#the twenty something I spent on ingredients did not go wasted

[terrified-spider]

ohhhhhh holy shit i made paprika hendl because it was bored and i remembered i've wanted to make it for a while after it was mentioned in dracula and holy shit it was worth the 2+ hours I spent on it

[the-auguer]

no guts

just a little something that’s been in the crockpot of my mind for, oh, a year. i’m purging the dreaded WIPs of my notes app and figured I finally found the direction I wanted to go with this one. this is inspired by @fickleminder’s “no hope, no love, no glory” which you should definitely read. basically, what would happen if MC fell out of favor with Mammon

———————————————

“And— and ya shoulda seen the server’s face when Beel kept goin’ with the— hey. Hey? Ya listenin’ over there?”

Your eyes had gone cloudy. They usually do around halfway into any story, but Mammon was determined to make you laugh this time. This was a story tried and tested to make even the grumpiest demons laugh and he misses your laugh like he’s never missed anything else. There’s an ache where your presence used to be that nothing else can fill. Because he can be leaning over your bedside, fussing over your pillows, scooting his chair up until his knees knock against the bed frame and it won’t matter. You’re present and you’re breathing and he’s close to you, but you’re not there. Not there. 

Your eyes drift back down to his face, focusing back in, just a little. It’s enough for Mammon to pick back up his story, watching your attention extra carefully now because this is the punchline of the story and you can’t miss it or he’ll never hear you laugh and the void will keep aching because he’s greedy and grasping but there’s nothing to have anymore, nothing to grasp— except there will be because Mammon will make it. He’ll create something to hold onto, something he’ll horde all to himself in the hole in his chest. He’ll create it. 

“And it was a mess, and the server said, he said—“

“I was a server,” you croak and Mammon is instantly snapping his mouth shut. His teeth clink together uncomfortably but Mammon ignores it, nodding his head rapidly, eager to egg you on. You talk so little. Your voice sounds a bit rough, should he grab you a glass of water? But no, he has to pay attention, he’ll get you that glass in a minute. He’ll remember. 

Your eyes list to the side and Mammon swerves his head so you’re still making eye contact with him. 

“There was… the company went bankrupt so I had to find another job.” You say. Your fingers inch across your blankets, tapping against the mattress just slightly. Like you’re about to start gesticulating when you speak. They don’t go very far. “It was around— no, it was near my… my house. Apartment. The restaurant was near my apartment… maybe two, three miles away. I’d walk there everyday.”

Mammon leans further in, hanging off your every word. What little he knows about your life outside your time in the Devildom hurts him. Pains him like nothing else. That you had a life, that you had experiences, that you lived your human lifespan and Mammon only gets the tail end of it when he wanted the all of it. But that’s his own fault, isn’t it? No use in being greedy with something you gave up. Mammon will leave that to Levi. He’d prefer to be greedy with the time you have left in his life than envious of the time you spent without him. 

“I mostly… I mostly handled the cashdrawer. The customers would— they never tipped when I was the server.” Your eyes move to him and there’s the clarity Mammon’s been aching for. The slightest bit of sharpness in your eyes. It makes his heart beat a little faster, even after all this time. “And I always wasted the— the ingredients when I cooked. So I manned the register.”

You huff out a breath and Mammon’s heart near leapt out of his throat. You laughed. You laughed you laughed you laughed you laughed. You laughed and he was here to see it. 

“Should— I should have known,” you mumble and Mammon strains himself to hear everything you say. “I never did anything right. It was a couple dollars at first. Every few nights. But then I was losing ten. Twenty. Thirty. Every night.” Your brows furrow as you recall. “And they said— said I was stealing.”

Your eyes turn to him and they bore into him with… something. Not intensity. Not sadness. But some kind of weight Mammon can’t place. Every nerve is prickling. His chest hurts. 

“I wasn’t.” You whisper, like it’s a confession. “But the— and then when I was moved to cleaning, when it stopped going missing. And then I spilled— I was fired. From being a server.”

Your eyes slide away from him and you look down at your hands, still and wrinkled on the blankets. 

“Never did anything right,” you mutter.

“That’s not true!” Mammon bursts out heatedly, making you startle a little. He lowers his voice immediately. “That’s not true. Ya— ya did everythin’ right. Ya did.” 

You slowly sink back against the pillows, loosing whatever wind you had, the firmness of your posture and eyes fading away. You make a ‘hmmph’ sound of mild derision and say nothing else. 

Mammon’s hands hover over one of yours. There’s a sick, tight feeling in his throat and he just wants to explain that you weren’t a screw up or a failure or whatever else you might think. They were the failures, the colossal fuck ups. Mammon most of all. 

If you were having trouble at your job, Mammon should have been there. Your first man, your protector, should have helped you prove your innocence and helped you find the missing cash. Mammon’s always had a nose for money, and it would have been easy for him to give you some of his—

Some of his affinity for it. 

“No. No no no no no no no no no no.” Mammon hands cover your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Ya— did you have trouble? Did— did— ya said your company went bankrupt? Money went missing? What other stuff happened? Hey, hey. Focus on me, please? What else happened? Please?”

Your eyes do move to him, annoyance in the slight furrow of your brow. But you don’t say anything. 

“No, please? Just— ya don’t gotta tell me all of it, promise. Just a little.”

“Every company,” you mutter, resentful. Mammon doesn’t know if you’re resentful of him or what you’re talking about. He doesn’t want to know. 

“Every company what,” Mammon snaps, impatient. His heart is thudding so fast. His hands are drained of color around the knuckles and shaking over your wrinkled one. “They what?”

“Went bankrupt. Or I got laid off. Every company I worked for.” You shake your head, eyes trained on the ceiling but looking off somewhere unknowable. “Never did anything right.”

Mammon’s hands fall away from their vice grip on yours. They find a new home over his mouth, where he clamps his fingers to his jaw as he fights wave after wave of nausea. 

Fuck. Fuck!

“I didn’t…” he gasps. “It— I didn’t do it,” he tells you desperately. “It wasn’t me! Or I— I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know!”

You look at him again. And it… it’s awful. Mammon can spend hours by your bed, praying for you to look at him, hoarding every moment you acknowledge him. But this? Your empty eyes that somehow pin him to his chair? They make him want to run. Shrivel up and disappear. Worse than when Lucifer gets the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead that means he’s really upset and Mammon has fucking done it this time. 

“Okay,” you say, befuddled and… and nothing else. Nothing at all.

Mammon puts his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. You once told him his elbows were bony. Laughed right in his face when he got all puffed up and mad about it. He feels it now, the aching pressure that presses his legs into the fake leather cushion of the stiff, uncomfortable chair he sits in. 

He would give every Grimm— no, every bit of gold, every shiny piece, every glimmer in his collection for you to call him bony again. 

“I didn’t know,” he says again. To you. To the open air of the stupid, shitty human nursing home. To his brothers— fuck how is he going to tell them? How is he supposed to… fuck. 

You don’t answer. And for once, Mammon’s grateful for it. 

[shepherds-of-haven]

What is the stupidest thing each of the shepherds has spent money on?

Blade: a super high-end weapons pouch. So what if no one can recognize the utility of having twenty-six hidden compartments?? No, he will not tell you how much money he dropped on it... and he won't admit he rarely uses it because it was so expensive that he's saving it for special occasions!

Trouble: a bright red leather jacket. Like fire-engine red. He was convinced it was going to look amazing on him and then walked out of the store and immediately got teased by some neighbor, caught sight of himself in the mirror and was like, ".......damn it........." and then kept wearing it out of stubbornness until it was all beat-up and faded! Now it no longer makes him look like a bull-fighter :')

Tallys: she's a pretty smart shopper and very rarely makes dumb purchases, but she did get hoodwinked one time by a very convincing spice trader into buying a "love potion" that was just filled with fake ingredients and additives... She figured it out when she uncorked the bottle around the corner and it just reeked of alcohol... she turned around and the vendor was gone and she ended up pouring out the whole thing, lol

Shery: sometimes she gets bullied into buying things because she's too polite and anxious to say no to people and disappoint them, even if they're strangers! 😭 She's gotten better over time and usually finds some use for the things she ends up with, but one time she showed up with an entire stack of obscure math books that some bookseller talked her into adding on to the romance novel she was actually there to buy... luckily, Riel was there to take them off her hands!

Riel: he never makes stupid purchases! He's a businessman and the leader of Merchants Guild! If he wasn't smart about the things he bought, he'd get torn apart! (But he bitterly regrets a lot of sub-par meals at restaurants. He tries something new and rarely has his expectations met. This is why he prefers to stick to a rotation of a few tried-and-true, very high-end places. But nooo, Briony insisted that she heard this afternoon tea place was good, and now he has wasted his money so he could seethe over a cup of watery, over-ground tea and stale macarons. Why does he keep opening himself up to hurt?)

Chase: why spend money on stupid thing when you can just steal it? (But when he does have money to blow, he tends to spend it on pretty whimsical, useless things that make him happy in the moment and then wind up discarded or utterly cryptic later. Why did he buy a wind-up toy of a frog? No clue, he just liked the green color of it and thought it was cute. Now it's one of the Piles of loot in his room. He didn't even wind it.)

Red: oh God, the disintegrating, barely-legible books this man buys... He's constantly finding some rotting volume in an antique bookshop with faded, almost invisible ink, thinks, 'I can save this!' and then it goes into an ever-growing chest of book corpses that he can't read and they just sit there, haunting him and growing ever larger

Ayla: she's spent so much of her life having so little money that she's quite the spendthrift and never wastes her coin on frivolous things she doesn't need! Well, not shopping-wise... but she has wasted some money on gambling and card games, so she'd probably say those times, because she spent the money and usually didn't even get anything out of it!

Briony: she seems to have inherited the Elvish tendency to not be great with money and often gets tricked into miscounting or overpaying for things when she's distracted. Also, directly out of getting out of the arena, she's so excited to be out and free to buy whatever she wants that she goes on quite the shopping spree, and isn't quite street-wise enough to realize what's utterly useless and what isn't; she just goes by what makes her happy in that moment! Like clothes that don't look great on her (so she doesn't wear them) but they're still really pretty aesthetically so she still felt compelled to collect and own them... Or, like, way too many paintings for the amount of wall-space that she has... Or just a shit-ton of dried flowers. What will she do with them? Hasn't figured that out yet! They were just so pretty that it broke her heart to think about walking away and leaving them behind!

Halek: he can shell out quite a lot of money for pretty silly gastronomical experiences. One time he paid like two weeks' worth of salary to have a chef make an appetizer directly in his hand. They squirted the cheese and sea urchin foam directly into his palm, and he had to eat it out of his own hand like a dog. Still claims it was worth it...

Lavinet: people tend to look down on the amount of money she'll spend on things for parties, but she argues the money is completely worth it! For various reasons!! Like, yes, the Lovelace Day party does absolutely need a chocolate fountain! And yes, she paid extra so there would be a pastry chef there to pour white chocolate hearts into people's bowls of chocolate when dishing them out; you want her to just serve bowls of brown sweet soup without any decoration?? Like a dipshit??

Caine: so many Rangers of Blest cards... so many...

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I saw another comment today about Geralt being required to grovel an apology to Jaskier for his behaviour on the mountain, and promise to "be better" and it got me thinking about how that could go.

Factor in Geralt as the man who thinks nice thoughts for a lover who regularly invades his mind/who he has a complex relationship with; a man who made the decision he makes after Rivia despite just deciding to finally live for himself... just. Geralt, the selfless, dry humoured hero who thinks he's worth absolutely nothing and is regularly treated that way.

What if Geralt did give Jaskier that grovelling apology so many fans think Jaskier is owed?

What if Geralt's sense of self-worth is so low (read: non-existent) that he agrees that it was all his fault? Everything?

And after he returns, cap in hand, and admits all his faults, all his fragilities and deficiencies, he just... gives in to everything Jaskier wants.

He says 'yes' to every demand and makes none of his own beyond Roach not carrying two people because she works hard enough. After all, wasn't he the bad friend?

Want me to escort you to that competition? Sure. Want me to sit and listen to you vent about people I don't even know? Want me to talk at length about a monster kill even though it causes me pain? Okay.

Jaskier wants intimacy, so Geralt gives it without even thinking, because he's quite used to using his body as a bargaining chip in relationships.

Jaskier says that Geralt needs to wear better clothes in the evenings as an off-handed comment, so Geralt goes without some potion ingredients to buy himself a new shirt. He hides the resulting alghoul wound from Jaskier and walks at Roach's side until it heals.

He's desperate to make up for everything he said and did. Because he was such a bad friend and Jaskier is clearly his best friend and knows what's best. Knows him best. That would be the only reason Jaskier talked over him for years.

At what point would it be enough?

I can foresee Geralt treading on eggshells because last time he let his emotions out, everyone he loved walked off. He can't have emotions. He can't feel things. That's what other people are allowed to do, but not Geralt.

Jaskier is allowed to be self-centered, arrogant, emotional, loud, hurt, angry. But Geralt? No. He has to be the stoic, brooding hanger-on. His trauma is only acceptable when it's quiet.

But Jaskier wants Geralt to talk to him.

And he tries desperately to talk, but he has to weigh every word, because he isn't sure it's what Jaskier wants to hear. Whenever he's with Jaskier, he's constantly weighing up the reaction to what he's just said in case it was the wrong thing.

Does he need to apologise again? How much? What magnitude of an apology? He has to stop himself apologising automatically when Jaskier looks displeased, because he knows it needs to be meaningful and he's not sure what he's done. He knows Jaskier will tell him later, so he'll wait, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched, to be told off.

How would Jaskier deal with that?

My unsympathetic headcanon is that he'd revel in it for a while, and then realise something is amiss. It's deeper than Geralt being sorry

Sure. It's nice to have Geralt's full attention, but not with that spooked/wounded animal tension he carries.

It's nice to have Geralt at his side in all the banquets, but not so much when Geralt has to meditate for a full day to regain some equilibrium (and then apologises for wasting time).

Jaskier realises that his friendship with Geralt has broken. Geralt used to be himself around Jaskier; grumpy, tired, dry. Relaxed enough to take baths and grump and growl (whereas the rest of the world got his tight, emotionless mask).

But now, the Geralt he spent twenty years with is buried; instead, here stands the man that Geralt believes Jaskier wants. A 'yes man' that is wholly convinced he doesn't deserve a single iota of anyone's kindness, patience or understanding, not even his friend's.

The act is exhausting Geralt and it's making him more distant, even when they're in bed together (which he then apologises for again; after all, hasn't he promised to be better? Not being better if Jaskier is remotely unhappy with something).

The damage of a one-sided apology over a conversation is huge, and the thought of it makes me want to wrap Geralt up and protect him from the bard.

[dustofbrokenheart]

The Covenant: Top Anon

Pogue Parry x Reader

Word Count: 2,288

Summary: You have a loyal follower who comments on every post under your food blog. Just who is your favorite follower and why is the new grocery boy kinda cute too?

It was a new year and the start of a new you. Well, that is, a you who was trying new things.

In the past, you always made resolutions, but that spirit ran out before the month of January was even done. But after the particularly rough time of the past year, you swore that this time would be different, that you would make a serious effort to do something new.

It was that determination that led your current situation—your kitchen countertops were covered with ingredients and cooking utensils, your cell phone resting on a near by tripod for filming purposes.

The goal for this year was to try running a blog, and since you were a bit of a foodie, it made a lot of sense to center the blog around cooking and food. The idea came to you quickly; the hard part was deciding on a name, which took a while.

Eventually, you settled on The Foodiest. Naming was not one of your strong suits, but it was enough to get the point clearly across to potential viewers.

Choosing the layout design was on the same level of easy as deciding and didn’t take more than a day or two to implement on your site. Thank goodness for the existence of pre-made layout templates that saved you the effort of having to code everything yourself.  

With of the work on that end finished, the day had finally come for you to actually cook something to post about. Seeing as how January was a cold, winter month, you chose to make mashed sweet potatoes. Not only was it one of your favorite winter side dishes, it wasn’t hard to make either, giving you the confidence that even if your writing was lackluster, at least the food would look good.

Most of the blogs you were familiar with used a combination of text and photos for readers to follow along with, but you were going to try video in place of images. You sometimes struggled to copy based on what was shown in the photo, especially when you first started cooking, so you hoped video would make it easier on budding chefs who came across your content.

Luckily, the video would be sped up and lapsed for the final post to spare people from having to watch the monotonous parts in full length.

Hands on your hips, you surveyed everything one last time to make sure it was all ready. With a satisfied nod you reached forward to tap the large, red record button on the phone.  

You debated whether or not to talk while filming but decided against it. You were nervous enough posting to the blog without having the added stress of talking.

Everything happened in its regular order: you started by peeling and chopping the potatoes, a basic step, but you took your time doing it, paranoid as ever that you would cut yourself with the knife. Next you boiled the bright orange chunks in a pot of water; then put them in a mixing bowl once they were cooked. And finally used an electric mixer to blend it all nice and smooth, adding in milk, brown sugar, and cinnamon.  

Swiping your pointer finger through the finished product, you hummed with delight at the delicious, sweet taste. You pulled out a presentable bowl from the cupboard and spooned some orange fluff into it for the final reveal. Reaching blindly towards the far end of the counter you grabbed a bag of pecans to top off the mashed sweet potatoes. You scrutinized it and added more pecans for good measure.

Doing something in front of a camera was very different than doing the same thing on a normal day. Tension leeched out of your shoulders and you exhaled loudly with your head leaned back. A sense of pride warmed your chest, especially as you returned your gaze to the picturesque bowl. It looked great and tasted even better.

There was a large portion of leftovers because the recipes you used were collected from family and meant to feed small armies of people. You did your best to eat what you could and made plans sharing the rest with friends and coworkers later.

A few days after you published the post, you decided to check the stats on your account dashboard to see what the public response to it was, if there was any at all. Google analytics was useful for counting the total number of views it received while the blog site itself tracked the likes and… a comment?

Initial shock gave way to a bolt of excitement that had your fingers tingling with energy. You clicked to read it, wondering what it may say. Fingers crossed it was something good, whether it came in the form of a compliment or some constructive criticism.

Anonymous: wow good job

The chair creaked as you sat back slowly. You didn’t know how to read that, there wasn’t a whole lot to go on. Wow good job, said sarcastically? Wow good job, said excitedly? It didn’t help that the commenter didn’t believe in using punctuation either. And since it was submitted anonymously, there was no easy way to track down who sent it.

But maybe you were being too paranoid about it. You decided to take it as a compliment and cracked your fingers before firing off a response.

Foodiest: Thanks anon! I had a lot of fun with this dish. Hope you tune in for the next one :)

Anonymous never followed up with that particular exchange but they commented on every post without fail for the next two months.

Anonymous: nevr had white chili before it was good

Anonymous: the stuffed pepper were good

Anonymous: good call with the shrimp

Of course, all of the messages were sent as anonymous, so there was no 100% guarantee that it was the same person, but your gut feeling told you that it was. Who else had no respect for grammar rules and religiously used ‘good’ as their only descriptor?

You grew to expect, and enjoy, the weekly comment left by anon and made sure to leave a nice response in return. It was hard not to feel a connection to someone who took the time to try your recipes and leave a nice message. If only you could figure out who it was or at least have a name for them besides anonymous.

Foodiest: I’m glad you liked the recipe! My gramma swore by mayo when making grilled cheese. Thanks for always liking my stuff, if you ever want to talk more feel free to message me!

There. Maybe that would make them feel comfortable to give you their name you thought as you powered down your laptop for the night.

You spent the next couple of days leading up to the new post planning on what recipe to cook. Yep. Definitely not hoping for more information about anon.

For this newest post you decided to make some Indian curry, one of your favorites. Even long after you finished cooking, taping, and cleaning, the potent scent of spices was still heavy in the air, like aromatic nirvana that had your mouth watering even with a full stomach.

You tried your best not to refresh the post every few minutes to see if anon commented but it was tough. It turned out that you didn’t have to wait long as they left a comment within twenty minutes.

Anonymous: havent cooked this yet but looks good. Never really had indian before so have to go buy the stufff first – po

Anon finally gave up a name! You let out a happy noise and read it again. Po… short and to the point, just like all of the previous responses had led you to think about them. There was no time to waste, you hurried to write back, initial typos all over the place as the words out-paced your fingers.

Foodiest: Hi Po! It’s nice to have a name to put with your words. I would recommend going to an Asian Market for the spices, they’re more likely to carry them. Let me know how it goes for you :)

Since that conversation, Po and you chatted frequently about the weekly recipe choice, whether or not it looked good and if Po had plans to make it themselves, which they often did. Po seemed to like all types of food; vegetarian, meats, drinks, desserts, even ethnic dishes from places as far off as Bolivia and Morocco.

And the longer you two talked, the more frequent the messaging became. Whereas in the beginning Po would only submit a compliment that you would follow up with a ‘thank you’, it had turned into lengthy back and forths that took up a majority of the comment section for each post. More followers joined as the months went by and you hoped that they weren’t intimidated by your blatant favoritism but it was just so easy to talk with Po. If you were being honest with yourself though, it wasn’t only that it was easy… you genuinely liked talking to them.

Every time you made a new post it was difficult to not refresh the page every few minutes to see if they had left a message. And when they did, it was like a shot of electricity straight into the system where your heart would jolt and your face would flood with heat. You were hesitant to say it was a crush given that you didn’t know what they actually looked like and the computer screen barrier made it so you were content to define it as friendship.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you grabbed your wallet and keys while putting on shoes so you could make a quick run to the store. You had big plans to make some buffalo chicken wings for the blog this week and you needed to stop by the store to pick up some ingredients that you didn’t have, namely Frank’s Original Red for the buffalo sauce and blue cheese for the dip. Being an adult and responsible for your own grocery shopping was a chore at times. 

Luckily, Winter had thawed out into Spring so there was no need for you to warm up or car or scrape your windows. You just hopped in and drove the four blocks it took to get to the store. The plan was to cross the stuff for the wings off of your list first and then browse around for some good snacks to tide you over for the next week or so. Things were going according to plan until you saw him.

A tall boy wearing an employee apron stood in front of the cracker section, his jaw line and soft looking long hair catching your eye. Then he reached up to the tallest shelf to restock some boxes his arms flexing slightly to show off his heavy biceps and his shirt rode up, exposing deep cut ridges in his lower abdomen. To put it simply, you were starstruck.

He finished with the boxes he had in-hand and went to grab more from the cart at his side when you noticed your blatant ogling. Rather than confront you about it he merely smiled and moved out of the way so that you could get to the brand that you wanted. Choking from embarrassment, you kept your head down and threw a box of Goldfish into your shopping cart, speeding to get out of the aisle and his presence.

The store was a small local business and you frequented enough to know most of the workers there but you didn’t recognize this one, meaning that he must be new. What a way to make a first impression on him. Clearly your constitution was no match for his rugged, good looks. Then he was polite enough not to comment on you objectifying him which somehow made you feel even worse about it.

You decided to end the shopping trip almost immediately knowing that you were too spooked to continue shopping lest you run into him again.

You rolled the shopping cart into an open check-out lane and started putting your things on the conveyor for the cashier to scan. It just so happened that you knew the cashier—she was a middle-aged lady who’d been at the store for nearly two years. “Hi, Y/N. Find everything you needed?”

“Hey, Eva. Yes, I did.” You tried to steady yourself. Eva had a notoriously sharp eye and wouldn’t hesitate to question you if you looked off.

She left you alone today, engaging in normal chit chat, until she had trouble scanning the bottle of Frank’s hot sauce. Eva frowned when it didn’t want to scan and tried again but the bottle slipped from her hands and the neck of it shattered. Eva cursed and huffed, hurrying to throw the bottle into the trash before more leaked onto the register.

“I am so sorry, hun! I’ll get you another.”

“It was an accident,” you assured. “I can get it myself—"

“Not a problem,” she assured you with a wink. She pulled a walkie from her hip and spoke into it. “Hey, bring me a bottle of Frank’s Original Red Hot Sauce. Quick.”

You barely had time to don your awkward smile as she talked about how her neighbor’s dog kept pooping in her yard when the guy from the cracker aisle walked up behind Eva and handed a bottle of hot sauce to her. She took it and patted his back to get him to move forward.

“Thanks, hun. Y/N this is the new grocery boy—”

“Pogue,” he interrupted. “My name is Pogue.”

_______________

Another fic where they know each other but don’t know that they do. This time featuring Pogue and his fandom accepted interest in food. I picture him to have bad messaging skills — his fingers struggle with those tiny phone buttons. 

[hankwritten]

I am Full to the Brim with All the Bullets I've Bit

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for someonehasto, Hooligan

Soldier slapped two things into the palm of the sleeping Demoman, startling him awake. “Happy anniversary,” he said informatively.

“Anniversary?” Demo asked, a little woozily. “But er…wasn’t our anniversary months ago?”

“Not the anniversary of when we started dating.”

Blearily, and still a bit hungover, Demo said, “then…anniversary of when we met? That’s not until…”

The sentence trailed off, but Soldier helpfully concluded, “June seventeenth! But that is not the anniversary I am referring to either.”

“Then what are you talking about lad?” Demo pressed, a little curtly.

“It is the anniversary of the day we said we loved each other.”

“…Oh. I er…oh.” Demo rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t…remember that.”

“That is not surprising! That night you were incredibly drunk!”

“…Oh.”

“So that is why it is our anniversary, and now that means you can look at your gift.”

Demo, who still hadn't looked at his hand, glanced at the pair of tickets. “Sploocher Brewing Company?” he blinked. “Oh, a brewery tour.”

“You’ve been saying you want to go to Sploocher for a while now.”

“I did, but I didn’t think you were listening. Ach, wait I’m sorry, that came out wrong. This is actually a really nice gift, thank you Jane.”

Soldier smiled widely, proud for getting it right this year. “I am glad it meets your standards!”

“More than,” Demo agreed. “You can probably guess, but I didn’t get anything for you…”

“That is not a problem! I will consider this a fun activity we can do together.”

“Fantastic. When is this ‘fun activity’ running anyway?”

“April twenty-eighth.”

“…Today’s the twenty eighth.”

“Yes!” Soldier declared cheerfully. “The tour will commence in approximately forty-eight minutes and twelve seconds! That is why I woke you up.”

“Bloody hell,” Demo panicked, and ran upstairs to change out of his whiskey-stained robe.

Soldier waited a beat before calling up after him, “I will go start the car.”

#

The brewery was far too noisy for Soldier’s liking. The dawdling minutes before the tour started (he and Demo had arrived exactly on time, but the group beforehand was running late so all that rushing was for naught in the end) were spent at the bar, drinking the complimentary soda out of a curly straw. The beer wasn’t complimentary, but they’d each received a wristband allowing them four free drinks each, and Soldier had been quick to sneak Demo his share of the tabs. The Demoman was back on his way to his usual level of drunk, and Soldier watched him with a slight smile.

“Here lad,” Demo said, scooting two unlabeled cups he’d poured a bit of beer into. “Blind taste test.”

Soldier set aside his soda. He lifted the first, smacking away the aftertaste, then tried second. “You’re messing with me, DeGroot. That’s the exact same beer.”

“Not a bit, Doe.” Demo slid forward the two bottles he’d been shielding from view. “Red Shed and Blu Streak, untampered condition.”

Soldier shook his head. “Really is different clowns, same circus, huh?”

“Does that make us the clowns?”

“Considering the stupid song and dance we put on for all those years, I’d say so.”

“Excuse me,” a meek voice called over the chattering tour groups, if lacking in volume then making up for it in direction. “Presentation will be starting soon. Please line up near the double doors.”

“That’s our cue,” Demo prompted, setting his empty tankard on the bar. He’d used every one of their combined wristband-tabs, and hadn’t wasted a single drop. “Let’s go see how this place shakes, aye?”

Unfortunately, before they were even allowed in the brewery itself, there was a fifteen-minute introduction on the Sploocher company history.

“Randy Sploocher developed a love of German beer while stationed in Ansburg, which he brought here to New Mexico after graduating from uh. From…” The tour guide shuffled his note cards. “…I don’t actually remember where he graduated from, ha ha.”

“Jesus this lad’s green,” Demo mumbled to Soldier.

“Shhh!” Soldier hissed. “I am learning about Randy Sploocher.”

He could hear Demo sigh.

By the time they’d actually got to the processing floor, the nervous young tour guide had dropped his cards no less than three separate times, and wound up asking the audience, “does anyone know the four ingredients to beer?” twice.

“Water, yeast, hops, and malt,” Demo muttered under his breath. He leaned closer to Soldier’s shoulder. “Oi. Want to ditch the dodo chain?”

Soldier, having barely heard the question, said, “I like malt. It’s one of the ingredients in a chocolate malt!”

“…Along with chocolate?”

“Yes! And that!”

Demo grumbled something, but Soldier was paying attention to the speech again.

“Here we have our brewers,” the guide was explaining. “Most modern breweries use electric heaters since they’re more reliable, but here at Sploocher Company we do the things the old fashion way, open flame only for that signature Sploocher taste.”

“If it’s not reliable, does that mean you’re always making bad batches?” a voice came from the crowd.

The nervousness, which had only lessoned out of sight a moment ago, came back with a vengeance. “Uh, well, yes. We have our certified taste tester verify every batch, and if doesn’t meet the Sploocher standard we dump the whole thing.”

Smiling proudly, the tour guide seemed to be under the impression that this was a satisfactory answer until a booming voice confronted him with, “WHAT.”

Soldier, less than a foot away from the shout, jumped just as much as anyone.

“You’re telling you just throw out the entire brew of beer?” Demo said in mounting horror. He swaggered a little as he took a step forward. “There must be over ten thousand gallons in one of those!”

It was a pretty large tank, two-stories stretching into the open floor plan, sleek and white except for the Sploocher logo (a multicolored parrot driving a tractor) pasted across the surface. Around them, the hum of beer brewing thrummed the air, rising to the many-windowed upper areas. While technically a microbrewery, it was still quite impressive, at least to the Soldier who’s experience with beer came almost exclusively from what Demo tried to forcefully impart on him.

“Oh actually it’s-” The young man shuffled through his notes. “…I’m not sure actually. But if it isn’t that good ‘ole Sploocher taste then we don’t put our label on it, haha.”

The Demoman was appalled. “Tasting terrible is no reason to get rid of perfectly good alcohol. What do you do with it?”

“Well, the Teufort Waste Processing Facility gives us exclusive dumping rights in the Well-”

“Lord almighty,” Demo moaned, putting a hand to his forehead. “This…this is bloody terrible. This might be the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

He wobbled a little, and Soldier had to grab his arm to keep him upright. Around them, several of the other tour attendees whispered, and Soldier wondered if maybe they were right about Demo hitting the pre-entertainment refreshments a little hard.

Maybe in an attempt to head off further discussion, the guide said, “and uh folks that’s it for the brewing area! Now if you’ll follow me, you’ll be able to see our bottling area!”

“Ooo, bottles,” Soldier said excitedly.

However, as he tried to follow the tail end of meandering gaggle into the next chamber, something gently tugged him back.

“Jane,” Demo said, as conspiratorial as he was un-sobered, “I think it’s about time we sprung a jailbreak.”

“Spy and Scout are in prison again?” Soldier blinked.

“No lad, the beer,” Demo insisted. “Somewhere in this facility there’s a whole tank of beer they’re going to execute.”

“And you want to do…what, exactly?”

“Not let it go to waste for one!” Demo huffed. “It’s a crime, what’s going on here. We can’t just let them get away with it!”

“But…” Soldier looked over his shoulder.

“Pah,” Demo said. “Fine then. I’m going to go see some justice done.”

The only other people in the confines of the brewery were the tour group, now mostly disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors. There was no one but the beer itself to witness Demo storm off, swaggering slightly as he sometimes did on the battlefield, leaving Soldier’s head to ping between him and the location of the bottling process. Demo's idea sounded fun but...When was next time he was going to see that many bottles in one place?

In the end, Soldier determined Demo would probably be fine on his own.

#

This assumption didn’t hold, as twenty-two minutes later a resounding cry of, “KABLOOIE!” echoed through the brewery.

Heads turned. Gasps were had. Handkerchiefs were placed in front of open mouths. All and all it was a mortified audience that turned and saw a cackling Demoman standing atop one of the giant tanks, holding a detonator in his hand and raising it like Connor MacLeod before him.

Soldier might have wondered ‘where the hell did he get that’ if that particular phrase hadn’t crossed his mind so often before it had become cliché. His fellow onlookers, not wise to the ways of Tavish DeGroot, didn’t even recognize the significance of the little device, and were therefore shocked when his bellow of, “FREEEDOOMMM!!!” was followed by the great echo of an explosion.

Soldier cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "oorah!" as a show of support. He was getting nearly as worked up as Demo, when he head the sound of two more explosions.

Even from this distance Soldier could see the change in Demo’s face, and came to the conclusion that the additional detonations were not part of the plan.

“…Crap,” Demo muttered.

Seconds later, a rumbling came from within the deepest bowels of the Sploocher Brewing company, the splashing of something powerful sweeping through machinery and toward confused tour-goers. The telltale crash of thousands of gallons of sour beer.

“Run!” someone screamed as the first wave of golden liquid came barreling around the corner.

Screams of warning turned to screams of panic, people rushing all at once toward the closest visible exit, stampeding each other in an attempt to get out of the way of the oncoming tsunami. Bottles, happily chugging along down the conveyer belt, were blissfully unaware of their oncoming demise, and when they wave hit they fell by the hundreds, adding their contents to the already considerable torrent.

“P-please if we could all form an orderly- Wa-hoah!”

Any more advice the guide might have given was silenced as he was the first dragged outside. Soldier, meanwhile, was trying an entirely different tactic, pushing to where he’d last seen the Demoman before the tank he’d been standing on had started to shake.

“Move you maggots! There is more on the line here than civilian lives! Know that I would through each and every one of you into the line of fire if it meant victory!”

Threatening was no use. As the first wave of beer washed over his shoes, he was shoved outside.

“Sir! Sir you can’t go back in there.”

One of the brewery’s security guards (shouldn’t he have been inside during all this? Might have avoided having one drunken Scotsman tearing his place to shreds if he had) tried to stop Soldier once he’d gotten free of the lemmings.

“It’s an extreme fire hazard,” the guard continued.

“Ha! Fire? I can tell you from personal experience that burning to death is not the most painful way to die. Doesn’t even crack the top three. Now move, maggot.”

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have been inside trying to stop Demo, since all it took was a slight shove for Soldier to knock him aside.

Inside was a damn mess. Half the tanks were knocked over, adding to the rising fluid, and the rest looked massively destabilized. This level of beer wouldn’t last long (as it was already emptying both into the built-in drain) of the brewery floor and out the building’s exits), but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a drudge to get through. That didn’t matter. He needed to find Demo. That was what was important.

Bottles floated ironically in the seas of yellow—their purpose realized, but in all the wrong ways. Soldier wondered what Demo had been trying to do in the first place. He’d assumed that the man was just going to find a random tank of to-be-extradited alcohol and attempt to drink it all himself, but apparently he’d underestimated Demo’s ability to make explosives devices out of even the most mundane of objects. Stupid. Demo had spent his whole childhood perfecting that technique.

“Tavish!” Soldier called out, the slosh of beer answering him. “Tav! Relay your position, stat!”

"O're here..." a faint voice called eventually.

He followed the noise to the very back of the brewery, where the trucks might come to take the finished kegs away. Among the leaning steel basins was a Demoman, sitting in an inch of beer and staring at his knees. He looked despondent. Even more worryingly, he looked sober.

Soldier splashed the short distance between them. After a moment, he sat down next to his partner. "Almost wish I had come with you. You looked like you were King of America up there!"

Demo wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Jane. Did I ruin our anniversary?”

Surprised by the change in topic, Soldier said, “not really? Your ability to cause property damage is why I fell in love with you. I am just glad you are unharmed.”

“Ah. That's good then.” Demo put his head in his hands. “I’m...sorry I didn’t get you anything. And I'm sorry I...it's just bothering me that…Why can’t I remember?”

Now Soldier was really lost. "Remember?"

“I can’t-” Demo wasn’t quite crying, but the effects of sobering up had turned his eye rather red. “I can’t remember the night I told you I loved you. How fucked up is that? That I’m running around, not being able to remember whole chunks of my life. Whole chunks of my life with you.”

He sniffed, and wiped his face on his sleeve. Soldier put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer.

“Do you think I have a problem?” Demo asked.

“What kind of problem?” Soldier said, surprised as anything.

“You know. With the drink.”

“Like…” Soldier floundered. “You still want to save the beer from its unjust execution?”

“No, I mean me, specifically.” He glanced at his hands, no devoid of the detonator, which was probably for the best. Evidence and all. But then, he lifted his chin and pointed at Soldier one of the most desperate looks he’d ever been given. “Do…do I need to stop?”

His voice was small, and timid, like even the even the suggestion was sacrilege in this holy space.

“I don't think you should be asking me,” Soldier admitted. “I'd love you even if were the soberest sonuvabitch this side of the New Schlooper Ocean. Better question is do you want to stop?”

Demo didn’t respond. Not for a quite a while, until Soldier thought he might not answer at all. But finally, in that same small voice, “I think I do.”

“Okay. I will help then.”

“Aye?”

“Whatever you want. Or need. Whichever this is. But first, lets get out of here. I think all this booze is giving me a swimmers rash.”

“Ha. Maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened to me.”

“You live a strange life DeGroot. Now come on.”

Soldier helped Demo to his feet, and as the two heard sirens in the distance, they began to make there way from the building as they often did on dates: with the knowledge that they’d probably be pursued by local law enforcement soon enough.

[jadekitty777]

On Your Six, Chapter 5

Day 5: Mission Go- Cooking for @taiqrowweek

Wait what do you mean I switched the prompt days around? Dunno what you’re talking about ;)

(Don’t worry it’ll make more sense in the long run)

Rating: T for this chapter, M for overall

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Qrow was what most of society would call a small-town criminal. But to those oppressed, he hoped only to be a healer. In an effort to make a change in the world, he moves from kingdom to kingdom, searching for branded omegas in need. His goal? To turn the derogatory words the reformatories forced them to bear on their skin into works of art.

Then one day, his past catches up to him in the form of Taiyang, his former best friend, with a brand of his own stained onto his skin and a plea for help in his eyes. Qrow has no choice but to answer, even if it means he’d have to face his mistakes once and for all.

[An ABO-style universe in a modern-day style Remnant. No Grimm, because people are the real monsters in this one]

Ao3 Link: On Your Sleeve

~

Tai had started feeding him.

At first, it had begun with little things, shortly following that fateful day he gave him the picture. Prepackaged snacks or fresh fruits or vegetables as a healthy addition to the cheap, instant lunch meals he could easily afford. Then it quickly dissolved into tubberware covered leftovers of various pastas or stews, things that kept well and were well adept at making in large servings.

By late May, with the advent of Qrow’s twenty-sixth birthday, Tai arrived at his place loaded with grocery bags, a proper skillet and a determined purpose to make his favorite dish of chicken curry. It was, hands down, one of the best meals he’d had in years.

Yet, even after the occasion passed, the trend continued until it seemed Sunday became the day his stomach most looked forward too. Normally, Qrow would put up a fight about being doted after – Tai wouldn’t be the first omega to develop the habit. The most prominent of whom had been Maria, whose sessions had to be shorter than most both due to her age and the difficulty working with thinner, more wrinkled skin.

But she had also been a grandmother. A feisty one, who smacked him on the head a lot with her cane, but was also kind and worried and constantly remarking on his too-thin frame until he just gave up and let her do whatever she wanted.

But with Tai, he couldn’t even manage to feign annoyance. In part because Tai’s cooking was damn good and he’d be a fool not to gobble it up at every opportunity. But also, because it gave an excuse for their sessions to run long.

He didn’t even think it was a one-sided endeavor. Beyond the innate omega instinct to care for and Tai’s naturally generous personality, there was a loneliness in those blue eyes that told the truth behind all the fumbled attempts to waste time or make breaks run longer. By July, Tai wasn’t leaving his place until at least ten at night.

Neither of them complained about the arrangement.

Then August rolled around, and Qrow had an absolutely foolish idea.

The first Sunday of the month was on the 5th and it passed with little incident or notice. They were back at the first of the designs, arguably the most complex with the amount of color layers needed, so their dinner was nothing fancy. Just simple sandwiches and side salads, so most of their time could be spent under the needle instead.

He’d banked on that happening so that what would happen next wouldn’t have a chance of paling in comparison.

You busy tonight? He messaged early Wednesday.

Tai responded a few hours later, probably when his first break popped up. No. Why?

Come over after work. I have something to give you. He replied after he’d finished with his client for the day, sometime early afternoon.

The final response was cheeky and towards the end of the school day. You’re about as subtle as a brick.

Almost at 6 P.M. on the dot, there was a knock on his door.

“Coming!” Qrow called, dancing between the kitchen and the table to make sure everything was perfectly in place. He gave it all a satisfactory nod, then hurried over, sliding the door open only enough so he could wedge between it and the threshold, blocking Tai’s view.

The omega looked different, fresh out of work. His blond hair had been lightly gelled, just enough to give it a bit of bounce. The casual wear he was normally in was swapped out for a more professional look; pants and a collared shirt ironed of any wrinkles and shoes shined enough they gleamed.

So of course his eyes fell onto the one thing that completely ruined the look with a teasing snort. “Nice tie, Tai.”

“You like it?” He grinned, pulling at the absolutely hideous yellow abomination that was covered in yapping cartoon corgis. “The kids love ‘em. They call me the Funny Tie Guy.”

Oh Gods. “Bet you get a kick out of it every time.”

“I literally can knot get enough of it.” Tai had the nerve to wink as he said it too.

Qrow groaned. “You are so lucky it’s your day. Speaking of-” He swung the door open, revealing the room with a flourish.

Admittedly, it wasn’t much. Still, it was satisfying to see the way Tai’s face lit up with joy as he spotted the modest little table set for two, dinner already set in their bowls and the most expensive white wine he could reasonably afford already poured. The omega looked from it to him, grin growing, “You did all this?”

“Yeaaah.” Qrow flushed, trying to hide his anxiety. He’d never been great with giving gifts. “Happy birthday ya big lug.”

Tai laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “Thank you. This is just what I wanted.”

He could have stayed there forever – but he didn’t work himself to death to let dinner go cold. He pat his back, mindful of the healing wounds, and said, “Let’s eat.”

Qrow’s relationship with cooking was disjointed and the spread seemed to reflect that. The fried rice was perfect; it was one of the first things his mother taught him how to make on the stove. The garlic broccoli, more of a staple in the Xiao Long family, had a bit of crunch where some of the pieces hadn’t fully cooked through because he hadn’t had Tai beside him to remind him to stir. Just like the many other easy things he helped him learn how to make when he found out he and Raven had been living off nothing but white rice and peanut butter sandwiches for months.

The moo shu pork was the trickiest and most complicated dish by far and nothing he’d ever even attempted before. His amateur hand left it looking a bit of a mess as they poured it onto the tortillas. Unpretty as it was in presentation and lacking a few of the pricier ingredients like oyster sauce and sesame oil, the marinade had the pork still bursting with flavor.  

The wine was there to act as a garnish to make the food seem better than it was. Which was probably why Qrow kept pouring it until he and Tai had split two and a half glasses between each other. Either that, or because Tai was adorably chatty when he was tipsy.

“So, there we are, watching about thirty of these Fayblades spinning around, knocking into each other and some of the cheaper ones are falling apart. Everything is going too fast for any of us to do the math problems on them. And Missy and I just look at each other like we both just realized what a horrible mistake we made. It was only the first week back and I was pretty sure we were about to lose an eye or something.” As he told the story, Tai animatedly gestured around with his glass, liquid sloshing almost past the rim. “We get the kids to back up until they all stop. Then Missy starts gathering a few up, saying how this time we would try less so we can actually keep count – when Velvet speaks up from the back and says ‘Blue wins 124 to 90’.”

Qrow polished off his own glass, setting it on the table. “That’s the quiet one with the rabbit in her bag, right?”

“Mmhmm. She kind of tries to hide when everyone starts looking at her, so I don’t say anything right then. Just take it as fact and move on. But when recess comes around, I pull her aside and ask her how she knew the answer. And she tells me, completely serious mind you, that she’s a camera. So it was easy to do all the math when she basically had the pictures saved in her head. And I’m like, holy shit!” He taps his temple for emphasis. “She has a photographic memory.”

“Ain’t that just a myth?” He asked, starting to gather the empty dishes.

Tai waved him off. “Pfft. Qrow, you gotta stop thinking like the world’s just a big science textbook. It’s more like a-a fairytale! Where magic can happen at any moment.”

“Tai, you’re drunk.”

“I am not!” This time, when he gestured, some of the wine hit the table. He blinked down at it. “Ah, shit!”

He laughed. “Man, you still can’t hold your liquor.”

“You dishonor me.” The omega accused, pointing to his right hand as if it were an exhibit. “I’m holding it just fine.”

That only made him laugh harder, until he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

~

Somehow, they found themselves laying side by side on the bed, shoulders pressed together. Tai’s scroll was balanced between the head of the bed and the wall, the display playing the finale of their favorite show growing up, Silver Eyes.  It was the height of the final battle. Rosette was locked in battle with Bastinda while the rest of her friends lay, unconscious or ensnared in traps, around them.

“Do you not yet see how pointless this all is? How my power eclipses you all?” Bastinda snarled as she swung her wand down. “You’re all just insignificant riffraff!”

Rosette seemed to find some strength, blocking the attack with her broadsword. “You’re wrong! No one is insignificant! Even the smallest of us has something good to contribute.”

“Foolish child!” A powerful gravity spell threw Rosette to the ground, knocking her sword out of her hand.

“Gods,” Qrow griped. “This is cheesier than I remember.”

Tai shushed him. “Hush, the best part’s coming up!”

He rolled his eyes, but his traitorous mouth smiled all the same. Alright, so maybe this part was pretty hype. Watching it play out again on the screen, he felt ten again, practically glued to screen as his excitement built.

A large shadow stretched across the valley, delaying the witch from striking the final blow as she turned to the source. Up on the hill, sun behind him, was Zwei. Rosette’s little corgi that had been with her from the start of the show. He came racing down the hill, stubby little legs barely able to pick up speed.

Bastinda sneered, pointed her wand at the dog. “Pathetic.”

“Zwei, no!!” Rosette cried, tears filling her eyes just as the blast fired.

It seemed like the end for the lovable pup as smoke filled the air.

And then, with a blast of light, something came flying out of the dust and landing before the witch. The world rumbled under powerful paws as the giant white wolf stood before her, letting out a powerful growl that brought her to her knees.

“I don’t believe it!” Blanca cried from her mirror prison. “Zwei’s a Guardian!”

The rest of the finale played out just as he remembered, Zwei turning the tide of the fight and giving Rosette a chance to free her friends, all of them coming together for one final attack that rid the world of the cruel witch once and for all. After that, the wolf turned back into the lovable and more marketable corgi pup, and everyone headed home to enjoy true peace for the first time in a millennium.

Tai sat up as the credits began to roll, stretching his arms above his head. “I still think it holds up pretty well.”

“Sure, if you ignore the fact they completely sidelined Silver Eyes. It’s only the title of the show.” He snarked.

“Come on now. It’s not about the power ups. It’s about the journey and the-”

“Friends they made alone the way.” He mimed gagging. It was only the motto shoved down his throat at the end of almost every episode.

Tai merely laughed at his antics, picking up his scroll and slipping off the bed. “It’s late. I better head home.”

Maybe it was the vestiges of the alcohol or maybe it was the other’s scent, sweeter and more inviting than usual, that loosened his tongue enough to offer, “You could crash here, if you want.”

“In your bed? We hardly fit.”

Acquiescently, he rolled onto his side, practically shoving himself against the wall as he pat the wide, empty space. “It’ll be fine. And your drunk.”

“Hardly. And I’ll have to get up early to get back home and get ready.”

“It’s fine.” The noise left him involuntarily. It wasn’t a growl, really; it was barely more than a rumble. Regardless, the regret hit him instantly as he bit down on his tongue and turned his face up apologetically.

The omega just arched a brow, entirely unaffected and unimpressed by his pitiful display. Then he chuckled, any meteor-sized tension there could have been burning up long before impact could be made. “Gods, you’re such a punk, you know that?”

“I…uh…”

“Alright, you win.” Tai set the alarm on his scroll with his right hand, while he crossed the room and got the lights with his left. He used the glow coming off of the device to find his way back, dropping it onto the nightstand. In the bits of moonlight coming from the window, Tai became an erotic beauty as he undid his tie and buttons, shrugging out of his shirt. His belt hit the ground next – though mercifully he kept his pants on.

Qrow watched him, utterly transfixed, as he lowed himself to the bed, mattress dipping anew with the readded weight as the omega stretched out onto his stomach. Beyond all comprehension, he had to fight every muscle in his body from reaching for him. The need to bring him close and curl around him was overwhelming. So, he shoved his hands underneath the crook of his neck and locked his elbows.

Why had he thought this was a good idea again?

Tai heaved out a long sigh, mumbling, “Goodnight Qrow.”

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper as he responded, “G’night.”

Without a clock in the room, there was no telling how long he lay there, coiled up tight like a spring waiting for the pressure to come loose, listening to the sounds of Tai’s breathing slowly evening out. It wasn’t until Qrow was absolutely certain the other wouldn’t wake that he risked it.

Though it felt a bit reprehensible, it was with that same uncontrolled desire in which he found himself scooting his upper half forward, inch by agonizing inch, until the bridge of his nose was pressed up against the curve of Tai’s shoulder.

His eyes slipped shut, breathing in deeply. The omega’s scent swirled around him, sunflowers and soil and bright summer days; a smell that was unmistakably, irrevocably Tai.

Here. With him.

Slowly, the rigidity to his muscles relaxed and he finally drifted off, the scent embracing him as securely as its owner could.

[reggiemantleholdmyhand-tle]

BOOK ONE, PART ONE — Yubi Meets Bolin

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Yubi, the firebender for the Turtleduck Trio, tries to raise some entry money and meets a handsome stranger.

Downtown Republic City was as busy as ever — cars rolling down the street, the sound of horns honking and people laughing echoed against the tall buildings. Several smells floated in the breeze, from the sour smell of exhaust to the sweet smell of street food. From her booth at the end of the street, Yubi could smell the distinct scent of Water Tribe cuisine — a smell she’d grown to know as her dear friend Toanok’s cooking. As usual, it smelled incredible, causing Yubi’s stomach to rumble at the prospect of snagging some leftovers when her allotted time came to an end.

The afternoon sun had finally creeped behind the tall buildings of downtown, something Yubi felt grateful for as her warm skin began to cool in the shade. For a moment, she thought that maybe she should have splurged for an actual tent, something that would keep her shaded under the blazing sun, but she knew deep down she wouldn’t have been able to afford it. She was lucky to have even gotten a spot at the downtown market. The spot alone was seventy-five yuans up front, and only for half a day — though, in all honesty, the market owners could have been hustling her. A seventeen year old wanting to sell handmade clothes downtown on a busy day? She must have seemed like a joke.

Luckily enough, business had been good. The spot at the end of the street had been a good one, though she had doubted it at first. People would probably have spent all their money by the time they reached her, she had originally thought — she never accounted for the people coming in from the other side of town, and came to the conclusion that the market owners probably didn’t either, when they had charged her such a ridiculous price. The joke was on them, though. She had already made up the money she paid out of pocket and then some. At that rate, with a few more odd jobs here and there, she’d most likely be able to pay her share of the Pro-Bending Tournament entry fee.

30,000 yuans, Yubi thought, shaking her head slowly. So ridiculous.

When she had decided to join Amka and Genji in pro-bending, she thought she’d at least be winning more money than she was paying. If she didn’t love it so much, she would have given it up long ago to pursue something a little more lucrative. She was thankful for Amka, who spent most of her days waitressing at a tea shop uptown just so they all could make ends meet. They were all lucky that people uptown were able to tip so well.

Yubi and Genji made money for themselves, sure, but they were both practically unhirable when it came to steady jobs. However, Genji had found a place in an underground fighting ring — but the money wasn’t always what was promised — and Yubi was doing alright selling the clothes she made in her spare time, when she wasn’t doing various demolition jobs around the city. As it turns out, the only people who would even think about hiring a combustion bender off the streets were demolition squads. They didn’t pay well either.

But the three girls seemed to make it, sharing a small apartment near Republic City’s port. Amka had gotten very skilled at stealing ingredients from the tea shop when no one was looking, and Genji was a very good cook, so they never had to go hungry. Nothing else really mattered, as long as they had each other. It had been that way as long as Yubi could remember.

Yubi had always believed they were all fated to meet each other. Looking at the three of them, it seemed unlikely that they would all get along as well as they do — tall, refined Amka; short, excitable Yubi; and even shorter, chaotic Genji, who looked, for lack of a better term, absolutely feral. They loved — and fought with — each other like siblings. If their connection wasn’t evident from the way they interacted with each other, it was on the pro-bending field. They moved as a unit, agile and skilled, acting as though they could hear each other’s thoughts. Toanok had mentioned many times that it was truly something to behold.

Yubi reckoned it was the biggest reason she couldn’t give up pro-bending. She loved being out on the field with her friends, the rush of working with one another towards a win, the determination they provided each other. She felt most connected to them when she was on the field.

In retrospect, while ridiculous, thirty thousand yuans didn’t seem like a lot of money when she compared it to how valuable that time with her friends was.

Which is why at the end of her shift, she didn’t mind that she had spent half of the day on her feet. She had earned a killing, nearly a fourth of the money she would need. She could easily make up the rest.

As she packed up her things, Yubi picked up the faintest hint of the smell of street food. She turned around, following the scent, to find Toanok with four boxes of food in his hands.

“How did it go, Yubi?”

Yubi beamed at the older man, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Really well, actually. I made quite a bit this morning!”

“Don’t suppose you still have that blue shawl, do you? I saw it while I was setting up earlier and I think my wife would love it.”

Yubi’s eyes lit up and she let out an excited squeal, “Of course I do! I saw you eyeing it, so I hid it away, just in case.”

Toanok placed a hand over his heart, an appreciative smile on his face. “How much do you want for it?”

Yubi shook her head fervently as she turned around to pull it from the box she had been packing. “Don’t be silly. You and Sina have done more than enough for me. It’s on me.”

“You don’t be silly,” Toanok shook his head slowly, “I’ll give you twenty yuans for it.”

“Ten.”

“I don’t think that’s how you haggle, young lady.”

“I would never dream of haggling you, old man.”

Toanok let out a hearty laugh, the wrinkles of his crow’s feet deepening. “Tell you what, I’ll give you twenty yuans and you can make a delivery for me, yes?”

Yubi pursed her lips. “I suppose you’ve got yourself a deal, my friend.”

“Glad to hear it.” Toanok smiled, as he leaned forward to place his boxes on the table. He then reached into his pocket to produce twenty yuans. “Those three boxes are for you and the girls, but that fourth one needs to go to Bolin. He’s midtown, doing some sort of street performance with his fire ferret. Can’t miss him.”

Yubi gave him a nod as she handed him the shawl. “Pleasure doing business with you, Toanok.”

“And you, Yubi. Don’t let my yuans go to waste — you enter that tournament and you win it, you hear?”

Yubi beamed. “You can plan on it!”

Toanok had been right about Bolin’s performance — it was hard to miss.

A little fire ferret danced around the square, doing tricks and chittering excitedly. Yubi’s heart practically melted as she watched.

“How cute!” Yubi squealed as the fire ferret ran around her, brushing up against her legs to say hello. “Hello, little friend!”

“He likes you!”

Yubi looked up from the ferret to see who she deduced to be Bolin, a tall, broad, handsome young man, staring down at her with a goofy smile on his face.

“I like him too.” Yubi grinned, looking back down at the fire ferret. “What’s his name?”

“Pabu.”

Yubi crouched down carefully, gently stroking Pabu’s back as he stood up to sniff at the boxes in her hands. “Hi there, Pabu. I’m Yubi.”

“Yubi…” Bolin repeated, with a sigh, the goofy smile on his face growing wider.

Yubi moved her hand to scratch behind Pabu’s ears, scrunching her nose at the small animal as it chittered again. “He’s very cute.” She mused.

“So are y-“ Bolin’s voice trailed off as he caught himself, before clearing his throat. “Yes, he is. Very cute.”

Pabu shifted his attention from the boxes of food to Yubi’s face, sniffing up against her nose and cheeks. Yubi let out a quiet giggle, and it grew louder as Pabu scurried up onto Yubi’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Yubi cried out, excitedly. She stood up, slowly, and smiled up at Bolin. “He’s so friendly!”

“Pabu’s a sucker for a pretty face.” Bolin waved his hand dismissively, before flushing profusely at his statement.

“Must be why he hangs out with you.” Yubi retorted, causing Bolin’s blush to deepen. He was nearly as red as Yubi’s blouse.

Bolin clammed up, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was trying to figure out what to say, but Yubi beat him to the punch.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Yubi held the stack of boxes out toward Bolin, “Toanok sent me with some food for you! That top one is yours.”

Bolin let out another dreamy sigh, “Thank you, Toanok!” He murmured, taking the box from the top of the stack. His stomach let out a loud rumble, and he dug into the food immediately, scooping a large portion into his mouth.

Yubi let out another giggle. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Bolin groaned, his mouth still full. “I haven’t eaten all day. Been too busy trying to rack up some money to enter the pro-bending tournament.”

Yubi’s eyes lit up. “No way! Me too!”

Bolin’s expression shifted to match Yubi’s as he swallowed. “No way! You play?”

Yubi nodded enthusiastically. “I do! I play for the Turtleduck Trio!”

“I play for the Fire Ferrets!”

“That’s why your name sounded so familiar!” Yubi snapped her fingers, “I’ve heard some of your matches on the radio!”

“Now that you mention it, I think I caught the end of one of your matches the other day!”

“Wow!” They both exclaimed, laughing along with each other, before letting it die down, turning into nervous sighs as they realized how close they had drifted towards each other. Bolin cleared his throat as they both took a step backward. Pabu chittered sadly.

“Soooo…” Yubi forced herself to look away from Bolin, shifting her gaze up to Pabu instead. “Have you made any money today?”

Bolin shook his head. “Not really. I made a bit, but not nearly enough if we’re serious about entering.”

Yubi nodded slowly, pursing her lips. She looked down at the satchel around her waist, then back up at Bolin, then back down at the satchel. She could spare a few yuans, right? After all, it was for a good cause. Pro-bending brought her so much joy, it was only right of her to share that joy.

Yubi reached down into her satchel, producing ten yuans, holding them out to Bolin. “I know it’s not much, but-“

Bolin gently pushed her hand away. “I can’t take that, you just said you were trying to raise your own entry money!”

“It’s really fine, I can spare a few yuans!” Yubi thrust her hand out again.

Bolin shook his head fervently, pushing her hand away again. “I’m not taking it!”

“Come on, Bolin!” Bolin seemed to freeze as Yubi said his name. “I just wanna see what you can do in the ring! How am I supposed to do that if you won’t take the money?”

Bolin, still frozen, only shook his head again. Yubi let out a dramatic groan as she yanked on his hand, pulling him closer. He nearly dropped the box he was holding as he let out a yelp. Once his face was level with Yubi’s, she scowled at him. “Take the money.”

Bolin gulped, his face flushing again. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“You have no idea.” Yubi beamed, the scowl melting away. She looked down at Bolin’s empty hand and took it in both of hers, prying it open and placing the money in it. Bolin’s face was red once again as her hand slid over his.

“There!” Yubi closed his hand and gave it a pat. “No take-backs!”

As if to further her statement, Pabu crawled down Yubi’s arm and onto Bolin’s closed hand.

Bolin gulped again. “Fine. I will take the money. Thank you.”

Yubi gave a small shrug, a sly grin forming on her face. “It’s no big deal. You’re gonna wish I hadn’t given it to you when we beat you, anyway.”

“You are so scary.” Bolin sighed out, with a dreamy look on his face.

“Wait ‘til you see me on the field.” Yubi winked, reaching up to scratch behind Pabu’s ear. “Nice to meet you, Pabu! And you too, Bolin.”

“Yeah, good to meet you too.” Bolin called, as Yubi had already started walking away. “So good.”

lok taglist: @hughstheforcelou (let me know if you’d like to be added to my lok taglist!)

[belladxne]

i will see you where the shadow ends | chapter 7

[see notes for ao3 and ff links]

part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 6,410

chapter 7: there's a shadow where I used to shine, that tries to hide behind the smoke

Eijiro wishes he could say he leaves soon after that. He knows how long it takes to complete shrines, generally, and he can’t really afford to linger just because he’s comforted by the presence of other people. He knows he has to get a move on.

But, yeah, that’s not what happens.

It takes a few minutes to stop chatting with Hirooki, and then, of course, upwards of an hour to finish the trial hidden in Ha Dahamar Shrine. And after that, he knows he should set off, but he figures the smart thing is to catch a wild horse and register it at the stable, first. After all, travel will be a lot faster with a horse, so this will save him time in the long run.

The problem he wasn’t foreseeing is that he doesn’t know how to catch a wild horse, and it turns out a few tips from the guy who runs the stable did not make him an expert. The horses are all skittish—way more skittish than he accounted for. That probably was true for wild horses at the best of times—but it’s probably way worse, now, with the countryside they roam being littered with way more monsters and dangers than it ever used to be.

Or maybe he’s just making excuses, because it takes him over an hour to catch a single horse. They stick together in small groups, presumably for safety, and several times he gets close to one, only for another to spook and send them all running. Most of the time, he doesn’t even get that close, though. Twice he manages to get on a horse, only for the animal to then buck him right back off.

It also doesn’t help that he lets himself get distracted and sidetracked often, catching just about any bug or small creature he spots, now that he knows they’re useful. Several times he’ll forget all about the horses he’s trying to sneak up on, just to grab a lizard or cricket that darts across his path. It’s not long before one of the compartments of his bag ends up loaded with dragonflies and frogs and tons of other potential elixir ingredients.

He’s battered and disheveled from being bucked off of horses’ backs by the time he finally pinpoints one, just far enough from the rest of its small herd to be easy to approach. And she actually seems to be strong, healthy, and built for speed—he’s not sure how he knows, but he must have spent enough time around horses before, that he can tell from watching for a minute or so if a horse would be reliable for travel or battle. This one has a deep, reddish-brown coat and a white mane, and he can tell already that she’s probably one of the most reliable wild horses he’s laid eyes on today.

This one, finally, he manages to vault himself onto the back of and hold on tight, clinging and desperately trying to soothe the horse until she finally calms enough to accept his presence.

It’s somewhere around half past four in the afternoon when he finally rides up to the stable, exhausted and harried but triumphant as he announces his horse’s name as Riot and waits for them to outfit her with a saddle and reins once they’ve registered her.

He’d like a few more minutes to take a breather after the effort that went into the near two hours he spent chasing horses and bugs alike, but he’s wasted enough time. He stays still long enough to feed Riot a couple of apples from his bag in attempt to win her over, and then he’s swinging up into the saddle and urging her north, down the road to Kakariko Village.

Within five minutes of riding, Eijiro can tell he’s made a good choice—or, got lucky with which horse he was able to get alone, more like. Either way, he picks up quickly on the fact that Riot has remarkable endurance, and that she’s faster than most of the horses he’d seen so far, too. If he can get her to warm all the way up to him, the extra time spent falling on his ass trying to catch a horse might turn out to have been a more than worthwhile investment.

The first leg of the ride goes fantastic—better than fantastic. Riot travels so much faster than Eijiro could, of course, and the road to Kakariko is completely clear of monsters. And from Riot’s saddle, Eijiro can’t really give into the temptation to snatch up any mushroom or herb he sees growing along the side of the road. Not as easily, at least.

He closes half the distance left to Kakariko in what feels like no time, flying past the scenery at a gratifying pace with hardly any stops. The sun has dipped below the horizon, though the sky still clings to as much of the daylight as it can, before something finally grinds his progress to a halt.

There’s… well, he doesn’t know what to call it, up ahead. It looks like a round little tree on legs. It looks like a huge, fat Korok. The creature—he’s guessing it must be a Korok, albeit a particularly massive one, bigger than fifteen or twenty normal Koroks all put together—has the same light wooden skin, and a massive leaf around its nose that almost resembles a beard as well as some impressive eyebrows that look like carved wood protruding from its face. He also carries a satchel that, Eijiro realizes as he gets closer, is of the same material and make as the enchanted bag that had once been Izuku’s.

Eijiro remembers what the first Korok had said—that the seeds were for Hestu, who Eijiro wouldn’t be able to miss. You’ll know him when you see him, were the spirit’s exact words. This… was a pretty distinctive Korok. Eijiro pulls the reins to get Riot to stop before the Korok, who stands just to the side of the road, looking… well, he thinks he looks sad, maybe?

It’s hard to read the expressions and body language of the forest spirits, since their faces are just leaves that don’t really shift much from expression to expression, but he does look a little slumped over and unsure, Eijiro thinks, as he slides out of Riot’s saddle to talk to the large spirit. He doesn’t even get a word out before the Korok is straightening up in surprise.

“Shalaka?!” the thing says, incomprehensibly. Eijiro blinks, but before he can form a response, the Korok is continuing in his high-pitched voice, “You! You can see me?!”

“Uh… well, yeah,” Eijiro responds, scratching at the back of his neck. When he opens his mouth to ask if this guy is, in fact, Hestu, the Korok throws his stubby wooden arms up in delight and interrupts Eijiro with a bizarre little song made up of similarly incomprehensible syllables.

“It’s been a hundred years since anyone has been able to see me!” the Korok announces, upon completion of his odd little song. “I’m Hestu, and I need your help!”

Well—that solves that mystery. Eijiro doesn’t even blink at the way the Korok just assumes, immediately, that he’s able and willing to help. Mostly because he is both of those things.

“Those monsters over there stole my beloved maracas!” Hestu says, slumping over sadly with a gesture much farther up the road, apparently not particularly invested in giving Eijiro time to get a word in. There are no monsters in sight where he’d gestured, but Eijiro’s sure he’ll run into them when he gets that far. “I think they’re still there on the other side of those rocks up the hill.”

Eijiro nods firmly, still trying to make out where ‘those rocks’ are, if not where the monsters themselves are, when Hestu says something that instantly catches Eijiro’s interest.

“I can’t use my powers without them. Shoko...” Powers? He’s got powers? Maraca powers? Eijiro wants to see what that looks like. “So please! Please get my maracas back from them.”

“Of course,” Eijiro says, because it’s not like he hasn’t already fought monsters nearly every step of this trip. And with how much time he saved riding Riot instead of walking, he can afford the delay and still make it to Kakariko at a reasonable time. Not that he would have been able to leave this dude hanging without feeling unbearably guilty and turning back to help, anyways.

“Sha-shaka!” Hestu sing-songs, probably as thanks? Eijiro has just resigned himself to never having any idea what’s happening when he’s talking to Koroks.

Swinging himself back up into Riot’s saddle, Eijiro coaxes her forward at a trot. For the most part, the right of the path is open to the air, the ground falling away at a steep incline, but after about five minutes of riding, the path starts to close up ahead.

He knew it would eventually—he remembers, somehow, that Kakariko is nestled in the mountains, the path a fairly level road that had been worn through the steep hills and mountains of the area. Even if he doesn’t ever remember coming to Kakariko before, he’s got enough knowledge of the landscape that he thinks he probably must have. So it’s not a surprise when the road curves into the hills, natural walls forming on either side of the path.

And there—just as the hill forms its steep cliff as a wall on the right side of the path, there’s an opening. It seems open on the other side, so it’s not quite a cave, though it’s got a roof in the form of a boulder that must have lodged itself at the top of the opening at some point. But Eijiro guesses the rocky slopes are what Hestu meant when he said the other side of those rocks.

Climbing off of Riot, Eijiro moves around in front of the mare, running a hand soothingly down her face and receiving a gentle headbutt to the chest in response.

“Stay here a few moments, okay?” he requests, though he knows she’s not likely to understand him. Still, he pulls an apple out of his bag as a bribe and lets her munch on it, hoping it will at least endear him to her enough to keep her here waiting for him, in hopes of getting more apples out of him.

With that, he turns to the natural archway, draws his sword, and gets ready to go to work.

The worst part about this is that it should have been so easy.

It was only three bokoblins—sure, their fur had turned blue with maturity, so they were generally stronger and more intelligent than the red ones he’s encountered more often so far, but he fought a few already just on the way here! Several monster camps he’s fought had five or six bokoblins, even if most of them were still young and red-furred.

He’s already fought enemies stronger than this, this should not have been a problem for him.

And for a second, he really believed it wouldn’t be. He dispatched the first of the three before the group even realized he was on them, and turned to the others without much concern. Sure, it was two on one, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver in this pocket between the hills and the cliffside down, but he’d thought he’d had it.

That’s when it happens—the bokoblin wielding a spear lunges for him. It drives its spear downwards over its head and Eijiro tries to twist out of the way, but he just—he just screws up. His foot gets caught in a dip in the ground, his ankle twisting painfully as he dodges away, and in the moment of indignation and incredulity that he’d made such a rookie slip-up, the other bokoblin strikes.

Eijiro sees the boko bat swinging towards his face a split-second too late, and his ankle buckles when he tries to stagger back. He doesn’t get out of the way fast enough, and the bat comes slamming into his temple at almost full force. For a hot second, Eijiro sees stars, falling onto his ass hard. Dazed, he tries to blink the starbursts of color out of his vision, wincing as the bokoblin that just landed a hit roars at him.

He barely rolls out of the way of the next strike, and for a brief second the quick motion makes him so dizzy he thinks he’ll fall over, but it’s not exactly an option. Fuck, he has to end this now.

Eijiro swings the flat of his blade at the legs of the nearest bokoblin. With a yelp, the thing’s legs are swept out from under it, and it drops. Eijiro doesn’t wait for an invitation as he lunges forward, flipping the blade down to impale the creature.

Its last living companion is already brandishing its spear, so Eijiro doesn’t bother to dislodge the sword. He vaults over the body and throws himself into a clumsily-executed roll on the other side to buy some distance—and, fuck, his head hates that, oh, Gods, he might hurl. He unslings his bow from his back as he comes up from the roll, arrow drawn, nocked, and loosed almost immediately.

His arrow hits right between the last bokoblin’s eyes, and it falls atop the last one with little ceremony.

Eijiro drops more gently—his head is screaming at him, and it’s been jostled enough, so he lets himself flop down onto the grass beside the monsters’ campfire slowly. Lifting a hand to his head, he whines. Not only is a nasty bump already forming, but there’s a gash there as well, and Eijiro has a sick feeling in his gut.

The bokoblins are already starting to disappear, leaving him the only one sprawled out in his misery—whatever they are, this is the main thing that’s always set them apart from the other creatures that roam Hyrule.

They’re not made of anything substantial, apparently, possibly or even probably created entirely from the same Malice that had distorted All for One into the Calamity it is today. And since they aren’t natural beings, having only Malice holding them together, as soon as they’re slain they just—turn into an awful sludgy smoke and dissipate like they were never there. Apart from some stronger and older ones, who have parts that stubbornly cling to existence. Fangs, horns, maybe a heart from time to time, which, ew.

He knows all this, without remembering having learned it, just like he knows how to fight. Or, at least, is supposed to. That was so stupid. It was just three blue bokoblins. How can he not even handle three blue bokoblins?

Frustration swirls around in his chest, and he grits his teeth. He wants to scream. He should be better than this. How can—how can he even hope to help Katsuki and Izuku if he gets his ass kicked this easily? Fuck—they need him, and they’ve been fighting the entire Calamity for a century, and he can’t even—he can’t even hold his own for a few days against weak enemies. Gods, he hopes Katsuki can’t see him right now. With all of his heart, he desperately hopes it.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his hands to them so hard he sees bursts of color behind his eyelids, in attempt to block out the light from the campfire that’s agitating his budding headache.

Gods, he hopes the chest the bokoblins had kept up on a platform at the back of their camp holds the maracas. If they’re not even here, he’s gonna scream.

But quietly. In his head. So he doesn’t make his headache any worse.

Eijiro’s headache is absolutely killing him, and he is, in a word, miserable.

Hestu had been so happy to see his maracas, it honestly made everything worth it. The problem was Hestu had been very vocal about his appreciation. The happy yelling and singing had been bad enough. The maraca-ing, once the two had discovered the seeds Eijiro had been gathering from the Koroks that dotted nearly every inch of Hyrule were actually stolen from inside Hestu’s maracas and would need to be returned, was kind of worse.

Eijiro hadn’t raised a complaint, though. Partially because he wasn’t heartless enough to ruin Hestu’s joyful new mood, and also because he used his maraca powers to make Eijiro’s new bag even bigger. He’s not sure how much more he can stuff in there now, but he thinks he’ll be excited to find out once he’s recovered a little.

For now, he’s tired and miserable as he continues up the road, keeping Riot at a slower pace to keep from bouncing his head around too much. For the first time since leaving the plateau, anxiety gnaws at him more than impatience as he thinks about his destination.

It’s not particularly late—maybe around seven, if he were to guess—and he knows he could make it to Kakariko within the hour. Maybe even within half an hour if he really pushed it, which he doesn’t think he has it in him to do. But the thought fills him with apprehension and—and something almost like shame, he thinks, as he considers it. He swallows, shifting in the saddle uncomfortably.

Inko had said that Aizawa had been an advisor to Katsuki. He’d—he’d been around one hundred years ago, and must have known about the plan for Eijiro to return. He was supposed to have advice for Eijiro, to help him help Katsuki and Izuku, but—

But how can Eijiro ride into a town where they know him, where they’re expecting such important things from him, looking like this? He doesn’t want to limp into town with a shoddily-bandaged gash on his head, looking half-dead on his feet. That’s not—that won’t—he doesn’t want to let them down.

He doesn’t want to hobble into town, wincing every step, and be told—oh, sorry. You’re in no shape to do this. I can’t believe we waited one hundred years for this. Don’t worry, though, we’ll find someone else to handle it.

He needs—he has to help Katsuki. He can’t let someone else keep fighting this battle for him—like Izuku had to, just because he was another chosen of Farore. And he definitely doesn’t want to ride into town and disappoint people who expected him to be the hero they’d waited so long for.

Just the thought of going into the village like this nearly paralyzes him. He just—he just needs a good night’s sleep, maybe; some time for the wounds to heal a little, or at least be somewhat less fresh when he gets there. He knows part of his dragon ancestry left him with the ability to heal faster than most people, at least he might be able to hide the pain in his ankle after a rest, and the swelling on his head might have gone down.

Yeah—yeah, that sounds like a better idea. The part of him that’s been so frustrated with his slow progress at least quiets down, just a little, for once. It’s just… it’s just one night, and if the result is that no one has to know how much weaker he is than he should be, it’s worth it.

He doesn’t know where else might be safe to stop, secluded from the road and tucked away, so Eijiro climbs off of Riot where the monster camp he’d cleared out for Hestu was, coaxing her through the archway to where the camp rests. The campfire the monsters had set is down to embers at this point, but that’ll be easy enough to fix.

Eijiro goes about setting up camp, rekindling the fire, and roasting some low-effort dinner with as much laziness as he can manage. If he can cut a corner, he does. All he cares about is not making his ankle or head worse, getting a full stomach in hopes that’ll give him some extra energy for healing, and knocking the fuck out.

The process is maybe twenty minutes at most, and the soft grass beside the fire is so much more comfortable than the cold stone he’d slept on last night. If not for the headache still pulsing mutedly behind his temple, he might consider this downright blissful.

He feels like there’s something he’s supposed to keep in mind, something important, but he’s too exhausted and frustrated to bother. Drifting off quickly, he figures he’ll remember in the morning if it matters. And then he’s out.

…—up already, asshole! Come on. Gods, you lazy—wake up, fucker!

Eijiro groans, turning his head as if to burrow it into the soft grass it’s pillowed on, like that can muffle Katsuki’s voice harassing him. Exhaustion blankets over him heavily, and the only thing even vaguely resembling a thought in his head is the desire to go back to sleep. His body feels like it’s made of lead and his eyes might as well be welded shut—it’d be so easy to drift off again, if not for the voice still pressing insistently at the edges of his mind.

Ei, come on, we don’t have time for this. Get ready.

An exhausted, pathetic huff escapes Eijiro in his irritation, his whole body tensing like if he curls in on himself enough he can block out any semblance of consciousness and go back to sleep, before falling slack in resignation, his eyes blearily cracking open.

And—oh, fuck.

He’s surrounded by red. Fuck, when he blinks his eyes a little farther open, the whole sky glows with it.

All for One’s getting stronger, asshole—he gets too fucking powerful during the blood moon. Which is right fucking now, by the way, which you’d notice if you would get the hell up.

The fucking blood moon! Shit, Hirooki had even warned him, and he still—he still went to sleep in a monster camp. In a split-second, panic pumps enough adrenaline into his veins that moving suddenly doesn’t seem like such a monumental effort as he scrambles to his feet.

Finally, fuck. For the first time, he notices how panicked Katsuki had sounded, only in its absence as relief colors his tone instead. You’ve only got about a minute. All for One uses the peak of the blood moon to bring its fucking cannon fodder back—be careful, dumbass, your ass is about to be surrounded.

Any lingering anger at having been woken up so rudely—and with so many insults, which, rude—evaporates instantly as it sinks in that Katsuki probably just saved his life. He draws his sturdiest sword and experimentally puts some weight on his bad ankle, which, ow, fuck, still hurts, but it’s better off than it was earlier and he thinks he’ll be able to move on it if he’s careful.

“Thanks,” he says, hoping Katsuki can hear him, as he readies his stance. Before his eyes, cinders of murky black Malice start rising off of the ground, drifting through the air all around. He doesn’t even think he’s ever seen the substance except when monsters first fade into clouds of it and dissipate—but now it hangs heavy all throughout the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Gaze analytical, he watches some of the Malice in the air swirl together in three different places around the campfire, merging into murky clouds that start to take on the shape of the bokoblins he’d handled earlier.

His sword is swinging for the nearest bokoblin almost before it begins forming, and he settles in for a fight.

It’s over fast. Maybe he accounted better for his ankle this time, or maybe he’s finally used to not fighting at full strength, or maybe it’s as simple as this time he was lucky and last time he wasn’t—whatever the case, it’s only a couple minutes before he’s standing triumphant again, this time without any more injuries to show for it.

Heaving slightly, he sheathes his sword and edges away from the monsters that had very nearly ambushed him in his sleep. As far as he knows, the whole monsters rising from the dead thing only happens once, at midnight, and won’t be happening again until the next blood moon—that said, he honestly does not want to take his chances. Even if the heavy presence of Malice clouding the air has finally dissipated.

He doesn’t think he can comfortably sleep next to this fire anymore anyways, without paranoia keeping him awake for hours.

“Hey...” he speaks into the night, still breathless from exertion as his eyes flick vaguely skyward, sort of in the direction of Hyrule Castle, though the hills block his view. “I don’t… uh, I don’t know if you heard me before, but I mean it. Thank you. I—you probably saved my life.”

He waits, eyes searching the righted sky, like the returned navy and the light of the stars can somehow provide him with a view of Katsuki. When no response comes, Eijiro feels his expression grow pinched, and he sighs as he drops his gaze to the grass.

He’s… tired. Frustrated. He’s only gotten four hours of sleep, his ankle still aches, his head still pulses and sends waves of nausea through him if he moves it too quickly, and he just wants to hear Katsuki’s voice again. It’s all he has of him at this point—he can’t even remember a face to put to it. To say he’s in a miserable mood would be an understatement.

Riot still hasn’t settled down where he’d had her tethered near the archway, a distressed whinny snapping him out of his disheartened ruminating, and he approaches her carefully, still unsteady on the injured ankle. The mare rears back on her hind legs, braying—being startled awake by reforming monsters and a sudden fight had clearly been just as upsetting for her, and Eijiro can hardly fault her.

“Hey, hey, sh-sh-sh-sh, it’s okay, girl,” he soothes, hands raised placatingly as he stays out of reach of her hooves. The last thing he needs after surviving those monsters twice is for his own horse to brain him less than an hour from Kakariko Village. Continuing to make soothing noises, he inches closer, digging around in his bag for one of his last apples. “Sorry, Riot, it’s okay now, hey, hey, calm down.”

Even once he’s brandished the apple, waving it before her temptingly, it’s a few moments before he can get her settled enough that it’s safe to get closer. His free hand strokes comfortingly down the line of her nose and over her neck as he feeds her the apple, and it’s another minute of murmured words and gentle strokes before she’s genuinely more calm.

He gets another headbutt to the chest, but this time it feels more scolding than affectionate, which he figures is fair.

With a sigh, Eijiro unties her lead from the tree just on the inside of the natural rock arch, and coaxes her through the opening back to the road. He feels even worse about going to Kakariko now, grumpy in the middle of the night, with his ankle and head still hurt, but even if he won’t go all the way to the Sheikah village he at least wants to get a decent distance away from here. He’s not going to be able to get any more much-needed rest, otherwise.

Pulling himself up and into the saddle, to get weight off his leg, Eijiro urges Riot forward at a slow pace. He only rides two or three minutes, just enough to be out of sight of the archway, and then he finds a curve in the winding, steep walls of the mountain pass to settle himself and Riot into.

It’s not nearly as sheltered, but he’s exhausted, and it’ll do. Curled up as comfortably as he can get, Eijiro pillows his head on the warm doublet Inko had given him and lets himself drift off into a restless sleep for the rest of the night.

The morning’s still fresh by the time Eijiro wakes up, groggy and still wishing for a few more hours of sleep. All told, though, he’d already gotten at least nine hours, even if the break in the middle did him no favors, and he doesn’t want to risk sleeping out in the open for any longer.

His ankle is still stiff, but no longer painful as long as he’s careful about putting his weight on it, and when he gingerly touches at his temple he discovers the bump has gone down significantly, even if the gash there hasn’t quite healed. It’s fine. It’s better than arriving in the haggard state from last night, at least.

He sets off quickly, only stopping once along the way when he comes across a small waterfall feeding into a little pool beside the road. He wades in and washes up somewhat, cleaning up his appearance as best he can in the cold mountain water, pulling his hair back into a ponytail, and then carrying on once Riot’s drunk her fill.

The roads of the pass open into the sheltered valley that houses Kakariko abruptly. If not for the wooden gates that the Sheikah had constructed further along the road, there would have been no warning that the steep, closed walls of the road were about to split off.

Eijiro pulls on Riot’s reins, coaxing her to a stop at the entrance to the village, on the railed pathway that overlooks the entirety of the settlement. Kakariko is a sleepy little village, safely ringed in by the walls of the mountains on all sides, and something about the cluster of houses with their curved thatch roofs brings him no small measure of comfort. The last of his bad mood seeps away, his eyes drinking in this proof that some things have survived the Calamity with eagerness.

There’s an elderly woman resting beside a tree a little ways along the road, who greets Eijiro warmly, pulling herself to her feet with some effort. She apologizes for letting him see her in her current state, explaining that she’s twisted her ankle—”It happens to the best of us,” Eijiro’s quick to tell her, the irony not lost on him—and then he’s sliding off of Riot to offer to let the woman ride his horse back to her house, to keep the weight off her ankle. She’s mid-sentence thanking him when her eyes land on the Sheikah Slate on his hip, and her eyes widen.

When she asks where he got it, Eijiro barely even starts to explain before she’s grabbing Riot’s reins, nodding in apparent understanding and insisting he get to Aizawa’s home immediately. She promises to board his horse for him at the inn, so long as he hurries to the large house below Lantern Falls, across the village, because the Sheikah have been waiting for him for a long time.

As she pulls herself into the saddle, she implores him one more time to hurry to Aizawa, before surprising him with a heartfelt declaration that she’s honored to meet him, though she thinks he’s probably used to hearing that. He’s not, and he doesn’t know what to say—but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before she urges Riot on down the road, apparently intent on not keeping him any longer.

It’s still fairly early, maybe not much after eight, but the village already maintains a constant, if slow and sparse, press of activity—a couple of kids are strewn along the main road, as well as a girl around his age who’s just settling in to stand outside what looks like a shop, and Eijiro passes by a farmer hard at work in a pumpkin patch.

Everyone he passes eyes him as he makes his way down the road, most with curiosity and some with suspicion, but every once in a while someone’s eyes will drop to the slate at his hip and their eyes will widen, expression shifting quickly to awe. Flustered, Eijiro averts his gaze and quickens his pace.

Aizawa’s home is pretty hard to miss, built high on stilts over an island that sits at the foot of several waterfalls, in the protective curve of one of the steep valley walls. There’s one important-looking set of stairs that leads up to the raised balcony that wraps around the house, with a gate that arches over the foot of the stairway.

The two men standing guard just beside the gate instantly drop into defensive stances when they realize he means to make for the gate, and Eijiro lifts his hands placatingly, letting out a startled, “Um,” but the motion draws their eyes to where his hands had been resting. More specifically, to the Sheikah Slate.

Both men gasp, and then apologies are tumbling from their lips as they straighten their stances, moving aside to usher him through. Eijiro can’t even get more than a few words out to try and reassure them of no harm, no foul, without them insisting he go on ahead and assuring him that they’ve heard all about him from Aizawa.

It’s kind of overwhelming. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for people to all recognize him on sight and treat him so—so—important. Being told they’re honored to meet him and have heard legends about him—it’s a lot.

It makes him feel exposed as he makes his way up the stairs, each step feeling too loud—like anyone in the village could look over and see him at any moment, and maybe come to the conclusion that he’s some sort of huge deal.

He keeps his eyes on his feet as he climbs, just in case, because he’s not sure how he’s gonna handle it if he makes eye contact with one more awestruck Sheikah, until he’s finally near the top of the staircase. His eyes lift, and Eijiro blinks at the sight that greets him—there’s a little girl, maybe six or so, sitting on her knees, several pieces of colored chalk scattered in front of her. She’s got long white hair characteristic of the Sheikah, and a very concentrated look on her little face as she draws on a pillar just left of the patterned double doors to the building with a piece of yellow chalk.

The second to last step creaks under Eijiro’s foot, and the girl gasps and startles, whipping to look at him with wide, red eyes. She drops the piece of chalk in the process, and Eijiro leans quickly to catch it when it rolls towards him, so that it doesn’t fall off the edge of the deck.

“Sorry, sorry!” he says, gently, giving her his widest, friendliest smile. She still looks alarmed as she stares at him, so he doesn’t move too close when he climbs the final two steps, crouching just on the edge of arm’s reach to hold out the piece of chalk. “I didn’t mean to scare you! Wasn’t trying to be sneaky.”

Her eyes, still wide, flick from the piece of chalk to his face a few times, and her hands clasp tightly at the hem of her tunic instead of moving to take it back from him. Now he feels really guilty, and his smile turns apologetic as he carefully sets the piece of chalk down halfway between them. Still hoping to put her at ease, he turns his head instead to examine her handiwork.

It’s crude in the usual way little kids’ drawings are, but it’s colorful and cute, and there are five figures all scrawled along the deep brown pillar. Four of them are all holding hands—one he imagines is the little girl herself, since the white-haired figure is so small compared to the others, which include a taller white-haired figure and two more yellow-haired, adult-sized figures, all of them in the approximate colors of Sheikah clothing. The fifth figure is above, with long blue hair and big blue wings.

He lets out a low whistle, curious what the scene represents.

“That’s really cool,” he tells her earnestly, jerking a thumb towards the drawing as he continues to squat just before her, expression open and, hopefully, reassuring. “Do you live here?”

She still doesn’t answer him, biting her lip, but after a moment she gives a small nod and leans forward cautiously to grab the piece of chalk. The motion causes some of her hair to fall into her face, and as it falls forward he notices something peeking through the white locks—a tiny, pale horn.

“Hey, nice horn! Wanna see something cool?” he asks her, beaming, before he hardens scales around the top of his head, red dragonscales curling around his temples and along his hairline as two small, draconic horns peak out of his hairline in similar places to hers. “I can have ‘em, too! Horn buddies! I’m Kirishima Eijiro, it’s nice to meet you.”

Something about the phrase, horn buddies, it sends a pang of—of something through him, something soft and nostalgic, but before he can examine the feeling, the little girl’s eyes are widening once more, her eyes flicking from his horns, to his hair, to the slate on his hip before her mouth falls open into a tiny little o.

Great. Even the little kids know who he is here. That’s gonna take some getting used to.

She keeps staring at him, clutching her piece of chalk tightly in her hand, and Eijiro sighs when he realizes he’s probably not gonna coax any words out of her. With one more smile sent her way, he rocks back on his heels before standing, giving her a little wave. “Well, I’m gonna go inside now, okay?”

She nods again, which he’ll take as the biggest victory he’s gonna get, and then Eijiro turns to the double doors, taking a deep breath before placing his hands on them and pushing them both open at once.

Inside is a large, open hall, with several cushions lined up in rows for many people to sit at, and across the room rests a very haggard-looking man. At first, Eijiro thinks he’s asleep, but when he takes a couple steps into the hall, the man—Aizawa, probably—speaks without even opening his eyes.

“So, you’re finally awake.”

Slowly cracking an eye open, the Sheikah shifts forward in his seat with all the zeal of a man still mostly asleep.

“It’s been a long time, Kirishima Eijiro.”

[skye-maxwell]

Worth-most

Persona 4 | Souyo | Young adult, established relationship | Rated T

Happy birthday, @romeo-and-antoinette! 🎈🎀🎉 Hope you like it, friend! 

For prompt #103 “You’re worth every second of my time” from this nifty prompt list. This does start off a bit angsty, but IS ROMANCE, PROMISE!

---

There was nothing like a long day at work to make Yosuke feel completely worthless. His boss, his coworkers, his clients—everyone had gotten on his nerves today, and every single one of them took him for granted. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person in the office, or the most willing to kiss ass, but he was a good, loyal, consistent worker, which was more than could be said for just about everyone else there. 

He was drained physically and emotionally, plus he was starving. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he wondered if he would make it up to the fourth floor, or if he would just collapse before he got there. Or better yet, his stomach would growl so hard that he would crack the foundation of the building, and the whole structure would crumble down on top of him. 

That would be a fitting end to today, Yosuke thought morosely, halfway aware that his thoughts only got this dramatic when he was really spent. 

Even if literally everything had sucked all day, he at least had one thing to look forward to—Souji had promised him a homemade dinner tonight. Even though they lived together and saw each other every day, it had been a while since they’d eaten dinner together, let alone one of Souji’s famous made-from-scratch meals. Yosuke felt like it was a waste—a waste of Souji’s talents in the kitchen and (selfishly) a waste of Yosuke basically having his own personal chef in his home. 

But tonight, Souji had promised to cook for him. Yosuke’s mouth started to water just imagining some inevitably delicious scent hitting him in the face once he opened their front door, and the thought just barely gave him the strength to climb the final flight of stairs. 

However, when he unlocked the door and threw it open, there was no delicious scent there to greet him. 

Yosuke wondered if Souji was cooking something that didn’t have a particularly strong aroma, but if there was one thing Souji wasn’t shy about, it was his use of seasonings. Maybe he had finished cooking early and put everything away to heat back up when Yosuke got home? Or maybe he made something cold? It was a pretty crisp evening outside though, so Yosuke was sure Souji would want to prepare something warm… 

Yosuke dropped his bag and went to the kitchen to investigate. Souji wasn’t there, the lights were off, and it almost looked like nothing in the room had even been touched since Yosuke had left that morning, which was strange since Souji worked from home and should have made himself lunch at some point. 

Staving off his disappointment, Yosuke checked the fridge, but nothing had changed in there either. He even checked the stove, the oven, and even the microwave for residual heat, but once again he came up with nothing. 

Yosuke hadn’t heard from Souji all day, but that was par for the course lately. They didn’t mean to call and text each other less during the workday than they used to, but again, busy. 

Then Yosuke started to get a sneaking suspicion, so he made his way down the hall to the spare room they had made into Souji’s office. 

The door was cracked open, and Yosuke pressed his ear near the gap, only to hear Souji quietly muttering to himself the way he only ever did when he was both very stressed and very focused. Yosuke felt a rush of both relief and annoyance—Souji was alive at least, but there he was just sitting at his desk and not keeping his dinner promise that had been his idea and he had made such a big deal about, saying he wanted to spend time with Yosuke and do something special for him. 

Choosing to tread lightly just in case, Yosuke peeked his head in the door and said, “Souji? You got a sec?” 

Souji’s head shot up from where it was buried in a stack of papers, his eyes going unfocused behind his reading glasses as he looked at Yosuke. 

“Oh. You’re home,” Souji said flatly, and for some reason, that made Yosuke’s blood boil. 

Souji then looked from Yosuke to the clock that was hung high up on the wall, lowering his glasses so he could actually read the time. 

“Guess you don’t have a sec, then,” Yosuke said bitterly, looking away from Souji. “I’m not very hungry. I’m gonna go straight to bed.” 

He was still hungry (even if this exchange had somewhat soured his appetite), but throwing that in would be a reminder to Souji of his broken promise while also letting him know that he didn’t need to bother tending to Yosuke for the rest of the night if he really didn’t want to. 

As soon as Yosuke reached their bedroom, he fell face-first into bed, not caring about changing out of his work clothes or washing up or making himself anything to eat. He just lay there, stubbornly putting up with how difficult it was to breathe with his face pressed into the mattress because he was just so done. 

“This is so stupid,” he groaned into the bedding. “After all this time, I’m still just a disappointment, first at work, and now at home too? I really am worthless, huh?” 

“No,” Souji’s voice said softly from the doorway. 

Yosuke groaned again. 

Souji had heard him say that? Of course he had. 

Yosuke felt the mattress dip as Souji sat beside him, and Yosuke turned his face away, really not wanting to talk right now. 

Souji asked, “What makes you say that?” 

“Say what? The worthless thing? Don’t worry about it. Aren’t you busy? You should go back to your work.”

Yosuke was being petty, and he knew it. He was pushing away the only person who could comfort him, and he knew that too. Still, it felt like he couldn’t help it. At least he had enough self-control to not let out all the negativity at once—he wasn’t yelling or throwing anything or spontaneously combusting. That had to count for something.

“You’re more important than my work,” Souji said, and Yosuke almost scoffed at what appeared to be just a platitude at this point. 

Souji gently placed a hand on the middle of Yosuke’s back, and Yosuke froze. As much as he wanted to squirm away in a show of not accepting comfort from his Partner who he was mad at, that would be way too much effort in his current position. 

Souji continued, “And that’s why I feel terrible about letting time get away from me. I was so focused on my work, I had no idea how much time had passed. That’s no reason to break a promise, though.”

“So you remember, huh?” Yosuke said, immediately hating how he must have sounded like a whiny baby who was crying about missing his afternoon snack or something. “It’s whatever, man. Look, I’m in a bad mood, so just go back to what you were doing. Don’t waste your time on me; I know it’s valuable.” 

Souji’s hand lightly grasped the back of Yosuke’s sweater, probably involuntarily, and his voice broke as he said: “You’re worth every second of my time.” 

Shit, Yosuke thought, feeling like a huge asshole. In his bitter state, he had wanted to upset Souji to get back at him, but as soon as he could actually hear that Souji was upset, he wanted to take it all back. 

Yosuke slowly turned to look up at Souji, who looked guilty, and scared, and devastated, and whatever darkness spell was cast over Yosuke’s heart started to dissipate.

“I’m so sorry, Yosuke,” Souji said, his pretty silver eyes pleading for a forgiveness that only Yosuke could grant; he was never good at forgiving himself. 

As Yosuke peered up at him—his beautiful and imperfect Partner, the only person who truly thought Yosuke was worth everything and made that clear as often as he could (except this particular instance where he just happened to make a mistake on the wrong day at the wrong time)… 

Yosuke sat up and crawled into Souji’s lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

Souji quickly hugged Yosuke back as if his life depended on it, and then he placed a kiss on Yosuke’s cheek before breathing a warm sigh into Yosuke’s hair—and just like that, it felt like Yosuke’s world had fallen back into alignment. 

“I love you, Partner.” 

“I love you too.” 

They sat like that for a while, not saying anything, until the silence was finally broken by both of their stomachs growling. 

Souji said sadly, “You’re starving, aren’t you...”  

In the exact same tone, Yosuke asked, “You skipped lunch, didn’t you…” 

They both answered, “Yeah.” 

Still holding onto Yosuke with one arm, Souji reached into his pocket for his phone. 

“I’ll order our usual for tonight, and I swear I will make you dinner tomorrow night. I’ll set a hundred reminders on my phone, and I’ll prep some of the ingredients in the morning before I even start working, and—”

“Okay, I believe you. Extra dumplings, please,” Yosuke requested as he watched Souji text their order to the owner of the local takeout place with whom they were way too familiar with at this point. 

After Souji hit send, he tossed the phone on the bed, and his arm resumed its place around Yosuke. He looked reverently up into Yosuke’s eyes, as if he was gazing up at the stars. “I swear this time, Yosuke. I swear… on your life.” 

“On my life?! Aren’t you supposed to swear on like, your mother’s life or something?” 

“Your life is the most important to me,” Souji stated, and Yosuke knew that it wasn’t just a platitude. 

“Partner, if that’s your weird-ass way of trying to convince me I’m not worthless—”

“You’re the opposite of worthless. You’re… worth-more. You’re worth-most!” Souji said, eyes bright with his own assertion. 

“That’s not a word.”

“It wasn’t until now because no one has ever been worth-most until you.” 

“You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“Probably, but not because I think you’re worth-most. That just can’t be helped.” 

“Okay, you love me, I get it,” Yosuke said tiredly, slumping against Souji. 

“Nope, I don’t think you do,” Souji said, planting a quick kiss into the side of Yosuke’s neck. “It’ll take about fifteen, twenty minutes for the food to come, so in the meantime, I’ll just have to remind you of how much you mean to me.” 

Yosuke pulled back to shoot Souji an incredulous look. 

“Are you seriously trying to fit in a quickie before the food comes?” 

Caught off guard, Souji looked up at him with wide eyes, his mouth parting a bit as he struggled to come up with a response.

“That’s not what I… I was thinking more like, I could massage some of this tension out of your back while I listen to you talk about what happened at work today…”

 “Oh.”

“…but if you want…” 

“No! Forget it.”

Souji chuckled as Yosuke climbed out of his lap and promptly turned his back to him for that back rub. 

After a thorough massage, a therapeutic venting session, a few more apologies, more than a few kisses, and a hastily scarfed-down dinner, the two of them cuddled up on the couch, as per Yosuke’s request.

“Thanks, Partner,” Yosuke sighed, feeling better than he had in days, maybe weeks. “Sorry again.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need to get back to work though?” 

“I’m all yours, for the rest of the night,” Souji promised, and Yosuke nodded appreciatively. “So did you want that quickie now or later?” 

Souji was obviously joking, but Yosuke angled his body toward him and started pressing kisses along his jaw, feeling the heat from Souji’s blush as it started to form on his cheeks. 

In all seriousness, Yosuke asked softly against Souji’s skin, “It doesn’t have to be quick, does it?” 

Already losing himself under Yosuke’s touch, Souji murmured, “Ngh… n-not at all.”

[otherworldly-healer]

helpingthelongrain said:🥣

PLEASE do not perceive me

It had been a long time since she was genuinely struck with food poisoning. A perfect storm as it were, after coming down with a cold while at her study session with the children this week. She had spent the last few hours in the bathroom with her face hovering over the toilet. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, and gargling with mouthwash at least three times she finally felt as if she had nothing left to rid her body of. She was pale, and she ached all over. She was about to go slither herself back into bed when a knock was heard at the door.

“Please…please don’t let it be the rat again…”

Raine opens the door a crack to find that the culprit was even worse—almost the very last person she would want seeing her in this state. Rinnosuke. He is all smiles, carrying a bag of groceries in one arm. Meanwhile, Raine showed nothing but her shoulder, hand, and half of her face from behind the door, warily peering out from behind the barrier.

“Ah. There you are. I hope I haven’t woken you. You weren’t answering your phone…and I thought you might be in need of some food. You did say you weren’t feeling well.”

“That is very kind of you…really I do appreciate the thought…but I wouldn’t want you to catch what I have so there’s really no need…!” Raine attempts to close the gap in the door, but Rinnosuke pushes it back open, causing the half-elf’s socks to slide against the floor and push her backwards in one fluid motion. She didn’t have the energy to fight back against the force, so she instead just had to accept that his stubbornness would not make this an easy battle.

“Hmm…? Nonsense. I don’t get sick very often. It’s part of being a half-youkai, so don’t worry on my account. Anyway… you’re in no state to be cooking for yourself. I insist.” No doubt if she had been cooking for herself, it would only make her condition worse. He’d shudder at some of the concoctions she’d dreamed up while fully alert, nevermind one that she would devise while under a fog of illness.

Raine tried to protest once again, but each time her concerns were rebuffed. A wave of dread washed over her as she looked down at her pajamas, remembering a few moments before when she looked in the mirror. He really had a habit of seeing her at the worst possible times, before she’d put herself together, when she was disheveled, and even when she was upset. Somehow, none of those times he shied away from her or appeared at all put off. As usual, she had to figure that there must have been some kind of catch. As he walked through the entrance and slid off his shoes, he approached her and put his hand on her forehead.

“Tsk…you’re burning up. You need to go lie down. I’ll take care of the rest.” Raine grumbles something incomprehensible, and he nudges her forward, waiting at the corner with the three rooms for her to enter her own. Raine turns to him.

“You don’t have to chaperone me there, you know.” She just didn’t want him to see the state of her room, so she would first attempt sass to get him to back off. Always the one not to take a clue, he shakes his head.

“If I don’t I doubt that you would actually lie down. You push yourself too much. I don’t expect that would change when you’re sick.” She hated to admit it, but he was right on the money. She didn’t really have an argument, so she would walk to her own room, resigned. She did try to close the door behind her without letting him see the mess and clutter of artifacts piled into boxes scattered around the floor, a hamper of overflowing laundry and a messy bed, but she knew it was a wasted effort. If he heard her moving things around in there he would order her to rest, and he would eventually open the door to see it anyway. So much for pretending like she could take care of herself.

She can hear him rustle around in the kitchen and turning on the tap, likely having put the ingredients for the broth into a pot on the stove. When he returns to her room, he brings a glass of water and a soaked hand towel with some ice. He really did like to fuss. After confirming that she had taken some medicine to break the fever, Raine attempted to get up to go get a box of tissues from the bathroom, but he gently pushes her shoulder back down and brought the covers back around her. Then he got up to do the task himself, returning shortly thereafter and placing the box nearby on the nightstand.

“You didn’t need to travel all the way out here just to take care of me. I’ll be just fine in a few days.”

“Raine. I’m doing this because I want to. You don’t have to do everything yourself you know. I’m happy to help. So…do you think this is just a flu?” Raine is quieted by his response. Normally she couldn’t rely on anyone else to take care of her, and it would probably cause trouble to keep being so stubborn here and now. She sighs, sinking down into her pillow. She is happy about it deep down, it was just difficult to accept help, be it her pride or reluctance to be seen as vulnerable or weak.

“That…and likely a small case of food poisoning.”

“Both…?! I really should have gotten here sooner…” To save her from herself, he thought.

“Hey! I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t cause it. Someone else tried to…” Raine suddenly felt a wave of nausea and had to pause her thought. “…I got another supposed scare package—er. Care package—and.” Nope. If she kept trying to talk she was just going to make herself sick again. Rinnosuke rubbed her arm and started to rise from his seat, and as he turned to walk towards the door the woman’s voice would pipe up once again. “Thank you…for being here. Really…”

He turns around and smiles, telling her to get some rest while he prepared her some food. She takes a drink from the glass, shrinking down under the covers and started feeling guilty about how resistant she was to being cared for. If Genis had done the same to her, she would have started to get irritated. Of course you’d want to see someone you care for healthy. Of course you would want to help ease their burdens. That was the kind of person that Rinnosuke was…he treasured the few close ties that he had, and he would go to lengths to show that.

…If he keeps this up, perhaps she really might just fall in love with him.

He would sneak in every twenty minutes or so to make sure that she had enough water, and eventually he brings the bowl of soup in for her, setting it aside so it will cool. With some effort she brings herself to sit up, and he adjusts the pillows behind her. He checks her temperature again, and with the help of the ice her fever seems to have lessened a bit. While she knows she can’t stomach very much she feels like she could at least give it a try. So as the bowl was pushed closer to her on the table, he would take a seat back on the bed once again. Raine begins stirring the contents of the soup, they talk about the lessons she was giving where she likely contracted the illness. She was just used to this kind of thing. Kids were lovable little germ factories, after all. She offhandedly asks if he has plans for later since he’s here in the city anyway, but the man cranes his head to the side and looks at her inquisitively. Raine scoops some of her meal to eat as he answers.

“I thought I would stay for the day, actually. I can help you with tidying up and keep checking in. Plus, keep you company, of course.”

Raine chews her food slowly as she absorbs his words, and perhaps it is because her body was already under a lot of stress, but her eyes start to water as she gulps down the spoonful. While she tries to quickly hide it, she’s a bit too weak to start posturing, especially as there is no direction for her turn to not be seen like this. With great concern bordering on panic, Rinnosuke leans forward and asks her what’s wrong, wiping away a stray tear from her chin. Raine shakes her head in response and she smiles.

“Sorry. It’s nothing. I don’t know how to describe it exactly…Hearing you say that just…felt like home.”

[ibelieveinharrystyles]

Chapter Ten: Make A Wish

Forever? Masterlist

5th July 2017 Ashley woke up to the sound of Daisy babbling away happily in her cot, the sooner she could get a two bedroom flat the better. She climbed out of bed, greeting Daisy with a massive smile, “Hello birthday girl how are you?” She asked, lifting her out of the cot, getting a babble of random sounds back, she had recently learnt to say ‘mama’, something she  had been overusing extensively. “Shall we have a special birthday breakfast? How about some pancakes?” Ashley asked Daisy as she took her through to the kitchen, resulting in an excited clap from Daisy as she put her in the safety of her highchair. She turned on the radio, hearing the familiar sound of Roman’s voice, understanding that Ashley was a single parent he offered to host the show on his own for the day to allow Ashley and Daisy to spend some quality time together. “Shall we listen to some of Uncle Harry’s music?” She asked Daisy as she weighed out the necessary ingredients for pancakes.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Daisy cried from her high chair, before Ashley began playing some classic One Direction out of the speakers in the kitchen.

London was in the middle of one of those heatwaves, the ones where one week it would be chucking it down with rain, and the next it's uncomfortably hot, For this reason Ashley thought it best to travel by bus, rather than subjecting herself and Daisy to the heat of the London Underground. Daisy seemed content though, she was sat on the seat beside Ashley, looking out of the window as they went past all the big monuments and crowds of people, Ashley spotted a heavily pregnant lady sat across from them, reminding her how unbearable she had found being pregnant with Daisy during the sweltering heat of summer, “How far gone are you? If you don’t mind me asking?” She asked the lady.

“Thirty seven weeks, if he doesn’t grow up to be a footballer these kicks will be wasted.” she told Ashley.

“Oh wow, I thought it was difficult carrying this one through summer, but she was born six weeks early.” Ashley replied.

“Oh goodness, how old is she?” She asked.

“It’s her first birthday today, we’re on our way to her uncle’s house for a birthday picnic.” Ashley explained.

“Oh you’re off the radio aren’t you? I listen to the breakfast show every morning, I think it’s wonderful.” She told Ashley.

“Thank you, I’m glad you enjoy it, as you can probably imagine, getting to work in the mornings after getting this little lady ready can be a struggle, but we make it work.” 

When Ashley first mentioned to Harry that she wanted to organise some sort of birthday celebration for Daisy he jumped at the chance to host it, even though the guests only consisted of Anne, Gemma and Linda, he still wanted to pull out all the stops, Ashley’s knock on the door was answered almost instantly by Harry, a massive smile upon his face, like he had just won the lottery, “Hello birthday girl!” He cried, stretching his arms up in the air, which in turn made Daisy smile from ear to ear, Ashley passed Daisy to him, knowing how much she idolised her uncle, he led them both into the kitchen that had been decorated with an impressive jungle theme, green balloons in a vast variety of colours and sizes littered the high ceiling. Whilst on the island in the middle of the kitchen a two tier vanilla and chocolate birthday cake was sat, decorated with figures of jungle animals, also on the island were bowls of crisps and plates of Daisy’s favourite snacks.

“You didn’t have to do all of this H, she would’ve been fine with a cake from tesco and a bag of chocolate buttons.” Ashley sighed as Harry showed Daisy all the toy jungle animals.

“I wanted to, it looks like I’ll be on tour for her birthday next year, and my favourite little lady deserves spoiling.” Harry insisted.

Gemma, Anne and Linda had all arrived shortly after Ashley and Daisy and now the celebrations were in full swing, everyone was sat around the island snacking on the crisps and biscuits Harry had laid out. “Presents! Let’s do presents!” Harry declared, before disappearing and returning with several parcels wrapped in obnoxiously pink wrapping paper. 

“Anyone would think Uncle Harry wanted to be your favourite,” Gemma said to Daisy who was currently sitting on her lap.

“I already am her favourite,” Harry informed Gemma, before miming tossing his hair, he placed the parcels on the table for Daisy, and with the help of her Auntie Gemma she unwrapped them one by one, Harry being Harry had gone all out, the presents ranged from a giraffe teddy to a pair of mini old skool vans, which Harry insisted were a necessity. Gemma treated her to a set of insanely soft pyjamas and a toy elephant, whilst Anne bought her a set of story books and Linda gave her a new dressing gown that looked like a giraffe.

“Thank you so much, all of you, these are such lovely presents, you’re a lucky lady aren’t you Daisy? What do you say to everyone?” Ashley said to Daisy.

“Ta!” she exclaimed, resulting in a mixture of sighs and claps from everyone sitting around the table.

“I’ve got you one more present,” Harry handed Ashley a green envelope, Ashley opened it hesitantly, inside was a picture from London Zoo, “Before I leave for tour, I’ve booked us a tour of London Zoo after they close, so that Daisy can see all the animals properly, and we won’t have to worry about the hassle from photographers and all that.”

“You’re a proper softie Styles,” Ashley said, moving round the island and wrapping her arms around him, “Thank you for all of this.”

After indulging in slices of Daisy’s birthday cake everyone agreed a walk across Hampstead Heath was necessary, Harry carried Daisy on his shoulders, who seemed to be having way too much fun playing with her uncle’s hair. Anne and Linda strolled behind, chatting about their children, and the adults they had become, whilst Gemma and Ashley walked side by side, “He loves her doesn’t he?” Ashley whispered softly.

“He’d do anything for her, they have the purest little friendship.” Gemma told her.

“I don’t know what I’d be doing if it weren’t for Harry, Daisy and I would’ve spent today watching all the Madagascar movies whilst eating our way through a chocolate cake, but he’s made this day so memorable for her.” Ashley replied as they all found a seat underneath a big tree to provide them with shade.

“You alright up there munchkin?” Ashley asked Daisy, gently stroking her cheek.

“I should probably get Daisy home soon, it's nearly her bedtime.” Ashley sighed,  the sun was beginning to set over the heath, a golden glow dancing on all their bodies, the heath was pretty empty except for a few families and couples who were either enjoying the infrequent summer weather or taking their dogs for a well needed walk. Ashley hadn’t really clocked it at first, but there was a distinctive figure hovering by a tree across from them, being friends with Harry for as long as she had, she learnt to shrug off people loitering near them, assuming they were either a fan or a photographer. But when she caught a glimpse of this person again she realised she did in fact know them, “What the fuck,” she whispered under her breath, quiet enough that Daisy wouldn’t hear, but loud enough that Harry did hear, he glanced in the same direction as Ashley, realising what she had seen. Ashley stood up without saying a word and walked towards him.

“Well if it isn’t Harry Styles’ favourite baby mama,” He slurred, taking a swig of what must have been his fifth or so can of beer.

“What the fuck are you doing here Matt?” Ashley asked him, pushing him back.

“I just wanna see my daughter.” He told her, leaning against the tree.

“No, that’s not happening,” Ashley told him bitterly.

“Why? You scared I’ll see she actually has an uncanny resemblance to that prick over there?”

“Harry is not her dad!” Ashley told him.

“Well then why can’t I see her?”

“You lost the right to see her the day you told me you didn’t want anything to do with her, you know she was born six weeks early? She was kept in an incubator because she was too small, except you wouldn’t know that because you weren’t there, so excuse me for not wanting you to have anything to do with her.” 

“Are you alright?” Ashley turned to see Harry, he had left Daisy in the capable care of Anne.

“Here’s your knight in shining armour coming to your rescue,” Matt slurred.

“I’m fine Harry, can you take Daisy back to yours? I don’t want her seeing this.” Ashley asked him.

“I’m not leaving you with him Ash.” Harry replied.

“How long did it take you mate?” Matt asked him.

“What are you on about?” Harry responded,

“To get her into bed? Didn’t take me too long if I’m honest-” Harry tried to swing a punch at him, but Ashley was quick to hold him back, pressing both her hands against his chest.

“H, he isn’t worth it.” She soothed, cupping his face with one hand, so as to make him look her in the eye, whilst still holding him back with the other.

“If you try and approach Ashley or Daisy again, you will be hearing from my lawyers, do you understand?” Harry asked him sternly.

“I get you big man, I’m not sticking around to deal with you and your emotional baggage.”

The group had now returned back to Harry’s house, Gemma, Linda and Anne were entertaining Daisy with cartoons in the living room, “You didn’t have to step in like that H,” Ashley whispered as she poured him a cup of tea.

“He was out of order.” Harry insisted as he took his mug of tea, “I wasn’t just going to stand there whilst he talked about you like that.”

“He’s not wrong though is he? I didn’t have to sleep with him that night, I just did anyway.” Ashley said, fiddling with the lid on the milk bottle.

“Just because you slept with him that doesn’t make you easy, you think I haven’t slept with people I regret?” Harry replied.

“It’s different for you, a man sleeps with twenty girls and he’s a lad, a girl sleeps with five men and she’s a slag.” 

“You know I don’t think that don’t you?” Harry assured her.

“I know, because you are a gooden, and one day when Daisy brings a boy home I want him to be as good as you, and I think by having a positive male role model in her life like you, she will learn that she deserves someone who if she asks for the world will give her the universe.” Ashley told him.

“Is that you saying you think I am boyfriend material?” Harry grinned.

“Don’t push it Styles.”

[pinkysfaultorbrainsfault]

animaniacs - season 1 episode 38 - spellbound

episode summary: inexplicably stuck in camelot times, brain tries to get the ingredience for a magic spell that allows the caster to take over the world. this episode has no relation to the other camelot episode and i don't... know why.

the rundown: we begin our episode with the assertion that this is England in 1194. at this point in history, everyone from fire emblem 16 has grown up and is gay married, but we're not focusing on them right now. we're going to camelot and asking about their round table.

lol.

anyway after we see this creepy spider do whatever he's doing, we meet... merlin, i guess.

my dude??? he looks different. did you go on queer eye, merlin? whatever. he technically doesn't say he's merlin, so... maybe he's the other guy? the older guy? who's like merlin's dad?

this fucker. is he in the original king arthur? idk man i only watch cartoons. anyway he is casting a spell and it is very important. important enough to require components from yoko ono, apparently. like she hasn't suffered on this show enough.

but who do we have here?

"mouse" as my flatmate elegantly put it when he walked past the tv room to get a water. but even better than mouse??? mouse in SHORTS. MOUSE IN SHORTS MOUSE IN SHORTS??? MOUSE IN SHORTS. MOUSE IN SHORTS LOOK AT HIS LITTLE LEGYS MOUSE IN SHORTS MOUSE IN. SHORTS MOUSE IN SHORTS. MOUSE IN SHORTS.

YES.

pinky is not wearing shorts, which is incredibly disappointing. he's wearing some sort of sleeveless shirt dress tunic thing in an awful colour that someone like kanye west or justin bieber probably sells on their merch store for like a thousand dollars. he got the yeezy fit, damn. despite the designer status of his clothes, his bedroom eyes still do not convince me.

"i wish i was a windowsill so i could be--! ah. um."

"an imbecile?"

"ah! haha good rhyme, brain!" the bop of the century. kanye west sells the "windowsill" remix in vinyl on his online store for an additional fifty dollars.

after naming a few more celebrities ("I win, you win, edwin newman") the cauldron explodes in a puff of green smoke! and we get!

a pie. “lo!” he cries. “i’ve made a nice pie.”

hm. pinky is impressed. brain is uh. i think he mentally checked out? whatever he's doing i cannot stop fucking laughing at it. i actually had to put this post on pause for longer than anticipated because brain’s stupid face got to me. i’m so sorry. i started writing this at like 11pm gmt on the 11th and it just didn’t get to y’all in time because of brain’s stupid fucking face.

i’m sorry. brain is less impressed and declares it a “waste of magic”, and that he “would never squander such mystical powers over mere pastry.”

“poit. but what if you were eating dinner and you forgot dessert?”

“maybe then.”

but there is trouble afoot! Old Man Merlin has realised that king arthur will want some of his pie, and decides he’d better eat it in the dungeon so that doesn’t happen.

brain takes this opportunity to look through Old Man Merlin’s big book of spells. he “will use merlin’s magic to take control of the world” and then we get another nice closeup of his funny little face.

i don’t know why animaniacs was so keen on doing this? does it happen this much in the reboot? it feels like every episode we stare brain down to assert dominance.

“oh, no, no. where will you find a magic spell for that?”

“in the table of contents, pinky.”

“oh, well, very good.”

(the table of contents also contains a spell to “win at blackjack”, next to the taking over the world spell. brain considers this, for a moment, and then decides now is probably not the time.)

so good thing they have all the components for the magic spell, eh? including the Half Eaten Gingerbread Cookie That’s Been Left On The Counter All Night.

hmm.

oh, wait, no they don’t. turns out they’re fresh out of red dragon toenails, so brain’s solution to this problem is just to... go and get more, which is obviously a thing people do. they have to cross the enchanted forest to do that. it has witches and stuff. pinky rightfully points out that that is a lot of danger to overcome, and brain gets his stealing-the-minivan vibes back and nicks Old Man Merlin’s magic wand. he only knows one spell, but that won’t stop him.

the first obstacle they have to cross is the gingerbread house owned by... witch hazel from looney tunes. she’s a lot less annoying here than in bugs bunny lost in time, and informs brain that she is “waiting for pudgy german children.” instead of taking her suggestion to “get outta here”, brain magics her ass.

charlie sheen, ben vereen, shrink to the size of a lima bean.

they do get their ass handed to them by aforementioned pudgy german children, but then the german children decide that the mice have syphillis and yeet them in the general direction of slappy squirrel, who is here now.

she starts an argument with the goodfeathers, who are also here now, and brain takes it as their cue to leave.

but never mind all that! good thing there’s a handy bridge over this stream!

unfortunately, the bridge likes to spawn Giant Purple Hands That Kidnap Goats, so brain concludes they should cross said bridge using Stealth. unfortunately pinky drops the wand on the source of the Giant Purple Hands, and it is... relatively unhappy.

so brain pulls out the old “ charlie sheen, ben vereen, shrink to the size of a lima bean” again.

i did definitely think the troll was going to kick him in the crotch. i was very much sure of this, actually. instead it yeets him into rita and runt and fucks off.

“for goodness sake boxy” i hear you cry, “aren’t they at the dragon yet! this review has lasted a good twenty years of scrolling down my dashboard!” and i hear you, and you’re right, but the first thing you need to understand is; pinky has spent this whole episode singing. that little guitar he has? he has spent the whole episode replicating windowsill. “we’re in the woods so dark and stinky, to conquer the world, go brain and--” and then he forgets his name and brain has to remind him that it’s pinky. or remind him of his own name, or suggest like, steam to rhyme with stream. that is the running gag of this episode, and it is very important, at this stage, that you know that. pinky has not, as of yet, stopped singing and playing the lute.

so even though they make it to the dragon pretty mucn unscathed (aside from brain getting sat on by a giant, but i won’t go into that unless y’all specifically want details) pinky just has to have his little song in order to keep the dragon asleep.

and then brain yells at him for forgetting the word “sandman”, which breaks the toenail off completely,

and also wakes up the dragon, which can’t be good. it’s not happy! it was growing its’ nails out for paris fashion week.

brain tries his best to rectify this situation.

“charlie sheen, ben vereen--!”

charlie sheen and ben vereen are dead. i’m sorry to have to tell you. they shrunk down so much they got stuck in the quantum zone from antman and the wasp. someone should probably do something about that.

anyway the mice decide to hightail it back to Old Man Merlin’s.

conclusion: 

spoilies: they do make it back in one piece. i won’t detail the whole chase scene because it’s just a bunch of running, because the post is long enough already, and also because tumblr has eaten it three fucking times and i could basically type all this in my sleep now. the things i do for y’all. donate to the wavemaiden.

so pinky shoves all the ingredients into the pot, while brain finds The Take Over The World Spell. the dragon is harassing them this whole time, which feels unfair.

“listen carefully, pinky. i need to recite this spell exactly, and once i start i cannot stop. so i need you to be extra quiet, okay?”

“sure thing, brain.”

this lasts for approximately five minutes.

“brain’s the boss! he’ll rule with ease!”

“mystical powers, your might unfurled, grant that i become--”

“he’s the one! the big, erm. banana?”

“cheese!” yells brain, who has given up entirely by this point. “it rhymes with ease! big! cheese!”

hm.

“are you alright, brain?”

“i feel. odd.”

this is an interesting development.

so brain is cheese now! cool. i guess they have to wait for merlin to get back from Pie Heaven and turn him back, somehow? with his spare wand or whatever. this is definitely pinky’s fault, because brain did ask him to stay quiet for a bit surprisingly nicely (in brain terms) and he... did not. and now brain is a cheese.

on the other hand, this would probably work again if they tried it again, once merlin goes back to pick up some more toenails.

brain: 2 pinky: 3 outside influence: 5

“can i get you anything, brain? some medicine? a cracker?”

“were i not a large cheese, i would make you pay for that remark.”

[antiquechampagne]

Absolute Zero - Chapter 1

As Angela walked up to the metal door, its presence punctuated by a garish glowing neon arrow, her heart felt like it would blow out of her chest. Goodneighbor. She clutched her thick three ring binder before her, hoping it would give her the strength she needed. Angela hadn’t traveled here alone from Amherst, but she entered the town on her own.

The door was heavy. Angela struggled with it until a ghoul carrying a tommy gun and wearing a threadbare suit topped with a rust colored fedora helped her open it the rest of the way.

“Welcome to Goodneighbor.” He sounded tired.

Before he could walk away, she quickly thanked him. “Could you also tell me where I could find… the Mayor?”

“If ya wanna talk t’ the boss,” he pointed a scarred finger across the courtyard. “Check out the Old State House.”

She thanked him again, but he had already turned away. Taking a few steps closer, she took in the tall brick building. It was stately, definitely pre-war built, but well taken care of given it’s age. It reminded Angela of some of the ruins she played in as a child, looking for long forgotten books or scraps of pre-war gadgets. Glancing around the square, she saw a friendly ghoul manning a general store. She was more surprised to see an assaultron behind the counter of the other shop, one full of dangerous looking arms. It was early evening, but not many other people were on the street.

Standing in front of the State House, Angela took a moment to straighten her bangs, combing her fingers through her chin length blond hair. She wiped some hot sweat from her forehead. Her nerves were shot, but she had to go through with it. It was the only way.

Once inside she was directed to the second floor. She wasn’t sure what to expect. All Angela knew about the mayor of Goodneighbor was that he was a ghoul with a taste for chems. She wasn’t expecting a man clad in a long red coat playing chess with a rather serious looking woman.

“Looks like we have a new guest, Fahr! And this little lady has balls!” He picked a hat off the table as he rose and plunked it squarely over his deeply ridged scalp.

She found herself staring at the hole that had once been a nose as she spoke. “I…I didn’t mean to intrude, Mr. Mayor…” Angela had never been this close to a ghoul before, much less talked to one for so long. Sure, there had been a few ghoul traders around, but she was never directly involved in any commerce activity.

The Mayor drew closer to her, a cocky smirk on his face. “Oh, now don’t be shy, sister! We’re all friends here, right?” He motioned to a pair of sofas in the middle of the large room. Angela had always been on the shorter side, but the Mayor’s bombastic personality made him seem even taller than his average stature. Sitting down across from him did little to lessen it. Angela felt like she was shrinking under his gaze.

“Now, what can this old ghoul do for you today.”

Angela thought he sounded almost predatory. The glowering giant woman with a mohawk standing behind the couch wasn’t helping. She closed her eyes and pictured her family in her head. Releasing her breath, she began.

“Mr. Mayor… my name is Angela. I came east looking for someone who might be in need of my particular set of skills and I heard Goodneighbor would be a perfect fit.”

He cocked a smooth hairless eyebrow. “Oh, really? And what would those skills be?” the Mayor purred, leaned forward on his knees.

Angela opened her binder, leafing through the notebooks, papers and pamphlets stored within. “I am a trained scientist, specializing in pharmacological chemistry. I can synthesize chems of all sorts, medicinal, recreational, even chemical warfare. I’ve spent the past 10 years collecting every formula and recipe I could get my hands on.” The ghoul was leaning farther over, trying to glimpse at the treats she teased in her pages. This was going well. “Get me in a lab with the ingredients I need, and I’ll make you whatever you want.”

The Mayor leaned back in his seat again and glanced up at Fahr, another smile teasing the edges of his deformed lips. “That is quite the compelling sales pitch you have there, especially with the issues we’ve been having lately... but how do I know you can actually deliver? Not many actual scientists around these days… unless you’ve defected from the Institute.”

Angela had no idea what this ‘Institute’ was, but from the way he spoke, it wasn’t a popular around these parts. “I grew up in the ruins of an old university out in the Amherst wasteland. My mom was the town doctor, but I was more interested in books than bodies.”

The ghoul rubbed his chin, seemingly unimpressed.

“Put me to the test, then.” If what she had heard was true, this gamble was worth the risk. “Pick out anything, give me the means to make it, and see what you think.”

“You’re kidding, right?” The woman piped up. “You come in here, and then demand caps from us… just to waste on some flaky science experiment? Throw this pipsqueak out on her ass, boss. We’ve got better things to do.”

“I barely got here with the shirt on my back! Cut me some slack!”

“Now hold on a second,” The Mayor raised his hand. “I think we can work something out.” He spread his hand over Angela’s binder, turning it towards him as he spoke. “I’ll pick a treat from the cookie jar, here… and if Squeaky here can deliver we can have some more negotiations. If not, then I get to keep the recipe.” He stared at her, freezing her to the spot. “Deal?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

Opening the binder to what appeared to be a random page, the Mayor read the title.

“Rocket? Never heard of it. Sounds fun!”

Twenty minutes later the pair led her to the dingy basement of the local hotel, a small crate clutched in her hand, the cola bottle clinking together between the box of Abraxo soap and Jet canisters.

“Hey, Fred,” called Mayor Hancock. “Mrs. Angela here is going to use your bench for a little while.”

A drowsy face popped out from a side room. “Yeah, well… you might want to check upstairs with that. Marowski might not like that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have a little chat with him right now.” He turned to Angela. “In the meantime, why don’t you get set up.”

The lab was set up in the middle of the large basement. She wished she had more light but began to unload and organize on the counter when Fred appeared next to her. She tried to ignore him.

“Sooo… whatcha cookin’?” His wide watery eyes tracing over the bottles and boxes. He reached out but Angela quickly slapped his hand away from the Nuka-Cola. “Jeeze, sorry man. You don’t have to be like that. I’m just curious.”

Angela placed her binder on the bench top, her hand firmly holding the cover down. She didn’t want anything of hers wandering away while she wasn’t looking.

“Oooh, what’s that?” Fred asked, peering around her with a little hungry smile.

“Mine.” She glared at him. She was already on edge with the pressure of synthesizing chems in an unfamiliar lab, but now she had to be on her guard against possible sabotage. Great.

Just then, Hancock and Fahrenheit came down the stairs. “Okay, a few caps and that’s all squared away. You have an hour. Show us what ya got.”

“Hey, wait a minute there!” Fred stood up tall, puffing out his chest. “Are you guys looking to replace good ol’ Fred?” He shoulders hunched a little. “Say it ain’t so, Mayor?!”

The Mayor threw an arm around the greying chem dealer’s shoulder. “Nah, man. That’s not it at all. You know, with those raiders pouring out from Nuka-World it’s been hard getting a steady supply. Think of her as a possible assistant. This,” he spread his other hand out wide. “is her interview.”

Fred considered the news.

“Besides,” the ghoul continued. “You’ll get to try her goodies out… and it looks like she’s got a couple of aces up her sleeve.” He let Fred go and started towards the stairs.

“Oh, and Fred?” he looked back. “Leave her alone… she’s got work to do.”

Author’s Notes: I have decided to not put chapter titles with this fic and see how I feel about it.

[nebulousneuroticism]

I slept very late today, because I was allowed to.  It was technically a day off for work, though I still wanted to get some things done.  I slept so long that I was groggy when I finally got up.

There were two chores I hoped to accomplish today: the laundry and the groceries.  I discovered that I didn’t have enough detergent left to do the laundry, so I pushed that off and went to the store (where I could buy some detergent).  I realized that this was the first time I’d left the apartment in several days.

The store was crowded, but I got everything on my list.  I can cook at least three recipes now... and I guess I’ll have to do it soon, because I bought vegetables that will go bad.  Hopefully I’ll have the energy to do it tomorrow.

I picked up some fast food on the way home, and then spent all day playing Danganronpa 2.  It was nice, but I probably played for too long.  I felt groggy when I stopped, late at night.  I also felt guilty, because I did not accomplish a single productive thing.

So tonight I feel dissatisfied.  I want to accomplish things, and achieve my goals, and not be a terrible worker.  I desire this.  But when it comes down to it, all I really want to do is sit in my chair and play games all day.  It’s not that I feel I’m wasting my time, really, because I enjoy the time I spend with these pastimes.  I’m just frustrated that I don’t have more time to devote to other things, too.  There’s never enough time.

I’m like a broken record, aren’t I?  I say these things all the time.  I used to have the same complaints even before I started this blog; I can remember complaining to my friends in high school that the day was too short.  I remember doing the math and realizing that a seven day week could also be split into six twenty-eight hour days.  Twenty-eight hours is a better length for a day, I feel; but such a schedule would also drive me insane, with no consistent daylight cycle.

Tomorrow I hope to accomplish four things: doing laundry, cooking something with the ingredients I bought, completing my japanese lesson for the week, and working on a side project.  Listing it out like that makes it sound pretty ambitious.  No harm in aiming high, I guess.

[mattzerella-sticks]

You Do, a Sam-centric, Dean/Castiel coda for 15x06 “Golden Time”, 4.9k

Sam feels like he's the only one that cares about defeating Chuck. Dean, while physically present, cannot bother to lend a hand. And Cas is willing to help, but would rather do it on his own.

After Cas lets slip that the reason for his voluntary exile begins with the letter 'D' and rhymes with Mean, Sam puts Chuck on the back burner to deal with the more pressing issue of reuniting Dean and his best friend. Only with how stubborn Dean is avoiding research, it'll be ten times worse to make him talk to Cas.

Luckily Sam has a few new tricks up his sleeve now that he embraces an aspect of himself he never allowed himself to try. Will he help his brother do what needs to be done? Or will his plan bring forth an entirely unexpected outcome?

Sam waits until Dean leaves to sag against his seat. He scrubs a hand down his face, hoping he can wipe away the pent-up frustration caused by Dean’s visit. Unfortunately its roots sunk deep and cannot be torn so easily.

The worst part was Dean barely did anything to warrant such powerful irritation.

Dean strolled in for all of five minutes, robe sweeping behind him, asking where his slippers were. Sam glanced away from the page of his book to find his brother barefooted. Toes wiggling underneath the wide curtain of his cowboy print pajamas. A welcome change from the hot dogs glued to Dean’s legs, except Sam can’t stare at the pants for too long without blushing. Always stumbling across one cowboy or another that looked inappropriate.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said, “Why don’t you check the last place you wore them and start from there?”

He thought that would drive Dean elsewhere. Instead Dean took his suggestion as an invitation, lounging across the table from him with a bag of chips on his lap. Forcing Sam to listen while he checked off every memory with his slippers present in them. Chomped on his snack with crumbs spewing every couple of words, a few shooting so far ahead they land on his book.

A blood vessel in Sam’s forehead twinged with the need to burst. “Dean,” Sam cut him off, interrupting his retelling of when he used one of his slippers to kill a spider in the dungeons. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of busy…”

“You are?”

“Yeah,” he said, wagging the book, “Research… to take down Chuck?”

A dark shadow crossed his expression, surfacing briefly only to disappear in the next moment. “Right…”

Sam arched a brow. “Y’know, you could forget about the slippers and join -”

“I think I just remembered where they are,” he said, standing. “Thanks for the help, Sammy.” Dean shuffled towards the exit, a cowboy riding a stallion with back arched in pleasure the last thing he saw.

He marks the page he was on, shutting the book. Too bothered to continue researching. Pointless even trying since there’s a more pressing problem that persists, an obstacle better dealt with before facing Chuck. Because if there’s any chance of beating God, Sam needs his brother and not the sad, soft shell wearing his clothes and eating his food.

Eating all their food. They don’t have the money to support Dean’s void-like stomach. Sam almost purchased an array of healthy snacks during the last grocery trip. Only rejecting the idea when he imagined how bad of a fit Dean would pitch if Sam returned with peapods and gluten-free wafers. Or, worse, his brother accepting the food with indifference.

Dean’s spiral spun so far down Sam wouldn’t put it past him. It frightens Sam to see his brother like this, especially since he figured it was over after their milk-run to Rowena’s. After Sam broke past Dean’s walls with his plaintive speech and offered a hand to help him out of his darkness. Like he did for him when Chuck’s betrayal and Rowena’s death were still fresh wounds.

But where Sam let Dean pull him to safety, it seems Dean left Sam hanging.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sam confesses, his soft voice echoing in the cavernous library. He taps his fingers on the book, gnawing on his lip.

There were only so many options to choose from, and Sam exhausted most of them. Space only gave Dean’s depression room to grow. Confronting it hadn’t worked either. Giving Dean a target to focus his anger, confusion, and sadness failed for the first time in a long while. And Sam’s Hail Mary never answered his messages.

Still… Sam looks to his phone, wondering. The next call could be the one. That spark of hope pushes him to grabbing his phone and redialing Cas’s number.

Unlike every other time he tried, Cas picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Cas!” Sam sighs, an ounce of relief pouring into him. “Cas, man, it’s so good to hear you.”

“It’s… nice to hear from you as well.”

“Where have you been?” he asks, “It’s not like you to go so long without at least checking up. We were worried about you.”

“I… I’m sure you were worried, Sam,” Cas says, tone immediately curdling the relief in Sam’s stomach. “I was away. After everything with Chuck and Jack and De… and it all, I needed some time to myself.”

Sam nods, frown marring his face. “Understandable. Wish you could have told us -”

“I expressed my intentions clearly to Dean,” Cas says, “Has he not told you?”

“Now that you ask…” Fear plucks a frightful chord across Sam’s heart. “Dean hadn’t mentioned it at all.” Thinking back, Dean doesn’t talk about Cas anymore unless prompted. Gone were the hours he would spend telling Sam pointless stories of times he and Cas were together. Mentioning the angel when something reminded Dean of him. Staring at his phone with a tiny smile on his face, in deep conversation with Cas.

“Of course.”

There’s an empty space Cas tiptoes around, an event not mentioned. “What -”

“So,” Cas interrupts, “Chuck is picking up where he left off?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “But -”

“But we will do our best to stop him,” he finishes for him, “I’m already on my way towards Heaven, to see if there might be anything there that he forgot. That might detail a weakness of some kind.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sam shrugs, “but I could really use you here…”

A harsh breath blows through the speaker. “I… I’m already halfway to Heaven’s gate, Sam. Turning around now would be… it would be a waste of my usability.”

“That doesn’t matter Cas,” Sam tells him, “Right now Heaven can wait. You’re more important. What with you leaving so suddenly after the hellmouth, we never got the chance to check in.”

Silence. Sam waits for Cas’s response, checking every now and then to make sure the angel didn’t hang up on him. “Sorry,” he says after a while, “I… I was distracted. You want to know how I’m feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m… fine .”

“Really?” Sam arches his brows so high they fly off to Missouri. “ Fine ?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because none of us are fine,” Sam scoffs, “I wasn’t for awhile and Dean, he…” He pauses, expecting Cas to jump in and demand he continue. Only it never comes. “Dean, he,” Sam fumbles awkwardly, “He’s kind of let the whole thing get to him and… it’s bad over here.”

Cas hums over the line. “I see… this call wasn’t about Chuck. It’s about Dean.”

“Cas -”

“If Dean truly has need of me ,” he says, voice wet and thick, hoarse from keeping something at bay, “than Dean should be able to call and express this himself. But per my last conversation with him, Sam, I highly doubt I’m the solution you seek. I’d probably just… make everything worse .”

“What? No - Cas -”

“I have to go, Sam,” Cas sighs, “there are patrol cars lined up along the highway, and I’d rather not be pulled over for talking on the phone. Goodbye.”  He hangs up despite Sam’s protest, a flat beep ringing in his ears.

Sam taps the end button, mulling over the conversation. Uses the few minutes spent with Cas to shed light on weeks observing his brother. Rethinks his earlier judgments about the root of his problems. Whenever life slights Dean he focuses all his anger and fury on it. It helped them countless times during hunts or facing powerful enemies. Except if Dean’s target is himself, all that destruction turns inward.

Which explains absolutely everything about Dean’s behavior.

“Dammit, Dean…” Sam tugs at his hair, annoyance flaring up at his brother’s actions. Whatever they were sent fissures into the foundation of his and Cas’s relationship. The shockwaves wrecking everything else around them. Worse, Sam only realizing too late.

Now Dean haunts the Bunker’s hall, the only ghost left, and their friend keeps his spirit tethered with his anger.

“There’s got to be a way to fix it…”

Sam knows what has to happen, and how unlikely it will come to pass. Dean would rather spend twenty hours surrounded by books than take steps towards repairing his mistakes. Even with the years of growth under his belt. Because when it comes to Cas, Dean is too short. And Cas followed his lead.

Meaning neither have ever finished a fight, preferring to drop it and sweep a rug over what happened. Neglect the necessary fixes until, apparently, the wood under their feet rotted through and sent them crashing into the shit they buried.

“Not this time,” Sam says, standing, “This time they can’t ignore it.”

His passion wanes when he thinks about forcing two of the most stubborn people to do things they aren’t ready for. While he may have wounded God, Sam lacks the necessary power to switch up the script.

“Or,” he thinks, glancing at a nearby box, “maybe I don’t?”

It’s not any of the stuff they carried in from Rowena’s study. Instead one of the two they scrounged from the truck where the coven they ganked hid. Sam digs through the hex bags and books to find what he needs. A needle. String. Buttons, hay, herbs, and lots of tarp.

There’s one ingredient missing though. Sam sneaks over to Dean’s room, hoping his brother hadn’t nested there yet. Luck shines on him. It’s empty save the empty cartons, bags, and bottles scattered around the room. He quickly sifts through all of it for a single hair on Dean’s pillow. Then Sam races back to the library to set to work.

Unfortunately with all the technical knowledge, Sam isn’t the craftiest witch. His thread zig-zags unevenly in the overstuffed doll’s body, and the button eyes are placed crookedly on the ‘face’. One of its arms are longer than the other, and the legs disproportionately half the size of the body.

“That’s not important,” he says, scanning his handiwork, “it’s a vessel for the spell. Nothing more.” Clutching the doll tightly to his chest, Sam moves onto the next stage in his hastily thrown together plan. Find Dean.

If not in his room, Sam knows the only other place he will be.

Peeking into the kitchen, hidden by the shadows, Sam sees his brother chomping on a massive sandwich. Headphones affixed to his ears, another break that lessens the difficulty of Sam’s work.

Sam brings the doll to his lips, almost an inch of space between it and the head. “Dean,” he says, “eating isn’t going to fix anything. You’re being a stubborn idiot, hurting Cas and yourself in the process.”

Dean stiffens, cheeks puffed out with food. Swallowing, he looks at the sandwich in his hands. Then places it on the dish in disgust.

Smirking, Sam continues. “You can’t do this anymore, pretend that you’re okay. Because you’re not. There’s only one thing that can fix this - Cas . Don’t be afraid, anymore, Dean. You know what to do… now give it to him.”

A slight rustle in the kitchen forces Sam to press himself against the hallway, doll smothered in his stomach. With the limited vision he has, Sam watches Dean shuffle towards an exit. His .

“The other way,” Sam suggests to the doll, “go the other way!”

Dean pauses, brows scrunching for a moment until they disappear with a turn. His brother retreats the other way, Sam breathing a sigh of relief.

With the kitchen abandoned, Sam claims the space for himself. Wraps Dean’s grotesque creation to preserve it if he wants and grabs a beer for himself. Takes Dean’s place and drinks in victory.

When the bottle hits the table Sam feels an unnerving stare tickling his chin.

The voodoo doll stares at him from its resting place, reminding him of the steps taken to achieve success. Without annoyance or excitement distorting his thoughts, Sam reviews what he did with a clear mind. How he used magic to influence his brother’s actions. His brother who confessed how much he struggles with identifying which were his own choices and which were those of a higher power.

His beer tastes flat. “What did I do…” he sighs, leaning on the table. Sam cannot stop Dean, probably on the phone with Cas. Helped across the final obstacle with Sam’s magic.

“It’s all for the best,” he reminds himself, “it was a one-time thing.”

Unable to take the judgmental glare from the expressionless doll, Sam snatches it and heads to his room. Hides it in his nightstand drawer and leaves for the library again.

Hoping his ‘help’ didn’t drive the wedge deeper.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

All day, Sam stalked Dean’s every movement. From breakfast in the morning to cautiously snooping around the corner when he went to the bathroom. Curious to see if his suggestion from yesterday carried over. However nothing seemed too bizarre.

Actually Dean fell into normalcy, yesterday’s magical shove exactly what he needed to climb from the hole he wallowed in. Dean changed into actual clothes and set about doing chores. Cleaning floors, folding laundry - while it wasn’t research Sam took the signs as symbols of recovery. Dean moves at his own pace, and will research when he feels ready. Given the unburdened state of his shoulders, it could be any day.

By the time night rolls around, Sam lulled into easy comfort.

Suddenly the Bunker door slams open with the force of a hurricane, echoing throughout the cavernous building. Sam, on his way to the kitchen, spins on his heel. Drops his book to reach for his gun. Freezing only when he notices the recognizable figure gazing down at them. Chest heaving with words he stutters to speak.

“Cas?” Dean asks, hold on his gun limp, “Cas… what are you?”

“Did you mean it?”

Dean stiffens in his seat, cold metal of his weapon clattering to the floor. Sam, thankful it was on safety, finds his nerves fraying further after noticing the tense way Dean holds himself. “What?” he asks, breaking his and Cas’s stare.

“Did… you… mean it?” Each step carries a blow more powerful than any amount of Heavenly wrath. Dean flinches with each point of contact between the stairs and Cas. Retreats into his shell the closer Cas flies.

Sam rushes between them before Cas lays a hand on Dean. His mind races with an apology, heart sinking at how his plan soured. “Cas, it’s -”

“Quiet,” he tells him, “This doesn’t concern you.”

“But -” “Dean,” Cas says, softer now. Like they’re in the eye of his storm. “Dean, you left me a message. Did you mean it?”

His brother drags the answer out. Rubs his neck, then his shoulder, and finally squeezes his cheeks and releases a puff of air. “Look,” he starts, “if you’re reacting this bad -”

“That’s not what I asked.” Cas’s lip trembles when he asks again, “Did you mean it ?” A shine catches Sam’s eye, and at first he thinks it’s his friend’s blade. Only, on closer inspection, he realizes it’s Cas’s phone. “Dean, please -”

“Yes, I did.” Dean keeps his lids closed shut, wrinkles layered over each other on his face while he braces for impact. “I… I always did, Cas,” he admits. A whisper Sam strains to hear.

“Dean…” Cas pushes past Sam and lunges for Dean. Sam shouts, lost in the clatter of the chair and the other’s yelps. He strides over to pry Cas off his brother, and nearly trips over his own feet when Sam sees Dean’s arms wind tight around Cas’s midsection. Hears the familiar sounds of an almost-not fight that makes his ears burst into flames. Peeking at their faces, Sam confirms his suspicions.

They’re kissing. Through tears, smiles, and laughter, they kiss. Cas pulls back, gasping for breath. Forehead against Dean’s, he asks, “All this time?”

“Of course,” Dean says, “I might not have known it but… looking back, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Aware of how their lips drift toward each other again, Sam clears his throat. Dean tears his gaze away and remembers Sam’s presence. He sits up, Cas in his lap, and smiles with too much innocence. “Hey Sam…”

“Hey,” he says, looking between them, “so…” “So…” Dean shrugs, “so this is a thing?”

“Apparently…” “My apologies Sam,” Cas says, standing. Offers a hand to Dean and when he rises to full height does not let go. “I was a little… focused on my mission.”

“Your… your mission,” Sam frowns, ache surfacing from the depths of his consciousness to nudge at his temple. “You mean to Heaven -”

Cas flushes a worrisome crimson. “I… I almost forgot…”

“Forgot what?”

“I had parked outside Heaven’s gate when I noticed my phone,” he turns to Dean, “after listening I forgot all about Chuck, about -”

Dean shushes him, gently running his thumb across Cas’s cheek. “It’s okay. You can go to Heaven some other time. Right now it’s more important you’re here and we can…” His gaze briefly flits over to Sam. “We can discuss what was said… in private?”

“Private?”

“My room,” Dean clarifies. The words hissed under breath as if speed could muddle their intention. Sam and Cas understood regardless.

“Of course,” Cas beams. Twitches while he tries to measure the amount of joy he shows on his face but unable to fight the curl of his lips. “Much more important things to talk about.” He follows Dean out of the room, Sam left behind with an upturned chair, Dean’s gun, confusion, and a phone.

Cas’s phone.

Sam snatches it without hesitation. Righting the fallen chair, he opens the phone with no hesitation. Concern for his friend’s privacy very low on his radar, overpowered by the burning curiosity to figure out what Dean said to inspire an action like Cas’s embrace. And why he returned it.

Since Cas doesn’t have a password protecting his phone, it takes a few seconds to find the evidence he needs.

Sam hovers over the play button, conscious finally kicking in. Wonders if he truly needs to hear an obviously intimate conversation that, in the grand scheme of their life, does not involve him. But then he thinks about the voodoo doll he has sitting in his dresser, and begins the voicemail. Knowing that none of this would be possible without his interference.

He listens, and sees the whole picture for what it is.

“Hey Cas, it’s… it’s me, Dean. I’m - uh… I’m calling because I, well, because I thought about praying and then I thought about how Chuck could listen in on that like some perv…” Some shame oozes into Sam. “But this, it feels like a prayer. You’re probably feeling a little twinge, right now, aren’t you? Probably not now, because you didn’t answer the phone. But whatever you’re doing you might… and prayer or no prayer, Chuck seems to know what goes on in our lives anyway so… I guess I got to get over it. It’s not like this is a dirty secret. Even though I’ve kind of… kind of felt like it was. For a long time. Too long. When I… when I should have been not doing that.”

“Cas, I… I love you.” The bombshell explodes without prompt, Sam nearly losing the rest of Dean’s voicemail in the whistling fallout. “I don’t really say it and when I do, I… it comes out all wrong. Because you look sad afterwards like I don’t mean it the way you think I do. But I do. I love you in the purest sense of the word, man. For so long I’ve been afraid of you knowing that and of… of loving you, but I shouldn’t be. If I’d said all this sooner I… maybe you wouldn’t have left. Or it would have hurt more when you did. Don’t know how it can hurt more than it is now… I already feel like there’s a crater in my chest because when you moved on you took my heart with you. Even though I tried to not let that happen. Thought that us, everything that happened was because of Chuck because you’re his kid and… you have to admit, it’s a hell of a story…” A wet chuckle rasps over the line, followed by a labored breath. “S’why I kept you an arm’s length away during the ghost-pocalypse. Why I’ve been struggling since then I… I don’t know what’s real and what’s your Dad. Figured I could sort my life out but Chuck putting himself back on the board sent my already shaky sense of self into a tailspin.”

“But him being back also… I think I’ve gotten a sense of how he writes us. On what he forced on us. Everything he ever wrote has been about bringing the maximum amount of pain. All geared towards driving our family apart. Every cruel act and lie and whisper into my head to do the wrong thing were him. And of that list, Cas… you’re none of those things. You make us whole - make me whole. That… Chuck doesn’t want that. The fact we keep finding each other after all we’ve been through, what tries to keep us apart, from demons to God, that’s all the proof I need that we’re it for each other. We… we’re real. ”

“And I let Chuck feed me a crock of shit and I spiraled. Been spiraling since mom died and Jack… I, I can’t blame Chuck for all of it, though I’d loved to. He threw all of that at me and I swung exactly like he planned. I’m sorry, Cas, for not treating you the way you deserve. Showing you exactly what you mean to me. I can’t change the past but I want to fix the future, so you’ll be in it. It might be too little too late… and for once we can’t make all the pieces fit like they used to. Knowing that, I don’t regret telling you I love you. Because if we’re gonna be able to beat Chuck, we need all of us together. Working as a unit. A family. I won’t be much help to anyone if I can’t be in the same room with you, choking on all these feelings. After he’s gone, if you still want to move on… I won’t blame you. All we’ve been through, you deserve happiness the same as us. If it’s with someone else… then they’re a right lucky bastard or bitch, whoever they are. So… yeah, that’s it. I’m gonna, I’m gonna hang up? Yeah, bye -”

It cuts off, the answering machine’s voice speaking over Dean’s about how there’s no more room left on Cas’s phone for the rest of his message. Not that it matters since everything that was supposed to be said found its way out of Dean’s mouth.

Sam wipes at his eyes, smiling at the phone. Chest filled with happiness for two of the most important people in his life. That they were able to wade through the never-ending flood and reunite again. Cards laid fully on the table, nothing in their hands.

With a little help. The voodoo’s vacant stare flashes in Sam’s mind, reminding him of how he whispered into it to bring about this confession. His stomach churns at the thought. The guild he swallowed down returning with a vengeance. But then it all settles as he considers his exact command.

Worded with no intention of romance, Sam wanted Dean to grow up and realize Cas held no fault in what went down with Chuck. But his brother went the extra measure, shoveling part of his repressed, forty-year old bullshit into the furnace as a grand gesture to show his angel that there was more than one endgame to be had.

Laughing, Sam places the phone down and stands. “Dean and Cas…” he says, years of memories coloring themselves anew given the necessary context. “How could I’ve been so blind…” He squints, lips thinning. “Chuck… that’s why.”

He flattens his palm against his wound, the skin dully flaring giving Sam the impression that his nightmares will be extra bloody tonight. “At least one of us will have sweet dreams,” he sighs, shuffling to his room.

Sleep is far from his mind, especially given what awaits him when his head hits the pillow, but Sam walks with purpose. To tie up the last loose end of this misadventure.

The voodoo doll hadn’t moved since he used it last. Resting against a well-worn spell book, awake. Sam picks it up and pinches the thread tying it together.

“Nothing’s ever going to control our lives again, Chuck… you hear me?”

The string stays where it was, the doll still whole. Sam rubs it between his thumb and finger, wickedness striking in the final hour before the doll’s demise. An impish grin unfurls across his face. “After this,” he amends, “After tonight… I already helped Dean make one healthy choice, who’s to say I can’t suggest a few others.”

Sam replaces the doll in his hand with the spell book, reclining on his bed to wait. Reads until the clock ticks closer to midnight and then beyond. When his eyes can barely hold themselves open any longer and the neon green numbers glow in single digits, Sam grabs the voodoo doll of his brother once more. Whispers the prank in a scratchy voice, mirth poking through. Finished, he sets both items down and readies for bed.

Looking forward to sleep and what awaits him in the morning.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam stretches on his path to the Bunker’s exit, readying for another late morning jog. A road block appears, however, in the form of his brother in similar dress. Yellow hoodie snug over his chest and a pair of sweatpants with dried stains by the pockets. Sneakers Sam wasn’t sure Dean owned tied tight over his feet. “Dean?” he starts, “you going out?”

“Hey,” Dean says, eyes brightening, “I’m glad I caught you.”

“You are?”

“Yeah…” His brother rubs at his neck awkwardly, a ketchup-colored blush staining his cheeks, complimenting his mustard hoodie. “Yeah, I… I wanted to see if you’d let me come jogging with you?”

“You… want to go jogging?” A question not really framed like one. Sam already knowing the answer.

Dean nods, “Yeah, I… I don’t know. Last night, Cas and I had this talk about unhealthy habits and what I could do to stop them. When I woke up I… I guess it bled into other aspects of my life, because I couldn’t get the idea of jogging out of my head!” He chuckles, dipping up to gaze at Sam for a brief moment. “Weird, right?”

Sam finds it the exact opposite. Because after giving his brother and angel a few hours of privacy, he snatched the Dean voodoo doll from his nightstand and whispered a few things to it. Incepted the idea of wanting to jog with him into his mind. Still he agrees, since Sam didn’t expect there to be a logical narrative supporting his prank. “You’re always welcome to jog with me, Dean,” he says.

“Perfect.” They continue their trek, Dean mirroring Sam’s stretches with a few second-delay.

At the foot of the stairs, Sam stops them again. “Wait, did Cas want to join us?”

Dean shakes his head, giving Sam hope his other message wormed its way in. “Sent him out on a grocery run. Had the strangest craving for, uh… veggie bacon.”

“Veggie bacon?” Sam gasps, “In the Meat Man’s kitchen?”

“Shut up.” Dean shoves him, stomping up the steps, “That was so dumb… regret ever telling you that.”

Sam follows with a doggish grin, “At least you realize it now!” Dean flips him off, exiting the Bunker. He watches the door slip close, trailing behind at his own pace.

His brother’s voodoo doll sits in his hoodie pocket, weighing him down. While Sam’s actions were only to Dean’s benefit or boyish pranks, thinking about what he did still makes his skin crawl. His gunshot tingles with a whirlpool of energy. A reminder that he acted somewhat like the very being they want to take down.

“But that was it,” Sam promises, “After breakfast I’ll explain to Dean what I did.” An argument might occur, and he will accept whatever words Dean will throw his way. It won’t be a huge blow up, Sam thinks, since Cas is there. Cas is there and it’s because of Dean. Sam prompted his brother but in no way did he imagine the voicemail Dean would leave. The feelings that he poured into his message. That was all him. Like they’ve done their whole lives, they’ve taken what they were given and fit the rules around them. No matter who tries to break their team apart the three of them come back together stronger.

“Sammy!” Dean calls for him, “You tired? We haven’t even started, man!”

He chuckles, leaving the Bunker. “Says the man who is jogging for the first time today.”

“It can’t be that hard.”

Sam smirks at him, “Just be lucky it’s cold out.”

“Why?”

“Because when the weather’s warm I like to jog barefoot.”

The implicit threat goes over Dean’s head, stranding him in his confusion. “... Why ?”

“Y’know,” Sam claps Dean on the shoulder, “If you decide you want to stick with this after today… I can show you.”

Dean huffs with a familiar grumpy expression, although a twinkle of curiosity glistens in his stare. “Maybe,” he says, “Let’s see how this first jog goes.”

“Your call, man. Your call.” They run, Sam leading ahead of Dean. Not going too fast so he can stay with Dean. Out of breath, bouncing, and at points - between light-hearted jabs shared between brothers - soaring .