#twitchy!bonfire

[tinytalkingtina]

Born to Run

Part 1 of Running with the Devil, a Steddie role reversal series

4k words | Rating: E

Tags/CW: Role reversal no upside down AU with some canon divergence, Jock/Track Star!Eddie, Metalhead/drug dealer!Steve, appalachian Eddie, confident bisexual Steve, Eddie has a sexuality crisis but is in denial, Eddie's sleeping mind decides to take matters into its own hands, wet dream (contains spanking and public humiliation), running of both the literal and metaphorical kind, child abuse referenced indirectly (physical beatings that happened in the past)

Read now on Ao3, and be sure to read @little-annie's Part 2 from Steve's POV, "Metal Health will Drive you Mad"

The sex dream within this fic is brought to you by the Week 4 prompt "slap" of the @steddiesmuttyseptember event

Eddie was always a runner. If you asked Wayne, he apparently skipped straight from crawling to toddling around as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. When he got older, it was a release valve, for everything and anything shitty in his life.

He didn’t have to think about his mom pulling a disappearing act, or his dad getting himself arrested (again). The world would narrow until the only sounds he could hear were the rushing in his ears and the smack of his sneakers on pavement.

Running had brought him to where he was now, as he clawed his way up the proverbial high school ranks. Anyone at this party would look at him and only see the triumphant senior captain of the track team, fresh off a successful meet. Every keg stand, every heroic retelling of a close race, every sloppy makeout session with a cheerleader, kept the attention on the Eddie of the present. 

No one needed to remember the wide-eyed weirdo with patched baggy clothes, nearly ten when his classmates would only turn nine that year.

All around him, the crowd ebbed and flowed between the alcohol and the bonfire, the flickering flames and shadows making it hard to tell who was who. Someone stumbled into Eddie, breaking him out of his brooding.

“Whoops, sorry Eddie! Guess I’ll have to make it up to you later.” Before he could say anything, the giggling cheerleader pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. (He knew he went on a date with her about a month ago, but her name eluded him. Tina, maybe, or Vicki?)

He forced a grin back. “Of course you didn’t mean it sugar. Gonna hold you to that ‘kay?”

The girl possibly named Tina swooned at the tiny bit of accent he'd carefully slipped in. Just a touch could be charming to the fine folks of the Midwest, even if what he ended up using was way less Appalachian hick and more refined Southern gentleman than his momma's family had ever spoken in their lives.

As soon as her back was turned, he let the smile slide off. His post-meet high wore off too quickly tonight, and it left him well, twitchy.

An arm slung itself over his shoulder. "Ed my man, this party is wild! Your best work yet dude." Tommy grinned at him, already drunk. Neither of them commented on how close Tommy was pressing himself into Eddie. Or how Eddie wasn't quite moving away. But then again, the two of them had perfected the art of leaving things unsaid after what happened sophomore year, how close they had come to—no.

"Heh, yeah. Hey, where's Carol? She's gonna be pissed you abandoned her."

"Please, Carol's fine. She's busy talking with Lisa Carmichael. Speaking of which, she's really into you. Come on, get your dick wet, you deserve it after that 800 meter. We're fucking going to states!" His last sentence was said much louder, and a chorus of cheers and whoops predictably echoed back from celebratory partygoers. The twitchiness grew.

"I dunno man, not really feeling it tonight." Eddie tried to subtly back up a little bit, but Tommy just swayed forward into his space again.

“Trust me, you won’t be feeling like that when you're balls deep in a nice tight—"

"Tommy will you just fucking stop? What's with your obsession with my dick huh?"

A look of fear and hurt flashed across Tommy's face for a second, before it was replaced with a scowl. Fuck that was the wrong thing to say and danced way too close to the thoughts about—nope, they were not gonna talk about that.

Eddie carefully pat Tommy on the shoulder instead of thinking. "Shit sorry, it's fine, you're just looking out for me, right? I appreciate it, just not uh, really in the partying mood for some reason." 

Tommy managed to recover his grin. "Oh, duh, why didn't you say so? That fucking freak Harrington finally showed up about thirty minutes ago. Sure he's got something that'll make you unwind a bit. Here, have one on me.”

Eddie wanted to snap that he didn’t need pity money. He got the kegs supplied just fine on his own, hadn’t he? But Tommy was still holding himself tensely several steps away. Tommy, who in sixth grade biked over every other day even after his parents had told him to stay away from the trailer park. Who “accidentally” always had a second pudding cup tucked in with his lunch for sharing. Whose summertime freckles were just starting to fade but Eddie knew still trailed down all the way to his—. 

Besides, maybe weed would take the edge off whatever ugly thing kept rearing its insistent head inside him tonight. Help him forget about the looming pressures of the future and the things he wasn’t going to think about, help him feel normal again.

“Thanks Tommy, I’ll try and relax.” Eddie grabbed the money and set off down the path towards Skull Rock, where Harrington always held court. The chill wind rustling through the trees was a welcome respite to his overheated skin.

The walk over to the next clearing was only a few minutes, but by the time Eddie came upon it, the thrum of bass and general teenage debauchery had faded into a low murmur.

Instead, Skull Rock reverberated with the sound of tapping and gentle humming. Eddie’s heart picked up a little.

Steve Harrington made him nervous. It wasn’t necessarily how loud the guy was. Eddie could understand the need to fill a room up. He could vaguely remember a quieter pre-pubescent Harrington before his dramatic transformation, dressed in tiny polos and khakis and halfheartedly kicking around a soccer ball. Now, his entire wardrobe consisted solely of black and red accented with flashy gold rings. The thick combat boots he wore constantly made him tower over everyone else, and the ever-growing collection of tattoos scattered on his body thoroughly scandalized each and every teacher. What they all meant was a perennial topic of discussion amongst the student body.

A voice echoed down from one of the boulders: “Oh hey, look who showed up, it’s Eddie Munson himself! Heard from your sidekick Hagan you’re the reason Hawkins is going to States.”

Steve was stretched out, lounging on the top of the rock, a pair of drumsticks held loosely in one hand.

“Yup, we are. First time in five years actually.” The state championships. There would be college recruiters there, and with them the promise of scholarships that’d get him out of this town. Somewhere far away from the looming threat of the plant bending his back prematurely like it had Wayne’s. Somewhere no one had heard the name of Al Munson.

“Well then.” Steve practically purred as he smoothly jumped down to the ground. He gave his drumsticks a twirl before stashing them in his pocket. “You sure got ‘em, didn’t you Tiger.”

Yeah, there it was. Seemed like sometimes, Harrington could see right through him, like he knew about how his thoughts occasionally strayed to—nope.

Eddie crossed his arms and tried to keep his face neutral. “Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you know it’s polite to thank someone when they compliment you?” Steve’s eyes sparkled with amusement. The fucker was toying with him. Worse, he was enjoying it.

Summoning every ounce of cockiness he possessed, Eddie stood up straight. Sure, this close Harrington had several inches on him, but it didn’t matter. Only one of them could throw the party of the year, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the unpopular weirdo in front of him.

“Shouldn’t you be the one thanking me? I let you sell your shit at my party.”

“Got a mouth on you, don’t you.” Steve smirked. “Tell me Munson, what’s stopping me from taking my goodies to, say, the basketball team’s next rager and skipping out on your little get together entirely? Don’t have to dirty my shoes at their parties. They choose to host at a house.”

Eddie gritted his teeth. “Hey fuck you man, not all of us have—”

“Didn’t say I minded,” Steve plowed on, interrupting him. “Maybe I like the fresh air and the…view. Just like to enjoy them peacefully.” He stood there with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

Eddie could feel his face flushing but he held his ground. “Never stopped you from helping yourself to our beer.”

“Free shitty beer, just what I look forward to.” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “I gotta say, wasn’t really expecting you to come here. Don’t you usually send someone else to get your fix?”

Eddie shrugged. “Needed a change. And we both know you overcharge Tommy.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” Steve barked out a laugh. “But he deserves the asshole tax. Just weed for you tonight? There’s all kinds of ways to unwind if your usual methods are leaving you…unsatisfied there Munson.”

Vividly, Eddie was reminded of the graffiti scribbled on the walls above the urinals near the gym: Score a touchdown, then score with SH. More often than not, Steve could be found spectating the games, quietly dealing underneath the bleachers. On occasion, one girl or another could be seen emerging from underneath and brushing dirt off her skirt. But there was that other rumor, one that no guy would ever admit to having personal experience with. That if you won, Harrington would give anyone weed for free if they got on their knees for him and—woah there. What was wrong with him tonight?

“Th-think the weed is jus’ fine, ain’t lookin’ for much else.” he stammered out. Shit, why did his accent have to slip now of all times? “I mean, weed is all I need. Those fucking pricks from Greencastle got under my skin.” Assholes thought they were so big, mocking his out of style sneakers. Those shoes hadn't stopped him from shaving half a second off the regional record, but he couldn't help but still feel the barbs from their insults lodged under his skin, festering.

Steve cocked his head as he stared at Eddie with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally he broke into a disarming smile. Eddie couldn’t remember ever seeing Steve sincerely express happiness, at least not from this distance. He would have remembered how prett—how his eyes lit up.

“I’m in a band you know. Pierced Scepter. We play down at this shitty dive bar and yeah, usually it’s a crowd of four drunks and the bartender, but it doesn’t matter. Being on any stage is…fuck it’s awesome. But sometimes it’s a little too much to just pack it all up right after. So I come out here to scream my head off, get it all out. Better off terrorizing the birds than picking fights when my parents are around.” Steve unconsciously rubbed his palm as he laughed humorlessly. “Saves on the screaming matches at home and the. Well.”

“Didn’t realize rich folks got their own hands dirty like that.” Carol’s parents had left the task of punishment to her nanny, preferring to swoop in with carrots after the stick had been administered.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure my dad would say something about how ‘real men are responsible for disciplining their kids so they don’t get soft.’ Though what he considers ‘soft’ changes a lot based on his mood. And whether he’s wearing a belt or suspenders that day.”

“G-d, who knew our dads have something in common then?” Eddie snorted. “Never could keep my old man happy, was always doing something wrong. He took the belt to me so often in third grade I barely could sit down the whole year.” His first time in third grade anyway, the one before he was whisked away to the safe haven of Wayne’s trailer.

“And…I have absolutely no idea why I told you that.” He barely talked about his dad to Tommy and Carol for crying out loud. On visitor’s days he always made up some lie about why he and Wayne were driving close to the state penitentiary.

Steve let out a weird little braying bark of a laugh and shuffled his feet. “Right, you didn’t come here to cry over our daddy issues. Gimme a sec to get your stuff.” Steve reached behind to grab the lunchbox he carried his goods around in. As he did, his jacket slid open enough to show the exposed line of his clavicle above the low-cut collar of his tee. Eddie swallowed hard. Against his will, his eyes dipped lower, noticing a design over the top of his pec in black ink. Oh, a new tattoo.

Eddie squinted trying to make out what it was. “It’s been a while since you gave O’Donnell a reason to lecture us on the ‘decaying morality of the modern day.’ Is that a two headed monkey?”

Delight flickered over Steve’s face. “This? Yeah, it’s new. Supposed to be Demogorgon, the ‘Prince of Demons.’” At Eddie’s blank look he chuckled. “He’s a monster from Dungeons and Dragons, you know, the fantasy game we play in Hellfire Club. It was the final battle of a months long campaign and our characters were trying to escape Demogorgon’s lair. Most of the party was close to death, but at a chokepoint, my character took a last stand and gave the others enough time to escape. Everyone else got out, even if the bastard got me in the end. So, I got this as a tribute to my character's sacrifice.”

Eddie spoke without thinking. “Oh, that’s kind of similar to what Gandalf did: facing off against the Balrog to save the rest of the Fellowship.”

Forget fleeting glimpses of real smiles. The look of surprise Steve gave him was almost comically out of place on his face. “You’ve read Lord of the Rings?”

“While ago, yeah. The Hobbit too.” Back when he first moved in with Wayne, the man had found an absolutely beautiful illustrated set at a rummage sale. Eddie smiled to himself, remembering how excited he’d been to get his first real present ever. “Spent a whole summer running around during the day, then staying up way too late reading all night. My uncle had to confiscate my flashlight eventually.”

A snort from Steve jolted Eddie out of his memories as he realized who he was talking to. “Don’t tell anyone that Harrington, or else,” he ordered as he flushed for the second time that evening, “The rest of your dorky club of nerds better not start bothering me in the hallway just because I’ve read Tolkien. Not going to step in to save them if they forget their place.”

Steve’s expression shuttered as he stood upright. “Right, wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation with the rest of your jock buddies.” Eddie was taken aback by the bitterness in Steve’s voice. “They might explode if you admit to having interests beyond banging chicks, sports magazines, and beer. Your secret’s safe with me. After all, who’s going to believe the Freakshow? Here.” He shoved a baggie in Eddie’s face. “That should be enough for about a week. Now get lost before I double the price.”

Eddie opened his mouth to apologize. But the artificial sneer on Steve’s face made him lose his nerve. He just held out his money as he snatched away the weed. “Thanks, uh, have a good night Harrington. Help yourself to something from the kegs.” He almost made it to the edge of the trees before Steve’s voice called out to him: “Hey, Munson!” 

He froze and turned. Steve had clambered back onto Skull Rock, moonlight and shadows making him look otherworldly and malevolent, towering over the clearing. “Keep that attitude of yours in check next time, or else I might take my services somewhere else. But, if you need more help…unwinding, well. You know where to find me.” That knowing smirk was firmly fixed back in place on his face. 

Eddie couldn’t help it. He finally gave into his impulses and ran.

He didn’t think about those plush lips drawn back into a genuine smile as he quickly navigated back to the party. He didn’t think about those amused eyes seeing right through him as he knocked back a few cups of beer and danced a little with anyone and no one. And he certainly wasn’t thinking about that tattoo surrounded by chest hair as he staggered home to an empty trailer and collapsed into his bed.

“You look so good there, kneeling for me Eddie.” Steve looms over him, those ringed hands on his hips. Eddie realizes he’s naked in the clearing and flushes with embarrassment. When did he take off his clothes?

Any thoughts on how he ended up here are derailed when the wind caresses his body. Oh. Tendrils of air race over his exposed chest and glide over his heavy balls and dripping cock. 

“And look how much you’re enjoying it too.” He’s never been this turned on in his life, and it’s all because of Steve. All for Steve. He’s powerless to prevent a moan from falling out of his mouth. 

“You act so big at school, like you’re the top of the food chain yeah? A real king of the jungle. But you and me, we know better. You’re not a scary tiger at all are you. No, you’re just a cute little kitten.”

Eddie can’t help but whine as he spreads himself wider in invitation.

“Yeah, thought you’d like that.” Steve crooks a finger and gestures for Eddie to follow him. “Come on kitten.” Eddie begins to get up, his legs tingling with pins and needles.

“Mhm, no. I like you better down there. In fact, I think you should crawl.”

He shudders but obeys the sound of that voice, would do anything for it. He stays on all fours as the path unwinds before them, until they come to a door. Eddie moves as fast as he can to follow Steve through, tumbling into the void within. He flails, plummeting until a familiar wax-polished wood rushes up to meet his palms. Eddie doesn’t dare get up from his hands and knees as he lifts his head but-

The gym is filled to the brim. 

Their classmates sit silently, blank looks on their faces as they stare. They’re waiting for something to happen. White hot shame courses through his veins as he desperately tries to cover up.

The voice cuts smoothly through the haze of his embarrassment: “Look at them kitten, they’re all waiting for a show. Let’s give one to them.”

Steve nudges him onto his back. He grabs his wrists and pulls them away from his body, exposing Eddie to the crowd. No! His face is on fire as he tries to fight it, but he can’t seem to break free, his strength sapped away. Steve tightens his hold on his wrists.

“Settle down Eddie, let them see you. You love this.”

He knows Steve is right. He can’t hide how hard his aching cock is, slapping against his belly as he squirms. But he can’t help it, they’ll all know. Faint whispers drift down from the stands as the crowd watches him struggle.

“Please, don’t make me do this,” he begs, but the words get caught in his choked up throat.

“I think you’ve forgotten your place. Maybe you need a reminder that you can’t hide, not from me.”

Steve hauls him up and easily slings him over a shoulder. Eddie lays there limply, frozen and whimpering. He’s unceremoniously dumped on top of a teacher’s desk right at the center line.  Hands come up to squeeze at his nipples, hard. Just the way he does when he’s alone. His cock twitches and drools even more from the groping. 

Eddie blinks, and suddenly the bleachers are that much closer.

“Be happy kitten, all the attention is on you! Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” Oh G-d. Every eye is fixed on him, the buzzing of interest growing louder.

“No, I don’t want this, I don’t want you!” He shouts as loud as he can but the words come out muted and garbled.

Steve barks out a cruel laugh. “God, you’re pathetic. But then you’ve always been so good at lying to yourself haven’t you? You were the one who kissed Tommy, not the other way around. But when he went in for more, you pushed him off and ran away.”

Through the blur of tears, he can just make out Tommy’s face in the crowd, wearing the same accusatory and hurt look he had two years ago.

Steve leans down to nibble at his ear. “And,” he whispers, his voice silky smooth. “Let’s not forget how in the back of your head you imagine me shoving you against a locker and making you take it. Or sometimes, I threaten you with my knife a little out in the woods, yeah?”

Without warning, Eddie is manhandled over Steve’s lap. “Good news, guess today’s your lucky day kitten. I’m going to make you take it until you admit to everyone what you really want.”

SMACK!

The first slap to his ass sounds loudly, echoing around the gym. Eddie nearly swallows his tongue trying to keep quiet. The spectators in the stands let out a gasp for him.

But Steve doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, until Eddie feels like his ass is on fire.

He finds himself pleading for Steve to have mercy, slipping back into the accent he tries so hard to keep a lid on normally.

“Ha, there he is, finally. You can dress yourself up in a varsity jacket all you want, but we all know what you really are. Just a piece of trailer trash. You can’t run from this you dumb hick. Tell me what I want to hear.”

Eddie shakes his head. He can’t. “Fine, then take your punishment.”

Smack after smack rains down on his ass. The pain builds and builds, and the crowd gets louder and louder. But underneath the humiliation, he remains hard and grows even more desperate. Every slap sends him thrusting, his cock trapped between Steve’s muscular thighs. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ha! And you jocks call me the freak. You’re the one humping my leg and yowling like you’re in heat. Pain turn you on kitten?”

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge. 

He cums to the sound of cheers.

Eddie woke with a jolt and a gasp, his whole body pulsing in the aftermath of the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced. 

Trembling, he curled up into a ball and let the tears fall. This was nothing, just a passing thought his brain had gotten attached to. All he had to do was survive the year, and then he could be finally free of Hawkins, and the living ghosts that haunted him.

If only that had been the last time he dreamed of Steve Harrington.

Two weeks later, Eddie woke with a fuzzy head and even fuzzier memories of the night before, vaguely remembering a ringed hand stroking his hair. On his nightstand was a glass of water, some Tylenol, and a note from SH telling him to take it easy. 

After that his dreams changed. Sometimes he wasn’t humiliated at all, and those tattooed arms kept him safe and cared for. It felt worse almost, to have his subconscious offer up such happiness, only to snatch it away when he woke to an empty bed. He didn’t dare spend the night in the arms of a girl at her house, worried he’d reveal himself for the freak he was.

A full month of torment and countless hours of lost slumber later, Eddie finally had had enough. He grabbed his keys and tore off in the direction of Steve's house, praying that Carol wouldn't see his van in her neighbor's driveway at this time of night.

As he rang the doorbell, he didn’t know what to expect. But it certainly wasn’t the sight of a sleep rumpled Steve answering the door in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Somehow, seeing his bare hands felt more intimate than the lack of shirt did.

“Munson? Gave me a heart attack, thought my parents were back a day early. What are you—”

“Hey,” Eddie interrupted, wide-eyed and feeling slightly crazed. “Can we talk?”

Ao3 link

It's finally here! This began life as a brain worm that Annie and I have turned into a whole fully expanded universe. We can't wait to write more with these two :D

Tagging a few folks who showed interest in the original Wiggly Wednesday post (but please feel free to ignore): @eyesofshinigami @augustjustice @griefabyss69 @hairstevington

@dreamy-jeans137 @eriquin @hbyrde36 @hotluncheddie

Thank you to steddiecameraroll-graphics for the runner divider!

[bushkit]

Some headcanons for the daemos boys cause I got bored!

Some of these are just silly ideas but I have quite a few genuinely serious headcanons in there as well!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Asch:

23 years old.

6’3 (very slightly over average for daemos)

Smells smokey and sweet, like cedar in a bonfire.

Great at archery, initially learned from his mother and has devoted himself to mastering the skill in her honor.

Takes his role as a leader very seriously, no funny business.

Hates nikargas with every fiber in his being. He will go out of his way to slay one if given the opportunity.

Fears failure and loneliness.

Hates physical touch, it causes him to flinch hard if he isn't expecting it.

Has oddly cold hands, very insecure about it.

Would laugh at videos of children falling.

Nonexistent spice tolerance (I took inspiration from Moistcritical).

Has a beloved pet phoenix, but sadly doesn't have much time to take care of her himself.

Wears a little eyeliner, slays the day.

Leif:

22 years old

6’2

Smells like he was rolling on the wet forest floor (he was).

Very knowledgeable about animals, even survived an encounter with a nikarga.

Has a very soft spot for children.

Low alcohol tolerance, gets drunk easily.

Drank quite often until he became a knight. (Still can't refuse a few cups if offered, but is getting better.)

Serious abandonment issues and mild separation anxiety.

Distrustful of higher authority, though secretly respects Asch and is grateful to have been spared.

Meditates quite a bit, prefers to do so in the wilderness (with supervision from Strike of course).

Loves thrills, riding on Strike’s back is his preferred method of travel due to the distance from the ground and the breeze in his face.

Will eat just about anything, eats like he hasn't in weeks.

Highly flirtatious, gets no bitches.

Rhys:

24 years old

6’4

Smells very clean and posh, like a fine cologne.

Nearsighted, needs glasses to see properly.

Very cautious, likely due to his vision impairment.

LOVES puzzles, anything revolving around strategy and riddles is his cup of tea.

Massive sweet tooth.

Extremely polite, like to the point he gets walked on sometimes.

Very mild temper as in common frost aligned fashion, but when his bottle breaks, it breaks.

Loves stargazing, constantly trying to figure out what those white dots in the black sky really are.

Perfectionist, hate hate hates when things are even slightly imperfect he goes insane.

Highly artistic, has journals apon journals of people and creatures he's doodled.

Often viewed as being boring (even by his own family), hates it.

Noi:

Youngest of the group at 20 years old.

5’9 (short ahh)

Smells citrusy, like lemons and grapefruit.

Autistic, has trouble picking up on certain social ques.

Experiences a phenomenon similar to Pinkie Pie’s “Twitchy Tail”, this is related to his ability to sense incoming storms.

Loves romance stories, forbidden romance is his favorite trope.

Scared of loud noises, he panics when he smells a thunderstorm coming.

Insecure about his size and strength sometimes, but tries to find loopholes.

Introverted, though highly extroverted when comfortable.

Values kindness and empathy.

Most loyal to Asch of the knights (even more so than Pierce and Rhys)

Highly curious but cautious, prefers to learn visually.

Mostly used as a messenger because of his swiftness and fantastic memory.

Pierce:

Oldest of the group at 25 years old

6’7 (very over average for a daemos)

Smells subtle but floral, with notes of lavender and water lily.

Gentle giant, gives wonderful hugs. (it would probably cure depression tbh)

Most mature among the knights.

Neurodivergent, some form of synesthesia and/or autism. (I'm leaning towards sound-color synesthesia.)

Does not enjoy killing or viewing fights, attempts to play peacemaker in most hostile situations.

Sensitive to violence and especially death, there's a reason why he doesn't speak much.

Distant, prefers to not make attachments.

Likes animals, used to nurse injured critters back to health before releasing them.

Surprisingly funny, isn't aware of it.

Carries his sword everywhere like its a comfort plush toy.

Has a very approachable demeanor, he may not speak much but he is a fantastic listener.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

And those are my headcanons! Enjoy the goofy drawing of Asch simply ✨passing away✨ because a jalapeno was too spicy for him. Rest in pepperonis my love. Anyway Its almost midnight rn and I'm sleepy so goodbye!

[thejokig23]

Favourite and least favourite part of each FromSoftware game I've played

Demon's Souls:

I really like the freedom of choice on where you want to go. Stonefang, Latria, the Shrine of Storms, and the Valley of Defilement are all accessible after beating Phalanx, designed to be completed or visited in whatever order you choose. A lot of mechanics in Demon's Souls also fit this style pretty well, like the grass system.

When playing Demon's Souls, I find it lacking in amazing fights like the other games. The only one that's really a stand out is the False King. The lack of a proper dragon fight is particularly devastating to me. The fights aren't bad for the most part, just usually more puzzle based than I'd like.

Dark Souls:

The interconnected aspect of the first half of the game. It reminds me of Metroid in a way, being able to navigate through a twisting world to get stronger or pick up items you need, finding shortcuts. It would have been great if this carried into the second half as well.

I find out if all the games, Dark Souls has the most enemies that aren't really designed to be fought. A few coming to mind being the blue drakes, the cats in the forest, giant sentinels, Sen's fortress' giants, the Titanite demons, the giant maggots in Izalith, and the boars in the archive's entrance. They're just awkward to fight, usually with janky movement and collision.

Dark Souls II:

The variety of viable playstyles is at its best in DS2. Bows, crossbows, and magic are all just as good as melee. You can infuse pretty much any weapon, even special weapons and catalysts, really anything goes. There are certainly bad options, but they aren't bad in the same way as bad options in the other games.

Unfortunately, the game is just really fucking janky. Moving feels like your controller is covered in molasses, animations are both slow and weightless, and both enemies and the majority of areas look outright unfinished. I can't stand playing it for more than a few minutes.

Dark Souls III:

This is the most consistently great game FromSoftware has made (that I have played). Every area has looping paths, with shortcuts reusing bonfires and secrets to find. A vast majority of enemies are just fun to fight, even grouped together, and there are very few bad bosses, with many times more amazing ones.

Although, playing the game multiple times gets old incredibly fast. The combat is incredibly light attack centric, and most weapons function pretty similar to each other. Viable builds that noticeably devuate from this are few and far between: bows suck, sorcery sucks, miracles suck, and pyromancy is only okay.

Bloodborne:

The trick weapons are exactly what I like to see in a weapon's moveset: toolkits for beating shit up. Fewer weapons with more individual personality is an amazing idea, and while there are a few somewhat disappointing (note: I didn't say ineffective), like the saw spear and Ludwig's holy blade taking their untransformed moveset from the saw cleaver and Kirkhammer respectively, the majority are really cool and fun to use.

While the game looks gorgeous, the visuals do tend to get in the way of gameplay. There are framerate issues quite often, colours blend to mush a lot, and particle effects will just cover whatever you're fighting, which is made worse by how fast and twitchy enemies tend to be. A particularly bad example was fighting Ludwig's first phase. The second phase was fantastic, but god is getting to it miserable, with dust and blood everywhere as he flails around incomprehensibly.

Sekiro:

I did not get far in this one. People lumping it in with the other games is a mistake, it's really not that similar to the other games in most ways. Not to say it's bad, obviously, in fact I think deflecting is an amazing mechanic. I never quite got good at it, but it's engaging and fun to do.

Sekiro just wasn't really for me. I kinda just got lost and gave up, with no clue how to get better or stronger in any way. I wasn't having fun dying to the chained ogre over and over, gettibg no closer to beating it no matter what I did, and not really fibding anywhere else to go.

Elden Ring:

The setting of Elden Ring is fantastic. Lots of vibrant colours, but all within a certain natural pallet. The world is bursting with life in a way the other games weren't, and I find a living world bursting with energy more compelling than one falling into entropy. Character and monster designs are amazing and play into this as well, especially when comparing them to previous games. It's not perfect - I dislike how boring sorcery is as just being, for the most part, Blue Stuff, while incantations get many, MANY more interesting spell types to work with (and its Yellow Stuff being limited to one or two spell groups). But otherwise, it's my favourite FromSoftware setting.

Combat in Elden Ring can be kinda hit or miss. The main culprit, I think, is that fighting most enemies and some bosses feels unnatural, like they're all truing to just trip you up and hit you with bullshit. I like Dancer oft the Boreal Valley, I like Pontiff, I like the Nameless King - but not for every fucking fight in the game. It just feels tedious.

[talentforlying]

SENSORY DETAILS FOR YOUR MUSE. 

SCENT: 'ashtray' is the general first impression; everything he owns has a clingfilm of silk cut cigarettes to it that is endlessly being refreshed. beneath that are other kinds of smoke: fresh-lit matches, and bonfire, and burning wire. metallic and pungent and crisp, with an underlying layer of oaky and sweet once you've gotten used to it. there's also something vaguely bittersweet, like red wine. nicotine & cytrel are all over his fingertips, and so is the bitter iron tang of old blood when he's been stressed enough to chew at them; there's also frankincense, and myrrh, and sage, and beeswax. his hair smells like a lavender shampoo that he picked up from kit ryan, and a coconut oil conditioner he picked up from dani wright; there's pine pomade when he's feeling good enough about himself to put in the effort. there's always a whiff of shaving cream around his throat. when he's been near demons and other denizens of hell, sulfur lingers on his clothes; when he's been using magic, he smells like a lightning strike, burning ozone.

TOUCH (RECEIVING): he runs fever-hot most of the time, and his skin is a seismographic map of tattoos and old scars, surprisingly soft in the few places it's been left untouched. receiving touch is complicated; even when telegraphed, there's a tautness that enters his body under someone else's hands. he's had time to practice not flinching away from unexpected touches, but if you leave your hand on him for too long he gets twitchy and irritable and will inevitably shrug you off. casual contact that isn't directly hand-based has nowhere near the same effect: hip checks, shoulder bumps, or an arm around his shoulder are accepted, returned, and leaned into without hesitation.

TOUCH (GIVING): his hands are the harshest parts of him besides his personality, and oddly inverse in expected sensation: what you'd expect to be smooth is rough, what you'd expect to be rough is smooth. almost every inch of skin is littered with cut and burn scars ranging from small to severe; he's missing his left thumb, cut off just above the knuckle, and the pads of his fingertips are glossy with scar tissue, overlapping crescent-shapes from his teeth. they have a tendency to tremor when not in use/being used for something gentle/intimate and the tremor gets worse when he's emotional, but when set to a task, they're rock steady. there's usually smudges of wax or chalk or charcoal on them, and the nails are either perfectly manicured or bitten to the quick depending on his mood. when it comes to touching, he associates it with pain and fears his ability to inflict it on others, so he limits himself in its application: either a brief, friendly/kind gesture or hands in his pockets. every active touch has a purpose to it, a focus, an intent; there is always a thought or a plan behind what he's doing. he's prone to full-handed, all-in, lingering touches, no matter the potential danger: if he's reaching out or taking something, he's committing to it. he has a reputation for injuring himself on things, but it's not because he's careless: it's because he's stubborn, and holds on tight to what he's got even when it's hurting him. ( ah, symbolism. )

HAIR: naturally curly, either short enough to be a little spiky or long enough to get a decent handful. usually looks a bit like this, though a more natural, un-fried blond. left alone, it's relatively soft, if somewhat coarse, and floppy. he runs his hands through it frequently when he's working through a problem, so it's not uncommon to see it sticking up all over the place. there are a few bristly patches here and there that won't grown in properly because of shitty electroshock practices, but you can only really find them if you run your fingers through them. in his high periods ( when everything's going well and his mental health isn't shot ) his hair is usually around nape-length and he takes enough pride in his appearance to style it neatly: pomade, gel, slicked back if he wants to look particularly posh, the works. in his low periods, he'll either chop it haphazardly short or not have the energy to cut it at all, and it quickly becomes unwashed and unruly.

VOICE: gravelly, low-range tenor (baritone?) with a liverpudlian accent and dialect that's been thinned out a little by a lifetime spent in london, and thickens when angry or stressed. usually settles in the lower end of his register, but spikes higher when agitated. though he has a flippant manner of address, his tone usually ends up being some degree of deadpan. there's a certain level of breezy affectation around strangers and people he's lying to that disappears around friends and the people he loves. no matter who he's speaking to, though, just like everything else about him, his speech is rife with intention: he speaks evenly and clearly, choosing precisely which words to give weight to and when. he tends to come across as believable and earnest, someone who means what he says, whose words hold meaning; whether he does or not is a moot point.

FACE:   the two most common descriptors for constantine are that he is pretty, and that he looks exactly like his father. only one of those is something he wants to hear. he's very good at controlling his expressions, and his base setting is inscrutable. he's always clean-shaven or with a very light layer of stubble unless he's in a low period. his face has a narrow frame with delicate features, a well-defined jaw that's uneven on the right side from a previous break, pronounced cheekbones, a high forehead, a strong brow, and a pointy chin; fairly filled out, but there are definite signs of ill health that linger in the architecture. his eyes are electric blue, bright and alert, and oddly reflective at night; they're slightly sunken and heavy-lidded, with thick, dark eyelashes. there are permanent dark shadows stamped underneath, and deeply defined crow's feet at the corners. there's a deep knife scar beneath his right eye that connects with the lower lid and runs halfway down his cheek. his eyebrows are set low over his eyes, giving him an intimidating resting face; there are deep-set frown lines between them. his nose is sharply angular, a little crooked from several past breaks — with a few faint scars criss-crossing the bridge as evidence — and there are several broken capillaries spider-webbed around his nostrils from a lifetime of heavy drinking. his lips are bow-shaped, ranging towards thin, and often cracked; he's got dimples, and a big, beaming smile that makes his eyes sparkle and crinkle at the corners.

TASTE: copper pennies, sweet tobacco, irish coffee, the tingling burn of capsaicin. something forbidden.

CLOTHING:  he's a fairly snappy dresser and likes to look, at minimum, put-together and confident; there's definitely a chip on his shoulder about growing up working class, etched in by a whole childhood full of bullies and the sneers of margaret thatcher's london, and he exorcizes that by putting on respectable airs. his outfits usually range from business casual to very formal: at his finest, it's a white button-down shirt, black slacks, nice cufflinks, blue or red tie, ben sherman label cerulean suit, and a clean trenchcoat. his one personal, rebellious touch to a nice outfit is the shoes: he likes his stompers, vintage solovair derby boots with yellow ladder-laces and steel toecaps he added himself. at his most careless ( which is also his most depressed ) it's a rumpled white button-down shirt missing a few top buttons, loose tie, wrinkled slacks, black ankle boots with no socks, and a trenchcoat with years-old stains that will never come out. in between, especially in the more domestic periods of his life, there's some more variety: pastel button-ups, the occasional leather jacket, a black trenchcoat that's awful rare to see in use, a red-and-black-striped tie, light-colored knit sweaters, black jeans with a chain loop, and the occasional ratty band tee that he only ever wears to sleep. he's also got a collection of eclectic sunglasses and silly boxer shorts, because he finds them fun.

yoinked from: @handgiven whoever wants to snag this, feel free!!

[eclipsecrowned]

[ PHOTOGRAPH ] : as someone volunteers to take a picture of them on a day out, sender instinctively wraps an arm around the receiver to steady them, holding them close for a photo that turns out to be more romantic than they were expecting. soap and gaz >:3 // @teardownheaven

"'M fine, 'm fine--"

More than fine, in fact. Gaz is so warm against the autumn night, a low-burning bonfire against the first chill. Though the other Sergeant might speak out against such handling, he doesn't do a thing to pull away.

Though, there's enough whiskey in him just now to present a clear fire hazard. Turning his head to stare into the lens, his mop of hair ghosts over Gaz's jaw, one eye shut against the offending streetlight just behind Roach. Pushing himself closer to Gaz, his hand shoots up, a vulgar gesture pushing against itching fingers --

And falling short. The hand meets Gaz's chest instead, a low rumble of laughter kicking up from his chest. So maybe Gaz has the right idea. All the punkish desires in him shrivel up and die as he chuckles, Once twitchy fingers now nesting into the fabric of a warm shirt.

Like that, it's done. Roach comes bounding back, flipping his phone around to display his masterwork. An appreciative whistle is the first thing tumbling out of his mouth.

"Kyle, do you ever take a bad pi--"

Suddenly, Kyle is not the issue. Well, he's a large part of the problem, but not the whole thing. He sees himself clinging to Gaz like a formal date, his grin careless, digits hooked into his shirt. Then there's Gaz himself, attention divided, for all the world somewhere between perplexed and amused by his aimless hanger-on. Whatever the photo was meant to be, it comes across... Differently.

He cocks his head, looking up to Gaz for any sort of guidance.

"Bruv, are we about to kiss?"

[spookyserenades]

Ahhh so !!! Thank you for submitting your theories and reading Trouvaille, I’m so excited to discuss everything with you!

MC’s reoccurring nightmares about a creature chasing her were revealed as something she had experienced in abundance in her teenage years, when the spell she had casted to gain strengthened psychic ability had backfired due to calling on unfamiliar spirits/entities. There is that connection that many readers have made between MC’s nightmares and the sense of familiarity she finds in Namjoon’s eyes reflected in that of the creature’s in her nightmare; the color, the way they seem to stop time when she maintains eye contact with him. The question here is, was the creature MC was dreaming of Namjoon, or was it a manipulative nightmare orchestrated by the entity that has haunted her for years— perhaps setting MC up to be wary of Namjoon straight away? There is a definite air of mystery MC’s mother likes to maintain surrounding any knowledge she may have foreseen/gleaned from Tarot when it comes to MC herself and even the hybrids MC adopted. MC’s mother commented in Chapter Seven that Namjoon was always “difficult for her to get a read on”, which could also birth many theories… Perhaps, Namjoon knows a bit more about witchcraft or the occult than he is leading on.

So! Taehyung’s backstory will certainly come back around in the future, as will each hybrids’ as they are revealed in future updates; so yes, there is potential for Caleb to make an official appearance in later arcs. Taehyung, Caleb, and the other Kodiak bear hybrids he was abducted with were originally from Alaska (Kodiak, Alaska!) However, Trouvaille takes place outside of Boston, Massachusetts (think a cross between the actual town of Brookline, MA and fictional Stars Hollow from Gilmore Girls). This is where MC and the hybrids live. 

I like your theory that Namjoon may potentially become the most jealous out of all of the other hybrids! I agree with you, especially considering his already exaggerated responses towards the other hybrids paying her particular attention— Namjoon will likely have to work through his intense reactions when it comes to confronting is jealousy later on in the story. 

The way Seokjin was injured is another great mystery in Trouvaille so far! While Seokjin seems to have warmed up to MC quite well, he is probably one of the hybrids we know the least amount about so far. Perhaps it’s his personality; and he is slower to reveal personal information about himself and his recent past, especially if it got him injured. Because it was mentioned on his profile that he potentially suffered from several phobias, fire could absolutely be one of them— he was pretty twitchy in front of the bonfire in the most recent update. With time, perhaps he’ll reveal just how he got that great gash on his side when MC adopted him. Seokjin and Hoseok were amongst the first ones at Gerry’s shelter; though Yoongi was the first. Those three have known each other the longest (though, keep in mind the turnover and demands for hybrids in the Trouvaille universe— even the boys that were there the longest were likely only stuck there for a few weeks)

I think that each of the hybrids MC adopted in Trouvaille have certain emotions that the struggle to deal with due to their pasts, much like everyone else— but because they’re hybrids, they aren’t afforded the space to truly feel and process those emotions. Like you mentioned, many have them have likely had to operate in a state of survival mode; not just Namjoon who is speculated to be raised in the wilderness. 

LMAO I guess as far as if they’ve had sexual relationships prior to the adoptions, well, I’ll leave that up to the reader’s imaginations for now! These are certain things I’d like to keep under wraps for now, especially because it’s a subject that will be breached further in the future. 

I have read a few hybrid fics where “exotic” hybrid breeds are used as a status symbol! In the Trouvaille society, this was likely the case in the 80s. Fast forward to 2022, with supply barely meeting demand with domestic breeds (like Daisy, the bunny hybrid Ben and Roy adopted) because adoption fees had become so low, hybrids had become a hot commodity. But with the unpredictable and complicated behavior that came with adopting an exotic hybrid breed and the desirability increasing for hybrid hunting becoming stronger during MC’s timeline, this is why she had stumbled upon the seven of them rounded up at a seedy shelter, about to be sold to a wealthy hunter. What was once a status symbol to show off became a trophy kill, essentially, and horrifyingly. 

To lighten it up a bit (sorry for the morbid details of Trouvaille’s shitty society towards hybrids) Hoseok and Alice!!! Hoseok is definitely the most outgoing of the hybrids MC adopted, and seems to be pretty adept at flirting. Alice is certainly interested in Hoseok (how could you not be) and Hoseok doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to discourage any flirting… I guess we shall see where the cards fall in upcoming arcs and updates!

Thank you thank you thank you for sending in some of your thoughts and theories with me, and for reading and supporting Trouvaille sweetpea! <3 

Theory’s…? No just ramblings prolly

So I remember y/n getting those dream about a wolf chasing her, I assume it’s joon bc at one point she felt his eyes were familier. I don’t know why he’s chasing but I don’t think it’s to kill her considering he’s scented her and marked her. Maybe it has to do with that past entity they dealt with or a new one. Her mom seems to know something since when it came to joon she didn’t pry, but they do already know each other. You said taes backstory will come back around which is why it’s being given so early, does this mean we’ll se Caleb again, but weren’t they in Alaska. Actually I forgot where y/n lives? Where do they live? Also some joon is a dominating wolf, I feel in the future having to I guess in a sense share y/n would be the one to be the most jealous considering his animal counterparts traits and we already see that now when they’ve only known each other for like a week or so. I wonder how Jin was injured, maybe it had to do with fire or he did while needing to escape. He and hobo become friends, but did they bc they were the first ones to get there? Since non of them have ever been adopted, it must be difficult for them to understand new emotions right? Like even if there not like joon who lived in the wild they still mostly haven’t felt these warm feelings before because of all they’ve done is try to survive. Have they had sex before then, I guess they could’ve messed around in between or they could’ve been assaulted which is what a see in a lot of hybrid fics. In the trouvallie universe im surprised exotic hybrids are only used to mainly hunt for sport bc I feel like a lot of people like getting exotic pets for the right or wrong reasons mainly the rich. It was said that there’s a shortage of hybrids, but I don’t remember why. Also not hobo flirting with Alice lol, either they are into each other or their messing with y/n fr. Ok uhm I think that’s all I guess bye

[twitchesandstitches]

Bonnie and Charcoal are both indefatigable breeding stallion femboys (and as robots, have specifically engineered themselves for this); they don’t get tired, they don’t get bored, and every part of their bodies is massively sensitive. They’re both incredibly virile, so much that they can impregnate people just by walking by them if they’re backed up enough, and take enormous pleasure in MILF-ifying girls

meanwhile, Nevnir and Tiashar are absolutely massive MILFs, proportionately speaking; huge, buxom and incredibly stacked dynamos that also do not get tired at all; Nevnir is a cyborg, and Tiashar is... well, she’s weird and a spooky goddess monster-lady. They crave being pregnant and carrying dozens, if not hundreds of children at once, gestating them in eggs or in bunches, to the point that it is almost a physical need.

Needless to say, they pair off each other well! It helps that both girls are VERY domineering, while the boys are very passive and obligingly adoring of girls. (In different ways; Bonnie meekly makes himself as cute as possible with possible sexy poses and “oh no, I hope you’re not MEAN to me...!”, while Charcoal just slaps his butt and yells “It ain’t gonna smack itself, ma’am!”)

[dewi205]

Poly Relationship

the seven + Nico + Reyna + Will are all in one big polyamory (bc I’m a multi shipper, everyone is with Nico, feral baby deserves all the love)

Reyna + Annabeth + Leo are ace, Nico is gay, Will and Piper are pan, Jason and Percy are bi, Hazel and Frank are straight

Frazel is together and no one messes with their relationship (if they do Nico pops out of a bush to drag u to the Fields of Punishment)(they’re not really part of the poly but they don’t really understand what it is and felt left out so everyone just treats them as in the poly)

Nico ONLY goes to Jason + Will + Leo + Reyna for premium cuddles, gets head pats from Annabeth and forehead kisses from Piper, Percy sometimes noms his neck/shoulder area and paints Nico’s wrists blue for fun

Nico is an old school romantic, he buys his partners gifts (everyday) and takes them out on romantic dates (one at a time), he caters the dates to their liking (like blue roses, hyacinth, etc.) and he asks the parents for their child’s hand in marriage (even godly parents, by going up to them face to face)

Nico is both touch starved and touch adverse

he is touch adverse some days with everyone even his partners and other days he’s just touch adverse with everyone not in the poly

when he doesn’t want to be touched he bites and does harsh little pokes (not enough to harm) in ppls rib cages with a drakon bone knife

when he’s not touch adverse with people in the poly he is really touch starved and goes looking for attention

he doesn’t directly ask for it but he kinda stands near them and stares.

Annabeth pats his head and he buries his head in her hand or she is big spoon and uses his head as a book rest

Jason gives him bear hugs, Nico kinda climbs up him and rests his head on Jason shoulder, wrapping his legs around Jason’s waist glaring at everyone who passes by

Percy gives Nico hugs too which Nico melts into until Nico gets a little irritated and twitchy and ducks away

Piper cups both his cheeks and kisses his forehead, Nico does a little satisfied nod and walks away

Reyna just straight up picks him up and carries him around like a basketball under her arm

Will walks him over to an empty infirmary bed and tucks him in for a nap after feeding him a little

Nico acts as big spoon and sits behind Leo as he works on a machine, pointing out little things

when Jason goes to wake Nico up he sings Spooky Scary Skeletons and it got to the point where the song was constantly stuck in Nico’s head

when Nico asked Jason to join the poly he asked by singing Spooky Scary Skeletons with 2 accompanying dancing skeletons behind him doing the Tik Tok dance

his partners thought it was so freaking adorable and asked Jason in their own ways

he did it during the Halloween karaoke session around the bonfire

Hestia just HAD to leave the fire to give Nico a hug

Piper, Leo, and Nico make a game out of “Who can borrow(/steal) more of Jason’s clothes without him noticing”

Leo sometimes gets caught in the act

Piper does not get caught raiding Jason’s closet but does get caught wearing said clothes

Nico is KING and doesn’t get caught because he uses the clothes he steals from his significant annoyances to have a nest he sleeps in (in his Underworld room) when he misses the surface

[novelconcepts]

fic: (could be dreadfully) boring

Boring gets a bad rap, really. Boring can be the best thing in the world. 

“Could be kinda boring, right?” Dani says one Thursday morning, cold breath and hot hope mingling in the words, and Jamie laughs a little. She says it like it’s the best idea in the world: could be kind of boring, like all the songs say it shouldn’t be, like every movie tries to dismiss. But Dani says it, and Jamie thinks she’s only partly doing so to make her smile. Maybe she’s saying it for other reasons, too. Real ones. Ones that have nothing at all to do with Jamie, and how much she knows about the allure of boring.

Jamie didn’t grow up bored. Jamie walked the line between bad and worse most of her life, between one poor decision and the next, and Jamie found out all too fast what it was like to live out an adventure. The storybooks make adventure sound like something to chase, something hot-blooded and excitable, a rush. 

In real life? In real life, adventure is hot-blooded, and excitable, a rabid thing with teeth. You grab hold, it swings around and bites you right back. 

Spend enough time with enough idiots who think I want is a perfectly fine life philosophy, spend enough time far from freedom, spend enough time picking up after someone else’s catastrophe, and adventure starts to sound something like a dirty word. She doesn’t want adventure. Her life, as it stands, makes sense. Get up. Get ready in a little flat made up with a little bed, a little couch, a little table. Drive to the house. Grow. Go home at the end of the night, ready to start it all again. 

It’s not easy, but it is simple. And simple, from where Jamie’s standing, is a good thing. You can make sense of simple. Of when to plant, when to harvest. How much to prune away, and how long to let something linger before it’s ready to be picked. Simple, scheduled life. Nothing wrong with it. 

And then here comes Dani Clayton, and Jamie doesn’t have the words to explain why she knows, but she does: Dani isn’t simple. Dani blows in with her strange American accent and her big blue eyes and a smile that doesn’t quite reach them, not all the way, and she’s not...simple. At first, Jamie can’t say what she is. Bigger than she looks, somehow. Like there’s something too expansive behind her ribcage to fit under the pastel blouses and the denim jackets. Like she spends all that time puffing her hair up and puffing her chest out because if she were to let her guard down for one minute, something on the underside of Dani Clayton would come unmoored. 

And it’s not Jamie’s problem.

Not supposed to be, anyway. 

She did this once, sort of. This caring about an au pair thing. Rebecca Jessel was different, but there was something about her that clicked with Jamie--something like a younger sister, someone with such ambition and so little self-preservation at the same time--and Jamie had thought, sure. Sure, this is worth the time, the energy, the stress. Family is what you make of it, and say what you will about Hannah and Owen, but they are family. The kids, too. Wee monsters, the pair of them, but they’re hers, somehow. 

Rebecca was almost hers, too. She thinks some nights about that far-away look in dark eyes, the way Rebecca turned her head sharply away near the end, like looking at Jamie--at any of them--was too near a mirror she couldn’t bear peering into. Rebecca was something special, and Jamie couldn’t see her pulling away until she was too far out to swim to.

And here: Dani Clayton. Also something special. Also something...something about her Jamie can’t quite put a finger on. Like walking into a room and inhaling the scent of the last good day of summer vacation, and thinking, yes. This one’s right. 

But she’s also twitchy as all get-out, and her eyes do this funny jig any time Jamie meets them, and her mouth goes tight around the corners, and Jamie thinks: not this time. Not again. Not my problem. 

Until it is. 

And she didn’t plan it, certainly. Didn’t plan to stay the night, with the kids all wound up and the rain pattering outside and Dani bunched up on the couch beside her using words like love and possession like she’s intimately acquainted with both. Didn’t plan on the way Dani’s breath hitched around the words. Didn’t plan the way her own throat swallowed like it was trying to force down the first spark of true honesty. 

Just for safety, she tells herself, setting up on that couch with a thin blanket and a shake of her head. Just in case. 

And on it went: a grab of the hand; a sudden understanding; a flirtatious banter exchanged under guise of mourning. All of it innocent enough. 

And then there’s Dani Clayton, telling her she sees ghosts. Telling her she sees the ghost of her ex-fiance. Telling her, with eyes clenched shut and thumbs jammed into her fists, like she doesn’t want to say the words, but she needs Jamie to hear them. And Jamie, she thinks, this isn’t boring, with a lurch of the stomach that says it shouldn’t be an attractive quality in a person. The idea of not being boring. It’s a bad goddamn idea.

Like it’s a bad idea when Dani surges into her. Like it’s a bad idea when she’s got Dani’s hair wound around her hands, her thumbs dragging arcs across Dani’s cheekbones, her mouth pulling into a delirious grin as Dani kisses her. It’s a bad idea. She knows it, and she doesn’t care in the least as Dani presses in and groans softly against her lips, and--

Jerks away. 

Always, with the jerking away. 

This isn’t how you do the thing, Jamie thinks for the next several days. This isn’t how you get involved in something like this. People are so goddamn much. And Dani is maybe more than most, maybe more than anyone she’s ever run up against in her entire life, and she tries not to think of it. Tries not to feel Dani’s small hands clutching her jacket. Tries not to taste the way Dani almost laughed with relief into her mouth. She tries. 

Few days away, she tells herself. That’ll do the trick. Few days to get her head on straight again, and then she’ll go back. Go home. Get back to the schedule of plant and tend and harvest, and it’ll be like it never happened. 

“Could be kinda boring,” Dani says, and Jamie looks at her. Wants to tell her no. Wants to want to tell her no. 

Smiles anyway. 

“Could be dreadfully boring.”

And even then, she thinks it won’t make a difference. Dani’s already shown her cards. Dani’s carrying something bigger than the both of them, and Jamie knows all too well how someone else’s baggage can upend a person’s life. It can ruin a person, to stand too close to someone else’s bonfire. Can singe you straight down to the bone. 

And yet...here she comes, anyway. Back for Dani that night. Back to take her hand, feeling the slide of cautious fingers knitting with her own. Back to lead her into a damp, dreary grove where only Jamie has ever stepped foot, and she tells her. Everything. How it is. How the world is. How her world is. She tells her more than she’s told anyone in years, and never all at once like this, and even as the words are spilling out of her, she thinks, this isn’t simple. 

Dani doesn’t seem to mind. Dani looks at her for the longest heartbeat in the world, and she is looking at her. Not with eyes darting, not with jaw tensing, but with the most open-hearted want Jamie has stood near in maybe her entire life. 

It burns. It burns in the absolute best way. 

And it isn’t simple, and it isn’t easy, but it’s right, she thinks, as they stand in the drizzling rain with Dani’s arms wrapped almost double around her shoulders. As she lets Dani hold her and kiss her and sigh like this is what finally letting go feels like. 

It isn’t simple, and maybe it isn’t smart, because Dani Clayton isn’t boring. And, suddenly, Jamie doesn’t want her to be. Or, rather, she doesn’t want Dani Clayton to be anything shy of what Dani is: selfless, silly, hopeful Dani, who touches her like she’s never touched anything worthwhile in her whole life and is a bit terrified Jamie’s going to fade away under her fingertips. Dani, who walks back to the house with her like she’s on a goddamn mission, head up, eyes more certain that Jamie’s ever seen them. When she smiles in that bedroom, it reaches those eyes. When she lets Jamie slide with her beneath the blankets, with nothing between them, there’s no sign of ghosts or goblins or guilt. 

She gasps when Jamie touches her, and burrows closer, and Jamie thinks, oh, we’re in this, now. 

Her blood sings, her heart racing, and it feels like adventure, and something in Jamie sits back and sighs. All right, that something says. All right, you’ve made your call. When’s it ever gone right for you, to choose something like this?

She shakes her head, helpless, unable to explain to this core of self-restraint that this is...everything. That Dani being less than simple isn’t enough to negate all the rest. That Dani being less than simple is, in fact, integral to how desperately Jamie needs to keep her close. 

The day comes and goes, Jamie still wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, Dani smelling faintly of Jamie’s shampoo somehow. No one calls them on how close they sit, on how Dani’s hand is always brushing Jamie’s, a constant reminder that last night happened, that Jamie is still here. No one calls them on how Dani’s laugh is louder now, dizzy-giddy as she gasps for breath, or on Jamie’s leg angling of its own accord to press against Dani’s thigh from the next chair over. She looks up once, sees Hannah’s knowing brow rise, and thinks, this could be you, you know. Hannah, for all her clever glances, doesn’t seem to read her mind. She only lifts her mug of untouched tea very slightly, nods, smiles. 

The day comes and goes, and it isn't easy, and it isn’t simple: Flora’s acting strange again, coming and going in that unpredictable way children sometimes have, and Miles is strung tight at the table, and there’s a strange distance that seems to be growing up between Hannah and the rest of them. The price of family, Jamie thinks with a stab of regret--and then Dani is slipping away with her to the hall, pressing her gently against a low table, kissing her with the already-easy fervor of someone who would gladly do this every day for the rest of her life. 

That thought, above all else, should scare her. To think of a life not lived in that little flat, with the little bed, the little couch, the little table. To think of a life lived, instead, sharing someone else’s baggage. 

She almost stays another night. Almost. If Dani had tried a little harder, she thinks she would have lost all measure of restraint. If Dani had kept making that tiny noise, the one that unbinds everything calm in Jamie’s chest, her tongue brushing Jamie’s in the sweetest invitation. If Dani had taken her hand and led her back down the hall. She almost does it, anyway. 

Simple, she reminds herself, breaking the kiss, her skin humming beneath the splay of Dani’s fingers around her ribs. Boring. Boring and simple and let it blossom on its own time, why don’t you. 

She goes home. She goes back to that little flat, where she showers and lays down with a book she can’t seem to read, her head buzzing with the nearly tactile energy of Dani’s smile. Eventually, she sleeps. 

She wakes already reaching for a body she knows isn’t there, and the only thought in her head is, trouble. 

Her phone is ringing, she realizes belatedly. For a bleary second, she’s sure it’ll be Peter Quint on the other end, breathing deep, taunting--but it’s Owen’s voice, shaggy with sleep, saying, “The house. Something at the house, Jamie. Do you feel it?”

She’s already screaming Dani’s name before she reaches that lake, before she has any idea why talons of terror are scraping down her back. She’s plunging into the waves in great hitching leaps, moving as fast as she can to catch Dani up before she--and Flora, Flora’s out here in a nightgown and shuddering fear, her eyes older than any eight-year-old’s have a right to be--can tip over into the restless water. Dani is shaking like she’s going to come apart right here in Jamie’s arms, shaking and clutching Flora close and muttering, “It’s us. It’s us. It’s us.” 

There’s something wrong with her eyes. Jamie won’t be able to tell for almost an hour what it is--the moonlight isn’t bright enough, the shadows too thick around them, and even when everyone is back on solid ground, Dani curled in her arms, she holds them shut against Jamie’s searching worry. As if she thinks Jamie seeing her up close tonight will undo all the careful, hopeful, wonderful work they did together over the last two days. 

“D’you want some company?” Jamie asks her, when the dust has settled enough to make clear the road that led them all to this point--Henry, here; Hannah, not; Owen, drifting. It’s a mess, she thinks, just the biggest goddamn mess she’s ever come across, and the simple answer would be to walk now. To drive back into Bly, back to the little flat with its little world bunched up behind little walls. Close down, start over when things regain proper equilibrium. 

“D’you want some company?” she asks, and she’s sure Dani will say no. Dani’s head is already shaking--and then, slowly, reversing course. Dani, looking at her with swollen eyes--one the blue Jamie fell into that very first day, the other a soft brown made up of all the sorrow one woman could possibly carry without falling down dead of it. Dani, letting her kiss their joined hands, a silent promise that other nights are coming--as many of them as Jamie can scrounge together--and that Jamie isn’t going anywhere. 

And now they’re here: in America. In another life altogether from au pairs and gardeners and ghosts. They’re here, and Jamie thinks, not simple. But boring?

Yes, in its own way, she supposes it is. 

It takes her by surprise, honestly. This sort of behavior is textbook adventure. To up and leave the only place she’s ever known for a land as alternately thrilling and scandalizing as America. To do so with Dani’s hand in hers, holding tight like if she lets go for even a second, she’s sure she’ll turn around to find Jamie gone and the beast in the jungle standing in her place. Jamie doesn’t mind the way Dani’s grip grinds her bones together some nights. The way Dani just sits back and looks at her, searching her face for something, anything, of the monster she feels lurking in the shadows. 

Jamie does her best to give only what she has, and what she has is apparently enough, because Dani slowly...slowly comes back. There are moments, yes, afternoons that start out perfectly sunny and swing without warning to Dani sitting with her back against the wall, her breath coming in shallow gulps as she chokes on her own terror. There are nights Jamie wakes to find Dani clambering atop her with a child’s grace, legs and arms clutching, heart racing so hard, Jamie can feel it beneath her lips. Those nights aren’t good ones, and Jamie wonders each time if she’ll wake the next morning to find Dani has fled under cover of moonlight. If Dani has decided the terror is greater than the reward of working on this with her. 

But each morning, Dani is there. And, slowly, slowly, the tension slides out of her grasp. The look in her eyes, the one that says she’s been staring inward too long to see Jamie at all, fades. They’re still mismatched, those eyes, and sometimes, Jamie misses when they were both that mesmerizing blue--but the longer Dani looks at her, the more she thinks, doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter what color they are at all, s’long as it’s her looking back from behind them. 

They build a routine. Jamie wonders if this will get old, if this will wear at them; the songs all say it, the movies all insist: routine is cousin to death. Got to keep it fresh, everyone insists. Got to keep it moving. 

But what they don’t seem to get, what they don’t seem to see, what Jamie believes with her whole heart is this: 

Anything worth growing takes time. And patience. And routine. Anything worth growing needs a person to give every ounce of devotion they can muster, not the ragtag chaos of the brand-new. 

They build a routine. Find a place. Build a shop. And with every passing day, Dani comes back to herself a little more. She’s making jokes now--bad ones, ones even Owen would cringe away from--and Jamie’s laughing every time because it’s not the words that count. It’s the delight in Dani’s eyes when she lands one that makes water stream out of Jamie’s nose. It’s the sheer open-hearted bliss of knowing someone so well, you can’t help but make them laugh with the stupidest things. 

Jamie’s out of bed first each morning. When it was Dani, at the beginning, it made her uneasy; waking in bed with one arm reaching toward Dani’s side always felt like an omen of uncertainty for the day ahead. Would she walk out of the bedroom to find Dani pacing the apartment, wearing tracks into the carpet as she muttered under her breath? Would she find, instead, Dani struggling over the morning coffee? Would she find Dani gone altogether, only to come stumbling through the door hours later, arms laden with grocery bags and strange decorative bits and bobs? 

Jamie likes it better this way. Out of bed at six, sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching Dani breathe. At the beginning, this was the only time she ever saw Dani truly relaxed. It still feels like a gift now, a stolen moment unshared with anyone else. Dani curls toward Jamie’s pillow, her hand sleep-sneaking over to rest beneath it, and Jamie leans to kiss her brow. 

She’ll sleep another hour or two, probably, and in the meantime, Jamie breathes. Brews tea. Waters plants. Plans out orders to keep the shop stocked. Every day like this feels clean in some strange way, like by getting up with the sun, she’s allowed a chance to wash away the past. If she didn’t, if she slept later, maybe she’d wake to find the ghosts had followed them after all. Better this way. Better to keep vigil so Dani doesn’t have to. 

“You’re not sick of this, yet?” 

Those same words come weighted with different meaning. Sometimes, Dani says them laughingly--usually when they’ve both managed to botch a meal so badly, the only recourse is pizza. Other times, her voice is stiff with swallowed tears. On those days, Jamie knows, she’s thinking about the concept of borrowed time. Wondering how much she’s earned with good behavior. Wondering how Jamie could possibly stand starting every day not knowing what might pop out at them from the corners of Dani’s anxiety. 

“Not sick of it, Poppins,” she says every time. Sometimes, she says it and pins Dani against the nearest bit of furniture, ensuring they’ll both be breathless and giggling with irritation when the pizza finally does interrupt. Sometimes, she says it into the crown of Dani’s hair, hands stroking calm, repeat patterns down Dani’s back. It doesn’t matter how she says it. It’s always true. 

It’s boring, she wants to tell Dani, but can’t quite find the right way to say it. It’s boring, and it’s right. It’s the good kind of stable, the kind where you know for a fact that no matter what happens, your reaching hand will never come up empty. It’s the right kind of natural, the organic state of live and flourish that comes from tending something with earnest care. It’s boring, and I could never be sick of it, she wants to say, because it’s you. It’s me. It’s us. 

Their home is the good kind of cluttered, and their bickering is the good kind of stupid, and every time she finds herself tucked under Dani in bed, or tucked into Dani on the couch, or tucked close to Dani in a moment of perfect bliss, she thinks, this was always how it was supposed to go. I knew it, somehow. First time I saw her at that lunch table, I knew it. 

But there are words, and then there are words, and Jamie isn’t really designed for pretty language. She presents Dani with a flower--one carefully tended moonflower, grown in secret--and she says with shaking certainty, “We’ve got a problem, Poppins.” The problem, of course, being that she’s not sick of it. Not sick of Dani’s legs tangling smooth against her own after a shower, not sick of Dani’s heaving laughter when they slip on an icy Vermont sidewalk and go down in a heap of limbs, not sick of waking to Dani’s hands tracing, gently, the raised tissue of the scar on her back. She knows her life inside and out, knows the good days and the bad, and above all, she knows the thing that counts most: 

It’s boring. It’s the right kind of boring. Dreadfully, perfectly, wonderfully boring. 

And she is so in love. Has been, if she’s honest with herself, for ages. Has been since Dani was scolding her for a bedframe gone unbuilt, since pinning Dani against an upright mattress and sliding a thigh between her legs and hearing her groan against her ear. Has been since Dani was sitting beside her in that weathered diner, talking about realism and one-day-at-a-time. Has been since Dani reached for her hand without looking in the Bly Manor foyer, has been since Dani shuddered and shook in her arms after the lake, has been since Dani kissed her in the hall, in the grove, in the greenhouse. 

It makes sense in all the ways that Dani has from the very start, and it makes no sense at all in the way Jamie thinks good things in her life never do. And it’s right. Dani, looking at her over the counter with such affection, like she’s questioned so much, but never this. Never Jamie. Not really, deep down, where it counts. 

They’re in the back room, all hands and mouths and laughing sighs, and Jamie knows boring gets a bad rap. Knows that every kind of narrative insists this is the thing to be avoided. Keep moving. Keep dancing. Keep it fresh and new and hot-blooded and ready to bite. 

But this...this is what people don’t understand. What people could be so much happier, if they could only wrap their heads around the concept. Boring doesn’t mean stagnant. Boring doesn’t mean stuck in place. Theirs isn’t a photograph, all arc and angle and line frozen in time. 

Theirs is a story. Growing. Shifting. Ever-evolving. Blooming and fading and blooming again. Dani’s hands, always finding hers. Dani’s eyes, mismatched but so full of adoration, whether she’s spent the day worrying about dinner or demons. Dani, who once stood with her back to a greenhouse counter and said, “Could be kinda boring, right?”

Boring is good. Boring is perfect. 

Jamie thinks she could do boring for the rest of her life. 

[hatredcurse]

uchihacollector​ | Orochimaru:

The sound of footsteps follows Sasuke. They’re sure and steady. It seems as if Orochimaru only ever has one pace, as if he is not worried in the least. There’s only one pause (in which precisely the opposite becomes true) in his steps, just before he rounds the corner and joins Sasuke.

“So this is where you decided to go to. The training hall,” he finally emerges from the shadowed hallway.

First his feet step into the white light, then his robes, and finally his face. He comes to a halt at Sasuke’s side. He crosses his arms, and keeps his pony white fingers on clear display. Like gunslingers and retired soldiers, this old veteran too has fingers that become twitchy during stressful times.

Standing in front of the smiling Sasuke in the kitchen is as troublesome as standing next to Sasuke now. Sasuke’s state is worrisome. Terrifying, on an emotional level, but he doesn’t let it get to him. Many years in ROOT taught him how to suppress his natural instincts. He does the same now, as when Sasuke smiled to him in the kitchen.

He ignores the raised hairs on the back of his neck, the ache of old cut wounds that his smooth skin forgot but body remembers. He ignores the way his skin tickles with the humidity of Sasuke’s lightning nature. Sasuke is so pure in his Yin chakra nature, that everyone’s chakra feels Yang-natured in comparison. Chakras are energies, air currents are loaded with electric energies too. When a hot layer of air crashes against a cold layer, there’s lightning. Even if Sasuke doesn’t create lightning, the air is loaded with it. Lightning might errupt from the tiniest spark: a flickering overhead light, from Orochimaru’s Yang chakra, from a friction of static clothing. Standing next to Sasuke feels like he’s standing next to a time bomb. Potential accidents with lightning sparks can escalate into fights. The danger of Sasuke’s unstable presence is oppressive, so Orochimaru holds himself tall and doesn’t let it show. Except, in a very faint smile.

He always smiles when he’s nervous, at both good and bad nerves. Your situation is troublesome… but your reactions! They’re so interesting!

At first, he just stands next to Sasuke and give him time to repack himself. Meanwhile, he looks out over the training area of the big underground hall. All layouts in all bases are roughly the same. This hall looks like a hundred other training area halls. Did you consciously walk here? To the only place where you used to be able to let off steam?

“Sasuke-kun. A moment ago, you obviously were…” he seeks the right understatement. “… feeling unwell. By excusing yourself and by running away from me, you robbed me of the opportunity to react.” Orochimaru looked at him from the corner of his eyes. Sasuke’s chakra still felt like a bonfire, and the power was tangible. Whatever he was going through right now, it made some locks of Orochimaru’s hair fly up. The force rustled his clothes, too. Orochimaru said: “You came to this hall to self-soothe, all alone. But I suspect that you don’t want to be alone with yourself. So when you feel intense… do stay. Don’t run from me again. I want to give you my attention.”

In the silence of the room, Sasuke stood center, fingers twitching idly on the hilt of his sword. An unnerving stillness resided within him that not even the air could disturb his statuesque form. Orochimaru could, though, having broken him from his trance and Itachi’s beratement faded into a silent corner fixed within the recess of his mind.

“I am still unwell,” he says, hand still secured to his elbow. To himself, he is mentally sound and he will contest any conjecture otherwise. His physical form, that’s all he is concerned with. 

Turning his neck, forcing himself to look upon that white snake again. The image still wrong ( too short, too thin, too young; incorrect ). Neglecting that Sasuke, himself, is older, taller, comparing the ever-changing image of a quasi-immortal to a human man: a victim of time and age. “You gave me a reaction, or was it not practiced enough for its unveiling?” 

He didn’t trust that face. One that smiled where there was no love and frowned where there was no sorrow. Mentally, he placed an oni mask over his features, blocking out his factitious emotion, so that he could focus on his goals here. 

“I wasn’t running. I was waiting on you.”

Sasuke didn’t lie. Truly, he was waiting on the other to catch to him, to take his hand, and walk him down this perilous path once again. Pray tell Sasuke does not stumble this time. His mind, the apparitions, they were distracting him and having his body move separate from his will. He could not help that. Not right now, anyways, when the adrenaline was piloting his body, slamming itself against all walls and doors searching for relief from the ache. 

Removing hand from blade, Sasuke stepped forward. An audible snap and sizzle following him with each step, the ground a conductor of his currents. “So, what will it be first, Orochimaru? Let’s not waste time now.”

He lowered himself, uneven eyes to apex eyes. The gold not reflecting the lavender as favorably as it did the ruby. Sasuke was seeking answers beyond the lens and within Orochimaru, prying it out of his brain with sheer will, because he was impatient, because he was in pain. 

[tinytalkingtina]

For your wip game! 🏃

Whew, this one fought me as I was writing until it finally flowed properly, so you get 3 paragraphs instead of 3 sentences :)

Role reversal 1 | 2

All around him, the crowd ebbs and flows between the kegs and the bonfire, the flickering flames and shadows making it hard to tell who is who. Someone stumbles into Eddie, breaking him out of his brooding. “Whoops, sorry Eddie! Guess I’ll have to make it up to you later.” Before he can say anything, the giggling cheerleader presses a quick kiss to his cheek. (He knows he went on a date with her about a month ago, but her name eludes him. Tina, maybe, or Vickie?) He forces a grin back. “Of course you didn’t mean it sugar. Gonna hold you to that okay?” As soon as her back is turned, he lets the smile slide off. His post-meet high wore off too quickly tonight, leaving him well, twitchy.

Make me write!

[allthecolorsofourlove]

dearest bunny baby, wild little hare

i am stalling by my suitcase. it won’t fit all my love for you inside. i am jittery but well rested today, slept only 6 hours but it feels like i slept 60. my hands are twitchy, like they are on the cusp of sleep. they are shaking for you. i shiver when i think your name.

i’ll be home by the time night falls. our friend is picking me up from the airport; she called me to woefully inform me of the line at the dispensary. i cackled. it’s fucking 4/20 and i am flying home from college instead of being stoned for 24 hours straight. that’s so stupid. it’s all for you.

i am tucking you in my magpie nest and in my chest and in the wardrobe locked inside my ribcage. you follow me around like a ghost, like dandelion seeds in the spring. you’re on my skin even when it’s been a month since i’ve seen you. my grin is unfaltering and my steps are sure. i am coming home to you.

i love you like a forest fire and i love you like a candle wick. i love you like something grand and unrelenting and something intimate and small. i love you like ashes and i love you like a supernova demolishing all we know. i love you like burnt fingers and branded lips and smoke whisking through the window. i am the burn scar and i am the bonfire and i am the smoke blown into your mouth.

it might’ve been a new neighborhood. i think this infrastructure is changing all over me; a byproduct of concrete and rain. i hold myself a little different. i trust a little different. you’re the same though, just closer. i scrunch my nose up and shut my eyes softly when i remember your face.

the past few days have been strange, i’ve seen a new side of friends i know and i want to put more of myself in their pockets. i love them and i feel badly for withholding. i always feel badly for withholding but i do it anyways, so it is nice to be with you and do no such thing.

i distract myself from tremors and packing and travel anticipation with the thought of you: you wearing my clothes and you smiling at me wide and you lacing your fingers in my hair [which, will continue to be a point of contention]. i miss you in the way that makes me happy and makes me weep. i love you like something stupid and knowing i’ll see you soon fills me up with something wide and cosmic. i love you like the supernova, i love you like the candle wick.

rabbit, dear, i am coming home. make room for me in your den, push aside the bracken and fern and let me bring you glass shards and shining bones. over and over in my head, i replay your voice; “you okay?” and like clockwork i respond, “i’m just so happy.” i’ll bring you the moon and i’ll bring you the sky. i’m tearing clouds off the tapestry to bring puffs of white into the din of this tree root home. i love you. i’ll be home soon.

longingly, lovingly

your birds eye view

[raysreads]

Teen Wolf Character Scents

Okay this might sound weird, but I’ve been reading a lot of Teen Wolf fic lately and it always puts a heavy emphasis on what the character smells like. Because...werewolf senses and everyone has a natural scent. I personally love this so here are my headcanons for what each characters natural scent would be!!!!!

(I give reasons for why I went with those things but some of the reasons themselves are headcanons, and some just came to me and have no reason at all besides that fact that i love it that way)

So background info: I headcanon some scents are from birth, while some are added/change based on experiences, temperament and emotions. You have your own scent and it does its own thing, even when you’re human. Humans cant smell them since they aren’t necessarily real, they are more a smell supernaturals pick up that’s a cryptic reflection of ones personality.

Stiles: Gotta start with the main boi!!!! He smells like spicy chili peppers, honey and everything spicy. He is wild and loud and so so sharp. He uses cutting anger and snark and sarcasm as a defense mechanism, this reflects in a scent that burns your nose. But he cares and loves a lot and is super soft, hence the honey. If you focus on his scent too much your eyes water with the chili. When he gets angry he send tears down everyone’s faces and even reddens the cheeks and burns the tongues of the supernatural pack members in his anger, his scent becoming physical as his spark acts up.

Peter: He smells like cold. Like cold, and petrichor and mint toothpaste. He always has. He smells like the cold of ice, the cold you smell when you open a freezer in the cold isle of the grocery store and like Vick’s Vaporub but 10x as strong. As the left hand of the pack it was his job to kill, to eliminate threats, his job to bear all the blood on his hands, to have his hands permanently stained sticky red and his eyes glow blue, so that no one else in the pack has to live with the guilt of murder, even when justified. His first kill was at 8 years old and he would never forgive the fact that he had been given that burden. So he became unmovable ice and unending cold. With the thick smell of rain for the warmth he would always keep hidden.

Theo: His scent is that of fresh, right off the smoker, BBQ sauce-soaked ribs and apple juice. Its a scent he was born with, one that reflects the gooey warmth of his soul and his innocence before he was manipulated and tortured. His scent always throws people off since it usually reflects ones personality and he’s not a good person by any means, he is amoral and cruel; and such a warm, soft scent doesn’t make sense. But his soul (though no longer pure) would always hold his original innocence. The apple juice isn’t actually his scent, but his sisters, her heart such a part of him that his guilt manifested her soul in his scent. And if you focus hard enough, underneath all that you can find the sting of bleach. His time with the dread doctors (and the fact that he was surgically tortured into being a chimera) leaving part of his scent mangled and altered into the artificial tang of bleach. The fact that he forced his scent to remain mostly unchanged throughout his life (which was worse than hell on earth) is Very Very Impressive, even more so when in the beginning he wasn’t even supernatural.

Scott: Our ever-sweet true alpha. He smells like overly sweet pink and blue cotton candy and hot, buttered, movie theater popcorn. He’s literally sugar and spice and everything nice. His morals and warmth translating to the hot popcorn and his perpetual smiling and niceness coming though as cotton candy. He smells like fairgrounds and the laughter of children. Underneath all that he bears the subtle scent of rust,  a permanent reminder of his forced change to the supernatural and permanent resentment of the burden he must bear (and the guilt about that resentment)

Derek: He smells of Sandalwood, Patchouli, and Frankincense. He always smells like incense and spices, like the inside of a stereotypical fortune tellers shop. He becomes heat, warmth, and flame. Something that pulls at his soul since the fire. Something that is a comfort to the wolves around him. He also smells heavily of smoke (something that makes Peter unable to be in the same room as him for longer than 30 minutes unless forced) because of his never-ending guilt about his family, something that seared the event into his scent. When he’s angry (which is a lot) his scent gets stronger and the incense smell becomes extremely heady and makes his betas lethargic.

Lydia: She smells like metal, like your hands after handling handfuls of change. She smells like she bathed in pennies, her standoffish coldness bringing the bitter smell to her scent. Since she became a banshee she also smells strongly of spider lilies (also know as hell flowers), japans flower of death. You would think the contrast between bitter metal and floral scents, so strong you choke, would be bad but its actually strangely comforting. And while bitter its the only thing that can get Jackson to relax some days. The scent of the only person there for him for over a decade-and-a-half sometimes even more comforting than the scent of his boyfriend.

Isaac: His scent is of strong cologne even though he never wears any, he smells like he bathed in the Mahogany Teakwood candle from Bath and Body Works, or lived in an Abercrombie & Fitch for 50 years. He always had that smell, even as a child, but it just gets stronger the more confidence he gains. His childhood innocence and cleanliness of soul translates as a strong laundry soap smell. But hidden underneath there's an undertone of metal, plastic, and cold; that takes over his scent when he's scared and overwhelmes everything in a mile radius. It takes the Pack far too long to realize it smells like a freezer and metal chains.

Allison: She smells strongly of ozone and static (not rain though, never rain). Her anger and righteous fury making her scent like electricity and making the static-y-ness tingle in everyone's nose - sometimes making Scott sneeze. Nothing in her scent is pleasant or comforting to everyone's confusion. Its only when she feels negative emotions that she smells like roses and summer. Its like a warning but in reverse, the opposite of what it should be. Bad scents usually mean bad emotions or feelings or memories, and good scents mean good moods and positive things but for her its the opposite. Just like how she took the opposite path then what was laid out for her.

Jackson: He smells very very heavily of cherries, his scent so strong and sweet its like he took a bath in a hot tub filled with cherry cough medicine, chloraseptic cherry sore throat spray, cherry pie, cherry starburst, cherry Jell-O, and maraschino cherries. Its thick and sticky and strong enough to drown out the scent and stick for hours on anyone standing near him or touching him and it lingers on the Pack members even if they haven’t seen each other for years. Case-in-point: Jackson left for England after the kanima thing and Isaac left for France not long after. When Isaac came back 6 years later (2 years after Jackson came back) he still had the smell on him pretty strongly. Why cherries? No one knows. But its thick as hell and stronger than epoxy when it binds to things together forever. The Pack thinks it stems with his identity and abandonment issues, but once he claims you he wont let go, not even his scent. He is very self conscious and embarrassed about it so its never discussed, and he’s been friends with Danny for so long that his scent almost drowns out Danny’s own. 

Ethan: Ethan’s scent is subtle and barely there. He was the one who always stood in front of Aiden to protect them, and took the beatings when possible so his scent became as bland and barely-there as possible. The Pack can only smell his scent with intense focus and at least an hours meditation (unless you’re Aiden). He smells of freshly baked bread and homemade jam, comforting smells that easily calm Aiden down. In times of distress he smells of burnt toast, he scent twisting with negative memories. A reminder that all good things have eventually turned bad for him and his twin.

Aiden: Aiden on the other hand smells strongly like curry and lavender. An odd combination but one that speaks of his guarded- but angry, headstrong and stubborn- nature. The abuse left him angry and twitchy and paranoid, everything setting him off and his moods turning on a dime. His scent fluctuated wildly between spicy curry and calming lavender which indicated his mood and Ethan was the only one able to calm him down, doing so with a single touch between his shoulder blades where they merged.

Danny: Danny smells like he lived in a Eucalyptus oil factory for 50 years, the scent soothing and calm like he is. Its always the same and never changes, not even when his emotions do. It was concerning at first, since everyone else’s scents changed throughout the day, even when their mood didn't (the only other scent that barely changed was Peter’s but that was because the man hand an iron grip over his emotions, even in his scent. Which is super impressive). He was just that calm at all times, even when annoyed. The one time he got angry- and I mean really angry not just the pretenses he kept when ‘annoyed’ with Stiles who he more endeared with than anything- his scent overwhelmed the entire apartment complex ( the one Derek had bought out for his loft) with the horrible, strong, pungent scent of burnt rubber. No one angered him again.

But they did have a chat about his witch ancestry.

Erica: Her scent was that of a bonfire. A blazing bonfire, gasoline, and the smell of the world when it was so hot outside the air above the tar street shimmered. She was competitive, and fierce, and pure heat and burning. If she wanted something, she would take it she had always been that way, even when she was sick. And while her sickness may be gone she had a subtle distortion to her scent, one like poison, that made her always smell slightly sick. (Peter almost had a panic attack when he first met her because of her scent, he now never came within 10 feet of her).

Boyd: He smelled like a flower garden. He was so stoic that the floral scent took many by surprise. He had always smelled like soil and dirt, his down to earth personality manifesting as a calming and grounding scent. He also smelled like the ocean, like salt and brine, and waves. But that was all drowned out by the overwhelming smell of flowers, a scent that used to be his sisters, one that he subconsciously adopted after her death when he was still human. He empathized with Theo and would exchange heavy glances when the pack discussed their natural scents as a ‘pack bonding exercise’, they were both drowned in guilt for different reasons, but both over lost sisters. They never discussed it. That was all folks!!! Feel free to add on to this and/or use it as a fanfic reference!!! Do you agree??? What are your headcanons???

[holdwiththosewhofavorfire]

Braids

For: @maplelattes22, who asked for “JJ x Kie, request where he tries to braid her hair/do a hairstyle but is having a hard time”

Notes: Turned out to be a little softer than comedic. I’m always taking requests!

Summary: Kie is sick the first week of summer and JJ knows exactly how to make her feel better. 

The first week of summer, official summer with no school and endless days for surfing and boating and drinking around bonfires, and Kiara has a cold. So today at least she is basically bedridden, sinuses too stuffed to put her head in the water, eyes too sensitive to go outside in the bright sun. She’s moping around her bedroom, propped up on pillows and aimlessly leafing through one magazine or another, when her window slides up and in tumbles JJ, a thoroughly unappreciated knight in damp boardshorts.

Kie barely registers the devil may grin he always has on his stupid gorgeous face before she’s pulling her bedcovers up and over her head. JJ, like all the Pogues, has seen her scraped up after a long day surfing, expelling water and snot out of her nose, hair tangled and definitely not at her most composed, but being sick is something entirely different. She knows she isn’t that pretty at the best of times, but she will not allow JJ to see her with her nose as red as a reindeers and feeling like cotton balls have been shoved up her sinuses.

JJ laughs at her reaction, and that does not help her mood. “Aw, Kie, don’t be like that. I’m here to help you feel better.”

She stubbornly keeps the comforter over her head even as she hears his footsteps come closer. “Go away, JJ. I’m sick. Go bother the other guys.”

“John B. picked up a shift at the Club. They didn’t need me today. Pope is studying for some test with letter--“

“the PSAT?” She interjects, and he continues, “—yeah that one—and I saw them all day every day at school, when I went to school anyway, so I figure now is the perfect day for some JJ and Kie quality time. Turn on that fancy TV of yours.”

Letting out a huff of air, she peeks one eye out of the comforter. “I really don’t feel like company right now. I’m sick, I’m gross, and I just want…”

Kiara trails off when JJ puts his hand on her head. “You’re not gross. I’ll leave if you don’t want me around, but…you’re never gross.” He looks awkward all the sudden, uncomfortable with what he just said and a little defensive like if she makes him leave, he’ll take it the wrong way. And at worst, JJ is always entertaining. If he wants to hangout and watch her blow snot rockets into a tissue, then who is she to deny him his entertainment.

“The remote is on the dresser.”

“Yes!” He cheers, bounding over to grab it, then effortlessly flinging himself on the other side of her mattress. “What daytime soap is on now? The Bold and the Beautiful? The Young and the Restless?”

Either is an apt description for JJ, she thinks. It’s actually pretty nice to feel his solid body next to hers, and maybe she does feel a little better after all. She twists her head to look over and up at him.

“Aw there she is.” JJ grins down at her, back against her headboard, looking at ease and her heart flutters. “Come on out, princess.”

Kiara slowly, more for show than anything else, lowers her blanket down. She sits upright for a moment, then scoots back toward the headboard too, intending to lean against it as JJ is. Instead, he, looking deliberately at the tv, lifts his right arm to the side, a clear invitation if she’s ever seen one. Hesitantly, she settles into place, tucked under his shoulder. She can smell him here, salt and sun and boy, and her stomach is fluttering a little.

They watch the show quietly for a bit. Kie acknowledges she isn’t really paying attention, more focused on the smooth, warm skin covered muscle under her cheek, and the slight pull from where he’s playing with the ends of her hair.

It doesn’t take long for JJ to get twitchy from just sitting there. She can feel his eyes drift down toward the top of her head, and the light stroking of her hair becomes more deliberate and thoughtful.

“My mom taught be how to braid hair, you know.”

She shook her head, turned her neck to catch his bright blue eyes with hers. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” He says, voice tight, like he’s forcing it to be casual. “I’d braid her hair after…when she was feeling sad. She used to say it made her feel better.”

Kie shrugs a little, heart aching for him and trying not to push because she knows that’s a surefire way to get him to retreat like the ocean at low tide. “I’d probably feel better if you braided my hair too.”

“Yeah? Ok!” He’s eager suddenly, a little puppy like, and he’s poking at her until she leans up and moves forward so he can scoot behind her. The TV plays on in the foreground, but she can picture how JJ’s eyes are squinted in concentration as he gathers her heavy mass of hair into his hands. Thank goodness she’d washed her hair just that morning.

It’s surprisingly painless. For some reason, she’d expected his calloused fingers to be rougher, to catch on the curls of her hair. Instead, JJ makes an effort to be gentle, combing lightly through any tangles and carefully navigating the strands. The warm summer sun shines through the window, the TV volume is a low murmur, and he hums to himself as he focuses on the pattern. It feels like he’s doing multiple smaller braids, which makes sense for her hair type. Kie thinks maybe this is what contentment feels like and she likes it.

She’s drifting in and out of awareness, always conscious of the warmth of him behind her and his hands occasionally lightly brushing her neck, but she didn’t really realize how much time passed until he announced triumphantly, “Done!”

JJ hopped off the bed, and tugged on her wrist until she followed him into the floor and over to her mirror. “Tada!” He says, gesturing broadly.

The braids are actually pretty tight—both in that they look good and are structurally sound. He braided four thick braids, and she ran her fingers over them before turning to face him.

“I’m impressed, JJ.” She tells him, smiling up into his face. “You did a really good job.”

“And you feel better?” He prods. “You’ll come out with us tomorrow?”

Kie laughs a little. “Yeah, I feel better. I’ll see you at the Cut tomorrow morning.”

Their eyes catch, and she’s still smiling but doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. She doesn’t recognize the small half twist in his mouth. It’s not his usual recklessly wide grin, or his got-away-with-something smirk. There’s a fondness to it coupled with an unusual softness in his eyes that is utterly new. For a moment, she thinks this is the moment when he kisses her or she kisses him and all the feelings she’s been so careful to never acknowledge come out and all the rules she’s been so careful to obey become irrelevant.

Neither lean forward. In the golden light of the early evening, JJ reaches up to trace the braid closest to her face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kie.”

Then he’s back out her window and running off into the sunset. She stays by her window for a minute, watching him go. The braids will need to be undone eventually—not even she is willing to wear them out in public like that. But they can stay exactly as they are for now.

[littlekatleaf]

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (end)

Holy shitballs. Pretty close to exactly a year ago I got this idea - Junkrat and Roadhog have Christmas with some of the Overwatch crew. It was gonna be short and sweet and fluffy. I started writing in... February? 10 months and 21K words later I ended up with something almost entirely different. Oops? Thanks for joining me on the ride!  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9

Meds and tea and whiskey and food and mitten and probably a bit of fever still and the lingering feel of Roadie’s hand on his forehead all swirled together into an edgy excitement that made his blood fizz in his veins. Twitchy, itchy. Been looking forward to setting off the fireworks for months - been working them up that long and planning even longer. Had to get it all just right, then combine it with Lucio’s music, get the timing connected to the right shapes, the explosions to the right second… had to be focused, had to be precise and he loved the challenge. The sparks of thrill tingled along his spine and the fire they ignited burned away the lingering crud of sickness leaving him sharp and clear.

He enlisted Hana and Lucio to round up the others, betting they’d be able to convince anyone who was reluctant much better than he would. Even so, he was urging them down to the lake, torches bobbing through the dark, throwing odd shadows between the trees. Maybe talking a little faster than usual but how else was he going to impress upon them how exciting this was? 

“Know it’s cold - hadn’t really thought about that when I was planning. I mean, hadn’t planned to be here at all, just thought we’d be at the Watchpoint. Course, this is better, discounting the cold. Which is hard to do, but Roadie’s getting the bonfire goin’ - he could light a fire in the middle of a monsoon so no worries on that count. An’ Hana brought some whiskey to help so she’ll be right. Ya need to stand here, no closer. Gonna be over the water.  Safe as houses, but can’t be too careful - least according to Morrison, ha! Now turn off the torches. Better the darker it is. Lucky ain’t moonrise yet…” 

“What are we doing out here in the middle of the night when we could be curled up on the couch?” Mei asked no one in particular.

Junkrat ignored her. She’d see, they’d all see and he knew they’d love it just as much as he did if they gave it a chance. Lucio had been kind enough to not only have his sound system set up, but also brought out the box of fireworks so Junkrat didn’t have to lug it himself.

Didn’t take but a minute to set it all up, music on automatic once he started the program. All he had to do was hit the power and light the first fuse.

Music came up slow, soft, bit of piano, then edge of something electronic, rising bass and the first firework streaked up to the center of the sky and as the beat kicked in it exploded in a rain of silver and gold. At the crackling boom the others fell silent, faces tilted to the sky. The sparkles reflected in their eyes and Lucio’s soft ‘oh!’ and Hana’s squeal of delight made even the cold worthwhile. 

Let it start slow. Basic colors, red, blue, green, as well as the gold and silver. Usual shapes, circles, stars, ones that looked like fountains or willows. Then the music shifted, became rhythmic and complex with a minor edge and he sent the first special rockets. The streaks crisscrossed, intersecting like Satya’s hard light shield, like one of her knit shawls and around it burst snowflakes, all in shades of blue and silver. 

Music shifted again, bright and quick - and the second set of his own rockets split the air with a whistling crack then exploded in a crackling red heart, then a gold arrow streamed through. Lena bumped Emily’s hip with her own as their names twined through the heart. Another shift, one of Lucio’s songs, written for Hana and the rockets burst into pink bunnies and green frogs that seemed to bounce up the mountains ringing them and into the stars. 

As the music shifted a final time, setting a beat with a swing, Lena grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her into a twirl, hands clenched firm but light, feet moving quick, spinning each other in and out and then they were dancing and so were Hana and Lucio and even Mei tugged Satya into the group. 

And then - perfect timing, as the music sang “Seeing’ stars, I’m seeing stars” the final bursts of fireworks - his favorite of the bunch - exploded overhead and Junkrat couldn’t stop his grin at the stars he’d created. Spread above him and Roadie was their night sky. The Saucepan and the Crux. Looking right, looking perfect, not upside down like here.

For a long moment Roadhog said nothing, just stood with his face tipped up, sparks reflecting in his mask as the fireworks cracked and popped and the music thumped and the others laughed and danced.

“Thought ya might like a bit of Straya,” Junkrat said finally, unable to wait for Roadhog to say something. Anything. Maybe he hadn’t recognized it after all. Or maybe it wasn't anything like he’d hoped. Maybe it only looked like home because he was remembering it so clearly. Imagining it. Making it all up again. He shoved his hand in his pocket as a gust of wind swept over them and a sneeze slammed into him, followed quickly by two more. “Huh-r’isssh! Isshh! Ishhew!” 

Didn’t even hear Roadhog move, but suddenly he was right there, shoving his hat down over Junkrat’s head and then wrapping his scarf around Junkrat’s neck. “Stay warm, idiot.”

“Trying,” he said, shivering still. He let Roadie lead him over to the fire which had grown to a roaring height, pouring out a welcome heat. Pine logs crackled and spat sparks swirling into the sky to swirl with the real stars and their backwards constellations.

Lucio cranked his own mix and the bass echoed off the mountains and Lena and Emily still danced with him and Hana. Mei and Satya huddled together, passing a mug of something between them and for a moment, just for a minute, everything felt fine. Felt good.

Junkrat glanced at Roadhog, and though the mask obscured his expression, there was a looseness in his shoulders, something in the tilt of his head that seemed to speak of relaxation and calm. Made the cold and exhaustion worth it. “Happy Christmas, Roadie.” 

“Happy Christmas, Rat.” The warmth in his tone did more to drive away the chill than the fire and Junkrat leaned against his side, letting himself enjoy the closeness. 

After a bit, the others joined them around the fire and Lena passed a joint around, “For everyone except you, Junkrat. Sorry.” 

He shrugged, pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Not gonna share my plague. Got this anyway.” The whiskey left a warm curl in the center of his belly, his muscles loose and easy. Satya told a story about a Snow Queen whose frozen heart melted with the love of a peasant girl, and though Junkrat wanted to roll his eyes, he understood the feeling. The desire to have one’s own story told in myth - to be connected to something bigger. Lena told a story about Father Christmas. Mei about a Chinese hunter, Jia Deng, who hunted with a pet wolf and left gifts of his hunt with the poor during the cruel months of winter. Then Roadie exhaled a long puff of smoke and said,

“Bet you never heard of the Holiday Boar.”

Junkrat giggled into his scarf. “Ain’t gonna tell that one to this lot, are ya?”

Lena cocked her head quizzically. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Well. Long before the Omnium exploded, before the Omnics were even an idea someone had, the Outback was still a hardscrabble place. Dusty and hot and many were desperately poor, trying to eke a living out of land that wasn’t easily giving. One day a wild boar appeared in a village, ribs showing through its skin, hair falling out in patches, it was the most pathetic excuse for a creature the villagers had seen. Most tried to chase it away with kicks and shouts and stones thrown. 

“At the edge of the village there was a farmer. He lived alone on the land. When the boar came to his homestead, the farmer’s first reaction was the same as the others - he wanted to chase it away. Nothing good could come of bringing another mouth to feed into his life. But as he raised a hand to throw a stone, he caught a glimpse of the creature’s eyes and his long dead daughter’s voice spoke in his heart. ‘Papa, please.’ His hand fell and he sighed and the boar stayed.

“In the beginning he found it annoying, an intrusion on his solitude. Still, he fed the creature, sharing the little he had, and in return it kept him company, following him like a dog and seeming to listen when he spoke. Come winter the boar was healthy and grown to a surprising size. Villagers who saw it walking with the farmer nodded knowingly - at the first cold snap he’d likely kill it, and the meat could feed them all.

“But the cold came and still the boar walked with the farmer. The villagers eyed them more than a little oddly. Finally, on the longest night of the year, the farmer was sitting by a fire with the boar at his side as usual. The farmer was lamenting that the land had been even more reticent than usual, and he was likely to lose his home to the mortgagers. 

“The boar’s stomach gave a great rumble, then it leaned forward and puked up a pile of gold coins onto the ground. The farmer never went hungry again and the village prospered.”

Junkrat couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing. 

Hana laughed too, shook her head. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”

“It’s Australia,” Roadhog argued, deadpan voice. “It absolutely is.”

Lucio nodded, took a drag from the joint. “I could see it.”

They told stories and Lucio led them in carols and the warmth of the fire and the whiskey and Roadhog at his side and Lena’s jokes “What do you call a dinosaur fart? A blast from the past! Why does a duck have tail feathers? To cover his butt quack!” and Emily’s laughter lulled Junkrat into a doze.

“He snores louder than a boar,” Satya said, irritably. Lena giggled.

“You gave him your scarf,” Hana said to Roadhog and her tone was equal parts teasing and curious.

Junkrat felt Roadie’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Never takes care of himself, even when he’s sick.” But though he was more than half asleep, he could hear the tight coldness of the comment. The relaxed ease had gone. Junkrat wanted to sit up and interrupt, but he was just so tired.

“Gave him your cold too, huh.” Still that sing-song teasing tone, but it cut at Junkrat.

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Roadhog. What’s up with you two, anyway? He won’t give us a straight answer.”

Felt like everyone’s eyes were on them, staring. Junkrat tensed. Sit up, he told himself. Stop this. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what Roadhog would say, even more than he didn’t want to know.

Roadhog’s shoulder moved in another shrug. “Someone’s gotta keep him from offing himself on accident.”

Mei laughed; least no one else did.

Ice through his body, through his stomach, his mind, his lungs. He coughed against it, but it didn’t move. The fire had burned down to little more than embers and even scarf and hat, mitten and whiskey weren’t enough to keep him warm. He forced himself up then, away from Roadhog. Faked a yawn like he just woke up.

“Knackered. Gonna call it a night. Happy Christmas all.” Forced the words past lips that felt frozen and barely heard the others saying goodnight and thanks for the fireworks. 

The moon glowed on the snow, lighting the way back to the cabin enough to keep him from stumbling on tree roots and rocks. His foot crunched softly on pine needles and he heard Roadhog’s louder footfalls behind him. He walked faster. Just wanted to be inside, to be alone, to be warm, to be silent. Even the light of the Christmas tree seemed to mock him with its fake promise of coziness. He’d take a bath, let the water warm his bones, soothe the chills, then sleep. 

“When I said ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more, I meant it,” Junkrat said stiffly as Roadhog followed him into the bathroom. “Promise I ain’t gonna drown in the bath. Even I’m not stupid enough to do that.”

“How’re you going to get in and out?” Roadhog asked bluntly.

Junkrat turned to look and of course there were no bars to let him navigate it himself. Once he took off his prosthetics he’d be screwed. Fuck. He pushed past Roadhog and out of the bathroom. Wasn’t worth it.  

But the bedroom was just as bad. Wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a century or ten, but Roadhog was standing there in the middle of the room taking up all of the space and all of the air and Junkrat knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with his… looming. Instead he shoved the pillows to the head of the cot and sat against the wall, wrapping a blanket around himself. Just barely resisted pulling it over his head, too. Knew Roadie would stare and it was making him jittery. Not in a good way. His head ached again, skin tight with the too hot too cold feeling of returning fever. Should have asked Lucio for more meds. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for relief. Wishing for Roadie’s hand on his forehead again, cool and firm and steadying.

“Gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Roadhog asked, finally. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked down at Junkrat from his full height. Not exactly the most inviting posture. 

“What are we?” The question spilled from him like he was vomiting. “An’ don’t give me some stupid shit like you don’t know what I mean. Hana asks and Lucio asks and you avoid the question.”

“Why do we need to put words to it? Why do they need to know anything?” 

Junkrat shrugged. It wasn’t for them that he needed words. It was him. He needed a foundation, an understanding. Because things were slippery and they could slide away from him before he had a chance to catch hold. “It’s me askin’. Now that ya ain’t my bodyguard. What are we?”

A long pause, a silence full of all the things Roadhog didn’t say. 

“Morrison said I could leave,” Junkrat blurted, unable to stand it.

Roadhog waited.

“Said if this do-gooder shit was too bloody difficult he’d have Lena turn me in. Serve my time and then whatever came next was my choice.”

No response.

“Told him I’d have to talk to you about it, but he said just meant me. I been thinkin...’ we should do it. Could probably convince him to let you go too. Then when we were far enough away could hijack the Orca, dump Lena and head back to Straya. Head home. Get the treasure, sell it to the Queen and find a place to just… live.” He blinked and the after-image of fireworks burst across his vision, constellations in all their permutations. Home. Was it? Didn’t really know anymore… But maybe there it wouldn’t be so hard, maybe there it would be like it had been.

Still no response, no movement at all. Like Roadhog’d turned to stone. Mountain. Felt his gaze go cold, measuring, calculating. Had seen Roadhog turn that gaze on others, size them up, find them lacking… but not on himself. He froze. Utterly still. Waited for the judgment to fall. Then Roadhog laughed. Not like something was funny, or maybe like he was funny and the sound was brittle and sharp in his ears.

“What’s so bloody funny, mate?” and his own voice held an edge.

“The idea that I would want to leave this,” he gestured around the room, taking in everything, “give up the good thing I got going here to… what? Live out some tiny shit life in that hellhole with you? Why the fuck do you think I’d want to go back to that? And with you?” He positively roared with laughter. “You are thick as a rock. Batshit crazy. A complete mess. Sure, when there wasn’t anyone else around who wasn’t trying to kill me, you were good for a laugh. A way to get my rocks off. But in the real world? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you too.” The words scraped his throat and he wished he had covered his head because he had that ominous prickling behind his eyes like he was going to fucking cry, or sneeze, and either way he was fucking well not going to give Roadhog the satisfaction.

“You want to know what we are, Junkrat? We ain’t shit. Nothing. Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ clear as crystal. Why don’t you fuck off then an’ let me sleep.” He grit his teeth, bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted iron. Not going to crumble. Watched as Roadhog turned and crossed the room. Watched the door click shut behind him. Watched the blank wall and refused to let himself crack. Silence then, that he’d wanted. But no warmth. Even wrapped in blankets felt like he was sitting in a snowstorm. Everything muffled and frozen. Freezing.

Then that chuckle in his head. You got an answer. Might not have been the one you wanted, but really Jamison, what did you expect? Did you honestly think he would go back to an irradiated waste land and a criminal life to be with you?

He thumped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fist so hard his nails bit into his palm. Shut it. Ain’t real.

No? So make me be silent, then. More laughter. Oh Jamison. How do you think someone would want to be with you when your own mother couldn’t stand to be with you? 

You don’t know nothing ‘bout my mum, he told her. Nothing. But a couple tears leaked free, and the tingling prickles made him sneeze and he buried his head in the blankets and let himself go until he fell asleep, her laughter and Roadhog’s laughter still ringing in his head.

Sleep was restless, part of him kept jerking awake thinking he heard the door open. He hadn’t. When he finally woke completely he felt like he’d been hit by the ute, then had it back over him again. He stumbled out to the living room where he found Hana and Lucio playing a game with Emily, and Mei and Satya watching. 

“Morning, Junkrat,” Lucio said.

“More like afternoon,” Hana corrected.

“Potato potahto,” Lucio shrugged. “Wanna join? You can play winner.”

“Nah,” he cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s Roadie?”

“Apparently Morrison sent him on some mission. Something going on in Australia. Lena took him early this morning,” Satya said. “Guess you didn’t go ‘cause you’re sick?” Hana asked.

“Yeah. Something like that.” His head went light. Hadn’t thought Roadhog would actually leave. Take the treasure for himself and go… but there it was. He made his way into the kitchen on a floor that seemed to rock like a boat. Opened the sat comm with numb fingers. 

“Morrison.” “It’s Fawkes. I’ll take your offer. I want to turn myself in.”

[iwouldfuckillinois]

Imagine having known Illinois for quite a while now, both of you having gone on many adventures together. You both know each other’s little quirks and tics. You know the way Illinois’s eyes light up at the prospect of a new adventure, the way his brow furrows in concentration at a puzzle or how his entire being shines at finding treasure or a relic, his joy utterly infectious.

He still relentlessly flirts with you, but they’re saturated now with inside jokes and teasing. His sleepy smile as he greets you in the morning, his usual impeccable charm softened by fondness as he passes over a steaming mug, both of you completely at ease with each other.

You know him through and through. So when you notice the slight twitchiness of his fingers, the random changes of subject as you ask about today’s adventure, you start wondering about his nervous energy today. But you trust Illinois. You trust your partner to let you know if something is wrong, just like he trusts you completely when you’re both out there in danger, having each other’s back at every trap and ambush.

The trip goes smoothly. Too smoothly. There’s a suspicious lack of traps and obscure ancient warnings on crumbling walls, as you both traverse up through a cave. Illinois keeps up his usual charm, but there’s a certain distraction to his wit, a hesitation to his words anyone else would’ve missed. You track along, keeping the conversation flowing with your comebacks and teasing, but his nervous energy starts infecting you too. You begin to question what’s wrong. And the longer the trek goes on, the more worried you get. Has something gone wrong? Is he sick? Are we in trouble?

Am I annoying him?

Does he want to end our partnership?

Is he tired of me?

Lost in your own troubling thoughts and insecurities, you almost miss the spike of energy in Illinois, a sudden excitement as both of you reach your apparent destination.

The sight you encounter is breathtaking. Clouds misting above a valley, the first sprinkling of stars above as the sun sets in a beautiful soft glow. A soft breeze blows through your hair and you feel as if you’re on the top of the world, peeking through to the cosmos above.

You don’t notice when Illinois comes to stand right beside you. But you feel his warmth when he softly grabs your hand, turning you towards him. And everything around you fades then, becoming nothing more than background noise compared to the depth of love you see in his eyes.

He starts talking. How you mean more to him than any of his former partners. How he admires every part of your personality, the good, the bad and everything in between. How he fell in love with your wit, your passion, your strength, and dedication. The way you like your toast and hate sand in your socks, the way your laugh brings more warmth than a bonfire and how he loves teasing you while you’re both doing chores, throwing wet clothes at each other. He tells you about how he fell in love with you over and over and over again. He tells you how he wishes to share that love with you for the rest of his life.

Your soft tears start streaming down your face as he slowly lowers himself to one knee, a little box already open in his palm. And he asks.

“Y/N, will you do me the honor of being partners for life?”

And as the last rays of light fade into glittering darkness, his lips warm against yours, the ring a comforting weight against your finger, you realize.

You are happy.