#you can tell which characters i don’t draw much. because i’m locked into the bone zone | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moral-turpitudes · 4 years ago

Text

Silver Linings: Part 1

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts

A/N: Excuse any of my terrible math skills and if this seems rushed. This is the best I could come up with lol, I hope you all like it though!

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Slight Fighting, Descriptions of Drug Use, Drinking, Familial Drama, Fluff, Mentions of Adoption, etc.

Word Count: 3,972

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Adopted Daughter!Reader + Michael Gray x Alfie’s Adopted Daughter!Reader

Summary: After growing tired of hiding, Y/N decides to venture out from the back of her fathers shop, not knowing she’d quite literally fall for one of her father’s enemies who happened to be lurking around the corner. But with tensions growing between the two families, one decision could change the course of their lives as they know it, for better and for worse.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | *Part 4* | Part 5

“Alright Y/N, now when you aim you gotta line yer eyes up with the sight. Take a deep breath, and on that exhale of yours yer gonna pull that little trigger right there.” Alfie said, the teenage girl only coming up to around his chest, her hands shaking slightly as she aimed the small hand gun for one of the flour sacks in the back of the shop. With a small exhale she fired, the bullet whirling through the air and into the target she’d helped draw on it the day before.

“See that’s not so hard innit?” He asked, smiling at the new light in his life.

Y/N heard her father calling for her upstairs, bringing her out of her daydreams from years ago. That was during the first week she’d lived with him after he adopted her from the nearby orphanage. She had no adoptive mother, and no other friends except their dog Cyril, seeing as she had to be practically hidden away on a daily basis. The only time she really went out was to work in her fathers shop, where she’d do her best to avoid being spotted by her fathers business partners-some of which who had strained relationships with him and his men.

Shaking the memory from her brain, she hesitantly walked up the stairs, the creaking of the wood announcing her arrival.

“There you are love. Listen...I’m having Mr. Shelby come by soon so you’ll have to work in the back alright? I know you’ll get me for it later but I’ll make up for it mmkay?” He said, looking his now 21 year old daughter in the eyes. People often found him intimidating, but over the years she grew used to him, knowing deep down he was a sweet person. With every interaction she observed, she could see the pain in his eyes over not being able to really introduce her, knowing it would put her at risk. But deep down there was a mutual understanding between them that it was going to be inevitable that someone would find out, but neither of them thought it would be so soon.

With a sigh, she reluctantly walked towards the back where the other “bakers” worked the ovens and inspected shipments. While she organized bricks of cocaine for shipment, she felt her stomach drop as she realized she’d left her gloves in the front of the shop. She often hated the texture of the bricks as she packed them away, the fabric gloves being her only solace when she was given the task.

Swallowing hard, she nervously crept around the corner, eyeing Thomas Shelby and some of the other blinders in her fathers office as she continued, not noticing the man she collided with as she stumbled back slightly.

“Oi! I’m so sorry sir...wasn’t even fuckin’ looking.” She said, brushing a stray hair from her face and tightening her apron around her waist.

“No problem love, you alright?” He asked, looking concerned as he adjusted his well tailored suit.

“Y-yeah. Just looking for my gloves. I have to go.” She said, knowing she wasn’t supposed to be out for long while the blinders were there, yet trying to not look the dashing man in the eyes.

As she walked away, his eyes followed her to her station where she usually rolled dough and decorated pastries, grabbing her gloves which were tinted white from the previous cocaine shipment she handled earlier in the morning.

“Hey...miss? Before you go...what’s your name?” He asked, a crooked smile spreading across his features as she neared him.

“Uhm...it’s Y/N. What’s yours? You don’t look like you’re from ‘round here.” She said.

“I’m Michael, Michael Gray. I’m with the blinders.” He said.

“Oh....um, well I have to get going. It was nice meeting you...Michael.” She said, awkwardly putting on the gloves as he recognized the powder falling off them.

“What do you around here anyway? I know that’s not flour on those gloves.” He said with a smirk. She swallowed hard before answering, her eyes flicking to the window of her fathers office.

“Um...I bake, and...I organize things. Listen...I really do have to go. I’ll see you ‘round sometime, yeah?” She asked. He followed her gaze to the window, noticing the nervous look on her face.

“Alright. See you around, Y/N.” He said with a wink, walking back to his lookout spot in the corner.

She smirked slightly as she passed him, reluctantly heading straight to the back, the other workers paying her no mind as she resumed packing the bricks.

As she worked, she could hear shouts coming from her fathers office, her stomach tightening in knots at the tension she could see forming in the room. Thomas and him standing close to each other, most likely mumbling threats under their breaths. A few moments later, she saw the men exit the tattered room, putting their razored caps on and storming out the door. Michael ultimately leaving with them, but catching her staring as he looked back towards the room she was in. She smiled lightly as he smirked, shutting the door behind him.

She shook her head as she turned back, getting the rest of her packing done while shaking away the thought of someone like him ever taking an interest. She knew her father dealt in dangerous business, so she wasn’t afraid of the blinders and her father doing business necessarily, but she couldn’t deny that them feuding terrified her, knowing even one slip-up could put her or her father at risk. Blowing their years-long cover.

As she was lost in thought, Alfie walked down after they left, smiling as he grabbed a bottle of rum from one of the crates and locking it back.

“You don’t have to organize all those love. How about we go call it a day aye? I know you’re probably wanting summing’ because your old man made ya work back ‘ere all day.” He said. His words annoying to her ears as of late as she grew bored of her life at the shop and at home. One question forever buzzing in the back of her mind as she continued her monotonous tasks.

“I was wondering something....” She said, taking her gloves off and turning towards him.

“Yeah? Wondering about work or what? I’m all ears now you know.” He said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand.

Her stomach tightened again as she looked her loving, yet over-protective father in the eyes.

“I was uh...wondering how you would feel if I moved out?” She asked, the thought barely working its way through her anxious mind before spewing out of her mouth.

“What?” He asked, his eyes squinting as he cocked his head to the side.

“I-I just think since I’m an adult now, I’d like to have a place of my own. That way I won’t come between ya and the business as much. I’m tired of hiding, dad.” She said, throwing the gloves on the table as she sat next to him.

“What devils gotten into your bones? Have you been sniffing the snow or drinking me rum?” He asked.

“No dad....I just...I just want to be more independent that’s all.” She said.

“I’ll tell ya what...if you pack the snow for the next month I’ll up your pay so you can get you a place. I’ll chip in some too but getting it on your own will be good for ya. I taught you to shoot but I didn’t teach ya about life aye?” He said.

“No not really. But spare me the lectures. Let’s get home. I’m starving.” She said.

“Alright. Let’s get on with it then.” He said, walking with his cane as they made their way to the car.

As the next few weeks passed, she found herself going into work with a smile. Knowing she’d get to work towards her own place, and for the chance to see the dapper blinder who’d been making regular appearances lately, and to her surprise, for more than business reasons.

He’d been sent by Thomas to crunch numbers and talk bets with Alfie, knowing that he was sent to handle more of the legitimate business than the illegal stuff.

But if Y/N learned anything throughout her years, it was knowing when to make herself known.

She waited until Alfie closed his office door, watching Michael walk down the creaky steps as she did a small whistle.

He turned around and grinned, walking towards her, as was becoming their habit recently.

“Y/N, didn’t think you were here, love. Must’ve been in the back again aye?” He asked, quietly. She nodded and led him to one of the women’s lavatories.

“W-why are we in here? I haven’t even taken you on a date.” He asked, a mischievous grin on his lips.

“Shh. There’s no other place right now for us to go. I haven’t told him.” She said.

“Told who?” He asked.

“My-my father. Alfie.” She said, nervously biting her lip as she removed her hand from his. Crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wait...your father is Alfie fucking Solomons?” He asked, his face hardening at the fact. His usual happy demeanor fading.

“Well, adoptive father. He uh adopted me when I was 16 from an orphanage ’round here. He wanted to protect me...from uh...people like you. I guess he’s had some bad history with the blinders and other groups so I’ve been most my life, just working here to pass the time.” She said.

“People like me? What...are you afraid of me?” He asked.

“What? No! I’ve been around dangerous men all my life. I’m just saying that your blinder cousins may not take a liking to me and neither will my father to you. I just have a bad feeling about it.” She said.

“So...what are we to do? Fucking talk in the bathroom every week or what?” He asked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“We’ll do what I do best. We’ll have to hide.” She said. He looked at her with a confused expression as he put his hand on her hips.

“I get off at 4pm and my father won’t be home until late at night. I usually go straight home, but meet me at the warehouse later around 7pm, yeah?” She asked, seeing him smirk.

“Michael I’m deadly serious. If Thomas or my father finds out we’re as good as dead.” She said.

“Fine...I’ll meet you, but I want you to bring some of the snow. Can you sneak it out?” He asked.

“Yeah. Alright, now go, the workers are coming down the hall.” She said, hearing the plethora of Alfie’s men stomping down the dark hall, making it easier for Michael to slip out un-noticed.

“See you then, Y/N.” He said, pecking her cheek before he left.

She rubbed the spot, her cheeks flushing at the brief contact.

“Y/N?” Alfie’s voice rang from the hall, making her heart race as she thought of all the reasons he could be asking for her, internally praying that it wasn’t because he caught Michael leaving.

“Yeah dad?” She asked, quickly stepping out of the restroom.

“Thought ya ran off love. I was just gonna remind ya I’m working late again.” He said.

“Alright, how many nights are you working late?” She asked.

“Well, probably every day for this month. Thomas and the rest of his blinders are damn near making me lose me mind.” He said.

“Oh...ok. Well I’ll keep an eye on Cyril then. Is it ok if I go out to the shops later? Been wanting to stock up for the new place, for whenever I get it.” She said.

“I mean I’m not going to be there so I can’t stop ya can’t I? You can but remember your gun and that knife. You remember how to use it aye?” He asked.

“Yes dad, I can’t really forget stabbing a man for you, nor can I forget putting a bullet through his head.” She said, shivering slightly at the memory of when things got tense at the shop with a disgruntled employee. Alfie had beaten the man unconscious and dragged the man to the back, telling her that it would be good practice. And it was, but after it was done, she vowed to herself that she’d never use such weapons unless she had to.

“Right, well I have to go deal with some business. I’ll let you off at 4 like usual alright?” He asked.

“Okay, thanks dad. I’ll see you...I guess tomorrow depending on how late you get in.” She said giving him a hug before walking back to her station.

The last few hours dragged on as she reminisced over the past couple of weeks. Her heart skipped a beat thinking about how they’d secretly talk and make out behind the shop where her dad couldn’t see, and how on days like today she had to drag him into the restroom as her heart beat out of her chest at the rebelliousness of it all. It was nothing compared to what she planned to get away with tonight, and for hopefully weeks to come, but it was a small step towards her independence, even if they had to hide their relationship from the world.

As the clock struck 4 she headed towards the back of the building, snagging a bottle of rum from an opened crate and replacing it with one that had just came off the line for the night. Shoving the bottle in her purse as she grabbed a rather small brick of cocaine, it being one of the various runts in the pile they’d received that day.

With quick steps, she went out the door and down to the car that was waiting for her. The purse growing slightly heavy as she continued on. Her father didn’t want her walking home alone of course, and so he arranged for one of his men to routinely take her home, ultimately becoming a blessing and a curse for her independence she was so desperately trying to achieve.

“Hello Tim, I have an odd request today.” She said, counting the huge wad of cash in her purse she’d managed to save up well before asking about apartments

“What’s that Ms.Solomons?” He asked, hid old face wrinkling with a smile.

“Can we stop by the housing department? I’ve had my eye on an apartment for a few weeks. Don’t worry though, I’ve already gotten my fathers approval.” She said, pulling off her biggest lie yet.

“Alright, after that do you wish to go home? He asked.

“Yes please.” She said, watching as the streets zipped by.

Once at the housing department, she told the landlord where she’d like to stay and she followed her to the requested location. Her eyes lit up as she saw the rather grand place. It was just close enough that her father needn’t worry too much while also being just enough of a distance away from the shops she loved going to. It was a rather safe area given the town and her fathers plethora of men protecting her, but she enjoyed the new sense of independence as she gave the woman a cash deposit, along with enough for the years rent.

The woman’s eyes lit up as she saw the amount of cash, Y/N rather un-phased given her fathers business.

“Are you sure Ms.? This is so much in advance.” She said.

“Yes. When shall I move in?” She asked. Checking her watch and seeing it was just after 5pm.

“Oh I’d say ‘round any time next week. Here’s your key, just drop by before you begin moving in.” She said with a smile as she got in her car and left.

“Alright Tim, I’m ready to go home.” She said, a satisfied smile on her face.

“I’m impressed. You got this place yourself? Alfie must be proud.” He said.

“Mhmm.” Y/N said, nervously fidgeting with her hands as she remembered the lie. He’d have her neck if he knew she’d already bought the place earlier than he would’ve liked. But what could it hurt?

The minutes passed rather quickly as she was dropped off at her house, walking inside to see Cyril’s tail wagging as she came through the front door. The house was dimly lit and quiet, just as she’d left it that morning. She played with him and made sure his water bowl was filled, seeing as the maid would help feed him later, but she still loved helping wherever she could.

“Ms. Y/N, I have your dress ready. I’ll feed the dog later and make sure the house is kept before leaving. I hope you enjoy your date.” The older woman said, a genuine smile on her face.

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me these last few weeks. Here.” She said, giving her a few slips of cash from her purse.

“Just as a thank you. I’ll be moving in next week to my apartment. Dad doesn’t know though so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him.” She said.

The maids eyes widened at the cash in her hand, agreeing with a small smile and a quick nod before returning to her duties. As much as she loved this house, she wanted to do things on her own terms. She wanted to meet people on her own terms, and finally not hide herself. To make more friends than just the maid. To start actually living.

With an excited smile she ran up the stairs, putting the casual dress on and doing her makeup, deciding to leave her hair as-is, then anxiously making her way outside. The purses weight tugging at her shoulder as she walked down the quiet streets, her gun in her purse and her small knife in hand.

Once she neared the warehouse, she sat around the back, taking a swig of the rum before Michael got there to calm her nerves.

She watched the sun set over Camden Town, the birds songs ending as the insects buzzed about, the air turning a bit colder as she looked at her watch. It was just after 7pm, her heart sinking in her chest as she thought he’d stood her up. But after a few moments, she heard footsteps, making her panic slightly not knowing who was behind them. She carefully drew her gun, aiming at the man as he walked closer, his hands soon up in surrender.

“Y/N? It’s me. Michael.” He said, a smirk on his face, lowering his hands.

“I figured you were ‘round back, didn’t think you’d try to shoot me though.” He said.

“Sorry. You never know out here.” She said, putting her gun away and retrieving the cocaine and rum.

“You carried all that here? I’m impressed.” He said, inspecting the cocaine as she opened the bottle, taking another swig from it. She cringed internally as the liquid burned her throat. She’d only drank a few times, not to any huge extent, but now that she was older and more capable, she figured she at least could drink how she pleased.

“How’d you score this rum?” He asked, taking a swig from the bottle as well.

“I stole it from my dads stash in the back. And that coke is one of the runts of the batch, it was too small to pack in the big crates. Figured I’d bring the whole thing since you seemed to know about it a couple weeks ago.” She said, smirking at the memory of their first awkward meeting.

“Have you tried it?” He asked, leaning back against the wall of the warehouse.

“No.” She said turning away from his gaze as she nervously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s easy. Watch.” He said, unwrapping it and shaving off a sliver of the white substance with her knife. He sat it on top of the brick and made sure it was all crushed, forming it in a straight line.

He handed her the brick carefully as she held it up towards his face, him inhaling the powder through his nose in one fell swoop.

“You want me to shove that shit up my nose? Are you mad?” She asked, giggling as she took another swig from the rum.

“Yeah. Can’t hide from everything love.” He said, his words hitting home probably more than he realized.

“Alright, if I die, my fathers gonna have your head on a spike.” She said.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He said, preparing a smaller amount of the drug and holding it up to where she could inhale it through her nose. Her nostril burned as she did so, the foreign particles lacing their way through her system.

She laughed and shook her head, wiping her nose of any excess powder as she looked up at Michael who was chuckling slightly.

“That was so odd. I’m not doing that again. Not right now anyway.” She said, handing him the bottle of rum as she curled up next to him. It had only been about a month since they’d met, but even then, their interactions became more frequent.

Over the next few weeks, it was as if they’d known each other for years the way they got on. His aunt Polly eventually seeing a spark in his eye that wasn’t there before, and the same went for Alfie.

“You’ve met someone. I can tell.” Polly said one night, catching him coming in drunk on more than one occasion.

“Yeah I did. Tommy can’t do anything about it. It’s not his concern so don’t go telling him.” He said as he stumbled into the house.

As Michael grappled with the weight of seeing an adversaries daughter, Y/N had gradually moved things into her apartment with the help of her driver, all under her fathers nose. But she knew that once her room was more vacant, he’d catch on. Knowing if the blinders didn’t anger him enough, her leaving suddenly surely would.

One night after a drunken date with her mystery boyfriend, Alfie confronted her. Holding the small brick they’d chipped away at over the previous weeks.

“Oi! You wanna explain this? No daughter of mine is going to be sneaking drugs in me house. Do you really think I’m dumb? Cuz I guarantee you I’m not. This can’t happen. Not under my roof.” He said, lighting his cigar.

“Well if you didn’t want to pack it anyway I thought I might as well put it to good use. But uh, I’ll be sneaking it under me own roof from now on. I’ve bought a place if you couldn’t already tell from barging in my room to find that.” She said, folding her arms like she often did when she was frustrated.

Alfie stepped closer to her, his eyes not leaving hers as she barely flinched.

“I’ll find out who you’re doing all this for. Once I do, you’ll wish ya never stole a thing.” He said, walking towards his chair he usually sat on in their grand living room.

Y/N shook her head and chuckled to herself, stomping off towards her room. Her mind raced as she thought about what to do, grabbing what was left of her clothes and hurling them into her suitcases, deciding to leave the house for good in the morning.

Alfie sighed and sat back in his chair as he heard Y/N rummaging around upstairs. The sweet girl he helped raise all of a sudden wanting to leave the nest.

It seemed like everything was fine in their lives until the peaky fucking blinders waltzed into his shop. Not caring who they destroyed as long as they got their money, their rum, or their drugs.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders fanfic #michael gray x female!reader #michael gray x reader #michael gray x y/n #michael gray #katiesfics #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x adopted daughter!reader

149 notes · View notes

eurydicees · 3 years ago

Text

the gardens which grow in the bodies between us

summary: kyoya is in love with tamaki. tamaki is in love with haruhi. haruhi is in love with kyoya. love is not a game any of them was ever meant to win.

prompt: tamakyoharu hanahaki disease au for @what-the-flowers!

pairings: tamaki suoh/kyoya ootori (unrequited), kyoya ootori/haruhi fujioka (unrequited), tamaki suoh/haruhi fujioka (unrequited)

words: 1504

warnings: mentions of vomiting, major character death

The first time that Kyoya coughs up flowers, it’s two am in the dead of winter and he’s shivering on the bathroom floor. He takes one look at the lavender rose petals in the toilet and he knows that this is how he dies.

—

The problem with Hanahaki disease, Haruhi thinks, is that everyone knows when you get it. When they have to run out of class for the third time that week, the hand over their mouth barely masking their coughs, everyone knows exactly why. People don’t know who caused it, but they know what’s wrong. People know why they’re kneeling over the trashcan in the bathroom, and they know who is leaving the red rose petals there. Everyone knows that they’ll die in two weeks, and there’s nothing any of them can do to stop it.

—

It’s the fourth love confession that day, and Tamaki is tired. His throat is sore and his stomach hurts and his chest aches, and he still has to let down yet another girl. Yes, he’s been coughing up white roses, he says. No, he says, it’s not because of you. No, he says, it’s a useless love.

—

Kyoya could confess. It would be so easy. He’s never had trouble talking to Tamaki before. Tamaki knows all of the secrets that Kyoya never thought he’d say out loud and he knows everything that Kyoya refuses to say. All of the things that you need to know in order to unravel Kyoya Ootori and understand him, Tamaki knows. All of the things that keep you from ever falling in love with him.

Because, Kyoya thinks, how could someone who knows each of his shadows ever fall in love with them?

—

You get one shot at saving your life, Haruhi knows. You get one chance— confess your love and have it requited. Returned with kind hands and a kiss. The flowers which grow in your chest will rot away, and you’ll cough for the last time. You’ll heal.

They have to take the chance.

When they confess to Kyoya, they vomit roses onto his feet. They look up at him, touching a hand to their lips, and they don’t have to explain. All he does is shrug helplessly.

“I can’t,” he says quietly. “I think you know that.”

“I know,” Haruhi murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

He takes a breath, pushing his glasses farther up his nose with one finger. “When did you start?”

“Three days ago was the first time,” Haruhi says, not even bothering to ask what he means. They know. It’s all anyone wants to know— when the countdown started, and how long they have left together. “It’s just gotten worse since then.”

Kyoya smiles wryly. “I suppose we’ll die on the same day then.”

—

Here’s the root of the problem, Tamaki thinks: he has never fallen in love with the right person.

The rest of Ouran is trying to save him, trying to keep him from coughing out everything he has left in him. Tamaki knows better— there’s never been any point in it. However much Tamaki tries, however much he loves, however often he asks, his feelings will never be requited. He knows this in the same way he knows that they will all die together: Tamaki and Kyoya and Haruhi. Buried in a grave of roses.

He knows that the other two also have the disease. He knows that they’re interlocked, linked together by fate, brought together in a circle that won’t end until it bleeds out. He knows that they’re broken in a way that cannot be fixed.

Sometimes, people get lucky, and they fall in love with someone who loves them back. Tamaki has never been lucky. No, Tamaki has always had an affinity for flowers and the lungs of the breathless. He has always been meant to die this way.

—

Of course it’s Tamaki that’s going to kill him. It’s always been Tamaki. Kyoya circles around him as if he were the center draw of gravity. He runs his life at Tamaki’s will, letting that laugh push and pull at his heartstrings in the same way Tamaki’s hands play the piano. He’s handed his entire soul over to Tamaki, and now he’s just waiting for Tamaki to break it.

It’s a terrible circle, Kyoya thinks. Tamaki in love with Haruhi and Haruhi in love with Kyoya and Kyoya in love with Tamaki. Maybe they could all be happy if they didn’t care so deeply. If their feelings were just a little smaller and their hearts a little harder. As it is, though, the three of them are just an ouroboros eating itself alive.

—

The three of them start spending all of their time together, mourning their last few days alive. Maybe they would all survive this, Haruhi thinks, if the three of them could stop feeling so sorry for themselves. Maybe they could work something out. Or, maybe there was never any way out of this. Maybe this was just destiny.

—

“One day left,” Tamaki says. He smiles, dark and bitter and sad. But not angry. Never angry. It’s not anyone’s fault. “Sure you didn’t have a last minute change of heart?”

Haruhi swallows, pulling their knees up to their chest and wrapping their arms around their ankles. They don’t meet Tamaki’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The three of them sit in Tamaki’s room; Kyoya and Haruhi on his bed, Tamaki at his desk chair. They don’t know how to speak to each other without speaking in the tongues of the doomed. There is no other language between the three of them. There is only that of the flowers they choke on.

“It’s okay,” Tamaki tells them. It’s not, but they all let the lie slip away without argument. It’s not worth protesting their deaths, not now.

“There’s something poetic about it,” Haruhi muses. “The Host Club falling apart like this. Because of unrequited love.”

Kyoya closes his eyes, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. “Poetic certainly is one word for it.”

“A true tragedy,” Tamaki says. He pulls one foot up onto the chair, resting his elbow on his knee. “I’d say I’ll miss you guys, but I guess you’ll be gone, too.”

“Maybe we’ll be reincarnated together,” Haruhi says softly. “And maybe next time, it will work out.”

Tamaki shrugs. “Maybe.”

Kyoya sighs. “Maybe.”

—

Kyoya is the first to die. He didn’t want the other two to see him go, so he spent the day at home, rather than go to school or to Tamaki or Haruhi’s houses. He locks himself in his bathroom and sits down with his back against the door, his eyes closed.

It doesn’t take long to start coughing again. The time between fits of petals is getting shorter and shorter. He knows that it’s coming to an end.

The petals come thick and fast now, and he doesn’t bother to try and get them in the trashcan or toilet. It’s not worth covering up the evidence of his broken heart, not anymore. He had been careful about appearances before, but he figures that it no longer matters.

What matters is that he’s coughing and he can’t stop. The petals turn to blood turns to dirt. There’s a garden in his chest and it’s spilling off of his tongue. He leans his head back against the door, legs spread in front of him. He can’t breathe and it’s not worth trying anymore. Kyoya lets the garden burst free of his chest, all of his love carving out a rose bush from his body.

He sleeps, and he doesn’t wake up. Lavender roses bloom in the place of breath.

—

Haruhi goes to sleep coughing up red roses. The petals are clogging up their throat until it feels like they can’t breathe; the vines are beginning to pull out of their heart and up through to their tongue. The thorns scrape at their lungs until the muscles bleed. They fall asleep like that, letting the roses grow and grow and grow. Until there is nothing left— no pulse, no breath, no love. There are only the flowers.

It’s a painless death, for Haruhi, but it is death all the same.

—

Tamaki is alone when he coughs up blood rather than flowers. He coughs until his lungs feel as if they have emptied themselves, until his heart feels as if it is no longer human, until the flowers have truly grown through his ribcage and sprouted thorns in his throat. There are no more coughs left, just a boy, lying down, roses bursting from his ribcage out through his chest and into vines that curl around the bedsheets. There is no more coughing, no more blood nor bone. Just a body made up of dirt and rose.

—

Here is the problem with love: no one ever falls in love with the right person.

Here is the problem with Hanahaki disease: no one ever survives it.

#my writing #august prompt challenge #hanahaki #tamakyoharu #ohshc #ouran high school host club #ouran koukou host club #ohshc fanfiction

35 notes · View notes

sweetpeasgirl · 4 years ago

Text

Treat You Better | Sweet Pea

Description: Based on the song “Treat You Better” by Shawn Mendes, Jughead and Y/n’s relationship is at it’s bittersweet end and Sweet Pea, her best friend, is there to defend her

Word Count: 2.3k

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Female!Reader

Warnings: Kinda angsty but not really

Tags: Angst, FLUFF

The White Wrym is not where you thought you would spend your Saturday night but Jughead had said that he needed to take care of a few things and you didn't want to be blown off again. You understand that he's busy, you really do. He's the son of the former Serpent leader; of course he's going to have a lot more on his plate. You just didn't think he'd push you off of it- the plate.

Sweet Pea had warned you about that. It was the latest topic of argument between you. For best friends, the two of you fight a lot. You know he's just trying to look out for you, that's been his role since the two of you were kids. He's in the grade above you, and was originally your older brother's friend, but they fell out a couple years ago. He never left you though.

He's always been the one watching your back. At first he just kept you out of harm's way, whether that be from grade school bullies or the men who lurk in alleyways when you're trying to walk home. Now, though, he has to watch out for boys who say they care about you but don't. He has to watch out for heartbreak.

That's where Jughead comes in. Sweet Pea is just being his overprotective self, like usual. Sure, you've had your fair share of walking out into the busy street with your head down, and he's had to pull you back quite a few times, but this is different. He can't save a heart that's supposed to break. Jughead does care about you, or at least he did when you first got together last year. Some things, however, just aren't meant to last forever.

Forever is a long time and time has a funny way of changing things.

"Juggie, it's your turn," your voice is quiet as you hand him the wooden pool cue, trying not to draw attention to yourself.

It's cold in the bar and you had been alerted so suddenly that date night was getting moved here that you didn't have time to grab a sweater. You can feel the stares burning into uncovered shoulders. It puts you on edge as Jughead accepts the cue from your shaky hands and takes his shot absentmindedly. Something's going on in his head, you can tell by the way he furrows his eyebrows and watches the people around him.

You, meanwhile, are trying hard not to look anywhere but the green felt of the pool table. There's commotion all around you. Shouts can be heard from the bar and the sound of smashing bottles that accompanies them. There's laughter coming from somewhere else but it doesn't sound friendly. Whatever it's about is cruel; it’s something that should not be made a joke of.

You're definitely way out of your comfort zone. Hell, you're way out of your un-comfort zone. You're just plain scared and, with the lack of conversation that Jughead is providing, the regret is bubbling quick in your chest. You almost wish he would just break up with you so you can cry and move on already.

"Jughead," a loud voice breaks the awkward silence around the crowded pool table, "there you are boy. We can finally discuss what you wanted to talk about now."

A tall, middle aged man with light brown hair and a weeks worth of beard growth pats your boyfriend on the back. Jughead shoots you an apologetic look as he passes the pool cue back to you once more. Your blood runs cold as he starts to walk in the opposite direction with the newcomer. He's seriously leaving you alone, in a room full of people who honestly aren't the safest characters, on what was supposed to be your night. Something happened to the boy you first knew and this just settled what you already thought. It’s over.

Your eyes blur with unshed tears at the hurt and fear circulating through your veins. He disappears from sight and the dark atmosphere gets hazier as you grip the side of the table to keep yourself steady. You can once again feel the stares burning into your back. It's like they were waiting for you to be left unattended. When you're with Jughead, the heir of the Serpent crown, you can't be touched. When you're with Sweet Pea, their deadly warrior, you can't be touched. When it's just you, though, anything goes.

You don't know what to do. It's only a matter of time before someone approaches you and when that happens you'll be in a situation that you probably won't be able to get yourself out of. That's the one thing your mother always told not to do; never put yourself into a situation that you can't get out of. Sweet Pea would not be happy.

"Y/n, what the hell are you doing here?"

Case in point. You jump at the sound of his voice but spin around instantly and bury yourself into his chest nonetheless. The tears fall down your face before you can stop them but you really couldn't care less. The smell of leather and pine surrounds you and warmth finally fills your body. Apparently you're colder than you had originally thought.

The relief that fills you is unmeasurable and you cling to Sweet Pea tightly, "It was supposed to be our night but-” you hiccup, tugging on his jacket- “I didn't want to miss another date night-” another hiccup- “I didn't want to-” you rub your forehead against his chest, your voice now just a whisper- “he left."

Your thoughts come out scrambled and between ugly sobs but it's enough for Sweet Pea to gather the overall picture of what happened. After all, he has been doing this for a while. He tightens his arms around you, the anger radiating off his uncovered skin in heated waves.

"He left you? Here?" Sweet Pea is seething when he pulls back.

He lifts you to sit on the edge of the pool table, the game laying discarded behind you. The visual reminder only makes the tears come faster and the warmth leave your bones again. You start shivering but this time you can't steel yourself enough to stop, the realization dawning before you can lie to yourself again. You and Jughead are done. You have been for a long time now and everyone else saw it before you did.

"Pea, we're over," you can't raise your voice above a harsh whisper, covering your raw face with your hands to suffocate the onslaught of cries you can feel bubbling to the surface, "we're over now. You were right."

You close your eyes to avoid staring into Sweet Pea's murderous chocolate ones. All you feel now is the ice circling your veins.

"Baby, hey," a large jacket that smells too much like Sweet Pea to not belong to him is draped over your shoulders, "it's okay. We'll go home."

The anger seeps out of his voice and you peer up to see the concerned face of your best friend once more. He's looking at you in the same way he was the time fell out of Jughead's tree house. You had blacked out from the fall and woke up in the hospital with a broken leg. He was so scared that he didn't leave your side for a minute. But it's different now, you're not physically hurt, so he shouldn't look worried.

You let out a sorrowful breath and just nod your head, a deep weariness settling over your being. At least you're getting what you had wanted. A clean break.

"Y/n, can we talk?"

You hadn't noticed Jughead come back but now he stands a little behind Sweet Pea who is still in front of you. Sweet Pea instantly turns at the sound of his voice, the rage back and in full swing. You just lower your head, too tired to keep it up.

"Jones you're so lucky I'm not beating the crap out of you right now. I didn't think you were stupid enough to leave her here but I guess I was wrong! You're just lucky I happened to be here. And that she doesn't hate you." Sweet Pea spits his words at Jughead

"Look, man, can I just talk to my girlfriend?" Jughead's voice is monotone, both of you knowing he's just calling you his so that he can officially end it once and for all.

It's for the best and you both know it. His phrasing, however, doesn't go over well with Sweet Pea.

"Are you serious right now? Or is this a sick joke? You forfeit that title when you left her as free game for anyone in this place,” Sweet Pea steps towards him and you hold your breath, knowing quite well who would win the fight if one were to ensue. “You're dating the most beautiful girl in this shitty town and you treat her like she doesn't even matter! If it was me she wouldn't be crying on a damn table, she would know damn well just how much I love her!"

Your head snaps up at his words, your breath hitching in your throat. The commotion of the bar is drowned out around you and all you can see is Sweet Pea's back. He can't really love you, can he? He's just making a point, being the best friend he always has been. The logic makes sense to you but you can feel your heart breaking for the second time tonight because of it.

You place a hand on Sweet Pea's shoulder, drawing his attention back to you, "it's okay Pea, I should talk to him at least."

He doesn't look happy but he nods, helping you off the table and moving to the side to let you pass. You look at Jughead and toss him a melancholy smile. It's wrapped with bittersweet memories from all your late night's at Pop's and early mornings coming back from the drive-in. Jughead and you had some pretty good times despite your inevitable end. Maybe, just maybe, though, you can make it a peaceful end.

"Y/n I do love you," Jughead takes his beanie off and runs his hand through his already messy, raven locks, "but not like I did before. Somewhere between moving here and, well, taking on the role of my dad I let us fall apart. I'm sorry."

"It's okay Juggie. I probably wasn't putting as much effort in as I could have," he scoffs at that, a guilty smirk on his face.

You both know that you gave this relationship your all. But, standing here now with Sweet Pea's eyes searing into your back, it's pretty clear that your heart was forming attachments with another person. Which means that sooner or later you and Jughead would have fallen apart anyway. Sometimes these kinds of things are no one's fault. It's a mutual heartbreak and when it needs to happen, it needs to happen.

"You know, y/n, I don't feel too bad about losing you to him."

You furrow your brows at his comment, your voice cracking slightly when you speak, "what do you mean? He was just saying all that stuff. Pea doesn't love me."

Jughead rolls his eyes and glances quickly at Sweet Pea before walking closer to you. You can tell he doesn't want him to hear what he's about to say.

"Y/n that boy is in over his head. It's a feeling I can relate very much to but listen to me," his eyes capture yours in a serious stare, "he's going to treat you better than I ever could. He's not going to leave you in dangerous situations or bail on plans. Can't you see he'd take a bullet for you?"

Your heart races at his words and you spare a glance at Sweet Pea. He's already looking at you, the worry back in his mesmerizing eyes. He raises an eyebrow at you, pulling a smile to your lips. Maybe Jughead is right. Maybe you love Sweet Pea as more than a best friend.

Looking at him now, his tanned skin glowing under the dim lights and his dark brown hair pushed behind his ears, there's no doubt in your mind that you're attracted to him. Sweet Pea has always looked handsome in your eyes, even after a fight with purple bruises staining his face. You think back to all the times he's been there when you needed him most. That boy drops whatever he's doing when you call; no matter if you're just bored or looking for someone to nap next to he’s there next to you. You've always felt at home when you're with him. Hell, you have a drawer in his room devoted to your clothes.

Sweet Pea loves you and you're pretty damn sure that you love him too.

Turning back to Jughead, you nod your head, "I'd take one for him too."

"Good. I think I'll leave now. Thanks for everything, y/n," Jughead pulls you into one last hug before heading out the door.

You pull Sweet Pea's jacket tighter around you as you walk back towards him. He gathers you once more into his chest and you let the last of your tears fall. There will never be a time when parting isn't such sweet sorrow. It's the beginning of something new but also the end of something that you once thrived on. However, wrapped completely in Sweet Pea's scent, you've never felt like you belonged somewhere so much.

"Ready to go home baby?"

"Yeah Pea. Let's go home."

#Sweet Pea #sweet pea riverdale #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #sweet pea imagine #riverdale #riverdale imagine #jughead jones #riverdale series #reader insert

164 notes · View notes

onecanonlife · 3 years ago

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #technoblade #philza #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #deep breaths everybody deep breaths

45 notes · View notes

noctualilith · 4 years ago

Text

The Way You Speak

Like many good things in life, a convo that sparked this idea happened on our beloved Hazelnoots Discord Server Of Love And Inspiration. This fic was then written over three months live directly on the server. Now it is finished and I can release it into the wilderness of the Internet!

So the roster says about Nado ‘Rival with Evgeni for most pick ups on the team’ My brain: They live together, right? So they hear each other have fun all the time. Coughthreesomescough. Tell me I'm wrong I challenge you.

Nuny own my whole heart. A slightly alternate universe, a slightly different getting together story.

Sweater Weather universe and the characters of Kuny and Nado and the ‘I love the way you speak’ line by the wonderful @lumosinlove

My eternal gratitude for grammar stuffs and beta belongs to @tetedump

cw: explicit smut with feelings, mentions of alcohol in the beginning, mentions of food towards the end

word count: 12,8k

Jackson was squinting into the light of the open fridge, pondering the snack choices, when the door of the apartment crashed open. "Kuns, that you?"

"Hello Nado! Have guest!"

Closing the fridge with a sigh, Jackson wandered to the hall to greet his friend, only to find him locking lips with a gorgeous brunette, pressing her against the door, oblivious to their surroundings.

"Uh, hi, um-- have fun? I'll... be in my room. Yeah. With headphones on," he stammered, backing up slowly.

The gorgeous brunette peeked around Kuny's shoulder at his words and extended her hand towards him, stopping his retreat. "Hello, gorgeous, and you are?"

Kuny noticed him too and broke into a huge smile immediately. "I introduce! This my best friend! Best man, best teammate! Jackson, meet Jackie."

Jackie looked him up and down slowly, her gaze rooting him to the spot. She narrowed her eyes and looked between Kuny and him a few times, then nodded to herself as if she had solved a riddle that they themselves were not even aware of. "Hi Jackson. Nice to meet you." A wink, an outstretched hand, and Jackson was nothing but polite when he stepped closer to shake her hand, instead of away, far far away.

He could smell the familiar scent of Kuny's cologne, and the sweet tang of sweat underneath, could almost taste it and something low in his belly twisted and pulled. He kept his eyes locked with Jackie, but all his focus was on Kuny, he could see him in his periphery, feel his gaze on the side of his face. It was hot in here, wasn't it? Maybe he should open the window for a bit, get some air in--

"Jackson, would you like to join us for a drink? I was promised the real Russian vodka, the hard stuff," Jackie smirked as she turned to Kuny and raised her eyebrows.

The answering smile spread slowly across Kuny's face and it was wicked. Oh god. Nado's mouth was dry all of a sudden, as he searched the face of his friend for clues as to what the next best move was.

Kuny cocked his head in his direction. "You want?" The question seemed to contain more than just an invitation for a drink and Nado found himself nodding even before he processed the sudden twist of events, at loss for words and starting to sweat when Jackie pulled on his hand that was still in hers from their introduction, Kuny taking his other hand and pulling him towards the kitchen. What the everloving fuck.

"You get glass, I get bottle." He was directed to the cupboard while Kuny opened the freezer and pulled out the bottle of vodka with a triumphant "Zdes!"

Gathering three shot glasses, Jackson headed to their living room and sat heavily on the couch, still not sure what the invitation meant. They weren't in the habit of introducing their one-night-stands to each other, more like boasting about them the day after and teasing each other about the overheard sounds, the badly hidden hickeys or the occasional forgotten piece of underwear. To say he was nervous was an understatement, but he was also curious. Curious to see where this led, if it was a grand prank or something else entirely.

A squeal and a bout of laughter from the kitchen tore him from his thoughts. A low murmur of conversation reached his ears and he strained to hear but couldn't understand much beyond the cadence of voices. Questions asked in a husky female voice, and the low purr of Kuny's bass answering them. Jackson could almost see his lips shape the vowels, his accent audible even if he couldn't recognize the words.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, digging his fingers into his thigh to try and ground himself momentarily. He didn't dare shape the thoughts in his mind around what he hoped would happen next. Better to err on the side of caution and spare himself the embarrassment of probably being wrong. But what if you're right, the voice in his mind whispered. The same voice that never hesitated to comment when his eyes lingered too long on his best friend, like what you see? He did, a lot. That was the whole problem, but what was he going to do about it? Close his eyes and drown it in vodka, seemed like.

Kuny had the ice-cold bottle of vodka already open, drops of condensation running down his forearm as he lifted it up, stopping right in front of Jackson and nodding at him "The good stuff, you know already. The hard stuff. From Russia." Turning to Jackie who was making herself comfortable on the couch, he addressed her almost conspiratory, "he knows good stuff."

"Oh yeah?" her laugh rang through the room as Kuny poured the clear liquid and distributed the shot glasses, sitting heavily on the other side of Jackson, their thighs pressing together.

"Na zdrowie."

Jackson replied in kind, the Russian phrase rolling off his tongue, one of the few he learned and could reproduce without butchering the language. Everything beyond three or four syllables was hopeless, but this one he could do, putting extra effort in rolling the *r* and waiting for the nod of approval from his best friend.

At the confused look on Jackie's face he explained, "It's like cheers, in Russian."

"Oh, I see. Well then, cheers, gentlemen!"

They clinked the glasses together, Kuny still fixing him with his gaze as they downed them at once. Jackie threw her head back and hissed at the burn as the liquor slid down her throat, but Jackson was still caught in Kuny's eyes, staring back as they both swallowed without a sound.

His eyes were pulled away only by Kuny's tongue darting out and licking a drop of the liquid that caught at the corner of his mouth, Jackson copying the action unconsciously and seeing Kuny's eyes flick down to his mouth. The hot twist low in his belly came back with more insistence and he half-heartedly blamed it on the alcohol, even though he knew the one shot couldn't have done it.

He almost forgot the other person in the room until she cleared her throat delicately and the both turned to her. She looked between them and then held out her glass. "Who's in for another?"

One shot turned into three and the tension in the air dissipated a little as they downed the liquor, cursing and laughing at the burn. The alcohol helped to shake off the apprehension and Jackson found himself relaxing minutely.

He still wasn't sure where the evening was headed, this was miles away from the usual situation he'd find himself in - at a club or a bar, one or both of them picking up a date to go home with that night, easy conversation carried by the beat of the music and flow of drinks, hazy on the details in the headache of the following morning.

This was home and there was a very gorgeous woman on their couch, currently resting her hand on his knee and asking him a question which he totally overheard because his also gorgeous roommate and best friend chose that moment to sling his arm across his shoulders and pull him into his side, jostling them all in the process. "Sorry, what?"

Jackson forced himself to focus on Jackie as she looked at them with an amused smile. He did not like that smile. She looked like she had a plan and when he looked back at Kuny he found that expression mirrored on his face.

Part of him, the reckless, unbound part that reveled in the thrill of pushing his limits and living life to the fullest, damn the consequences and damn what others would think, that part of him was sat on the edge of the seat just waiting for the situation to unfold and sweep him up into what might be an unprecedented adventure.

There was another part of him though, the rational, held-back, make sure you understand what's going on before you jump in part and he felt it pound behind his temples, insisting on making a polite but hasty retreat.

"I'll, uh, leave you two to your evening now. It was lovely to meet you, Jackie. Enjoy the good Russian stuff." He managed to smile and winked at her as he made to stand up, shrugging off Kuny's arm with the movement.

He didn't get far though, before Kuny caught his hand and pulled him back down. His eyes were dark and so, so earnest when he stared at Jackson and took a breath to say what had been unspoken in the room until that moment, his words clear and unmistakable: "Or-- you could stay. You want stay?"

Jackson's breath stuttered in his lungs, surprised at the question even as he was hoping for it, surprised all the same. Careful what you wish for. "Yeah, yes, I do want to stay." he breathed and turned his hand still in Kuny's grip, closing his fingers around his wrist in return.

The touch grounded him, the steady pulse under his fingertips reassuring. He looked at Jackie while still holding onto Kuny, his thumb drawing small circles around his wrist bone. "Are you okay with that? I-- We-- this isn't what normally happens and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable in any way so just say the word and I'll go..."

He trailed off as he watched her run her thumb across her lower lip slowly and then bite on it, smiling at him with all her teeth showing. She looked like a wild cat, all confident, contained power ready to pounce, and he liked it, liked the anticipation of her next move, especially with the grounding strength of the man behind him, now pressed along his arm and still holding his hand.

"I suggested it, actually. And Evgeni here was as concerned as you are, so let's talk about this before anything else happens. I understand you haven't done this before? A threesome?"

Jackson heard Kuny behind him whisper threesome to himself, trying to fold his accent around the new word and felt a rush of affection for the man and his determination to add to his English vocabulary in any situation.

"Uh, no, I mean yeah-- at least I haven't." It occurred to him that he assumed it was new for both of them, but he didn't know.

Kuny confirmed a beat later though, shaking his head. "Never have threesome, no. I imagine it many times, but never asked."

"You what?!" Jackson whipped his head around to see Kuny's face, his admission taking him by surprise. "You imagined it? With-- who? You never told me about that!"

Kuny looked down, shaking his head ruefully, a blush rising in his cheeks. He released Jackson's wrist and it left him feeling strangely bereft, wanting those hands back on him. Huh.

Kuny had that look he always got when he wanted to express something that was important to him, fighting the frustration of not having all the words to convey what he meant. Sometimes he'd enlist Sergei to help translate, but if that wasn't an option, he'd take him by the shoulders and look at him intently, face to face, eyes wide and earnest, saying you listen now, I speak. Not make fun. This is important you understand.

Jackson had laughed the first time that happened, but he had apologized a hundred times since, when a frustrated Kuny explained to him in broken English that he regarded him to be his best friend. That he had felt lonely and lost and misunderstood when he arrived in the States, with the language barrier and culture shock. That he had gotten used to feeling like he'd never truly belong. Until he came to Gryffindor and met him. They clicked instantly, and easy camaraderie that grew into a true friendship. Kuny had tears in his eyes when he finished, fingers digging into Jackson's shoulders where he was still holding onto him. You understand. I hate that don't have all words but it is important you understand. Not make fun.

Jackson remembers his heart pounding when he saw his friend so vulnerable, at loss for an answer, so he just went with the first thing that felt right. I love the way you speak. Kuny scoffed at it but couldn't fight the happy smile that took over his face, shoulders dropping in relief and their hug afterwards lasted forever and not long enough at the same time. So, Jackson knew that look and knew to listen now. This was important.

Kuny's arms lifted, but to Jackson's surprise, he didn't go for his shoulders. He took his hands instead, his grip sure. "You are my best friend. I don't want make mistake. But I imagine with you. I ask now."

They both swallowed hard, in sync like they were on the ice, and was it possible that they were in sync on this too? That he actually knew exactly how Kuny felt because it was echoed by his own apprehension and-- desire. Naming things gave them power and now that he named this feeling, even just in his thoughts, it crashed over him in a tidal wave, the same twist and pull low in his belly from before answering and spreading outwards in a rush of warmth all the way to his fingertips.

"Kuns, I-- I imagined it too. And I didn't want to endanger our friendship, too. But yes. I want to. Yeah." He bit his lip against the giddy smile that threatened to break free, not wanting to shatter the seriousness of the moment.

Kuny didn't have the same reservations though and erupted into a relieved laugh, pulling him into a hug, which resulted in him practically landing in the Russian's lap because he didn't do sideways hugs. Not real hug, he'd grumble and then rearrange the person to his liking and fucking envelop their whole body with his giant arms and they were the best hugs Jackson's ever had. He settled into this one happily, Kuny smiling and humming into his neck as one of his arms settled around his waist. Jackie was watching them with a smug smile of her own, waiting for them to part again before she spoke.

Kuny did not seem too keen on removing the arm from around Jackson's waist anytime soon, so he stayed seated where he was, determinedly not thinking about how close they were or the fact that he was only wearing sweatpants. Jackie's chin was resting on her hands, taking in their position and biting her lip.

"I'm loving this," she proclaimed and then clasped her hands together, sitting up straighter. "So glad you boys talked. Let's set some ground rules just so we are all on the same page, then?"

Both men nodded, their attention on her now. Her confidence was reassuring to Jackson, she apparently had some experience, definitely more than them.

"First of all, anyone can call a stop anytime, no matter what the reason. Any reason. Second of all, if we're doing this, no more vodka." She turned the shot glasses upside down one after the other as she said that, the residual liquor wet on her fingers.

Looking back at the two of them, she pushed her thumb into her mouth and sucked the wetness off slowly, a challenge in her eyes. Jackson heard Kuny's gasp followed by a low curse in Russian, but he couldn't look away as she went for her index finger next. Before her lips could connect, Kuny leaned across the couch, his arm around Jackson steadying him and his other reaching for Jackie, hand closing around her wrist and pulling her towards them.

She came willingly, walking on her knees till she was pressed along their sides. Kuny kept pulling on her wrist, raising her hand to his mouth, and Jackson was torn between watching his mouth close around her fingers and watching her face, eyes closing and lips parting on a moan at the sensation. This was actually happening.

He felt dizzy with want and a bit shaky with the newness of it all. A hand cradled his cheek and Jackie turned his face towards her, her other hand in the same place on Kuny's cheek. Her voice was breathy, but her eyes were intent and steady as she addressed them both. "Third of all, we talk. We check in with each other. Something you want to try? Talk. Something you don't want to do? Talk. Yes? I need you to say this one with me."

Kuny leaned into her hand as he answered "Da, yes, I talk. I say what I want."

Jackson was opening his mouth to answer in kind, wholly unprepared for what happened next as Kuny turned to him and bluntly stated: "Want kiss him."

He gaped at his friend, who was looking at him with a small smile and dark, dark eyes, pupils blown wide. And waiting, patiently, for him to say what he wanted. The problem was, Jackson couldn't find his voice at the moment and nothing would happen unless he did.

"Jackson?" Jackie's soft voice prompted him to suck in a breath and then the words were tumbling out.

"Yeah, yes, I want that too. I want to kiss you, too. I wa--mmpfh." Suddenly there were soft plush lips on his and a big, calloused hand replaced Jackie's softer one on his cheek. Kuny hummed into the close-mouthed kiss and the vibration tickled across his lips, making him gasp. Kuny's lips parted in sync with his and then there was a taste of vodka and something else, distinctly Evgeni. A tongue tracing along his, a pull on his lower lip, teeth nipping gently and making goosebumps erupt all across his skin... Jackson was lost in it, hands scrabbling for purchase on broad shoulders and his hips jerking forward, the arm around his back pulling him closer.

They parted on a gasp, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. "Harasho? Good?" Kuny was searching his face, and Jackson made himself find his voice yet again.

"Yes. Harasho." He nodded, stealing one more kiss because he could.

"I'm loving this," a whisper came from the side, where Jackie was sitting sideways, leaning on the backrest of the couch, chin in her hand and watching them, her eyes sparkling.

Kuny reached for her again, palm up and she slid her hand into his and sat up beside them, one of her legs hanging down the side of the couch alongside Kuny's, foot on the floor for balance.

"Now you kiss. I want watch." Kuny nodded to Jackson and he turned to face Jackie. She placed a hand on his cheek, the gesture familiar now.

"Can I?" It was easier with every time, giving voice to his want, saying yes to theirs.

"Yes."

His hand stroked up her thigh and rested on her hip as she tilted her head and pushed into his space and then they were kissing, soft and exploratory, different from Kuny but exciting in a different way. She yielded where Kuny pushed, moved with him where Kuny would hold still. Jackson was caught up in the feeling and the contrasts, the arousal bubbling up from his core in delightful shivers across his skin.

He was hyper aware of Kuny watching them and he realized that Jackie was into it, turning both their heads so he had a good view when she bit on his lower lip and pulled, drawing a groan from him and Kuny at the same time. Her tongue soothed over the bite right away and she pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth before she leaned her head on his shoulder, looking up at Kuny who was still watching them, mesmerized, his hands flexing unconsciously, one on Jackson's lower back and the other on Jackie's thigh.

Jackson loved to see him like that, finding it so much better than anything his imagination had managed to come up with. "Let's take this to the bedroom?" He spoke into Jackie's hair, his head turned to her but his eyes still fixated on Kuny who was slow to come out of his haze.

"Da. Bed.'' he rasped and shook his head, grinning to himself. He shifted in place, pressing their hips together with the movement and the arm still across Jackson's back and for a moment Jackson was afraid that he would try to carry him to the bedroom. Not that he couldn't lift him, he easily could and he had proven that often enough. But then all thoughts left him and pure sensation shot up his spine in a sudden flash because his best friend was hard. They both were.

He got so distracted by the frankly awesome making out that he forgot that part but now it was glaringly obvious and he was almost shocked by the immediacy of it, frozen in place and not daring to move.

His eyes found Kuny's on instinct and even though he didn't voice a question out loud, he got a slow nod in return, sure and steady. Kuny wasn't afraid of this or unsure about it, he wasn't pulling back, so Jackson decided he wouldn't be either. He wanted this. He asked for this. He wasn't backing out now. The only question that remained was, "which bedroom?"

The decision was made easily as Kuny stated, "my bed better for three," nodding to himself and squeezing Jackson around the waist one more time before he let go.

They untangled themselves, Jackie standing up first and holding out her hands to the two of them. "Detour through the kitchen? Water for everyone, not optional."

She pulled them across the living room, hands linked and let Jackson spin her around and press her against the kitchen counter to kiss her deeply while Kuny headed for the fridge. He could hear the fridge door opening and closing, footsteps coming closer and a water bottle cap hitting the counter, could hear Kuny drink in long swallows somewhere behind him, but it all faded into the background.

His senses were preoccupied by the woman in front of him, her lips parting for his tongue, her hands traveling down his chest and across his ribs to circle his waist and grab at his ass, pulling him into her-- until he felt the press of cool lips on the back of his neck, a hint of teeth pressing into the skin, another pair of hands, larger and stronger, settling on his hips from behind.

Jackson pressed back into the warm body behind him instinctively as Kuny kissed a winding path up his neck and exhaled right next to his ear with a low hum, the hot breath making him shiver with anticipation.

"This is not drink water," a low voice rumbled into his ear and Jackson chuckled at that, still dazed from the close proximity of two bodies, two gorgeous people vying for his attention.

"Not thirsty for water right now," Jackson countered and turned his head so their lips met. Kuny didn't miss a beat, licking into his mouth even as he was spinning him around and pressing his back into the counter, a repeat of what he did with Jackie just minutes before. Only that didn't seem to be enough for his friend, as he found himself hoisted up onto the counter, Kuny stepping in between his thighs and dragging his hands down his back to where Jackie's had been, grabbing his ass and squeezing.

The movement pushed their groins together and Jackson heard himself moan shamelessly, feeling his cock pulse and the answering hardness press against him when hooked his ankles behind Kuny's legs and pulled. His hands scrambled for the hem of his shirt and stilled when they found the warm skin underneath, both of them stunned at the ease with which they fit together.

They weren't kissing now, just panting against each other's mouth, overwhelmed by each new situation they found themselves in together, wanting to stay there and milk it till the last drop and at the same time eager to keep going, to see where the night would take them next. But now was this; his palms against Kuny's stomach, exploring and wandering upwards, feeling his chest expand with each breath.

"Can I?" he plucked at the shirt, Kuny raising his arms in answer. The shirt landed on the floor the next moment, forgotten, hands pressing over broad shoulders, feeling out the shapes of collarbones and the give of muscle under fingertips.

Jackson followed the path of his hands with his mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the hollow of Kuny's throat, down his sternum and then across to land over his heart, feeling its strong beat against his lips when he lingered there for a long moment, writing the rhythm into his memory. Whether this was a one-time thing or a beginning of something new, he'd always know that heart, in sync with his own, beat for beat.

A large palm dragged up his torso slowly, pressed over his own heart and stayed there, careful and reverent; they didn't need words to understand each other in that moment. In sync like on the ice. Jackson felt the last nerves leave him then, carried away by the pulse of his own blood and the heat of arousal, feeling safe in the arms of his best friend.

After one last press of lips over his heart, he tilted his head up and was met with a scorching kiss that left him light-headed and gasping, clutching at Kuny's back, nails digging in, even as the Russian was pulling back.

"Kuns--"

"You drink now."

A water bottle was pressed into his hand, Kuny stepping back in between his thighs with a warm smile on his face, watching him as he gulped down half of the bottle in one go. He looked around, searching for Jackie and found her twirling her own bottle, her eyes trained on them and a smile playing on her lips.

"Let me guess. You're loving this."

She laughed at that, and then stepped closer, leaning her hip on the counter. "You're not wrong." Her look turned calculating and then she was lifting her own shirt and pulling it off in one swift motion, making a show of dropping it on the floor next to the one already there. "Also, you're overdressed."

Hooking her fingers in Kuny's belt loops, Jackie pulled him towards her and he resisted only for a moment to press a short kiss to Jackson's lips and grab his hand, pulling him after them towards his bedroom.

Jackson had been in there many times for many reasons but this was very different from banging on his friend's door in the morning to hurry up we'll be late for practice, I made coffee, or throwing balled-up socks and t-shirts at him from the doorway because these are not mine you giant, how did they end up in my laundry again? He knew the squeak the hinges made when the door opened all the way and the handle hit the wall where Kuny stuck a print-out of Snape's face so it would hit him in the nose every time that happened.

He could list from memory the few items that were always present on Kuny's desk, like one of the matryoshka dolls he brought for the whole team after he went home for the off-season, standing next to a small bowl that held the keys to his parents' house, for me it always remembers I can go home he explained one night when they both got drunk and grew bored playing videogames so they ended up laying on the floor of Kuny's bedroom just talking, or rather Kuny talking while Jackson went around his room picking up random objects and holding them up to get an explanation. There was a stack of books on the floor next to the bed, most of them in Russian and ‘The Hobbit’ being the only English book on top with a blurry polaroid photo of both of them at Sid's as a bookmark sticking out of it. Jackson's eyes skipped around the familiar room, finally landing on Kuny himself, finding him already looking back.

"Not fair, you still in shirt," he said as he stepped closer, plucking at Jackson's sleeve. Hands snaked around his waist as Jackie stepped up behind him and gathered the hem of the t-shirt in her hands.

"Yeah, alright, take it off," Jackson laughed as they undressed him and bracketed him between their bodies, skin on warm skin all around him.

For the next long while, Jackson's world became wandering hands and lips tracing contours of the three of them, finding ways to fit around each other and swaying together to the rhythm of their slowly building desire. It was an easy dance now that he allowed himself to want what he wanted; his best friend in all the ways they hadn't known each other yet and a beautiful stranger to lead them through the next step when they stumbled.

His hands landed on Kuny's waistband and stopped. Jackie pressed alongside him in the next moment, her warm hand between his shoulder blades, grounding and reassuring.

"Do you want to take them off, Jackson?"

He nodded, looking down where his fingers followed the v-lines of Kuny's abs, dipping below the waistband.

"Words,'' Jackie reminded him. He looked back up and was met with parted lips that he just had to kiss before he was able to form a question.

"Can I?"

"Da. Yes."

He drew his fingers along the waistband to the front, brushing the trail of hair leading down and feeling the muscles flex under his touch. Making quick work of the button and the zipper, he pushed the pants down and-- "No underwear, Kuns, really?"

The Russian just shrugged and stepped out of the pants, naked now but for the black socks patterned with stormtrooper helmets on them. "You have no underwear too," he nodded towards Jackson's crotch where his cock was very visibly tenting his sweatpants.

"I was at home! In my home clothes!" Jackson defended himself, spreading his arms and looking to Jackie for support. "Can you believe this?"

Jackie gave the naked man in the middle of the room a slow once-over, licking her lips as her eyes lingered on his crotch and then smirking back at Jackson. "I assumed, but I can believe it now. You really are a giant, aren't you?" she stated more than asked as she turned back to Kuny and then undid her own jeans, shimmying out of them and her underwear in one go. "Catch up, Jackson, you're the last one again," she teased while she faced him and languidly took off her bralette, handing it to him with a raised eyebrow. Then she was reaching for Kuny with purpose, one hand going to his hair and the other wrapping around his cock, pulling a groan out of him as she kissed him hungrily.

Her eyes closed and her whole body was leaning into Kuny, but his eyes were open and trained right at Jackson, the intense focus making him feel like he was the one being kissed instead. It made him want to be in her place, the surge of want so sudden and unexpected he took an involuntary step back, one hand reaching towards the desk to steady himself. The naked arousal in his best friend's eyes was unmistakably directed at him and his own answering desire still caught him by surprise when there was nothing needed to disguise it or explain it away. He could be in her place, easily.

Jackie was now kissing and biting at Kuny's neck and Jackson found himself hoping she wouldn't leave any marks, the thought spurring him into movement at last. If anyone got to leave a mark on the Russian, it was going to be him.

Pulled in by Kuny's intent gaze and the need to replace Jackie's lips with his own, he stalked towards the pair. He was ready to voice what he was thinking, to ask, to beg Kuny for the permission to mark him up. It was all he could think of, suddenly and unexpectedly, another surprising discovery about himself that felt right as soon as he admitted it to himself.

He tucked himself into Kuny's side, with Jackie still busy with his neck and just as he was opening his mouth to say the words, he saw her bite down on the tendon and then close her lips around it. The sound died in his throat, rapidly being replaced by embarrassment.

"Jacks--" a strangled gasp from Kuny made them both look up at him and Jackson was ridiculously grateful for the interruption when he glanced at Kuny's neck and didn't see any darkened skin.

"Yeah, babe?" Jackie replied without missing a beat, still draped along Kuny's side. Jackson realized that it must have been her nickname Kuny called out and it made the irony of their names being so similar even clearer. Did Kuny find it funny when he found out what her name was? Did she find it funny when they were introduced in their hallway? He'd have to ask them later. Right now there were more important things, like Kuny pulling him closer and talking fast in Russian to himself, his voice rumbling in his chest and then cutting off abruptly. Kuny cradling his cheek with one hand and pressing the pad of his thumb down on his lower lip. Kuny's frustrated huff and that look he always got when he was trying to translate something from Russian to English in his head and didn't have all the words. Jackson knew that look well, just like he knew many of his other looks and was currently learning a whole new category of them in this unprecedented situation.

"I don't know correct word." Ah, there it was. "For-- bruise? Like kiss but--" He looked imploringly at Jackson and then at Jackie. "Love bruise?"

"You mean a hickey? A mark? Do you want one?" Jackie was already moving back towards his neck and Jackson was frozen, still in Kuny's grip, helpless as he saw Kuny nod gratefully while mouthing the words to himself. Hickey. Mark. And then--

"Niet. Wait. Want mark from him." Kuny's dark eyes were back on him, the intent gaze softening with his voice as he spoke the next sentence that almost sent Jackson to his knees. "Only him. Please."

Jackson felt the words all the way to his bones and something in him purred contentedly at the implications even as he swayed in place. Only him. But also, "love bruise?" he couldn't help but quip back at Kuny. His wry smile made him smile too and his thumb that still rested on Jackson's lower lip pressed down against the new shape of joy.

His expression turned wistful then and Jackson was only marginally more prepared for the next thing that came out of his mouth, in a terrifyingly accurate aim straight for his heart despite Kuny's lack of words. "Love hurts, no?"

"I never want to hurt you." Jackson whispered, blindsided by the raw honesty and hurt in Kuny's voice, at loss for words because what do you say to that?

Kuny just shook his head. "I know you not hurt me. Not you. My home, Russia, this--" a quick kiss to reassure, a gentle squeeze of the hand now resting on the back of his neck, "--this is not safe. Not see. Not say. Can be dangerous. Can hurt."

Jackson just stepped fully into Kuny's space at that, tucking his face into his neck and wrapping his arms around him, pressing everything he was feeling into Kuny's body with his embrace, lips against his collarbone, trusting his body to convey what he meant better than words. We're safe here, he wanted to say and, I'll protect you, but he knew those were only partially true. I didn't know was in there too, or rather, didn't realize. I wish you'd told me tightly entwined with I wish I'd told you and all of those wrapped in I'm glad we're here now. I've got you.

Kuny let out a heavy sigh and melted into the embrace, resting his head on top of Jackson's and muttering Russian into his hair. They stood, naked and interlocked, in the middle of the bedroom, neither of them letting go. It was a dance of subtle steps; a deep breath in to feel his ribcage expand and the arms around him tighten in response, a weight shift and a little shuffle so their edges could fit themselves together even more seamlessly, the heartbeat against his breastbone answering the one he could feel with his lips pressed against the pulsepoint where he was tucked under Kuny's chin. In sync, like on the ice, but also so very much more.

The intimacy of the moment took Jackson's breath away, the pause they found themselves in taking nothing away from the course of the night. He still felt the arousal meandering through his body, but unhurried and languid, like a river that knew it would reach its destination eventually; there was no other outcome but to meet the tide of the ocean and be irrevocably changed by it. No need to rush when the anticipation was running deep and sweet through his veins.

Jackie was reclining on the bed, relaxed and still naked and apparently not bothered by their moments that kept happening, but Jackson still felt like he had to say something, that they kept her waiting. He was grateful for her uncanny ability to read them and her easy willingness to adapt to their changing tides but she was a guest and part of him was very aware of not being a good host right now. Yet again, she was way ahead of him when he reluctantly stirred and made to leave the embrace.

"No, no, stay. Take your time, you two. This feels important, give it the attention it deserves. I'm good here and the view is quite nice." She took a breath and they heard her hold it, the silence in the room absolute for a short while. Then with deliberate care, she continued. "I'm not expecting anything so if you'd like the evening to go any other direction than the apparent, just tell me, 'kay boys?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. Still tucked into Kuny's neck, he felt him nodding and the rumble of his voice under his cheek. "Spasibo, Jacks."

It was Kuny who detangled himself first after a long while, but instead of stepping away he pulled and pushed Jackson in the direction of the bed wordlessly and maneuvred them all under the covers with himself in the middle.

Jackson found himself wondering yet again at the way they just fit. Slotting together without thinking, legs tangling, hands finding places to rest and caress, they cocooned themselves in the hushed silence of the bedroom.

Jackson startled when another hand touched his, resting on Kuny's chest right above his heart, but then he met Jackie's eyes on the other side of the Russian. They exchanged a smile and then Jackie sent him a conspiratory wink, trailing her hand lightly down Kuny's chest and brushing across one nipple, drawing a soft gasp from him.

She continued her slow, barely there touches, raising goosebumps on Kuny's skin. Every now and then she chose a path that crossed Jackson's hand or arm still thrown across Kuny's chest, setting off sparks right under his skin and watching him carefully. He could read her silent invitation to join but he was caught up in watching Kuny's face, mesmerized by the myriad expressions the gentle touches brought forth. He'd never seen his best friend like this, never knew he'd be so open and trusting, so expressive in reaction to the slightest touch.

When he finally moved his hand, it was to mold his palm to the side of Kuny's neck, to cup his cheek and press his thumb against his full lower lip in a mirror to their earlier position. What he didn't expect was Kuny pulling it into his mouth and sucking. His eyes were open, boring into Jackson, dark and intent and pinning him in place.

A hint of teeth grazed the pad of his thumb and it was as if a switch flipped; the air heated up and Jackson became suddenly aware that they were naked in bed and he could touch, he could taste as much as he wanted to. And oh he wanted to. He pushed up onto one elbow, hovering above Kuny's face and then he was falling into a kiss, his tongue pushing into Kuny's mouth alongside his thumb. The sensation burned all the way down his spine in a rush that left his head spinning, the heat turning up. There were hands in his hair, on his back, nails gently scratching down his side, a palm kneading his ass and a hot breath in his ear, whispering encouragements. Jackson felt like he was on the edge of a volcano, the heat alive and reaching for him, all that was left to do was jump.

The final push came on the end of a groan as they came up for air, Kuny speaking it right into his mouth, the deep rasp he could feel like a caress against his lips: "More."

Jackson wanted more, oh he wanted everything, but for a start he wanted more of that delicious skin-on-skin contact that was already turning him liquid. He'd melt in Kuny's hands and flow between his fingers, into every crevice of his body if he could, just to get closer.

That's what made it past his lips, "closer" and "please--" among their gasps as he was pulling on Kuny's arm ineffectively, not quite knowing how to get him where he wanted him. "Kuns--''

The Russian pulled him in, wrapping him in his arms and then the world tilted for a second; the next thing he felt was the bed under his back and the grounding weight of a whole hockey player on top of him, as if he knew exactly where and how to anchor him. In sync, like on the ice. Jackson was stupidly grateful for it, unable to form sentences while he was wrapped up in need and want, layers of it, making it harder to breathe, let alone speak.

Kuny kissed him then, pressing him into the mattress and controlling the kiss, slow and sure, humming into it and making his lips buzz and stretch into a smile. Jackson lifted a hand to Kuny's cheek again and this time Kuny chased after his thumb and pulled it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while still holding his gaze, one eyebrow rising in silent question.

Jackson felt his cock pulse at the implication, hard and leaking, the molten lava now simmering low in his belly. He wasn't stupid, he understood, knew what his best friend was implying, but still he'd have to ask for it. Jackie said they had to talk.

Jackie. He knew what to say to her at least, felt her along his side, one leg thrown over his and the slow rolls of her hips against his thigh. Even though tearing his eyes away from Kuny took an effort, he turned his head slightly to catch her eyes, dark with hunger as she watched them. "Loving this?"

It startled a low laugh from her and she hid it in his shoulder. "You know it."

"I know what you'd love even more."

"Oh yeah? I hope it has to do with that mouth of his. Looks like he knows how to use it, and not only on your fingers."

Jackson's gaze was back on Kuny, who in the meantime abandoned his thumb and intertwined their fingers, kissing and sucking down his palm to the inside of his wrist. He pressed his lips to the pulsepoint there and then looked up at Jackson with a calculating look, giving him barely a second before he licked a wet stripe all the way to his fingertips and closed his mouth around three of his fingers, sucking enthusiastically.

"Oh fuck," both he and Jackie groaned at the sight, and then she continued, her voice husky, "fuck, if you don't ask him for it, I will."

At Jackie's words Kuny grinned at him, catching his fingers between his teeth to keep them in place and it shouldn't have been so hot for how ridiculous he looked, but Jackson felt the tug of arousal in his belly all the same.

He sucked in a breath, desperate to try and put into words what his body was straining for, but Kuny made speaking impossible when he closed his lips around his middle finger next and slid them all the way down to the last knuckle. "Mnngh" was all he managed under Kuny's knowing look.

"Oh you're wicked and I like it." Jackie's amused voice was right in his ear, the hot breath making his skin erupt in goosebumps. "Do you like it, Jackson?"

Once again she was guiding him along with ease and he nodded gratefully. Yes and no questions were easy enough to comprehend. "Do you want him to stop?"

"No" the almost-cry carried on a breath, no don't stop just please his lips were moving but out came only a wrecked moan as Kuny pressed his hips down in a grind, knowing exactly where Jackson wanted him next and making it exceptionally difficult to form coherent thoughts to get him there.

“What do you want him to do to you, Jackson?” Jackie purred in his ear while Kuny was taking him apart with his mouth still working at his fingers, the slow, filthy grind of his hips promising more. “Remember, use your words.”

A frustrated whine was all that Jackson was capable of, as wild with desire as he was, lost in the heat of Kuny’s body on top of him.

“Evgeni, babe, I know you’re enjoying this but you’ll have to slow down if we want to hear him.” Jackie soothed, running her hand through Kuny’s hair and tugging lightly.

Kuny followed her lead and halted, lowering his hand and pressing it into the mattress next to Jackson’s head, tangling their fingers together. Jackson squeezed his hand, holding on for dear life, grounding himself in the new sensation that immediately felt so right. A distant part of his brain wondered if Kuny would want to hold hands sometimes, after this, just for the comfort of it. He’d just have to ask, like for anything else he wanted. Like right now. He strained upwards and Kuny met him in a gentle kiss, a stark contrast to the lust boiling under his skin.

Nudging their noses together playfully, Kuny broke the kiss but stayed close. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered against Jackson’s lips. “I’ll do it. I want be good for you.”

Jackson squeezed his eyes at the wave of want that swept him up like a flood in reaction. “Kuns, god, you’re so good, your mouth--” he broke off with a groan, caught off-guard by Kuny’s thigh hitching higher between his legs, the muscle flexing against his crotch. The delicious pressure was almost unbearable and yet not enough. His eyes snapped open, almost going cross-eyes with Kuny still so close, but his look was determined now and he knew Kuny could read it in his face.

Jackson made sure to pronounce his next words clearly. “I want your mouth. On my cock. Now.”

He wished he could replay forever the way Kuny’s eyes widened and then went dark at the request, his breath punching out of him in a surprised gasp.

The surprise didn’t last long though, the wicked gleam in Kuny’s gaze was back in the next moment, eyebrows rising. “Now mean half-hour now? Or now now?” he asked even as he was pulling away and sitting back on his heels, straddling one of Jackson’s thighs.

“Oh my god, really?” Jackson threw a hand over his eyes in mock annoyance, fighting a laugh that was bubbling up in his chest. Of course Kuny wouldn’t just give up a chance to chirp him. It was a semi-regular scene between them, I want pizza now. I hungry now. So we go now, and Yes we’re going, let me just finish this round, I’m almost done. Other times it was We gotta leave now, Kuns, or we’ll be late and Da, da, I’m get dressed now, is not late. Inevitably one of them would end up standing in the other’s doorway, looking pointedly at the watch. Now means now, not in a half-hour. I’m going now, with or without you.

He felt Kuny shift and then his weight left him completely. He heard Jackie next to him hum approvingly, her hand stroking down his chest and settling on his hip. Then another hand, larger and warmer, wrapped around his knee and made a slow way up his thigh, pressing into the muscle and kneading appreciatively. Jackson was equally turned on and exasperated, his cock answering every squeeze and press of Kuny’s hand with a desperate twitch.

When Kuny finally made it to his other hip, his palm warm over his hipbone in a mirror to Jackie’s, Jackson was ready to beg, again. His hips tried to jerk up on instinct, earning warning squeezes from both of them and a disapproving tsk tsk from Jackie, who was now leaning on her elbow next to him, her chin in her hand, watching them attentively.

Kuny was focused on him completely, holding his gaze as he lowered his head so his lips were just above the head of his leaking cock. The smirk was back, half confidence, half disbelief and all desire, directed just at him. Jackson wanted to see it again, a hundred times more, a thousand. He suddenly found himself violently wishing please let this be a first, the thought stealing his breath.

Kuny was still hovering and his exhales felt almost like caresses on Jackson's oversensitive skin, barely there and yet driving him crazy. Then he spoke and his voice didn't carry even a hint of uncertainty as he licked his lips and stated, "I'm go now, with or without you.”

Jackson could have tried to gather his wits and answer him back, he had enough ammunition to win this, thank you, but Kuny was wrapping his lips around the head of Jackson's cock and suddenly nothing else mattered. The wet heat made him curl his toes and arch his back as a lightning of pleasure zinged up his spine and burst behind his eyelids.

Kuny was right where he had wanted him and it was at once too much and not enough. The hands on his hips tightened as his own grasped at the sheets and held on. He felt light-headed, all blood rushing to his core and every nerve alight. By the noises Kuny was making, he was enjoying himself, every content hum vibrating up his shaft and pulling an answering groan from his throat.

Jackson wanted to see, he wanted to touch, he wanted to fuck up into Kuny's mouth and have him take it. He wanted to taste himself on Kuny's tongue and he wanted to taste him in turn. A stray thought fluttered through his mind, we have time for all that. God, I hope we do.

Jackson grabbed for Kuny's hand that was still pressing down on his hip and tangled their fingers together. He wanted to push his fingers into Kuny's hair and feel him moving, wanted to direct him, push him down and hold him in place, but he didn't dare.

He squeezed his hand instead, once, twice, trying to anchor himself in the wave after wave of sensation that washed over him. Then Kuny was moving their hands, giving him exactly what he wished for, pulling off for a moment just to wink at him and say, "you can pull. I like it," as he placed Jackson's hand on top of his head, nuzzling into it a little.

A sharp breath punched out of Jackson as he pushed his hand into Kuny's hair and grabbed the strands lightly, then more firmly, testing. Kuny's eyes fluttered closed as he hummed approvingly, his other hand just stroking Jackson unhurriedly. Jackson could watch him forever. He also wanted his mouth back on his cock. He got better hold on his hair and when he pulled, Kuny followed willingly, licking his lips and widening his eyes in mock innocence before he dove in and licked a hot stripe up Jackson's cock, drawing a moan out of him.

"Kuns, Jesus--"

"Niet. No Jesus. Just me." Kuny seemed to consider something and then his face softened as he pressed a quick kiss on top of Jackson's thigh, speaking into his skin next. "Say Zhenya. I want you say my name."

Jackson felt his lips turn up into a smile, feeling just ridiculously fond of his best friend in that moment. He was feeling all lightheaded and floaty, except for the spots of heat where Kuny's hands were pressing into his skin, grounding him.

He kept the name close, holding it like a gift, a treasure found; and wasn't this all just that? An unexpected and precious thing he still didn't believe he could have even as he was literally cradling it in his palms. He took a breath and noticed with satisfaction the expectant look on Kuny's face. He was going to say it, oh yes, probably say it a lot, but not yet. "I'll trade you. My name for yours."

Kuny - Zhenya - narrowed his eyes at that, biting his lip in consideration while trying to keep his own smile from showing. "Nado. Now say my name."

"You know what I mean."

They stayed locked in the back-and-forth of teasing and bickering, neither of them ready to give in, so familiar Jackson wanted to wrap himself in it, wrap himself in Kuny. Zhenya. He wanted to say that name, wanted to whisper it against his skin, to beg it into the sheets and probably scream it towards the ceiling before the night was over, but-- he also wanted to hear his own name, to find out if hearing it fall from those lips gave him the same rush as his hand in Kuny's hair did, him following where Jackson directed, easy and eager. In sync, like on the ice.

He felt Kuny's resolve falter before he made any sound, knew he had won from the way Kuny leaned into his hand for a moment, lowering his chin and looking at him from beneath his lashes. "Jack-son" he said carefully, folding the syllables around his accent and the timbre of his voice washed over the last of Jackson's reserves and melted them into nothingness. Kuny could ask him anything in that voice and he'd give it without question. "Jackson.”

"Yeah?" it came out breathy and more unsteady than he'd want to admit, but Kuny didn't laugh at him, didn't tease him anymore.

"Say my name, Jackson. Please."

"I love how you talk," Jackson gasped out, trembling with how turned on he was. Then finally "Zhenya" and "touch me, please--"

Zhenya didn't hesitate, diving back in and taking him into his mouth, one hand wrapped around the base, making him arch his back and dig his heels into the mattress. His leg muscles flexed with the movement and drew twin moans from both Jackie and Zhenya, each of them practically straddling one of his legs.

Jackie was tucked all along his side and startled from her hushed stillness when she didn't want to interrupt the exchange, now pressing biting kisses into his shoulder and rolling her hips against him leisurely.

Zhenya with one knee tucked up between Jackson's legs, holding himself up, the other leg stretched out and probably hanging off the bed, the giant. Jackson was vaguely aware of all that, helpless to do anything but hold on as he was coaxed higher still by Zhenya's hands and tongue on him, hand still tangled in his hair. Now that he had said it, he couldn't seem to stop, "Zhenya" and "please" pouring from his lips with each gasping breath.

Time melted away as everything narrowed to the burning points of contact among the three of them; hands roaming Jackson's body, too many hands but it was too good, the overstimulation making him whine every time Zhenya tightened his hand on him, every roll of Jackie's hips against his thigh.

The litany of "Zhenya" and "please" falling from his lips was only interrupted by Zhenya making his way up his body again, kissing and biting and drawing more sounds and reactions from him. A gasp as he bit the inside of his thigh, soothing the mark with his tongue afterwards. A groan as he licked up the crease of his hip, one large hand still on him, slow and tight and bringing him closer and closer to the brink. Even a giggle as he kissed up the side of his ribcage and laughed at Jackson's squirming. "You know I'm ticklish, you asshole! Stop it!"

Zhenya stopped moving his hand at the exclamation but continued on his path, biting down on his shoulder playfully.

"No, don't stop that! You know what I meant!" Jackson was too turned on to summon the proper tone of voice and swatted at Zhenya in frustration, getting only an amused laugh in return.

"I'm know. It's funny."

"'S not funny! Just--" Jackson was half exasperated, half amused at his best friend's timing, because of course he'd tease him now that he was a literal mess in his hands, but he was also half out of his mind with arousal, casting for the right words to make him continue, just-- "Jackie!" he gasped out, she'd know what to do, she knew every time--

His next word turned into a groan as Zhenya's hand on him tightened right in that moment, but he was still not moving and it was maddening and hot and driving him crazy.

Jackson turned his head towards Jackie, their noses almost touching where she was draped half over him. His hand was on her thigh, grabbing for purchase although he didn't remember putting it there. She was straddling his thigh, grinding down in a steady rhythm and he hitched her leg higher up on instinct, drawing an approving moan from her. "Jackie, just, please-- tell him!"

She looked between the two of them, thinking and then nodding, one corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. She reached out her hand to trace it across his temple and down his cheek, then a featherlight touch across his lips that tickled and a boop on the nose that made him go cross-eyed. "Ah, sweetie, you tell him. You already know what to say. Just think." She kissed him on the nose and grinned, nodding towards Zhenya, who was watching him intently, looking very pleased with himself. And oh, yes, Jackson knew what to say, actually.

He desperately searched for the few Russian expressions he knew and hoped he didn't butcher the word he wanted to say. Zhenya loved it when Jackson spoke Russian, trying to imitate the sounds and finally getting it almost-right on the tenth try. He loved teaching him words for things, objects around the house, expressions and, of course, curse words, making him repeat the syllables that made no sense to Jackson's ears, but made Zhenya grin so big he'd repeat anything just to bring that smile out again.

He took a breath, hearing Zhenya's voice in his mind teaching him the word he wanted and then, looking him in the eyes and pronouncing carefully, he said it. "Please. Zhenya. Pozhalusta."

At Jackson's words, Zhenya went completely still, his eyes widening in surprise and then going even darker; Jackson felt his gaze like a physical thing, holding him in place and cradling him safely even as he was being taken apart.

Finally, slowly, Zhenya started moving his hand again and it felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Jackson's next moan was swallowed by a kiss, until he could only gasp "more" and "please" into Zhenya's mouth, Jackie's panting breaths speeding up along his own, both of them following Zhenya's rhythm.

Then Zhenya was nudging his cheek, turning his head towards Jackie, murmuring "Look her." She caught Jackson’s gaze and held it, eyes liquid and dark with pleasure, gorgeous and panting with how on edge she was.

"Someone kiss me, I'm so close," she demanded and Jackson felt Zhenya's mouth latch onto the tendon between his neck and shoulder at the same time as he dove for Jackie's lips. Her whole body was trembling, following the rolling movements of her hips against his thigh and taking what she needed to finally tip over the edge. Jackson felt her shudder as she rode the waves of her orgasm, clutching onto him and gasping into their kiss. He felt Zhenya tighten his hand and speed up his rhythm again, felt Zhenya's teeth and tongue working a mark into his neck. But it was when Zhenya lifted his head, admiring his work and then breathing "Jackson" right into his ear that got him to gasp out, "I'm gonna-- Zhenya, I'm--"

Zhenya nudged his cheek again, but now it was to claim his mouth for himself, murmuring Russian between sloppy kisses as he finally brought him over the edge. Jackson just gave himself over to the sensation, letting Zhenya kiss him through it, stealing his breath and his heart and somehow still making him feel all the more alive for it.

Jackson came back to himself, cradled from both sides by warm bodies and soft voices. Blinking against the dim light of the room, he made an inquiring sound and was answered by a chuckle from Jackie “You back with us?”

"I never left."

"Oh, you dozed off there for a moment." Jackie jostled him playfully and then got up, throwing them a look over her shoulder. "I'm grabbing the first shower. Don't forget to drink some water, boys!"

Jackson felt Zhenya on his other side smiling into his shoulder and he suddenly needed to see him, needed to kiss him again just to make sure it all happened and he wouldn't wake up alone in his bed with echoes of a dream slipping through his curtains with the morning light. But Zhenya was right there, solid and warm and smug.

"What are you grinning about?" Jackson teased him, feeling giddy on the feeling he didn't want to name yet, even as it filled his whole chest and made him reach for Zhenya's hand, tangling their fingers together. "Oh wait, Zhenya, did you--?"

The Russian just nodded, trying to go back to kissing, but Jackson stopped him with a finger on his lips, just watching his best friend for a moment, amazed and happy and "--are you blushing right now? Wow, this truly is a night of firsts."

Zhenya shot back something in Russian that Jackson was pretty sure meant a not-so polite-version of shut up with how often he'd hear him yell it at the tv, but now it felt like an endearment, with Zhenya unable to hold back a smile and getting shy all of a sudden, his eyes flicking between their entwined fingers and the mess they made between them, the purpling mark on Jackson's neck and the door that was left slightly ajar, letting in the sound of running shower.

"You owe me still-- love bruise? Kak skazatj--"

Of all the words, Jackson would not use 'soft' to describe Zhenya; but now, on this night of firsts he had no better word for the look that was now directed at him. He returned it without hesitation. He was here for it, for all of it. "A hickey. I do. Where do you want it, babe?"

Zhenya didn't answer immediately. Instead he reached out and traced the mark he left on Jackson's neck, as if he needed to reassure himself that it really happened, that there was proof that wouldn't be so easily washed away, impossible to ignore. Jackson could feel the lingering sting, the skin bruised and sensitive, making him shiver and want to find a mirror and see for himself. He could see the shadow of worry in Zhenya's eyes, that look of this is important, he could see him thinking and picking words, probably translating what he wanted to say. He caught Zhenya's hand in his own and pressed a kiss to his palm, then placing it over his heart, threading his fingers through Zhenya's, just holding on and letting him know without words that he was there. Not leaving. Not regretting anything. Not afraid.

"The shower is free, boys." Jackie's voice calling from the hall broke the silence and Jackson realized he couldn't hear the sound of water anymore. She came back into the room and dropped two water bottles on Jackson's chest. He'd deny the sound that came out of him at the unexpected cold shock against his naked skin, but it made Zhenya burst into a surprised laugh and bury his face into the pillows and it was so cute that it made the embarrassment worth it.

"Drink up boys." Jackie prompted, throwing them curious looks as she searched for her clothes around the room. They slowly disentangled themselves from the blankets and each other and emptied the bottles dutifully. Jackson took Zhenya's bottle from him and then took his hand, earning a surprised look. "Shower with me?" A relieved nod was his answer, Zhenya already pulling him to his feet and towards the bathroom. Jackson stopped them in the doorway, turning back to Jackie who was pulling on her clothes.

She was already looking at them with a knowing smile. "Go ahead. Take your time. I'll raid your kitchen in the meantime. Or order pizza. I'm starving."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Jackie."

He let Zhenya pull him the rest of the way to the bathroom, thinking he'd have to thank Jackie properly, profusely, and also ask her how she knew just what to say every time because it was bordering on scary.

But now there was another, more important talk, to be had. There was his best friend, turning on the shower, not meeting his eyes and fidgeting nervously. Zhenya never fidgeted. "Hey. Talk to me." Jackson ducked his head to catch Zhenya's eyes.

Instead, Zhenya avoided his gaze and he was being pulled into the shower under the spray of hot water, getting increasingly worried. Did Zhenya regret what they did? Was he gearing up for a let’s never talk about this again speech? Well, Jackson wouldn’t let him. He took a breath and opened his mouth, preparing to launch into a five-point argument about how this wasn't a mistake followed by an even longer list of reasons why they should definitely do it again, maybe just the two of them...

He didn't even get to start, interrupted by Zhenya's frustrated growl. "Ja nie znayu-- how say this right. So not make fun."

Jackson saw the serious expression on Zhenya's face, his this is important look. "Okay? I'll listen. But-- can I kiss you first? Just. I'm a bit worried now."

Jackson was still trying to catch Zhenya's eyes, standing close and blinking the water away, so he wasn't far for Zhenya to look up at him in surprise and then break out into a wide smile, pressing their lips together and saying "Da, da, vsegda, ty vsegda mozesh." breathless little giggles escaping him in between kisses. Jackson didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone of relief, felt it himself when he was once again in his best friend's arms, his world right again after being tilted dangerously off its axis for a moment. They were okay.

"What-- what were you saying?" Jackson asked, minutes later, eternity later, after they had caught their breath, actually showered and stole even more kisses inbetween handing each other shampoo bottles and later towels, still helpless against the gravity pulling them together. They still had to talk, but Jackson was now sure they were on the same page and for right now that was enough.

However, he was curious about one thing. "Zhenya, what did you say, before? In the shower. It was all Russian..."

"Oh-- I say you can kiss me always. Did I say in Russian?"

"Yeah, didn't you realize?"

"Niet. Only happy you want kiss me. Jackson--" Zhenya broke off, taking Jackson's hands in his and it would have been funny, the two of them just in towels, hair dripping, the mirror behind them misty from the condensation, showing only their silhouettes and the buy toothpaste that Jackson wrote on it with his finger that morning when he used the last of it, next to a word in Cyrillic that Zhenya wouldn't tell him the meaning of. Yet it felt like the most important moment, with how Zhenya's eyes bore into him, warm and earnest, and soft, there it was again, stealing Jackson's breath away.

"You are my best friend." Zhenya announced carefully, willing him to hear it. "I care-- you? I don't know how say..."

"I care about you." Jackson jumped in, helping Zhenya with the words, echoing the same back at him. "I care about you too, Zhenya. You're my best friend too."

"Da. Yes. But-- I like when we kiss. I like this." He squeezed Jackson's hands in his and pulled him closer, wrapping Jackson's arms around his waist and his own around Jackson's shoulders. Next words were spoken against his temple, hushed and treasured. "I want best friends and I want this. Ya khochu tebja. Can we-- have this? Do you--?"

Jackson was nodding before Zhenya finished his sentence, already reaching for him and pouring everything he felt into a kiss, every exhilarating and excited and scary feeling that was filling his chest, because he didn't have enough words for how much he wanted this, too. Then he heard Jackie's voice in his mind, use your words Jackson, say what you want and only good things had happened when he listened to Jackie... "Yes, we can. We can have this. Zhenya, I want you too. I want all of that-- wait, are we, like, dating now?"

Zhenya was smiling so hard his eyes were just slits, mirroring his own happy grin that wouldn't leave his face. He still managed to roll his eyes, of course. "Nado. We live together."

"I know, but do we-- go on dates, now? Like, what are the rules to this?"

"We are best friends who kiss. And make love. And-- cuddle?"

Jackson was more than a bit distracted by the lovely blush that rose in Zhenya's cheeks and the accompanying words but he managed to keep it together and reply because he could use a good cuddle just about now. He was getting a bit chilly with how long they were standing in the bathroom just in their towels and if it went his way, there would be no need for pyjamas tonight. He wanted to wrap himself up in Zhenya and stay there. He could, now.

"Yeah we can definitely cuddle. We can even sleep together!"

Zhenya's eyebrow rose at that and Jackson swatted at him, indignant. "I meant sleep sleep! In the same bed! On purpose! Not you falling asleep on me by accident when we watch Clone Wars after midnight."

"How you know it is accident?" Zhenya winked at him and then stole his towel and ran out of the door towards his room, leaving Jackson gaping and-- happy. He was happy. And-- falling in love with my best friend, he experimentally tried that thought on, just to see what would happen, how he would feel. Nothing broke, nothing shattered. The world kept on turning, the wisps of steam kept escaping into the hall, the light turned on in his room, beckoning him forward. The feeling settled more firmly in his chest, already filling the space behind his ribs, expanding with his lungs and cradling his heart, warm and soft and safe. They would figure it out together, like they did everything else so far. Playing together, communicating together, living together. Being together.

In sync, like on the ice.

- - -

Bonus:

Jackie followed her grumbling stomach and the trail of discarded clothing back to the kitchen. She always got hungry after sex and this was no exception, although everything else about this night was exceptional. She couldn't have foreseen the story that would unravel right before her eyes, between the two men that invited her into their apartment and their bed, only to find each other in the end. She wasn’t complaining, oh no, on the contrary, that was quite something and she won’t forget it, ever… but now, she needed food.

The fridge didn’t offer any satisfactory snack options so Jackie found herself sitting on the kitchen island, scrolling through the takeout app on her phone and ordering pizza instead. She saw the empty pizza boxes from Sid’s beside the trash can so she knew she couldn’t go wrong with that choice. Everyone loved Sid’s, of course they did too.

Everyone also loved the Lions. She was only now slowly connecting the dots. The framed jerseys in the hall. The hockey sticks in the corner of the living room, the pucks on the shelf. Evgeni saying teammate when he introduced Jackson. Both of them being built like Greek gods, strong and beautiful and fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Gryffindor loved their Lions. Of course she knew of the team even if she didn’t follow the game - if you lived in Gryffindor, it had become impossible to not know about them after they brought home the cup.

However, she was glad that she didn’t know who exactly Evgeni was when they met at the bar, apart from a fun drinking partner, dorky dancer and very, very good kisser. They had locked eyes across the room, she bought him a drink, he got the burgers and fries, they talked for quite a long time even with him searching for words and having to resort to inventive descriptions with a side of charades to get his meaning across, they danced, they made out… He made her laugh and didn’t push for her number or her attention, he turned her on and he intrigued her, but at the end of the night, he was just a stranger to her.

A gentle, giant, hot stranger that took her home for what she expected to be a one night stand and turned into so much more; at least for the two men. She saw the looks, heard what had been said and felt the connection between them come to life in an entirely new way, witnessing a sacred first and even helping to guide them through it when they turned to her. She had threesomes before, but nothing like this. She already knew she would treasure the memory, feeling rather protective of it; of them.

Her phone buzzed, the arrival of the pizza delivery reminding her of her grumbling stomach again. She hopped down from her perch on the kitchen island, let the delivery person into the building and paid for the three pizzas, bringing them back to the kitchen. The boys would be hungry too, when they finally came out of the shower, but they were taking their time. She suspected they needed the privacy to make sense of what happened. She could give them that.

Grabbing a sharpie from her bag, she scrawled a note and her number on top of one of the pizza boxes that she left on the counter, only grabbing three slices out of it and stacking them like a delicious, greasy, pizza sandwich. With a last fond look around she headed for the door, her eyes lingering on the jerseys hanging in matching gold frames on the wall. Nadeau. Kuznetsov. She didn’t know the names or the jersey numbers, had only a vague idea about hockey, but she was rooting for them now - for Zhenya and Jackson - and going by what she’d seen tonight, she was pretty sure they would make it.

fin

#Nuny #lumosinlove #lumosinlove fanfic #sweater weather lumosinlove #inspired by sweater weather #Nado #Kuny #Jackie #inspired by lumosinlove

70 notes · View notes

venomous-ko · 4 years ago

Text

Wine Drunk while watching Godzilla vs Kong

Some major spoilers up ahead!

Mans really just annoyed the shit out of his coworker until he left so he could hack shit, huh?...I love it! 🤣🤣

——————————————

You mean to tell me that the explanation for why Godzilla attacked the one tech company site by the dude who studied Kaiju communication and behavior for a living is just, “sometimes people (and creatures) change”???? Like some dumbass justifying a toxic person/relationship??? Like excuse me???? Why are the literal teenagers making more sense than you?????

Also, we’re all in agreement that this facility is either housing Ghidora’s dead head, Mecha Godzilla, or Mecha Ghidora, right?!?

——————————————

Lol! “Apex Cybernetics!” That’s not foreshadowing! 🤣

——————————————

Apparently, I didn’t get my fill of white nonsense from Falcon and Winter Soldier, bc someone decided to put this blonde-hair-blue-eyed little bitch in charge! That’s not ganna go wrong somehow. 🙃😑👀

Like this bitch literally wanted to send a fucking child into unexplored hollow earth territory without a second thought! 🙃🙃🙃🙃 I was literally like 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕 for that entire convo.

——————————————

I’m sorry! This conspiracy man just met these teenagers, and his first impulse was, “yeah, theses seem like some good people to break into a tech conglomerate with!” 🤣🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

Why are these people surprised Kong knows sign language? These are people who study Kaiju (and presumably other animals in order to draw conclusions about certain behaviors) for a fucking living!!! We have primate species that recognize and communicate in sign language already! Why is this surprising???!?! Like...has NO ONE except this precious child tried this????

Also, nothing bad better happen to this child.

——————————————

That ship literally fucked around, and Godzilla let it find out! Lmao!

——————————————

Kong: Hey, Godzilla...look at me...

Godzilla: >:[

Kong: ...bitch.

——————————————

Precious girl: Thank you, friend 🧏🏽‍♀️

Kong: ☺️😴

THIS GIRL IS TOO PRECIOUS!!!!

——————————————

Bitch-ass White Man: How’s Kong with heights?

BITCH, you really ganna try that?!?! You really think you ganna find any aircraft(s) that are ganna be able to support all that weight?? Never mind any other problems with Kong trying to nope the fuck out of that situation and all kind of other hosts of problems!

And if you do somehow have one (or multiple) WHY TF DIDN’T YOU USE THAT BEFORE KNOWING FULL AND WELL YOU RAN THE RISK OF GODZILLA MERCING KONG’S ASS IF YOU TRAVELED VIA SHIP!?!?!?!

——————————————

Down the Hell Naw tunnel we go!

——————————————

“I think it’s romantic,”

I fucking love Millie Bobbie Brown’s character!! 🤣❤️🤣

——————————————

WHY IS THIS TEENAGER SMARTER THAN EVERYBODY OMG!!!!! 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

“This is page one in the ‘Playing God’ handbook, right?”

I’ve decided I love this character! 🤣

——————————————

WHY YOU GETTING INSIDE THAT THING—Oh god! 😨 Why y’all got eggs!?!? This is like if Weyland-Yutani succeeded in getting Xenomorphs! 😬

——————————————

Oop! Locked in! THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T HIDE OUT IN MYSTERIOUS ROOMS!!!!

——————————————

Oh shit! Apex Cybernetics think they on that Wakanda shit now!

Also, why was that one Apex Cybernetics bitch bitching about how one of those HEAV crafts could power Vagas for a week if y’all clearly have a whole network or transportation using this tech!

And I never understood how tech companies kept that shit to world domination shit! Build a public transportation system with that shit! Boss man said he likes ideas that make him rich! Pretty sure that would do the trick!

——————————————

WINE BREAK!!!

Saving the rest of the last bottle for coking Gumbo, so gotta open up a new bottle

——————————————

Aw, Kong is so sick of this bullshit! 😂😭

——————————————

“It’s not working”

Bruh! Give it more that two seconds!

——————————————

HOW DARE Y’ALL USE KONG’S LOSS AGAINST HIM!!!! HOW DARE Y’ALL!!!

——————————————

HEAV go Brrrrrrr Shoooooooooooom!!!!

——————————————

LMAO!!! Monarch has their own brand of bottled water!?!?! Idk why that amuses me so much!

——————————————

This hallow earth portal thing is some Pacific Rim bullshit right here, lol!

——————————————

NYOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM

——————————————

Are we...are we really Ice Age: Dawn of Dinosaur-ing this shit rn??? 😂😂😂

——————————————

“It’s beautiful,”

Of course it’s beautiful! No hoomins have touched it! Lol

——————————————

Y’ALL GOT FUCKIN DRAGONS IN THIS BITCH!?!?!?!!! 8D YO!!! SIGN ME THE FUCK UP!!!!

——————————————

*marvels at the creature creation ideas*

——————————————

Kong’s first thought: *nom the dragon guts*

——————————————

THE ROCK HAND OMG IM GANNA CRY!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 It’s the same gesture the Precious Girl did OMG!!!!

——————————————

“We going in?”

“Yeah”

The BALLS on this child!

——————————————

“AAAAHH 😐”

*fear*

LMAO!!!!! I’M FUCKIN WHEEZING!!!

——————————————

“Sacrifice Pit”

OMG 🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

I KNEW IT!!!! MECHA-GODZILLA MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!! 8DDDDD

——————————————

YO PACIFIC RIM RAN SO MECHA-GODZILLA COULD FUCKIN SPRINT!!!!!!!!

——————————————

YO IT’S A GOOD THING I AIN’T SEEING THIS IN THEATERS BC I’D BE FLIPPING MY SHIT!!!!

——————————————

“Humanity, once again, will be the apex species,”

THERE it is!

——————————————

Why Mecha-Godzilla so skeeny?!? He need ta be thicc if he ganna take down REAL Godzilla!

——————————————

*Ryan Bergera conspiracy voice* Is this the real reason Kong was contained!? So this douche could snatch up Skull Crawlers without Kong intervention???

——————————————

OH SHIT!!! I think this thing is emitting alpha waves (or whatever we’re calling it) and THAT’s what set Godzilla off!!! He fought Ghidorah, heard this shit and went, “Nu-uh, bitch! NOT AGAIN!!!”

——————————————

Monarch dude: Yo, Godzilla’s headed to Hong Kong for some reason?

FUCKIN CALLED IT!!!

——————————————

This look like the door to fuckin General Grievous’s lair,da fuq?!? 🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

I got waaay too emotional over that handprint, y’all! 😭😭😭

——————————————

Y’all, the fucking art history major in me is fuckin screaming at this temple scene! The fact that some of these Kaiju not only had the urge and drive and capacity to build a fucking temple around this power source or some shit and create weapons like the axe that Kong just fucking Excalibured the shit out of that one skull crawler’s skull fucking implies the fact that there is intelligent civilization amongst these fucking Kaiju and all that shit! I want to know more about this shit! Take that you fucking racist-ass white historian motherfuckers!

(Note: I definitely needed to use talk to text for much of this bit, because there was no way I was going to be able to contain all my excitement in just typing, alone, lmao)

——————————————

BRUH!!! Why y’all exiting g the HEAV without no breathing apparatus or lead suits or nothing!?!?! In previous movies, y’all implied that these Kaiju lived in environments in which their environments were hella radioactive compared to our own!!!

——————————————

Kong is s the true heir to the iron throne, Lmao!

——————————————

FUCKING CALLED IT!!!! THEY HAD GHIDORA’S REMAINS IN THERE SOMEWHERE!!!!

——————————————

OH FUCK!!!! Y’ALL AINT JUST SENDING OUT ALPHA VIBES WITH YOUR MECHA-GODZILLA!!!! YOU SOMEHOW USING GHIDORA’S HIVE MIND OR TELEPATHY SHIT TO DO IT!?!?!?! AAAWWWWW SHEEEEEET!!! Y’ALL ARE BONED NOW!!!! FUCKIN BONEROWNED!!!!

——————————————

Godzilla! My bruh! My dude! You didn’t HAVE TO get up right where that bridge was!!! 😂😂 Ya douche bag!!!

——————————————

At the same time, tho, I can just hear him going, “Ah! FUCK! NOT AGAIN!!! Sunova bitch!! Motherfuckin!! STOP BUILDING sHIT SO DAMN HIGH!!! Goddammit!”

——————————————

You know, with all the Bright twinkly lights in Hong Kong, I can’t help but think of the sequel to the original Gojira movie ( that I can’t remember the title of ,rn) where he was fucking triggered by fucking lights. And I wonder if this little scene where he’s stomping all through Hong Kong is a tribute to that or whatever. But I’m probably overthinking it.

[Sober Edit: it was Godzilla Raids Again]

——————————————

*GASP* HOLY SIHIIIT!!! The axe is made out of Godzilla skute!?!?! GOLY BALLS THAT’S NOT ONLY COOL BUT CONTRIBUTES MORE TO THE FACT THAT THESE KAIJU (likely Kong’s species, in particular) WERE REALLY FUCKING INTELLIGENT AMD TJOUGHT, “Imma beat this muthafucka with their own spiky thing! Bc that’s what screws us over, so, why WOULD’nt it hurt them!?!” I need SO MUCH MORE of this Kaiju/Kong culture studied and shit! HOLY FUCK!!!

It even fucking glows!! Like ... they managed to fucking piece together that its glow was a fucking warning sign like Sting or some shit!!!! Holy fuck!!!!

Also, how does that work? How are the skutes still connected even after dismemberment???

——————————————

NO FUCKIN WAY WRE YOU—AAAAAAAAHHH!!! Excalibur that shit my boi!!!!

——————————————

I FUCKIN LOVE YHIS MOVIE HOLY SHIT!!!

——————————————

“ that’s Apex property now,”

Excuse me bitch! Are we really not gonna listen to the scientist who saying “hey we don’t understand the shit out of this fucking power! Maybe we should hold off on taking some fucking samples!”

Are we really just gonna ignore that shit???????

——————————————

Kong said: TRY ME BITCH!!!!

——————————————

Oh thank the GODS this Serizawa dude is taking precautions like his old man! Also, what is his relation to Ken Watanabe’s Serizawa!?!?!

——————————————

UH OH!! SOLDIER DUDES GETTIN ATE!!!

——————————————

OH SHIT!!! PILOT JUST GOT ATE!!! FUCKIN DRAGON BASEMENT UP IN THIS SHIT!!!

——————————————

BITCH YOU REALLY GON THROW A ROCK AT IT!!! FUCKIN NONSENSE OF THIS BITCH!!!

——————————————

LOVE AND FITE ME ENERGY IS STORED IN THE ATOMIC BREATH

——————————————

“Shoot him!”

WHY!!!???!! He literally had NO problem with you before then!!!

——————————————

Why does white man who don’t know anything about this vehicle suddenly know how to pilot this shit!???!?!!!!!

——————————————

Y’all love had SO MUCH wine!

——————————————

The FUCK this dude got a flip flop phone for!!!?!????!!!?

Da fuq!?!?! 🤣🤣🤣🤣 yeah that’s the most unrealistic part of this entire fucking movie! Not the fuckin Kaiju robots. Not the fucking hollow earth bullshit! The fucking flip phone! LMFAO!!!!

——————————————

“Maintenance! I’M MAINTENANCE!!! This bitch ain’t buying it”

That made me laugh WAY FUCKIN harder that it should have!!!!

——————————————

Y’all really ganna try to shoot at a kid!?! REALLY!?!?!??!

——————————————

GAWD, I’m so glad I impulse bought these oatmeal bites from Dominos! 🤤😋

[Sober Edit: I have no idea how my autocorrect managed to convert “Parmesan” to “oatmeal,” but okay! 😆😅]

——————————————

Kong be like, “Hey, bitch!!! You lookin’ for me!?!?”

——————————————

Find you a partner that bites your neck like Godzilla does! Lmao!

Sorry, I’ll be crawling back into my hell hole, now.

——————————————

EAT YOUR FOOKIN VEGETABLES GODZILLA!!!!!

——————————————

Did Godzilla just axe throw with his fuckin teefs!!!????!?!?!

——————————————

THIS IS THE FOOKIN MONSTER VS MONSTER FIGHTS IVE BEEN CRAVING SINCE KING OF THE MONSTERS HOLY SHIT!!!!

——————————————

“Really? Groupies, again?”

First of all, again!?! What happened last time???

Secondly, where tf are YOUR grpupies, asshole! No need to judge! Ya cunt!

——————————————

“There can only be one alpha,”

Really! You really gotta bring your toxic masculinity into a fuckin monster fight, my dude!?!

——————————————

Kong said, “Yeet! YEET SELF!!!”

——————————————

I am living for the feral fight scenes!!!!

——————————————

Kong’s expression , tho! 🤣🤣🤣

Like, “Can you ducking NOT, Godzilla?!? Can you, like, fucking chill??!!? Aight, fine! ASDASHKLSDJKLDZJL ADKLKDZDJ!!!!!!”

——————————————

Awwwww! Godzilla let Kong go, bc he knows what it’s like to be the last of his species! 🥺🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭😭

——————————————

“This is how we [...] win!”

Oh, honey, you ‘bout to die! Lmao! 😂

——————————————

Oh god! I knew he was going to use the sign for “coward” at the most inappropriate time! Lmao! At least the Precious Girls is smart enough to know what Dumbass White Man means, lol

——————————————

Oh, thank god we do t see this dumbass in any sequels!

——————————————

Dammit, he escaped!

——————————————

This girl is too good!

——————————————

Did y’all really think you were ganna break into a semi-sentient Mecha-Godzilla by GUESSING ITS FUCKING PASSWORD!!?!?!?!!!!???? 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

YEAH!!!! TEAM-UP COMING THROUGH!!!!!

——————————————

“I was hoping to die with adults, but that’s okay,”

🤣🤣🤣

——————————————

“I’VE GOT TO DIE WITB YOU AND SOBER!!?!?!”

GOD, I love this movie!!!!

——————————————

OOOOOOHHHH HOLY SHIT!!!!! 😱😱😱😱😱 He powering up the axe!!!!!

——————————————

YOOOOOO KONG WENT PREDATOR/YOUTJA ON MECHA-GODZILLA’s ASS!!!!

——————————————

Kong said, “I’m done, y’all! Imma take a nap!”

——————————————

“Dad. Uh...Bernie.”

I fucking love Bernie!!! 😂😂😂😂

——————————————

JIA NOOOO!!! Don’t go running between two disgruntled Kaiju bby!!

——————————————

Yo, why do monsters have less toxic masculinity than we do??? Lol!

——————————————

Yaaaaaay! Kong has a new home!!

——————————————

WELP!!! I fucking loved this movie, and I highly recommend it to everyone!!!

#SPOILERS #Godzilla #godzilla vs kong #King Kong #kaijuverse #my posts #my drunk ass #godzilla vs kong spoilers

47 notes · View notes

thebadchoicemachine · 4 years ago

Text

Yall want some MYCT Magnus Archive Headcanons I may or may not draw? (Pt 1?)

I will try to include individual trigger warnings at the beginning of each explanation as much as I can think of. They may seem a little overboard but better safe than sorry. Remember, TMA is a horror podcast.

(ALSO, EVERYTHING HERE IS /RP. EVEN WHEN I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT A ROLEPLAY VIDEO PLEASE KNOW I’M MAKING UP A CHARACTER BASED OFF THEIR CHANNEL AND AM NOT ACTUALLY ACCUSING THEM OF BEING A SERVANT TO A MALEVOLENT FEAR ENTITY.)

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

Philza

1. An End Avatar (TW, Numb/Apathetic Mindset)

He’s a reaper. An immortal. You only live once but life’s become, not meaningless, more like desaturated. He doesn’t care in a cheery “oh well” way. He’s pretty chill about it. He’s extremely chill about it. He is disturbingly chill about it. At first it seems great, he’s just a nice chill guy! No evil schemes or vicious plots. Just spending time with him seems to calm your nerves. And then you spend more time and you begin to understand why, things aren’t as important as you make them seem. You catastrophize a lot. Then a catastrophe happens and you’re not... upset. Why... why would you be? It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. It won’t in a hundred years and it doesn’t now. would end the same anyways. And then he starts to be less and less relatable. Why is he so happy? Why does he bother to go meet people and smile and eat or laugh or frown. You can’t belive you ever complained that he was so mild about everything, any amount is more than is worth. Why bother? Why... bother...

2. A Vast Avatar (TW, Heights?)

He just fucking tosses people into the sky instead of being upset with them. Do anything he doesn’t like? SWOOSH. It’s to the point it’s not even a malicious thing, it’s just routine. He gets up, goes to the store, picks up some groceries, sends a person who cut in line to a void of dusk with swirling black clouds where you fall so long you can’t tell if you’re flying up or down or left or right, maybe gets some mints, goes home, puts groceries away, does the dishes, etc.

(the rest of the cast below the cut)

Tubbo

1. A Corruption Avatar (TW, Body Horror Surrounding Lungs, Swarming Insects, Implied Murder.)

He has bees in his lungs and he loves them very much. If he ever gets something stuck in his throat or has water go down the wrong pipe he will FEAK OUT. He often has to cough up honey (and sometimes bees). It’s... a process. He just sits over a bucket or jar and hacks his little heart out. He sometimes saves the honey and offers it to people. Amazingly, his friends never take him up on the offer. Unsuspecting people who don’t know the.. supernatural origin of the honey find they have some... unpleasant side effects. (Bees. The side effect is bees. Specifically ones trying to fly down their throat.) Oh well, being a part of a hive isn’t for everyone. The really unfortunate ones make good fertilizer for his flowers, though! His lungs are literally a hive. If you tried to listen to his heartbeat you’d hear buzzing. He will sometimes hold flowers over his open mouth to let the bees get some easy pollon. He doesn’t usually actively seek out “prey” but when he is trying to feed on that good old fear he’ll act super sweet, too sweet, and then open his mouth and let the bees fly out. It’s very creepy but to him it’s just funny. (Also, all of the bees have names and he has a funeral for every single one that get’s killed.)

Quackity

1. A Spiral Avatar

I- I mean have you seen a single one of his videos?

2. A Stranger Avatar (TW, Unreality Depersonalization )

He mocks people as their own reflection, hopping from pond to mirror to camera to scream at them (sometimes literally) that they do not know who they are. It starts off subtle (Wasn’t your hair a bit longer? Weren’t your eyes a shade lighter? Did you always have that birthmark?”) but grows and changes until it gets to the point you stand in front of a mirror and every time you blink you look completely different. You feel your face, you look at your hands, but it’s no help. They change too fast. Your pictures change too, every single post on all your social media looks like different people posted it- wait... did you always have this platform? You don’t remember ever using it before. You have so many posts... none of them match up. You throw your phone away, noticing you never had the case on it. You turn to real photos for help but they are none. Of course not. You feel like just giving up as you shuffle through photo after photo, you don’t know what you really look like, so what? But then something catches your eye. A photo of you in the 5th grade concert. You don’t remember going to that school. You’ve never played an instrument, have you? Something screams yes and no at the same time. You throw the box down and grab your phone. You need to call someone. You pace throughout a house you recognize less and less searching for clues, reminders, as the phone rings. Your best friend answers. You throw the phone down again. You don’t have a best friend. You’ve never really been one for friends. No, that’s not true, you had a few really good ones but you’ve grown apart. No, that’s not true, you only have one real friend, your boyfriend. No, you don’t have a boyfriend, just a close friend. No, you have many friends just none that are close enough for this bullshit. You stop. No. No you don’t like swearing, do you? Do you? Who are you? Who are you? Your reflection laughs. It’s eating popcorn and making you do a stupid dance. What a bitch.

3. A Flesh Avatar (TW, Body Horror Surrounding Faces and Skin)

You’re a piece of meat, he’s a piece of meat, everyone’s meat. Like Chicken Nuggets.He’ll steal your face right off it’s skull and dance with one in each hand. He’ll put words in your mouth like you’re a puppet with bones. He’ll make you say the dumbest shit because it’s funny. Even when it’s obviously not YOU talking.

Technoblade

1. A Hunt Avatar (TW, Stalking/Genocide)

Many people have suggested a slaughter avatar but I don’t see it. Yeah, he kills (blood for the blood god and all that) but I don’t see it. The Slaughter is about the moment. The unplanned snap. The sudden outbursts. I don’t see that in techno. You know what I DO see that also involves quite a bit of bloodlust? The chase. The planning, the target, the unstoppable dread and panic that overtakes his victims once they realize who is after them. The power. Calculated genocide of victim after victim. The HUNT. My two pain points of evidence: His potato war videos, that time he took over the world, and his stalking speech to Quackity. Go watch an animatic of Technoblade chasing down Quackity and tell me he is not a Hunt Avatar.

Wilbur

1. A Desolation Avatar (TW, Abuse/Torture)

Everything he touches burns and hurts. Sometimes it’s on purpose, sometimes on accident, but either way he’s caught up in enjoying the drama. I’m gonna be honest, my main inspiration was the Villainbur aesthetic but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. Look at nearly any of his 100 player videos; designed to create maximum pain for hs enjoyment. Even the Dream SMP where he was mostly a good guy and more tragic than anything else fits. Maybe that Villain Arc was his first dabble as an avatar of destruction and pain. Even making his own father kill him could have been along the lines of “how can I milk as much despair out of this as possible.”

TommyInnit

1. A Slaughter Avatar (TW, Straight Up Murder)

Now HERE is a character right up that slaughter’s alley. No thoughts, not plans, just unbridled passion and rage and violence. He just stabs people whenever he feels like it (which is often) sometimes just with sticks. Like a rabid raccoon just jumps straight at people’s faces out of nowhere, always starting shit and stoking fires to make people angry at each other.

2. A Buried Avatar (TW, small tight spaces)

Tunnels and caves and sticks and spots. He’ll burry you under a mountain, he’ll lock you in a tree. Dirt man. His usual MO is trapping people under an avalanche of stones and rocks and rubble. Basically just lava casting your bones. Everything he makes is ugly but not just in a ”that’s literally a pile of rocks in the middle of the road” way in a bit of an indescribable “looking at that makes me feel like I’m breathing in straight gravel.”

Bonus: Ranboo as a Dark Avatar/Victim. He is not a willing avatar like Jude or Helen, he’s more along the lines of Oliver and Jon.

#dream smp au #dsmp tma au

66 notes · View notes

i-like-plan-m · 4 years ago

Text

the wind on another star

[On Ao3]

Lan Zhan wondered if pirates, of all things, were going to succeed where dozens of far superior fighters had tried and failed to kill him before.

The wide open void of space mocked him. Millions of escape routes within sight, and all worthless to him with a sabotaged hyperdrive and navigation system. The Hanguang-Jun was stranded in the middle of nowhere and caught in the crosshairs of a rather established band of mercenaries who doubled as pirates when they were between paid jobs.

Lan Zhan stood at the helm of his wounded starship and watched the empty escape pods drift away with so much fury he half expected them to explode.

Su She had conned his way onto Lan Zhan’s ship, hacked the navigation controls to drop them out of hyperspace and straight into the heart of a company of heavily armed mercenaries, and taken the only escape pod that he hadn’t already ejected into space.

Lan Zhan’s crew was trapped. Lan Zhan was trapped-- his ship’s weapon systems were mostly offline, brought partially back to life only by Lan Jingyi’s sheer desperation and skill. It wasn’t nearly enough to keep a dozen fighter planes and two cruisers at bay.

“Ambush,” Mianmian said tightly from beside him. “This was carefully planned, Captain.”

“What did we ever do to piss off these guys?” Lan Jingyi asked over the open comms, an edge of panic to his voice that made Lan Zhan’s mouth twist. It was his fault that his cousin was here in the first place, after all; he’d offered him a position on his ship due in part to Lan Jingyi’s skills and also to get him out of Lan Qiren’s hair. Apparently a too-clever, loud mouthed teenager trapped in the peaceful City of Clouds in Gusu had driven everyone up the wall.

He’d reminded Lan Zhan of Wei Ying-- the irrepressible character, the frequent mischief, a voice that ricocheted off of steel walls like a blaster shot. He was joy and humor and noise, a welcome change from the solemn silence aboard the Hanguang-Jun. It made him think of things loved and lost, bittersweet memories that perhaps made him more lenient with Lan Jingyi than his family would approve of.

And Lan Zhan had brought him straight into a trap, likely to be picked off by power hungry mercenaries or held as a hostage.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the control panel beeped urgently, warning him that the cruisers had locked their missiles onto the Hanguang-Jun.

So they had decided to kill him after all.

His brother would be devastated, Lan Zhan thought distantly.

“I’ve still got the sonics,” Mianmian said, strapping herself into the copilot’s seat and reaching for the weapons controls. As his security expert and weapons master, Mianmian had seen them through insurmountable odds before; she remained as cool as ever under the flashing red warning lights. “I can pick off the missiles as they come, unless they unload several at once on us.”

“Can we use them to hit first?” Lan Jingyi asked, breathing heavily as he worked in the overheated mechanical room. “No one in the galaxy can counter Lan sonic tech.”

“They’re out of range,” Mianmian said regretfully.

“They haven’t attempted to hail us?” Lan Zhan asked, staring the largest cruiser down as it loomed over them in a blatant attempt to intimidate them. He suspected there was more at play here-- cruisers like this cost serious money, and even if simple mercenary crews got their hands on one, they didn’t keep them long. But two? Lan Zhan knew a set up when he saw it.

Lan Jingyi-- their mechanic and communications officer, because he was “skilled like that”-- made a sound of disgust. “No. So much for intergalactic law, right?”

“So many for just us,” Mianmian said, scowling out the front shield. “That’s half a damn army out there.”

The Hanguang-Jun had a reputation, though. Lan Zhan and his tiny crew went where the chaos was, and recently they’d taken on a number of jobs that had required the full force of their combined skill and strategy to survive. Except they’d not only survived, they’d demolished multiple bands of the rogue mercenaries that wandered the galaxy, terrorizing the helpless colonies too small or poor to defend themselves.

Someone had been paying attention, it seemed. And they had gone so far as to plant a spy-- Su She, hired only a week ago as extra support-- to lead them to an ambush in the middle of nowhere.

No one would know of their deaths for some time; the largest cruiser had an active jammer to block any distress signals, and Lan Zhan wasn’t due for a check in with his family for weeks.

He regretted the deaths of his crew. His friends. The loss his brother and uncle would soon face. And, privately, Lan Zhan regretted that he would never find Wei Ying. The bright, brilliant boy who’d vanished entirely after the Sunshot Wars, wherein the galaxy had come together to bring down Wen Ruohan before he could harness a sun’s energy to demolish entire planets.

So much left unsaid. But Wei Ying had broken the Wen remnants out of a prison world and disappeared into the darkness between the stars. No one knew where he’d gone. If he was alive. If they’d ever see him again.

Lan Zhan, it seemed, would never find out.

“Our shields?” He asked quietly, gripping the sleek rail separating the pilots’ seats from the rest of the control room so tightly his knuckles were white.

“In tatters,” Lan Jingyi said, trying to sound brave and landing somewhere around apprehensive. “I’m doing my best, Captain, but…”

“It’s alright,” Lan Zhan said gently. “We will try the sonic cannons.”

Mianmian’s eyes flickered to him, but she kept quiet. They both knew it would only take one missed shot to destroy their ship, and they were laughably outnumbered. But the comms were open and Lan Jingyi was listening intently from the engine room, so they kept their mutual understanding nonverbal.

“Well. It’s been an honor, Captain,” she murmured, too low for the comm line to pick up.

“For me as well,” Lan Zhan said, and dropped his hands to the pilot controls. He would try to help Mianmian dodge missiles as best he could, despite the futility of the situation.

The beeping became frantic, screaming in urgency as the second cruiser locked onto them. The cockpit was dim, lit only by the flashing warning lights that cast them in hues of red.

They waited, braced for the first burst of light that would signal a dispatched missile, surrounded on all sides, caught in a killing field with no way out.

Three bright souls on the cusp of darkness, facing a death that would leave them floating adrift in the eternal expanse of space. Not so terrible an end, he supposed, for a crew of wayfarers.

Mianmian suddenly jerked in place. “What the...?”

Lan Zhan’s attention snapped to her, wondering if he’d missed the beginning of the execution. He followed her baffled gaze, and then froze at the sight of a mid-sized, battered red cruiser dropping out of hyperspace, right on top of the armada.

He knew that cruiser. Had seen it only once, when a small collection of Wen prisoners had boarded it in the midst of a fierce storm with a slender, defiant figure guarding their escape.

The Yílíng Lǎozǔ drifted casually along, drawing the attention of the armada when its heavy artillery cannons dropped into active position. Half of the mercenaries turned their starships around to face the new threat.

“Is that who I think it is?” Mianmian whispered. Lan Zhan could not answer, though the hope in her voice matched the rising sun of his own.

“Is what who you think it is? What’s happening?” Lan Jingyi asked. They didn’t answer, too focused on the Yílíng Lǎozǔ and its unhurried course through the mercenaries’ ranks. Neither took much notice when he skidded into the cockpit to join them, breathing hard with wide, fever-bright eyes.

MianMian made a noise low in her throat when one of the cruisers disengaged their missile lock and turned it onto the Yílíng Lǎozǔ. “They’re going to get blown into pieces, why aren’t they moving out of range?”

Lan Zhan didn’t even notice the moment he stood, so tense his bones felt as though they’d shatter into pieces at a single touch. Wei Ying, what are you doing?

As if in answer, the largest cruiser angled to give chase to the Yílíng Lǎozǔ-- and exploded so abruptly and violently that Lan Zhan nearly staggered back in shock. Mianmian swore in mingled fear and delight, and Lan Jingyi exclaimed similar feelings at the top of his lungs.

“They dropped mines, did you see that?” She asked, leaning forward with bright eyes. “Completely off the radar-- we didn’t get so much as a blip, and this radar’s the only damn thing that is working on this ship.”

“Wei Ying has always been inventive,” Lan Zhan said, chest tight with something huge and undefinable.

“Fucking brilliant is what he is,” Mianmian said, and then made a face. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

That implied Lan Zahn was going to see him, which promptly overrode every other thought in his head and made him feel as though he’d been struck in the head with a Lan sonic cannon.

Debris from the destroyed cruiser littered the battlefield, briefly hiding the Yílíng Lǎozǔ from sight.

“They won’t fall for that trick twice,” Mianmian muttered, leaning forward. “Careful, now.”

And then, so suddenly Lan Zhan and Mianmian made twin noises of shock, the starships closest to the Hanguang-Jun exploded. He thought at first it was another trick with the mines, but--

A ripple of darkness rocketed past the nose of their ship, far too fast to track. It was utterly undetectable except for the trail of destruction it left behind. The starship moved at impossible speeds; not even the Nie’s most advanced fighters could move like that, and they were the foremost engineers in the galaxy.

It took another moment, during which starships blew up like a pre-planned chain reaction, for Lan Zhan to realize there were two of these ships-- starfighters, combat aircraft built for speed and stealth. They worked off of each other like they were a hive mind, targeting clusters of enemy ships and annihilating them with some unknown invisible weapon that pulverized the ships into fragments.

A series of explosions along the remaining cruiser nearly tore it in half. Lan Jingyi whooped as it careened wildly out of control and erupted into blinding light.

Lan Zhan’s focus, though, was drawn inexplicably to the shimmer of darkness flitting through the ranks of the armada, slipping into impossibly narrow spaces, performing acrobatics that only someone absolutely fearless would even dream of.

Wei Ying had always taken “attempt the impossible” to heart.

“Look!” Lan Jingyi exclaimed, pointing outside their windshield to a furrow in the black void of space. A third ship, this one hovering just beside the Hanguang-Jun as a clear threat-- come any closer, and you’d be decimated like the rest of the ruined armada. Lan Jingyi waved, and the ripple of black dipped low and then back into place.

“What kind of weapon is that?” Mianmian wondered, watching in awe as a single shot from one of Wei Ying’s starfighters dissolved a starship into particles.

Lan Zhan remembered Wei Ying’s theories on dark matter, and he wondered.

It did not take long for the battle to end. None of the ships even had a chance to escape, and any that tried were chased down within a few heartbeats and destroyed.

The communications system blipped as the two starfighters finished off the remaining enemies. Lan Jingyi looked at Lan Zhan in question, who nodded and waited for him to open the channel to say, “This is Lan Zhan, Captain of the Hanguang-Jun.”

“Hello, Captain,” someone replied. A young man, by the sounds of it, and politely cheerful. “Our captain has asked me to escort you to the Yílíng Lǎozǔ, if you are amenable.”

That was almost certainly not the way Wei Ying had likely worded it. Lan Zhan found himself wanting to smile. “I am amenable,” he said. “My ship is badly damaged and in need of repair.”

“We can help with that,” the boy replied, and was then interrupted by a voice that made Lan Zhan’s stomach swoop violently.

“Lan Zhan! Are you really going to let me put my grubby hands all over your shiny ship?”

He closed his eyes, emotion swelling in his chest. “Wei Ying can put his hands on anything of mine he wishes,” he said calmly, and meant every word.

He heard a squawk, a faint crash followed by an angry beep, and then a third voice calling in concern, “Wei-gongzi!”

“I’m fine, Wen Ning,” Wei Ying said hastily. Lan Zhan eyed the small piece of debris spinning away into the void, as though it had been clipped by the wing of a starfighter, perhaps.

“Ah,” Wei Ying laughed. “Lan Zhan, I didn’t expect you to have jokes now! I’ve missed a lot, it seems.”

“I have missed more.” Too much, if Wei Ying had made advancements like this; he’d clearly discovered some secret to the universe and left the rest of them far behind.

Lan Zhan had let him slip between his fingers once before. He was tired of being left behind.

“Wen Qing is bringing the Yílíng Lǎozǔ to you,” Wei Ying said with more warmth than Lan Zhan deserved. He had, after all, let Wei Ying down all those years ago. “I’ll see you soon, Lan Zhan.”

“Soon,” Lan Zhan agreed, and let the comm line fall to silence.

Soon. He felt his heart skip a beat in anticipation. Soon he would be face to face with Wei Ying again, the boy he’d loved and lost before he truly understood the potential for what it was, too busy being offended by the concept of his own stupid infatuation.

Soon, Lan Zhan thought again, and his tiny, hopeful smile was witnessed solely by the blanket of darkness and the glittering, luminous lights of a nearby star. A secret of his own, held between him and a universe full of possibility.

#my fics #my writing #the untamed #wangxian #wei ying #wei wuxian #lan zhan #lan wangji #space drama #lan jingyi #mianmian #luo qingyang #wen ning #wen qing #wen yuan #a yuan #lan sizhui #mdzs #ficlets

98 notes · View notes

meetthetank · 3 years ago

Text

Cruciamen Chapter 12: Pest Control

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (Nier) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104214/chapters/83494138

A2 lies in their bed, blankets askew, and ponders the Elders of their home village while they stare at the wooden ceiling.

The Elders were stubborn, staunch traditionalists to the end, and severe, but they were also wise and kind. They took care of the village and led their people through good times and bad. A2 remembers how the cubs would gather around the Storyteller when she visited their classes, their eyes wide with wonder at the old legends and the old language. They remember the times where cocksure warriors would challenge a passing master and gawp at how quickly the hobbling woman would disarm them. They remember how the village men would study the intricate weaving and architecture of the old builders and seamsters for hours on end and how many failed replications would be offered to lovers as gifts.

A2 remembers how the oldest would hide how their scales and feathers fell out, or how the men’s brilliant plumage would fade. They remember how when an Elder would draw close to death they would hide themselves away from the rest of the village, but everyone would know. A2 would know too, when an Elder was about to die, even at that young age. There is an instinct to let the suffering member of their family sequester themself away, despite their pain.

A2 wonders idly, as they hold a fistful of brittle feathers, if that’s what they’re feeling.

The downy feathers beneath their hair had started to fall out a couple of days ago, right around the time the salves and bandages had stopped working. It wasn’t unusual that their down would shed every so often, typically around the summer months. At first A2 had thought it was because of the humidity of the area that threw off their body’s natural rhythms. Then the feathers had started falling out by the fistful, and they knew something was very wrong. They noticed the swelling of their wounds not long after, followed by the yellowish pus that seeped from them. They’d get exhausted from climbing a single set of stairs and couldn’t eat or drink too much too quickly, otherwise they’d vomit everything back up.

They’re falling apart again.

They should be used to this. Their first month outside their treetop village, they had almost starved before they could find a meal. Then there had been their time spent in the rotting mud of The Bog. Now they’re wasting away once more, but in a much more comfortable way. Sometimes, when the poppyseed milk A4 brings them first hits and their swollen wounds stop aching, they feel as if they could simply drift away into the abyss. It would be a gentle death, a quiet one. Yet every time they awake to the morning sun filtering into their room.

Their chest rattles and aches with each breath; even this is exhausting. Lying in bed, helpless as their wounds seep with infection and pus, their bandages become sticky and tough along with their sheets. When they shift in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position, loose scales fall from their body, leaving the raw skin exposed.

If they hadn’t been taken in by A4 and her convent, they would have died. Wild dogs would have taken them down or vultures would have picked apart their body while they lay helplessly on the ground. But now they’re condemned to waste away...

A fat rat scrambles on top of their chest after sniffing around their pus caked leg. It looks at them with beady little eyes, its whiskers twitching as it sniffs around their shirt. It waits for them to respond, and when nothing happens it begins scratching at their skin, looking for soft flesh.

A2’s hand lashes out, snagging the rodent by the head. It struggles for a moment before they plunge their claws into its neck, severing its spine instantly. The rodent goes limp in their hand as they sit up.

The convent doesn’t eat meat except on feast days, they’ve learned, and when they do they boil it. This raw rat has to be one of the most delicious things they’ve eaten in their life. Their teeth tear tiny strips of flesh and bone from the fattened rodent, its blood running down their lips and chin.

“By the Saints-”

A4 stands in their doorway, her hand over her mouth hiding a look of disgust and awe as A2 slurps down the rest of the rat.

“What?” they ask, as if they don’t have rat viscera stuck in their teeth.

She shakes her head and sets her bundle of fresh bandages and clothes. “You look like s-...” She stops herself from swearing, A2 can tell. “You look worse than yesterday.” The nun’s brows furrow as she looks the coatyl up and down, bright emerald eyes scrutinizing every stain on their sheets and clothes. “There’s more discharge than before, you’ll need to start taking medicinal baths soon if-”

“No way.” A2 grunts and takes another bite. “M’ fine. Just sore.”

A4 glares at them, but keeps her thoughts to herself. She eyes the remains of the rodent in A2’s claws. “Did you… catch that?”

“Yeah.” A2 gulps the last of the rat down their throat.

When A4 gives them a dismissive look at the same time another rat scurries past her feet, A2 leaps into action. They dive for the rodent, scooping it up in their hand and skidding across the wooden floor. A4 stumbles back with a gasp, startled by the sudden movement, but the shock is quickly surpassed by an awkward smile.

A2 struggles to their feet, grits their teeth to hide their pain, and holds out the struggling animal to her. “See?”

“That’s-” A4 stammers. “You’re very good at that.”

A2 grins, strangely proud of themself. “I am an apex predator after all.”

The nun snickers, “About as threatening as a fat house cat.”

They feel their blood run cold at the mention of those animals. The rat in their hand squirms out of their grip and scampers away, escaping into a hole in the wall. “Wh-... cats? Are there cats here?!”

She puts her hands up, quick to quell their fears, as confusing as those fears may be. “Don’t worry! We don’t have any cats here. Which… is also why there’s so many rats…”

A2 begins to remark that rats are better than cats, but a coughing fit forces them to double over. Their chest and throat tighten and they can only clutch at their neck as their body trembles with each spasm. A4 is by their side in an instant with a clean rag in hand. She forces their hand away and wipes the spit and rat blood from their face.

“That cough sounds bad…” A4 mutters while examining A2. “If the Bog Rot has spread to your internal organs-”

“I’m fine!” A2 snaps, then sighs. “It’s fine. Just ate that one rat too fast.”

“Are you sure?”

They can’t stay mad at the genuine worry in A4’s voice.

“I’m sure.”

A4 stares at A2 with those deep green eyes. She stares right through them, leaving A2 to sift through all of the repressed memories that those eyes bring back. They keep their composure aside from biting the inside of their cheek, and it seems that A4 doesn’t pick up on the small gesture. She goes back to her basket of supplies and motions for A2 to sit on the edge of their bed.

After she helps A2 change their bandages, clean their sores, and change them into clean clothes, A4 all but drags them by the arm (gently of course) out of their room. She insists that the fresh air will help every time she walks them around the Convent, and at first it did. The outside air and gentle breeze filled their lungs with renewed energy. Now, each breath of cool air makes their chest hurt and their joints ache.

A harsh gust of wind rattles the leaves of the surrounding woods and cuts through their clothes, straight down to their bones. They can smell rain in the air and the humidity clings to the inside of their throat. With each breath more heat escapes their body. They wrap their arms around themself and fail to suppress a shiver. A4 casts them a worried look but they straighten up and attempt to hide their pain. They keep their head held high, proudly looking at the path ahead. A2 is prepared to face the biting cold moisture with a steely gaze.

They’re not prepared for the soft shawl that gets wrapped around their shoulders.

A4 tugs their arm, pulling them back to face her. She pulls the grey shawl tighter and ties it snug against them. Already, shielded from the wind and mist, A2 feels warmth return to their body.

“Don’t be stubborn,” A4 says, locking eyes with the coatyl. “If you catch a cold on top of everything else, I’m going to throw you in the medicinal baths myself.”

A2 can’t help but smirk. “That’s a little violent for a nun.” They lean down, putting their face right in hers. “And what makes you think you could even pick me up, let alone throw me?”

Undeterred, A4 rolls up the sleeve of her dress and flexes her arm. The tanned skin of her arm ripples with well-toned muscle well-hidden by her clothes and a thin layer of fat. A2’s can only stare wide-eyed at the nun, mouth agape.

“I think I have a chance,” she says with a smug grin.

A2’s mind trips over itself trying to piece together a witty response from the shattered remnants of their consciousness. When that fails they opt for an intelligent response, and when that fails as well, they try a coherent one.

They cross their arms over their chest and huff. “Whatever, I’m still bigger than you.”

“You might be taller,” A4 retorts, jabbing her finger at an unmarred spot near their elbow, “but you weigh a lot less now. Probably about as much as a sack of flour, or a toddler.”

She giggles as A2 shoves her playfully, but their bright smile fades quickly the more those forest colored eyes study them. A2 almost feels how her eyes roam over their ravaged body and the weight of what she said in jest makes itself apparent.

They open their mouth to quell her anxieties, but A4 beats them to it.

“I have to ask,” she begins, wringing a fistful of her white apron, “and forgive me if this is to prying, but…”

She seems to shrink under A2’s impassive gaze.

“Why do you refuse more thorough care?” She asks, “If this illness gets to the point where-... I mean what's the purpose of letting it get this bad? I know I can’t force you to accept-”

“Why does it matter so much to you?” A2 snaps. “Why are you going out of your way to help a total stranger you picked up off the ground?”

A4 flinches but regains her stalwart expression quickly. “I’m a nun of The Order of Devoted. It’s my job to help those in need of aid, regardless of who they might be.”

Her intense gaze never leaves A2 as she waits for an answer. A proper answer. A4 will not allow them to dodge this any longer, not when they’re teetering on the point of no return.

“I hate being indebted to people.” A2 sighs and keeps their eyes forward, locked on something far, far away.

“Wh-” A4 composes herself, eager to pry into her mysterious patient’s inner workings. “How come?”

“Or people being indebted to me, for that matter,” they add. “It doesn’t sit right, you know? Getting a free meal or whatever. I gotta work it off somehow.”

A4 stares at them as if their expression might reveal their hidden self. The coatyl keeps their cool blue-grey eyes locked on the horizon.

“My sister went into a job like that. It was basically volunteering, never got paid or nothing, but it was something that had to be done, and something she’s resented for…”

A2 blinks and shakes their head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter anyway.”

A4 makes the face she goes to when she’s about to launch into a lecture. Stern, furrowed brows, pursed lips, hands balled into fists. It’s cute.

She opens her mouth and the voice of an old, energetic woman comes out. Both her and A2 spin around to see Sister Margaret leaning out of the dormitory’s kitchen window, waving her arm at the pair.

“Four! I need a hand in here!” Margaret shouts.

“Coming!” A4 responds, then turns to A2 with a giggle. “Guess I’m on KP duty now.”

Even though they’ve only been here for at least half a month, A2 knows that arguing with the senior nun is pointless. They dutifully follow behind A4, wrapping the shawl tighter around their shoulders.

A4 looks over her shoulder, “You know you don’t have to come with me? You can head back to your room if you’d like.”

“What, and stare at the walls all day?” they snort. “It’s fine. I’ll sit down if I start feeling off.”

The two head into the dormitory and over to the kitchen. The scent of raw fish hits A2 the moment they walk in the doorway, their mouth watering within seconds. Ever since they entered the desert all those months ago they’ve had to eat everything but their favorite childhood food. Gazelle, antelope, field mice, and other game filled their stomach but it never tasted as good as a fresh-caught fish.

“Put a little pep in your step there, Four!” Sister Margaret shouts from the other side of a counter laden with all manner of ingredients. “There’s plenty to do and little time to do it.”

A2 can only stare as A4 puts her curly black hair in a tight bun and ties a spare kitchen apron around her waist. She dunks her hands into a basin of water and motions for A2 to do the same, which they do. The warm water soothes their aching joints for a moment. A4 hurries over to her mentor’s side, eagerly listening to the long list of tasks. A2 can’t help but be mesmerized by the way her hair bounces when she nods her head. The two women chat with each other, every so often glancing over to A2 and giggling. Whatever they’re saying, A2 can’t hear it. They're not sure if they want to.

“...Now hop to it, kiddo!” Margaret suddenly shouts, clapping her hands and sending a cloud of white powder into the air. “The Holy Day is in three days and if Mother Superior doesn’t get her Gateau de San Yonah then she’s going to make it everyone’s problem!”

“Holy day?” A2 asks, lifting an eyebrow and edging slightly closer to the basket of fish.

“Yep!” A4 perks up and smiles blindingly at them. “There’s a lot of special days that we observe throughout the year, and coming up is the Feast Day of Saint Yonah. It’s one of our more important Holy Days. Sister Abigail went to the nearest town to get enough supplies that we could make everything we need, and Sister Bernadette spent all day fishing!”

A2 takes that as an opportunity to go over and…inspect the haul. They pick up one of the fish, a sizable river trout, by its tail. Not a bad catch but it isn’t the king of the river at all. They squeeze it to gauge its muscle and fat. Again, not the worst but far from the best. Most of the trout in the basket look much the same if not smaller. There are some other species in there too; small catfish, a little bass, and a few other surface feeders. Nothing remarkable, yet…

While A4 is busy with something, they gulp down one of the smallest fish. Their throat hurts afterwards, but gods it is delicious. They want more, but if they take any more they’re going to feel terrible. It is for something special to A4 and the other nuns after all.

As A2 looks over the kitchen once more, something A4 does catches their attention. She pours a fine white powder into a bowl, followed by water and a pinch of salt. They wander over to her, craning their neck around to get a better peek at what in the world she’s doing.

“Would you like to help?” A4 asks, smiling at them.

“I would but…” A2 shrugs, “I have no idea what you’re doing.”

“You’ve never made-” A4 stops herself and looks back at A2. “...Do you cook food?”

A2 shakes their head, “Coatyls have raw diets. We don’t cook.”

“Ah. That explains the rats.”

Sister Margaret cackles, “If you’re so hellbent on paying us back, you should be our rat catcher!”

They scrunch up their face at that, not knowing if they should be offended or not. But at the same time… It’s almost the perfect job for them, at least for now.

“... Maybe,” they respond with a smirk. “Lemme think about that.”

“Anyway!” A4 shouts, bringing their attention back to their bowl of powders. “Making bread is easy. Here-”

She steps out of the way, taking A2’s hands into hers, and shoves them into the bowl before they have the chance to protest. The water and white powder on their hands makes for a… strange texture to say the least. They want to recoil away, but A4’s strong tanned hands keep theirs in place.

“Just mash your hands in there until all of the flour comes together into one ball.” She explains.

“Flour?”

“The white stuff.”

“Ah.”

They do as she says and clumsily try to bring together the flour and water, and to their surprise the strange slime does actually form this malleable… paste. The more they work with the paste the more pleasant it is to touch.

“Oh- before I forget.”

A4 suddenly rushes away, leaving a bewildered A2 wrist deep in a bowl of not-yet bread. They keep playing with their paste until she comes back carrying something covered by a thin cloth.

“Here,” she says as she unwraps her gift, revealing a loaf of honey-scented bread. “I saw you snatch a loaf the other day and try to play it off. If you like them so much you can just ask, silly.”

They blink, dumbfounded. “You… made this for me? Why?”

The nun sighs, glaring up at them. A2 can’t help but notice the way her cheeks flush red for a moment. “Because I’m being nice to you, idiot. Is that so hard to understand?”

A2 can only stare in awe as A4 sets the loaf of sweet bread down beside them with a huff, and as a strange, familiar warmth fills their chest.

“Oi!” Sister Margaret shouts, snapping A2 and A4 out of their thoughts. “If you two are going to flirt instead of work, go outside!”

The old woman waves her large wooden spoon at the two. A4 promises her mentor over and over that she’ll get back to the mountain of work ahead of her. Not once does she deny Margaret’s jab about the two of them. Somehow, that makes A2 smile.

#nier automata #nier automata fanfiction #fantasy au #A2 #A4 #a2 becomes gay gay homosexual gay #this chapter is soft by my standards

10 notes · View notes

winchesterwords · 4 years ago

Text

“Not Heaven, But Hell” John Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: The reader is a hunter who used to casually date John Winchester. They left when things went wrong between them, or so he thought. When the two of them are reunited during a routine hunt, old emotions are sparked and a secret is revealed.

Word Count: 3194

Warning: Mention of Abuse, character death

Song I Wrote To: “Dopamine” by Barns Courtney

Note: I was just needing some John Winchester angst in my life.

----------

As the hour of midnight approached in the forests of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, a hunter relished in the silence.

You had been traveling alone for months, picking up jobs wherever you could. Whether it was a vampire, skinwalker, or just the run of the mill haunting, you managed to take care of it quickly. When rumor had sprouted of a Ghoul nest in the area, you had taken the hunt from another hunter as the job had come over the wire. You were closer and in need of a distraction.

After investigating for a day and a half, you had discovered that it was a false trail and that if any ghouls had been in the city, they were long gone now. However, you still headed into the thick woods for one last look, and being among trees and nature at night had always brought you peace of mind which was very much needed at that moment.

The leaves beneath your feet were soft from the morning rain and your breath was visible as you exhaled. However, even with the brisk weather, you didn’t feel the cold. You didn’t feel much of anything as you walked.

When you reached the old abandoned shack near the edge of the North Woods, you slowed your pace, pulling your gun from your waistband. Knocking the barrel against the side of the old building, you attempted to draw anything outside and towards the bullet that was expertly loaded in the chamber of your pistol. It was silent for just a moment before you heard footsteps. With a sigh, you raised your gun and stepped around the side of the shack. You immediately came face to face with another barrel as you stared down at the gun with wide eyes.

“Jesus,” a man swore and it took you less than a second to recognize the voice. When your heart finally calmed down and you looked up at the face of the person in front of you, your gun fell to your side.

“John?” you asked, completely taken aback.

“(Y/N),” he said. He wore his usual expression of concern mixed with caution, but his eyes always remained very warm. John Winchester looked the same from when you last saw him, but there was something about the way his shoulders were tensed that told you something was wrong. The band of his wedding ring glinted in the moonlight, reflecting off the shiny weapon in his right hand.

“John, the gun,” you said, staring at the piece that was still aimed between your eyes.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” John said as he holstered his weapon, earning a relieved sigh from you. “What are you doing here?” he asked as you pushed past him.

“Same reason you’re here,” you said, examining the eves of the shack. “I’m working. Though it looks like you have it handled so I will leave you to it.” You turned to leave, hoping to find more peace and quiet before the day was over. The last thing you wanted was John Winchester around.

The two of you had casually dated years before and after it ended horribly, you had essentially disappeared from his life and never looked back. Now, seeing him in those woods, felt like a dagger to your chest. One you desperately wanted to yank out.

Deciding that silence was better than trying to explain, you turned your back on him and began walking away. John, however, was not going to let that happen. Not yet anyway.

“Wait,” John said as he caught up to you, stepping in front of your path.

“Move,” you ordered, but he just sighed, already dreading the conversation.

“Come on, (Y/N), there’s two of us and if this nest is full then we should be able to take them.”

“What nest, John? All I see is a decrepit building with a whole lot of nothing. I told the hunter that gave me this case that there was probably nothing to it. Looks like I was right.”

“Or maybe you weren’t and there could still be evidence of a nest,” John said, trying to persuade you. “Come on,” he tried again. Looking between him and the shed, you finally relented and with a sigh nodded for him to go ahead. “Right, always makin’ me go in first,” John jested.

“You’re idea, big man,” you shot back, and even with his back turned, you knew he was rolling his eyes. It was odd the way the two of you just slipped back into the routine of jabbing at one another. You didn’t like the way it made you feel, that knife only twisting further.

You and John took either side of the main door in the end, both pulling your weapons. John counted to three before reeling back and kicking in the door, splintering the hinges. Immediately, you were met with darkness and when John clicked on his flashlight, you crossed your arms in annoyance.

“Told you,” you said, gesturing to the empty room around you. “Not even a shred of ‘ghoul-ness’.”

“That’s not a real word,” John said and you gave him a rude gesture to which he just frowned.

“So, you’re still an ass. That’s nice to know,” you said.

“And you are still as charming as ever,” John retorted, finally turning to face you in the dark of the shack. “The years have certainly not changed you, honey.”

“Don’t call me ‘honey’,” you shot and he raised his hands in surrender. After staring at each other for a moment, you gave up and left the shack and John behind. He silently followed after you in the woods and you didn’t have the energy to scream at him.

“Main road is the other way, (Y/N),” John called out, his boots somehow not making a sound as he walked along the debris-littered forest floor.

“I’m aware, Winchester,” you called back. “Not goin’ to the main road.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Do you care?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’m allowed to wonder.”

“Then you can just keep on being the curious cat you are,” you said with a roll of your eyes as you crested a small hill. John jogged to catch up and stood beside you as you looked out at the city below, all lit up in the dark of night. “John, go home.”

“I’m in no rush,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” you whispered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you said as you began to descend. “Just go, John.” He ran to keep up with you and when you turned to snap at him again, you heard a low howl echo through the air. You froze as the sound entered your bones.

“What?” John asked, noticing your change in demeanor. In the distance, you heard the unmistakable sound of an animal running, many animals. You didn’t even need to look at your watch to know that it was after midnight. All the negative emotions you had been feeling towards John vanished at that moment and all you could think about was that you didn’t want to be alone anymore.

And so, you just whispered one word to him, “Run.”

-------

You and John ran through the woods.

He didn’t even hesitate or ask questions when you had told him to run. There wasn’t time and he clearly understood that from your tone of voice. He kept up with you as you sprinted, not daring to look back. When you spotted an old annex building down another hill, you picked up your speed.

Slamming into the door, you fumbled with the lock. John arrived shortly after, pushing you to the side and aiming his weapon. With a single shot, he blasted the lock from the door and wrenched it open, pushing you inside. He followed and then slammed the door shut. “Help me with this,” he ordered gesturing to a metal cabinet.

The two of you dragged it in front of the door, but you knew it wouldn’t hold. Nothing was going to stop them from getting in. “This is all your fault,” you rasped, trying to catch your breath.

“How?” he asked, staring at you with wide eyes.

“If you had just listened to me,” you said, though you didn’t mean it, “then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I don’t even know what this goddamn mess is,” John shot back. “Whatever it is, we can wait them out.”

“Whatever,” you said, as you began to pace.

“You’re still a bitch too, huh?”

“Seriously?” you asked, not in the mood for his attitude. In fact, all you wanted was for him to hold you and not talk, but you were too proud to admit that, especially to a man like John Winchester.

“Sorry, but it’s true and you know it,” John spat back.

“I’m not the one that ruined us,” you said, hating the words that came from your mouth.

“Aren’t you? You never cared about what happened to you on hunts. Hell, you were so damn reckless more times than not, always running into situations halfcocked and full of anger.”

“I never cared? And you did?”

“Are you kidding me? I always offered to go with you!”

“And I told you to stay the hell home with your boys. Or did you suddenly forget about Sam and Dean?” you asked and you knew it was low, but you couldn’t stop yourself. John’s face turned dark at your words. He stepped closer to you, his eyes almost deadly in the dark of the room.

“Don’t,” he said in a low voice, “Do not bring my boys into this, (Y/N).”

“Tell me where they are right now, because I know damn well that they aren’t with you,” you said, gesturing around you with wide arms. John was silent for a moment before taking a step back.

“Sammy is at school and Dean is on a hunt of his own, they aren’t kids anymore.”

“All grown up, huh? Good for them.”

It was shortly after that when John stopped talking altogether. He wanted nothing to do with you at that moment and all you wanted was for a little human contact. Yet, you couldn’t stop trying to push him away. John was right, he was always right, you had been the one to ruin the two of you, but it was for a good reason.

At least that was what you kept telling yourself.

As you sat behind those walls, the howls got louder and you couldn’t help the shivers that ran down your spine. You had been expecting this, you were ready, but you never expected to not be alone when it happened.

“I’m sorry,” you suddenly said, getting John’s attention who saw across from you. “Your boys are off-limits. Always have been. I didn’t mean to bring them up.” John just nodded, accepting your apology. At least that was still the same, the ability to read him like an open book. He was quiet for a bit longer before he finally looked at you.

“Bobby told me that you were attacked,” he said, trying to offer some sympathy.

“I’m fine now,” you told him.

“You were in a hospital for a month,” he pointed out, moving closer to you, clear worry on his face.

“I survived. I always do.”

“You should have had back up,” he said.

“My back up was my other gun,” you said in defense. John ran a hand down his face in exasperation.

“Dammit, (Y/N), when are you going to realize that you pushed me away. I haven’t felt the way I feel about you since Mary. Do you not understand that? Have you ever?” You shook your head, not wanting to hear any of it. You knew how he felt about you, he had made it abundantly clear multiple times.

He had even offered you a chance to stay with him for more than a weekend here and there. John had wanted you to meet Dean and be with him officially. A part of you wanted that more than anything, but then you would think back to your current situation and it would all disappear, the hope and the wanting of the future.

That wasn’t in the cards for you. Not now, not ever.

“John,” you whispered, “I am not someone you want to be around.” Speaking those words had felt like there were hands around your neck and you were choking them out.

“Why not?” he asked, trying so hard to see the world from your perspective, to know what you were thinking.

“I have demons in my past,” you admitted.

“Honey, we all do,” he said and your heart dropped at his use of the pet name that had become very familiar to you.

“No, you don’t understand,” you whispered. “I mean I have actual demons.” John’s brow furrowed, confused and so you continued. “You once asked me why I always seemed on edge. Well, baby, I’m reachin’ my ten years.”

“What are you talking about?” John asked, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I made a deal,” you said. “In order to get away from my abusive ex-husband, I made a deal with a crossroads demon. Ten years of peace and then...then I’m going downstairs. Midnight tonight is when the clock ran out.” John was already shaking his head before you finished. He moved forward, taking your face in his hands. You could feel the rough callouses that littered his palms from all times he handled a blade.

“No,” he whispered. “I will not let that happen.”

“It’s hellhounds, John. That’s what’s coming for me. You won’t be able to see them, but I can,” you said as the tears dripped down your cheeks. His fingers caught them as he looked at you as if his world was falling to pieces right then. “It’s time and I am being so damn selfish because I don’t wanna be alone right now.

“(Y/N)…”

“They won’t hurt you, I promise,” you explained, trying to get him to look you in the eyes.

“No,” he said again, still trying to deny the inevitable.

“Yes, John, I’ve already accepted it,” you said, leaning your forehead against him.

“Is this why you pushed me away?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, but I had to. You already lost one love, I couldn’t be the reason you lost another.

“Dammit,” he said, clutching you tighter to him.

“Please don’t be mad. I never intended to become so fond of you. I never expected to fall in love with you because I do, I love you so much and I never stopped.”

“I love you too,” John managed to get out.

“I need you to promise me something because I don’t think I have much time left,” you said, choking on the riding sob in your throat.

“Anything,” he promised.

“The next time you see Sam, tell him you love him. For me, please.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No, I need you to listen to me,” you said, leaning back to look him in the eyes so he would understand. “I know that the two of you never get along and I also know he struggled growing up on the road. I need you to tell him that his father still cares about him. He needs to hear that whether he knows it or not. None of us hear it enough.

“Stop,” he begged, but his voice was barely above a whisper. You kept going.

“I know that Mary was your forever John,” you said, smiling through the tears, “but you were always mine.” John hastily rubbed at his face, not wanting you to see what he thought was his weakness, but you thought he had never looked more beautiful than in that moment kneeled before you.

“We were never supposed to die,” he said, reminding you of a laughter-filled conversation one evening in the backseat of his truck.

“John,” you whispered and he looked into your eyes as if he was trying to memorize every ounce of them. “Don’t forget to love again.”

“No,” he said. “You’re it. Nobody else, I’m done.” John surged forward and kissed you with every bit of love he had in his body, holding you tight to his chest. You couldn’t hide the sobs now as you kissed the man you loved.

You pulled away just as something bagged against the door, rattling the walls. John held onto you tighter, afraid you were going to be snatched away at any second. “You’ll be okay,” you told him as you detangled yourself from his arms.

“No, no,” he whispered as you stood us and made your way to the door.

“Our legacy lives on, Winchester,” you said, pushing the cabinet from the door and bracing your hands on the buckling wood. “Don’t let it completely end with me or your boys. The world needs Winchesters and I was just so lucky to know one of them.”

“Please…” he begged, but you were shaking your head.

“Don’t say anything else. Just remember what I told you and tell Sam, Dean too. They need to hear from their dad more than anything. You may not see it, but I do. The three of you need each other. One day, you’re going to change the world.”

“I’ll tell them,” John promised. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).”

“I’m not,” you said, shaking your head. “I got to have one epic love in my life and not many people can say that.” Reaching behind you, you unlatched the door and threw it open. “Until we meet again, John. Thank you, for loving me.”

John cried out the next moment as you fell to your knees and long red lines appeared down your neck as the hellhounds descended. Yet, as you were being pulled away from him, you smiled, and then, in a rush of cold air, you were dragged away and you were gone.

--------

John didn’t know how long he sat there as he stared at the space you had disappeared through.

He didn’t know if he’d be able to find your body or even if he wanted to. He would be lying to himself if he hadn’t thought about you in the years after you left him alone in that motel room. John never stopped loving you and the fact that when he had found you again, you were taken from him was as cruel as it got.

However, this time he couldn’t fix it. There was no singular demon to hunt and kill. You had made a deal and you had chosen to take the consequences when the bill came due.

Leaning back against a stack of crates, John felt for his phone in his jacket. His thumbs fumbled on the keypad for a moment before pressing the number one on his speed dial.

It didn’t take long for his eldest to answer. Dean answered groggily from the other line and all John could think about then was you and your final words to him.

So, after taking a deep breath, he finally spoke to his son, “Hey boy, have you heard from your brother lately?”

#SPN imagine #john winchester x you #john winchester imagine #john winchester x reader #reader insert #supernatural fic #angst #spn fic #john winchester #JDM #Supernatural fan fiction

102 notes · View notes

whump-town · 4 years ago

Text

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Four: How to Disappear Completely

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count: 2,670 (not very long but I’m getting back into the swing)

Author’s Note: I know it’s been like freaking two months but this felt nice and I remembered how much I actually enjoy this fic. You can find the first chapter here!

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird) bonus: I’m 19 and a humanities major so obviously I don’t know anything about medicine so I’m doing my best out here

I'm not here I'm not here This isn't happening I'm not here I'm not here

She’s not allowed to go with him to treatments-- radiation treatments, he never said anything about chemo. You’d think she was the ex-lawyer but really she’s just mastered the art of annoying him. “That’s a straight flush, eat it!” She lays the cards out for him to see, grinning as his face falls and he realizes that he’s lost to her, again. “We totally should have played strip-poker.”

He rubs a hand over his face, digging his fingers into his eye socket. “That’s the last thing I need,” he mumbles, leaning back against his chair. He’s exhausted and freezing his ass off despite the long-sleeved t-shirt he’s wearing under his flannel and the blanket Emily’s tucked around him. There’s no point in bringing it up, no point in talking about it. No one can do anything about it. He’s just cold and he can handle the clump of hair that fell in the sink this morning and the fact that all foods, even foods that he’s considered safe for decades, betray his body. This being cold all the time thing though? It’s pissing him off and it makes him feel even more helpless because he can’t control his emotions.

Nevermind, most of his control over everything is gone. He’s stuck in this chair until the toxic whatever they have hanging above his head enters his body. The whole bag and a two-hour, maybe longer, wait. For comfort, he’s got an endless supply of blankets, all as thick as paper, and a popsicle. He likes popsicles but he’s certain he’ll throw up anything he eats right now. So he sticks to lightly sipping his water. At least he gets to control the water most of the time. Occasionally they even get to veto his decisions there.

“I’ll give you a break,” she offers. She can see he’s having a hard time. He knows he’s lucky to have her as his shadow but that doesn’t do much for the temper he’s struggling to control. “I’m going to go call JJ,” she knocks her hand against his knee and he hums his understanding. He’s moved his body up, sitting up enough to tilt to the left, his head in his palm, and his fingers moved to block her view of a pained grimace. Trying and failing to keep her distracted with his silence.

Knowing that crouching down beside him would create far more attention to his discomfort that is such grave importance to him to hide, she just lowers her voice and quietly asks, “do you want me to get some more water?” He shakes his head, just rocking his forehead into his palm. His attention lost to a sea of pain. “Okay,” she mumbles, feeling utterly helpless. A feeling she’s becoming quite familiar with.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing she can do physically for him but there are some people that never fail to draw a smile to his face. So she texts Spencer and Penelope, hoping Reid will numb Hotch out with never-ending conversation and Garcia will lighten his sludge. She hesitates to ask Jessica to bring Jack over. After the night they watched the Chronicles of Narnia he’s been a little outwardly disruptive. Acting out and it’s to be expected, this isn’t easy for anyone and it’s impossible for a child who has already lost his mother. But it will be good for Hotch and Jack so she risks it and Jessica seems to agree.

“You’re back early.” What she does not account for is Derek Morgan beating them back. They walk in and hear a racket, and though their training should have them reaching for guns not strapped to their hips, they both just glare at the direction in which it’s coming from. Derek stands up, eyeing them both over, and motioning to something out of their sight. “Was just fixing the sink.” He’s covered in dirt and sweat, it’s evident he was fixing something though the state of his shirt looks more like he breaking something.

Emily is opening her mouth to inquire but Hotch beats her to it. His tone and his mood are not in a good place and if she’d known Morgan was here ahead of time she would have warned him. Morgan has no warning when Hotch’s already firmly placed scowl turns even crueler and he grumbles, “the sink wasn’t broken.”

She’s stuck standing between them, Hotch walking away and Morgan watching his back and looking hopelessly at her to explain what just happened. She’s not sure if she’s allowed to follow Hotch or if she’s better here explaining his behavior. It’s just like old times, she thinks bitterly. To Foyet and his pain and she can’t say she’s surprised, he really held out. She can’t blame him for being in a bad mood, he’s in pain. It’s his cancer, he’s allowed to be pissed about it.

“He okay?”

She is surprised to find that Morgan isn’t angry. That he looks nearly sad standing there, torn between going after him and being reassured by her. “He’s…” she won’t tell him about the drive back. Hotch silent but in so much pain he’d been restless, incapable of sitting still in the car. Or this morning how he’d needed her help just putting on a shirt. The hair she’s noticed falling out but he’s not commenting on it so she certainly won’t breathe a word. That they’re up all night, the sound of Hotch’s pacing making her too worried to rest or barreling through the house to find him curled around the toilet looking miserable. That he’s losing weight rapidly and she doesn’t struggle to help him up anymore-- but she tells herself it’s because she’s getting stronger because she has to.

“He’s Hotch,” she reasons, foolishly. “Of course, he’s okay.”

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

Garcia would lay her own life down in a heartbeat to protect the team if they’d let her. She owes them all so much for the quality that they have given her life over the past few years. They have built a family around her, from the ground up, and accepted her through all her flaws and misadventures. No one as much as her suit-clad, knight in shining armor boss. Hotch has been there for her since before there was even really a team. When no one else would, he gave her so much more than a chance-- he believed in her. When no one else, when no one had even tried since her parent’s death. Even when time and time again she made mistakes, pushed rules, and on his last nerve. He never tore her down.

He commends her strangeness, even if she suspects he doesn’t fully understand it. Smiles good-naturedly when she brings him holiday-themed ties so they can match and allows her silly days out for conventions beyond his own taste. He’s never grasped a full understanding of her but he’s never given up trying. He commends her abilities to do this job and also reminds her how proud he is of her, to have her on his team, and to call her a friend. So, yeah, if Hotch needs a little pick-me-up, she’s his man.

“Are you two fucking?”

Garcia freezes. The key Hotch gave her half-way in its retreat from the lock and the door only slightly opened. She’s technically coming in unannounced but Hotch had given her this key under the same pretenses as the one that gave her access to his and Haley’s house-- in case she needs him. The situations are flipped now, he needs her, but the sentiment is still the same. She’d prepared for the Hotch’s thousand-word frown upon entrance just not the verbal assault of “are you two fucking”.

She hesitantly makes her way into the room, peeking around the corner of the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. Emily and Morgan are standing there, both looking equally disgusted and annoyed. She watches Emily fluster, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “What?” she barks out in pure surprise. “He’s-- NO!”

Morgan reciprocates his own franticness, waving at Emily’s clothes, “you’re-- you’re... matching!” He’s grabbing at straws for the most part. His own anxieties and fears coming into play to create this monster of a beast he can’t stop thinking about. To distract himself from the panicked thoughts he has about watching his friend die he’s conjured a reality in which it makes sense that Emily and Hotch would be boning. Really, it’s only bothering him because he has no idea what he would do if the two of them were… doing something. It’s just-- just disgusting. Hotch is Hotch, he doesn’t… do that.

Emily rolls her eyes, “Derek, I see him every day. I live with him.” She makes an exasperated throwing motion with her hands, tossing them upwards. “It’s going to happen occasionally, alright? We own similar articles of clothing.” She motions down to her clothes, “we’re ‘matching’ because we look a lot alike and he knows green is his color just like I know it’s mine!”

Of course, that’s what she says now but this morning when she was working the tiny ass buttons of his shirt together she’d given him endless shit about managing to pick out the one shirt the two of them both own. He couldn’t change-- that day’s appointments needed full access to his chest and the easiest way to do that is to wear easily opened and shut clothing. She could change but simply refused-- it was far more entertaining to tell him they looked like those preschoolers whose parents dressed them to match.

He wasn’t amused.

“Besides,” she adds just to a rise out of him, “he’s not supposed to be doing anything strenuous until the rash on his chest clears back up.” She tucks a strand behind her ear, nonchalant. “Even then I would have to be on top.” She smiles as he sputters, satisfied with her own work.

Morgan frowns, “No!” He momentarily covers his ears, shaking his head. “Why do you even-- How do you know that?”

Emily shrugs, “Oh… well, his doctor thought we were… you know.”

Garcia isn’t sure where her allegiance should be. If Hotch and Emily are… she’d prefer not to know the details. Well, she’s interested because it’s Emily but it’s also Hotch. She makes a face, the thought… it-- Hotch needs to lighten up. He needs someone back in his life that can bring some fun but Emily is, well she’s Emily! It f-

“Is she done tormenting Morgan, yet?”

Garcia reels around, caught off guard by a sudden deep but unimpressed voice behind her. When she turns, she finds Hotch. He’s dressed down, out of the attire Morgan and Emily had been talking about. Now, in a simple Hanes t-shirt and black sweatpants. Comfortable-- she likes the way he looks. It may not be his usual attire but it makes him look more… dad-like. More himself.

Garcia looks back over her shoulder and finds herself grinning. Her boss may seem like a boring, hardass but he can have his fun too. No doubt, he either gave Emily the idea to go torment Morgan (never direct but planted the seedling idea) or, at the very least, gave her permission. “I don’t think so,” she answers honestly. “She’s not going to let it go if she knows it bothers him that much.” Which is completely true.

Hotch smiles, softly. A dimple making a guest appearance as he shakes his head. Only Emily Prentiss. He looks Garcia down, lifting a brow at the sight of all the things in her arms. “Can I help you with that?” he offers, motioning to the filled Tupperware clutched to her chest so that they don’t topple over.

She remembers, suddenly, the armful of goodies she has. “Oh yes, sir!” She lets him take a few off the top, telling him what they are as he acquires them. “Those are macadamia nut cookies! This really nice woman--” she follows him as he takes the containers and directs her to the kitchen. “She moved in across the hall from me. She loves to bake and so she’s been giving me all these little recipes.”

He moves right past Emily and Derek, smiling to himself at the panicked raise in Derek’s tone as they catch sight of one another. He directs his attention back to Garcia, making sure she knows he’s listening. Though he doubts his own abilities to dig into the delicacies Garcia has brought, he knows that Jack and Emily will rip them to shreds. Which is the honorable way Garcia’s cooking should go, straight into very gracious mouths.

“I really hadn’t been able to test them out,” she continues. “So, I thought why not try them all right now and bring them to you!” She smiles cheerfully up at him, their height difference more apparent when he looks down realizes she’s not wearing her signature heels. She’s wearing pink converse, perfectly complimenting her pink sweater and pink glasses and jewelry. He thinks she looks positively amazing but knows any compliments will have him smothered in kisses and, well, he’s already been accused of sleeping with one coworker...

Mind still wandering off on the subject of his height and when the last time he saw Garcia in shoes other than heels, he settles a soft smile on her. She keeps talking, showing him each container's contents. It’s the exhaustion that leads him down the path beaten path of dissociation, his mind simply slipping out from beneath him. Someplace warm and fuzzy where his body doesn’t ache.

“Aaron--” He blinks, startling at the sudden touch to his shoulder. He looks down to find Emily and an anxious-looking Garcia. He’s sure Emily and Derek’s conversation about their relationship is now going to seem more damning as her hand slips into his. She squeezes his fingers, “you okay?” Her eyes flick between his, searching for an answer that’s going to be far more honest than the one he produces on his own.

He clears his throat, forcing himself not to blush. “Yeah,” he croaks. “I don’t… I don’t know what that was.” He bashfully averts his eyes to the kitchen floor, very aware of their attention on him now. Too much attention. It’s impossible to hide the way he shivers, the paling, near purpling of his arms. He knows it’s inevitable that they’ll notice but… he’d like to think himself some mastermind. Impervious to the tests of cancer and his treatments. That they don’t affect him. He can hide the central line under layers of clothes. Wear hats to hide the hair. Fake a smile and force his way through the day.

But he’s failing miserably. They see it. The radiation rash now sitting at the base of his neck, red and angry. Peaking out through his shirts. The bulge of the central line under his normal shirts. The nose bleeds that never stops, he’s scarred Reid and Morgan for life with those. The tinnitus that’s recently come back with a vengeance. He’s affected, good and proper, and he hates it. Hates that he has to be so blatantly mortal in front of everyone. Never gets a say in if today is good or bad. If he’ll be too weak to get out of bed or too sick to eat. He hates it.

Garcia is the first person to properly break the tension. She playfully knocks Hotch in the shoulder, more of a tap than anything. It’s careful and his throat tightens with the realization of how weak he must look to make Garcia afraid she could hurt him with a simple tap. “It’s all good, sir.” She settles a small smile on him, “but you can make it up to me by eating?”

Eating. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, swallowing thickly around the sick twist of his stomach. “Okay,” he answers softly, forcing a smile to match hers when she beams. Thinking she’s won against his unruly stomach.

Emily glances at him but ignores it.

He just wants to be normal again.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater (Just lmk if you don’t want to be tagged anymore)

#tw cancer #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #derek morgan

34 notes · View notes