#this is ................ long

[animesketch-es]

The brainrot is brainrotting 🤕

Smiling Critters infection/apocalypse AU I don’t actually have a name for yet because I haven’t thought that far. I just thought I’d draw what I had in mind before it disappeared never to be seen again… 🕊️

The general premise is that after the outbreak, the SC formed their own survival group based in DogDay’s house and were doing well for themselves until CatNap suddenly got infected. Now it’s a mix of apocalypse survival and trying to find a cure + interpersonal drama because of course

[sapphiclvrgrl]

let me run a shower for the two of us. cozy lighting and our favourite music. slowly getting you out of those clothes and into the hot water. let me wash your hair, giving you the most relaxing head massage in the process. let me wash your entire body, running my hands over every inch of you and leave soft kisses down your spine. let me wrap you in the softest towel and sit you on the counter so i can do your entire skincare routine for you and give you soft kisses all over your pretty face. let me lotion your entire body and give you my comfiest clothes to wear. let me take care of you <3

[starlinehoney]

cw: fingering, male sub, humping, innocent!art, slight religious themes, reader is very sexual and art is very virgin, art thinks of Patrick while with you which could mean nothing. Took inspiration from @artdcnaldson and her virgin!art au.

NSFW under the cut

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I love innocent!art I DONT CARE IF ITS CANON

Art had never touched a girl like this before. He’d kissed them, and sometimes they’d touch him through his shorts, but he was always too nervous to go further. From the way Patrick talked about it, he didn’t know if he was prepared. He doesn’t know how to be assertive or dominant. He likes to be sweet, he likes to be.. taken care of.

Of course, he’s watched porn. He’s seen the girls who step on guys and spank them and make fun of them, but that’s just porn. And he’s honestly not sure he wants that either. He just wants to make whoever he’s with feel good, and he.. hasn’t exactly learned how to do that.

But you.. you showed him a whole new world. You were like some sort of sex goddess.. you just knew how to take care of him. You knew exactly what he was thinking— you let him just.. explore you. You were perfect.

He’d liked you for a while now, and you weren’t exactly shy about how you wanted him. So one night, you finally got him into your apartment. It took some puppy dog eyes, but at the end of the day, he couldn’t resist.

Just as he feared, you’re immediately on top of him, kissing him with such.. need. He’s never felt that before. Most girls are always hesitant.. more slow, cautious movements. You just immediately took over, and that made the blood rush straight from one head to the other. He felt lightheaded, and your lipgloss was so sticky and you smelled so good.. he was overwhelmed and fidgety, you could sense his nervousness from a mile away.

“…are you a virgin?” He hears you mutter against his lips. He pulls away slightly as he watches an almost wicked grin grow on your previously sweet looking lips. He blinks a few times at the question. What does he say to that? It’s embarrassing. You know the answer by how he flushes from the tips of his ears down his neck, and somehow, your smile only grows.

He sees how you slightly bite your lip. He can’t help but think you’re a little too excited by the idea of him being a virgin— the look on your face reminds him of how Patrick looked when he found out Art had never jerked off. The face of someone who was about to change his life.

“have you ever touched a girl before?” You ask sweetly, softly. There’s an almost motherly tone to your voice, and it makes his head all fuzzy. He shakes his head after a moment, stuttering out a small “no” as he bats his long eyelashes up at you. He’s so hard it hurts, and all he can focus on his how you’re pressing against him while straddling his lap. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they just rest at his sides. He wants to touch you, feel you, worship you.. but that’d be too much, right?

He feels your hand touch his own. God, they’re probably all gross and clammy. Now that’s all he can think about. He’s about to start a small apology for his nervous state when he feels his fingers press against something warm and wet. His eyes flit to where his arm leads and he sees his hand underneath your skirt. “You want me to—“ he asks, seeming almost concerned. But when he looks up, you just.. nod. So simply, without a care in the world. And suddenly, he can’t remember why he was so nervous. You’re here..you’ll teach him. You’ll take over where Patrick left off.

He feels around and stops when he hears you make a small noise “was that bad?” He asks ashamedly, but regains his little dignity when you frantically shake your head. He furrows his brow slightly when you tell him to keep doing it, but does as you ask. You’re the expert.

He runs his slender fingers over the raised area over and over and over, eyes trained on your face as he watches you lose your composure. “Inside— put them inside.” You say as you hold back a small moan and he nods, searching eagerly for your entrance. He runs his fingers over the slick skin and finds it rather quickly, slowly inserting his middle finger. He moans at the feeling just as you do— it’s so pleasant inside of you. It’s soft and warm, and so.. close, you’re constricting around his finger like you never want it to leave.

He begins to feel around there, too. Pressing against a particularly squishy spot that piques his interest as you grind on his palm and his lap. He feels himself getting more and more warm, and he feels an all too familiar knot building in his stomach.

Guilt creeps in as he gets closer and closer to orgasm. You haven’t even touched him and he’s about to soil his boxers. How pathetic. Not to mention all he can look at is how hot you look like this. Flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, your boobs in his face. There’s a soft light coming from your desk lamp that shines through your messy hair, and he swears that you’re a god, or an angel.. or something. You can’t feel this good, and look that way, and be.. a person. People have flaws, but you’re just.. perfect.

Your moans get more frequent and loud, so much that he can now hear you over his own whimpers and whines. He wants to tell you to stop, to avoid the humiliation of cumming in his pants. But you feel too good, and he can’t resist the thought of cumming with you. It’s like an obsession now, it keeps replaying in his brain and he has to have it be his reality.

He hears you chant his name and give him a quick warning of your impending orgasm before planting your lips back on his. He whines into your mouth as he tips over the edge and you groan as you do the same. You’re humping against eachother like dogs in heat, and there’s something so beautiful about how you made eachother feel so much with so little.

As you come down, he’s still humping against you, despite the encroaching overstimulation. He wants to feel you as much as possible. You smile “does that feel good?” You ask in that motherly tone, regaining your composure with impressive ease, and he stops like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He flushes and mutters soft apologies into your shoulder, letting out a pathetic whimper when you tell him to keep going.

He learns a lot that night..

[needypisces]

me and the boys in the hotel lobby

It had been surprisingly easy for Tashi to maneuver Art and Patrick into position. Not that she doubted herself, but she was starting to doubt their claim that mutual masturbation was the extent of their shared sexual history.

Their legs were slung over each other, a tangle of muscled thighs and calves that Tashi sat alongside. It was a beautiful view, Patrick’s hairy legs and Art’s smooth intertwined to the point that their pelvises slotted together. They were both so hard and so willing, and it was so easy for her to do as she intended, to gather their cocks together. She had to use both hands, would’ve had to for just Patrick anyway.

"Oh," Art breathed as Tashi pressed them together in her palms. Patrick hummed in agreement, but his breath came out short when she leaned her head over their crotches, close enough for her hot breath to hit their sensitive skin. They both watched, awestruck, waiting, hoping, for her to stick out her tongue and taste.

Their disappointment didn't last long when she simply spit into her palms, gathering the makeshift lube with the precum already flowing from both boys and twisting her wrist in a single upward stroke. Tashi wasted no time in building a rhythm that had both boys keening.

"Fuck," Patrick muttered. He'd gotten hand jobs before, obviously, but never from a girl like this, and never, even in his dreams, with his best friend's dick flush against his own. He stole a glance at Art, and couldn't hold back a whimper when he saw his friend's face. Art was watching Tashi's hand in disbelief, swollen lips parted, a sheen of sweat highlighting his cheekbones. Patrick couldn't be sure if it was this view or Tashi's sudden thumb on his frenulum that made his stomach clench. But it was definitely Art feeling his gaze and meeting his eyes that made Patrick tip his head back and moan obscenely.

"Doubles partners." Tashi said and Art would have laughed if he wasn't already so close to coming. "You do everything together, huh? Only makes sense you'd want to come together, too." She rubbed a flat palm over both of their tips as she shifted to lie on her stomach, resting her chin on Art's thigh, close enough to smell them.

"Yeah," Patrick panted. "We've been missing out on this." He met Art's eyes again, watched the red creep across his face.

"Good thing you found me." Tashi murmured.

The back and forth was almost as erotic to Art as their touch was. He was so content to just be in the middle of it all, sandwiched between their bodies and their words. He'd never felt a sense of belonging quite like this, and the realization was a little too much for him. It was all starting to be too much, in the best way; Tashi's persistent grip on his cock and her breath near his balls.

"I'm gonna come," He panted, once he realized he couldn't hold it back anymore.

"Already?" Patrick mocked. "Come on Donaldson, you can do better than that."

Art dipped his chin down, trying to control his breathing as his body shook. "Isn't it, like, a compliment? It feels so good," he said. After a moment, he added on, shyly, "you both feel so good."

Tashi grinned into his quad. "Go ahead, then." She said. "But I'm not stopping until Patrick comes, too."

The warning should've held him off - Art knew he would get overwhelmed even more quickly once he came, and that Patrick would last a while, but it was just so hot, and so filthy coming from her pretty face, that he couldn't help himself.

Art's cock twitched against Patrick's and they moaned in tandem as he came, spurting into her hand and down both of their lengths. "Good boy," Tashi murmured, biting Art's hip lightly, and in response he whimpered.

"Fuck," Patrick grunted, watching the way Tashi watched her own fist as it continued to pump their cocks. Art was already becoming overstimulated, letting out a litany of high-pitched ah, ah, ahs.

"Please," Art exhaled.

"No one's done until you're both done." Tashi reminded him, kissing Art's thigh in attempt to calm him. He bit his lip, hard, and Tashi sat back up to give him just a little space.

Patrick's grunts and Art's pleas formed a backdrop to the slick sound of Tashi's work. She could feel her panties sticking to her, she was so wet, but she was comfortable in her position for now. Tashi liked the way it felt to make the boys fall apart like this, to have them, quite literally, in the palm of her hand. She hadn't been sure of them earlier in the night, but she was intrigued by their friendship. She'd never had a best friend, not like this, but she wanted one, now. Wanted them.

"God, you look so good doing that." Patrick huffed, and Tashi bit her lip. "You like it, don't you?"

"Not as much as you do." She countered.

"Yeah." He said, reaching out a hand to squeeze her wrist. "That's probably true."

"Definitely true," Art piped in between ragged breaths. Patrick and Tashi were both strangely turned on to see tears welling in his eyes.

"You doing ok?" Patrick teased.

"Not really." Art admitted. A drop spilled free, rolled down his cheek. Tashi leaned forward to lick it off, and the simple touch of her tongue to his face broke the dam completely.

“I know, baby, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” Tashi cooed into Art’s ear, barely audible over his cries. “You just have to take it until Patrick comes, you can do it, I know you can.”

“I can’t.” He sobbed. His chest was flushed a burnt red and his thighs were quivering so intensely she thought he might pull a muscle. But she wouldn’t take pity on him. It wouldn’t be fair.

“You can.” Tashi said, a bit more sternly, but she immediately softened at Art’s wobbling lip.

“Please.” He whimpered.

Tashi tilted her head toward Patrick, who managed to wear a face of amusement despite his own gasps and moans. “Don’t beg me.” She said to Art. “Beg him. He’s the one you’re waiting for.”

Art was too desperate to resist, so he immediately redirected his pleas. “Patrick, please,” he whined. “Please, I want you to come, I need you to come, it’s too much.” Patrick couldn’t stop the grin from splitting his face; he’d never heard anything more beautiful than Art's broken voice begging for his come.

“Yeah?” Patrick asked, thrusting harder into Tashi's hand. “You want me to come all over your cock?”

“Yes,” Art gasped.

“Say it.”

Art couldn’t stand it, Patrick’s leaky tip pressed up almost painfully against his own. “I want you to come,” He said again. “All over my cock, yours, on Tashi, make a mess, I don’t care, please, just-" His voice gave out when Tashi's grasp tightened at the mention of her name.

“Come on, Patrick,” she said, heat spreading down her own body. “He’s asking so nicely, can’t you give Art what he wants?” Selfishly, she needed him to. The sooner they finished, the sooner they could attend to her dripping pussy.

"Keep talking like that and I will," Patrick promised.

"Please, please," Art babbled. "Patrick, I, fuck, please, I think I'm gonna come again. Is that possible? Can I do that?"

Patrick's laugh was breathy. Art was so cute. "Yeah," he said. "Why don't you come one more time, and that'll get me there, okay?" It wasn't just talk; if Patrick could watch Art spurt again while he cried into Tashi's shoulder, he might never stop coming.

"Just let it happen, baby." Tashi agreed, encouraging Art. "I'm not stopping yet."

It was downright pornographic: the sound Art let out was high and weepy, his cock leaking pathetically at his second orgasm. Still, Tashi held to her word. "Patrick." It was all Art could choke out, but it was enough.

"Fuck, I know, Art. Okay. Right there, Tashi, yes, yes, yes-" and Patrick came too, his own climax putting Art to shame, load after load spilling down Tashi's arm and Art's stomach.

"Jesus," Patrick said, and Art gasped in agreement when Tashi finally withdrew her sticky hand.

"Nope." She smirked. "Just me."

[adyophene]

lucifer x husk is something i never knew i needed and as a multishipper im screaming

literally. king of hell x some alcoholic furry guy

i love them i need to know how they wouldve met, fallen for each other and started dating. and how much thatd piss alastor off

Ooh I am so happy other people are enjoying this pair as much as I am! I've gotten a few asks about my headcanons for them, and I am happy to blab on and on. Fair warning. This is gunna be a long and rambling essay.

I'm gunna put it all under a readmore, just cause I want to insert the art I've done of them so far, since I've been half-heartedly trying to tell a visual story through the doodles.

Okay. On we go!

How they met;

We did see them technically meet in the show, where they shared their singular canon piece of dialogue, which was just Husk saying 'hey'. And then in the finale where we see a literal split second moment of Lucifer holding Husk's arm.

(also seeing the sweet looks huskerdust is giving each other here just makes me feel so delulu for writing this all, but crackships are silly by definition, so lets get back to the lucihusk) For me, what I imagined, is after the Hotel is finished its rebuilding, that is when Husk and Lucifer finally actually meet in a proper manner. I think Lucifer would be trying to make a good impression on all Charlie's friends at this point, endeared to all of them from their actions during the finale. Unfortunately, I think he is also the King of Bad First Impressions.

[Note. I think at this point Lucifer wouldn't even remember Husk's name quite yet. I think he would call him 'Keekee' ( by accident) or 'Dusk' (confidently incorrect) or just be like "Hey!.... Uh... You?" until Charlie or Vaggie finally corrected him. ]

Husk, on the other hand, I feel like maybe wouldn't gel with Lucifer right away. Wouldn't hate him, but also maybe not be enamored with him right away. Same as Lucifer, maybe he would have sweetened on him a bit through the hotel's rebuilding, but I think they'd start out at very neutral feelings. Maybe a vague sense of 'He's okay, but I don't know if we will really get along.'

Despite this, Lucifer is persistent, and he's going to be everyone's (except maybe Al, unless they start getting along by s2) buddy. He'd start hanging around the bar and participate in the redemption exercises.

Now, we know Lucifer struggles with depression, and I think he would be trying real hard to mask anything going on during this time. They defeated Adam! They rebuilt the Hotel! He believes in Charlie's dream, and he's more involved with her life and other people than he has been for years.

His only issue being Husk sees right through it, both because Husk is perceptive, but also because even the King of Hell can't help but have a lonely night or two at the bar where he ends up venting about his divorce and subsequent lingering loneliness.

[snapcube ref aside, )I really do think Husk would start to feel more positively toward Lucifer after Luci would drop the act somewhat. That they could bond over feeling both at their lowest of lows, while also being to admit that things seem to be getting better!

This would be about the point that I imagine Lucifer developing more romantic feelings! Husk would be a bit less prickly, and Luci would just absolutely eat up any and all positive interactions they'd have. I like to picture a lot of little shows of care at the this point, like Husk memorizing what Lucifer likes and even making up 'fun' drinks just to try and cheer the guy up. And Lucifer would fun a fun game in trying to get the grumpy cat to smile, and just, lighting up himself any time he was successful.

And that culminating into the two of them making each other laugh, with Alastor being an easy butt of the jokes, and a good way for Husk, himself, to finally get a chance to vent. I think Lucifer would be one of the only 'safe' options for Husk to do that with, in just so far as Al can't really threaten Lucifer, and Lucifer already sees Al as a bit of a manipulative bastard.

Falling for each other; At this point, Lucifer would start being a bit more caring toward Husk, though with that wonderful, oblivious flair of his. I don't think Lucifer himself would realize he'd have a crush up until he'd start feeling protective or jealous over Husk, and it would really throw him for a loop at first.

Because fake dating is one of my all-time favorite tropes, I have always had a idea for a fanfic (or comic) that I haven't gotten around to yet, based around Lilith coming back, and Lucifer panickily asking Husk to pretend to be his boyfriend, so he can appear well adjusted/completely over her. Of course the whole thing would backfire, as Lilith would see through it (as Lucifer wouldn't be as good of an actor as he'd think), and that Husk would end up kind of feeling hurt by the whole thing.

Husk, who'd go along with the plot with an eyeroll, would find himself seizing up through the whole fake date/encounter. Would find weird, sudden emotions bubbling up and absolutely hating it.

I don't think that man would think about the class difference between him and Lucifer up until someone would say something about it, maybe Lucifer himself trying to rationalize the (at this time still fake) relationship to Lilith. Now, Husk feels uneasy about the whole thing and ends up drinking heavily the whole night so he doesn't have to think about feelings. (Blitz and Stolas who? Ahaha. fuck.) Meanwhile, while the date would be fake, I think Lucifer would really rather like having Husk on his arm and feeling like he'd have a love-life again, while also not really getting why Husk's mood would be getting worse throughout the night. I think they'd still end up on good terms, but both of them would have their feelings in a jumble, and Husk would not like it. (he thinks he's lost the ability to love, after all)

I think somewhere at this point, as they are starting to develop feelings for one another, is when Lucifer finally starts really realizing how tied to Alastor Husk is, and he starts to make it everyone's problem. I do think Al and Lucifer would stay snarky at each other this whole time, but that it'd only get worse, as Al would poke back since he'd find Lu's over reactions funny.

I also think Al would be maybe the last person to realize anything romantic would be brewing between Lucifer and Husk, and he'd just think it'd be a purely platonic thing.

Beyond just bitching about Alastor, Lucifer would really be ramping up his attention towards Husk too. Fully in that 'puppylove/crush' stage, and trying his darndest to make Husk feel good and special. Husk would be resistant to it all, thinking it would just be Lucifer rebounding hard, and not wanting to get wrapped up in Morningstar family drama when he could happily (miserably) keep his head down and just keep drinking the days away.

But then Lucifer would find out about Husk's love of stage magic, and his history as a performer, and it'd be all over for the catman. It would become Luci's new pet project to rope Husk into some joyful self-expression, and after a song and dance number's worth of convincing, Husk would start to come around. I have to post all these images now cause- I drew them with the intention of mimicking a musical number! Husk starting off as a bit resistant before jumping in whole heartedly, and Lucifer overexcitedly dragging him along throughout the music number, hyping him up and just all around being smitten.

And this is where Husk would start really falling. Getting swept up in indulging his favorite, least destructive hobby, and having someone who absolutely loves it to bond with. Especially when it would be over. When they would just settle down and talk, and laugh, and bond over what they love about performing. The spectacle, the audience, the love of the craft. Its about the comradery!!!

@belladonazeppole wrote a wonderful series of fanfics based off these pictures, as well as the songs from 'The Greatest Showman' that really fit the ship! I would be remiss to not mention them here, because Bella and their fics are just wonderful!

How they started dating;

Now. Don't think just cause they both caught feelings for each other, that they'd immediately admit to it. No. I think both of them would drag their heels. I don't think Husk would admit to them at all, without some outside force effecting it. I think he'd stubbornly try to ignore the crush or drink it away, rather than let his heart become vulnerable to anymore damage.

Meanwhile, Lucifer would be struggling between his feelings for Husk and Lilith. (In the actual canon, I do think they might try to rekindle things, depending on what kind of person Lilith turns out to be, but I digress.) Part of him would be so swept up in a giddy kind of excitement, while the other would be set firmly in the camp of 'this is a bad idea, this won't work out, just look at what happened to your last relationship'. It wouldn't stop him from being outwardly more and more affectionate, but it would be weighing on him.

I do think Lucifer would end up being the one who would be thinking; "What am I doing. He'd never like me back." While Husk would be just sitting there (echoing what was said in the ask- sorry I went all wild and wrote this much about the ship dear god)- "I'm just some fucking furry alcoholic, what the fuck would the king of hell see in me??? Am I delusional? What the fuck is going on??" And I feel like this stage would go on for MONTHS and drive everyone else nuts. It would be clear to everyone (except Alastor, who again, would be just this meme

Though that wouldn't stop him from getting a little pissy about it) And then it would all come to a head during something benign, like a board game night. There would be flirting, there would be jealousy, there would be arguing, and then finally, loudly and with a lot of feeling, Lucifer would shout his way through asking Husk out on a date. A real Date. A capital 'D' date out on the town, dressed to the nines and a real good time. The board would be knocked over in the fray, game pieces raining down upon them while Husk would just stare blank faced, trying to process what just happened. An awkward half-minute would pass before he'd finally, trying to play it cool, shrug out a 'sure'.

How much it'd piss Alastor off;

In the aftermath, a radio static would just lowly grate everyone's ears as Alastor would be slowly coming to terms on how just annoying it would be to have his friend (/Unhealthy co-dependent pet friend possession??) romantically involved (ew) with the King of Hell (double ew)??? Then, either it would be something light hearted like 'he keeps trying to break them up but failing cause he hates interacting with romance' or a darker route where 'he keeps trying to manipulate them into breaking up by preying on all their worst insecurities in the relationship'.

And that, my friend, is all I have in mind so far for this delusional crackship au! There is more I could flesh out, of course, like Angel's role as a friend or potential third in the relationship, or what I imagine as Husk becoming like a stepdad to Charlie, but I've typed enough for the whole month. Hope any of that was coherent! I did not bother to edit or proof read it. Just pure stream of consciousness.

[ugly-anarchist]

Alright, anon, I'm not posting your messages in 3 different posts so lets just break this down here

[Indented text is the anon message. This is going to be long as hell]

butch women and trans men are not oppressed for being masculine, they’re oppressed for being gender nonconforming females (not saying trans men are women, just stating how a patriarchal society sees them).

So, firstly, the thing I'm talking about isn't actually oppression on a systemic level. You're talking about how non-queer society sees us, I'm talking about how other queer people treat us. Butch lesbians have been pushed out of sapphic spaces for a loooong time. Butch lesbians are seen as scary, mean, violent, and inherently abusive within queer spaces. Which stems from a demonization of masculinity. I should know this. I identified as a butch bisexual sapphic for years. I know what this feels like. I was once told that people with "high T levels" are more likely to be abusive, which includes me because I'm intersex and have naturally high T.

Secondly, maybe don't try to define trans men's oppression for them? I'm not a trans guy either but I experience a lot of the same bullshit from society that they do and it's not just "being a gender non-conforming female" it's a lot more complex than that. And also just, in general, a very weird way to say it.

i’ve never heard a masc cis gay man complain about being welcome or not in queer spaces, to the point in which feminine cis gay men have complained about them writing “no sissies, masc4masc” in their bio on dating apps.

I have. I've heard plenty of stories about masc gay men and specifically bi men in queer spaces feeling very unwelcome because they were being treated like a threat. And some gay men being transphobic (because s*ssy is a transmisogynistic slur in this case) or having a preference for other mascs also isn't indicative of mascs being treated well?

Like I know a lot of butch4butches that have that preference specifically because they feel unwelcome or are treated badly by femmes. I don't know how you personally not hearing about it or what some people put on their dating profile proves here.

Also your complete lack of acknowledgement of bi men in this makes me doubt even more that your perspective on this is a valid one because that tells me you either don't know any bi men or you ignore them to such an extent that you forgot they existed.

claiming misandry or anti-masculinity exists is the same as saying that heterophobia exists because straight trans people are treated like shit.

Never said that misandry on its own exists, don't know where you got that.

People are treated like shit based on the fact that they are masc all the time. That is a thing that happens. I have experienced it, I've heard so many stories from other queer people who experience it. I don't know how saying "no you don't, I'm gonna tell you what you really experience" is at all an alright thing to do.

it’s not heterophobia, it’s transphobia/homophobia. in the same way that masc afab people being treated terribly is misogyny and homophobia, and has literally zero to do with misandry/“anti-masculinity”. if anti-masculinity or misandry existed, even straight cis heterosexual men would suffer from it.

So, like, I'm talking about anti-masculinity in the queer community. "If this is true here then it must be true with this different thing" is a really bad argument because you could use that to invalidate anything that is true.

For example: The definition of racism is "prejudice based on race" which technically that definition doesn't exclude white people but you don't see anyone arguing "if racism existed, even white people would suffer from it" or trying to say it's not really about race just to exclude white people. Like, obviously you can't be racist to white people and anyone who claims you can be is just making a bad-faith argument. I am looking pointedly at you when I say that, btw.

also, a lot of radfems are gender nonconforming women/butches and literally campaign for women to drop conformity to the patriarchal concept of femininity. gender critical conservatives are not radical feminists and y’all need to stop conflating the two because no matter what jk rowling says, in practice and in theory, they have very little to do with one another (and hate each other, at that).

There's actually two sides of the "radfem" spectrum and they're both just as bad. There's the ones who hate gender non-conforming women, specifically the ones who go on HRT, and claim they're gender traitors. And then there's the ones which you describe who usually shame women for liking feminine things. Both their beliefs usually go against the whole purpose of gender-nonconformity which is to be yourself and do what makes you happy, society be damned. People who are truly GNC don't judge others for presenting in a way that is typically considered "conforming" to their gender and don't campaign for other people to be like them?

Also... Are you defending radical feminism? Are you a radfem? Because that would make a whole lotta sense.

and one last thing,

Just so you know, this is how this anon began the final message. It is the longest one. Really said "one last thing" then sent me a whole 4 paragraphs.

please stop acting like “people who are attracted to men” are demonized in queer spaces, what a slap in the face to lesbians. the moment they have a little visibility y’all claim they are privileged and somehow bossing around/discriminating against gay men.

Never said that lesbians were the oppressor in this situation. There is no oppressor, it's fully lateral mistreatment. And like.. it's not about just gay men.

Bi women have been pushed out of and demonized within sapphic spaces for decades, actually. I should know. Because again. I'm a bi sapphic. We are seen as a range of things. Pretenders, abusers, invaders, the source of lesbian oppression, tricksters that try to force lesbians to fuck men, or just disgusting. Traitors. Again.

My own mother knows this because before she married my dad she was in sapphic spaces in the 90s. From her personal accounts, bi women were seen as the enemy and a lot of lesbians... weren't even lesbians. They were political lesbians. Women who rejected their attraction to men and only dated other women. Some of them were even straight. And they were considered more of lesbians than bi women were.

Even in the modern age, bi women are expected to shit on their own sexuality. They are expected to say "ew I hate that I like men" and never date or fuck a man to be accepted in queer spaces. Again, I know this because I'M LITERALLY BI.

gay men are literally the face of this community and continually disrespect sapphic/lesbians (see the billie lyric controversy, see the way they’re treating chappel roan, see the way they keep calling women b*tches with no regards on whether we like it or not, see the way they keep fraternizing with straight women that would literally cower in fear if they saw a butch lesbian in real life).

Yeah so misogynistic gay men are in fact a problem but I'm not talking about strictly gay men. I'm talking about the way masculine perceived traits are demonized within queer circles. Come on. I'm pretty sure cis gay men were barely talked about in my original post, why are you fixating on this so hard?

just because somebody who has literally no power over gay men whatsoever and has been traumatized by men her whole life airs out her frustration with her literal lifelong oppressors via tweet or tumblr post, doesn’t mean that suddenly the patriarchy doesn’t exist anymore and has not armed lesbians especially for the past thousands of years.

So I'm talking about the people telling me I'm inherently abusive or more likely to assault people based on the fact that I have high T levels... I'm not talking about people venting about their abuse at the hands of men.

I also never said the patriarchy doesn't exist... I feel like this message isn't about me anyone.

stop painting them as the mean bosses of the community when actually they are a very small, demonized minority who suffers every day at the hands of anyone in the world who likes men (straight women, gay men, even bi women like me).

Fascinating... So... I'm not doing that. Lesbians are not the "mean bosses" of the community. Some are just treating random people shitty for perceived masculine traits with no bearing on truth or reality. A lot of them aren't even lesbians. Like I never said this was a specifically lesbian issue. I said there was a problem in the community in general. So like... all people... not just lesbians.

Also, genuine question: How are you oppressing lesbians for being bi?

it’s such a warped, harmful view and a big stereotype, at that (lesbians are man-haters who hate women’s boyfriends!! what a progressive statement!! never has it been said before, and especially not by homophobic conservatives).

I mean I just didn't say that. I don't know how to respond to this because I just straight up didn't say that.

I just... This isn't about me anymore is it?

Who hurt you?

have some respect for once, a lesbian literally threw the first brick at Stonewall.

So... uh... we don't actually know for 100% certain who threw the first brick. Some say it was Marsha P. Johnson. Some say it was "gay street kids". Even if it was a lesbian... so? Just because one lesbian did a good thing doesn't mean other lesbians are incapable of being dicks to other people?

Idk, man, I never said that lesbians were the source of all evil. I just made a post about my own personal experiences and the experiences of people I know and have seen being talked about. I'm a bi, intersex, non-binary sapphic. I get shit on for the things that people perceive as masculine traits that I have and the fact that I like men. This happens a lot.

I don't know why me saying "hey please stop implying that there is something in my blood that makes me inherently abusive" is lesbophobic. Why is this about lesbians, actually? You made it about lesbians. Why are you using lesbians, a group you've stated you're not a part of, as a gotcha against me? Why are you using lesbians to silence me about my own experiences? Why is that okay?

[1800naveen]

Until.

Wander.

Tamlin often wandered around the Spring Court. For a while, he lived in his beast form. He felt a sense of freedom in that form. He could run, run, run, and nobody would stop him. But now, he was walking in his fae form. A feeling of melancholy surrounded the Spring Court, which was brought to its knees by his former lover and fiancé, Feyre Archeron, who was now the High Lady of the Night Court and both mate and wife to his former friend and ally, Rhysand.

He had caused her pain so in return, she did the same to him. Manipulating and scheming to make this Court fall. His people were taken in by Tarquin, High Lord of the Summer Court and Tamlin was grateful for his generosity.

"Be happy, Feyre." were the last words he told her before helping her resurrect Rhysand from the dead. In return, she wrote Tamlin a letter.

"Thank you. I hope you find happiness too." It was a kind gesture. But could he find happiness? She was the one to ruin the damn court and drove his people away. Homes and nature burned to ashes by the armies of Hybern.

A part of him felt a twinge of guilt. He let this happen to his own home. He should've figured out something was wrong. He also knew that not all of the blame fell on his shoulders. The forefathers of his bloodline would be disappointed, that's for sure.

Especially his father.

He could hear the words coming from his mouth. "How could you have let this happen? Let a Mortal-Made Fae destroy this Court? An abomination of a High Lord. A failure that I have to call a son." Tamlin remembered how his brothers threatened to kill him if he wished to be a High Lord. "Remember this, dear brother. Remember these words when you wish to think of the words "High Lord"." Weylin, the second-born, had whispered to him after he snuck into Tamlin's room at the dead of night.

"If you dare to pursue being worthy. To be chosen by father. To be his heir to the Spring Court. We will put an end to you and make sure you never see the light of day again. Do you understand?" Cian, the first-born, spat out. Tamlin could hear the poison, the venom intertwining in his words. The boy he had once been only nodded. He didn't have much power back then but it feels like he doesn't have much power even now.

Cupping his hands into the stream, Tamlin splashed his face to stop thinking about those thoughts. A gentle breeze made his hair sway. It was now down to his mid-back as it was once before.

Conflicted.

That was the word to describe how Tamlin was feeling. Conflicted.

A part of him felt smug for being crowned High Lord when his brothers terrorized him about it.

A part of him was glad that Rhysand and his father killed his family but not his mother. She was the only one who he mourned.

Tamlin loved his mother and he knew that she loved him too but when his father, Taranis, was being a tyrannical piece of shit, she turned a blind eye. How could a mother do something like that to their own child? To their own son?

A sigh left his lips.

His brothers were right.

Perhaps they knew the future of him and what would happen to the Court.

And a part of him wished that his brothers had killed him. He wouldn't have to be burdened with the title and responsibilities of a High Lord. The Spring Court would still be thriving. He wouldn't have to go through all this pain. But maybe in another life, he would be a traveling minstrel. He would go around and sing songs, speak of poems, limericks, ballads, but most of all, he could play his fiddle to his heart's content. He would have his own group that he would call his family. A ragtag team of misfits.

His own family that would love him, flaws and all. A family that wouldn't leave him behind.

It had been a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday. He had to carve his name into the fiddle so that his brothers wouldn't take it from him. Luckily, they didn't break it or toss it away as it kept him from High Lord. But they did make fun of it. However, Tamlin didn't mind. He had more talent in his fingers than his brothers had in their entire body. Besides being warriors and strategists.

A door creaked open. It's been a while since Tamlin was in the manor. It was a mess, of course. He really needed to clean it up. Most of the mess was created by him when he felt his emotions all pent up. And the rest came from him neglecting the home.

Now or never, Tamlin got to work. In an attempt to tidy up the manor to the best of his abilities. This would take a while.

The living room and kitchen were the only things Tamlin cleaned up. Some other time, he would clean the upstairs.

A broken mirror was on the ground, facing down. Tamlin carefully picked it up so that he wouldn't cut himself. Half of the shattered mirror pieces are still laid on the ground. He would have to fix it later with paste. The other half of the mirror was intact, showing half of his face. He went to hang it up on the wall of the living room.

"You've changed." Tamlin spoke himself as he stared into the mirror. The light in his green eyes was dimmed. Sadness and loneliness danced in his eyes in replacement.

A shell of a male.

He let his anger, frustration, and sadness consume him and he was now what people thought him of.

A beast.

A monster.

And a villain in the eyes of those he wronged.

He traveled far beyond the path of reason.

"What troubles you, Tam?" That voice. Tamlin hadn't heard it since he died. Killed by the woman he once loved.

Andras.

Brown hair tied back, rich tanned skin, and eyes the color of amber that were filled with mischief. That used to be filled with mischief.

"It's been a long time, my friend." Tamlin turned to face Andras. He stood there as a spirit. Was he going mad to the point he could see ghosts?

"It has." Andras' eyes darted from place to place as he studied the manor. "And what the hell happened here?" "A long story." Tamlin replied. "Ah yes. A story that I'm aware of." That made him still.

"How?" His voice was hushed but the tone was filled with uneasiness. "I've been wandering around the Court ever since I was killed. Prythian too but I prefer to stay here." Tamlin needed to sit down. He stumbled to the couch, putting a hand to his head.

"My job was done when Feyre put an end to my life but deep down, I knew it wasn't. And I was right. Because here you are, all alone with nothing but your sunken Court." "Thanks for your kind words, Andras. I love to be reminded of that." "You're welcome!" A stupid grin grew on his face.

Oh, how Tamlin missed it.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start." Tamlin muttered. "With what?" "With everything." He fell back, hitting the cushions. Andras didn't say a word but walked up to Tamlin, helping him sit back up. "How are you touching me?" "Don't question it. Let me help." Oh, he hated those words. Tamlin never liked getting people's help. He believed that he could do almost anything on his own. It was one of his flaws; his hubris.

"Tell me everything. What happened?" Andras' face showed gentleness. "I thought you knew." "I know half. I did say that I wander around Prythian, not just the Spring Court."

Tamlin rolled his eyes but still, he told Andras everything. Under The Mountain, him locking Feyre up in what he thought was protection, becoming a double spy for Hybern, Feyre dismantling the Court, Feyre and Lucien leaving together, Tarquin taking in his people, Hybern's armies bringing damage to both Spring and Summer, the war, helping Feyre bring Rhysand back to life, and finally, Rhysand coming to mock him during Solstice.

A wince came from Andras. "That's rough, buddy." "Indeed." Now annoyed, Tamlin stared off into the distance. None of the males said a word to each other. Only let the silence fill the air.

A clock ticked calmly. Like a metronome.

"Tam, listen to me." Tamlin slowly turned his head to Andras, waiting for whatever Andras was going to say.

"Do you remember when you were crowned High Lord?" How could he not remember? He could still recall the memory, even though it had been centuries.

"May the Mother bless you and the Spring Court. All hail Tamlin Lysander, High Lord of the Spring Court!" Ianthe, his former childhood friend was the one to crown him.

All hail Tamlin, High Lord of Ruin.

Since that day, he knew that no amount of self-sought fury would bring back the glory of innocence.

"I do. And what does my coronation have to do with anything?" "Being a High Lord, you're in charge of the land and have duties to do. You're in charge of Spring. The land that is ever-changing." That was false though. The Seasonal Courts were in a permanent state of the season it represents. Mother, he sounded like a smartass.

"Spring is a new beginning. A new transformation. Staring over and staring anew." "What are you getting at?" Tamlin was starting to tire.

"What I'm saying is, you are the High Lord of the Spring Court. You are the land and the magic. You are Spring. So act like it." Tamlin raised an eyebrow.

"When flora begins to bloom, bloom alongside with it. When the light shines upon, shine and burn bright. When something new is planted, take root and grow. Change has always been and will always be possible. We cannot fix our past mistakes but we can reflect back on it, see what we have done wrong, acknowledge it, and grow." Andras took Tamlin's hand into his.

"To grow is to be reborn. To live is to suffer but to love as well. You are so much more than your fears. Than your anxieties, your anger, and your sadness." Woe climbed Tamlin like a ladder, tears threatened to fall but he wouldn't let them. He never did like to cry in front of people but with Andras, maybe it would be alright.

"You were the poet of us three but it didn't mean I couldn't pick up a few things." Andras shot a wink. Tamlin chuckled, the tears going back into the depths. Him, Lucien, and Andras. The death of their dear friend was hard on the both of them but mostly on Lucien.

He viewed him as his younger brother even though Andras was the second oldest; Tamlin being the eldest and Lucien being the youngest.

"I promise you this," Andras' grip got tighter. "I won't pass on until you are better. Until our home is better. I refuse to leave you until that smile of yours returns, until the light in your eyes is radiant like an emerald once more. I will not give up on you, so don't give up on me." "Thank you, Andras...Thank you." Tamlin whispered the last thanks, almost like a prayer. His head fell onto Andras' shoulder and his arms wrapped around like a snake.

He wanted to get better. He wanted to be better. He would get better, be better than the male he once was.

"Walk with me." Tamlin lend out a hand for Andras to take. Both of the males' hands clasped together.

They headed outside.

Birds chirped here and there. Woodland creatures scurried on the grass. The air was calm and chill. The sun was being to set which let the sky a beautiful orange, red, and purple.

Tamlin and Andras' hands were still intertwined. His thumb moved up and down softly, soothing on the High Lord's hand. Almost like a lullaby.

510 years, Tamlin had been alive. His childhood was one no child should ever have. He only had a few friends as making friends was a difficult task. Rhysand then came to mind. He remembered how Rhysand would find him everytime he had time to. He taught him fighting techniques that were native to Illyrians. They ate, drank, hunted, trained, laughed, and fought together. He even made wrote him letters, poems, and limericks. A memory played in his mind where the two were away from the war camps. Tamlin was resting on a tree as he played the fiddle and Rhysand rested his head upon his lap. Not that he minded. It didn't mean anything.

But their fathers ruined it and for what? A insipid rivalry?

Inside of him, Tamlin felt a small sense of hope that one day, they would reconcile. He was a fool to think it.

Rhysand was a winged insect (quite literally) while Tamlin was a funeral pyre. Sadness and anger crackled and twisted like flames within him.

A deep breath in and a deep breath out. Tamlin felt a heavy weight lift from his chest. Something in him stirred. Feelings and emotions.

Not the negative ones he grown accustom to but something new.

Hope.

It was the breath of fresh air that he needed.

Out of all of the Seasonal Courts, Tamlin assumed Spring wasn't all that important compared to Winter, Autumn, and especially Summer. But he was wrong.

Spring was life coming back into the lands and blossoming hope all around.

Summer, in many eyes, was the best season. A season of light, warmth, adventure, and happiness. But when Summer retreated, Autumn took its place. Leaves began to fall and colors changed from bright to dark, the temperatures cooled down and people would soon harvest for Winter was coming.

With Winter, brought the death of nature. The most deadliest season of them all. The night-darkness, would come earlier than before. Many things would come to an end but it wouldn't be forever. Celebrations would be held during the season; for family, for loved ones, for surviving another terrible winter, and a new year approaching.

And with this new year, things would change yet again. The snow will melt, the ice will thaw, and winter would bow as Spring came into blossom.

"For you." Tamlin broke from his thoughts to see Andras holding a rose in his hands. "Be careful of the thorns." He took the rose without worry. Not fearing if thorns would cut him.

"I love you, thorns and all." were the words he once said to Feyre. Who would he say the words to now? He had no lover. But he had himself.

"I love you, thorns and all." Tamlin said to himself, in the back of his mind.

He was not a monster.

He was no villain.

And until that day comes when he could prove it, he would work and work.

He would not spend his immortality in rage.

He would not let anger consume him, control him.

Until the light in his eyes shined brighter than a thousand suns.

Until he could love himself.

Until the day that he could look into a mirror, smile, and know that he was a lovely reminder of how beautiful change could be.

Until he was the true High Lord of the Spring Court once again.

(This is my first writing piece that I've shown people so I hope you'll enjoy or like it. His family never got names so these are my names for them. Lysander just fits Tamlin; It means "Liberator" or "Freedom".)

(THIS FEELS LIKE SHIT, UGH!!)

(Wait, would this be a Tamlin X Andras? I swear I didn't mean for that. AND YES, I REFERENCED TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN! IT'S A KICKASS SONG!)

@viktoriaashleyyx here's that add, hope you like it👍🏾

[mccromy]

The beauty of QuanYin is that they have all the things that make HuaLian so good, but instead of bringing them together, it teared them appart.

I am talking about faith.

The things is, half of the ship is an autistic guy who's extremely good at one thing (kicking ass) and often gets infantilized by other characters or treated as if he's stupid, just for ignoring social niceties and refusing to entertain the idea that the only person who's shown him kindness is actually an evil lying snake who always secretly hated him.

And the other half of the ship is a guy who's main goal was always to just be a good person AND kick ass, but who's also always been an overachiever, so he wants to be Perfect at being kind and aims to ascend as a Martial God. His standards for himself are so high, he believes that thinking unkind thoughts means he failed (got a bad grade at being good), and doesn't understand why the man who only cares and understand actions, facts, and spoken words would believe him to be a Perfectly Kind person.

Because Yin Yu not only was outwardly kind to Quan Yizhen, but he also always tried to get others to be good to him as well. What's more, he didn't start resenting or thinking badly of Quan Yizhen until their ascension, and even then he never took it out on Quan Yizhen. Until he snapped at the worst possible moment.

Quan Yizhen knows Yin Yu is the sort of person that would always choose to do the right thing, no matter how difficult. So, if Yin Yu ever chose to hurt him, then either it must've been a misunderstanding, or he must have had a good reason. Because for Quan Yizhen, if there was anybody in the world he could trust, it was Yin Yu.

And Yin Yu, who's set unachievable standars for himself, feels that resenting someone who's blameless makes him awful and unworthy, and not merely human and flawed. And having Quan Yizhen see him as the man Yin Yu wants to be, but actually isn't, hurts him deeply, because he's not good or kind, he's petty and jealous. I feel he must have been terrified of disappointing Quan Yizhen, which he probably saw as an unavoidable outcome now that his shidi had the opportunity to truly shine in heavens

And it's not only Quan Yizhen believing Yin Yu to be perfect (which he doesn't, but I'll get to that later) but it's also Yin Yu believing Quan Yizhen is perfect. He's everything he wants to be, a true Martial God. And whatever flaw makes Quan Yizhen so unpalatable to others, Yin Yu sees them as unavoidable of being Quan Yizhen. Not good or bad, but expected, justifiable. (Can you really get angry at the sun if it burns you, how can you blame a bee for stinging you? Did you really expect you wouldn't get wet walking unprotected in the pouring rain.)

If Quan Yizhen is arrogant and tactless it's because he's naturally strong and honest. Quan Yizhen's bluntness means he's not two faced (like Yin Yu), it doesn't matter that Quan Yizhen can't read the room, because Quan Yizhen is above caring how he comes across to others (like Yin Yu does), if you think Quan Yizhen is annoying then that's not his fault, it's yours for not being as good as he is (Yin Yu sometimes finds him annoying).

QuanYin parallels HuaLian not only in the devotion, tirelessly searching, ghost/god relationship, but in the "unconditional belief in the other" more so even, because they had more time spent together getting to know each other. This faith wasn't built on sacrifices, on saving lives, on deeds of decisive righteousness.

This faith was built on years of growing up together.

Quan Yizhen believes in Yin Yu, because he knows Yin Yu will always choose to do the right thing. Yin Yu believes in Quan Yizhen, because he knows Quan Yizhen is as honest as he is loyal. They see the best in the other and know that it's fact (and it is!) but at the same time, that certainty hurt them both in a way it never did hualian. With Hua Cheng and Xie Lian, that unconditional faith meant salvation. To Quan Yizhen and Yin Yu, it led to them falling apart.

Quan Yizhen knows Yin Yu is good, because Yin Yu always chooses to do good things. Yin Yu thinks himself to be a liar and knows Quan Yizhen thinks Yin Yu is good, because Quan Yizhen would never lie. Because Yin Yu will always want to be good, he won't admit to Quan Yizhen his steadfast belief in him hurts him, because it would mean admitting just how small and petty he is, and it could lead to Quan Yizhen seeing Yin Yu's true self, and as Quan Yizhen is frank to a painful degree, he would immediately let him know how disappointed he is. And as Quan Yizhen is so honest, he literally calls it as he sees it. If Quan Yizhen sees Yin Yu as not enough, it means Yin Yu is not enough. Quan Yizhen is not to blame for Yin Yu's flaws, and so the right thing to do (for Quan Yizhen) is to keep being patient and kind, and not take out his own frustrations on a person who would never willingly hurt him. To keep Quan Yizhen seeing Yin Yu as perfect.

Their faith in the other keeps them apart. And this is because unlike with Hua Cheng and Xie Lian, they didn't start as god and believer, but as martial brothers of the same sect, who eventually reached divinity, and held for the other a certainty of righteousness only the most devoted would hold for a god.

And the sad thing is that they were both right. But the things that make someone good for one of them, would not cut it for the other.

Yin Yu thinks, if my actions are good but hide resentment and hate, then they aren't good at all. They're fake, and so, worthless.

Quan Yizhen thinks, if my actions hurt others even when there was only love and good intentions behind them, then what good are they? They're worthless.

Yin Yu ends up hating Quan Yizhen, but not as Jian Yu or the other gods or disciples hated him, just for being as he was. Yin Yu hates Quan Yizhen because Quan Yizhen turned him into the sort of person he never wanted to be. He resents him because Quan Yizhen shone so bright Yin Yu realized he was a candle flame under daylight. Because Quan Yizhen was good in a way Yin Yu would never be, plagued with envy and not a lick of talent.

Yin Yu doesn't actually blame Quan Yizhen for his downfall, he blames Quan Yizhen for leading Yin Yu to cause it. Yin Yu hates Quan Yizhen because he makes Yin Yu hate himself. And, in the end, Yin Yu will always hate himself more than he could ever hate Quan Yizhen. Yin Yu hates himself, because he hates someone he loves. He hated himself because he couldn't understand how someone could ever want to hurt Quan Yizhen, and then Yin Yu hurt him in the worst way possible. The moment Yin Yu lost control, his ugly inner self spilled out. Yin Yu hurt someone good, someone who never deserved to be hurt, and besides that dares resent him for showing Yin Yu how rotten he was inside. Which makes Yin Yu hate himself further, because now he's become the sort of person he always hated the most. And even at the end, as he died for Quan Yizhen, he could not let go of his resentment. He just couldn't let it go.

There's no end to it. It's self fueling and self fulfilling.

On his part, Quan Yizhen would never blame Yin Yu. He would never hate him.

Let's look at this through a more personal lent. I know many people, especially neurodivergent people, struggle with the constant anxiety of your friends and family secretly hating you (I know I do). Finding out that someone you thought was your friend actually couldn't stand you, would make you feel cheated, betrayed. And most likely, it would lead you to believe this was your fault. If your friend hated you, it's because you're unlovable (by the way, that's not how it works, but it is how it makes people feel).

Now, people never cared about Quan Yizhen's feelings. They would talk badly about him with no regard if he was listening, would be hostile if not patronizing. Would openly resent him for things he couldn't understand, blame him for things out of his control (for example, blatant favoritism from his teachers).

But.

There was always someone who cared about Quan Yizhen's feelings. Who never spoke badly of him. Who always admonished the people who patronized him or blamed him, even if Quan Yizhen was not around to hear him defend him. Who actually got into trouble by taking responsibility for Quan Yizhen's actions, repeatedly. Who always took Quan Yizhen's side, who saw talent in him when others only saw a dirty street rat. Someone who patiently reassured him that if others thought Quan Yizhen was annoying, it was their fault for getting annoyed, and not Yizhen's.

Someone who, when given the chance to leave him behind in a way nobody would blink twice at, brought him along and kept him by his side. Someone who chose him time and time again.

Quan Yizhen did have an inkling that he sometimes annoyed Yin Yu, and was fully aware that he got him into trouble (Jian Yu was never shy when it came to shouting just how much Quan Yizhen was dragging Yin Yu down). And despite all of that, Yin Yu stood by him and cared for him.

There was a time he knew Yin Yu loved him, and if Yin Yu didn't love him at least he would never hurt him, he would never let others hurt him.

And then, suddenly, Yin Yu tried to kill him. In strange, extreme circumstances: right after Quan Yizhen had brutally and unwillingly murdered a number of people, as he was wearing a cursed garment that forced him to do anything Yin Yu told him to, he shouted at Quan Yizhen to kill himself.

It was a series of events that made no sense in the eyes of someone who knew Yin Yu as well as Quan Yizhen did.

So it was either a huge misunderstanding, or Quan Yizhen finally fucked up so bad he became unlovable in the eyes of the only person who mattered.

And now everybody in heaven and earth spoke horribly of the only person who ever cared for Quan Yizhen. The people who claimed to follow and worship Quan Yizhen put on plays meant to humiliate Yin Yu. Others expected him to agree that Yin Yu was a liar, a jealous two-faced snake.

To Quan Yizhen, if they were right ( they weren't) and Yin Yu was a liar who always secretly hated him, then that meant nobody had ever loved Quan Yizhen. And if they were wrong (they were) then it meant Quan Yizhen hurt Yin Yu so badly, did something so awful, the only choice Yin Yu had, the only right choice at the moment, was to make Quan Yizhen kill himself.

Or, it was all a big misunderstanding (hopefully).

Quan Yizhen doesn't think Yin Yu is perfect, he doesn't want him to be either. All he wants is to be good for Yin Yu, to Yin Yu. He loves Yin Yu just as he is.

Yin Yu already believes Quan Yizhen is good, and to, and for Yin Yu. Is Yin Yu who is bad. Yin Yu who's unlovable.

Hua Cheng had faith in Xie Lian's inherent goodness. When Xie Lian stopped believing in himself, Hua Cheng's faith and unconditional love saved him.

But Hua Cheng never saw himself as an equal, just as a stepping stone, the incense in Xie Lian's altar. He loved and worshipped him, and he was content to see him safe and happy. And when Xie Lian saw him as someone deserving of love, even if Hua Cheng didn't believe it himself, he believed in Xie Lian

Quan Yizhen and Yin Yu wanted to be equals, they wanted to stand side by side. And to achieve said equality, they set standards to strive for, based on the way they saw the other. But they would never reach their goals together, because they set them in opposite directions.

Had they started as god and devotee, then it would've played similarly as HuaLian did: I am worthy because you believe I'm worthy. I am lovable because you love me. I'm good because you think I'm good. I can do anything because you trust me.

For QuanYin, though, it went: I am unworthy because I'm not like you. I am unlovable because I can't love myself through your eyes. I'm not good because I'm not good the way you are. Please don't trust me, I'll disappoint you. I'll let you down, I'll let you down, I'll let you down.

Yin Yu could not stand the idea of Quan Yizhen secretly hating him, so he hid to never be faced with it. Quan Yizhen would gladly take Yin Yu hating his guts, as long as he hated him within arm's reach.

Miscommunication caused by knowing each other so well, they were convinced they could not miscommunicate.

Self loathing born out of loving the things that made the other hate themselves.

But since their inner turmoil and personal struggles manifest in two clowns running in circles, people tend to, understandably, overlook them in favor of the considerably more dramatic BeefLeaf, or the outwardly antagonistic FengQing —both ships counting with further on-text development, higher stakes, and heavier emotional baggage than our humble, relatable QuanYin.

[emotionallyattachednerd]

Unforeseen Reunion | TP Ratchet x Drift/Deadlock | NSFW 18+

Word count: 7000+ 😲

Warnings: Smut ( valve and plug interfacing ), mentions of violence, near death experiance and angst. NSFW 18+.

Notes: So yeah, I lost complete control of myself. Holy crap, I'm impressed with myself. I decided I wanted to go with Prime universe as that's what my hyperfixation went with. I didn't completely focus on canon just so everyone is aware. I had way too much fun with this and I'm so obsessed with these two. Enjoy this work of art you beautiful sinners. 🥰

The crash landing was the sign that his luck had run out. Deadlock had been travelling for far too long, isolated in his barely hanging on ship without contact, that's until he managed to receive a transmission from decepticons. He should've been pleased, yet he didn't feel it, just emptiness.

It wasn't until he hit the earth's atmosphere that his ship decided it had enough, power shut off and he came plummeting towards the earth. He tried gaining control but that failed so he tried contacting the decepticons requesting assistance, but even that was a deadend. No help was coming for him.

Bracing for impact he thought he might have a chance but the rough landing was much harsher than expected, throwing him around and a sharp piece of metal punctured through him, slicing his fuel tank and severed a fuel line. Terrific.

Deadlock manages to get himself out of his piece of scrap ship and take a few steps forward, only to collapse onto the ground with a pained grunt and look down at his servo that held his wounded area to see a lot of energon was leaking from him. He can't help but let out a vented chuckle, convinced this was going to be it for him.

Only managing to get a short distance away from the crash site he couldn't walk anymore and slid his back down against a tree, venting out heavily as if a pressure was lifted from him. He knew though, his systems were struggling, warnings flashing before his optics, it won't be long before he shuts down and slowly offline from bleeding out. One more time he tried making contact but got nothing in return. Either his com links weren't working or they didn't care about him.

There used to be someone in his life who was very dear to him. He saved his life after getting himself hooked up on circuit boosters, gave him a chance, and he stayed with him. He loved him with all his spark, then the war started and that's where it all went wrong.

Eventually he would make choices and every choice has a price. Whether it was worth it or not, Deadlock never wanted to answer that himself.

He was one of Megatron's favourites. He's the one who gave him his new name and grew from that back on cybertron. He thought he was making the right choice, but he was wrong, and he's had to live with that all this time. He became emotionless, making him willing to kill when needed or ordered, leaving a trail of horrors behind which was enough to make any autobot and decepticon worst nightmare.

Now, he was dying, alone. Just as he deserved.

Leaning himself against the tree all he could do was observe his surroundings, take in what might be his last memories. Everything grew weaker, more burned out as his fuel tank pumped harshly to get energon through him, only for it to leak out.

His audios managed to pick up some sounds of a ground bridge. Had they finally decided to show pity and come for him? He onlines his hazy optics only to be met with the end of a blaster and an autobot symbol.

"Oh just my luck." Deadlock manages to say between harsh vents. "An autobot gets to watch me die in my final moments....or, you can take the shot, put me out of my misery?"

"Is that what you want?" Arcee keeps her guard up and weapons ready, not wanting to give him any chance to attack if he was faking.

"Does it matter what I want?"

"No, it doesn't." Bulkhead comes up behind, forcing Deadlock to move his helm up to look at him.

"Well you're a big one." He casually smirks through his pain. "So, what's it going to be? What's the...autobot thing to do?"

Arcee and Bulkhead had been sent to investigate the crash sight after it made impact. They knew it was a decepticon shuttle but weren't sure if it was occupied. Upon arrival it's confirmed. Neither wanted to let their guard down just in case he had any tricks or if the decepticons might show up.

"What do you think?" Bulkhead asks Arcee, unsure what they should do. Letting him die without them helping didn't seem right, but he was a con.

"Let's call Optimus, see what he has to say." Arcee answers.

Deadlock heard the autobot leader's name causing him to let out another vented chuckle. "Your big boss is here? Huh. Alright, call him, see if he has mercy on a filthy con." He was just talking, it's all he can do for his final moments.

While Bulkhead makes the call Arcee keeps her optics on him with her blaster still drawn. "You got a name?"

The big ask. "If I told you...you're going to wish you pulled the trigger." He decided to not say his name. If she found out, she might just pull the trigger on him without hesitation, not that he cared.

"I don't recognize you. You're not someone I've bumped into before, and I remember every bot I have. So who are you?"

"How about you tell me your name first?" Deadlock manages to tilt his helm to the side as he meets her optics, letting out a smirk when all she gives is silence, his pearly white dentas and sharp fangs pressing over his bottom lips. "Yeah...that's what I thought."

Deadlock notices Arcee say something else but it all goes deaf to his audios. He's lost a lot of energon and he knows he's in trouble as things in him start slowly shutting down. He manages to activate his audios again and this is when he hears more voices and steps coming closer. If he was to survive, he wasn't even sure what he'd do next, not anymore.

A part of him did want to be offline. It'll end everything for good, and perhaps give him some peace of mind, not that he deserved it.

"Hey, you still with us?" Bulkhead taps the top of his helm to bring him back, causing him to let out a groan and online again.

"Sort of..." Is his only honest answer.

"Well, today is your lucky day con. Our medic is going to come and patch you up. Try to remember this moment that we helped you." Bulkhead adds firmly for him to think about.

"I'm jumping with joy." Deadlock chuckles dryly, a little energon drops from his mouth as he tastes it flooding in his intake. Yeah, he felt it was too late.

"Drift?"

That voice.

He manages to move his helm back up and his amber optics flickered as he meets the gaze of the ghostly familiar figure standing before the ground. Ratchet. His Ratchet.

"You know him?" Arcee was surprised to hear Ratchet say the decepticons name. But Ratchet couldn't answer, he was frozen, as if he was petrified or enthralled by the very sight of what he thought he lost those years ago.

Deadlock, his given decepticon name, lets out a softly dry laugh that lingers longer with a smile, disbelief and sadness overwhelming his struggling processor. He finally found him.

"Perhaps I am lucky." He says with his wide smile, sharp dentas glittering in under the sunlight. "It's good to see you Ratty."

Under Optimus' orders Ratchet came to patch up the new decepticon before sending him on their way. He was a medic, he treated the wounded, but treating a decepticon was different. He's done it before of course, but not often. Ratchet felt his servos shake as he stood there. Hearing the old pet name made his vents hitch a little and his own emotions boiling up, completely deaf to Arcee as she questions him.

It's not until Deadlock slumps against the tree that Ratchet finally acted. Hurrying forward he came to his side and started to work on him. His wounds were bad, he knew this already just simply looking at him from afar.

"How do you know him?" Arcee repeats coming to the medics side.

"Later." Ratchet's focus was on him. "Let me work."

Neither Bulkhead or Arcee have ever seen Ratchet like this before. Sure, they've seen him sad, angry, annoyed, happy, but this is different.

When he feels his servos against his frame Deadlock lets out a shutter, both relief and pain. He tilts his helm up to get a better look at Ratchet and manages to hold a soft smile that feels foreign to him, he hasn't smiled like that in a very long time. There was a deep history there, and the two went through a lot together, right before he hurt his Ratty. He didn't deserve to be saved, or given a chance. Damage was done.

"Saving your life, again." Ratchet mutters mostly to himself, his own emotions rattled. "Reckless. Stupid. All this time and you're online, still. I'm out of my mind. I should hate you, no, I do hate you, but my spark is aching for you." His voice is low as if he's whispering to himself but Deadlock hears it. "Why did you....How could you...." His words break apart and that hits Deadlock hard.

"I'm sorry." Is all he can whisper, touching Ratchet's working servo and gaining his attention. "I'm sorry....I'm so sorry." Apologising won't fix the past or his choices, but it's the first time he's ever said it to him.

As much as Ratchet is hurting he knew he couldn't lose him again. Whatever happens next will be whether it was too late or not.

"Kids, stay back." Bulkhead hurries through the ground bridge first and warns the kids all hanging around the raised platform along with Agent Fowler and June.

"What's going on?" Raf asks curiously, noticing his worried expression.

"Optimus, he won't listen. Can you talk to him? This is crazy!" Arcee is next feeling enraged about Ratchet's decision.

Ratchet comes through next, carrying a badly wounded Deadlock in his arms with strength no one else had seen him with for a long time.

"You brought a Decepticon back here?" June raises her hand over Raf and makes sure the kids stay behind her. "Ratchet the kids are here!"

"Don't like it, find the door." Ratchet barks back, taking many of them off guard. He ignores everyone and places him on the medical berth, quickly gathering tools to start stabilising him.

Deadlock was hanging close over the edge, everything in him hurt and his processor was swimming wildly. He had no idea where he was, only that Ratchet was with him, and that's all that mattered.

"So cool." Miko comes closer to get a better view. Jack tries to stop her.

"Miko-"

"No way I want to watch!"

Optimus comes closer but stays out of Ratchet's way and stares at the decepticon brought in, his optics widening a little as if something clicked in his processor, and Arcee notices this.

"You know him too. Ratchet called him Drift. Who is that?"

Optimus is quiet before looking at his comrades. "Ratchet knows him. Let him work."

"But-"

"Please, Arcee." Optimus knew just how sensitive this would be for his old friend, and can't imagine but he must be feeling right now.

Arcee finally backs off but that doesn't mean she was alright with this. Most of everyone wasn't. Miko sits on the edge of the lower platform as she watches Ratchet do his magic on the decepticon, a fascination. June only manages to keep Jack and Raf away, still not liking that a decepticon was near the kids base.

"Prime, is this safe?" Agent Fowler questions him quietly. "I get that he's a friend of Ratchet's, but that doesn't change he's a decepticon."

"I understand your concern. But please, I'm asking you all to let Ratchet handle this." Optimus didn't want to explain everything in that moment, respecting Ratchet and hoping everyone will follow the same.

Deadlock was in and out of it for a bit, gold optics flashing repeatedly as Ratchet tried to stop the bleeding and keep him stable. Everything hurt through him, but not as bad as the ache in his spark that throbs with grief for his Ratty. He was saving his life yet again, trying to at least.

"Are you still with me?" Ratchet's tone is more gentle as he hovers over him once he manages to stop the bleeding.

"Ah huh..." He manages to say between heavy vents.

"I need to repair the damage and get energon running through you again. Try to keep still, you're at the start of a long road recovery."

Before he could say anything else, Ratchet had gone to get a few things. Deadlock tilts his helm a little to the side and through his flickering vision he spots something, or someone. The pink is what catches his attention first and gives himself a moment to adjust his vision before it clears up almost.

"Well, you're tiny." He manages to say softly through a short chuckle.

"I might be small, but I can rip your spark out." Miko doesn't hold back.

"I better...stay on your good side than. What are you?"

"What am I? I'm human. The names Miko. You've never seen a human before?"

"Nah, you're the first, Miko."

"What are your first impressions?"

"Well...you did threaten to rip my spark out...so I'm fearful of you." He only meant it as a joke and Miko knew this, and she gave a small smirk at him. She didn't like cons, but this one seems different.

Even Ratchet didn't seem bothered about his interaction with her. June slowly comes closer, Jack and Raf right behind her, still being careful.

"You're Drift, right?" Miko leans her chin against the railing feeling a bit more comfortable to stay.

"Yes." It's Ratchet that answers quickly before Deadlock could. He understood. Meeting his gaze there was that firm and serious blaze he knew all too well from his Ratty. It meant there was going to be no further mention about it.

"Yeah...I'm Drift." Saying the name again after so long felt weird, but guess he'll adjust to it again.

Suddenly, he jolts and groans in pain through clenched dentas as Ratchet wields something into place. It hurts a lot, but at least it doesn’t last too long.

"Could you give me a warning next time?" He vents once it stops.

"Nope." Ratchet answers simply.

He understands.

"How do you two know each other?" It's Raf that bravely asks, mainly both of them.

"We...go way back." Drift answers, optics shifting at the medic at his side. "Ain't that right Ratty?"

"Hm." Ratchet doesn't answer much after hearing his old nickname.

"Ratty?" Miko can't help but smirk at the medic.

"Only he is allowed to call me that." He tells her. No one else ever did.

"He hates it, but I get away with it." Drift smirks lightly before wincing again. "Frag..." Optics manage to cast over at the other autobots standing together outside the bay and staring, most of them looking not too happy causing him to vent out. "Stop."

Ratchet does but only because he's confused. "What?"

"Just...stop. Just...you shouldn't be helping, you know?"

"Do you want to be offline?" Ratchet hits his tool against the table causing the humans the jump and gives an intense stare at Drift. "Do you just want to give up?"

"Your friends don't want to waste resources on a filthy con...I don't deserve it. You...you shouldn't be helping me."

"Well, too bad. You don't get to have a say in what I do, we're well past that. Perhaps you're right about not deserving to be saved, but the only one that gets to decide your fate is me." Ratchet leans closer to Drift, optics burning, before he erupts. "The only way you will be offline is if I allow it, because I'm the only one who has every right to let you bleed out right now! You don't get to decide your fate! I do! Is that understood?!"

His outburst is heard by everyone. Even the humans shrink away a little, never seeing Ratchet this angry before. Something deep was there, but no one knew just how deep.

Drift doesn't flinch. He takes it, accepts Ratchet's rage. He's right, only he has the right to decide what happens next. All he can do is let him do what he wants, he is no longer in control of his fate.

"Understood."

Ratchet lets out a heavy vent and goes back to work on him, only to look up when he feels everyone staring. "What?" He snaps, bothered that everyone was just staring.

"Everyone, let's give them space." Optimus finally says. "Ratchet has work to do." He'll give that privacy to his old friend without distractions.

June leads the kids away and Miko follows to let Ratchet work. Only Optimus understands what Ratchet must be feeling, he knew what Drift meant to him, and knew just what they've both dealt with over the years. The others all had raising questions but at least they weren't hammering either him or Ratchet with them to get answers, and respected what Optimus had said.

It is a long recovery for Drift. Weeks go by, but he is doing better. Ratchet worked hard to repair the damage he received from the crash and make sure his fuel lines were pumping correctly. He worked his magic and did a good job on Drift, never giving up.

"Alright, follow my digit." Ratchet was doing simple tests, everyday he did them, and Drift obeys as his optics follow the moving digit in front of him, clearing and without struggle. "Good. Better today."

Drift was feeling better, both physically and mentally. After being by himself so long it was going to take time adjusting to have others around.

Not the autobots, mainly the humans kept him company. Drift was curious about these organics. Sure, he's come across them before, but not humans. He doesn't mind them.

"Does this mean I'm off bed rest?" Drift asks as he straightens his back. Ratchet shakes his helm with a short chuckle.

"Yeah right. You're clear when I say you're clear. Just because you look and feel better doesn't mean you're fit for duty."

"Duty?

Ratchet stops and looks at him, optics unreadable before venting softly. "You're staying, right?"

It hasn't been something they've talked about really. Drift had no idea what to do next honestly. Since finding Ratchet he didn't want to leave him behind, not again.

"You're here, so I'll stay. Don't think your friends are going to like that though." He didn't think they would welcome him into team prime. "Does that mean I've got to become an autobot?"

"Don't worry about them, I'll handle it. They don't know your decepticon name, yet. I don't want to hear that name ever again. And yes, you'll become an autobot, because I said so."

Drift understands. "Alright." He was willing to do whatever Ratchet wanted. All he wanted was to have him back in his life again, to not throw away his second chance.

"Good. Now, let's have a closer look."

Drift feels Ratchet's servos touch both sides of his cheek platings, examining him further and making sure he didn't miss anything. But Drift slowly leans into the touch, purring, and reaches up to touch them both under his own. The action gets Ratchet's attention and they both stare at one another, the fondness slowly growing as the medic's optics soften.

Ratchet does like the purrs Drift makes, he always did, and hearing it again makes his knees feel weak. Such a strange effect it gives, yet so addictive. It's been so long since he last heard them, causing his feelings to stir wildly. As much as he hated him for his choices, he never stopped loving him.

Neither did Drift. He has a lot of regrets, but the one he'll always carry is he hurt Ratchet. He'll always carry the weight of that.

Leaning closer, Drift presses the front of their helms together, savouring the moment for as long as he can as his optics shutter closed. Ratchet doesn't lean away and lets it happen.

Drift wants to kiss him, and he tries to do this by leaning closer towards his lips, but Ratchet stops him. The moment is gone.

"It's too soon." Ratchet can only whisper, trying to keep his emotions from pouring out. "You left a deep wound, one I could never repair."

Drift knew he deserved that.

"Your injuries aren't the only recovery you'll be going through. There's a lot....between us, that needs time to heal. Won't be simple, but I need time to adjust to this, to trust you again."

"So there's a chance?" Drift held onto that hope.

Ratchet vents softly and caresses his servo against his cheek plating again, running his digit under his optics gently. "I hope so."

That's all Drift needs. "Take your time then."

Optimus gathered everything, even the humans, so they can all listen to what Ratchet has to say. Drift was resting and took this moment to explain some details to his friends. They've all been very patient.

"How's he doing?" It's June that asks, the only one who was kind enough to ask about Drift.

"Doing better. Still recovering, but he's making good progress." Ratchet answers.

He looks up at everyone who stares at him, all focus and attention. His optics glance over at Optimus who was there for him through this. It's time to reveal it.

"Drift and I have a long history, all the way to the time before the war started on cybertron. He hasn't made the best choices in his life, which is why things are messy between us, but he wants to change, make better choices. I'm willing to give him that second chance."

"I understand your concerns." Optimus then jumps in and speaks to everyone. "We both do, but I trust Ratchet to take charge of him, and I believe there's hope for Drift, to become better."

"So he's becoming an autobot?" Jack asked curiously.

"He will. It's a lot to ask but it would be a great help if everyone treated him fairly, so he can settle into this life. He's been alone for a long time without contact, it has affected him, but with time he'll adjust and do better." Ratchet explains.

"Is he like your best friend?" Raf asks innocently.

The medic gives himself a moment before finally saying it. "Drift is my conjunx endura."

"What?' Arcee quirks quickly in surprise.

"You never said you had one!" Bulkhead is just as surprised while Bumblebee lets out a bunch of whirls and beeps along with them.

"Ah, sorry, humans are confused here." Agent Fowler raises his hand. "What's a...conjunx endura?"

"Well, for humans to understand, we're married." Ratchet clarifies.

"What?!"

Ratchet knew this was going to be a shock to everyone, and he'll silently admit he was trying to avoid this moment, but knew that wasn't going to last forever. They had a right to know what Drift meant to him, and what happened.

"Drift comes from a troubled life. He got himself addicted to circuit boosters, drugs for humans to understand, lost himself, and Optimus found him, or at the time he was Orion. He brought him to me where I had my own medical centre, doing what I could for those who were considered lower classes. I saved his life there, and I saw just how lost he looked, so I gave him a choice to stay and help me out, or he could leave. He got clean and stayed, few of the smart choices he's ever made. Over time we grew fond of one another and...well, we ended up together for a long while, fell in love, things were good and we were happy." Ratchet remembers those fond memories with him before he close his optics.

"Than the war started. Megatron approached me, offered me a position as his head medic officer, but I declined. I thought that was it, but I was very wrong. Megatron got to Drift, manipulated his mind, gave him false hope, and he fell for it. The next time I saw him he wore the Decepticon badge. He was already convinced I was going to join him, but I refused. I got angry, expressed my disappointment loudly. The Drift I grew to love left that day and he became stone cold. Megatron gave him the order to destroy the medical centre and he did it, leaving me in ruins. Megatron gives him a new name..." Ratchet went quiet. He couldn't say it, and looks at Optimus, who understands

"Deadlock."

The name rings through the autobots. They all knew that name all too well. The horrors they've heard, the carnage left behind by the same bot that was now in their base.

The humans all take notice of their reactions. "You've heard of that name?"

"The very name that a lot feared." Arcee says to them, voice full of dread. "I never bumped into him, only heard what he had done, and it's nothing good."

"Drift is Deadlock? The very con that Megatron favoured?" Bulkhead struggled to process this.

"Why did Megatron favour him?" Jack sounds worried.

"Because of his lack of emotion, no empathy, and did as he was told without hesitation." Ratchet adds through a shaky vent. "But...he's coming back around, the Drift I know. After what happened, I joined Optimus to try to do what I could for the autobots, all the while trying to silently mend the damage done to my spark. As much as I hated Drift, I never stopped loving him, and always held on some hope he might come back."

"And he did." June says softly, moved by the story he told everyone to have a better understanding of what just happened. Though they were concerned about his past with the decepticons, they understood what Ratchet must be feeling to get his lover back again after so long.

Ratchet lets out a shaky vent and looks at everyone. "I'm willing to forgive for his mistakes, because that's my choice. I need to ask you all to respect our privacy, our past, and for there to be no further questions about Drift's time with the decepticons. Please, don't shut him out, give him a chance, get to know him. He might not be the smartest, and he's made terrible choices, but there is good in him."

"I don't like cons, but he seems...different." Miko perks up, looking over at Bulkhead. "I've gotten to know him a little, he's not so bad. Just have to ignore that history part with the cons."

Bulkhead groaned in displeasement but knew there wasn't really going to be any other way around this. Drift was going to become one of them, so they might as well start opening up to him.

"We'll do that." Arcee then says through a soft vent. "For you Ratchet, we'll give him a chance."

Ratchet feels himself relax a little hearing this. He had a pretty good team here. "Thank you."

Drift is up and walking. He then finds himself facing the autobots and humans, all looking at him as Optimus and Ratchet approach. Least they didn't have weapons drawn on him, it's a start.

Optimus is first to speak. "Drift, we've all talked to one another and Ratchet has informed the others about your bondage with him. It is Ratchet's wish to give you a second chance, for you to leave behind your past with the decepticons and to become one of our own. I ask for you to have zero connections with any decepticon and to prove yourself among our team here."

Drift looks at Ratchet who gives a simple nod at him. This was his chance to fix what he tore apart between them, to show he could be something better. He wanted that.

"Thanks, Optimus. I'll do whatever Ratty says, I don't want to let him down again, or anyone for that matter."

"Ratty?" June can't help but repeat through a small smile.

"None of you are allowed to call me that." Ratchet points at everyone with a firm glare.

"Only I can." Drift sends him a smirk knowing he was right about that.

"I'm going to lay down a few things as well." Ratchet starts as he steps closer towards him. "You'll follow our rules, our ways, no arguments or whining about it. You'll treat everyone here with respect and you'll be treated the same in return. Everything is going to be stripped, your model, colours, nothing that will give any decepticon a hint who you used to be, a complete new look. Understood?"

Drift listens and doesn't hesitate to nod. Like he said, whatever his Ratty wanted. He was in his control now. "Sure, alright." He gives a smile, sharp denta's lightly exposed.

Ratchet stares before pointing. "I'm removing those modified dentas." Drift's smile slips and goes to say something but Ratchet raises his servo. "Nope! They're going. They look ridiculous on you."

Drift vents heavily. Complete new look. "Alright...whatever you want."

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with Drift?" Miko asks the completely new looking robot sitting in the medical bay. She had just arrived with the others. It seemed Ratchet was very serious.

Drift sends the girl a soft smirk, sharp dentas now back to their default model along with most of his amour, colours neutral grey, ready for a new scan and colour.

"Ratchet wasn't kidding." He answers through a gentle chuckle. "But hey, I think it will be good to have something different."

"Something calm." Ratchet points out as he sets up some programs for Drift to scan and choose from. "Soft, nice, you know? Nothing dramatic."

"Ugh, such a control freak." Miko comes up onto the ramp along with the others.

Drift can't help but snicker. He liked humans. They were different, had a lot of character, he grew to like them very quickly in his short time there.

"What colour, Ratty?" Drift asks as he looks through some models.

"That's for you to decide."

"I want what you want."

"I want you to pick yourself. I'm sure you can't mess up on that." Ratchet doesn't mean for that to sound harsh, but it did. Drift shifts his amber optics at him, looking like a wounded feline, and Ratchet vents softly, lowering his voice. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." Drift doesn't want him to apologise, so he forces a smile. "I'll pick myself." He says trying to sound positive.

Ratchet nods and leaves him to it.

"Ouch." Miko whispers while hanging over the railing.

"Are things alright between you two?" The youngest Raf asks kindly.

"It's not simple, but it's progress." Drift answers honestly.

For a moment he scans through the new designs before looking up at Ratchet talking with Optimus. His optics scan over him and he smiles. He's picked a colour. Adding the program he scans the new look, his armour shifting colour and shape right in front of the kids to watch, astonished by the change happening before it finishes.

Drift looks at his reflection and smiles more. He looks good, very good. He now holds a very similar colour matching with Ratchet.

"It's a good look." Jack praises.

"You and Ratchet got matching colours now. That's cute." Miko beams.

Drift shifts his optics at Ratchet who is looking at him now, a lingering enchantment holds in his optics as he stares at Drift. They both do indeed share the same colours, a similar design, with Drift only being more slender framed.

"It is cute." Drift sends Ratchet a wink.

Ratchet has to try to cool himself when he sees Drift. He wouldn't say it, but he feels himself heat up at the sight of his long lost mate looking like that. He likes the new look. Clearing his vocals, he nods simply. "Very nice."

Drift doesn't miss the pink hue at his white cheek plating.

Laying on his berth in his given room Drift finds himself staring at the ceiling and letting his processor run over everything that's happened. He was now an autobot, one of team prime. His servo runs over the new symbol over his chest and lets out a soft vent.

It's not that he was disgusted by it, but it does feel foreign still. All this was going to take time to adjust, to move on from his troubled past and do better for him and for Ratchet.

All that time ago, when he hurt him, he lost himself. He became something dark, horrible, one of Megatron's favourites because he did anything he was told. All those memories will forever haunt him, but he hopes he can move past all that and start over with Ratchet. It's all he wants.

The sudden knock at his door jolts him out of his thoughts and goes to open it. He stares at Ratchet who stands on the other side.

"Did I wake you?" Ratchet asks through a soft tone.

"No, recharge is...it's not easy these days." Drift admits.

Ratchet nods lightly. "Can I come in?"

Drift feels his spark thump rapidly as he nods, allowing him to enter and closing the door behind. He watches as Ratchet turns to face him, and there's that struggling look he held, when he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Drift comes closer, calmly stepping in front of him and trying to look into his optics. He can feel the heat radiating from his charris that he wants to touch, but holds back.

"I wanted to see you." Ratchet manages to say. "I...I just want to be with you." Hearing this makes Drift smile, only for it to slip away hearing his next words. "But I'm scared you're going to hurt me again."

"I know." Drift knows he hurt him badly, he'll never forget that. "And...I'm scared you're never going to stop hating me."

"I don't hate you. I'm just trying to trust you again."

"What can I do?" Drift doesn't know himself. "Tell me what to do."

"No." Ratchet shakes his helm, face hardening. "I want you to decide for yourself, not what I or anyone else tells you." On his own free will, not in control.

Drift gets it now. So, he does that. He touches his face plating, running his digits across and savouring the warm feeling, before closing the distance and kissing him gently.

The kiss is simple and short, but it's what Drift wants, what Ratchet wants. It's broken for just a mere moment before Drift dives in again, slowly deepening it as he slides his servos across Ratchet's shoulders and running behind his neck. Without holding back anymore ratchet consumes the kiss they share and backs him back against the berth, leaning over and pressing himself between his thighs as their lingering heated moans fill the room.

"I've missed you." Ratchet manages to whisper between kisses. "Primus...I've missed you so much."

"I'm here, I'm right here, and I'm never leaving you." Drift says before he retracts his panel, revealing his already soaking valve and the housing opens for his spike to throb out. "Please, Ratty, I need you inside me."

Climbing up over him, Ratchet retracts his panel and his throbbing spike emerges from its housing. He rubs himself against Drift, sliding between the lips of his valve, catching his sensitive node with each thrust. Drift throws his helm back against the berth and wraps his legs tightly around his waist, tugging him close and eager to get him inside.

Finally, Ratchet sinks in, groaning lowly as his spike fills Drift, feeling every ridge running against his inner walls, all the while Drift arches his back as he's filled so perfectly, mouth open as he mewls lowly. He missed this, he missed Ratchet.

Ratchet holds himself up as best he could over Drift before he sets a pace, thrusting his hips against Drift while grunting and venting heavily.

"Ratty, so good, so fragging good!" Drift chants as he holds onto him, clenching his valve around his thickness while running his servos along Ratchet's arms.

However, Ratchet makes a blunt noise, as if he's trying something but is struggling, right before he stops moving and lets out an annoyed heavy vent.

"What's wrong?" Drift vents densely as he feels Ratchet's hesitation and tries to avoid his lingering stare, removing himself from his valve as he backs up. "Hey, hey, Ratty, talk to me. D-did I do something wrong?" He touches his face plating and watches as Ratchet's optics shutter closes and leans into his touch.

"No, no, you did nothing wrong. It's me."

"What do you mean?" Drift shifts closer, placing his other servo over his shoulder and listening to whatever he might want to say.

"It's embarrassing." Ratchet rolls his helm a little. Though he knew Drift wasn't going to let this slide, the concern hanging over his face causing him to vent once more. "I'm old. My stamina isn't what it use to be."

Realization hits Drift. So that's it. He can't hold back a smile.

"Don't you dare laugh." Ratchet warns but this only causes Drift to giggle lightly. "It's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." Drift only fails as he continues to giggle.

"Stop that, you're still laughing."

"I'm not, I'm not." Drift forces himself to calm down and bit back his smile before caressing his face. "Ratty, it's alright. Don't worry about it." Leaning close he kisses him gently. "How about you let me on top? Let me take care of you."

Drift gently pushes Ratchet onto the berth and has him lay down before straddling his lap, thighs trapping against his waist while his exposed valve rubs along Ratchet's throbbing spike, causing soft moans to leave from both of them. Drift hovers closer towards Ratchet's face with a tender smile.

"You always took care of me, now it's my turn to take care of you." Leaning closer, Drift kisses him, letting it linger before gently pushing his glossa inside, coiling with Ratchet's.

Positioning himself he sinks back down onto Ratchet's thick spike and starts to ride him, rolling his hips slowly, rocking himself and riding his spike slowly.

Ratchet moves his servos to his waist, gripping his digits into his soft armour while keeping the kiss deep between them, letting out short moans and feeling more comfortable like this.

Drift vents softly into the kiss, letting out short muffled moans as he sucks at Ratchet's glossa, clenching in sync with his movements as he rides him. He moves his servo between them and he starts to stroke himself, rubbing his tip gently before pumping his servo over, arousal and pleasure quickly boiling between them.

"Drift...Primus....you're so tight." Ratchet gently praises between heated moans against his lips.

"Ratty, oh Ratty! I feel so full, filling me so good." Drift presses his forehead against Ratchet's, keeping close while riding his thick spike buried deep in his valve, rubbing against his ceiling node while Ratchet takes over to stroke Drift's cable then.

Moments like these were dreamed between the two over their time apart from each other. So much war, hate, and now reunited, lost in the moment as if nothing happened.

Drift holds a firmer grip, throwing his weight down over again more firmly, clenching around the perfectly ridged spike throbbing in his valve and rubbing against his inner walls. Moans grew more feral between the two as Ratchet kept his moving servo around Drift, feeling ever twitch and transfluid coating his digits and along the length, wet sounds growing more louder as fluids start to build and pool

Tossing his helm back, Drift lets out a louder mewl, crying out in bliss as he rides Ratchet's spike more densely. "Frag, Ratty, frag, I won't be able to hold it back!"

"Do it, let yourself go." Ratchet gives the all clear between heated vents, because he too wasn't too far off from overloading either. "Let's do it together, same time."

Drift beams warmly through the intense pleasure boiling through him as he grinds himself down over again, venting and gasping sharply, soon muffled as Ratchet kisses him firmly and feels his spike suddenly erupt deep within him, thick ropes of fluids coating his inner walls with some dripping out. Within a moment he bites his lips and gasps out sharply as his own transfluids coat between him and Ratchet, a pink glow covering over Ratchet's digits as well.

Taking his servo, Drift lifts it up to his mouth and sucks at his digits to clean to fluids, tasting himself and letting out a delightful hum around each of them. Ratchet is always heated and flushed, he didn't think it would be possible to be even more, but he was wrong when Drift did this.

"So beautiful." He whispers, allured by the delightful sight as his cooling fans kick in along with Drift's.

"You're just as pretty." Drift whispers through a luminous smile. "I love you, Ratty. I never stopped loving you. My spark will always belong to you, my beloved."

Ratchet feels his very spark jump at his words. "I love you too, Drift. Always have and always will. We'll make this work, I promise."

Drift ends up snuggled up against Ratchet, tangled under his embrace as he purrs gently against his charris. Ratchet missed that purr, a soothing vibration and sound he always cherished.

"We'll be alright, won't we?" Ratchet asks as he caresses the back of Drift's helm.

"I believe so." He hums lightly, giving him a gentle nuzzle. "You've never loosing me ever again."

"Good."

Neither will ever be apart again.

[blushweddinggowns]

But then she woke up the next day and nothing was better. She had slept till noon and by the time she came downstairs her mom let her know that she had two messages from Steve already. 

Those were definitely getting ignored. At least for today. 

She didn’t even know what to say to him. If her feelings for him weren't obvious to him before then they probably were now. Or he thought that she was a total homophobe which made her want to cry for a whole new reason. 

You’re the first person I’ve ever actually told this too, because it just feels like I can trust you. 

Nancy groaned at the memory. God, she had blocked that part out. He probably thought she hated him by now, but she didn’t. She couldn’t even be mad at him, not really.  He didn’t do anything wrong. She was the one who didn’t want to see what was right in front of her. She didn’t know what to do. And when she didn’t know what to do she called Barb, but that wasn’t an option for this.

…was it?

No. It wasn’t. She shouldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t tell her. But then again…if she guessed on her own what had happened that didn’t really count right? And if there was anyone Nancy could trust it was her. She’d never say anything. She just wasn’t the type of person who would endanger someone’s life for petty gossip.

Plus Nancy needed to apologize anyway and it was time she took the verbal tongue whipping that she deserved for leaving her there last night. She called her, sighing when it went to voicemail. She knew she was awake by now and she was definitely home. God, she was even more pissed at her then she thought. 

She spent the weekend sulking, while successfully avoiding Steve and leaving multiple I’m Sorry messages on Barb’s machine. But she wouldn’t be able to avoid her on Monday, she’d find her then.

But then her mom called her, crying. Barb had been missing since Friday. Which didn’t make any sense. Nancy was at their door within the hour, but they had nothing to tell her except that her car was gone and the police had been called. She even went back to Steve’s to look for her, her intense embarrassment suddenly felt like nothing in comparison to not knowing where he best fucking friend was. 

But lucky enough for her he wasn’t there. And Barb’s car wasn’t there either. And Nancy could have sworn it had been when she started walking home. Hadn’t it? What had happened to her after she left? 

Nancy was aware that breaking into Steve’s house to investigate was probably a bad idea. But it was his own fault for showing her where the hide-a-key was. It’s not that she thought that Eddie or Steve would do anything to Barb, but if she was crashing at his house she needed to know about it. But she didn’t find anything. She checked every room, she checked out back, but nothing. There weren’t even signs of a struggle. No blood, nothing that could indicate anything happened here.

But still…if Steve and Eddie were the last people to see her, she couldn’t just pretend that it didn’t matter. Against her better judgment she kept digging around, looking for anything that could help her figure out where she was. She was a little frazzled to say the least. Her best friend was missing and she was trespassing in her ex-crush’s house looking for. 

She was lucky she even heard the front door open while she was rifling through Steve’s desk, immediately followed by his and Eddie’s voices. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

She could hear them coming up the stairs. Of course they were coming up the stairs, his room was upstairs and Nancy….really didn’t want to get caught doing whatever the fuck this was. Could she be blamed for hiding in the closet? God, what kind of hellish weekend was this?

Nancy held her breath as the two of them walked in. She couldn’t see much through the slants in the closet, but she could hear everything. 

“Are you sure you left it here?” Eddie asked, “It might just still be at school.”

“I’m sure,” Steve answered while he shuffled around the room, “I had just finished it and put it back in the book before you came. Give me five minutes and I’ll find it. Just need to retrace my steps. Okay, Friday, I was studying before they came over. And then you happened and…”

She could hear him shuffle around the room before exclaiming, “Ha! Told you it was in here!”

“Why is it under the bed?”

Steve snorted, “Babe, ask yourself that question.”

“Okay whatever. You got me there. Nancy would be proud to know you were this dedicated to turning in homework.”

Steve sighed, “Please don’t say her name right now. I’m sad enough as it is. God, what if she already told Barb and they both hate us? I didn’t even get to say goodbye before they both left.”

“Oh Stevie…” Nancy could hear Eddie move to him, and then an unmistakable, wet kissing sound before he said, “I know this sucks, but it will be okay. You said it yourself right? Nancy’s not that kind of person to hate you over this. And if she is then we do what we always do, lie and move on.”

Steve sighed, “You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is that easy. Besides, you still got me don’t you?”

Another wet sound before Steve giggled, “Yeah. I do. Now let’s go home, this room is making me depressed.”

Nancy could almost cry from how relieved she was when she heard the door close, even if all of that was hard to hear. Though having to hear them kiss wasn’t exactly pleasant. And she…she didn’t want Steve to think she hated him. But she also couldn’t focus on that for right now. Because now she had proof that whatever happened to Barb had nothing to do with Steve and Eddie, thank god. She would still have to ask them about her, get all her bases covered, but she felt pretty damn confident that they had nothing to do with her going missing. Which meant if she told anyone about this stupid party the cops would waste all of their time questioning them while Barb was still gone. Hawkins police had been functionally useless for finding Will Beyers, what were they going to do with Barb? Less than nothing?

Well Nancy wasn’t going to let that stand. She was going to find her herself. 

She just didn’t think she’d end up doing it with Johnathan Beyers of all people. Or that monsters turned out to be fucking real. Or that her little brother was involved. Or any of the insane shit that happened to her in the span of one week. 

Honestly, in comparison to all of that Steve coming out to her really wasn’t that big a deal. 

But him and Eddie showing up to the Beyer’s place to deliver condolence cookies sure fucking was. Though she had to admit, watching Eddie stab the monster in the back with the knife he kept in his shoe kinda made her more understanding on why Steve was so into him. 

She hadn’t even thanked him, either of them for their help. She was too busy rushing to the hospital with Johnathan. Because if they found Will, then that meant that they found Barb, right?

And they had. Just not all of her. Joyce was the one who ended up telling her. And the one who held her while she sobbed. 

Suffice to say, it was a pretty bad fucking week. It had been a few days since then and Nancy had spent most of it crying about Barb. She couldn’t even tell her parents because of the stupid NDA. Mike and Johnathan were too busy celebrating the fact that Will was alive to deal with her.  She had never felt more alone in her life. She couldn’t tell anyone. She couldn’t talk to anyone- 

Well…actually…she couldn’t talk to anyone who hadn’t been there. And even though they didn’t really know what was going on, Eddie and Steve had been there. If they haven't been forced to sign a shady NDA yet then they would be, and it had said nothing about discussing it with the people who already knew. 

But Jesus, now she had to think about Steve. Steve, who didn’t care that she had been ignoring him. Steve and Eddie who still jumped into help save their asses, despite being completely in the dark. How was she even going to face them? 

After everything that had happened, the whole gay thing felt so small. She could get over it, couldn’t she? And maybe her feelings for Steve hadn’t died completely yet, but they would if she tried right? Plus…as sad as it was, Steve was probably the closest living person to her at this point, even if they had only started getting close the past few months. She…missed him. Hell, she even missed Eddie.  

She hadn’t talked to either of them since that day. But she wanted to. She just wasn’t sure if they would want to talk to her. It’s not like she had anything to give them to make up for getting them almost killed. Or for running away. And she did want to make it up to them. She just didn’t know how. 

Unless…maybe there was something she could do after all. 

I’m not some kind of casanova. I haven’t even had sex with a girl before. All of those dates never got past first, if that. But we needed a way to not be obvious so that’s how that happened.

Steve’s words rang in her head. Maybe it wasn’t a good call to offer up being a fake girlfriend to the guy she still technically liked, but it was something. And it would benefit Eddie too. Plus, she could probably save a few girls from some heartbreak while she was at it. 

Okay, that was something. A plan was forming and plans always helped Nancy to feel like she was back in control. Now she just needed to go over there and apologize, explain everything that happened without crying, and offer up being a fake girlfriend as penance. That wasn’t so hard right? Plus it had the added benefit of getting her to move for the first time in two days. 

She rode her bike over to the Harrington’s place, completely unsurprised when there were no cars. Steve had said it himself, this wasn’t where home was. Luckily she knew where the trailer park was. She didn’t know which one was Eddie’s but she did recognize Steve’s car parked out in front of it. 

It took more than a few knocks for someone to answer the door, but she didn’t bike all around town for nothing. Though…it became pretty obvious pretty quickly that she had um, interrupted something when she came over. If the insane amount of hickies on both of their necks was anything to go by. But the conversation went well enough, of course it did. Both of them were understanding, maybe even understanding to a fault. And they had managed to make her laugh for the first time since she’d known Barb was missing. And both of them jumped right onto the fake dating idea. Eddie seemed especially relieved, he even promised to make her muffins for every other fake date they went on.

And just like that she had them back in her life. Thank fucking god. Nancy wasn’t the type of person who always needed to be surrounded by others to be okay. She liked being alone, honestly preferred it more than half the time, but she couldn't get through all of the shit they’d been through alone. She just couldn’t. And she didn’t have to, because Eddie and Steve were there for her every step of the way. Especially Steve. 

It’s not that he took Barb’s place, no one could. But he quickly became the person she’d go to for…well. Everything. Talking about Barb, on the days she could without crying about it, complaining about her Dad and brother, or even dumb things like who she went to first when she heard a song she really liked. She didn’t think that everything would feel so easy with him after what had happened. But it did.

And while she was a lot closer to Steve, having Eddie around wasn’t too bad of a feeling either. He had a gift for lighting up any room he was in. Steve and Nancy actually shared a lot of the same interests and didn’t have many differing opinions, which just made it so much more fun when Eddie went against almost everything they said. He always kept things interesting, that was for sure. 

But Steve just…understood her in a different way. A way that she needed. And if she could just forget about the whole My best friend fucking died for no reason thing for a second then she’d be doing pretty good right now. And also the small issue of I might still be in love with Steve thing.

That one was harder to ignore when she saw him nearly every day. And it made her feel sick. She didn’t want to feel like this. She didn’t want her heart to speed up every time he hugged her. She didn’t want to imagine a world where him holding her hand actually meant something. She didn’t want any of it, and she didn’t know what to do about it. There was nothing she could do. It was a lose-lose scenario. 

For one thing, it was never going to happen. That became painfully clear after Eddie and Steve got the go-ahead that she was a safe person to be themselves around. They were…ugh. Disgustingly in love. And the more she learned about the truth in their relationship the more nails  were hammered into the closed door of Steve and Nancy ever being together. Plus, she didn’t even want to be with him. Even if Steve magically fell in love with her tomorrow it would ruin Eddie. She couldn’t even fantasize about it because it just made her too damn sad. She wasn’t even sure Steve could be Steve without Eddie at his side. 

Besides, if anything she likes seeing them in love, as weird as that was. But the two of them beat her parents out of the park as an example for what love could be. And she wanted that with someone who wanted her. And Steve was never going to be that person. So why hadn’t the feelings gone away?

They were worse when she was having a bad day. And today was an especially bad day. It had been a few months since Barb died.  It was a Friday night and Nancy’s parents were gone for the weekend, Mike was at Will’s, and Steve and Eddie always did their own thing on Fridays. 

No one had remembered what day it was. Or if they did, they didn’t care. March 26th. Barb’s birthday. Nancy didn’t tell anyone and she didn’t do anything besides sending flowers to her parents..  No one else in school knew. She didn’t even go, she allowed herself the small liencay of skipping, even if she was regretting it now. 

Because she had had a strategy for dealing with Barb being gone. And that was keeping herself busy to the maximum extent possible. If she wasn’t studying her ass off she was doing an extracurricular, and if she wasn’t doing that then she was hanging out with Steve. And if she wasn’t doing that then she was busy trying to read everything Tolstov ever wrote. The busier she was, the less time she had to think. And the less time she had to think meant that her mind wouldn’t wonder to Barb, or how she died, or how alone she probably felt or how scared-

And her strategy was not working. At least not for today. Now she was back to where she was last year, crying alone in her room. Steve had called after school to check up on her and he seemed to believe the lie she put out about her period being particularly bad. It was good for no follow up questions at least. She would have the next 60 or so hours to be alone and miserable.

So why was there someone pounding on her door? Nancy groaned as she forced herself out of bed, yelling down the stairs, “Jesus, I’m coming!”

It had to be Dustin looking for Mike. It’s not like anyone wanted to see her. She didn’t even bother opening the door, she just yelled through it, “Mike is at Will’s house!”

Steve laughed nervously on the other side, “Well that’s good, because I’m pretty sure that kid hates my guts.” 

Nancy’s eyes widened at the sound of his voice. She opened the door and there he was, sheepishly waving at her on her front stoop, "Hi? Can I um, come in?"

Nancy stepped aside to let him, quickly wiping at her face to hide any stray tears. She was pretty sure she looked like shit, but too little too late for that one. 

She shut the door and turned to face him, suddenly feeling very awkward, “I thought tonight was date night?”

Steve shrugged, “Every night is date night if you try hard enough. Do you want to sit down or…?”

Nancy shook her head. What she wanted to do was get back to sulking, but she needed to figure out why he was even here before she could do that, “Steve, what are you doing here?”

Steve fidgeted in place and Nancy hated how adorable she thought it was, “Well you sounded weird over the phone and I was just worried I guess. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Or at least she would be fine after she was left alone to rot, like she deserved, “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, “Nancy look, I know you can take care of yourself. But I just thought since it’s…well y’know.”

How would he…he couldn’t know. Could he? Nancy narrowed her eyes at him, “What are you talking about?”

Steve frowned, suddenly looking a bit more unsure of  himself, “It’s Barb’s Birthday today right?”

Nancy stared at him, eyes wide, “H-How do you know that?”

Steve shrugged, “We um, talked about it once.”

“And you remembered?”

Steve cocked his head at her, “Of course I remember. We were having this whole debate about cars and then I asked what she’d want when she turned sixteen and she mention- Nancy? Are you okay?”

Nancy was not okay. She could feel the tears already welling up in her eyes. She thought…she didn’t think anyone remembered. Or cared but…Steve did. He hadn’t even known her that well. Which was fucking horrible because Barb would have loved him. She did love him, begrudgingly back when they barely knew each other. And Steve would have loved her. Because Barb was smart and funny and sweet like Steve and…and Nancy was crying. Like crying, crying. She was sobbing so hard it felt like an out of body experience. 

She could feel herself sinking to the floor, hands covering her face as she wept. She hated crying in front of other people. She hated looking so weak and pathetic. She hated feeling like this. She was supposed to be better than this. Why did she even have to cry about? She wasn’t the one who was dead. 

God, was this what a mental breakdown felt like?

She could barely hear the sound of Steve kneeling next to her over her own sobs, but she did feel it when he wrapped his arms around her, “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone.”

That just made her cry harder. Because she should have been alone. She deserved to be alone. 

“No, you don’t Nancy. Don’t say shit like that.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d been talking out loud. Yep, this was definitely what a mental breakdown felt like. But Steve holding her was helping. He was even rocking her a little, murmuring reassurances in her ear the whole time. 

It took awhile for her to calm down. She couldn’t even tell you how long it had been. But somehow Steve had gotten them off the floor and to the couch, an arm still around her shoulders as she sniffled.

She wiped at her face, a sea of emotions flowing through her. Grief, shame, longing, and all of it was fucking awful. 

She couldn’t even look at Steve, “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nance, don’t apologize. You think I’ve never had a good cry session on the floor before? It’s normal.”

But it wasn’t normal for her, “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“Why not? Nancy, your best friend died. What else are you going to cry over if not this?”

Even months later, hearing someone else say she died felt like a knife to her heart. Her eyes were already welling up again. Fuck it, she had already embarrassed herself to hell and back in front of him, why not a little more?

“I miss her. So much. Every day. And I can’t stop thinking, why her? What did she ever do to deserve this? And I can’t stop thinking if I hadn’t taken her to your house that night, would she still be alive? Is it my fault she’s dead? O-or am I just making her dying about me? And it makes me feel like I’m going crazy,”  She was babbling, and she’d be shocked if Steve could even understand half of what she was saying through her shaking voice. 

But Steve was listening to every word, patiently waiting as she got everything out before speaking, “Nancy, it’s not your fault she’s gone. And you’re not bad for thinking about what happened. I…I know there’s nothing I can say to fix this. But you're not a bad person because of what happened to her. And there was no reason. It was just fucked up and wrong and no one’s fault but the people in that lab.”

Nancy knew that he was right, even if it didn’t feel right. It still felt like her fault. And even if it wasn’t it didn’t take away the fact that she was gone. But…at least she wasn’t alone. She hadn’t even told him to come, but here he was anyway, all because he remembered her best friend’s birthday.

Because that was the kind of person Steve was. And she loved him for it. And he was handsome and kind and Nancy’s sense of self-preservation was at an all time low. 

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, “I think I’m in love with you.”

She regretted saying it the second it was out there. She could feel Steve freeze up next to her. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Why had she said that? This. This right here was why she didn’t do vulnerable, because you say the dumbest shit imaginable. Shit that ruined friendships. What was Eddie going to think of her when he found out? He’d probably never talk to her again and now she put Steve in this horrible position and…God, why did she suck so much?

She looked up at him, near cringing at the shocked expression on his face, “Im so sorry Steve, that’s a terrible thing to say. Please don’t tell Eddie. I don't even know where that came from-”

Steve shook his head, shaking himself out of his surprised stupor. He smiled at her, aiming to comfort, “Hey, hey calm down, I’m not mad.”

But he should have been. Or at least Nancy thought he should, “Steve, I would never try to get in between you guys. You know that right? I’m just all fucked up and-”

“Stop apologizing. It’s okay. I get it Nancy. I do. But uh, I’m not sure you do.”

Nancy stopped, her third apology dying on the tip of her tongue, “What?” 

Steve sighed, “Nance, I love you but I think you’re looking at me through some rose-colored glasses here, alright? We work because you have the friend version of me. I think a week with romantic Steve would have you running up a wall.”

That’s what he was focusing on?

“Huh?”

Steve bit his lip, struggling for the words before saying, “It’s just-and stop me if I’m totally wrong here, but I think that it’s not everyday a boy and a girl get as close as we did without the romance part. So it’s easy to get confused. I know you love me. But…I don’t think you’re in love with me. I think you think it would be easier if you were, but Nancy, I swear to you it wouldn’t be.”

This conversation had taken a weird turn. And it didn’t make any sense to her, “What are you talking about? Anyone would be happy to be with you Steve. Look at you!”

“Exactly!” Steve groaned, circling a hand around his face, “Look at me! Do you know the shit I put Eddie through on a daily basis?”

“What do you mean?” Nancy asked.

“I mean I’m a nightmare! First of all, he’s not even allowed to sleep at night without me. And I’ll like, koala cling to him. All night long. And it doesn’t stop in bed. If we’re alone, his lap is my home away from home.”

Nancy stared at him, gnawing on her lower lip as he talked, "You're exaggerating."

Steve shrugged, "You're right. Half the time he’s on mine. But it gets worse. Do you remember when I was gone for that tournament a few weeks back? It was maybe two days?”

She nodded.

“I called him eight times. And he picked up every single one of them. Because if he hadn’t, I would have obsessively called him until he had.”

Jesus Christ, that could not be healthy, “Are…are you serious?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, equal parts embarrassed and determined, “Dead. And that’s not even top five in the clingy shit I do. Did you know there was a weekend I literally didn’t let him out of bed for like twelve hours? Or the fact that I’m responsible for like every class we’ve ever skipped because I drag him into some dark room to makeout?”

Steve may have been right about the rose-colored glasses. If he ever tried any of that with her she’d strangle him, “You guys do that?”

“We do worse. But I’m not trying to add to your trauma here. But think about it. You’re…you. You’re independent, you love having alone time, you like the quiet, you want people to ask before they hug you. And I love all of that, I do! I love that you’re so straight-foward. I love that you're all no nonsense, but…well…I’m all nonsense. God I don’t know what other way to say this but I’m a brat and believe me, you’d dump me in a few months, a year tops.”

She hated how true that was. But Steve was right, she knew he was right. She would never be able to handle someone being that clingy. She stopped sleeping with her stuffed animals when she was ten because they made her too hot, but a whole person, attached to her side every night and day? She’d die. And maybe…maybe that explanation cleared up all the confusion. Because she still didn’t actually want him before she knew all of that, out of guilt. But now…it was a little more than just that. 

“But…” Steve trailed off for a second, before giving Nancy’s hand a light squeeze, “If I was straight, I’d love nothing more than to get my heart broken by you.”

Now Nancy was tearing up for a whole other reason. Maybe in love had been the wrong phrasing, but she really did love this guy. This strange, sweet, freak of a man. 

She squeezed his hand back, “Promise me this won’t change anything?”

Steve shrugged, “I can’t promise that. I think it will change things, but for the better alright? No more secrets between us, yeah?”

Nancy nodded, with one small caveat, “But you still won’t tell Eddie right?”

Steve grinned before pulling her into another hug, “That you thought you were in love with me for five seconds? Never.”

Nancy pulled away first, wiping at her eyes again. They were actually sore from all the crying she’d done in the last couple of hours, “I feel like I should send him flowers for dealing with you now or something.”

“Well…if you wanted you could tell him that yourself. How about you come back to the trailer with me? You can be alone with us.”

Nancy laughed at that, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

"It kind of does though."

It really didn’t but Nancy didn’t care. She smiled at him, relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt in months,“Yeah, that sounds good.”

While she was happy she’d get to spend more time with Steve, she was more than a little nervous to see Eddie, especially since she was interrupting their night. Even though Steve insisted over and over again that it was more than fine. Best case he’d be begrudgingly accepting, and worst he’d be obviously annoyed. Nancy wasn’t sure which she preferred. 

What she hadn’t expected was for Eddie to hug her right after she got in the door. Or better yet, ask before he did it. 

“You get full movie picking privileges,” he announced right after. He looked her up and down, frowning to himself a little, “"Have you had dinner yet?"

"Um no but I’m okay-"

“But nothing. I could throw you like a football. You’re eating something.”

Steve snorted behind her, “Did you just get possessed by an Italian grandmother? He makes spaghetti one time-”

“And you loved it!”

Nancy smiled to herself as she watched them bicker. But there was no longing to go with it this time, she just felt…happy to be around them. And she did eat, just to shut Eddie up, the nag. 

But she got him back. She was never going to let him live down the fact that he cried during Harold and Maude. She had them sit through all of her favorite movies, and by the third act of Valley Girl, they were both fast asleep. 

Steve was leaning against her shoulder while Eddie was half draped over the armrest, snoring in what looked like one of the most uncomfortable positions possible. She leaned back into the couch with a sigh as the movie played, her eyes slipping closed on their own. And for the first time in a long time, Nancy knew that she was going to be okay. 

~

Part 1 Part 1.5 Part 2

The end! At least for the Nancy POV. Everything from this little series was from this fic, and I might post more snippets if it can be relatively short for tumblr styling. This honestly isn't that short but I didn't want to split it in two so here we are!

@northa @dustcommander @attic-cat-blog @dinosareawesome2137 @obsessivlyme @fuckign-uh-hi

@a-little-unsteddie @ghost--enthusiast @jestyzesty @missarte-beltane

[lover-of-mine]

I'm gonna start this off by saying that this has been ping-ponging around my head like that old dvd screensaver, quicking around and getting more unhinged every time it hit a corner since April. And while this is a meta on the cemetery scene in Death and Taxes, I will be going back and forth in the whole show, so I don't know, buckle up, grab your delusional juice, and come with me if you feel like it.

First thing about that scene is that it tries to make you think about the equine therapy conversation in Dumb Luck.

They are in a location we have never seen before and probably will never see again, the outfits are similar, and even the circumstances of the conversation could be read as close to each other, considering Eddie wasn't doing well after almost dying, Buck is definitely not handling his death well. I made a way too detailed meta about the cinematography of buddie during Eddie's breakdown era (you can read it if you want more details) but the main thing about the dumb luck conversation is that Eddie is finally letting Buck in after continuously shutting him down when he tried to offer help and that's reflected on the way they filmed the scene, the way they are talking, moving, positioned in the frame. It's about Buck reminding Eddie that there's hope after all. Considering the moment Buck's in, with them alluding to that conversation, you would've expected for them to do a similar thing with Buck, right? That this scene going to give Buck the same type of peace the equine therapy talk gave Eddie.

But it doesn't. One thing that's kind of a pattern with Buck, Eddie, and Eddie reassuring Buck (if you could call 2 scenes a pattern) is that they have Buck looking up at Eddie (I also talked about this in more detail here if you're interested) but that's interesting because of Buck's height, he's the tallest person in the room, so he's not usually looking up at people, but something about Buck as character is that he has the tendency to sit in higher places, so he's always higher, and he even picked a place where he can sleep in a high spot.

But when he's getting reassurance from other people in his life, they are both usually sitting down, at the same eye level.

But when he goes to Eddie for reassurance, Eddie is standing up and Buck is sitting down, so Buck is literally looking up at Eddie when he goes to Eddie for advice. And Eddie is always focused on Buck, in Home and Away, Eddie is reasoning with him, and in Recovery Eddie is trying to give Buck what Buck is asking while not pushing his boundaries.

Why is that relevant here? Well, Buck spends the whole conversation in the cemetery trying to get Eddie to look at him and Eddie spends most of the conversation looking forward so he won't have to.

And that alone is very interesting because Eddie is always looking at Buck. I could legit put 100 screenshots here to prove it. So the fact that Eddie can't look at Buck here, means something. Because Buck wants Eddie to be on his side, he needs Eddie to tell him he's doing the right thing, but the way he's talking is making Eddie shut down.

Buck wants answers, right? He wants the easy way out. He died, he has feelings about it he doesn't want to deal with, so he's looking for whatever answers he can get so he won't have to. But the way he's talking sounds a lot like the way Eddie talks to him in Kids Today when he drops Christopher off with him before the tsunami. Very you're alive, get over it thing Eddie had going that ended with him literally destroying everything he had. So, like, we know that's not the way to go about near-death experiences, it doesn't end well because the pressure has to go somewhere and let's face it, Buck has never dealt with anything that happened to him ever. He can't just keep moving past the shit he's been through, at some point, that's gonna catch up to him.

But the thing about the actual content of the conversation is the way that Eddie tries to do the thing he usually does, reason with Buck, "been down that road, don't recommend it" or "or you don't know her the way he does" or "now am I allowed to ask how you are", because it's how they work, but Buck shuts him down with the "I feel like she sees me, like she really sees me for who I am" because that threw Eddie off balance in their relationship, in their friendship really, considering they way they showed us buddie from in a flash to mixed feelings, Eddie is trying his best to be someone Buck relies on, the way we've seen him rely on Buck through his trauma recovery. And one thing we see Eddie constantly do is back away so he won't get hurt once things get too intense. He puts space between him and whatever is bothering him, he ran to LA to escape his parents' judgment (and to be closer to Shannon but his parents played a part there), he kept Shannon at arm's length through most of the time she was back in his life before she died, he kept pushing Buck away after the lawsuit, he pushes everyone away really before his PTSD took him down. Dude retreats from the fight if he's not sure and Buck throws him off balance. Because up until this moment, Eddie thinks he's helping, but we see him realize he was wrong and shut down in real time.

He's still trying, but his thing now is agreeing with Buck. This gif has 11 seconds, black and white because I wanted the whole thing in one gif, but Buck is trying to get a reaction out of him, but Eddie already moved to a whatever you say buddy mode. AND EDDIE JUST WON'T LOOK AT BUCK.

So Buck wants to know if he's doing the right thing, Eddie is agreeing with him not because he agrees with him but because now he thinks that whatever he's doing is not helping so putting distance between them will be what's best because Buck is getting what he needs somewhere else so he needs to minimize the damage to himself.

And the distance thing is something that stays until the end of the season, because during the first half of 6B, they are together the whole time, mixed feelings being obviously the biggest example, but they made a point of highlighting the fact that they were very close outside the firehouse, just to stop. They were chilling at Buck's loft, they were out and about scheming the fire captain, Buck looked more comfortable at Eddie's than he did in his own place. But then we don't even see them together in the hospital after the bridge. Like, there's s p a c e now.

And I spent a really long time trying to figure out what was going on with this scene that made such an impression on me, and it's that Buck doesn't sound like someone who believes in what they're saying, he sounds like someone who's justifying themselves and hoping they are doing the right thing. And Eddie doesn't really let him get away with this line of thought, not usually, but he does now, so they leave that conversation with different impressions of how it went. Buck thinks he's right and Eddie is just backing the fuck off.

And a while back it downed on me what other scene this made me think of. And that's the fountain scene in merry ex-mas.

They are even shot in a similar way, the off-center wide angle, the close-up from a side angle where you can see the other one slightly blurry, the focus of the conversation angled toward the front of the frame, everything happening in an outside location we will never probably see again, the way they are not looking at each other. And the conversation is similar too, I mean, sure they are not talking about dying but it is a big decision in Eddie's life that sounds like Eddie is justifying himself and needs Buck to agree with him. And Buck is agreeing with him, and not talking about it even though we KNOW he has opinions because he kept trying to talk about it with Chimney because Buck doesn't think it's his place to have an opinion and offer it to Eddie. Both scenes sound like they are talking and understanding each other but what the scene is showing us is that they are not.

And something about the way they are pretty much never looking at each other is that it is a way to show they are not seeing eye to eye in a situation, the most extreme example I can think of it is when Eddie drags Buck out of bed in Kids Today because they are pretty much never looking at each other there.

But to have them face the same direction is a really easy way to make you feel like something is wrong, especially if they are not moving, because if they are standing in the same spot for 3 minutes they could've turned to face each other, but they don't, because the message here is that they are not really seeing each other. And that in a conversation where Buck is talking about being seen by someone else????? Like, come on, that's so on purpose.

I also wanna add a take that's not mine, all credit to @anxieteandbiscuits for putting this particular thought in my head with this post, that's basically about how the "dating someone you rescued? that never ends well" line might also be another justification for why Eddie chooses to stay quiet. Because one thing is true, and that is that buddie do be rescuing each other. And it really sounds like something Eddie would do, to justify to himself not doing something that could make him lose Buck any way he could, because romantic relationships are very unstable, no matter how much you want it to work, how much you love each other, there's a very real level of unpredictability in a romantic relationship that doesn't exist in their friendship. So to imagine him going "the friendship is good, the friendship is what I need, I won't do anything to change that because I don't have to and it probably wouldn't end well with our track record anyway" makes a lot of sense too.

If you made it to here, I love you <3

I have more metas here if you feel like reading more of my brand of insanity.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Hmm so what about mommy Wanda coming home after a long and stressful day. She’s spent the entire time in meetings at the compound receiving very explicit text messages from you and very revealing photos. Her patience wearing thin. As soon as she gets home she’s forcing you to the ground and making you please her until she’s satisfied. Then lets you cockwarm her enchanted strap as a mini award while she works on reports that she couldn’t finish because you were being such a slut for her. She doesn’t let you cum that night but she lets you cockwarm her while going to sleep. You wake up in the morning to her still inside you and admiring your restful face. As soon as she notices you’re awake she covers your face in kisses. As she’s kissing you she unintentionally moves inside you causing you to let out a soft moan. She takes that as a sign to start teasing you and rocking gently into you. She gently pushes you onto your back so she can go a little faster. You can start to feel your much needed release rise and you know that Wanda is close too. You grasp onto her back desperately right as she cums. She she pulls out and makes you suck her clean and then tells you she has to go back to the compound for more meeting. She leaves you there soaked with a kiss to your cheek and the soft whisper to make it up to you tonight.

yesssss, reader lovesssss testing wanda. also edging as a punishment??!! top tier for sure.

as soon as she gets home, her eyebrows drawn and underwear damp, she sees your smirking face peeking out from your spot on the couch. at the mere sight of you sprawled out casually in only her sweater, she can't stop herself from grabbing your neck and forcing you to your knees. sitting down where you had just been on the couch, she spreads her legs as she pulls her skirt up, her hand firmly tangled in your hair as she brings your face closer to her.

"you've made mommy very upset, sweetheart. you know how much i hate teasing, it's almost as if you're begging to be punished." and when you let out a soft moan at her words, she knows she's right. taking no mercy on you, she practically shoves your head against her core, grinding softly on your face as she's finally releasing some of the pent up tension she's had since the first text message she received from you. you do your best, your tongue lapping up her arousal as she comes, not stopping even when your jaw starts to ache. by the third time wanda orgasms, you feel tears welling up at the tight hold she still has on your hair, your neck tightening from the awkward kneeling position you're in.

"did you think mommy was going to go easy on you? punishments aren't fun, darling. and i really don't like doing this, but how else will you learn your lesson?" wanda is unforgiving, holding your face against her as she comes two more times, before she pulls you up by the neck and drags you towards the bedroom.

you think she's finally going to fuck you when she walks over the the closet, grabbing her favorite strap on. you wait, not protesting when she leads you to her office, and sitting down on her strap with no resistance, your arousal leaking onto her thighs as she powers on her computer. "you're going to sit here and be quiet, like a good little slut. alright? a single sound or movement out of you and mommy won't touch you for a week."

you want to cry at the thought, but you stay still, every muscle in your body shaking as you tense up. wanda softly rubs circles into your thigh as she types with one hand, the movement letting you know that she's only punishing you for your behavior, not because she's actually mad at you.

after an excruciating half hour, your eyes have glazed over and your head is resting on her shoulder. she allowed the movement, saying, "i know my baby is tired, just a few more minutes and mommy will be done. you're taking me so well, honey."

then, finally she brings you to bed, carrying you with the strap still buried deep inside your pussy. you wake up immediately, your eyes hopeful as wanda laughs. "oh, sweetheart. did you think you were getting fucked tonight? no darling, you made mommy wait all fucking day, so now you get to wait all night."

you go to bed drenched, your pussy squeezing around her strap as she holds you close.

waking up the next morning, you're surprised to see her green eyes already open, her face soft as she smiles gently. you smile back, leaning forward to kiss her, your arms wrapping around her shoulders. that's when you feel it, and all the memories of the night before come rushing back in an instant. her strap is still buried in you, and you rock your hips slightly.

bad mistake.

the low simmering arousal that had been festering all night, returned with a vengeance. it swept through you, and you could have sobbed when wanda started moving, her hips purposeful as she slowly thrusts into you. you can barely think, the only thing on your mind being your orgasm.

wanda can tell that you're close, and she feels her own orgasm rising as she watches your face scrunch up and feels your hips attempting to rock against her. she rolls the two of you over until your back is against the mattress, and pins your hands against the pillow.

"go on, sweetheart. come as much as you'd like. mommy's sorry she made you wait all night but i think you've learned your lesson now, haven't you?" you nod frantically, your eyes wide and hopeful as she begins fucking into you earnestly. your nails dig into her back, your pussy over sensitive from cock warming her all night, and wanda comes instantly at the sensation. her hips stutter and jerks against your, pressing against your clit perfectly, and you come right after her, your moans filling the room as she brings you down from your high.

you're absolutely devastated when she pulls out, feeling empty and definitely unsatisfied. she presses the strap against your lips, and you immediately stick out your tongue and clean her off, your juices dripping down the soft skin of your inner thigh as you do so. even sucking her off doesn't fully sate your hunger. wanda just smiles at you, her eyes glinting as she urges you out of bed, kissing you softly before saying, "mommy has to go back for a few more meetings. if you behave yourself, i'll reward you tonight by letting you come as many times as you want, however you want."

[yeyinde]

fever in a shockwave., i | Joe "Bear" Graves x f!Reader

pt., i | swallow him whole (like a pill that makes you choke)

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. So, you call it. Or: this is what happens when resident travesty Joe Graves meets a local track star fleeing from everything. (The only problem being: no one ever taught you how to run.)

warnings: implied/references to cheating (but not really); angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series wordcount: 15,1k

[NEXT] AO3 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. 

So, you call it. 

(Like you should have months ago.)

Get me a scotch. Whisky, and—his hazy gaze slides to the woman barely sitting on the broken stool, eyes drooping and grinning much too wide considering where she's at, before jerking to you again—uh, whatever, uh… she's having. 

She's having long island iced tea. You're tired of making it, anyway. 

You nod, dutifully, but hand him a glass of room-temperature water, instead. 

"This isn't what I asked for." 

His voice is pitched low. Always. A strange, rasping timbre that you pretend does nothing to you no matter how many times his eyes slide over your body, liquid blue, and asks for something—bourbon, a scotch, rye. 

You can't quite meet his gaze when you shrug. "I know."

There is something about this man who reeks of stale cigarettes, motel shampoo, and wheat malt. Something that makes you ache in all the wrong ways. A man on the verge of implosion; a deadly, gaseous bomb that will leak miasma into the aether until you're rotten from the inside out. Organs full of those awful fumes he'll exude. 

Going out with a bang, heavy and suffocating. 

His hand jerks on the table. You watch his knuckles slide over the wood, clenching into a tight fist. So tight the scarred tissue around his bones turns white. Bleached under the strain of barely keeping it together. 

There is something about an angry man that itches under your skin.  

"What the fuck?" The woman beside him breaks the stifling silence. "We paid—"

"S'alright," he says. Low, low—voice scraping against the gravel. His chin falls when you look up. Expression blank, but not vacant. Anger, and—

Maybe a little bit of guilt, sadness, regret.

"Let's get outta here, then," she coos, hand trailing over his chest. 

"Yeah," he mutters, and you wonder what caused the shadows in his eyes this time, the ones dulled, glossy, and drenched in cheap liquor. His fist clenches, eyes narrowing. "Let's go." 

Anger clings to him. His shoulders are drawn tight even when he wobbles on his feet, unsteady. His hand slams down on the counter, nails—dirty, chewed down the wick—grazing the chipped grain as he tries to stable himself. 

His chin lifts, as if he's demanding you to say something. Threatening in blotchy malt, eyes fixed on you like a cobra, a predator. Ocean blue, foggy and glazed over with the nearly hundred dollar tab he tossed on tonight —all in shots, in long island iced teas—and wonder what the blue looks like on a clear day. 

Wonder, haltingly, if you'll ever find out. 

He leans forward, eyes cresting. Corners turned down in some facsimile of goading, of jeer. His palm turns on the table, closer, now. The space between you is cut by the counter; a perfect partition. 

He waits a beat, takes three inhale, two exhales, and then—

Hands loop around his broad waist, chipped pink shaved into almond points catching on a stain in the shade of grease-yellow. 

"You comin'?" She murmurs from behind him, voice muffled. 

His eyes don't waver. "Yeah."

Yours drop. A flash of gold catching in the jaundiced light. 

There are bad ideas, and there is this. 

(A sickness.)

On the opposite side of the Virginia Beach boardwalk is a dive bar on the fringes of obsoletion. One just barely clinging to its last vestiges of life. It is considered too far away for a younger, rowdier crowd to congregate, and too dilapidated to pull anyone who wasn't searching for one thing, and one thing only: escapism. 

Numbed apathy at the bottom of cheap ale. Curated indifference in a bottle.

There is no affection in some of the older generations' tones when they speak of this place. It isn't something of their youths, or anything to feel that weepy sense of nostalgia over. 

It's just a beaten-down pub in a sea of many. 

Hardly anyone's first choice. 

(Somewhere in the crumbling pages of Freud, you're sure, it would tell you why you decided to work here of all places, too.)

You clock into work, ready for the usual slough to pass through. Another mundane night that the chef has dubbed the usual.  

The usual being: opening at five to an empty bar that stretches until eight, maybe none, when the solid sea of regulars (lifers, you've taken to calling them), will have settled in their spots. It mostly consists of twelve people—max—dispersed in the bar, some of them truckers on break or passersby, tourists, who wandered too far down the boardwalk because they didn't know any better. 

It's normal. Routine. 

You expected the same lour stagnancy that bleeds into everything else, dripping down in a steady trickle like the rainwater that leaks in from the cracks in the shingles your boss refuses to fix, pelting the bottom of the tin bucket perched beneath the hole until it's overflowing. Grey water trapped in a metal prison. 

You've come to expect the sulphurous scent whenever you take your place behind the counter.

The most offbeat thing that happened today was your horoscope this morning said to be wary of sinkholes, a problem you haven't thought of since you were younger, and one you doubt you'd face in Virginia, of all places. 

(It also said: love life? Tragic. Finances? Might improve sooner than you think. Social life? Could be better.) 

Nothing unusual, really.

And then—

A flash from the corner of your eye. Two fingers jerking up once, flagging you down. The universal sign for hey, bartender, over here. You obey the command, painting an unnecessary smile on your face, one that rarely ever goes acknowledged. You turn to the man who waved you over, and—

Well. 

He's massive. Different, but decidedly not out of place in a room that reeks of stale beer and lemon cleaner. He moulds to the shadows, sticking like glue to the crevasse in the corner. 

Something about him prickles your skin. A break in the routine. 

Your heart does this strange, off-rhythm beat when you walk up to him, taking stock of the way he barely fits on the rusted stool. His legs are too bulky, too broad, for both of them to fit together. One thigh spends nearly the entire length of the worn, flat cushion. 

They are long enough that he has to bend at the knee to keep his foot flush with the floor. 

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Except the strange lurch doesn't settle when it becomes apparent he isn't going to look away. 

He keeps his gaze—cenote blue—fixed on you the whole time. 

It's in his eyes where you find just how similar he is to some of the regulars: 

Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. 

A broken thing scraping the bottom of a bottle for something to abate the everpresent ache inside. 

When you're close enough, he dips his chin. The thick auburn beard covering his face is rough and worn; it's unkempt, like his hair—moused, greasy—and his clothes—stained and wrinkled. He has a pock on his forehead, and a small scar. The silvery skin catches in the ugly fluorescent lighting above. 

He's in a state of disarray. Chaotically unkempt, but the shadows under his eyes—tenebrism on breathing flesh—tell you, implicitly, that he does not care. A chiaroscuro in sabotage, he leaks ruin when you lean in with a tight, shaky smile. 

No greeting. Just—

"Whisky. Two shots." 

It's blunt. Unapologetic. A direct dismissal. 

You're not his friend. You deserve no pleasantries in such a place, nor will you find any with him. 

And, really—

You're used to men like him sidling up to the bar, barking out their drink of choice without so much as a hello, lovely evening for it. This is no different from anyone else who sat on that same chair, ordered the same drink, and stank of the same corrosive rot. 

Nothing different at all. 

Yet, he leaks octane out of every pore of his body. The rust in his gaze is a warning sign: this is a man on the verge of collapse, and one less stable than Betelgeuse. 

His eyes are murky blue. Stagnant water. It's a trap, though. There's a livewire buried under the velvet surface. 

Your smile wobbles. "Sure."

He's dangerous. The hisses in your head say he's everything you should run from. 

(Too bad for them, no one ever taught you how.)  

It becomes a routine. 

He shows up at the same time each week—six on the dot—takes the stool across from the entrance, and diagonal to the washrooms, the kitchen.  

He looks around the room. Then reaches for his phone.

And he looks—

Miserable. 

It's none of your business. None at all. It's not even something you should be noticing—like how his knuckles are always split apart or in some state of healing. How he turns his phone off as soon as he sits down, but always takes a moment to stare at the photo on his wallpaper—a woman, his wife, smiling at the camera. Something shudders over his expression. He turns it off, and slips it in his pocket. 

In that singular moment, something switches. 

He waves you over. Orders a drink. Stumbles out the door when it's time for closing like all the other frequent flyers looking to chase their demons away in amber. 

A man like him shouldn't be here. 

Military, Pete says; he spoke to him a few days after his first arrival but adds nothing more except a shake of his head, and a softly uttered poor fucking sod, which, coming from the man who is running himself bankrupt to feed an unquenchable addiction, it pacts a degree of potency that leaves you feeling numb. 

You heard him utter something back in a low tone to a man who tried to drag him back a few weeks after he first took his seat, and never left. 

God ain't here, is he? He wasn't there then, and he isn't here now. Leave me alone, Buddha. Just—take care of them. Take care of the team, the boys. Just do that for me, and find this son of—

There are no answers in the bunch of his shoulders, the low hang of his head. He grinds the heel of his palm into his left eye so hard, you sometimes wonder if he's trying to shatter his socket to finally alleviate the ache inside. The other hand always curled tight around a glass, half empty. Knuckles bloodied. 

And that's how he spends his evening. 

Chasing relief in whisky. 

Oftentimes, he's alone. 

Just himself and two empty stools beside him that whine when his broad thighs tap against the cushions, rusted metal grating together, and orders the same cheap booze. 

Has the same haunted look in his eyes, the same shadows. Reeks of the same rot. A wound that never heals. It's just dulled in an easy, quick swallow out of a smeared shot glass until he's too drunk to keep his eyes open.

(You suppose it's hard to be chased by ghosts when they're drenched in formaldehyde. 

Or cheap perfume—)

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, he isn't. 

You'd be remiss not to notice. Even chasing an easy out at the end of a bottle, it's obvious he's an attractive man. Big. Broad. 

Surly.

(Your type always seems to be carrying some weight. 

Maybe that's why their shoulders are always so big.)

He's unshaven—face covered in thick bristles of burnt umber that curl at the ends; some grey leaks in around his temples, his jaw. You don't think he's washed his hair in a week much less his beard, and yet—

You wonder what it would feel like on your skin—

(Bad thoughts. Bad—)

He wears several Walmart brand Henleys in rotation, all the same ones you'd get from a pack for less than twenty dollars. Maybe even less than ten. Grey, charcoal blue, midnight blue, black, white. In that order. And jeans. Ones that barely fit around his thick thighs, his wide waist. 

Black shoes—trousers never tucked in—and a—

It catches in the glow. The woman beside him glances down once, recognition bleeds in the draw of her brows, and you expect anger, reproach, scorn. You tense, waiting for it. For the proverbial comeuppance men like him are supposed to get. It's how it goes in the movies, right? 

He's supposed to be the smarmy type who oozes sycophantic charm, women hanging off them as they dabble in hedonism without any feelings of regret. Men like him are followed by a thundercloud. A looming storm in the distance promises a torrential downpour. 

You wonder if the deluge would soak you, too. 

And—

Nothing. 

Instead, her hand falls to the centre of his chest, placed right against his sternum. Eyes coy, glossy. One of her lashes clings to the bottom. 

"What are you doing after this?" 

She's curated perfection: sultry and alluring. 

You can see his glazed eyes drift down to her open blouse—the brand on the button says Michael Kors, and probably costs triple your earnings for the night—and you know, then, that he'll leave with her.

None of the women he takes home is the type you'd find in a dive bar like this, but you suppose pickings are slim in a college town that likes to gossip. They run the risk of getting caught nestled too close together in the back by Tim the Vicar, and so they come here. Where the hardened, rugged alcoholics go to escape the prying eyes of their neighbours, and coworkers. 

A sea of shady, drunk people. 

In the corner near the exit, a man slides a bag into the awaiting hands of a businessman. A woman sits by herself in a booth for six, and you know her husband, a pastor who has been trying to raise funds to open a new church, runs the town's chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. A man who stays until closing, drinking pint after pint on the opposite side of the stool will stand up, keys in hand, and go deliver the morning news at five AM. 

The woman in Anne Klein trousers and a Michael Kors blouse who runs her nails down his cheap, stained Henley, eyes dark and full of promises for later, is someone you pass on the highway on your commute to this little cesspit outside of town. 

She's always smiling brightly on a billboard next to her husband, a man running for mayor. 

Maybe, you think, bringing your thumb up to your lips, teeth digging into the seam between your skin and nail as you watch them stumble out of the bar, they're a perfect match. Both drunk, both looking for cheap thrills drenched in sleaze, and—

Both wear gold bands around their ring finger. 

          (—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, in the presence of God I make this vow—)

          You're eight and treading water. Your mum brings you to the local pool, eyes covered by bulky black sunglasses that hide her expression from you. 

(No one ever taught you how to swim. You wonder if she knows this, but doubt it. She doesn't really know much about you at all.)

You cling to the wet ledge, cement digging into your skin as you struggle to stay above the waves that lap at you, pooling inside of your ears. It's warbled. Distorted. 

"...For another woman, can you believe it? God, he just—he makes me so fucking sick. Can't he see what he's doing to me? Pathetic, is what he is." 

Your grip slips, and you plunge under the surface, knees scratching the sides. You can still hear her—a garbled tangent. Leaving us. Won't even try to make it work. How am I supposed to take care of a kid all on my own? How am I supposed to—

It's a kaleidoscope in shades of blue. The water is warm at the surface, but as you sink to the bottom, eyes catching on a pair of yellow goggles, it gets cold. A sudden chill. 

No one taught you how to swim, and despite the instinct inside of you to gasp for air that isn't there, to flail, you don't. You—

Drift. 

It's a baptism in chlorine. 

It's both louder and quieter than anything you'd ever experienced before. 

Pathetic. Stupid, selfish man. Leaving me like this with you, all for some cheap floozy—

Serene. Everything is static underwater. Your burning eyes fix themselves on the hazy yellow wavering at the bottom of the endless blue, and slowly, slowly slip shut. 

You think you'd like to stay down here forever. 

But you're not quite as lucky as you wish you were. Buoyancy spits you back out. 

You surface gasping, gagging, coughing out the water that you'd swallowed on your quick ascent, something to fill your belly up and keep you grounded, an anchor. It didn't work. Your stomach churns with the briny water you gulped down.

Your hands claw at the side of the pool, knuckles shredding against the harsh stucco that covers the concrete ledge. It bites into your skin until it bleeds. 

But you're okay. You breathe, and breathe, and—

"It's madness to think I can do it alone. And what are you doing? Stop playing around! You're causing a scene—"

Chlorine on your tongue, spuming inside of your lungs; the taste is familiar. Bitter. Acrid. 

It's poison inside of you. 

(A sickness.)

He forms a habit with each visit. 

But he isn't the only one. 

He talks to you— sometimes —and you're distinctly aware of every my bartender is my therapist joke that had ever been conceived, but it's different. 

No, really. It is. 

He tells you about things. He's a SEAL— former —and even cracks a facsimile of a smile when you ask if he'd have to kill you now or later for leaking such covert information. It's a dumb joke. It's not even funny, but his lips twitch beneath his thick beard, eyes crinkle. 

He even huffs at you when you ask when he's going to shave it. 

Maybe next year, kid. 

Kid. It's what he calls you. Never your name. Nothing to make you a real, living person to him. Just a hazy object in the ethanol gossamer that clouds the blue of his eyes until he's squinting at you, and saying bring me a whisky, kid.  

Impartial. Distant. 

He never goes out of his way to start the conversion, or to invite you over, but he never really tells you to knock it off, leave him alone, either. 

Sometimes, you say something stupid, like shouldn't you be training or something instead of giving yourself cirrhosis? and you can see him shut down. Retreat. His shoulders unfurl, spine straightened, and his eyes harden. A veil of moondust white plumes between you, dislodged when the crater forms. 

A chasm resides in the echoes of camaraderie and you wish you could just eat your words or swallow your tongue. 

It never lasts too long. 

A visit later, two. Then, when you pluck up the courage to talk to him again, he eases into it with slurred words, and a little drunk grin twisting on his lips at the dumb (safe) things you say. 

It doesn't count as a smile. You tell him this during the end of surf season. I've never seen you smile. You grin when you're drunk, but. Who doesn't? 

And he says, got nothing to smile about, kid. 

You hate the way your fingers itch. 

He's broken pieces that are too shattered, too splintered to fit back together. Kintsugi isn't enough to seal the cracks, and you should leave him alone to his own ruinous devices. Let him rot—like all the others you ignore, content to refill their glass whenever they wander up.

But he's different. 

(Or maybe you're just broken, too.

A fixer. Stupid. There is nothing in this to fix.)

You keep at it without really knowing what it is. There is no end goal. No greater purpose. 

(Maybe, it's the reek of loneliness that wafts off of him. The same scent you wake up to, clinging to your pillow. The one that gnarls behind your ribs like a mouldering infestation. 

Maybe, it's because out of all the men who wander in, he's the only one who looks like he's already too far gone, and you've always liked the taste of crushing disappointment.)

It becomes something. An ebb and flow. 

He sits on the same stool every week while you paddle on, a soliloquy about the inanities of your life to an audience who is too big to drown himself at the end of the glass, but sometimes stares down at it like he wishes he could. 

It pays off in slow, small ways. 

One month in, you start a game. 

It's this silly thing you play in the safe haven of your head; a way to pass the time when the seconds (minutes, hours) tick by pokily, and the stench of cheap malt makes your head swim. 

You don't know why you tell him this little secret of yours—maybe, it's the way he holds his glass, clutched between bloodied knuckles, the scabs from last week ripped off and leaking ichor over the cracks in his skin.

Or how distant he feels, like he's further away than ever before. A chasm. It crackles in the air when he orders, words muted. A clicking grumble out of his throat, mouth barely opening. 

It's uttered through clenched teeth, but there is no anger. No bitterness. Just—

Defeat. 

So, you talk. 

(Empty words. No meaning. It's what you're best at, isn't it?

Filling space.)

The door opens, and you tell him out of the corner of your mouth that the man will order a cocktail. 

He barely looks up. Says nothing, but his eyes follow yours, locking on to the man who wanders up to the counter. His Hawaiian shirt sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He huffs, shoulders shaking. 

"A tourist," is all he says, but he waits. Watches. 

It feels a bit like satisfaction when the man grins wide, and asks for whisky sour. Says he's from out of town. 

You catch the way his brows bounce from the corner of your eye. The soft, golden light casts shadows in the valleys of his forehead. They carry the colour of victory, and you tuck the hue in your chest, in the locked box where everything else goes. 

(Three weeks later, he joins in. Adds his own commentary to each drink order. 

Social smoker, he says after a moment when you tell him he'll order something hard first—tequila, a whisky—and then mixed drinks. Vodka cranberry. Rum and coke. He doesn't usually smoke, but when the boys go outside for one, he'll join.

He orders a shot of bourbon. Bear tucks his lips behind his own glass of whisky, and you mourn the loss of seeing his smile before you have to hide your own when he comes back and asks for a tall gin and tonic. 

You catch his eye when the man leaves, trailing behind a group playing poker in the corner, and it feels a little bit like satisfaction when the chasm feels less imposing than it did before.)

Two, and you get his name. 

Joe Graves. 

It's so normal compared to the walking travesty sitting to your right, that you almost think he's lying. Almost. But then he adds, elbow knocking on the table, a glass tucked into the palm of his other hand that somehow looks two sizes too small in his massive paw: they call me… used to call me Bear.

Bear. You hate the thrill that runs through you. The ache that splits inside your chest. 

And the question that looms over the lapse. The brief silence that felt poignant and stifling between call me and the bitter amendment to used to. 

Military man, you think. 

You take to calling him Bear just to see the way his eyebrows tick on his forehead, brow wrinkling in rucks of five deep lines. Amusement simmers in geyser blue; an undercurrent of appeasement, as if he's been longing to hear that name again. 

(You tuck that away, too.)

Four, you get a flash of teeth when he grins, brief, fleeting, at your one-sided monologue about the perfect way to pour Guinness and this Instagram page some lad made about the worst pours in London. 

He tucks it behind the rim of the glass as if it's illegal, wrong. Shameful. But you catch it, anyway. You catch it because you're always looking, always watching.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're in America," is all he says when you show him some of the atrocities committed, brows knotting together in the middle. 

You huff. "They're awful. Look at them."

"Huh." His eyes narrow, squinting at the picture. His mouth curls to the side. "Kinda looks like yours."

"Oh, shut up, Bear. It does not!"

His hands raise in mock surrender. "It's just… I didn't know it was supposed to go flat so fast. You learn something new, right?" 

You spend the rest of the evening working on your pour, nails stinging when you chew them down to the wick as you concentrate on getting the perfect patio right. All the while, he scrolls through the page with a thick finger, leading smudges on your screen, and adding in his own commentary (usually just a huff, a harsh exhale out the nose, or a scoff) to each one. 

"Look," he holds your phone up, forehead creasing in jest, and then motions to the pint you slammed down in front of him a few moments ago. "They copied your technique." 

He's pretty when he smiles, you think, sundrunk and blistered, dazed from the gleam of white. The jagged ends of your nails catch on the skin of your palm when you squeeze your hands into fists by your side. Something wet, sticky, pools in your laugh line until it's a bloodied leat. 

(It takes two weeks to clear the image from your head, and another to pretend you haven't tucked it somewhere inside of your chest for safekeeping.)

You prod at him just to see it again. Empty words. No meaning. 

What's your star sign? You ask, tapping the screen of your phone as you read your horoscope. You think, distantly, about painting your nails. Maybe, once and for all, kicking your habit of chewing them down to jagged edges as close to the line of your skin as possible. 

Anne Klein, the second woman he took home, wore her nails in blue. 

No good deed goes unpunished with your moon where it's at. Love life? Abysmal. Finances? Could be worse. Social life? Sorry—what's that again? 

His brows bunch together in a series of five rings. You count them all. My what?

You know. When were you born?

Give me a goddamn break. 

Ahhh, I bet you're a Taurus.

Now that is covert information.

Yep, totally a Taurus.

(He cracks a small smile at that, crooked and shaky, like he forgot how it's supposed to be done.)

He falls asleep at the bar five months in. Another habit is born.

Exhaustion seeped into every pore when he wandered in a few hours ago with a wrinkled plaid half-sleeve and gingham coat. 

You'd pointed out that the buttons at the bottom didn't line up when he sat, and watched as he seemed to fluster a little at that. As if the stench of rot and sleep didn't cling to him like an addiction; like he didn't have stains on his collar, or oozing scabs on his knuckles, and his biggest worry right now was his button not aligning.

He looks more put together tonight than he does any others, but the two women who approached (Friday night—the poster on the door says it's singles night) were turned down. 

(A trend, lately.)

It's none of your business—you're not even a therapist, you're just the one bringing the bottle—but you soak everything up like a greedy sponge, and try to ignore the elation churning in your chest when he says, no, I'm, uh. I'm not interested. 

So, you babble. You turn your head away from him so he doesn't catch the grin on your lips, and take to wiping down the counter as you fall into your normal, one-sided tangent. 

You get about halfway through your vague retelling of the Incident at the coffee shop when a soft grumble reaches your ears. 

You turn, fingers clenching around the nozzle of the trap—local; the hinges squeak from disuse—and—

Head dropped, chin tucked into the lapels of his wrinkled shirt. They're upturned at the ends, pressing into his cheek. His arms are folded, hands tucked under his biceps. 

The only thing saving him from toppling backwards is the wall he's leaning against. 

You don't realise you had been staring until cold foam sloshes over the top of the pint. You fluster, eyes darting back to him, checking to see if he'd noticed, but his eyes are still closed, his mouth slightly parted. 

It's—

Cute.

He looks younger, softer when he sleeps. The weight of it all bleeding out under the heavy pressure of somnolence. Fatigue. 

He's typically pitched inside the shadows, leaning back into the tenebrous of the dimly lit room behind him. This is the first time he's slumped forward fully, and with an amber glow highlighting the valleys of his face, the definition of his long, broad nose, the sloping hills of his eyes, the full pink mouth hidden behind unkempt curls that lighten to ash at the ends, you're hit with the realisation of how truly fucked you are. 

He's attractive. Ruggedly handsome with his kind-shaped eyes, and his crooked grin, but distinct. There is nothing innocuous about the way he looks, and yet—

You feel assured in his presence. Calmed. He's quiet, and never speaks louder than the muted scratch of a glass bottom dragging across the tabletop. His bulk should be intimidating, but he's always sitting, hunching his shoulders in on himself as if he's clutching a grenade tight to his chest. 

It feels wrong to stare at a customer so blatantly like this, but your eyes keep skirting back to him in this moment of peace. 

But it's brief. 

A small window where he can slip into full relaxation, hiding from the phantoms that grasp at his soft tissue during the day, raking their nails over the gummy lining of his mind until he's forced to reconcile the pain with cheap whisky in a bottle. 

They find him in his dreams, too. His brow twitches. Hands jerking, fingers tensing. 

You want to reach over, soothe the valley between his brow, but it's not your place. So, you leave him. You leave him, and hope that despite the restlessness, he does get something from this. Much needed rest. Sleep. Anything. 

The night dwindles. Most of your time lately is spent chatting away at the stonewall of a man to your right, and with that avenue snoring, you pull your textbook from beneath the counter, and let your eyes trace over the words meant to define your forever. 

His soft, rough snores fill the static between you and the rest of the bar, and you let him sleep until the sparse room thins. Until the chairs are hiked over the tables you wiped down, scouring out the stickiness that catches the ends of the cloth. Until the bottles were restacked, the glasses ran through the dishwasher. 

The cook pokes his head out, and bids you goodnight. You wave him off and try to ignore the look on his face when he catches sight of Bear still slouched on the stool. He says nothing more, but he never does. Never gets involved with anything outside of the kitchen. 

(A smarter man than you.)

When the clock strikes well past closing, you finally sidle up to him, reaching out over the counter to knock your knuckles on the wall over his head. 

(And if you're a little too close, catching the ends of his hair on your palm, then that's your secret to keep.)

"Times up, Bear."

He jerks awake, blinking at you sluggishly, and quickly brings his hands to his chest before he's even fully cognizant. He pats himself down in a way that is too purposeful to be anything but intentional, practised. 

When he's settled, when whatever he was looking for is either gone or confirmed, he sniffs, clears his throat, and drags his glossy eyes up to meet yours. 

"Times what?" 

"Up," you punctuate the word by raising your brows, jerking your thumb to the clock on the wall that's always three minutes too late. "It's time to head home."

His eyes squint when he takes in the time, and then groans. His hand reaches up, carting through his messy hair (soft, a little greasy at the ends), before he rubs his index finger and thumb over his forehead, dragging the skin up and down. 

Your hand jerks, and you bring your thumb to your mouth, teeth catching on your nail. All you taste is malt. 

"Sorry," you murmur, soft, quiet; words muffled by your finger. "I should have woken you up sooner."

"No, it's—," he stops, takes a deep breath, and then runs his hand down his face until his palm covers his mouth and chin. He blinks up at you. "When did I fall asleep?"

You shrug, dropping your hand to the pocket of your apron. "A little bit after you got here."

"Jesus…" he presses his hand into his jaw, eyes glancing toward the wall. The word is laced with a tinge of surprise. Maybe, a little uncertainty. 

"You looked like you needed it." 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wince. Stupid. You could have said something else— anything else—instead of that. It was busy. You didn't even notice. It's not your job to babysit grown men with marital issues and poor decisions. It's not—

But he cracks his neck, cutting off the words wanting to disembogue, and when he turns back to you, his eyes look clear—clear blue. 

"This is the longest I'd slept in—"

He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. 

The way he stares at you itches under your skin. Abrasive. Stark. It lacks the usual glaze of alcohol-suppressed thoughts, ones numbed in malt, and you aren't sure what to make of the way his pupils dilate. Sapphire-lined black. The way his eyes widen slightly, mouth parting, as if he's only just noticing you for the first time. As if you'd always been this hazy mirage that aids in suppression, and deals out crutches in pints.

A frisson passes through the canyons in his gaze. A dawning sun cast shadows over the rolling landscape.

You don't know what to make of it, so you don't. At all. 

A tight smile. "It's time for me to, um. Lock up." 

He blinks, as if coming out of a stupor. Rapid clicks, shutters. He shakes his head a little, as if dislodging the colluvium from his thoughts. 

"Right."

"Unless you wanted to sleep here for the night?" 

It gets a soft chuckle. Three lines on his cheek. Two in his brow. Three on the corner of his eye. You map them all, each dip and valley until they're cemented in your head. 

He's more open like this. Sobriety looks better on him than—

His bruised knuckles rasp over the countertop. 

"Lemme walk you to your car."

You blink, heart lurching in your chest. "You don't have to."

"Yeah," he shrugs, and you think he might even try to grin but looks more like a grimace. A wince. "But I want to." 

It's a dangerous escarpment; a treacherous climb up an alluvial fan. Your fingers dig into the loose sediment that rains down around you, pelting you with small grains of dirt and rock. Each hit pocks your skin: a little divot where flesh once sat, but now is karst; split and cracked with caverns that run deep. The splinters crumble that brassbound resolve you've held tight in your fingers until your joints ached, and palms split. Don't be the other woman, your mother warned you. Don't. 

It'll be a crater soon, or maybe a blue hole. Aquifer polluting the bottom. Everything gone. Eroded. Swallowed whole in the sinkhole that forms. 

(Beware of sinkholes. Don't be the other woman.)

You know better than anyone what they say about expectations, and yet—

"Okay."

(He takes to walking you to your car every night, hands always shoved deep in his pockets or under his arms, shoulders hunched. 

You watch him stand in the parking lot until he fades from your rearview mirror.)

Seven you get a touch. His fingers ghost along the curve of your wrist, brushing your skin. 

His eyes aren't kind when you turn to him, but they shine with something other than the cheap rye in his glass, the scattered shots of tequila that spill around him. 

It's fixed and heavy. Unwavering. 

You try to smile, to shrug it off. "It's nothing."

The lie doesn't fit between your teeth, and you think he senses this, too, but he doesn't pry. You're surprised he even went out of his way to acknowledge your lour disposition—a string of weeks that coalesced into unease, into stress. One mediocre day after the other. 

Rent was late. Bills pile up. The books tucked beneath the counter, saved for slow days (read: every day), and for the eventuality of when you can finally toss this ramshackle dive bar aside for something better. Greater. 

And what that something is? 

Well. Who knows. 

But you're supposed to, aren't you? Know, that is. Have everything figured out and ready-made to fit neatly inside the margins of forever and the rest of your life. 

The rest of your life was four walls and a roof. 

Stuck in Virginia Beach on minimum wage that barely got you through college (thank you, inheritance), and no prospects outside of real estate. 

You think about moving but have no idea where to go. What to do. 

Stagnancy. It bleeds from your marrow into your bloodstream. A poison. 

You shrug when his forehead creases, brows raising as he waits for you to spit out whatever inane thing that could possibly be wrong. 

"Life, I guess," you huff, aiming for distant, blasè humour but it misses the mark by a solid kilometre and a half. 

"Yeah," he mumbles. He always mumbles. Words sticking together like glue. "I know that feeling."

You let it drop, nodding. 

(Four walls and a roof. That's the goal, then. That's always been the goal.)

You turn to him, forcing something that might, in a distant life, have been kin to a smile. 

"I bet he'll order a pint."

He takes it. "He's married, but takes his ring off. The skin on his finger is pale." 

He stutters over the word married.  

(Four walls, you think.)

"Huh," you huff. Foam spills from the lip of the glass, drenching your fingers in malt. "My dad always kept his on."

From the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten around the pint. His ring makes a small noise when it hits the glass. 

Eight, a laugh. A low, rasping chuckle still wet from the swallow of rye he'd taken before you said something stupid like what's a man like you doing in a place like this, anyway?

It's drenched in bitter disbelief as if he isn't quite sure how you don't know. How you can't see that he fits between the waterlogged panels of the wooden floor, stained with grime and dyed with ethanol in patches around the tap. The pock marks in the counter, rubbed raw and scrubbed down to the cheap wood beneath, now jaundiced and discoloured from age. Or how he leaks the same desolate miasma of resignation, rage, and apathy as everyone else. 

He belongs, his derisive laugh says. Why don't you see it, too? 

It startles him, and you can see it happening as he takes in the neat, blunt cut of your eyes as you gaze at him, naked and honest. 

He retreats into himself as if allowing anyone to see him plain-faced and worthy is wrong. As if he is no different to the men who wobble in their chairs, eyes rimmed red and glazed as they run from the demons in their minds, and their lives, and seek salvation at the bottom of the bottle. The ones entirely aware, and unaware, that the bottle is elk, kin, the things they flee from. A juxtaposition in a man-made disaster. 

He pretends he fits in with them. You pretend you see it, too, if only so he doesn't run away. 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

You count down the days until he shows up, and hate yourself a little bit more for the happiness that gnarls inside your chest each time you see him appear in the doorway. 

(A sickness.)

Nine brings a man from the church in town, someone from his past. And everything quickly unravels after that. 

He shows up before opening, carrying a stack of papers for some big event in the summer. An opening. A new church, he says, and jogs the stack on the counter. 

(You hide a smile, tucking it into your shoulder as discomfort bleeds into the placidity of his expression when some of the pages stick.)

He looks like every priest, every vicar, you'd ever seen before. Draped in black with a stark white collar; clean-shaven, and void of shadows. 

This isn't a place he should be. A place he belongs. He stands out amongst the grit, the hazy gossamer of smuggled cigarettes lit in the dingy washroom, and leaking nicotine yellow into the faded wood of the walls. The chipped, pocked tables, were picked at and worn down to soot-stained white. 

He doesn't belong, but he stays, anyway. In spite of the massive chasm that split between him and everyone, everything else, he sticks it out. 

And sticks out. 

Bear falters when he sees him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat when he wanders inside. His shoulders draw up to his chin, arms straight lines against his body. 

He looks like he might run. Flee. You almost expect him to. 

He doesn't. 

He says nothing when takes his usual spot, but his eyes are thunderclouds, brow drawn taut. A rubber band being stretched too far. 

(God ain't here, is he, Buddha?)

The priest doesn't notice the discomfiture that passes over Bear's expression, or the wan, agitated way he glares at the red stain (nail polish, you think) on the counter. He grins wide, happy, and tells you about the church they built. One raised from the funds of the community. 

"...And we're, of course, happy to accept new members to our congregation when it opens." 

You nod, dragging your gaze away from the calamity in blue, offering little more than a smile in return. 

"I don't," you hesitate, hands smoothing over the front of your worn apron. Going to church reminds you too much of baptism. Of water. Of sinking below the waves in a world of blue, and never surfacing again. Of—

Patronisation. 

You'd been to church three times in your life: to watch your mother remarry (twice), and to say goodbye to your father. 

(None of them were happy memories.)

"I don't go to church much."

He smiles, placidly, eyes warm and welcoming. "Never too late to start."

You guess they have an answer ready for everything. He might have been a great salesman in a different life. 

You don't want to commit, or lie—least of all to a man of faith—so, you talk. Fill space. 

"Want a drink?" 

His brows buoy in surprise. You wonder if anyone has ever offered a priest a pint before. 

"No, I, uh—"

He's cut off by a gruff bark, a low husk of laughter. "Don't think they drink much, kid." 

You blink, chin jerking toward Bear. "Oh, no?"

The priest offers an indulgent smile when you catch his eye. "Well, it's not outright forbidden but we tend to stay away from vices." 

"Is it a sin?" 

"No, it's not. Too much is a crutch, but all sins can be forgiven."

He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but a low scoff from Bear cuts him off once again. 

The sound draws you back to him. Sober, still. He's only just arrived, and hasn't even ordered a drink yet, and the shadows are vibrant in his geyser gaze. The moussed hair, slightly greasy and bedraggled; the stains on his shirt that stretched taut over his broad shoulders, creasing between his pecs. The wrinkles in his forehead, the condescending lilt to his grin, left cheek pulled up in a facsimile of a smile.

You've never seen him like this before. His thumb swipes across the tip of his nose as he settles on the too-small stool, eyes burning. Darkening. 

"That's not true, is it, Father?" He sniffs, hands dropping as he leans forward. Even sitting he's still so—

Massive. Intimidating.

The priest looks slightly perturbed, but recognition bleeds in the cut of his brow. You wonder how many times people refute him when he preaches his sermons. 

"Ah," he says, shaking his head. There is sadness in his smile when he forces it. "It is true. All sins can be forgiven by God."

"All of them?" Bear questions, unkind, biting. His fingers spread over the counter, knuckles covered with deep indigo scabs sealed in congealed blood. 

"All have sinned, and all their futile attempts to reach God in His glory fail. Yet they are now saved and set right by His free gift of grace through the redemption available only in Jesus the Anointed."

Bear is quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. Then: "Romans: chapter three, verse twenty-two to twenty-five."

"You know your verses."

When his head lifts, there is an aching sense of clarity in gyre blue. His is brassy, hushed, when he speaks.  "All of them." 

"Then you know that forgiveness is—"

"Isaiah chapter sixty-four, verse six."

The priest falters momentarily, eyes swinging like a pendulum between Bear, and the bloodied knuckles he leaves on display. His eyes flash again, but adds: "Psalm chapter one hundred and thirty, verse three to five."

A flash of teeth beneath curled, wry burnt umber. He leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky surface. There is a storm in his gaze. Clouded blue. He spits the verse out like a curse. "Matthew chapter six, verse fourteen to fifteen."

It feels like being pitched in the middle of a movie. There is a thin vein of cognisance: you understand the characters, and the current tension, but everything else is murky. Unknown. You don't know what the meaning behind the verses bouncing between each other is, but there's a struggle. Bear is angry. The pastor is—

Sad. 

You don't understand. Never will, maybe, but you quietly duck your head, wiping down pint glasses as if you weren't watching a husk of a man spit out bible verses at a priest. 

"Hopefully, you remember this verse one day," he says, eyes only for Bear, and achingly sad. "Ephesians chapter four, verse thirty-two."

Bear says nothing more. He falls silent, glaring at the patchwork of stains smeared over the counter. Defeat, maybe. A battle lost. A stalemate. You don't know the meaning of the words—verses and chapters, and sin—but it makes Bear sullen, angry. Nearly apoplectic. His shoulders shake when he clenches his fist, squeezing hard enough to crack the scab on his middle finger until it lifts from his wound, and bleeds. 

The priest slides two flyers out—one for you, one for Bear—and flashes one last parting glance at him before he leaves. 

You tuck the flyer into your pocket. 

You don't know what he does with his, but it's gone when you come back from kitchens. 

Bear says nothing for the rest of the evening. His jaw clenches, eyes dip. 

He orders a shot of tequila but doesn't finish it. 

He's quiet when he walks you to your car. Declines your offer for a ride with a tight smile that's a touch too wobbly around the edges, like a bad secret or a sour taste in his mouth. 

You wonder why he even stayed at all. 

(You toss the flyer into your glovebox, and can't stop thinking about what might have happened to make him this way as you watch him fade from your rearview mirror.)

When you go home, you try to remember the verses they spat at each other, but only one sticks:

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

You hand him a box of chocolates for the holidays and watch as he blinks down at the shoddily wrapped gift.

"What's this?" 

You huff. It's not wrapped terribly. You spent nearly two hours before your shift making sure the edges looked professional and neat (a clean line, the lady on the YouTube video said, shows care, and dedication), and—

Stupid, of course. 

But you never said you weren't, and you're only just passing through your college classes, so. It's all particularly on brand, you think. Very you. Very—

Messy. Dumb. Stupid. 

"Something for a friend," you say, and then wince. A friend. How juvenile. 

You watch his throat bob, trepidation etching into your joints when he swallows, eyes creasing at the corners. His voice is gritty, sandpaper rough when he speaks: "is that what we are?"

It's not relief that floods you, but it's something. His tone is hedging. Cautious, as if he's never even uttered the word in years, and now he's faced with someone who spent thirty minutes comparing clichè Holiday designs sketched into glossy paper, and another twenty trying to decide which bow matched better.

All for a dumb box of chocolates. 

The most expensive box, of course, but still very dumb. Who gives someone who routinely tries to drown themselves in amber chocolate?

(Or anything at all for that matter.) 

You swallow thickly and shake your head with something that might be a grin. Maybe. Sort of. 

You just—

Fill space. 

"Nah, we're best friends. Thought about getting us matching necklaces, and everything to really complete the look, you know—;" the morose expression falters, eases into something that almost feels like contentment. Peace. His lips quirk, and the sight of his crooked smile makes your chest flutter. Stupid. Stupid. 

"But I didn't because I wasn't about to fight a behemoth—;" this makes his brows bounce up, mouth twitching as he fights, fights, off a smile, and you feel your heart take flight, soaring through the aether. "—For Best and then have to tell everyone I lost my first fight, ever, over some cheap sterling silver. So, I guess we'll just have to get, like, matching tattoos, or whatever…"

His brows raise again—in stupefaction, bemusement, exasperation; all of the above—and he shakes his head, huffing. 

"You talk a lot."

You fight a wince, and cover it up with a shrug. It doesn't hurt. You hear it all the time. Just grin. Bear it. 

"Someones gotta do it or we'll be sitting in awkward silence all night."

"It's a comfortable silence."

Comfortable. He thinks it's comfortable. 

Your fingers prickle. You run your index finger over the jagged line of your thumbnail, and try to resist the urge to bite it down to nothing. 

"Is that what it is?"

"It would be, but you keep talking."

"File a complaint."

His brows raise, lips curling. "Alright."

You huff, then, mocking and dry, but you wear your heart on your sleeves, and the smile that twitches on your lips gives you away. 

It's silly. Dumb. You feel like an idiot when you reach for the tip jar, a cardboard box with a slit cut at the top, patched up over the years with duct tape, and drag it closer. 

He watches you, making a small noise of question in the back of his throat when you paw around for the marker behind the counter, but you don't answer. Can't, or you'll give your grand idea away. 

You make a small noise of satisfaction when you find it. You wave it around once before bringing it to your mouth, and sink your teeth into the plastic cap, holding it steady. 

His hand jerks. "What are you—"

You pull the marker from the cap, and hold the box steady, eyes lifting to catch his gaze. Something simmers in those ocean blues, pools of glossy cerulean, and you might almost call it amusement if he was anyone else, and you weren't you, but it's soft. Curious. 

Your chin drops, smile turning wobbly around the cap still caught between your lips, and you bring the felt tip of the marker to the box. You cross out TIPS and write: file a complaint - only $5. 

You take a moment to admire your work before you turn it toward him with a grin. 

His eyes drop from yours to the box, and you see his mouth spasm in something that feels too genuine to be anything other than your first real smile. 

A flash of teeth. Lines in his cheeks. Your heart thuds, palms grow damp. 

"Got it all figured out, do you?"

"Aside from who gets Best or if we get matching tattoos, yes."

"I'm not getting a tattoo." He leans over the counter, brows creasing as he stares at you in mock severity. "But I will fight you for Best. And win." 

Another skip. Deeper into the whole. "I thought so." 

He grabs the box from your hands, and scribbles talks too much on a napkin before shoving it, and a crumbled five-dollar bill, into the slot.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your car. Get you outta here so you can see your family."

You hide a grin behind your hand. "What family? But I guess yours is missing you, too." 

He shoves his arms inside the sleeves of his wool jacket, gaze dropping to the worn counter. 

"What family?"

It's sombre. Mood broken, yet again, by your inability to shut up.  

You don't know how to salvage the pieces. The fractured remains of what might have been a good time. 

But it's just—

Bear.  

(And you.) 

Best friends. A silly little notion he entertained when he could have told you to sod off ages ago. 

You nudge his side, and have to remind yourself to pull away from him. That this is just casual. Best friends but not really. Not even close. "Hungry? I know a place that's always open and makes the best burgers." 

He flashes a facsimile of a smile, wan and thin around the edges. "You should head home, kid. Not much for company tonight."

"Suit yourself," you murmur, slipping your hands into your pockets. You shuffle, rocking back on your heels. The silence is stifling. You wonder what part of this he finds comfortable. It lapses, and you

Fill it. 

"I think you're pretty great company, for what it's worth."

He says nothing. 

It's as close to outright rejection as you can bear. 

You press your hands into the seam of your pocket, pulling your jacket open. "Well, happy holidays, and all—"

"Best burgers in town, huh?" 

A smile creeps across your face, heart thudding in your chest. It sounds like the distant roar of the ocean, the waves crashing on the shore. 

"Yep," you pop the p and wriggle your brows. "Their secret menu item is the peanut butter bacon burger, and—"

"Peanut butter and bacon?" He says it like it's a crime. Like you've committed an act of treason, and spat in his face. 

Your grin widens. "It's disgustingly good."

"Disgusting, huh." 

"No, no—it's salty, sweet, and savoury. It's the best combination ever made. And the sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo? Heaven sent."

"And you've lost me." 

"Did I ever even have you to begin with, or—"

The words cut a little too close to the truth, to vulnerability, and you feel heat pool under your cheeks. Embarrassment over your unintended slip-up. Your stupidity. Your inability to accept what you've been given, and stop trying to overcompensate for more, more, more—

Stop acting up; you're causing a scene!

He steps closer, hand reaching out behind you to push the old iron door open. 

There is something in his gaze you can't decipher. The shadows on his brow make you think of craters, and mountains made of lunar rock. 

"Yeah, you do," he rasps, words starchy and thick in his throat, but all you can hear is you do, you do, you do. "I need to try this disgusting burger of yours."

"Disgustingly good," you snipe back, if only because it's easier to fall into some facsimile of a rhythm where you always, always get the last word than it is to let the silence simmer. 

(To give him a chance to see the way your hand shakes around your key, or the way you have to ask him what he said—twice—because you can't hear anything over the roaring in your ears when he fits inside your car like he belongs.)

Disgustingly good burgers with friends. 

(You pat yourself on the back for only managing to get into two accidents on the way, prompting a want me to drive from him, which immediately gets turned down; but you get to the burger shack safe and sound and watch the look on his face when he bites into a peanut butter bacon burger and sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo like it's the best meal he's ever had in months, and—

And it's enough.)

You nudge him later when you drop him off at some dingy motel by the highway, well away from the city limits but so achingly close to the bar, and say: happy holidays, Bear.

He offers something that feels like a smile. In lieu, you think. A smile in lieu. Not quite there, but almost. Almost. 

"Yeah, still think I'm pretty great company? "

"The best." 

He says nothing when he gets out of the car, leftovers tucked under his arm, but he pauses before he shuts the door, and turns to you, eyes cerulean in the pale light of the morning gloam. 

"Get home safe, kid." 

You almost say you, too. 

Instead, you bite your tongue so hard it bleeds. 

He wanders in looking like he was ripped from the pages of Surfer Magazine. Dirty blond hair perpetually curled from the sea salt, and bleached at the ends from the iodine in the water. He has the cut of a man who looks like he'd feel more comfortable in a wetsuit than the jeans and stark white t-shirt he struts in wearing.

Your first thought is: surfer idiot. 

The second is: Surfer Dude will order a shot of tequila. Blanco. 

You lean over and whisper this to Bear, who dutifully offers an indulgent quirk of his lips, before turning to catch sight of the man you'd pointed out. Targeted, he told you. You're targeting them, kid. 

When he does, you think of something funny to say but the words die on your tongue when Bear tenses, and goes completely silent. Stonewalled. 

The man wanders up with a wide grin, all teeth and bleached sand. Nonchalant. Easy. 

It's only when his eyes skirt to Bear, do you see the undercurrent of tension in his brow, resignation in the knuckles of his joints. 

They know each other. There is a history in the way they sit apart—Bear, on the lonely barstool to your right, and Surfer standing beside the one in front of you. Cut off by an angle. By you. 

You think about the man that tried before him—Buddha, the almost fight in the parking lot—and wonder how much success Surfer will have. 

"Thought I'd find you here, man." He nods, shaggy curls bouncing over his shoulders. He turns to you, flashes a smile, and orders a shot of tequila. 

You don't miss the way his eyes trail over you—your tight v-neck, the apron tied tight around your waist. The mascara and lipgloss you started putting on a week after it became clear Bear was a regular, the one you spent a considerable chunk of your paycheque on when the saleslady said it really made your eyes pop.

You wonder what he thinks, what he sees, when he drinks you in.

He. The man in your head with broad shoulders, brown hair. Bluest eyes you'd ever seen. 

The thought makes heat pools under your cheeks, vermillion scorching through your flesh. 

No. Him. Surfer. Of course. Not—

Not Bear. 

(Stupid. Stupid.)

"Keeping some pretty nice company, too, I see," he leans over, forearm resting on the countertop, and flashes another toothy grin. "Got a name or do they just call you pretty thing?"

"I don't know, Pretty Boy," you snap back, brows raising. 

"Pretty Boy, huh?" He cuts you off, gaze skirts to Bear. A smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth. "Hear that, Bear? Pretty Boy."

"Knock it off, Caulder." 

Pretty Boy—Caulder—raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just chatting with a nice lady who thinks I'm a Pretty Boy—"

You turn away from him, shaking your head. "Not that pretty—"

"You already said I was, so," he shrugs, eyes crinkling around the corners. "No takebacks." 

"We'll see."

"What do they call you, then?" 

"What do you think they call me?"

"Let me see," he stands, hands curling over the ledge of the counter as he leans back, eyes playfully drinking you in. They linger on your chest, lip caught between white teeth. "Hmm…"

"Looking for a name tag?" 

"No," he smirks, pulling himself forward until his torso is hunched over the sticky table. His eyes skirt down your body before flickering up, catching your gaze once more. "Just admiring the view." 

He's attractive. Boyishly cute and—begrudgingly, you have to admit—charming with his big eyes, his sleepy grins, and the wry ashen curls slicked back by his goggles. 

White teeth catch in the golden light, framed in half hearts of sun-dusted pink, and you find yourself mimicking the grin, softening under the bright gleam aimed at you. He's someone easy to get swept away with. 

"There isn't much to admire," you murmur, brushing loose strands of hair off your shoulder. Your chin drops, unable to hold the stormy grey gaze fixed on you. Hiding. 

"Oh, there is plenty to admire," he refutes, pulling his bottom lip into the seam between his teeth. He bends down, elbow dropping to the counter, and cups his cheek in the palm of his hand. "Plenty more underneath that, ahh—cute," his ashen brows raise teasingly when he stresses the word, buoying on his sunkissed forehead: "apron."

His eyes are dark, smouldering. Flirtatious.

"Right…" 

Before you can say anything more, the clang of glass knocking against wood cuts you off. 

The noise makes you jump, gaze darting to Bear. 

He matches your stare, holds it for a second, but whatever lurks in glazed blue is hidden from you. Dulled in malt, and shrouded in shadows that leak from the crevasses. 

Bear clears his throat again, drags his gaze to the man leaning on the counter. 

"What are you doing here, Caulder?" 

You can't place his tone, but there's a crackle in his voice. Laced with iciness; the same shade of glacial blue as his eyes. 

Pretty Boy acknowledges the coldness, the simmering anger, in his tone with a crooked grin. A flash of white teeth behind tawny bristles. 

He doesn't seem like the shy type—the ones who sit close to the tap, but not too close. Enough to watch you, enjoy the view, the company you offer, and (maybe) slot themselves in your line of view in the hopes that you notice them, too. That, maybe, you approach first. 

He wandered up, tousled, bleached hair bobbing with his effortless, confident gait, goggles tucked behind his ears, and keeping his fringe from falling in his eyes. Everything about him screams an abundance of effortless self-confidence. 

If he wanted to flirt with you, then he'd do it. 

He would fully commit regardless of who was present, and maybe, he'd prefer if more people were around to see him succeed. 

This isn't meant to pick you up—that might just be a convenient bonus should you show any interest in his ploy. You know this from the way he keeps glancing at Bear from the corner of his eye; clouded slate swinging like a pendulum from you—where he levels a series of weak pickup lines, and smarmy charm—and then immediately to the man sitting diagonally to where he stands. 

He's gauging his reaction. 

They know each other. This much is obvious from the greeting alone, but there is a tenuous history here, made evident by the tension, the palpable unease in the man's shoulders, and the way he gazes at Bear—warily, unsure. Testing the waters before making the jump. 

"Besides trying to spend the night with a pretty bartender?" 

He turns to you with a wink, a cheeky little grin on his lips, and then—he hesitates. There is a moment where he ducks his chin, expression clouding over with something stagnant, subdued. It lacks the playfulness of before. Sombreness taking shape, only briefly, before he tugs it back up like a mask. Fixes it back in place with the same palpable ease from before; the same slightly condescending jocose.

"Lookin' for you, man." 

He slides his forearms across the counter, making a face when his skin catches on something sticky, but it's gone. Fleeting. He straightens up, brow knotting together in something that might be anticipation but the lines in his eyes read more like grit, and determination. 

You move away from their end of the counter, giving them a modicum of privacy but that's meaningless when you can still hear their hushed conversation on the opposite side of the bar, where you pretend to busy yourself with repolishing clean glasses while they exchange awkward stilted greetings. 

How…how have you been, man?

Why are you here Caulder?

Guess no one taught you the art of Socialisation, eh, Bear? 

You can only infer meaning from their tones, their crackled demeanour around the other. Something runs deep between them—a noxious mix of bad blood, brotherhood, grudges, and familial concern—but you're no one to either of them, and privy to even less. 

You pretend you can't hear them speak (Fish Bait is askin' for ya. You said you wouldn't leave him behind, but what is this? I mean, shit, man, you can't waste away in a damned shithole while we—), or that your guts aren't churning with concern, with worry, over the taut pull in Bear's shoulders, the wrinkles in his forehead, the gyre in his gaze. A storm looms. 

But it has nothing to do with you. 

So, you feign ignorance. You duck beneath the counter, and organise the glasses, straighten up the bottles, gather the thick layer of dust along the shelves on the tip of your finger. 

It's wiped on your cute apron when you stand, and then reach for a cloth to wipe down the grimy countertop (I failed my exam. Head trauma. Brain injury. I can't—I mean, fuck, Bear. I can't go back. I can't. But you? What are you doin', bro? Why are you moping around here, gettin' a damned beer belly when you have men counting on you? When you can go back—). 

You pour drinks (Buddha is running the team. They don't need me, you all made that clear enough—). Take tips (you told me you needed me, Bear; so, this is me telling you that we need you). You tell a stray tourist where to find the infamous seafood restaurant (I lost everything, Caulder. I can't go back—). You refill the bottles (you're not Rip, man. You need to let go of him. It's been two years. Two years. She'd want you to move on—)

"I don't know what she'd want because she's dead. She's—"

You flinch when Bear raises his voice, when it carries over to you, furious and aching, and full of rot.

"I can't bury it, Caulder. I can't—" 

Working in a sleazy pub on the opposite end of a boardwalk usually brings in men like him—the ones who lean over the tacky countertop, and try their luck with glib lines meant to be suasive. Charming. It's nothing you are not used to by now, but there is a degree of difference in his mien, an insincerity that etches deep. His intrigue is surface level. 

Years of watching misery unfold in orders for cheap shots and pint glasses have taught you many things. The most notable being, of course, how to measure someone. Pick apart their reaction, their tone. 

How to target them. 

And so, when Pretty Boy leans over the counter again after raising his hands in defeat, in surrender, to Bear, and wanders over to you, a wry grin twisting on the corner of his lips, you brace yourself for the inevitable, and—

"You and Bear, huh?" 

And it's not what you expect. 

"Me…and….?"

He jerks his chin toward the steaming behemoth in the shadows, gulping down whisky like it's water, eyes locked, firm and dark, on the two of you. You fight a shiver, fingers trembling around the hose. 

She's gone. Dead. 

All this time—

You thought he was just like your father. Just like the man who patted you awkwardly on the head on the rare occasion he was ever home, and said: I'll teach you how to swim when I get back, okay? 

And then walked away. Walked out of your life, and—

"Um. He's… a customer. A friend." You wince, shoulders jerking. Juvenile. Stupid.

"A friend," he says the word like he doesn't believe you, and you get it. 

You get it because why would he, anyway? Some strange bartender on the wrong side of town who claims to be his friend, and he's supposed to just accept it? It's laughable, considering. 

The stupid tip box in the corner—now, formally known as the complaint box, an impromptu decision that has added an extra fifteen dollars to your nightly sum—catches your eye, and you think of friendship necklaces, and fights in the alley. Of burgers in your stupid car that made noises when you put it in reverse (ones that made his brows raise, his eyes—lidded and bright from booze—slide over to you as if to ask is this safe?), and smelled strongly of that dumb Michael Kors perfume you bought—a bottle you'd spent way too much money on because he leaned into the girl next to him when she sat down, glossy in Anne Klein, and mature, and a lawyer, and better, and said you smell good.  

(He went home with her that night and you spent nearly three hundred on perfume he hadn't even noticed.)

It makes you think of the itch in your palm when he offered to check under the hood because he was good at fixing things, and softly, then even better at breaking them, as if he hadn't meant for you to hear it. 

"Yeah," you say, firm, then, because you are friends. Or, you're something. But nothing doesn't wait until the very end of your shift, or walk you to your car, or eat burgers with you on Christmas when he should be with his wife, his family, or laugh (a little, barely. Kind of) at your dumb jokes. Or—

Or anything. Any of what he does. 

It's something. A crutch, maybe. A kinship with the person serving him booze each time he comes until he stumbles outside, and then wanders off somewhere. A motel, maybe. Home, possibly. 

And whatever it is, you cling to it. Hold it so tight in your grasp, your knuckles turn white from the strain, and tuck it into the folds of your heart for safekeeping. 

"Huh," he gives you a look that's different from the one before it. Cautious, guarded, but—

Hopeful, maybe. Or—

Angry. 

His eyes are stormy grey when he leans in, lips peeled back in a thin grin. "Bear needs that, but he won't let anyone else get close to him. Not right now. And we get it. We do, but," the geniality in his expression fades, tightens into something a bit more severe. "But he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend."

It punches the air from your lungs the same way the confession before did—dead, gone—and you try to stutter something into your lungs before you black out from the gnarled roots of hypoxia clotting inside your head, but all you taste is chlorine and sulphur.

You don't understand what he's saying. There is history and meaning behind his words that you can't ascertain, can't ever know; a dearth of Bear compared to a disembogue. Everything you don't know stacks up higher than the things you do, and it's a bold, blunt dressing down of your choices, failures. Inactions. 

It's dumb. No one blames the bartender for feeding an addict, and yet—

It's different. Different because you made it that way. You call him your friend to a man who has known him longer than you have, and yet, you'll go back and pour him a drink if he asks. 

A friend. How absurd. 

"Look, I don't know what you want from me—"

He shoves his hand in his pocket, and then lifts it up. It's tucked out of sight from Bear—who hasn't looked away once since Pretty Boy wandered up to you, all blond hair, smiles, and blue eyes—and it makes your throat hurt. 

A folded hundred dollar bill sits in the seam of his closed index and ring finger, one of the zeros clenched between his first knuckle. 

His smile is tight, eyes full of ghosts and shadows that look achingly familiar in jasper. "He's a… he's a good man. Been through a lot. Doesn't need this right now, you know?" 

"What… are you trying to bribe me?" 

It's hidden from view. Strategically placed. 

"Just. You know. Maybe, cut him off or something." His hand twitches, the cash waving in front of you. 

"Yeah." You murmur, words quiet. Hushed. You don't take the bill.

His jaw clenches. "We need to straighten him up. Can't do that with him here all the time. He needs—"

His tongue pokes through the seam of his cheek when he turns, glancing at Bear. Something in his expression tightens. Worry, concern. 

"Send him home, alright?" 

You make no move to accept the proffered bill, and it's not due to any sense of pride, or anything like that. You're too numbed to move. 

He gives you another look—one that is just as pitying as it is reproachful—and then shoves the folded bill into the box (file a complaint—only $5). 

You feel the weight of it in your stomach like a whisky sour. 

(Stupid, stupid—)

She's dead, you think, swallowing hard. 

Months ago, you'd said, does your wife know you spend all evening with me? 

And he'd said—

No. She doesn't. 

(Can't bury it, can't—)

"You, and uh…," he motions vaguely toward the door, eyes sharp. Steel lines in brackish water. "You and Caulder seem close."

You think of the cash stuffed in the tip jar. A hundred dollars to send him back.

"Yeah." You murmur, glancing down at the dirty tiles under the ledge of the cupboard. The ones you always forget to mop. "Kinda, I guess. He's—;" you'd know that, though, as his friend. "Nice. Um…"

He says nothing more, just nods his head a few times too many to be natural. To be anything but perturbed, irritated. You don't know why—maybe, he doesn't want you meddling in his affairs, in his personal life. 

But—

I will fight you for Best. And win. 

You don't know what to think about any of this anymore. A man who tries to drown himself at the bottom of bottles as if the answer is in forty-proof, and still wears his wedding ring but leaves, sometimes, with women who aren't her. Who stares at the screen of his phone in something that tastes so bitterly like regret and anger and helplessness, and then turns it off. Tucks it out of sight. Waves you down.

(Who, despite the hints and the signals and the blatant way you regard him, has never, not once, taken you up on any of the subtle offers you aimed at him.)

Right. Okay. 

"You alright?" 

You shrug, pull away when he reaches out. "Yeah. Good." 

He makes a noise, soft, questioning. A grumble from his chest. He makes a move to stand up, grounding out: "he say anything to you?" 

"No," you shake your head. "Nothing."

Bear slumps back in his chair, knuckles turning white. The milky bones poking through his bruised skin makes you think of that verse the priest alluded to before he left. 

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.

You've never seen his hands healed, his eyes clear.

(No one blames the bartender, but they could a friend.)

"Oh, um. Bear?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't… you don't have to wait for me tonight."

"Okay," he knocks his split knuckles against the wood, smiling tight. "Okay. If that's what you want."

What you want is unattainable. 

You mimic his taut smile. "Okay."

Ten, you realise that you've come to expect him nestled in the ramshackle ruins of your life. That he fits somewhere inside of these particular four walls and roof in a way that makes you ache. 

You've had attractions before. Crushes. But this edges into strange, unfamiliar territory. 

Your heart does weird things when he's around sometimes, but even curious things when he's not.

(Or, when he's leaving, and he isn't alone.)

You go to bite your nails but find broken stumps instead. The plate chewed down to nothing.

The nail on your ring finger bleeds. 

You think of his busted knuckles, and wonder if this, too, is a crutch. 

(Later, you look up how to stop chewing your nails. All of the results tell you to rub salt on them, or buy bitter nail polish, but you can't remember a time when you didn't taste the acrid burn of iodine or chlorine on your tongue already.)

Send him home, but don't—don't let him destroy himself like this.

So. You call it. 

You hand him water, and watch as something that tasted of disappointment, resignation, flashes through hazy cobalt. 

Before, you used to wonder where he went from here. A weekend spent in the clutch of another woman, in the throes of cheap beer and liquor, and then what? Home? His wife—pretty and lovely and doting—waiting for him at the door, greeting him after his extended business trip? Maybe a face peering out from between her legs, unsure of the man they're supposed to call dad who is rarely ever home, and on the off-chance that he is, reeks of malt and barley. 

It always cut too close to home. Their house becomes the same shade as your own. The faceless figure lingering on the periphery takes your shape. Your mum in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes rimmed red from the tears that haven't stopped steaming down her raw, chafed cheeks since you were seven, and realised that the man who sometimes stopped by to visit was supposed to be your father. 

You think of that little, faceless person, and then of yourself. Selfish. Detestable. Everything you said you wouldn't be, and yet—

You cut him off, watch him stumble out the door with a woman who isn't his wife. Watch him take a little piece of you with him. 

 Bear doesn't show. 

Week one, two, three. 

It doesn't matter, not really. He's just a customer who reeks of malt and bad choices, who has bags under his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. Who drowns himself in the corner each night as he tries to fight off the demons he keeps provoking. 

Who's hands are always scabbed, torn. Like he spends his time punching the concrete, or ivory jaws just to feel something outside of his own anger. 

He's a man on the verge of implosion. 

Betelgeuse; a red giant. 

Stay away from the man who stinks of nitroglycerin, and sparks a match too close to his dynamite-soaked skin. 

You try to take his own advice—bury it—but you can't bury anything in muskeg. 

You think of the man who had peanut stained on his beard when you finally convinced him to take a damned bite of his burger. Who told you he used to go to church every day when you asked him how he knew so much about bible verses, but he couldn't face his God right now with all this malice in his heart. 

Who confessed that he didn't actually mind pop music when his teammate— Buck —used to play it on the compound just to piss them off, and added some of the songs to the playlist he made. 

I'm not a dinosaur, he huffed when you asked if he still used Windows Media Player to listen to his songs. I use YouTube. 

He gave you a taut smile, like he'd won something in that, and you tried to pretend you didn't want to kiss him senseless while Johnny Cash played in the background of the pub. 

He hates tomatoes but doesn't mind ketchup. Likes, even, tomato soup. Used to run track in high school, and knew when he was seventeen that he was going to get married the moment he turned eighteen, have four kids and join the SEALs. He doesn't tell you how many of those came true. 

He confessed to eating a whole box of pop tarts in one sitting when he came home from a mission. Can easily demolish half a pizza to himself, and actually enjoys the Bachelor whenever the girls would get together and watch it at his house. 

He used to think about the men he lost every day, but now he doesn't. Not after Buck. He can't because then he'll never stop, and he won't be able to bring the men behind him home. Wouldn't, he amends it after a moment of silence. Wouldn't be able to bring them home. 

Doesn't regret anything he never did. He says this with shadows in his eyes, and the ghost of something bitter in his tone. An old ache. An old wound. 

He's funny—awkward, halting, as it is—and charming. Wandering this precarious line between severe, intimidating, and— dorky. Kind of. Under the glaze of alcohol, and when he smiled wide, full teeth, and his cheeks wrinkles. Or when you said something stupid, he'd tip his chin down, forehead creasing as he stared at you in mocking disapproval. 

He's distant, standoffish; gruff and surly, and stubborn, too much of the All-American Dream wrapped up in machismo and vulnerability disguised as hyper-aggression but it fades into nothing when he laughs, and his throat clicks, wet and sticky. Almost a snort but not really. 

Nuanced. Multifaceted. 

You told him he was interesting once and there was pink on his cheeks, and a wry twist to his lips when he'd brought the bottle up to his mouth, hiding the soft snort that slipped past. 

("You need to get out more if you think I'm interesting." 

"I get out plenty."

"That so? With who? I'll call up my friends in NCIS and see if they have anything on them—"

"You're overprotective, too."

"Only to the ones I care about."

"And sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"The sweetest." 

"I'm not—")

The glimpse you've gotten is a small stream that bleeds into a river. One dammed by circumstances, and tragedy, and you want to cross it so badly that your fingers ache with the urge to pick at the logs that hide it from you. 

You want to know what he looks like when he is loose and relaxed around family and friends. When he cheers for his dumb football team, and stumbles home late at night after hazing a new recruit into drinking beer from a bong, and carrying around a blowup doll ("it's tradition," is all he said when you blinked at him. "It's sacred;"). You want to know what he sounds like when he's trying to be funny without feeling the pinch of talons, grief and anger and resentment, digging into his flesh. Or what he sounds like completely sober. 

You want to listen to Johnny Cash (gotta show you the good stuff, kid. The classics) in his truck, hold his stupid hand, and kiss him whenever you want because it's something you're allowed to do, something that isn't stuck in the confines of your yearning. You want him. Want all of him. 

Want. Want. Want. 

It's—

An infestation of rot, and idealism. You're making him into something he isn't, and thinking too much about what he's not. 

But the bar feels emptier when he isn't here. The walks to the car are lonelier when you're by yourself at nearly four in the morning with nothing but the steady swell of the ocean, and your yearning to fill the barren silence that crushes you, but you've spent too long talking to yourself, and now that you had the taste of an audience, you can't go back what it was like before. 

You should be happy. Happy for him, for Pretty Boy. This should mean that he's moved on, decided that stasis in whisky, and a dingy bar that even the health inspectors have given up on a long time ago is not what he needs in his life right now, and that he's getting better. That he's healing. 

But you think of the look on his face when he stared at you from across the counter, eyes reflected in the clear glass of water, and you know—just like you think you know him—that he isn't. That this isn't the end. That he's found somewhere else to go, something else to mend the aches inside that never abate. 

He didn't decide to move on. It wasn't his choice—it was yours, Caulders. It was the weight of the bill in something that used to be sacred, a place where Bear would pen things down in scratchy writing about your perceived failings— talks too much, shorts the shots all the damn time, can't pour a pint to save her life, has awful taste food, terrible taste in music —and you'd dump them into your rucksack at the end of the night, taking them home with you to lay out on a piece of construction paper as part of an ongoing project in yearning. 

It wasn't his choice, and you know better than anyone else what that means, but still: you hope. You cling to that little piece of stupidity (your very brand) that tries to convince you everything is fine. That you're not complicit in watching a man moulder in grief and agony, and that this is somehow alright. That this tightly webbed knot, tangled and frayed, will somehow unspool itself despite knowing first hand that it won't. 

Not until you tug the strings and unravel the weaved pain and loss on your own terms, and of your own volition. 

But what else can you do? 

No one held your hand when you lost your dad, but God, you wish they did. You wished someone was there to help you, but you also know that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. 

You can force someone to let go by hammering their fingers until the bones shatter, and the tight grip they keep on it all releases because their fingers are pulpy mush. 

You know better. 

In the weeks that he's gone, absent, you oscillate between trying to convince yourself you made the right choice, and trying to pretend that he's still just a friend.

(It's when you wander out from the back of the pub and see someone sitting in his chair—elation, hope, and then the crushing sense of disappointment when the man is too small, too scrawny to be Bear—do you realise what it all means. 

—a sickness.)

Eleven, you get a kiss. Blistering. Intense. Your head cracks against the brick when he pushes himself flush into your body, hand curved over your cheek, jaw. 

(Three days later, you get heartbreak. 

Two weeks, you shatter.)

You have other things to worry about than a man like him. Dangerous. Deadly. The kind that will suck you in like a riptide and drag you out into the open ocean without any care or concern for how you're supposed to tread the high seas. 

He's poison in plaid. A bad decision in the scar tissue, and bloodied knuckles. The bags under his eyes are warning signs for you to stay away.

The ring on his finger. The women who are not his wife. 

All of the bad, the ugly stacks up. 

But—

Even his hideous crutches can't hide his goodness beneath the layer of resentment and grime. 

It starts when he splits his knuckles on the teeth of a man who won't take no for an answer, and you see him find control, balance, and equilibrium, in violence. 

It starts there. And it ends, too. 

(But you're a glutton for pain, and you help him the only way you know how.)

[coff-in]

um, this idea has been on my mind for a couple of days. i want your opinions on it. think about this:

[gender neutral] reader-insert (they are referred to as momma at one point but are otherwise referred to by they/them in the narrative), sibling graves [reader] (you can make them any age you want in this), andrew and ashley have a child in this

it's been a couple of years since andrew, ashley, and [reader] had killed their parents. the siblings are in a cute incestuous polyamorous relationship with each other. but one day, ashley misses her period and finds out she's pregnant (with andrew's child). do you think they'd have [reader] raise the child with them as a second mother or as an aunt?

i think about the baby-- after being born-- is taught by andrew and ashley that some children can have more than two parents sometimes! their child has three parents that love them very much; a daddy, a mommy, and a momma! i think about the angst that can follow as the child grows up. they tell their friends at school about their family and how they two moms and one dad and one of the friends say "why do you have two moms? that's not normal."

i can hear the kids telling the child that their dad is probably cheating on their mom, that's why they have two moms. that they don't have to listen to [reader] since they're not the kid's real mom. it stirs up conflict in the child's heart because they love [reader], they've been nothing but nice and supportive of the kid since they came from the womb, but the other kids have a point, don't they?

i can feel the insecurity in [reader] when the kid is born and as they grow up. they constantly tell andrew and ashley about how they think the kid won't like them as they grow up, or would probably disregard them since they're not their biological parent. i can see andrew and ashley reassure them that they're a wonder parent and that if their kid ever tried to talk down to [reader] or disrespect them that there would be swift corrections of that behavior.

i can see them. the kid is watching TV late at night, around 10:00pm. andrew and ashley are out of the house to go on a date night and they left [reader] in charge to watch after their kid. "tell us if anything happens," ashley would tell [reader] before giving them a kiss and walking out the door with andrew.

but [reader] can't really bring themselves to tell them of what happened when they left.

the kid really should be going to bed at this time. it's a thursday night and they have school in the morning. they ask the child to turn off the TV and go to bed. they're ignored. they ask against more sternly this time and the child asks them bluntly, "why should i?"

"why should i listen to you? you're not my mom, you're not my dad. you're just some... fucking mistress or something that my parents keep around. i don't have to listen to you! the only authority you have over me is the authority my parents let you borrow!"

the child get progressively louder as they vent and [reader] watches them, the anxiety and fear building up inside of them. they knew this would happen one day. they knew that the child would realize that they don't fit in this dynamic somehow. that they're an outsider in a perfectly fine family. they're a stranger, no matter how long they'd been raising this child along their siblings as their own.

the child can see the betrayal on [reader]'s face and they immediately regret ever saying anything. they try to apologize but before they could the [reader] chokes out, "you're right..."

...

"i'm not your mom... or your dad. but i tried to be... i tried my best to be there, for you, for them. i loved you... with everything i had, and i'll love you with everything i am... i'm sorry."

they're both silently crying now, tears falling down their face. [reader] gets that it might be hard, having an abnormal family that doesn't follow societal expectations. they get that it can cause problems, it can cause an othering for the child that they can't solve. all they can do is be there.

the child gets up from the couch and leaves towards their room, the TV playing white noise. [reader] turns it off and sits down on the couch. they usually sleep in big bed that they share with andrew and ashley but they can't bring themself to do so that night. the more they think about the bed the worse they feel. they don't belong in that bed. that's andrew and ashley's bed, in andrew and ashley's bedroom, in andrew and ashley's house. [reader] just invades their space, they taint the sheets and stain their house with their presence.

they sleep on the couch that night.

----

notes from coff-in: woah. i've seen some posts from @/incorrect-gravescest about their family AU (which is very cute, btw. i suggest you check it out when you can) and it got me thinking about a polycube(?) between the graves siblings and sibling [reader] with a child. the wholesome and weird and angsty relationship they'd have with their child (or children). it's been on my mind for a while. let me know what you think of it, i'd love to expand on it more and talk about it. also let me know if you guys like it when i share my thoughts and ideas like this. i know that i usually just answer asks/request now and don't really share my own thoughts but i'd like to do it more often. can't guarantee they'd all be good quality though :,) thank you for reading all this, too. take care!

coff-in

[marshmallow613]

Look I just think that Angel Crowley is a child and Heaven is for children and that's important.

Because we're human, and we live and we love and we lose, and we recognise nostalgia for what it is - rose tinted glasses, a longing or something that we can never have back because it was never real in the first place, we were just too small and too awestruck and too innocent to understand it.

And Crowley Falls, and he grows up, and he sees Heaven for what it is and he tries so, so hard to bring Aziraphale with him but really, how do you, how can you bear to, take that innocence away from your best friend? From the love of your life?

He never tells Aziraphale that he never got a trial. He never tells Aziraphale that by hiding Gabriel, he's risking his name being removed from the Book of Life. Despite everything he knows about Heaven, everything he's learned, he still cannot find it in himself to strip Aziraphale of the wonder, of the childish, hopeful belief that somewhere in Heaven there is still Good.

Aziraphale wants Crowley with him, yes, but he also remembers that Crowley was happy, as an angel, making stars and galaxies and nebulas. And he hasn't grown up yet, not the same way Crowley was forced to, hasn't yet understood the trauma that Heaven subjected him - subjected them both! - to.

So of course it doesn't work, when Crowley finally breaks, when he finally tries to explain that the Heaven Aziraphale idolises and believes in doesn't truly exist, because how can this suddenly be true? Why didn't you mention it before? Don't you see, this is my chance to remind them how to Do the Right Thing?

Crowley cannot teach Aziraphale what he needs to know for the same reason we hug children, and kiss their boo-boos, and tell them that everything will be alright and they will always have someone to turn to. Because we want it to be true, and no child (or Angel) should ever have to grow up too soon.