#this is longer than i lot of the writings i post

[pedroscurls]

in every lifetime

summary: you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds? pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader warnings: post deadpool & wolverine ("worst" logan!variant), angst (mentions of death, loss from both reader and logan), no use of y/n. word count: 2.1k a/n: this is my first logan fic, so if anything is ooc, i'm sorry in advanced! just like everyone else, i've been obsessed with hugh jackman / logan after watching deadpool & wolverine (if it isn't obvious lol)... i had the song 'unchained melody' in mind when writing this story because whenever i hear it, i think of logan for some reason lol (tried to embed it but it didn't work, but i'd highly recommend listening to the song while reading this!) anyway, hope you enjoy!

“I’ll be back.”

“But what if–”

“I always come back, bub.” Logan’s looking down at you, hand cupping your cheek. In moments like this, you can see the age in his features. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The gray in his hair and beard. 

“Logan…” Tears sting your eyes. You know he has to leave, has to go help Charles, but there’s a feeling deep in your gut that knows that if he goes, he isn't coming back. 

“Wait for me, then.” He says, dipping down to gently peck your lips. “Okay? Wait for me.” 

“Logan,” you repeat. “What do I do if I– if I lose you?” 

There’s a feeling in the pit of Logan’s stomach, a sense of dread and fear that he’s only ever felt when you were concerned. This feels a lot like a goodbye… That maybe if he does go, he won’t come back. And the thought alone scares him. He never used to have to think about the possibility of dying, his regenerative powers always healing him in record time, but he knows that he doesn’t heal as quickly as before. He feels more pain now than he ever had. And he knows he’s sick, knows that the adamantium that once gave him strength is now slowly making him weaker.

But now, the thought of dying… It fucking scared him. It scared him to think that he’d leave you here, all alone, grieving him. He had never thought he’d be deserving of someone like you, to be loved and taken care of so gently, so sweetly, so patiently. Even with all of the baggage he carried, you never pushed. He knew, right off the bat, that you deserved someone so much better than him, but you stayed. 

Through it all, you stayed. 

And Logan would forever be grateful. After everything he’s been through, the things he’s seen, the things he had to do, the people he’s lost, you gave him a life that was finally worth living. 

“Then, you move on, darlin’.” Logan finally answers. 

“And if I can’t?” 

“You’ll have to.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to go, but I know that you have to. Charles needs you and–”

“I love you with every fiber of my being, baby,” Logan interjects. “And I will love you in every lifetime.” 

And that was almost a year ago. The moment he stopped calling, you knew that was it. That he either got into some real trouble or… Or that he was no longer here. It wasn’t until a young girl named Laura showed up on your doorstep, holding his dog tags that your assumptions were correct. 

You had fallen to your knees, a sob escaping your lips, as you felt your world come crashing down. Logan’s death had left a gaping hole in your heart, in your life, and everywhere you looked and everywhere you went, all you could see was him. 

You learned from Laura that during his last moments, he had told her to come and find you, that you would take care of her and give her a good life. Whenever you were around her, you tried to be strong, tried to put on a brave front, but behind closed doors, you were a complete mess. There were days where you didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to eat; you just wanted the pain to stop. Every night, whenever you closed your eyes, you forced yourself to sleep because that was the only place where you could be with him. 

In your dreams, he was alive. 

In your dreams, he had made it back home.

In your dreams, he was here with you, helping raise Laura. 

And every time you woke up, you were welcomed with the sudden reality that he wasn’t alive. He wasn’t coming back home. He wasn’t ever going to be here with you to help raise Laura. 

Logan was dead and now, you had to try and learn how to move on. 

For yourself.

For Laura.

For Logan. 

—

He didn’t know what he was doing here, why he agreed to stay with Wade because it was driving him crazy. This wasn’t even his timeline; he wasn’t even meant to be here. Despite saving Wade’s timeline, Logan still found it hard to fit in. He tried to keep Wade and every single one of his friends at an arm's distance because he knows what happens to people he cares about. 

But the more time he spent around them, the more he felt at ease. Logan would be lying if he said he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when Laura mentioned your name at one of Wade’s family dinners, his heart skipped a beat. When he realized he would be able to stay in this timeline, you were all he could think about. 

Logan wondered if you existed in this world and what he would do if you did. So, when Laura casually said your name, his head turned around so quickly that he felt dizzy. There were so many things he regretted in his own timeline, but you were his biggest regret. 

Just like he failed the other X-men, Logan had failed you too. You had been there with the other X-men, trying to warn them of a planned attack and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. You had called out for him, just like Scott, like Charles, like Storm. 

He managed to get to you before you had taken your last breath, holding you in his arms. Logan begged and begged for you to fight, that he’d do things right from now on as long as you just held on, but you were losing so much blood and Logan couldn’t stop it. 

Even then, when you had every right to be angry with him, you gazed up at him with an understanding look on your face. You had always been so patient and kind, so sweet and considerate. You had made him so happy and it scared him, which ultimately ended in pushing you away because he didn’t think he was deserving of it. Of you. 

“I love you, Logan,” you had said, wincing at the pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–” Logan felt a sob catch in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he looked down at you. “Please, baby, please please please, don’t–”

“I–” you coughed, eyes fluttering as you felt the pain overcome your entire body. “I will love you in every lifetime, Logan.” And then, you took your last breath, eyes falling shut and body falling limp in his arms. 

Since then, Logan drank himself day after day, from dawn to dusk. The alcohol never truly helped, his regenerative powers sobering him so fast, but with every swig of liquor, it burned. And he spent years bringing pain unto others, including himself. 

That was, until he met Wade who had given him a chance, a reason to fight for something… To not turn his back on someone who relied on him. A chance for redemption, to finally make things right. 

“So, will you meet her?” Laura asks, holding Dogpool in her arms as she gazes up at Logan. “She– She used to be with this universe’s Logan and…”

“No chance, kid.” Logan interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not him.” 

“Did you have someone like her in yours?” she asks. “She’s always put me first, always made sure I was taken care of even when she didn’t have to, when she was grieving. And I think–” Laura sighs. “I think if she knows that some version of you is alive, it would make her real happy.”

“I’m not him,” Logan growls, feeling his irritation spike. “‘Sides, she’s better off without me.” He stands from the table and walks out into Wade’s balcony to get some fresh air, shutting the door behind him as he leans against the railing.

“But she’s coming tonight,” Laura finally says, long after Logan’s walked away.

Throughout the rest of the dinner, Logan remains outside. He can hear the muffled laughter coming from inside and it only angered him because it was just another confirmation that he didn’t belong here. He’s already on his fourth bottle of beer when he hears a familiar voice, smells a recognizable scent. He turns slightly and catches you stepping into Wade’s apartment, an arm slinging over Laura’s shoulders so casually, so maternally. 

He feels his heart rate pick up. Your smile still lights up a room and he can’t help but his lips turning upwards at the sight. With his enhanced hearing, Logan can hear your voice and he shuts his eyes for a moment, tuning all of his attention on you until you’re the only one he hears. 

Then, he hears your laugh and he lets out a sigh. He never thought he’d be able to hear that again, but his eyes shoot open when he hears you say his name. There’s a shocked tone in your voice, laced with sadness and hope. It all but crushes him because he knows that you’re probably expecting someone else, expecting this world’s Logan and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. Not again. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he were to hurt you again. 

But when he looks at you, his breath catches in his throat when your eyes meet his. Logan notices the surprise look on your face, but before he could try and escape, you’re already walking towards him. When you open the door and step out with him, your scent fills his senses and it makes him dizzy, like he can’t fully concentrate. 

“You…” he hears you say, voice unsteady. “You’re not… I’m–” you sigh and shake your head. 

“I know who you are,” Logan finally says, his own voice shaky. 

Your hands reach out for him, but stopping halfway when you realize this isn’t your Logan. This is not the same man who died all those years ago. This is some version of him – much younger, less wrinkles and gray hairs in his hair and beard, but he still has that same look on his face. The scowl. 

“From Laura?” you ask hesitantly. 

“From my universe,” Logan answers. 

“There– There’s a version of me in your universe?” 

“There was.”

“And what happened to me?” 

Logan’s jaw tightens. “The same thing that happened to your Logan in this universe.”

“Oh.” Your face drops, eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Logan wants to run far from here, far from you because he feels himself yearning for more. He almost forgot how it felt like to be near you, to be inches away that he can just reach out and pull you into his arms. Your eyes captivate him, the kindness it expresses makes him feel like he matters. You had always made him feel that way that even through all of his anger, through all of the walls he put up, you showed him that he was deserving of something good. Even if he didn’t believe it himself. 

And you… You were the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Don’t know why you’re apologizin’,” Logan mutters. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that engulfs the both of you. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, can see the way your lower lip is beginning to tremble and he has this sudden urge to console you, to wipe away the tears that have now fallen down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, bringing your hands up to wipe away the tears that seem to be trickling down your face nonstop. “I just– Losing my Logan just crushed me and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered.” 

My Logan. 

Logan can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. This isn’t a conversation that he thought he would be having and certainly not with someone he loved and died because of him. 

“That’s okay,” Logan responds quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t think it’s easy to recover from losing someone you love.”

“Did you– Did you love me in your universe?” 

Logan nods slowly, tightening his jaw as he gazes down at you. “With every fiber of my being.” 

Your eyes widen and stare up at him. This might be a different Logan, but hearing those words again just brings you back to the moment you last saw your Logan before he left to go take care of Charles. 

“Did you love me in yours?” Logan asks hesitantly.

You nod instantly, tears trickling down your cheek as you stare up at him. “I’d love you in every lifetime.” 

Logan feels his own set of tears pool at the corners of his eyes and he moves a hand to rest on the railing, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he stares into your eyes. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “And I’m not her.” 

[nalyra-dreaming]

Production timeline anon back again. Clarifying its one person sending this I guess. Its been a few years since I left the film industry but still have friends in it so keeping it on anon. Also this ended up long and messy so sorry about that.

Writers room starting about three months before filming is a perfectly normal timeline for network television. In recent years a lot of behind the scenes content has mentioned that scripts are done before filming starts, but all that comes from shows made for streaming, or miniseries or shows that work in release schedules that are longer than a year. That is not how network television works (and is closer to the way films do things than regular tv).

To begin with tv shows working on a year long schedule simply dont have the time to do full scripts and pre production before filming. There wouldn't be enough time to finish post production before the season needs to release.

When tv writer rooms officially open it is not to start writing scripts. They spend a good amount of time preparing things before: making sure everyone is on the same page about the story, deciding what the story will be for the new season, making sure they connect plots left open previous season, list all roles that need casting, list locations that need scouting and sets that need to exist, do lots of research. In general they want an outline and lists of everything that will be necessary first.

Only then they start working on scripts. And it is still a while before they have them written. For heavily serialized shows like iwtv writers will start with an outline of where in the story each episode starts and ends. Then break down each episode, do scene outlines, decide what needs to appear in one episode for the next to make sense, basically weave the whole story. Or in the case of iwtv choose which pieces of the puzzle go where. Only then they start writing scripts. Episodes will be split between the writers in a way that spreads out the work among them and plays to their strenghts. Basically episodes get assigned to whoever gets the written by credit but they will still have active support of the rest of the writers room throughout the process.

With 3-4 months between writers room starting and filming starting there is no time to finish full seasons before they film. And thats on purpose because all departments are building on each other's work. For example production design team needs to know what sets and locations are needed. They might know about the important ones early on but not everything. So they will start set design and location scouting for the big ones before writers room but need the season outline to know about everything else. On the other side writers need to know how the spaces will look like before they make certain decisions about scenes. With casting big new roles might be cast in advance but smaller ones need the season outline before casting so that happens in parallel to writers room.

With all that tv shows will start filming with a few scripts, enough to give everyone a headstart on whats being filmed and finish the rest during production.

The other big reason is that tv is a moving thing all through the process. Writers are on set to see if things actually work on camera, and if they don't they will rewrite in the moment, but that creates abutterfly effect on later episodes, so not having everything finished allows them to write considering changes. They will also write knowing what decisions actors are making, how spaces look on camera, what things cant be done within budget, etc. Its just easier to write as they go.

Iwtv has the advantage of working with a full series outline (and we know Rolin Jones has written scenes for future seasons already) so casting for major roles probably happened before writing started. But also we know things like the theater set was being prepared for a fire before those scripts existed so they definitely work in a network tv schedule.

The tldr is filming will definitely start before scripts are ready but that is normal and wont delay the release.

Thank you so much for this (very detailed, love it!!!) explanation and outline!!!

Much appreciated!!

[toskarin]

as someone who's composed about 3.25 hours of ttrpg music (not counting commissions for bespoke soundtracking) that people generally seem to have enjoyed, I've developed some thoughts on that kind of thing, but every time I try to phrase them into some sort of longer advice/perspective post, I just keep coming back to the same idea

when writing ttrpg soundtracks, it's nice to have long ambient pieces that are entirely non-distracting to players, but most gms will opt to pull more distinct songs for memorable encounters

this doesn't mean that the ambient music-by-weight method of making tabletop soundtracks doesn't work (I'd go as far as saying it's MUCH more comercially viable than any other method) but that, as composers, it's not "failing" to produce a good soundtrack if you choose to focus on songs that aren't meant to be looped for the whole encounter

again, it wasn't the most commercially viable decision I've ever made to focus Nomad/Virtue on those moments, but the comments about it being "good enough to listen to as a regular album after the session" definitely made that a worthwhile tradeoff in my case

people really appreciated the shorter non-loops I included, and because people are more vocal about music they feel strongly about, it meant I got a lot more feedback, and so it was really easy to stay encouraged while working on those albums

[lookinghalfacorpse]

my small anecdote about people in dreblr not handling disagreement well:

there was a time where i disagreed with an opinion i heard about (i didn't even see the original post; i had someone explain it second-hand in my tags assuming that i shared the opinion and i wanted to clarify that i didn't) and later the owner of said opinion (someone in the fandom for longer than me) vagued me & said that my disagreement caused them a panic attack.

and listen. i'm not here to give people panic attacks. i don't want to cause people legitimate distress when i'm just sharing thoughts on a blorbo. i've stopped writing a lot of things that i think would just upset people, and blocked a few folks who have had emotional responses to headcanons i've talked about.

if That small disagreement over One opinion that we didn't share was a problem, we're not gonna get anyone sharing new content. it's a similar attitude that led to things like the Dreblr Awards, where we voted for the "best" ___duo writer(s), just further establishing whose opinions we deem correct and that we should not question. very little wiggle-room for anyone else.

i'm not particularly confrontational and usually just ignore things i don't agree with. i don't consider myself an analyst or anything. i just wanna write stuff.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

just wanted to hear some more of your thoughts on desperate sub steve, like after missions he just wants bucky to take care of him so he just trusts bucky to give him exactly what he needs. whether he's on his back with his eyes closed just /feeling/ everything or whether he's riding bucky only focused on his own pleasure, knowing that's all that really matters right now. anyway food for thought :))

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

Food for thought that I will devour

Okay, I was aiming to write smut for this, but... it's soft. It got soft on me. Like, there's definite sensuality to this, but lots of feelings too.

For each and every wrong, second-guessed step over the past few days, everything slides right back into place with a satisfying 'click' the moment that Steve is shut in the muffled oasis of their home. The door is closed behind them with a soft 'shhnk' and seals off most of the noise from the city, leaving behind just the faintest murmur thrumming beneath the sound of Steve's heart, pounding and pushing blood through his weary body, and twinned by Bucky's matching rhythm. His other half. And everything is all righted and balanced again because of that other half.

Bucky.

Steve can breathe right now because Bucky's here, standing toe-to-toe with him in the tight space of their entryway and clearing his throat just above the hum of blood rushing through their veins and their lungs expanding and contracting. It's peaceful after an unending barrage of chaos. Bucky's trying to lure him out of his head after the rush and crash of the latest mission, Steve knows, but he feels fucking dead on his feet. As good as being home feels...

He needs more this time than just the calm of coming home and the soft, throaty noise of Bucky calling to him.

And, thankfully, Bucky doesn't just understand, Bucky is happy to provide, settling them both by taking half a step in close and pushing their bodies together. Suddenly, there is no space between them from the shoulders down. Instinctively, just the same as Steve did when they used to dance in their shoebox, thin-walled apartment before the war, Steve's hands come up to rest on Bucky's biceps, just below his shoulders. Holding on. Letting Bucky lead.

Meanwhile, Bucky's hands don't go to his waist to cup and dip him to the crooning, slow music, leading him around their creaking, worn floor. Instead, he curls his flesh and blood hand into a loose, easy fist and uses his softly curled index finger to lift his chin. Steve's too tired to care about how stereotypical it is for him to immediately get lost in his lover's eyes as he's arranged under his hands like a doll, but he does. Their depth draws him in like a siren call into the churning, winter-chilled sea. And he stays out there, lost without a life raft in sight the whole while Bucky deftly undoes the little buckle underneath his cowl with a flick of charming fingers.

Steve exhales faintly. Not a sigh--not yet--but almost.

When he's done with the tiny buckle, the leather straps fall away, and Steve is freed with Bucky gently tugging the protective headgear away and leaving him with vulnerable bedhead. Steve knows from countless encounters post-mission that to Bucky, his hair looks like a fuzzy duckling right now and he kind of resents that. It makes him a little bit miffed. Grumpy, maybe. Or, having his hair like this and then being cooed at for being so cute usually does. At this moment, in the twenty-fifth hour, he can't be bothered.

He can't find the strength or playfulness within himself to pout or whine when Bucky hums, dropping his cowl to the side with a cracking 'thunk', grabbing him by the chin, and easing his face down to level. All Steve can do is surrender to the feeling of Bucky's hand running through his hair, tufting it up even more, and humming to himself at how stupid and endearing he looks.

Helmet hair. Pfft.

Bucky drops a chaste kiss on the crown of his head as Steve struggles and fails to keep his head where Bucky put it. Rather than level and eye-to-eye, his chin ends up against his chest. He's just so tired and Bucky is so warm. It's only natural for Steve to melt against him, isn't it?

"I'll deal with your cowl and shield," Bucky murmurs using Steve's bowed pose to his advantage, cupping the back of his neck and pulling his head even more snuggly against the junction of his shoulder and neck to reach for his shield mounted on his back. Steve lets go of his arms to instead lay his hands flat on his chest, relishing in the simplicity of feeling his breath. Chest expanding and contracting--an ocean wave rocking Steve's boat so gently that he can't help but feel like he's being put right to sleep. "You leave the rest on, 'kay?"

"M'kay," Steve parrots, blinking and feeling his lashes brush delicate butterfly kisses over Bucky's skin. He smells like sweat and aftershave, even when his stubble has grown out in the days they've been away. Somehow always date-ready like the charmer he is. Perfumed and groomed and tidied.

"Good--"

Steve exhales shakily. Just that one word. The power it holds over him when breathed from Bucky's mouth.

"--the only thing you gotta do is get your butt into the bedroom, okay? Don't worry about the sheets, just get off your feet, right?"

Steve nods into his body, curling up like a cat to take the memory of him with him for the short while they'll be apart.

"Shoo then, Rogers," Bucky tells him playfully when enough time has passed.

And he does.

Obediently, Steve stumbles through their home without touching his uniform. His shield and cowl are gone--taken off his hands by Bucky--so he's lighter, but he's very much still strapped in and weighed down with all his tac gear. It always feels unfathomably heavy after missions, dragging him down in a way that's less physical than it ought to be. Every time he's done with a mission, he isn't sure how he got himself into his uniform in the first place. It seems impossible to put on, to take off, to move at all.

So, by the time he's through the doorway into their bedroom, the thought of clean sheets (or, more accurately, non-mission grime, grit, and sweat covered like Steve himself is, they can never stay away from each other for long enough for their bedsheets to be that clean) doesn't even enter his mind. His muscles are lead. His skin is paper. He can't sustain the weight pulling at him, and if he doesn't give in and flop down onto the bed, he's going to tear apart.

From walking in the front door to standing and letting Bucky peel off his first few layers to stumbling down the hall to tumbling forward a few steps into the room, Steve is far too exhausted to even expend the energy it would take to turn around before letting gravity have him and pulling him into bed to loll and bounce like a fish out of water. His whole body limp. Bed doesn't hurt. It doesn't matter if he falls face-first. So, he does. Collapsing completely.

And the breath coming out of him fogs up the sheets, caught in their thick comforter, hot and humid, making him feel that much slower and sleepier as he re-inhales his own body-temperature air. Steve finds himself quietly hoping that whatever Bucky has planned for him, sucking or fucking or anything else, he can do it while mostly asleep. As is, he can hardly keep his eyes open--the mattress and sheets and blankets shoved against his face make it darker and quieter and without the demand of having to stay on his feet, yeah, he's a dead man. Sleep coming for him like a stone dropping to the bottom of a current-less lake.

Hopefully, with whatever the post-mission plan is to ground Steve by letting him float in the zero-gravity of submission, gone on as Captain America and team leader for too long, Bucky won't mind if he crashes immediately after orgasm. Hell, Steve doesn't even think he'll make it to orgasm at this point, nevermind past it. He'll be out before he cums, just with the effort of climbing to the peak. Maybe Bucky will be okay with that, Steve likes being used enough without a big finish. Steve likes being used when he doesn't even know it, too. He's slept through Bucky having his body, before. And drifting into sleep with Bucky using him to find his own pleasure sounds almost better than an orgasm right now anyway.

Fuck, he might be asleep already by the time Bucky comes to rescue him. That, or he's just drifting hard already. It's hard to tell when he's so drowsy. All Steve knows is that his heart and blood have slowed to a syrup-thick flow, and he jolts like he's been woken from sleep by the phantom sensation of falling when Bucky's fingers drum on the bottom of his right boot. The vibrations through the thick, thick sole of his combat boots are more shocking than he'd think, but maybe he's just sensitive. Raw around the edges after so much adrenaline has poured out of him.

"Turn over for me, honey?" Bucky phrases it like a question not because it's not an order, but because there's a silent, 'if you can' tagged onto the end of it. If he can't, Bucky still wants him over, but he'll just do it himself. Steve isn't in charge anymore, not when he climbs up onto the bed. His title means nothing here. And what a fucking relief.

Letting out a sleepy little murmur, Steve tries his best.

He gets about halfway over, balanced precariously on his side, eyes nodding shut again before Bucky chuckles indulgently at him, watching him struggle to complete the motion. And so, Bucky grabs his shield harness still clinging to him around his shoulders, and pulls him the rest of the way over, dumping him (gently and lovingly, but still dumping him) onto his back.

"There you are, baby," Bucky croons down at him, uncurling his fingers from his harness and smoothing both his hands down his still, flopped-over body. He dilly-dallies enough to loosely trace the star emblem at the center of his chest but then continues on...

Steve feels pink. He's too tired to sparkle, but he definitely feels flushed pink. Not blushing exactly. Not physically blushing, at least. Probably. He doesn't have a mirror to confirm, though. He's just... pink.

He feels pink.

Light pink. Easy and breathable, so long as Bucky keeps touching him and stays close.

Bucky doesn't mind his coloring--if he can see it, Steve knows he knows him well enough that he can sense it, regardless of whether it's visible or not--he just keeps going and unbuckles his utility belt, letting the weight of itself drag it off his waist. It pools around him on the bed. Bucky leaves it there to rest for now. More important than his belt, Bucky smooths his way down his legs, over the thick fabric padding his uniform pants, keeping him safe from hits, kicks, knives, and bullets, and over the stuffed pockets--filled with odds and ends of first aid, gadgets, tools, and snacks--to finally reach his boots. Once at his boots, Bucky starts the slow, intricate process of untying them. All of their fucking latches, then the laces beneath those latches, and even more shit beneath the beneath. It's a process. All for the goal of keeping his feet in one piece each and hopefully making sure his boots don't fall off during missions but remain breathable but also water and fire and whatever else proof. The demands of superhero-ing. Yeah, it's a process.

A process that Bucky is so kind as to take complete care of, letting Steve splay out, puddling, eyelids drooping, while he lifts his left booted foot, and then his right. Holding each, in turn, against his lower stomach and hip while he gets him out of them.

One. by. one.

One plus one makes two.

Boots and socks gone make four (well, more like six because Steve was wearing two layers of socks beneath his boots).

And Bucky isn't about to only finish a job halfway. So, he travels back up from his bared ankles to his waist to rid him of his pants, tugging and rolling them down. Those pants have to weigh literal pounds with all the shit in the pockets and the hyper-engineered material itself. Then, Bucky keeps going up to his uniform top to wiggle him out of that, too. More pounds melting off him. To undress him like a doll, Bucky moves him like a doll, humming under his breath. A lullaby. First, dragging him forward to dangle his legs off the edge of the bed a little while he takes care of his pants. Second, lifting him up, almost pulling him to sit up but not making Steve do any of the work himself and holding himself rigid with his abs, so he can elevate his torso and shimmy him out of the top. Third, leaving him just in his jockstrap for now. Nearly naked. But Steve couldn't feel self-conscious around Bucky if he tried.

So, just then, Bucky kisses Steve in the very center of his chest, and at the same time that Steve is expecting to be rolled over--maybe have his legs curled up beneath him, maybe spread wide, and opened on thick, lube-slick fingers, made to feel so good that all he can do is shiver and let his eyes roll back until they fall shut--that is exactly when, "ohhh," a loose, gasping sound spills out of his statically open lips.

Unexpected.

Bucky's are hands putting in work.

They're not--

They aren't inside him. But they are all over him. Those handsome, skilled fingers are digging into his tensed, knotted muscles, massaging them into utter submission. Steve is already there, but his muscles are a little more stubborn. Just the beginning, knowing what's coming, has his muscles melting into a puddle, though.

Bucky is meticulously kneading and rubbing every inch of his skin, uncaring how he's sweaty and gross, and just focusing on cooking him past al dente to complete mush. Massaging him like there's no fucking tomorrow. Steve is practically already asleep, floating, and blissed out. Past blissed out. His muscles have already been overworked from the past few days' mission, but now they're tenderized from the lovingly not-tender treatment, digging in deep and pressing hard.

Steve has no idea how Bucky can lift his arms anymore after so much exertion, but he's not going to question him. He can't. He doesn't think he could talk if he tried. He's so wiped out he can hardly gasp or moan in pleasure at being massaged like this. His incoherence is not helped by the knowledge that this settles Bucky, too. He's always liked taking care of people. Always, always has taken great care of people from Steve to his baby sisters to any soldier in his squad. Especially after HYDRA, too, having control of himself to take care of other people is something he's fought hard to have. Steve needs to give up control after calling all the shots and Bucky seeks to have control. It's perfect.

This is perfect. Centering them both.

And Steve, personally, as he's drifting off with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth, knows he will wake up in 12 hours aching. Not his muscles, Bucky is making sure of that. But he will be aching between his legs and then, with more energy back in his beat-up body, he'll plaster himself to Bucky to pout for an orgasm, wanting his permission for it and help with it. But for now, he's good. This is good. This is all he needs.

He can drift hard into dreamland.

[stellaestra]

I look into the spaces in-between in search of you (I miss you more than anything)

pairing: tim drake/mc [reader] author's note: old ideas from high school for me to write excerpts about as per usual and tim's my muse to explore these ideas on unless stated otherwise, if you see this posted on ao3, yes that is me too dw

this is unfortunately very self-indulgent hehe <3 mb babes p.s. this cld be taken as both ways? romantic? platonic? take your pick lol

word count: 1511 words

cw: um, mentions of injury? unedited // no beta read, we'll die like men here

---

It had been days since the last time Tim had slept ever since he found footage of someone that seemed eerily familiar to you, clad in a bright red jacket that was practically your signature back then. It was one of your favourite jackets after all.

He was getting a little too frantic and was rather adamant about them being you. He wanted to prove to everyone that you weren't dead but alive. 

He would delay the process of falling asleep if he had to.

“Red Robin.” He spoke into the mic.

“Access approved.” The artificial intelligence responded back.

“Where are they hiding you?” The words trailed off, his eyes were already glued to the screen. 

His icy blues scanned through the files; that includes, footage, clips and articles – each and every one of them, trying to search a certain code-name belonging to someone he once knew very well like the back of his hand and grew extremely fond of over the course of the years of knowing them.

The only footage that could have matched your physique was that single footage alone and it irked him to no end. 

He was already rather obsessed with the idea of trying to search for you and none of his family members nor friends managed to deter him away from his work.

However, there was a single tiny nagging voice in the back of his head that reminded him of the possible reality that there was no way you would come back unless some kind of miracle brought you back to life like what had happened to Jason and he never really touched that particular topic whenever asked.

Only vague answers from him. He would always end the conversation before it started.

—

Meanwhile, you weren't quite pleased with the fact that you had to drop out of your current school and had to take online classes to finish your high school education for the sake of a diploma to show you completed everything that was necessary to proceed further into higher education. 

Well, at least there was some compensation for it, the organisation you were under was paying for your education so you couldn't complain as much as you would like. Whether you like it or not, you need to be under everyone's radar for the time being because you were relatively vulnerable while you were in the middle of recovering.

It was rather unfortunate that you had obtained a very life-threatening wound months ago, it took you ages to finally feel like your body was yours and move it the way your brain intended it to. 

The phantom pain of being stabbed was another thing to deal with in the midst of doing your everyday life now. 

Your recovery period was a lot more sedentary than you would have liked too. There was always a constant itch to do workout routines that was far too intense for your weakened state at the moment.

All in all, this was something they told you to do and it was to keep prying eyes away from you until you reached full recovery before being deployed back onto the field.

Staying with your grandma was pretty nice too, it had been quite some time since your family last visited her and it was always annual visits at the end of the school year for Christmas. 

Your other issue living in a more secluded area was, of course, none other than net signal stability. It kind of helped you to be harder to be detected and traced back but it still irked you that you would need to wait longer for your files to be downloaded.

Regardless, life has been much simpler and far less hectic than your usual ones back home. It was nice to be able to breathe for once instead of being dogpiled by both your school tasks and your other responsibilities.

It wasn't easy for your uncle to convince your parents for you to move away for your recovery period after your so-called hit and run accident which was a cover-up for your actual one. 

—

It had taken several months for Tim to get the final clue needed to prove you weren't dead and he finally got it now —

“Found you.” Tim muttered under his breath, sounding almost unhinged — wide icy blue eyes zeroed in on another footage he managed to scrape through the worldwide database, fingers hovering his keyboard. 

The teen had immediately booked the next flight available to where you were now regardless of the schedules that had lined up for him. He couldn't give a flying damn about it right this second now that he finally located your whereabouts they so desperately tried to conceal your presence from everyone.

He jumped to his closet, scavenging through his mess of clothes to throw into his carry-on luggage bag for him to bring with on his impromptu trip.

The next morning, he made his way to Gotham’s airport without so much as leaving a note to mention where he would be. He doesn't want anything to risk his solid decision.

The dawning realisation fell upon him when he touched-down at your home country airport. He was finally here. He was finally able to see you now. 

His next hurdle was to track you down to your very exact location and it wasn't going to be a breeze for him – he hated to admit and they covered your tracks far too well for any mistakes to happen. 

It took him roughly a week or so to get a clue of you. 

—

Tim spotted your silhouette from miles away before he made a beeline for you. He called out your name almost desperately, causing you to turn back and face him. 

You looked as pretty as the last time he saw you. A sheepish look plastered your features as you faced him fully. 

“...Found you.” He exhaled out, he was a little out of breath from sprinting to your spot. Call him crazy or whatever. He wasn't going to lose sight of you. 

“...Uh, hi, hey, Timbo,” you chuckled, your eyes betrayed you as there was a look of guilt behind them despite you trying to play it off coolly, “took you long enough, huh?” 

He remained silent as he stared at you, soaking in your presence and trying to etch everything about you right now into his brain. His icy blue eyes were starting to intimidate you right now because you rarely ever felt so exposed in someone's presence before. 

“Heh, well, don't let it get to your head,” you joked, running your fingers through your hair, “the only reason you were able to find me was because I let myself be found.”

“Shut up, I'm very upset with you right now,” His words sounded wet, as if he was fighting back his tears even though there was a deep frown set on his lips, jaws clenched and shoulders straightened (tensed). There was nothing else that indicated that he was about to cry other than his voice that carelessly betrayed him.

He had managed to trace you back to your home country was one thing, the other part was finding you at your exact location was another gamble.

He found you at the beachside of Sipitang, a town located in one of Sabah's district divisions, taking a walk while eating chicken wings skewers you had bought in a plastic dangling in your hands.

“Why, you want a reward for finding me sooner than intended?” You teased, raising an eyebrow at him, “the only thing I have on me right now is my chicken wings if you want some?”

He doesn't know what to do with himself nor what he would like to say to you now that he has found you, safe and sound in Borneo Island. He wanted to pull you into his arms so badly but he withholded himself from doing so because you would look at him weird for even attempting such a feat. 

You've known Tim for several years now and you would like to think you knew him from the inside out enough to take notice of his little quirks and decipher them to how he would like to be perceived as.

You opened your arms wide, inviting him for the hug that the other boy was trying to force himself not to give.

It took him a few moments to finally give in, and pushed his pride away to embrace you, taking you into his arms and feeling the warmth you gave away through your body. He hid his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent.

“I miss you.”

“I'm very much aware,” you chuckled into his shoulders, squeezing him, “don't think I didn't notice you snooping around our database, you loser."

“I need to prove to them you aren't dead and I need to see it with my own eyes.” He admitted, wounding his arms tighter around you.

“Of course you’d do that, you stalker.” 

“I really did miss you.”

“Me too.”

[fruitgummies01]

Thoughts on Jimin's name on JK's stomach and these moments right here from the behind the scenes content?

https://x.com/myhomeisjkjm/status/1841186841187258434

https://x.com/My2SeaOtters/status/1840806210783830207

Interesssssssting.... I feel like I should wait until I receive my photobook and see it all for myself before I actually review any of it, but since you asked lol.

Sucks that there is zero context for that picture of Jimin's name being written in sunscreen on JK's chest. Seeing how there was a short scene (was it episode 5?) of Jimin and JK playing with the sunscreen on their faces, I will just go ahead and assume that the same thing was happening behind the scenes in that picture too. If Jimin wanted to claim his man, who could blame him lol. I find it way more fascinating that most of the armys that are so quick to post shirtless pictures of JK, somehow did not get around to posting the one with Jimin's name on his chest. 🤔

And speaking of Tae. Those two clips, specifically the one with Jimin explaining how Tae suddenly joined the trip says so much tbh. I think it was sweet that Jimin at first tried to smooth it over by saying he knew Tae was busy with his solo activities and him not extending an invitation was not done intentionally (although um, I kinda think they did it on purpose, but won't get into that). Jimin specifically mentions asking the other members to come saying they were welcome, which weird because Namjoon would've been the only other member not enlisted at the time, so maybe that's what he meant? IDK, but if we follow their timeline, Tae found out two days before by seeing it on the group schedule/calendar, Jimin spent the night before Jeju at JK's house, and then all three came on the trip. I wonder if Jimin broke the news to JK during their sleepover that Tae was joining them haha. Also interesting that Tae specifically mentions being hurt by Jimin and doesn't say anything about JK, who is just kinda sitting there quietly not saying anything. I could read more into that, but I won't. 😅

If I had to guess, I would say I don't think Tae knew what show he was signing up for lol, hence why he asked why Namjoon didn't also come during dinner. He probably only saw that they were filming a show in one of his favorite places, didn't ask any questions about what the show was since he just wanted to be included, and just insisted on coming by calling up Jimin and saying he didn't want to be left out. Reality probably hit him once he was there what the vibes were (a lot of him feeling like a third wheel), which would explain him being on his phone a lot and going to play golf. Tae was probably grateful for the time they all spent together and the memories, but was very much over it by the end, and in his words was just trying to get to the plane 😭. Which I wouldn't blame him, it would probably be very annoying to be around two people with so many inside jokes and who talk in memes constantly lmao.

Again this was way longer than I was actually planning on writing (sorry lol), but I can't wait until my copy of Are You Sure photobook comes in the mail!!!

[collaredsoldat]

Winter Soldier Post!HYDRA Headcannons

warnings: Bucky is still the Winter Soldier | PTSD | Post abuse (physical, psychological) | Past SA and mentions of treatment for it | Light descriptions of injuries/wounds | Medical stuff

a/n: I was writing something earlier and it made me want to write this. It's just a random collection of headcannons I have. You bring him home after he escapes HYDRA. You have your hands full. Unedited.

Following the events of the movies, let's pretend you bring Bucky home after CATWS. He's still the soldier. He's still Soldat. And Soldat doesn't speak. In fact he is silent for days. Uttering nothing, not a peep.

Soldat is silent, watchful, wary. He doesn't like being approached too quick. He stays in corners. He stays in small spaces. Being too exposed now makes him feel anxious. He reacts with aggression if he is anxious.

You learn all this.

He also becomes visibly irritated when he feels confused and stressed, which is pretty much constantly.

He needs you to order him around, which sounds harsh but the sudden change of environment and treatment is really confusing for him. He is too fresh from HYDRA to immediately just heal. That's now how it works. This kind of trauma doesn't just go away. This man is so severely mistreated, you aren't even sure where to start.

Simple things like telling him to shower or sleep. Otherwise he stays up for days and refuses to do anything. Free will is such a foreign concept to him.

Re-feeding and giving him nutrients and fluids is a nightmare. Luckily, you had a medic friend who could look at him without the involvement of the government since he was in hiding for now. You got all the supplies you needed, but it was still a hassle. His options were very limited when it came to food. Oatmeal, mashed potatoes, applesauce, things like that. He could barely stomach anything more solid than that.

He sits still for the IVs, but sometimes he doesn't and he puts up a struggle, assuming it is some kind of drug to manipulate him. You just have to stay close and talk to him so he pays more attention to you than what your friend is doing.

He got sick a lot. You had to be careful about that. Too much food made him sick, his body wasn't used to it.

He also was having difficulty remembering you and where he was, the fact that he wasn't undergoing constant brainwashing made all the chemicals go haywire. It made his moods unpredictable. He had aggressive bouts, though he never harmed you badly, he would grab you if you got too close out of instinct and fear.

He often broke down and during these times it was a gamble whether or not he'd let you around him. He felt so pathetic and small and horrible, confused and unsure for the first time in decades. He was used to being mindless besides the orders barked at him. Simple, easy, all he had to do was listen.

But now, things were different. He was no longer being kept in a shitty cell or in an icebox. He wasn't tortured daily, he wasn't taken into rooms where agents were greedy with him. He wasn't hurt. And...it confused him even more.

You notice he sits strange when he does. He doesn't like to sit for long. He says it hurts. He prefers to stand. You don't understand until later, and you do your best to help ease his pain.

He didn't understand why you didn't hurt him. Why you didn't hit him. Sometimes he hit himself when he felt like he deserved it, each time he felt a pit in his stomach when he saw the disapproving look in your eye and listened to the scold that came after. You were gentle...but firm. He could not hurt himself. That made him bad. Disobedient. Disobedient soldiers are punished. It was a cruel cycle that ran in his mind. You had to be the one to stop it.

When he did speak, it was simple Russian phrases. Yes, no, he addressed you as handler, his responses were monotone and recited. He had been trained not to speak. That wasn't what he was supposed to do with his mou-

Enough. The memories are invading again.

You could tell when he zoned out into his episodes, his eyes became glossy and he seemed to become a zombie. You sat him down somewhere quiet and stayed with him. Sometimes he didn't want to be touched, sometimes he let you. But you had to be careful, you never wanted him to be uncomfortable or make things worse.

It was a tender thing. But it was something you were more than happy doing.

After a few weeks he seeks you out more often. He stays close by, he even sits close to you or tries to get your attention. He's still quiet, but he speaks more now. Even in english, which you find a relief. By you you've learned the short Russian phrases he spoke, but it was good he spoke english too.

He starts to hang closer to you, he stays out of his 'hiding spots' in your home and stays around you more often. He sits on the couch beside you, starting to seek you out. It's a positive sign he's growing more comfortable.

He doesn't like being alone for very long. If you have a job, it might be hard for him. You try to get one where you can work from home, otherwise he is very anxious and clingy when you come home from your shift.

The spare bedroom is his, but he often finds himself migrating to your bedroom through the night. He needs your presence, he needs to know he's not alone. The silence is deafening, and knowing your body is beside him is comforting when he sleeps.

Speaking of, he starts off on the floor. It's a little heartbreaking, he sees the bed as a test, an awkward thing he doesn't want to sleep in. So he starts on the floor, then you move the mattress off the bed to the floor, along with some pillows and blankets. That seemed to help condition him to an actual bed before he eventually sleeps in yours with you.

You know recovery and his healing is going to be a long, bumpy road, but you are just happy he sees you as protection and comfort, and his trust is slowly building with you.

Thanks for reading.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images from Pinterest

[crazylittlejester]

Hehe hello hello

Would you be interested in yapping a bit more about Warriors and Time's/Mask's brother relationship?

Please plase share more headcannons with me

HELL yeah dawg I gotchu, these two are my favorites I can yap about em all day every day (sorry for answering late I wanted to save this for after my exam alskddkd. also my apologies if this makes ZERO sense, and my bad for spelling mistakes or oddly autocorrected words 😔)

So, this is just my personal headcanon and a bit about how I write them and I’m just taking this as an opportunity to ramble hehe but here you go, a peak inside my brain!!:

One thing that’s super important to me in writing is names. Names carry with them identity almost, and while Time and Mask are one person and Wars and ‘Captain’ (because i hc that’s what Mask called him instead of Link all the time) are also the same person, they are very different in the sense that trauma and recovery and just aging in general impacts identity and shit. They are the same exact people, but their relationship with each other was pretty different at different points in time and the way they view each other has changed

'Captain' to Mask was a father figure, an older brother he argued with and teased, but ultimately someone who he looked up to. He didn't WANT 'Captain' to ever be wrong about anything, and he COULD see his flaws and his arrogance but he didn't want to acknowledge it because he just so fucking desperately needed a safe adult who could always be right no matter what because after so long of being lost and overwhelmed, some part of him really just wanted stability. He’s not one to blindly trust nor is he stupid, but a part of Mask ignored how arrogant Link got because he needed someone to be perfect

Mask is 'Captain's' kid almost, that's how he views him. That's his child, he doesn't think of HIMSELF as a father, he thinks of Mask as a little brother, but that's his kid nonetheless. He doesn't want Mask to see him struggle, he doesn't want Mask to see he's not okay, he doesn't want Mask to realize how absolutely AWFUL his life is because he's hell bent on giving his kid a good growing environment despite the fact they're in a war

Time, now in his thirties, is able to look at Warriors and see his flaws, he's able to look at him and see a very hurt, very traumatized young man. He's reached a point of emotional maturity and confidence where he doesn't need to have a person who can just be safe for him all the time. He does still find safety and comfort Wars, but he doesn't like, NEED it the way ‘Mask’ did. Because Mask was (to me) like mentally 15 years old living in a 10 yo’s body at the start of that war and he was just so goddamn tired he just needed someone else to call the shots sometimes. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t still a bit argumentative, or that Time still doesn’t like being bossed around, but Time has had time to chill and sort his life out and it’s easier for him to take a deep breath and use his brain than it was when he was a kid. (I did a whole post ages ago on depression and how it commonly manifests as anger in kids and yeah something something I do think Time has a short temper still but he has coping mechanisms now and he’s better at dealing with it)

Warriors is able to look at Time and still see his kid, he still sees Mask, but he can also acknowledge that Time spent 20 years growing up without him and is now a good decade older than he is. He can realize that he doesn't HAVE to hide everything from Time, Time can be a safe person for him to lean on because he’s no longer this traumatized child Warriors has to ‘protect’. He can be a hell of a lot more real with Time than he ever was with Mask because he no longer feels guilty about trauma dumping on a child. More real smiles, more real emotions, more real tears. They help each other heal, it's no longer as one sided

But despite this separation and distinction they are still able to recognize the other as just one person. Separate, but one at the same time. Wars can think of his brother and in his mind refer to him AS Mask, but (in a stable mental state) completely acknowledge that as Time. Calling him Mask is literally just a force of habit, he can call him Mask and still acknowledge this is a 30 something yo man. Time can call Wars 'Captain' and be aware he's talking to the 27 yo in front of him and not that poor kid trying to be hero and guardian at the same time.

However 'Captain' in Time's mind became almost like... a character...? That's his big brother he rambled on and on to Malon about. That's his big brother he loves more than anything in the world. That's the person he looked up to even after having left the war. It's almost a version of Wars that's not even real because it’s the version of him that was presented to Mask and then preserved after they parted. It’s Wars through the eyes of a child who adored him. But it's not like the way the people in Wars's kingdom idealize him. The people in Wars's kingdom look at this child and see a knight in shining armor come to save them, or a brat who started this damn mess. They turn him into something he isn't and kinda dehumanize him because it makes it easier for them to send a child to war. Whether they like him or not, they have an idealized version of their hero in their minds, based off what front Warriors himself put up or their own dislike. But Mask’s old version of ‘Captain’ was born from pure love for his brother, like those hero essays 3rd graders write about their personal heroes and they choose to write about their dad and how they see him. ‘Captain’ was a hero to Mask in a MUCH different way than he was for everyone else, and meeting Wars again was a huge shock for him because was forced to look at this person through the eyes of an adult

'Captain' is his big strong older brother who will always be there for him and who is bad ass and epic, Wars is just... a man, and Time HAS now put them in his mind as the same person. His captain isn't as perfect and infallible as he thought he was but thats okay he doesn't give a shit he loves him anyway. This pillar of strength for him, his captain, is cracked and has been this whole time despite his younger self’s inability to see that completely (because he DID know something was wrong, just not the full extent of it), and maybe even directly because of how his view of his brother has changed, he’s able to love and support him even more

For the most part in my writing Time only ever refers to Warriors as “Captain” or “Link”, even in the LU ‘present day’, not because he can’t see how he’s changed but because that title to him carries more of a realness to it. Despite how it was that title he’d associated his idealized version of his brother, Warriors himself views himself more as a captain than a hero. Because he IS a captain and that’s a rank he earned for himself, but he doesn’t feel right calling himself a hero. Similarly Wars rarely calls Time ‘Time’, because in my headcanon Mask didn’t reveal himself as the Hero of Time. That’s a huge ass title to live up to, and he felt like people would be disappointed to know some scrawny kid was the huge historical figure they’d created perfect versions of in their minds. ‘Hero of Masks’ brought safety with it, and while Wars rarely calls him Mask (less frequently than Time calls him Captain), that name feels more like who he actually is. Not only was it something his brother called him, but it just feels safer and just- More intimate I guess. And him calling Wars ‘Captain’ is also partly instinct and more his title than anything else, every time Time calls him that it’s making the real version of his brother more permanent in his mind, with all of his flaws and all the little weird things about him that Time had forgotten over the years

AGAIN SORRY IF THIS MAKES NO GODDAMN SENSE I LIKE TO RAMBLE AND MY HEAD HURTS AND I STARTED SPACING OUT A BIT SO IDK HOW MUCH I REPEATED MYSELF BUT THANKS FOR THE ASK I LOVE TO YAP ABOUT THESE TWO

this is just them to me :)

[daysofyellowroses]

pumpkin ii

richie jerimovich x afab!reader | 2k | 18+ MDNI | warnings: language, smut, all that fun stuff

hello, i am amazed that i am actually posting again relatively soon, though does it count if it's a sequel? i am saying yes 👌🏻 this was super fun to write, i am truly in my richie can do what he wants to me era, and just writing down my delusional fantasies really so enjoy! also happy october (the best month) 🍂🎃🔮 love of my actual life @thecapricunt1616 is doing promptober as are many many amazing other writers, so go check that out and thank me later 🫶🏻💗🌼

🐻

A week after the worst period of your life, a higher power had decided to smile on you.

Usually you felt quite calm and serene when you became free from menstrual hell, but this particular month had you feeling..a certain kind of way.

It happened, now and then, but it had never been so intense.

From the moment you woke up, you felt an ache, a hunger and a desperation to have something, anything between your legs.

You thought the feeling would subside once you'd taken care of it, but it only grew stronger.

It was certainly a better feeling than being in complete agony, but it wasn't like you had someone there in your bed who could help you out.

So, you got on with your day, got ready and headed to work, trying desperately not to notice every time the train juddered a little harshly.

Heading into work, everything was the same as it always was, everyone prepping for another busy Saturday. It would be a relief to be busy, to have a hundred different things to focus on instead of the dull ache between your legs.

You changed into your uniform, listened to Richie's latest speech, trying to look just behind him rather than at him before the urge to throw yourself at him took over.

Things between you two had changed since he had taken you home a week before.

You still teased each other, laughed at his bad jokes and shared cigarettes but there was a charge in the air, some unspoken feeling that had surged to the surface.

Neither of you commented on it, and part of you didn't even want to act on it incase it made things awkward or weird, especially if things didn't work out.

Then again, another part of you wondered what the worst could be, if it was just a one time thing then you'd both have fun and just go back to being friends, or it would become something more and you'd roll with it.

When the doors opened and guests started arriving, you tried to just focus on work, which was easier said than done.

It was the little things that you never really paid much attention to before that really started to test you.

Richie's hand touching your lower back as he passed you, giving you a wink from across the room, sticking his tongue out at you when nobody was looking.

You took a deep breath when Richie came over to you and placed his hand on your back, whispering in your ear about a surprise for table 14. You could focus on the feeling of his warm breath, his soft yet firm touch, your heart racing.

It was ridiculous really, you weren't some horny inexperienced teenager who just wanted anyone to touch them. It was just your own body sending you into overdrive.

By the time the last guests left the restaurant, you felt like your body was practically purring.

In an ideal world, you would be able to just go home, spend an intimate night with your vibrator and sleep it off, but you were stuck stacking chairs on tables and trying to think dull thoughts to distract yourself.

"Everything alright over there?"

You looked up as you heard Richie's voice, meeting his eyes and nodding softly.

"All good, just tired."

He watched you for a moment longer before he nodded and went back to what he was doing, and you took the deepest breath possible.

When everyone was leaving, you were keen to just get to the train and go home, but you were surprised to feel a hand on your arm when you were walking through the parking lot.

"Hm?" You turned around and raised a brow as you saw Richie behind you.

"What's up?"

"Are you.." Richie moved his hand vaguely in your direction. "Are you alright? You seemed a little distracted tonight, like you weren't really there."

You pushed aside the urge to let out a sigh, feeling your bed slip further away. Of all the times for Richie to want to embrace his professionalism, this one was not ideal.

"You're right," You nodded, glancing around and making sure nobody else was close enough to hear you. Your train had definitely already departed, you were going to be stuck waiting anyway.

"I wasn't feeling myself tonight. I was distracted, and it won't happen again. I promise."

Richie looked at you for a minute before reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. To be totally honest for a second? You've seemed a little off all week. Did I.."

He fumbled with the pack, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips before he looked up at the sky.

"Did I make things weird?"

"Weird?" You raised a brow. "No, you..why would you have made things weird?"

"Because you know," Richie shrugged, looking back to you as he lit his cigarette. "I went to your place, I got you those.." He wiggled his fingers a little. "Feminine things."

You smiled and shook your head, wrapping your jacket around yourself.

"Not necessarily in that order."

Richie smiled a little to himself and you stepped closer, taking the cigarette from between his lips and taking a drag.

"Please never say 'feminine things' again, you old, old man," You grinned, giving the cigarette back to him. "And if you think I've been off with you then you really don't know me. You really want to know why I was so distracted tonight?"

"Do tell," Richie smiled, watching you closely. "I can't stand suspense."

"Because of you," You replied, folding your arms. "Do you have any idea how frustrated I've been since you decided to be a gentleman last week? It has taken every ounce of self control I have to not pounce on you tonight."

"Well that's the plan," You smiled, stepping closer to Richie once more, moving your hand to touch his chest.

"What do you call this then?" Richie raised a brow, gesturing between the two of you before taking a long drag on his cigarette. "That's a good one though, you got me."

"How would you feel about taking me home and really giving the neighbors something to talk about?"

And so, you found yourself on the train with Richie once again, except this time the two of you were like a pair of teenagers. His hands touching your neck, your hands clutching at his jacket, the city lights passing by as you lazily made out. Your body was practically humming, more than ready to relieve the tension you'd been feeling.

When you arrived at your apartment, Richie wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your neck as you fished around your bag for your keys, tempted for a moment to just wake up all the neighbors.

The walk from the station to your apartment was taken up with Richie's terrible (amazing) jokes, rants about the restaurant's latest customers, another cigarette, and stopping for kisses that made the journey twice as long but just as pleasurable.

Eventually you made it inside, barely getting the door closed before Richie was making himself at home. Shoes off, jacket off, talk of having a drink.

Honestly, it was a strange relief to not just immediately jump on Richie. You got him a beer from the fridge, taking another for yourself. Both of you ended up on the couch, you half on his lap, legs tangled together. The TV was put on as background noise, the remote flung somewhere.

Someone made the first move, it was hard to remember who and how exactly. You just went from making out on the couch to making out in your bedroom, to Richie snooping through your things playfully and hollering when he found a pair of beige grandma panties in your underwear drawer.

You talked for at least an hour, maybe two. Rehashing old stories, telling some new ones, filling in little blanks in each other's profiles. By the time your beer was half empty you were fully in Richie's lap, his arm around your waist as you gently stroked his neck.

Your insistence that they were 'comfortable' fell on deaf ears, so you were forced to try and wrestle them away from Richie's grasp.

The battle was forgotten when you ended up on your bed laying on your back, Richie's hands holding your own above your head. You tugged gently at each other's clothes, the feeling of taking things slowly was exhilarating, as desperate as your body felt, you enjoyed the build up immensely.

It wasn't at all like you imagined, which proved to be a blessing. It wasn't a totally smooth production, you laughed as you couldn't undo the button on Richie's shirt collar, struggling with it as he kissed your neck, distracting you. You accidentally kicked his shin when you were trying to fling your panties off your ankles, the two of you ending up in a heap of laughter, exploring each other all the while. It felt natural and fun, like there was no pressure to be some perfect goddess who would just lay there looking radiant.

You weren't really surprised to learn that Richie was very skilled with his tongue, after all it got enough practice. You were leaning against the headboard, your leg draped over Richie’s shoulder as he made you see stars. His large hands gripped your thighs as he devoured you, every flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge.

When you were finally granted the release you had been craving, you barely had time to catch your breath before Richie was pulling you on top of him, your thighs straddling his waist. Deciding not to waste any time, you lined yourself up with his throbbing length, pausing only when you felt Richie's hand on your arm, a concerned look on his face. Well, about 40% concern and 60% raging desire.

There was a brief discussion about condoms, and while you knew you had one or two in your nightstand drawer you decided not to waste time rooting around for them and assured Richie you were okay with going without them.

At one point you met Richie's eyes and felt your heart race a little quicker, not wanting to think too much about it. You stuck your tongue out at him as he smiled at you, laughing when he made a face back at you.

Very quickly after the discussion, you pulled Richie in for a kiss as you sank down onto him, your breath catching at the feeling. It felt like you were floating above your own body and looking down at the two of you intertwined. You moved slowly at first, getting used to the feeling, your arms wrapped around Richie's neck as he held your waist.

He told you to get on your back in a half serious tone, giving your ass a smack and you felt a new surge of desire rise in you.

You were sure at one point your eyes fully rolled back into your head, the moans coming your mouth getting louder as Richie kissed down your neck, your chest, his movements alternating between relentless and agonising teasing.

You pulled him down on top of you as you moved onto your back, wrapping your legs around his waist and closing your eyes as he held back any restraint and truly fucked you without hesitation.

He didn't stop even when you clenched tightly around him, moaning out your release. He followed soon after, filling you with white hot release and burying his head in your neck.

"It was never that professional anyway," Richie murmured, moving to meet your eyes and letting out a sigh as his gaze flicked down.

"Well I think our professional relationship is now ruined," You teased, resting your hand on your forehead and taking a deep breath.

"Sorry about that. Got carried away."

"I liked it," You shrugged, glancing down. "Though I shouldn't encourage you or you'll be dragging me into the bathroom at work every 5 minutes."

"5 minutes?" Richie raised a brow, looking up at you. "That's generous."

"I'm a saint, what can I say," You grinned, leaning in to give Richie a kiss. "Patron saint of old men."

"Brat," Richie muttered, grinning as he kissed you back.

[yousaydisco]

Finished rated E Harry/Kim ficlet that I don't want to post to my ao3. 4.2k words, first time, Harry and Kim meet up a week after Martinaise and their relationship turns from platonic to decidedly not.

It is late evening, a time when children are put to bed and delinquents are looking at themselves in cracked mirrors getting ready for a night of raising Hell and feeling at peace with themselves, when Kim's phone rings. He gets up from his well-loved armchair (the one that has cracks in the faux leather that are irreparable) to pad across to it but doesn't rush himself. It is partially on its second ring when he answers with "This is Lieutenant Kitsuragi."

When the voice on the other end answers with a resounding "Kim!" a small part of his gut regrets that it took him so long to answer. Harry sounded like a lot of things: exhausted, no doubt still recovering from Martinaise, elated to him from Kim again, but mostly he sounded overwhelmingly relieved. Like maybe he hadn't remembered Kim's phone number correctly and wasn't sure if he was going to get the right person. 

Or more like he thought Kim wouldn't answer the phone at all. He could still hang up, having heard Harry's voice and wanting to come clean of him completely. Write off their entire meeting as something to forget, but that's something that Kim would only do in his nightmares. If given the opportunity he would like to keep a hold on the strange man he met in Martinaise.

He had carved out a life for himself that purposefully leaves little room for anything besides the RCM. It allows him to more easily find comfort in routine: work, home, sleep, back to work. He's never been good at people - people who can be unpredictable or needy or any number of things that would disrupt his routine. So he doesn't have people in his life. Any loneliness that lingers is just the price to pay for the most powerful feeling of comfort he can afford himself. Except. . .    

"Hello, Harry." he doesn't use 'detective' because that would be too formal over the phone. But for some reason using 'Harry' also feels like the wrong decision. Well, no, it's not actually about using his name, it's about how Kim was so beside himself at hearing the gravelly voice again that he let himself smile wide. A full-tooth smile that is far too intimate. Too revealing. Just as quickly as it appeared on his face he bites it back down again. 

It has been one week since he has heard from Harry and it feels like a hell of a lot longer than that. But also shorter, which makes no sense at all but still feels very true. Before he was sent on the case, and briefly before Harry called him, he was reading a novel called Time-Sickness, which takes place in a world where the privileged class of people have the ability to time-travel as they please but they quickly figure out that doing it too much causes the traveler to get horribly, horribly sick. Not fatal, if they take breaks, but inconvenient. It wasn't long before they got the idea to pay other people to time-travel for them while they wore specifically made glasses that allowed the rich to view the adventures through the eyes of 'the hired help' as they were called, and since they were hired for a job it is usually taken on by people who can't afford to take breaks between traveling. The descriptions of the time-sickness reminds him a lot of how his past week has felt without Harry. An impossibly long-short stretch where all he can do is try to go on a normal life until time eventually starts working again.

His wandering thoughts are easier to suppress than his smile was and together they huddle in the back corner of his mind.  

Too late. Harry, in the supra-natural way he just knows things, has caught it. "Did I interrupt your reading? I'm sorry - I can call you back." 

He placed the book closed on the table with his phone. "No, that's alright. I wasn't very invested in it. How have you been, Harry?"

A shaky breath makes its way through the receiver. Kim unconsciously pressed the phone even closer, as if he could hear what made Harry so unsteady. "It's been a lot. Bed rest. You know how it is." 

On one hand, as a workaholic, he does know how it is. To be left idle when you know there's a mountain of work to do, that other people are doing and no doubt cursing your existence out for leaving it to them, is its own form of torture. But on the other hand as someone who isn't recovering from both a bullet wound but also severe memory loss, who is possibly trying to stay sober after years of succumbing to various addictions, and who is facing the very real possibility that after bed rest is complete he may not actually have a job to go back to, he doesn't really know how it is.

"I've missed you." The pure sincerity of the statement made Kim's defenses raise as much as it warmed him.

"It's only been a week." He tries to put in a teasing note to the words to hide the fact that his default would sound too fond.

"We did great work together. Really, really good stuff."   

Harry had invited him to transfer to the 41st before they separated and Kim had said something positive, though rather vague. He had filled out the transfer form at the start of the next day but didn't turn it in quite yet. That night he had attempted to call Harry himself. It eventually rang out. He did not leave a message. He did not try again. 

A part of him, something that has lingered ever since he was a teenager with no friends, had anxiously told him to rip up the form. That he has yet again misread a relationship into it being more than it is, that any sense of intensity is actually one-sided, and that he has overstepped a boundary. That the offer was, in all actuality, given out of politeness instead of sincerity and Kim was not supposed to take it literally. 

He couldn't rip it up. It's still sitting on his kitchen table.

But Harry is on the phone with him now. He is real again, not just a figment of his memory fading faster than he wants it to. In the back of his mind there is still a twinge of fear that he had made up the mad, drunken man from Precinct 41. That in his loneliness and grief he had conjured a man so hurt, so lost, so desperate that of course he would think Kim is cool. A man with no memory of anyone else in the world, so there's no excuse but to latch onto Kim in the way that he had. Even in his harshest moments of self-critique, he wouldn't think that he was capable of something so pathetic, but that missed phone call really got to him.  

"I can't believe you're real." Harry almost whispers. Did he catch that thought of Kim's too? Or is it all his own? He can't ask. He will just have to die not knowing. 

They talk for hours that night. And then again two nights later. About a lot of things. There is not a lot that Harry can share about his past but that is okay, he is content with sharing the bits of pieces he is learning on his own. But mostly he wants to know about Kim. Which is terrifying. The idea that there is someone that wants to know him deeply, know every crevice there is, and that he no longer has a real barrier against that. He doesn't tell Harry everything but he tells him far more than he would have told anyone else pre-Martinaise. 

"Please, Kim can I - can I see you?" Harry asked a week into their nightly phone calls. His voice sounds desperate like he is a man dying in the desert who doesn't believe he deserves a single drop of water and yet is still asking for a drink. And Kim is the one holding the pitcher. 

His fingers twitch to reach for his car keys. It is almost one in the morning. "Khm." He hums in consideration, practically feeling Harry sweat through the phone. As if Kim would say no. "I am free Sunday."

It's Wednesday. 

They still talk on the phone every night until then and when Sunday comes Kim almost cancels. Not because he wants to but because there is a layer of something magical, something supra-natural almost that has fallen over the two of them and meeting would break that. Almost like he got his one chance to hang out with Harry in person and he shouldn't ask for more. Almost like if sees Harry again, or continues to let him know things about his life, then he will eventually realize just how mundane he really is.

But he doesn't cancel. They meet up again. 

They meet up for lunch at a place that Harry had said was amazing. Swore up and down that they served the best food. Kim knew to keep his expectations safely low when he noticed the health rating posted in the front being. . . acceptably high. Just barely.

Kim was early. Almost thirty minutes before their agreed-upon meeting time. He's aggressively punctual in every aspect of his life but usually not so early. He's just. . . happy to have someplace new to try, he would say. Surprisingly, Harry is also early, arriving maybe ten minutes later walking on a cane. Still recovering from the gunshot wound. Kim stood up from the booth as soon as he saw Harry enter the restaurant and smiled, his smile growing wider when Harry brightened up like the morning sun at the sight of Kim. 

He had walked to Harry with his hand out, intending for a handshake (safe but still sincere) but Harry didn't hesitate before grabbing him by the forearm and pulling him into a deep hug, one hand still on his cane. Kim wrapped his arms around Harry's middle and returned the deep embrace. Thankfully Harry had taken a shower since they last met, and was wearing freshly washed clothing, and so he actually smelled. . . very good. Husky, almost spiced. Kim did not take a deep breath but he did mentally jot down the notes with the intention of writing it in his notebook. For later. 

It was briefly stilted after they sat down together. Both looking at each other in a way that you would think that they had been separated for years rather than two weeks (more like a week and a half, but who's counting?). But Harry was the one to break the tension. 

"I think we were meant to meet." His eyes shine with intense sincerity and vulnerability. He looked like he could cry. Kim's gloved hands twitched but he tried to look open and comfortable. "I wouldn't have been able to pull myself out of the hole without you. I wouldn't have. I'd be dead." 

"I doubt that." Kim pulls his hands together to hold them steady and looks Harry in the eyes. "You've always had it in you to be better. You just finally wanted to." 

Conversation flowed much easier after that. They stayed in that restaurant, in that booth, far beyond lunch. When they eventually left, after the manager had started walking by and silently gesturing to the clock, Harry looked at him in the far-off way that he does when he's thinking. Kim patiently waits, trying to not obviously check him out. 

Harry had been able to remain sober even without a case distracting him. His eyes were no longer glassy and his breath no longer reeked. He hasn't gotten a trim yet so his hair is still a bit unruly but it's clear he has run a comb through it. His face is pale, unhealthily so, but no longer flushed a permanent, angry red. The swelling in his nose has all but disappeared but there is a noticeable, but not intense, shake to his hands.

All in all Kim sees a very handsome man on the road to recovery.

"Can you give me a ride home?" Harry asks. "I'm sorry to ask - I took the train here and it's still running I'm just - " he falters off momentarily, embarrassed. "It's a long walk. I'm not used to a cane yet - "

"There's no need to explain." Kim, standing at his default parade's rest, faces him completely. "Of course I'll drive you home." 

He could not deny that there is a certain tension in the air. A spark of electricity that is threatening to burn the both of them inside out. Something that has changed since working on THE HANGED MAN case. Or, more accurately, something that was planted during their time working together and now they are starting to see the fruits of their labor. Kim could not keep from glancing at Harry in the backseat through the cage of the Kineema and it was obvious Harry could tell. Probably even without his can-opening abilities. Every time Kim glanced at him through the rear-view mirror, Harry squirmed and looked out the window, blushing. 

Kim gripped the steering wheel tightly and looked back at the road. Then glanced at Harry again just to see more pink dusting his cheeks.

If he were dropping Harry off and speeding away he might have just pulled up to the curb. Maybe. But that would be rather ungentlemanly, to make someone with a recent and serious injury walk that much more steps to their door. That's the excuse he would use if Harry questioned why he went out of his way to grab a spot in the actual lot meant for overnight visitors only.

"Do you - um." He started the sentence off strong but when Kim looked at him, still through the rear-view mirror, he faltered. "Coffee? Is that something you drink? Probably right, I mean that's the whole thing. With cops. That we drink a lot of coffee." 

"Khm." Kim nodded. "And donuts."

"Right! Coffee and donuts." He smiled, pleased that Kim caught it. "So would you like a cup? Of coffee. I don't have a cup of donuts." 

"You're not asking me for coffee." Because he may not be a can-opener but he is still an investgator. He probably doesn't need to be an investigator to read Harry though, since his nervousness is obvious from a mile away. It's been forever since a man was so eager for Kim's approval, nervous because he might say no or not be as interested. The only reason that he couldn't sit here and bask in the feeling forever is because that would mean never saying yes to Harry, who he wants to just give things to. Anything he wants. The initial hint of denial is made that much sweeter when he knows that they both are going to get what they want in the end. 

"I'm not asking you for coffee." Harry gulps. "Come in with me anyway?"

What was that about denial? 

Kim is a gracious man. He does not kiss Harry until they are both inside, front door closed, and not until he pushes Harry to sit on the couch.

"Kim," he whispers reverently and looks up at him with bright, clear eyes. Clearer than Kim has ever seen on him before. The green in his eyes were turned to a thin sliver with how aroused he was, looking up at Kim. 

Kim pushes Harry's legs far enough apart for him to stand between them and slowly takes his gloves off, smirking at how Harry's eyes trace every tiny movement of his hands. When they're freed he gently cradles Harry's jaw in one of his hands, then finally leans down for a kiss.

Harry's dry lips practically melt against Kim's and he makes a whining noise, faintly like a dog begging to be let back in the house, except it's ecstatic and hot and leaves a spark at the base of Kim's spine. Harry snakes up his arms underneath Kim's jacket, his shirt, so that he's making contact with his bare skin already. Kim pushes Harry until he's lying back on the couch and he lays on top of him, careful to not put weight on Harry's bad leg, never breaking contact with his mouth during the entire transition. He takes off his jacket and lays it so it's hanging on the nightstand next to the couch, more careless than he usually is with his things but he doesn't particularly care to fold it or leave Harry to hang it on the hook.  

He's so solid underneath Kim's hands. So real. Everything he needs to touch to dissuade all fears that the week in Martinaise didn't happen, that they never actually met, and that Harry is a figment of his lonely and horny imagination. He needs more.

"Kiiiiiiim." Harry whines when they separate and Kim knows that he cannot keep how much the sound of Harry whining his name is affecting him off of his face. Judging by the fact that Harry's face gets even more red, it is well-received.   

"You have to be patient, detective" Kim moves to start mouthing at Harry's neck and shoulder as his hands start making quick work of unbuttoning his shirt. Harry is so tantalizing warm that it's like he has a red-hot molten core and Kim is approaching it with disregard for either of their safety. "Can you be patient for me?" 

Harry nodded so fast that Kim was vaguely worried that he was about to give himself whiplash, but the nodding stopped when Kim started mouthing at his collarbone. He could feel the form beneath him shaking with a barely concealed effort to keep still as more and more whimpers fell out of Harry's mouth as Kim explored more of his chest. 

Something that he didn't get the chance to fully and truly appreciate in their brief time together was just how - khm - hairy he was. Kim resisted the urge to stuff his face right in the middle of his chest and breathe deeply and instead, he raked his nails down the entire expanse of the area, not too rough but not gently either. His nails tinged the areas of exposed skin slightly pink and caused the affected areas to swell in animalistic lines underneath his hands.  

The noises that Harry makes sound like a symphony. 

Harry still having his shirt on as much as he did was starting to become very irritating to him. Kim did not roughly rip it open, he has more care for other people's things than that, but he did make unbuttoning it his top priority until Harry's chest was fully exposed. Kim leaned back for a moment so he was sitting on Harry's lap, his sinewy frame being comforted by Harry's strong thighs, just to peer down at him, admire him, until eventually Harry squirmed uncomfortably.

"Um," he mutters, then tries to put on a semblance of a confident smirk. "Like what you see?" in a tone that made it obvious he could not believe that Kim was liking what he was seeing.

Kim leaned forward and smashed a hot, bruising kiss onto Harry's mouth. "Yes. I 'like what I see' very much." 

Harry whined softly at his words and those whines turned into loud, shameless moans when Kim went back over the red lines still visible on Harry's chest with more, dragging his nails tantalizingly slow over his chest. Sometimes, briefly, overlapping the raised marks but mostly making new ones. Bringing the blood to the area without threatening to break the skin, making his skin hot and sensitive to all stimulation.

But it's more than that if he's being honest with himself. It's the fact that Harry is now covered in evidence that Kim was here. That the marks and Harry's reaction to them are Kim's doing. That they haven't even taken their pants off and Harry is marked by Kim, not belonging to him but it'd be clear for the days if not weeks to come that he was here to anyone else who got to see. 

"Kim, fuck - Kim." Harry gasped. "Please, f-fuck me. Or let me suck you off. Touch me. Do something. Please. I'm about to die." 

"We can't have that." Kim smirked and Harry flushed even redder, which shouldn't have been possible.

Kim vaguely recalled Harry talking about heart problems back in Martinaise and thought that he should show some mercy, in case Harry wasn't lying and he could actually have a medical emergency from all the teasing. 

So he quickly unbuttoned Harry's pants while Harry unbuttoned his own and in no time at all they were exposed from the waist down. Harry's cock, like the rest of him, was large. Though less in length and more in girth, with the tip being vibrant pink and already leaking profusely. Kim thought it looked rather nice nestled next to his own, cradled in his hand, as he jerked them both off.

Harry was made speechless by this, only letting out moans and whines and breaths so aroused that they could almost be described as anguished. He was trying to lean up, supporting himself with his strong arms, so he could look at Kim's ministrations. Grey-green eyes locked on every movement, actively trying to fight against the urge to lean back and fall into the pure pleasure of it all. 

He let Harry do that for a few moments, still feeling merciful, before he used his free hand to grab Harry by the chin and gently direct him to look up at his face. Then, while not breaking in rhythm where he was still jerking them off, removed his hand from Harry's chin and swiped a healthy amount of pre-cum off of their tips, and shoved two fingers in Harry's open mouth.

Harry let half a moan slip before it was cut off by him suckling Kim's fingers, tongue curling around them enthusiastically. Kim maneuvered them so that he was gently fucking Harry's mouth and then eventually, testing it since he had no idea of Harry's experience but guessing by how repressed his Whole Thing is that it isn't a lot, barely teasing his throat. Mostly a promise for the future. If he's good. And he is - he takes it like it's the only thing keeping him grounded to reality at this moment, like this was something he had secretly had a thought project about and was finally fulfilling something.

Kim could feel the tell-tale heat build up in his stomach and he sped up, removing the other hand from Harry's mouth he returned to the scratch marks on his chest, latching onto one that appeared the most red and tender and pressed on it. "Cum for me."

Harry finally slumped back, unable to hold himself up anymore, and with a mantra of just Kim repeated as many times as he can fit into one breath he cums, most of it spurting onto his own chest but a surprisingly large amount puddling onto Kim's hand. It wasn't too long until Kim was following after him, deliberately aiming to make an even bigger mess on Harry's chest.

They sat there for a few moments, breathing heavily, before Kim stood up on shaky legs. He situated himself back into his pants before walking down the hall and hoping to find - ah, yes. The bathroom. He grabbed a clean towel and returned to Harry, still in the same position on the couch in the living room with a completely dazed look in his eye. He seemed to barely notice Kim cleaning him up, except for a fond smile breaking out across his face.

'Khm." Kim cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed. "Apologies for - " he wasn't sure how to word it so he only gestured to the several red and angry scratch marks still present on Harry's chest. He had, admittedly, lost control in the heat of the moment. 

"Noooo, don't apologize." He finally looked at Kim, slowly coming back to himself. "That was the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me. You should, um. Do it again. Later! If you don't have the energy for round two. And only if you also liked it. That would be very disco."

Kim smirked down at Harry, who was looking up at him with eager eyes. "Do you have the energy for more, Harrier?" 

He shivered. "I don't know. Probably not. But I'd really like to." 

"You're completely insatiable." Kim said before reconnecting their lips again.

[autumnslance]

LynMars's FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

We're back again! The list and links for all of my completed prompts for this year's FFXIV Write. Stats and ramblings about writing will go under the Read More cut. Eventually these will be revised in some manner and tossed onto Ao3.

Asterisks again mean there's wolship nonsense happening.

01. Steer - Vignettes of less sociable times over Aeryn's life. 02. Horizon - WoL at the end of Ultima Thule, EW 6.0. 03. Tempest - WoL returns to Amaurot to contemplate, EW 6.4. 04. Reticent - C'oretta & Dark Autumn have a chat. Sort of. 05. Stamp - Aeryn finds a memento while cleaning, post-EW 6.0 06. Halcyon - Tanzel, Emelia, & understanding grief. Backstory. 07. Morsel - Zenos heading to Camp Broken Glass, EW 6.0. 08. Free Day! 09. Lend an Ear - Emperor Varis is very much alone. StB patches. 10. Stable - Hydaelyn as the avatar of Light. Endwalker. 11. Surrogate - Weird West AU. Unexpected new roles for the Strikers. 12. Quarry* - Dominants AU. Thavnair comes to Tural's aid. DT 7.0. 13. Butte - Dark Autumn versus seedkin in Xak Tural. DT 7.0. 14. Telling - WoL reflects on Emet-Selch's expected reaction. EW 6.0. 15. Free Day! 16. Third-Rate - Aeryn's annoyed by the Unbound. DT Role Quests. 17. Sally - Dark pays a final visit to a traitor, post-StB 4.1. 18. Hackneyed* - Aeryn, Thancred, & terrible literature. 19. Taken - A young wood warder tries to save his sibling. Backstory. 20. Duel - Wuk Lamat's challenge does not go as expected. DT 7.0. 21. Shade - WoL ruminates on some of their ghosts. Thru DT 7.0. 22. Free Day! 23. On Cloud Nine - A chocobo & her Warrior of Light. End ShB 5.0. 24. Bar - 2 different adventurers starting out. Legacy & ARR. 25. Perpetuity - Aeryn, Deryk, & questions of faith. EW 24man raid. 26. Zip - C'oretta helping out Hamon at the Coliseum. Technically DT. 27. Memory - In a future, music makes Iyna remember. EW Patches. 28. Deleterious - Aeryn & Shale discuss regulators & history. DT 7.0. 29. (Free) Deleterious 2* - Thancred & self-recrimination. ShB 5.0. 30. Two Heads are Better than One - Gulool Ja Ja muses. DT 7.0.

Previous years: 2017 | 2018 | 2019 | 2020 | 2021 | 2022 | 2023

Ended up a touch Aeryn-heavy this year, though Generic WoL, various NPCs, the other OCs, forays in the FC's AUs, and some supporting family cast members make appearances. There's even a callback to a previous FFXIV Write entry. Lots of Endwalker and Dawntrail due to recency bias, but it manages to span the spectrum from backstories through various expansions.

I only did 1 Free Day, due to having 2 solid ideas I ended up writing for that prompt. It was right at the end of my annual birthday vacation week, so I was pretty rested (may also be why they're among the longer entries!). Unusually, the rest of that week's works are not any longer than the others.

I'm also still working on some original writing, though, so that did cut into fanfiction time.

Below 500 words: #2 Horizon (347), #3 Tempest (415), #7 Morsel (499), #10 Stable (400), #13 Butte (477), #14 Telling (355), #17 Sally (464), #20 Duel (499), #24 Bar (462).

500 - 1,000 words: #1 Steer (944), #4 Reticent (581), #5 Stamp (588), #11 Surrogate (964), #12 Quarry (844), #16 Third-Rate (564), #18 Hackneyed (577), #19 Taken (915), #21 Shade (764), #23 On Cloud Nine (728), #25 Perpetuity (958), #26 Zip (592), #27 Memory (810), #30 Two Heads are Better than One (500).

Over 1,000 words: #6 Halcyon (2,479), #9 Lend an Ear (1,326), #28 Deleterious (1,099), #29 Deleterious 2 (1,231).

Shortest: #2 Horizon Longest: #6 Halcyon

Total: 20,382 words. Not my shortest but far from my longest. Comparing with the previous years, I can see a clear improvement in my grasp of both NPC and OC voices, and more confidence in general.

Even so, "Butte", "Sally", "Bar", and "Zip" were the hardest for me this year, and I may need to warm up to them. I love "Halcyon" for a lot of reasons, and am also fond of the lighter offerings in "Duel" and "On Cloud Nine." I like a lot of the others, particularly when trying to get into NPC heads (even if they're really weird places to be ffs, Zenos).

Not too many shippy entries this year, one of them for one of the AUs, one mostly talking about it rather than seeing it, but I like "Hackneyed" a lot as it's been awhile since I've written about Aeryn & Thancred's literary tastes (and opposite ways of treating their books).

These will eventually be revised and added to Ao3, and then we await next year!

[kuwajima]

Hi! Hope this ask isn't weird but in the vein of talking about Zenitsu's backstory, what are your thoughts on Zenitsu's 7 evil ex girlfriends? As in, how do you tend to sort of place them on Zenitsu's pre-demon slaying timeline? And overall how do you imagine them, if think of them at all. Love your ideas about Zenitsu's backstory and kinda wanna know what you think of this aspect of his unexplored past!

I've noticed that the fandom rarely, if ever, do much with the knowledge of their existence beyond a passing mention when talking about Zenitsu's insecurities, whether in a fanfic or a meta post, which is interesting since, well, getting scammed 7 times by "romantic" partners seems like something really interesting to dwell into when writing about Zenitsu. I've read some really good fics featuring the inevitably horrible situation Zenitsu had as an orphan in the late Meiji Period, yours especially, but the exes shine by their absence across the whole spectrum of Zenitsu fanfic. I have my own thoughts about this but this is an ask, can't ramble too much lol.

Also, happy birthday! A little late but alas, hope you had a great day in your day and thank you for your fanfics in here! OMWF is just a gem and your other fanfic are just as good ❤️

I love this question!! I have put a lot of thought into them, because it does seem like an excessive number of times to be scammed and not learn your lesson, but it's very indicative of how much Zenitsu deludes himself while chasing what he believes is an ideal life. And now that you mention it, it is very rare to have them included in fanfic or meta outside of a casual reference to them.

I think the reason might be because the timeline is admittedly weird, so we have to believe that he speed ran seven girlfriends in his early teens, or the worse option is that some of them happened before he was a teenager.

And I think it has to be the latter, because I personally believe he was with Jigoro for a few years. I know it's canon that a slayer can usually learn their forms in about a year but there are a few things that indicate Zenitsu was with Jigoro for longer than that. He was hit by lightning and I refuse to believe the only side effect was the hair thing. Plus, Zenitsu is confirmed to be pretty lazy and although he is obviously a very skilled swordsman during the events of canon, Jigoro didn't know about the whole sleep-fighting thing so he should have only sent Zenitsu to Final Selection if he was sure he mostly wasn't going to die. And it's Zenitsu...there's no way he got up to speed in a year.

We are told in canon that Zenitsu dated all types of girls, and they all treated him badly, took his money, and more. The way it's worded (and this could be a translation thing) is that multiple women took his money. Now me personally, if I was a loan shark I would simply not loan money to an orphan child multiple times. There's also no way he was earning large sums of money (see the above point of him being lazy) so there had to be some time between losing his money and getting a new girlfriend. Especially if they were trying to get money out of him, there is no reason to go after a kid with absolutely no assets unless he already had a reputation of being easily manipulated.

I don't think he stayed in one town for very long either, so it's possible he ran away from other owed debts. But even then, we can assume there are probably a few months between girlfriends at least. And I don't think all of them took his money. For example, we know he dated a shopkeeper's daughter and she could have very well just made him work without pay at her father's shop as an act of "love."

Overall, I think it's a situation where Zenitsu would do their bidding for the "honor" of being allowed to say they are his girlfriend. That was the only thing he was getting out of the arrangement, since they didn't even let him hold their hands. I think it's probably incredibly obvious to anyone Zenitsu tells about his ex-girlfriends that he was never actually in a relationship with any of them. But Zenitsu still believes they were his girlfriends, despite being mistreated and sometimes betrayed by them. I think it's telling that only after he meets Jigoro does he understand that Jigoro is the only person in his life who cared about him (until he met Tanjiro, of course!) In the absence of childhood affection, those girlfriends probably did feel like true love at the time.

But you asked about the timeline. My guess is this probably happened over seven times over several years and the older he became, the most he was able to be manipulated (more access to money, a bigger reputation for being easily tricked, etc.) WHICH BRINGS US BACK TO MY EARLIER POINT: these girls were "dating" a tween.

We do see some faceless women when we learn that Zenitsu is full aware that women dislike him and deceive him (yet he keeps going back, because he convinces himself this time is different) and they certainly look like either teenagers or young adults. I assume these are examples of the girls he dated (there are 6 in the flashback and he has 7 exs, so I'm not 100% sure that's who they are) And obviously there was absolutely nothing intimate or romantic going on, but it does add a layer of malice to the whole thing. If he had been dating girls who were his own age, I'm not sure they would have been so malicious with their treatment of him. Their inclusion in his backstory is to show us that he is easily manipulated and repeatedly does not learn his lesson, because Zenitsu tricks himself into ignoring red flags.

And I'm not victim blaming. I think it's clear that he was intentionally victimized by these girls, but it is added to give us insight into Zenitsu's personality.

This is a very long-winded way to say, I believe they were all women older than Zenitsu, who either sought him out as an easy target or quickly realized he could be manipulated simply by being promised the title of Boyfriend. And they all occurred before he turned about 13, maybe 14.

But I would also love to hear your thoughts on the situation as well! I have grand schemes of writing a fic where he and Nezuko run into one of his exes post-canon and she initially thinks he's being tricked by another beautiful woman, but then she realizes that not only do they actually seem to like each other, but Zenitsu isn't the same person he was before.

And thank you for the birthday wishes!!

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[shamera]

this expresses about 1.5435432% of how much i've been enjoying this series lately, and touches even less on its amazingness, but what can you do.

if you have the time and energy to spare, please go read My S-Class Hunters / The S-Classes That I Raised!!!

[lost-in-fandoms]

This has been something that's been living in my mind for a very long time. Sometimes, when things are hard, I write this in my head and it helps, so I thought I'd share. There's a bit of hurt before it goes to the comfort, but the comfort is there, I promise. This got long so you can read it on ao3 too

cw: non-sexual bathing, depression and a whole bunch of self-hatred

Daniel doesn't hear the door opening, but one minute he's alone, curled up under the blankets, and the next Max is sitting on the edge of the bed, running clothes still on. To be fair, Max might have been there for longer than one minute. Daniel hasn't been great at keeping up with time lately, keeps losing hours to naps and blank stares at walls. He's not been great at noticing Max either, sometimes feeling like he's living alone, even when Max is right beside him.

"Daniel."

Daniel opens his eyes again, hadn't even noticed he had closed them in the first place. Max sounds tired, careful, as he often does lately. It makes Daniel want to curl up tighter, shut him out harder, embarrassed and ashamed of being like this.

"Daniel, hey."

Did he close his eyes again? Max has one hand hovering near Daniel's cheek now, but he isn't touching. The last time Max had touched him without asking first when Daniel had been like this, just a hand on his shoulder, Daniel had flinched so hard he had kicked him off the bed.

Max has been sleeping in the guest room since, and the bed feels big and cold every night. Daniel is still glad Max is not touching him.

"Daniel."

Max's voice is firmer now, a frown on his face. It used to make Daniel feel worse, knowing he was upsetting him, but it's been a reality for so long he has learned to accept he's just made to make Max feel worse.

"Your therapist appointment is in two hours, Daniel, you should get up."

This time, Daniel makes the conscious decision to close his eyes. It doesn't matter how many hours he's been spending in this bed lately, he is always exhausted, and getting up sounds like way too much work. He doesn't want to get out of his blankets, doesn't want to have to sit up, to have to speak, to have to sit in their office to talk about his fucked up brain to a lady through a screen.

For a long moment, nobody says anything. Daniel is expecting Max to argue with him, to tell him he's being childish, pathetic, but Max doesn't.

It's worse when he simply sighs and gets up, leaving the room. It makes the chasm in Daniel's chest grow new teeth, gnawing at his lungs, breath stuttering in his throat. He didn't know he could feel more lonely.

He doesn't know what to do with this, with all the slick tar coating his insides, suddenly threatening to spill out, so he does what he's been doing lately and turns around, back to the bedroom door, and wills himself to sleep.

"Daniel."

Max's voice drags him out of the fog. He doesn't know how long it's been, but when he forces himself to open his eyes again, Max is crouching next to the bed, this other side now, still in his running clothes. Not long, then.

"I ran us a bath, will you come with me?" he asks. He doesn't look mad at Daniel for not speaking, doesn't look upset. He looks worried, and pleading. There are black shadows under his eyes. It's worse than him being angry.

It takes a long moment for Daniel to actually process the words, to filter them through the fog, but Max waits patiently. He always waits for Daniel, even when Daniel doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to drag his limbs to motion, but he knows he stinks, knows his hair are a greasy mess, flattened on top of his head. He should. He doesn't want to.

"Please."

It's only a whisper, but it's impossible to miss in the quiet room. It pierces through Daniel's heart, his next breath coming out harsh and choked, his eyes closing on instinct. Even when he's deep in his own pain he can't forget how this is hurting Max too, but it's worse to see it so plainly, to hear the desperation in his voice. He doesn't know why Max hasn't left yet.

"You won't have to do anything," Max continues his pleading, more urgent now, "I will carry you, I will wash you, you just have to give me permission to touch you."

There was a time, before everything got this bad, when they were all over each other all the time, constantly touching, kissing, fucking. Now, Daniel can't remember the last time he even had wanted to come and his boyfriend is asking for permission to take care of him. He feels sick.

He hates the idea of Max seeing him like this, dirty and too skinny, but Max has never been good at letting things go and he doesn't have the energy to argue with him, nor the heart to hear his pleading, so he nods.

Relief shows so plainly on Max's face it's almost a physical blow.

He's still hesitant as he grabs Daniel's shoulder, helping him sit up, holding him still until the dizziness wanes, gently easing the t-shirt he's been sleeping in off. Daniel is gearing himself up to stand up when Max leans in closer, guiding Daniel's arms around his shoulder and his legs around his waist. It's not until his hands are under Daniel's thigh and he's heaving himself up that Daniel processes what is happening. A surprised gasp leaves his mouth, but Max only shushes him softly, walking towards the bathroom.

"I won't let you fall," he reassures, as if Daniel could ever be scared of that. As if Daniel had ever not been safe when in his hands.

In the bathroom, Max puts him down on the closed toilet seat. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but it's still much lighter than the bedroom, making Daniel squint his eyes almost all the way closed. The bath is full, the sweet smell of his favorite body wash already filling the room. There is an unlit candle on the edge of the tub, and it tugs on Daniel's heart, how deeply Max knows him, how he was aware that Daniel likes to have candles when he's in the bath, but doesn't like smells mixing when he's already so overwhelmed. How he left Daniel the unspoken option without pressuring him to take a decision with a direct question.

"Daniel." Max waits until Daniel is looking back at him before touching his shoulder, fingers warm on Daniel's clammy skin. "Is it okay if I come in with you?"

Daniel had thought it was implied, when Max had said he had ran them a bath, wonders if Max has changed his mind, now that Daniel is almost fully naked in front of him.

Some of his thoughts, who knows how much, he hasn't had control of his face in so long, must show, because Max frowns, other hand coming up to cradle Daniel's cheek.

"Daniel, I want to, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Can you please tell me? What is best?"

What is best? The best would be to go back four years and tell his old self to make different decisions. Go back two years and tell Max to make different decisions. Go back ten minutes and tell himself to fall back to sleep for a long long time.

He doesn't know how to answer an open question, one that requires more than a yes or no. He nods anyway.

"Yes, I can?" Max clarifies. Daniel doesn't understand why he looks so happy about it, but he nods again, and Max smiles, the lovely crinkly one that makes his cheek bunch up. It's a stab in his chest, realising how much he had been missing it, how long it had been since he had last seen it.

Max is efficient with his own clothes, stripping off and throwing them on the floor, but he's careful with Daniel, pulling him up and gently easing his underwear off, one leg at a time. Daniel finds himself looking at the wall over Max's back, refusing to look down at his own body, refusing to think about another time, when Max on his knees in front of him would have meant something completely different.

He lets Max help him into the bath too, water deliciously hot, scooting forward to let Max sit behind him.

For a second, the inch of space between them feels like a wall. Then Max sneaks a arm around his waist, pulling him against his chest, legs bracketing him.

Daniel lets himself go boneless, knowing Max will keep him upright.

He doesn't know how long they just stay like that, lost in the warmth of the water and the steady movement of Max's chest, but after a while he feels him shift behind him, reaching for something.

"I will wash your hair now, okay?"

Daniel nods, following Max's guidance to reposition himself slightly so that he has easier access to his hair, but keeps his eyes closed, brain for once blissfully quiet.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but for sure not the smell of his favorite shampoo to fill his nostrils, aware that he had ran out weeks prior and hadn't bothered to buy more, using Max's 2in1 instead, uncaring of how frizzy it made his curls. He doesn't know when Max went to buy more, but it's yet another squeeze to his heart.

Max is slow with it, massaging Daniel's head, his firm and gentle fingers moving down towards his neck and shoulders too, working his tension away.

He holds a hand over Daniel's forehead when rinsing him, like Michelle does with the kids, and maybe once Daniel would have argued against the babying, but not now, not when he feels so deeply cared for.

He's not expecting to hear the click of another bottle opening, wasn't aware Max even knew of the existence of conditioner. He must make a sound, because he feels Max's chest move under him, as if Max is leaning forward to check his face.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing in his hair.

Daniel hums, more sound than he's produced in hours, and it feels like a reward when Max presses a kiss on his wet shoulder.

"I called Vic, before," Max starts talking, hesitant and almost embarrassed, fingers twisting in Daniel's hair. Daniel doesn't know where this is going, but it's nice, to listen to Max's voice, his chest vibrating with it against his back, feeling closer than they had in weeks.

"I wanted to know, I..." Max huffs out half a laugh, self deprecating in a way he usually isn't. "I sent her pictures, of your hair things. I don't know why you have so many, but of course she knew, and..."

Daniel twists around, Max's fingers slipping from his hair, suddenly overcome with too much emotion to be able to deal with it like this. He bangs his knee against the side of the tub, his tense shoulders twinging with pain at the uncomfortable position, and he barely gets a glimpse of Max's spooked expression before he's burying his face in his shoulder, kissing the warm skin there.

He feels Max move, giving him more space to turn around, hands rubbing his back.

"I'm sorry," Max throws out in a rush, voice tense, and Daniel doesn't know what he's apologizing for, not when he's been so wonderful all this time. "I don't know, I..."

Max's voice breaks in sync with Daniel's heart.

"What have I done wrong?" Max begs, both keeping Daniel against him and pulling back, trying to look at him. "Daniel, please, if I..."

Daniel shakes his head grabbing at him to keep him close.

"No, it's good, you..." his voice is raspy from disuse and he can feel Max flinch in surprise when he hears it, but he pushes through, for once, unable to stand Max thinking he's done something wrong. "Thank you."

Tension bleeds out of Max's body as he cradles him close again, lips finding Daniel's hair, uncaring of the conditioner still there.

"I want," Max pauses, breathing out heavily, almost a sigh. "If I can do something to make you feel better, always I want to do it."

It splits Daniel's heart wide open, the candid way Max is able to say things like this, the steadiness with which he's never stopped caring for him, not even back when they weren't together, when they weren't even talking. He hopes Max can't feel the tear he can't stop on his already damp skin.

They breathe together for a long minute, while Daniel tries once again to process the impossibility of Max's love and Max holds him close, but it still feels too soon when his back starts screaming in protest, forcing him to turn back around.

They settle back in the previous position, but it feels like something dislodged in Daniel's chest. He feels lighter and more anchored at the same time, feels like Max's hands on his body are more real, like the fog in his brain has dispersed a little.

After rinsing the conditioner, careful hand still shielding Daniel's eyes, Max moves onto an hair mask.

"Vic said, of course she does not have your hair, but Vic said this was last," he explains, coiling Daniel's curls around his fingers, one by one, focused on the task as he would be on following the perfect racing line. "She said to do this, to make them right."

Daniel tries to imagine it, Max in the living room, or maybe on his run, or in the supermarket, calling his sister for advice on hair care. He knows he talks to his family most days, but it's different, to know he talks about him, about doing something to make Daniel feel good. A spike of shame curses through him, knowing that it means at least Victoria is aware of how much of a shitty boyfriend he's been lately, but for once it doesn't stay, quickly replaced by overwhelming affection. For Max, for asking, and for Victoria, for giving such careful and detailed instructions, clearly invested in making sure Max could do his best.

The water is cooling down by the time Max rinses off the hair mask and presses another kiss on Daniel's shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist once again.

"We can get out, or I can add hot water," he offers, lips brushing against Daniel's skin. Daniel almost asks him to stay, wanting to prolong the time spent in this little bubble of comfort, but their fingers are wrinkly and he knows his therapist appointment will be soon. He had thought about skipping it, earlier, just hide in bed and refuse to talk, but now that his brain is clearer he knows it would just make things harder.

When he moves, Max moves with him, keeping him steady as they both stand up, holding his hip as he rinses him with the shower head, knowing that Daniel doesn't like to just get out of the bath, even without him having to ask, taking his hand as they step out of the tub, offering him a towel.

Daniel doesn't fight when Max starts drying him, or when he squeezes the water out of his hair with another towel, or when he goes to the bedroom and comes back with clean clothes. He lets himself be taken care of, for once enjoying again being the center of Max's full attention.

It's only when Max steps back that Daniel notices how the hoodie Max is wearing is one of Daniel's, and it reminds him all over again how he's not the only one suffering from all the shit his brain is putting him through.

It makes his heart hurt, but at the same time he can't help but feel yet another wave of love for his boyfriend, who hasn't complained, hasn't left, has never made him feel guilty for any of this. His boyfriend, who so obviously misses him, enough to wear clothes that are too warm for him.

"Come here."

Max's head snaps up, surprise clear on his face, but when Daniel opens his arms he goes willingly, folding into himself a little to be able to fit against Daniel's chest.

"I love you," Max whispers it like a secret, hiding it in the folds of Daniel's sweater, and it makes Daniel wish he could fix his brain quickly, once and for all, just to not have to hear him so small ever again.

"I love you too."

He presses one kiss on Max's hair, then another.

He knows that when they'll break the hug, Max will probably try to convince him to have some food, then will sit in the living room pretending he isn't waiting for Daniel to be done with his session. He will try to make Daniel talk about it, go outside, eat dinner, brush his teeth, take his meds. He will be there, and stay there, even when Daniel kicks him to the guest room because he can't stand the touch of another human being, even when Daniel won't speak to him for hours and hours, too lost in his own head.

Daniel wants to say thank you, but it feels like there's so much he has to be thankful for, two little words wouldn't be enough. He hopes Max gets it anyway.