucked back into his breakfast, wiping up the spilled milk with a napkin. April was all right. He would have to let her know that her family was welcome at his pizzeria, provided they were not easily shocked by some of his clientele.

---------

Carol🗡️: >> Maybe a quieter night. Do you have quiet nights?

Hueso: >> First Wednesday of the month is Human Night Out. It only attracts the younger yokai.

Carol🗡️: >> Sounds ominous. Human Night Out?

Hueso: >> Wherein we hide all traces of the Hidden City and pretend we are a human pizzeria. There are costumes.

Carol🗡️: >> ...that’s actually something yokai are interested in?

Hueso: >> You don’t have theme nights in your own restaurants? The younger yokai are fascinated by humans. The older… not so much. It is quieter. There are ‘exotic’ dishes which I think you would find fairly mundane. The yokai would think you were just in disguise.

Carol🗡️: >> Okay that’s amazing. Don’t you lose money though?

Hueso: >> Not when people pay a premium for the exotic dishes.

Carol🗡️: >> I detect a con.

Hueso: >> I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Booking for 7pm?

Carol🗡️: >> We’ll be there. I’ll review your exotic dishes.

Hueso: >> I’ll give you a discount for your first time if you review them positively.

Carol🗡️: >> We’ll see 😁

---------

[unknown number] >> I know I know youve been so worried about me I amhere

Hueso: >> New phone, who is this

Niño idiota: >> Ohohoho OUCH we gotta work on ur meme skills u did it wrong

Hueso: >> I’m sure I don’t care.

Niño idiota: >> well when u decide u do care as u inevinnev something something do its ‘new phone who dis’

Hueso: >> ‘inevitably’.

Niño idiota: >> that’s what i said >> anyway sorry i was out of touch i lost my phone?? prolly left it somwhere u know how it is >> I owe u a shift just lmk when

Hueso is typing… Hueso is typing…

Niño idiota: >> did I break u with like responsibillity want me to be an idiota just to balance things??

Hueso: >> I will not need anyone for a few weeks. But do not think you are off the hook. I am sure I can find something tedious for you to do. >> You are already an idiot no need to rub it in.

Niño idiota: >> u love me and u know it

Hueso: >> Debatable.

Niño idiota: >> Debatable!!! thats not a no u no

Hueso: >> Get some sleep and learn to spell. I am busy.

Niño idiota: >> ✨🎊👏👏😘😊😏 >> in that order or

> Read 3.48pm

Niño idiota: >> you leave idiota on read??? rude tbh jail bla bla bla >> 🥺🥺🥺 >> 😎see u soon✨

---------

“—get it, but I wish you’d told me before this!” The voice was whining and petulant and very, very familiar. He felt a Pavlovian sense of annoyance rise up almost as fast as the sheer relief, and Hueso opened the kitchen door a crack to peer out.

Sure enough, there they were. Finally. Leonardo was leaning against the closest booth to the alleyway portal, but he was on his feet and that was good enough. Michelangelo was latched onto one arm and Hueso couldn’t tell if it was clingy affection or for extra stability. Perhaps both. Leonardo’s pout was ridiculously overdramatic, which told Hueso the boy was perfectly fine with whatever he hadn’t been told, and if he had eyes, he would roll them. Teenagers.

“Sorry, Leo, we kinda forgot.” Raphael rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. The eye patch was gone with no sign of wounds beneath. “It was a spur of the moment thing, but the kid’s never had pizza, so—”

“Nah, I get it,” Leo said, waving his free hand. “But I’m totally complaining about this injustice for the rest of the night, just so you know.”

“Oh nooo, a surprise no one could have foreseen, however will we manage your-- oh wait, I have headphones.” Donatello, moving around them with a look of complete disinterest and his phone in his hand.

There. All four of them.

Hueso breathed. Hop had already picked up his notebook and was rounding the counter; he managed to catch him by the shoulder before Hop could get further (another jump, were all rabbit yokai so anxious or just this one?) and took the notebook from him, gesturing with his bony chin toward the kitchen. The message was clear: trade places.

Then he waited until all four were seated—pretended he wasn’t paying attention to the way Michelangelo helped Leonardo into the booth—and sauntered over, the picture of nonchalance, grateful that his voice was dry as the desert when he spoke. “Ah, my most destructive customers. I thought it had been quiet around here.”

Donatello didn’t even look up from his phone, which was the very picture of normal for him. But the other three did, with Raphael and Michelangelo throwing him cheerful smiles. Leonardo lit right up with a flash of teeth in a smug grin that said he was about to say something incredibly obnoxious. Good. Business as usual. Even if he wasn’t currently flailing at Hueso with his usual dramatics, which he suspected meant the boy was still sore, at the very least.

“Bone man!” Leonardo beamed, then sprawled in the booth with a barely-there wince, propped up by his little brother. “Toldja it’d be soon. Miss me?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “But my aim is getting better.”

Donatello snorted at his screen, and Leonardo made a face. “Seriously? That’s like… so old, you need to hang around someone younger with better jokes—”

“Someone like you, perhaps?” Hueso pinned him with a look, tapping his notebook. “You seem to have forgotten where I heard that from in the first place.”

“Memory issues,” Michelangelo said solemnly, pushing Leonardo delicately upright again. “Concussions will do that to ya.”

Hueso raised the notebook to hide his smile as Leonardo shot him a betrayed look. “You told him?”

“I’m sorry, was that meant to be a secret?” Donatello glanced up finally. “We’ve been incommunicado for weeks after an invasion and he called you while you were sleeping it off. What do you think we told him?”

“I told him, technically,” Michelangelo said cheerfully, “But it’s okay, Leo! I didn’t tell him anything else! Pinky promise.”

Raphael raised a hand sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, but April and Raph might’ve...”

Leonardo’s expression flickered from surprised to guilty to mildly distressed before it settled on the sulkiest frown he’d seen on the boy yet. “Well, that’s not fair. I was gonna like… derail him with tales of our epic adventures and everything, and you beat me to it.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘regale’, Nardo.”

“Derailing may still happen,” Hueso said dryly, tapping his finger bones on the edge of the table to get their attention back. “If you intend to continue this fascinating conversation rather than order your food?”

“Hah,” Leonardo muttered. “That’s totally what I meant—”

“Hush up,” Michelangelo said, leaning past him. “I’m hungry. Can I get the mystic lasagna?”

He took their orders after that, watching them carefully as they talked. Raphael’s eye was a little red, but was tracking correctly and obviously focused. A good sign, he hoped. Donatello seemed utterly like his normal self, and Michelangelo was wearing what seemed to be compression gloves. Leonardo… was still thin, and looked very tired, but Hueso had seen him far more exhausted. There were splashes of vivid colour creeping over the top of his shell which he couldn’t help but stare at, trying to work out what they were.

Leonardo tilted his head at the curiosity, and then smiled more genuinely, twisting slightly so that Hueso could get a better look. “Like it? My little brother is awesome, as usual.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Michelangelo huffed, but he was grinning as Hueso stared at the beautifully painted marigolds, petunias, and tulips winding their way across Leonardo’s shell.

The boy was an impressive artist; not just for the careful love and detail on such an unusual surface, but the way he’d crafted his art to disguise injury. Because Hueso had to pay very close attention to see the repair job to the shell beneath.

The damage had been… extensive. He’d thought Raphael’s shell had been bad; no wonder he had been incommunicado for so long.

Leonardo’s smile shifted strangely on his face, and he sounded almost uncertain. “What do you think?”

Ah. It was hard to translate what Leonardo really wanted to hear. But given the way Michelangelo had gone so far to hide this injury… he leaned back again, humming thoughtfully. “I think the next time I would like new art for the restaurant, I should see if your brother is free. It may perhaps be a less destructive option than waiting tables.”

Leonardo grinned in pride as Michelangelo brightened next to him. “Really? I would love to do some art for you, Senor Hueso! I could bring my portfolio next time!”

“You have a portfolio?” Raphael looked confused. “Wait, what’s a portfolio?”

“It’s a port just for me, duh,” Leo drawled, and then reeled back as Donatello threw a wad of napkins into his face. “Hphh!”

“That was terrible and you know it.”

“It was pretty great, actually.” Leonardo spat a piece of napkin at him and smiled lazily. “You’re just jealous I thought of it first.”

Donatello resolutely ignored him and turned to Raphael. “It’s a collection of sample works that illustrate an artist’s skill and range.”

...had they forgotten he was here? Typical. He coughed loudly, and watched them all swivel back to him attentively. “Yes, bring your portfolio. I suppose I am interested. The flowers look very lovely.” He paused, but in the end he couldn’t resist. “Though it does make you look like you’re about to be thrown at a wedding.”

“Sounds like a fun sport,” Donatello drawled. “Let’s get Kendra married off so we can bowl Leo at her bridal party. If she has enough friends for that.”

“Can—can we wait until he can survive that first, Raph would like not to panic all over again—”

“Why should Leo get all the fun? I’m the small one, let me be the bouquet!” Michelangelo had literal stars in his eyes. “I’d love to be a bunch of flowers.”

“Yeah, but you can hardly paint your own back, Miguel.”

“Challenge accepted. This bitch yeet!”

“Okay, one: language, and two: even Raph knows that’s not how it goes—”

“What’s wrong with yeet?”

“Leonardo--”

Maybe he shouldn’t have made the joke. Hueso sighed heavily, and this time it didn’t stop them from continuing on with... apparently inventing a brand new hobby. Teenagers. But lively ones, and he would rather they were here giving him a headache than go through the weeks of quiet that had preceded this one.

“I’ll take your orders to the kitchen,” he said, and turned on his heel.

“Hey, wait—”

There was a tug on his sleeve, and he turned in surprise to find Leonardo half out of the booth and trying to keep his balance; Michelangelo had an arm wrapped around him to stop him falling, but was still arguing with the others. Apparently he’d lunged to get Hueso’s attention without thinking it through. Good grief. He stepped forward and put his bony hand under Leonardo’s elbow, gently pushing him back into his seat.

“Do not do that again,” he said quietly, and Leonardo made a sheepish face.

“Sorry. I just wanted to, uh…”

He trailed off. Hueso raised an eyebrow and waited patiently until he glanced away.

“Did we worry you?”

What an odd question. Or rather, what an odd delivery. He would have expected Leonardo to be smug, taking it as proof of their friendship, but Leonardo seemed more anxious about the prospect. And Hueso thought back to their text conversation. To the boy’s completely nonchalant dismissal of his silence and missing phone.

“Only a little,” he said, voice mild. “In truth, I was more impressed by the tale. One could say that you and your brothers acted like…”

And Hueso smiled. Pointedly.

“...champions.”

Leonardo mouthed the word back in confusion, before realisation lit his face. Hueso took advantage of the pause to move away, heading for the kitchen with his notebook, listening briefly to the conversation behind him--

“Raph! Raph! Hey, gimme a lift, I need to go check the Wall of Champions—”

Hueso vanished into the kitchen and passed off their order to his kitchen hands. He only had two photos of the boys, after all. One was still quite firmly pinned to the Maze of Death cheaters wall. The other--

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?”

His staff shrank back; both at the yell and at Hueso’s wide grin, which admittedly looked downright unnerving on a living skeleton, he could admit--

“Omigosh we’re champions!”

“With this photo!? YOU’RE DRAWING ON MY FACE!”

“Well, someone had to. I, at least, look suitably championlike—”

“You look like a deranged gremlin is what you look like. Couldn’t he, like, edit out the chocolate first?”

“I mean, it could be worse, Leo! We could have been drawing something that wasn’t PG-13.”

“Where’s April? I’m gonna kill her.” Leonardo was wailing. “She sent this to Hueso!?”

Hueso swept through the kitchen and into his office, shutting the door behind him so that nobody could hear him laugh.

#rottmnt #rottmnt fic #oh only 14 pages an improvement--/shot #nekotsuki #no rest for the weary #(adjacent)#furthering my carol and hueso friendship agenda don't mind me #also I wanna hang that photograph on MY wall lmao

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