#they left him at the gas station............

[slightlyobsessedwitheverything]

i always had the hc that tommy smoked as a teenager and a young adult in the army (and that his father was also a smoker until it eventually killed him) so i KNOW that man went and picked up a pack of marlboro reds at the gas station after he left buck’s house

[aheathen-conceivably]

The tour was going better than even Josephine could have imagined. Despite the melodramatic resignation with which Antoine had gotten in the car the morning they had left Strangerville, or the brooding quiet he adopted on their drives between performances, he was a different person on stage. 

So much so that when Jo watched him perform she knew that this was where he was always meant to be, even if he had tried to pretend otherwise. After all, she had been the one who had been there from the first moment he had ever sat in front of a piano, advocating for him first at the club with their mother and then with men all over town. She had been the one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And for whatever cowboy fantasy he may have been living in Strangerville, seeing him like this was like watching him come alive all over again - until finally, it was as though the best of the artist he had been under the heavy weight of the Storyville air had been set free, colliding and enmeshing with some idea of himself he had found on the open mesas.

With every cheer and every show it grew stronger; and even as he might have grown more homesick or quiet with her, something else was growing in him. Away from the stage, she would catch him at all hours of the day and night, huddled with his guitar and clutching a pen, working quietly but furiously on compositions and lyrics.

It didn’t seem to matter how shabby their accommodations were, or that each bed and each view was different but woefully the same as the one before. He only had himself and his guitar, and whether that was enough or just a distraction from the fact that it would never be, she was unable or unwilling to discern.

As the weeks wore on, they fell into a sort of rhythm, one governed by constant movements and brief moments of respite. Antoine would wake when Jo turned on the lights only to know without words that they would have to load up the car to get to their next stop, check in another hotel, unload their bags yet again, play another show, and end up back in the same room by evening. Day after day, the same routine was governed by blurred vistas from a car window, tinged with movement and restlessness, just like Jo's soul had always been.

So it was in those brief moments of stillness that Antoine would just simply sit and write, allowing whatever stained carpet he was sitting on to become home for just a moment. Only Jo could still see it even when she was meant to rest - the freshly paved black asphalt shivering in the ever present sun, stretching out all the way to the Pacific Ocean. It was impossible to ignore, not when she knew what was waiting for her just outside.

So she would tell Antoine that she would be home soon, a quick nod telling her that he had barely heard her. Moments later, she had left the hotel in her rearview mirror. Then, without fail, the feeling of freedom rushed over her as the wind roared past her ears and deafened her to every noise swirling around her, even those coming from inside her own head. She never wanted to stop the car once it got going, the asphalt burning hot under the incessant movement of the tires and the charged touch of the accelerator as it gave way under her heel, finally meeting the metal below as the car groaned under her.

But eventually, begrudgingly, she would realize that she had gone too far to be back home by sunrise, or to know where the nearest gas station was, so she would turn around back to the hotel that she called home for only a few nights at a time.

Sometimes when she returned, he would be asleep, run ragged by the driving and shows that only made her more energized than she had ever been in her life. Other times he was still sitting exactly where she left him, guitar clutched in his hand and seemingly surprised that hours had gone by while she was away. Those nights it was like they had both caught the one another in a daydream, Jo’s mind still racing as fast as the car had been and Antoine’s numbed to the outside world by the lyrics that flowed from it like whiskey.

Only when they met each other's eyes did they realize another day awaited them - one filled with the promise or dread of yet another faceless room and a cheering crowd. Then there was little left to do but sleep with the hope that you had the energy to face it.

When the sun broke through the curtains, it brought with it another drive, another hotel, and another show - another day of the movement that had carried them along like waves for weeks at a time. So Antoine would brush the sleep from his eyes, only half aware even as Jo clasped the pearls behind each ear. Then he would rustle up his papers, slow to fit each shirt back into his suitcase as though it shrank with each stop.

By the time they were back in Val's car, the wind took over for the silence of a long drive, grown more poignant by the fact that part of her knew that he didn’t want to be there, and part of him saw that she would push them forward nonetheless.

Except at the end of every drive was yet another show, softening the tension between them with his lyrics that reinforced to her that this was where he was meant to be all along. He never faltered as he played, reminded that despite whatever had kept him awake the night before, this was always waiting for him. Every song and every note like an outlet for his pain, his feelings free to roam through him and escape from him like nothing else.

All their lives, Jo had watched him hide the words he had wanted to say, or the frustrations he felt. She was proud, and even more deeply, joyful that she had gotten him here. Finally, singing on a stage where people listened to him and appreciated him for the artist he was, even if it was in the corner of some dusty bar in the middle of some desert state. She was smart enough to see that if he just allowed it for himself, this was only the beginning. So when Hosa caught up to them on the last leg of their tour and offered her not one but two more tours, she didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.

[hellfirecvnt]

Don't Piss me Off (Pt. 2)

John Q. (Simon) X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, oral (female receiving), "public" sex, unprotected sex (don't do that), poor life choices.

Summary: You still can't stand sticking around your parents for too long, but you stay in town for a while longer just to see him play. PART ONE IS HERE!!

Notes: I love him. I'm gonna write a million versions of the same story I stg. I didn't proof read. I got like 6 ideas at once and they're all getting written at the same time.

In the basement of a warehouse you'd assume abandoned, Simon and his band consisting of a handful of less ill-tempered, but just as dirty and dead-looking men set up for their performance. They're all spitting insults at each other as they scramble to plug in each meticulous piece of shoddy equipment they've acquired.

Simon's preoccupied. Clearly stuck on the thought of you. He realized hours ago that he never told you about the show tonight. He's wrapping the wire of the mic around his fist when he overhears the stagehands. "I didn't make it to Y/N's last party, I figured there would at least be one more before she bolted."

"She went back home?" Simon interrupts.

"Yeah, man. She left today, I'm pretty sure." The stagehands hoist a large amp to its spot, leaving Simon in the silence of realizing you two have no way of contacting each other. That's it. He shrugs his shoulders, brushing off any disappointment, as he's used to things falling through. Nothing's special to someone like him, or that's what he tells himself. He reaches into his back pocket and reveals a pair of underwear that had gotten tangled with his clothes when you did his laundry. He chuckles at the thought of how he would've made you think he stole them on purpose. He stuffs them back into his pocket and gets ready to perform as people start piling in the small venue.

You're nearly flooring it back to that gas station. Once inside, you leap over the counter and snatch the poster from the wall. "God damn! You could've just asked for the fucking flyer, man!" The cashier exclaims, certain you were attempting to rob the store.

"I don't have time!" You yell behind you as you sprint out the door. "Old fuckin' Mill building? Where the fuck is that?" You mumble to yourself, frustrated. You read that Psyops isn't set to play for another 30 minutes, so you speed around town to every old and decrepit site you can find. Four failures before you find the warehouse hosting the show tonight. "Finally!" You slam the van in park before bolting to the door.

"It's $10 to get in," a nonchalant man at the door huffs. You shove the money into his hand and he opens the large, black, graffitied door behind him. You're not shy in a crowd, so when you hear the boisterous speakers blasting the sound of guitar riffs through the building, you start shoving. The vibration sends the decently sized crowd into a wave of cheers and you finally make your way toward the front. You can hear a voice over the speakers, Simon. It's hard to make out what he's saying, but once the song starts, the crowd starts moving.

You're being jostled around for most of the set. Song after song, you try to force yourself to the front, but to no avail. Finally, once Simon takes one step off the slightly raised platform on which they're performing, you can reach him. His grip is white-knuckled around the microphone, now's your chance. You lunge forward and wrap a hand around the mic, pulling yourself forward. Confused and annoyed by the sudden tugging, Simon pulls back, effectively breaking through the wall of people blocking you. The moment your eyes meet his, under his ski mask, he grins. In the moment bringing you before him, he'd missed a few bars of the song, but effortlessly picks back up once you're front and center.

It feels like his eyes are locked on you for the rest of their set. You hate to admit it, but it's a hell of a show. The energy of the crowd, their presence on stage. No wonder Simon feels so strongly about it. He's a different person when he's John Q. An alias you found out about when you were seniors, and you hoped staying quiet about it would've shown him you weren't the snitch, but instead it took a coke bender several, several years later. Plus, he wasn't much less of a loser than you were. Who fucking cared back then that he has a stage name?

After Psyops' set, you and Simon slip outside for a smoke. Riled up from the show, he's too abuzz to make sure his face matches the angry stare he usually wears. "Someone said you were headed home already, didn't think I'd see you at a show any time soon," he says, lighting a cigarette.

"Said I would," you echo his words from his promise to back you up next time you got yourself into an altercation. "Can't let fucking John Q. be more trustworthy than me." Simon laughs at the mention of his stage persona. "I like the mask, though."

"Oh, yeah? That do somethin' for you?" He teases, reaching into his pocket for the mask, but pulling out a different wad of fabric. "Oops," he laughs, dangling your panties in front of you.

"Is that my fuckin' underwear, you god damn pervert?" You curl your lip, put off by the invasive behavior.

"They might be yours, I don't know. I get a lot pussy." Simon smirks with his eyes darkened on you.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck-" you're ready to lay into him, too violated to make any excuses despite how attractive he looks with messy hair and drying sweat.

"Calm the fuck down, they got mixed up with my shit when you washed my clothes at your house," he laughs. You roll your eyes and jump to grab them, but he's too quick. You miss the swipe and are now a great deal closer to him. "I'm gonna hold on to these," he says with a low voice as he scoops you against him with a hand placed on the small of your back. A second passes like an eternity and the two of you lock lips as he stuffs your underwear into his pocket again, allowing some of the silk and lace detail to hang out. As the kiss deepens, his hands move down your body, to your thighs before he grips your ass roughly. Soft moans escape against his lips as he gropes various parts of your curves.

"Do you know how worked up you get me?" He whispers between the press of your kiss. "Thought you left before I could get a taste." He reaches for your eyelet belt, but you stop him.

"Someone's gonna see us."

"Call it an encore," he mumbles before going back at your belt, but you swat him away again.

"At least take me around back, dumbass." You grab a fistful of his shirt and nearly drag him around the corner. It's dark and concealed from any passerby. He lifts you up onto a pad-mounted transformer and wraps your legs around him, still moving his head in sync with yours as each of your tongues explore each other's mouths.

"I guess I was kind of a prick to you back in the day, huh?" He whispers, running his hand through your hair.

"You were an angry piece of shit, yeah. We fuckin' or having a breakthrough?"

"Shut the fuck up for a second," he snaps. "I'm trying to apologize." He slips your denim shorts off your legs and all but falls to his knees in front of the large metal, green box you're sat on. His nimble index finger hooks around your thong and pulls it to the side. You barely have time to process what his "apology" will be before he plunges his head between your thighs. You fight to stifle a surprised moan as he conducts his skillful movements against your sensitive skin.

"Simon, oh, my God!" You whine, arching your back against the friction. He laughs against your skin sending waves of vibrations through your legs. One of his hands is occupied holding your panties to the side, the other is hooked around your hip, holding you securely in place as he meticulously works you over the edge.

"You want me to stop?" He asks, lips framed with drenched facial hair.

"No! No, I-" he cuts off your plea, resuming his position.

"Then stop fighting me," he snaps, harshly pinning you to the metal with the hand he had hooked on your hip. The stimulation quickly builds up, becoming too much, too quickly. You throw your head back and tangle a fist in his hair as he guides you through the high. Your legs shake and threaten to close around him, but his grip is too strong. You remain exactly where he wants you until you've ridden out your orgasm. You're slumped back on your elbows with your head down, breathing heavily as you return to reality.

Simon towers over you where you lay, staring down at you with his dark-circled eyes. You look up and watch him teasingly wipe his mouth, licking his lips like you're the first thing he's devoured in months. He slips your shorts halfway up your legs for you, leaving the rest of the work for whenever you can feel your legs again. "Um," you sigh. "Apology accepted."

"Tits."

"Is 'tits' good?" You furrow your eyebrows. He sighs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"You're leaving tonight, huh?" Simon lights a cigarette.

"Well... That's the plan." You feel a pit in your stomach when you think about going back home. The place is nice, it's far away. It's what you wanted, but life is full and meaningless. You don't have friends out there, it didn't strike you how hard it'd be to meet people in your mid 20s.

"You don't sound so sure about that plan, Y/N." He exhales a cloud that illuminates under the street lamp's orange glow.

"It's boring out there, but it's quiet. It's peaceful. My parents aren't in my ear telling me trying something new could kill me." You shrug.

"That's why you're running? Because of your frigid bitch mom and dad?" Simon laughs as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"Okay, well. You know, maybe don't call them that or I'll lay you the fuck out, but yeah." You stand and fasten your shorts and belt, knees still threatening to buckle. "You had a hand in me leaving too."

"I know, I apologized!" He gestures to your trembling legs and you laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," you wave your hand at him. "Where'd you go? I was in town for weeks. I thought you were in the pin."

"I didn't want to overstay my welcome," he chuckles. "Or watch another fuckin' 80s movie with the volume on ten." He turns to look at you and he smirks.

"Well, my parents are in town now. I still have the rest of this week off. I was gonna spend it getting unpacked, but-"

"Fuck that. Let's go, you're driving." He walks off around the building toward the parking lot and you're dumbfounded for a moment.

"Of course I'm driving, it's my van!" You scramble after him. He hops in your passenger seat and you pull out of the lot, leaving his disgruntled band mates to pack up their own equipment. "You're not gonna help them?"

"What for? My shit's in the van. It's a microphone."

"Yeesh, sorry. Forgot you're actually kind of the worst when your head's not between my legs," you tease and Simon can't suppress a smile. As you cruise down the dark road, bright blue lights ignite in your mirrors. "Fuck. Get it the back." Simon wastes no time, he throws himself in the spacious rear area of the van as you pull over. You both wait anxiously for the cop to approach the window. Everything feels silent, until you finally hear the footsteps.

"I'm gonna run," Simon whispers, hand on the rear door latch.

"Don't." You demand sharply, rolling down your window for the cop. The air feels still and tight. It seems like it takes hours for the cop to speak, but when he does it's a routine traffic stop. He asks you if you knew how fast you were going and you innocently explain the floating nature of your speedometer. The officer laughs when he reads your ID and sees your last name.

"You're Frank's kid, right?"

"Yeah, his one and only." You beam, proudly. Happy to name drop your wealthy family.

"You just try to slow it down and tell your dad I said hello, alright?" The cop taps your door twice and sends you on your way. As you pull off, Simon peeks out from under the blankets and sighs with relief.

"Holy shit, with the way this thing looks, you should've been strip searched." Simon tosses himself back into the passenger seat.

"Don't shit-talk my van," you hiss. Simon proceeds to tell you where to go, each turn and shortcut, until you reach a large white house, almost as status defining as your parents'.

"My parents are out of town." He points to a concealed area to park and leads you to a basement door. He fights with a key for a moment before leading you inside. It's a messy basement room with red walls and posters from ceiling to floor. Instruments take up most of the space, aside from the bed.

"Do you avoid your parents like me, or do your parents avoid you?" You ask, bluntly, not considering the weight of that question.

"Both, I guess." He says after a long pause.

"You... Wanna smoke?" You ask, unsure how to navigate the silence.

"Can't. Fucks with my motivation," he grins. You shrug, rolling and smoking a joint by yourself while Simon works on some songs. He's got an ear for every instrument in his room, and he layers them over each other, creating complex instrumentals. It's nice to listen to while you lie on his bed and watch the swirling tendrils of smoke twist into the light and air above you.

"It sounds nice," you hum, settling into the cozy divot in the center of his mattress-on-the-floor.

"Write something for it," he commands, tossing a notepad and pen at you.

"Like lyrics? Why?" You stare at the blank page, unable to read the layers and layers of writing indented into it from Simon's heavy, angry hand.

"You need an out, I'm giving you one." He leans back in the rolling chair he resides in, staring me down like a hawk.

"I don't think I'm a very musical person. I think I'm more of a doodler, really," you argue, scribbling in the corner of the paper.

"Just fuckin' write something down and stop being a pussy." He snatches the pen from you and tosses it onto the pad.

"Bitch- How does that make me a pussy?" Your eyes narrow at him.

"It'd be too vulnerable. You're no tougher than that kid you were in high school. It's all fake now." It's clear he's taunting you. Making a fair attempt at reverse psychology.

"Fuck you, give me a minute," you huff, writing a line or two to start with. "Play your shit again." And he does. Restarting the instrumental he put together just for you. After a while, you've written something and you sling the notepad at Simon. He takes a moment to read through it a few times, almost trying to decode the melody of how I'd sang it in my head.

"Perfect. Now sing it." He nods toward his microphone stand.

"Fuck's sake, dude. Are you serious?" You whine, pushed further and further out of your comfort zone.

"Come on, let's see what you got," he says in a tone that lets me know I've already lost the argument.

"It doesn't feel good to be vulnerable to you."

"Tough it out." You roll your eyes at his demand, but you do it. You tough it out and recite your song over the music he provided. He hits 'restart,' and then 'record,' and then he points to you. After a measure you begin to sing. Low effort, but still angelic. Your song is about the feeling of being homesick no matter where you end up. It's about running and putting up a face as a defense mechanism. It's about wearing a mask.

When you're done singing and the music fades out, Simon slides the headphones off his ears. "That... Was tits." He looks elated. Like a poor painter with a new pallet.

"Is 'tits' good?" You ask again, emphasizing the lack of answer last time you asked.

"Yeah, 'tits' is good." He grins. "That was good."

"Fuck you. Who's not vulnerable?" You curl your lip, clearly more moved by the challenge than the release he was offering. Simon just shakes his head.

"Let's mix it." He beelines for the computer and begins fine tuning the song. You're watching in awe of his quick skill at this craft. As if watching him play all those instruments wasn't impressive enough. The night grows older. Simon offers you your favorite party favor, but you're over it. So the two of you share a joint.

"You don't ever get tired of living in a circle?" You ask through a cloud of smoke.

"A fuckin' circle?" He looks at you.

"Just, still in this town, still avoiding your parents, still making music alone in your room."

"Fuck," he huffs, offended but acknowledging the truth in your words. "Do you ever get tired of running from it?"

"Touché." You bring the joint to your lips as you lie in his disheveled bed. His arm snaked around you ages ago, slowly pulling you closer and closer to him. Like he's worried you'll float away.

"If our only two options are run away or get sucked into this shit hole of a town, I think we're a little fucked, don't you?" He chuckles to himself.

"Maybe those aren't the only options. We just don't have all the answers yet. I don't think anyone does." Your voice is wistful and quiet. You can feel Simon's eyes on you, but you stare at his dark ceiling. He rolls his eyes at your corny words, but he knows you're right. "It's funny, because if I could run from the uncertainty too, I would." You giggle, aware of your vices and poor coping skills.

"Yeah, you would," Simon mocks.

"And you? You're just going to live with it? Sit right beside the discomfort and accept that for yourself? Have you ever tried to give yourself more, even if it meant running?" You're slowly building up a sense of passion behind your words and Simon just listens, staring deeply into your eyes as you speak. Suddenly, you're cut off when he wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. His lips crash into yours and the two of you melt into each other.

You can't even remember what you were saying, you just know you don't want to stop touching him. The heat of the kiss begins to swell as Simon's hands trail up and down your body. He's grabbing at you in a specific order, like he's been waiting to get his hands on it. Really get his hands on it. You grasp at the hem of his shirt, tugging in semblance to take it the fuck off, and he does.

His broad, pale chest rises and falls with anticipation as you strip off the same article of clothing. "Jesus Christ," he moans, pulling you to him to shove his face directly between your breasts. He breathes deeply, taking you in. With one swift motion, he's hoisted you on top of him, your legs straddling his waist. Simon unfastens the button on your jeans before tossing you to the side to undress you.

You're both naked and greatly anticipating the next moment your skin will touch. Seconds feel like hours until you're pressed against each other again. Simon buries his face in the crook of your neck as he guides his throbbing erection to your entrance. You're squirming and arching beneath him, and he releases a breathy laugh as he watches you writhe. "You're aching for it," he groans.

"Fuck you," you hiss, pulling him closer to you by his shoulders. All he does is chuckle before slowly slipping inside you. You moan loudly as you adjust to his size. Something about a lanky, dead-eyed man. His pace is steady as he rocks his hips against yours, picking up speed as you gush around him. Soon his thrusts are hard and rough, and your loud, vulgar moans echo off his bedroom walls.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," he huffs, pulling out of you and tossing you aside. Simon quickly repositions you in front of him, on all fours. You let your back arch naturally, putting on a bit of a show for him as he watches you. His eyes are darkened and his smirk sends chills down your spine. You can't help but smile wide in excitement. With two round hands, he grabs your waist and positions you at the perfect height. His hands wander the soft flesh of your ass as you press up against him. "You drive me fucking crazy..." He sighs as he slips inside you.

Simon digs the tips of his fingers into your skin, pulling you against him with every violent thrust. You do everything you can to contort your body to give him more of you. He throws his head back, falling into a sloppy, unsteady pace. His breathing is wild and primal all the way up until the point of climax. You release a loud, fluttering moan as he fucks you through your high, quickly withdrawing to finish on your back and ass. You're both breathless for a while, the room is silent but for the sound of your lungs filling and deflating.

Simon climbs off the bed, but you're too fucked out to even raise your head up to watch where he's going. Moments later, he returns, towel in hand. He cleans you up and lands a hard smack on your right ass cheek. The sound is thunderous against the silence. You yelp and break into quiet chuckles.

Finally, you have the strength to roll over. You sit up against the mess of pillows that became a sort of headboard for his bed, feeling beautiful and bare before him. It's a nice feeling that you're not used to. Sure you've had your flings, but it's never occurred to you how quickly you tend to leave or cover up after. Not this time. You're both fully exposed and Simon's eyes drink you in, one last time before he speaks. "Don't go back." You stare at him for a long while, silent.

"I won't," you gasp, surprised by your own promise. As soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips are on yours. In the next few days, you quit your job and Simon rides with you to go back and get the most important of your shit. The rest goes with the trailer when you sell it. You don't run a single thing past your parents and you don't tell them you're coming back to town. It's a new sense of peace and adventure, though it feels like abandoning your old life.

After a month of van living, you and Simon get an apartment and constantly receive complaints about the noise, but nothing stops the music overflowing from your floor of the building. A new sense of bliss. It's comfortable now.

[salternateunreality2]

The Boys with a Stomach Bug (AGSZC)

We saw them with their SO/roommate/friend, now we see how they would act if they were the sick ones!

Angeal:

Mournfully turns into a sad depression rock and hides. He would keep working, but he's responsible enough to know that he's contagious. He tries to take home a huge stack of work, but he can't finish it because he's too miserable.

Passively tries to hint that he wants someone to take care of him, but won't say it outright.

"No, no, it's alright, I wouldn't want you to get sick too..." *Sad cough, despite not being sick with a cough*

He will accept glasses of water delivered to his door, but only if you press him, and he will refuse to let you in.

He will struggle through alone with vaporub on his elbows, powdered Gatorade in a gallon-sized jug, a raw piece of ginger root on his nightstand, and potato peels in his socks.

Genesis:

Canonically, he will make it everyone else's problem too.

Hugging the toilet, asking the goddess why she hath forsaken him. Hugging a bucket, sitting on the SOLDIER common room sofa, asking why no one cares if he dies. Hugging a pillow, asking why Angeal is in the kitchen instead of here with him.

He will try to stay at work, only to dramatically run out of his office to the closest executive bathroom and loudly get sick every hour until he's forcibly sent home.

He will complain about every little annoyance and text regular updates and beg Momgeal to bring him something else.

He will get half the SOLDIERs sick and cause massive staffing shortages.

Sephiroth:

Never gets sick and everyone hates him for that.

HOWEVER, if he gets experimented on or recklessly eats gas station sushi, he turns into the saddest, loneliest, wettest kitten and quietly shuts himself away, wishing for his mother.

If he's expected at work, he attends and just looks miserable the whole time until Lazard sends him home.

He's quieter than Angeal, and doesn't solicit or refuse help, because he doesn't think he deserves it, and is too confused to refuse when it shows up.

He also doesn't help himself. He stays hydrated and minimizes mess, meaning he spends a lot of time lying on the bathroom floor and drinking from the tap until he's operational again.

Where is momther?

Zack:

Gets suddenly and violently ill in the middle of practice.

He doesn't ask for people to show up and take care of him, but they can't help themselves and show up anyway.

As soon as they're in his apartment, he's excited to have friends, but it's pathetic to see, because instead of squatting, he tries a wobbly, tearful grin.

He's not demanding, but he asks for a lot and prefers not to be alone. He likes to sit on the couch, and will ask for popsicles please and soup and water and juice if you don't mind, and then he'll throw up because he tried it too soon.

He recovers quickly and thoroughly, and is jokingly hated for it because what was a 24 hour bug for him has the rest of SOLDIER (who he infected) needing a week off at a time.

He's forgiven, because he's really sweet and helpful to everyone else.

Cloud:

Can't afford time off, so throws up into random bushes and keeps stumbling forward.

He's given 12 hours of leave after he passes out from dehydration and sickness mid-patrol, which means he returns still sick and passes out again.

This time they drop him off in the infirmary to suffer alone until he's cleared for duty.

He's miserable and just sleeps as much as he can and survives out of spite.

He mostly wants to be left alone to perish in peace and is agonizing over how this is going to disqualify him from SOLDIER somehow, until Zack calls.

He doesn't tell Zack what happened until Zack weasels it out of him. Then Zack shows up with Kunsel and a massive cauldron of Angeal's soup.

Cloud pretends to hate it, but secretly soaks up the attention like a sponge until he gets embarrassed and pretends to fall asleep while Zack sings to him.

[paceprompting]

beside, not behind

written for ‘guard’ wc: 532 # | rated: t | cw: era-typical homophobic language & violence | tags: early relationship, protective steve harrington, feral eddie munson, soft ending

@steddiemicrofic

Steve knew he had a problem.

He didn’t care.

So what if he was the first one to jump in front of the danger; the things with rows of sharp teeth and no mercy. Or the normal people in their shit town with somehow less mercy than the demons.

So, yeah, he wasn’t going to hesitate to step in front of Eddie. His own body was shield enough.

Jason’s fist cracked across his jaw, his big-ass class ring cutting into the thin skin and drawing blood that spattered along the asphalt when Steve’s head snapped to the side. It’d been meant for Eddie, in the random gas station parking lot when they dared venture out for beer Steve didn’t realize he’d been out of.

Eddie hadn’t started it, but he hadn’t ignored Jason’s taunting. Old habits of biting first to be left alone had backfired, and Jason’s ego had flown out, full force.

He stumbled back into Eddie, but didn’t fall. He might get put down on his knees, but Steve was strangely good at keeping between the danger and the protected.

“Need a fucking guard dog when you go out now, Munson?” Jason seethed.

“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped, his hand landing on Steve’s shoulder, trying to push past. Steve refused, extending his arms to keep Eddie at his back. Steve may not have had any problem standing in front of Eddie, but Eddie definitely had a problem letting him.

“Steve, fucking move.” Eddie dug his nails into Steve’s shirt. Steve’s jaw fucking throbbed—and oh, did Eddie owe him later—which was enough to keep Eddie from throwing himself at Jason. Steve could take it, because no one else needed to.

He was the only one who needed to take the brunt of the world.

“Yeah, Harrington,” Jason said, flashing his teeth with a wolf-like sneer. “Let the fag take his beating with some dignity.”

Steve was so focused on keeping Eddie back, he’d hadn’t enough focus to do the same for himself. Not when ignorant, repressed fucking Jason Carver went after his Eddie.

He lashed out, one hand curling into Jason’s stupid letterman jacket and the other returning the blow he’d given Steve across the face. It didn’t draw blood, and Jason overcame the surprise by grabbing hard onto Steve’s hair and yanking him around.

There was so much shouting, Steve didn’t realize Eddie had joined the fray until Jason flew off to the side, a chaotic blur of black leather and chains wrapped up with him as they rolled onto the pavement. Eddie managed to stay on top, smacking his hand across Jason’s face and drawing several lines of blood from his own rings.

Jason shoved him off, swearing. Eddie went easily, getting onto his feet and towering over Jason.

“Get lost, or I’ll do it again.”

Holding his jaw, Steve turned away and fell back against the side of the Beemer, ignoring Jason. Eddie joined him, pressing his nose to Steve’s temple.

“I wish you wouldn’t step in,” Eddie whispered.

Steve shook his head, but Eddie stopped his response with a hand around his wrist.

“I want to face it with you,” he said against Steve’s skin. ���Not behind you.”

[adaxrafaelbarba]

Rafael slipped behind the wheel and put on his seatbelt. He glanced over at her, giving her a soft reassuring smile. He then started the engine and pulled them onto the street outside her apartment building. "You might have to search for grocery stores as we get close to find out if any are open late or twenty-four hours. If not, I'm afraid we'll be stuck getting something that will hold us over at a convenient mart."

He relaxed behind the wheel as they headed out of the city. He hadn't always loved driving, but he found driving at night to be soothing. Maybe it was the dark and the quiet mixed with the lights, but he found it did the opposite of make him sleepy. It wired him up, but he wouldn't pass up the chance for a good cup of coffee before the left the city limits.

He pulled into the drive-thru of Starbucks, knowing it wasn't the coffee chain that either of them preferred but it was better than gas station coffee. That was worse than whatever they served at the 16th precinct. "Your usual or do you want something fancy since it's Starbee's?" he teased, not pulling up the speaker until he had her order.

"I can carry my own suitcase, Raf." Despite her protest and the fond sigh she releases, Olivia allows him to take it from her grip. She gives a playful roll of her eyes, "Maybe." The hand to her lower back is comforting.

If it had been anyone else besides him, she might have flinched away. She might have hissed at them not to touch her but this is not anyone else. This is Rafael, a man who has always been her safe place.

"I've already sent a text to Finn, he's got the station covered so there's no rush." Olivia says, the last part sort of a 'I know what you're thinking' kind of tone. She knows that he has a habit of going a little too fast and while she plans on leaving work at the office, she's letting him know that he shouldn't go too fast.

"I'm sure. If I need anything else, we can grab it somewhere." She doesn't need much, not really.

Olivia follows him down the staircase and to the car, waiting for him to finish putting their luggage away (and offering to help even though she knows he'll decline) and then she is climbing into the passenger seat.

[kil9]

the taemin/ravi friendship is so funny cos taemin is from Big Corporate Well Oiled Machine sment like a purebred dog and ravi is from the company that was like "we've never had a group before we kinda just have 40 year old man singers. i guess we will leave these 6 teenagers unsupervised."

[littleplantfreak]

kaji would be the perfect bf to kiss silly right before he has to go on patrol or act as grade captain for something bc it would be sm fun to watch him try to compose himself before he gets there and get all frazzled by his friends’ teasing

He can still taste and feel your chapstick and he’s like 😳😤 the entire way there. The red doesn’t leave his face fast enough for him to blame it on the heat or having jogged there so his vice captains know immediately what he was up to if his messed up hair that he keeps trying to push back is anything to go by

[lesbiankittie]

do you think the people who knew human cas ever see like a true crime documentary about some guy who claimed to be god and went on a killing spree and they’re just like "Oh my god thats my ex-husband"

[tomkittycat]

i ran away when i was ten and i remeber almost getting kidnapped i think lmao

[keii]

I really should stop looking down on my traditional sketches because I can't emulate this kind of feeling in my digital art.

[ltacryptid]

as a gas station reader who came from Mr creepypastas narrations of it it was weird to come to terms with the fact that I do not picture jack having his voice. Like what happened in the four years since I first listened to it that changed his voice. Don’t ask what voice he has I can’t describe it

[gondorsfinest]

tomorrow is my first birthday after my dad passed and i feel very ?????? about that. around half a year before he died he told me he was proud of me and 'all i want for you is that you're happy'... which... sweet. okay. thank you. shouldn't have fucking died then??? ngl that is severely complicating the whole happiness thing! if i may be so bold! sir!

[swiftfootedachilles]

ive never seen anyone talk about a canon divergence where damien and mickey get caught by the feds when they robbed that gas station....im rlly interested in knowing yalls thoughts on what might happen after that

[lycheefruiit]

WHAT IS BAD AND FOOLISH'S STREAM RIGHT NOW

[heartshapedtrap]

just hung out w friends for five hours and feltso full of whimsy I could pass out <333 I miss them so bad already but I get to see them tomorrow tooooo