#you ever get reminded how lonely you are and feel like throwing up because yeah

[martyrbat]

me finding my location on queering the map but the closest entries to me are HOURS away and theyre all talking about religion guilt, violent acts of homophobia & transphobia theyve faced, public sex, and repression & fears 👍

[fatuismooches]

Kind of dark stuff ahead? Basic Dottore warnings to be honest (blood, experimentation, he pretty much dissects someone, straps them down while they cry and beg for mercy, in front of the other Fatuis since they made you cry as a lesson, so yeah)

Been thinking about Dottore displaying to everyone in the lab what would happen to them if they crossed you, or Tsaritsa forbid, made you cry. By this point, everyone who works with Dottore or in his labs would know of you. And it'd take longer if you were sickly, but as soon as your presence is discovered, and the regular workers are aware of your standing as their Lord Harbinger's lover, immediate respect is afforded to you without any question. Do they have millions of questions? Yes, absolutely, but they prefer to keep their lives. Surprisingly though, you're... quite nice to them? It's honestly a breath of fresh air considering how the segments treat them, so the respectful way the agents treat you is a mixture of how they actually like you and how they don't want to end up as the Doctor's next test subject. There are always newcomers who are wholly unaware of you and who you are, so the older agents try to inform them as soon as possible. However, one learned the truth far too late, sealing his fate. Berating you for one minor slip-up that was just an accident, that was out of your control. And the other Fatuis are there absolutely panicking, trying to explain that you were not just an experiment, that you were- it was too late, because tears were already rolling down your eyes as you quickly exited the room. And the agents think, they are so fucked because they have no idea what the Doctor will do to them now that you've cried in their presence. They can only hope that he will have mercy on them, and punish the idiot who made you cry directly.

The next day, a multitude of Fatui agents, soldiers, scientists, and really whoever happened to be in the lab that day, were called into a room. It was very random, considering they never had meetings since the segments didn't like to be bothered with such frivolities, but upon entering the room, the same sinking feeling pooled in their stomachs. There was a lone operation table in the middle of the spacious room, along with a small table that had yet to hold anything. Strapped to the operation table was one of their fellow agents, bound and gagged, his screams were the only thing filling the room as the other Fatuis could only watch on speechlessly. Next to the (former) agent, was their Lord Harbinger. And no, this wasn't one of his segments, it was Prime, the real Il Dottore himself. Prime himself came to make a statement. Many of the agents hadn't even seen him until now, only encountering his numerous segments. And to the side of him was Omega too. The combination was enough to make some Fatuis want to faint and throw up, but they knew they couldn't for they weren't sure if they'd wake up again.

"I do believe that this is enough people. Word gets around quite fast around here, anyway," Prime hummed to no one in particular as if there wasn't a man crying next to them. Nonchalantly, he circled around the operation table, paying no mind to the muffled "please" and "i'm sorry" echoing like a broken record from the agent's mouth.

"It has come to my attention that some of you have trouble understanding orders," Prime Dottore began, his voice striking the highest amount of fear into the Fatuis. "I make myself clear, do I not? So why do you all still lack common sense? Why..." his gaze suddenly snapped to the tied-down man, "have I discovered that some of you still fail to respect [Name] the same way you do with me? Do you believe that you, a lowly person such as yourself, have the authority to speak to them in such a way?"

"I despise having my time wasted, especially by fools. Therefore, I expect this will serve as a reminder if you ever dare to think about crossing [Name], and consequently me." Prime then adjusts his gloves and motions to Omega, who then begins to set the table with... medical instruments he's retrieved from a bag. Only that they will certainly not be used ethically. The man only becomes more frantic at the sight of the dangerously sharp and pointy objects, but there's nothing you can do, once you're in the Doctor's clutches.

And so the group of onlookers got a front-row seat of one of the Doctor's experiments. As horrifying as it was, no one dared to look away.

Let's just say no one ever dared to make you sad ever again.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

"I hate Valentines," Steve and Eddie said at the same time.

They were hanging out at Eddie's house due to the fact that Steve’s parents were home. In fact, he was even wearing Eddie's clothes from when he had slept over the night before. They were lazy today. They hadn't changed or left the couch, and they did not even get up when Wayne had gotten up to leave for work. Their legs were stretched out on the coffee table, their legs occasionally brushing up against each other's. They were both watching TV, trying not to think about the way they woke up in each other's arms this morning, when a commercial for Valentine's Day came up.

"You do?" They asked.

"I thought you were into all that romantic crap," Eddie said.

"I am and don't act like you aren't either. I saw the books under your bed. I just don't think it's romantic at all to celebrate a holiday created by executives who are solely into it for the money and who like to remind people that in order to be happy or successful, you have to be in a relationship. I mean, I'm pretty happy right now, and if that ever changes, I would be just as happy too," Steve shrugged.

"You had a girlfriend that got pissed at you for not wanting to celebrate, didn't you?" Eddie asked with a grin.

"A few months after Nancy, I went out with this person for a while. They got mad at me because I don't like celebrating "love" on one particular day when you can celebrate it any time. They also got mad at me for forgetting our one month anniversary," Steve said.

"Ugh, I hate that shit. I've seen it on TV and like I get celebrating 6 months or like a year but like when it's a couple of weeks or a month, I don't get it. I also don't get getting mad at people for forgetting because sometimes, people have memory issues. How about instead of getting pissed, help them and encourage them to remember? I mean, especially if they're great to you all the other days out of the year, shouldn't you be more understanding that they forgot once?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah, I show my love in other ways, but they didn't get that," Steve said. "Dates are hard for me to remember, especially with all of the concussions. I just really hate when they acted like I didn't give a shit because I forgot."

"Were you the one to dump her ass?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I think they were more enamored with my parents' big house than they were with me."

"Their loss," Eddie shrugged. "They fucked up and they're missing out on something great."

"You think so?" Steve asked.

"I know so," Eddie said and bumped his leg against Steve’s as he stared at Steve.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I am happy now with the way things are, but I do get a little lonely sometimes. I do wish I had someone to cuddle with," Steve said.

"Come here, big boy," Eddie said, pulled Steve into his arms. "Now, you've got a cuddle buddy."

Eddie tucked Steve’s head underneath his chin, pressing a kiss into his hair. Steve sighed and snuggled into his chest, throwing a leg over Eddie's. He ran his hand over Steve’s back, causing Steve to sigh loudly in contentment.

"This is nice," Steve muttered.

"It is," Eddie muttered

"It doesn't feel, you know, very buddy-buddy," Steve said softly. "It feels very. . .romantic. If things were different, I'd do something about it."

"Well, you know, I don't have to be a girl for you to appreciate me, Stevie," Eddie said and paused. "There's this thing that I've been meaning to tell you, but it's not wildly accepted even amongst the community, so I wasn't sure how you would take it. I'm bisexual and I'm not sure if you know what that means, but - "

"Eddie!" Steve laughed against his chest. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I know about bisexuals. I'm bisexual, Eddie."

"You are?!" Eddie exclaimed excitedly and squeezed him tightly. "Fucking metal. I can't believe you're like me!"

"Yeah, why do you think I wasn't using female pronouns when I was talking about my ex?" Steve laughed.

"Shit, you were talking about a guy?" Eddie asked.

"Yes," Steve replied.

Eddie maneuvered until they lying down completely stretched out on the couch, tugging Steve close to him.

"What did you mean when you said if things were different?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, I wasn't sure if you would want to do something about it," Steve said.

"Oh, I do. I definitely do. Do you want to do something about it now?" Eddie purred.

"It's so close to Valentine's, though," Steve whined.

"You want to wait until after?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah," he sighed.

"Hmm, should make things interesting. . .waiting to do all the things we've been thinking about doing to each other, but now we're completely aware of each other. . .thinking about each touch, about each kiss, and wondering about the sounds someone makes when coming completely undone underneath. . ."

"Okay! I can't fucking wait. Waiting is stupid. Why did I think it was a good idea?" Steve asked as he sat up and straddled Eddie. "You better not have tricked me, Munson."

"I would never," Eddie grinned.

"We should probably take this to your room," Steve said.

Eddie sat up, wrapped his arms around Steve, and stood up. He let Steve wrap his legs completely around his waist.

"Jesus, you're strong," Steve said.

"There must be something in those demobat's venom," Eddie said.

"Yeah, I think so. The last time I tried to hook up with someone, they, uh, couldn't keep up with me. I think my stamina might last a bit longer than usual," Steve said. "I've also been told I make a weird noise when, I, uh, well, you know."

"Hmm, let's test that stamina theory," Eddie said as he carried him to his bedroom.

The next morning. . .

Wayne stood with his arms crossed at Eddie's broken bed and the hole in the wall.

"We were protesting Valentine's Day," Eddie said sheepishly, and Wayne turned to look at him. "Okay, so, we were jumping on the bed. . . You're not buying any of this, are you?"

"Not even a little bit," Wayne said.

"I'll pay for it!" Steve exclaimed.

"Don't worry about it, son," Wayne said. "Those government assholes still owe us. . .just next time, be safe. . .with everything."

Wayne smiled in amusement before clapping Steve on the shoulder and leaving the room.

"Ooh. He approves," Eddie said with a smile and kissed him. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," Steve said, laughing against his lips.

[luveline]

baby! i love all your au’s so much!! maybe u wanna do something for kbd universe?

like maybe the whole family is sick and it’s just steve and reader trying to get through taking care of the girls and themselves? i thought maybe it would be cute but it’s all up to u <33 hope you’re having a good day jade!

hello! i made it so steve and beth aren’t sick yet I hope that’s still alright, thank you for requesting! thanks so much, i hope you are too <3 kisses before dinner au <3 dad!steve x mom!reader 2k words cw throwing up

Steve worries it's going to be a bad day when Dove throws up in the morning. He knows it's going to be a bad day when Avery throws up a little later, and then it's all but cemented when you chuck up in the sink.

You're a big girl and you can clean it up yourself but Steve would go lie in a busy highway if he thought that would make you smile, and so he has no qualms about sending you to the quarantine zone and cleaning it himself. It's a very unfortunate place to chuck up, all things considered, and Steve has to wash the dishes in the basin three times before he trusts they're clean.

Beth clears her throat from the kitchen doorway.

"Oh, hey, baby," he says sweetly, peeling out of his rubber gloves and throwing them eagerly into the trash. "How's my girl?"

Beth is three and a half years old. She loves Steve more than anybody on this entire planet, loves his attention, his hugs. She's a clinger, and he's more than happy for her to be so. She's also rather quiet— Steve worries she wouldn't talk at all if it weren't for Avery, her six year old sister. Ave is a smarty pants who talks Beth's ear off every chance she gets.

Beth, predictably, doesn't answer, holding her arms up in the universal sign for pick me up.

He wipes his hands on a tea towel haphazardly and pulls her up into his chest, hand spread over her back. Steve's constantly reminded of how soft and pretty his girls are, and he wouldn't ever say this aloud but Beth is the prettiest of the three because she looks so much like you. She dips her head, the line of her jaw softening with the movement. Steve ducks down to meet her eyes, offering up a loving smile.

"What, you aren't talking to me today?"

"I'm tired," she says quietly.

Steve licks his lips and pulls her closer in one arm so he can hold the other up and read the face of his watch.

"It's not bed time for a while. Should we sit down for a nap?”

"Yeah," she agrees, rubbing her face against his collar.

Steve shifts her in his arms to prop her up with one and hug her with the other.

They head upstairs and cross the landing to his and your bedroom, where you, Ave, and Dove are all sequestered in bed with a sick bowl.

Dove sleeps like a log on your chest where he's propped you up with pillows. Ave lies in Steve's spot, arm across the mattress to hold hands with you.

"Hello," he says, hesitant at the threshold. You're gonna be in a tough spot if Steve gets sick too. "How are you feeling?"

He directs his question at both you and Ave, but Ave answers first.

"I feel sick," she says morosely.

"That doesn't surprise me, baby, you are sick. How about you, mom?"

"I'm fine," you say. Your other hand rubs up and down the length of Dove's back and shoulders steadily, an absent-minded gesture no doubt. "What about you, my lovely girl? You and daddy had to clean up my mess, huh? I'm sorry."

The apology is entirely for him. He doesn't need it or even want it.

"It's okay," Beth says.

"You took the words straight outta my mouth," he praises her.

Beth all but dissolves into his chest. You read her mood, and his oncoming question quickly.

“You gonna go nap?” you ask.

“Would that be okay? You’ll be okay? I can put her down and come right back.”

You give him your most loving, darling smile, the kind of smile he fell in love with; the kind of smile that had him looking at you, twenty years old and lonely, and knowing he wasn’t going to be lonely much longer.

“We’ll be okay,” you say. “Love you, miss you.”

“I love you.” He waves at Avery. “Love you, baby. Try and get some sleep.”

—

He wakes up to his name being called severely. It’s a pretty terrifying sound to wake up to when you have a family, your wife calling to you with little room for affection.

“Steve? Steve, I need you right now.”

He startles hard and wakes Beth where she’s lying on his chest.

“Daddy?” she mumbles.

He slides her off of him as carefully as he’s able, which in his panic is nowhere as carefully as he wants to. “It’s okay, babe. Go back to sleep.”

“Steve.”

He hears the unfortunate sound of retching. You’re sitting in the middle of the bed with a hand on Avery's back as she chucks up into the bowl, and Avery isn’t the problem, it’s Dove, who’s throwing up all over your shoulder and screaming between heaves.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, but they won’t stop. I think they’re setting each other off and-“ You inhale sharply. “I don’t want to-“

“Hey, okay,” he says easily, much less panicked than you. He understands exactly why you’re so scared — to have them both so forcefully ill is terrifying, and worse, you’re by yourself and sick too.

“Avery, are you alright, sweetheart?” he asks.

Avery is understandably in tears. She heaves and nothing comes out but spit, so he sits down heavily next to her and wraps an arm over her trembling shoulders. “Deep breath,” he says, “super deep breath. You’re okay.”

He works Avery through the last of her throw up. He can hear you placating the baby, your voice shaky.

“Let’s go get in the bath,” he says quietly, “should we?”

It’s dangerous to leave Avery in the bath alone, so he puts a towel on top of the toilet lid and sits her down.

“I’m gonna get Dove and you’ll both have a bath.” He rubs her back, heart broken by her little downcast face, her cheeks shiny with tears. “I’m gonna make it all better, baby, I promise,” he says slowly, offering his pinky to her.

She holds up her own, so much smaller, and they shake on it.

He doubles back for Dove and, unfortunately, the worst has happened. You’ve chucked up, mostly in the bowl, but enough on the sheets to need changing, and there are tears bumping down your cheeks. Dove is screaming like she’s in agony. It’s awful.

“Pass her over to me,” he says.

Your lips part.

“It’s okay, babe, just pass her to me,” he murmurs, hands replacing yours under her armpits. “You want to strip off and come in the bathroom too? The smell…”

“I’m sorry for shouting, I probably gave you a heart attack- I don’t know, I was being silly,” you say.

“You were not.” He pats Doves lower back until she’s calmed down enough to hear himself think. He can’t stay in here with you as much as he wants to, worried about Avery, and a little about Beth. “Come on, you can have a bath next.”

Steve gets Avery and Dove in a warm bath and it calms everybody down. You sit on the toilet seat in your underwear looking miserable and embarrassed and tired and he takes what time he can to squeeze your naked calf.

“You’re wet,” you faux-complain, mouth full of toothpaste and your toothbrush.

“I’m damp at best. So dramatic.”

He washes the sick out of Avery’s hair and Dove entertains herself with a rubber duck. Avery enjoys having her hair washed, eyes slipping closed as Steve massages her little head.

“How are you feeling, Dovey?” you ask, reaching across the lip of the tub to smooth back her wet hair.

“Duckie,” she cheers, brandishing her yellow friend at you.

Your smile is soft. “Duckie,” you repeat. “Does he have any water in his tummy?”

She squirts it at you. Point proven.

He gets Avery out and wraps her up in a towel that’s yards too big for her. Beth ventures into the room with tired eyes, and she looks unhappy to be missing out on bath time. She loves playing with her mermaid dolls.

“You want one with mommy?” you ask.

Beth smiles so wide that Steve wants to take a picture.

When he’s wrangled both sicky girls into new pyjamas, he asks Avery if she’ll entertain Dove for a little bit. It’s more of a hope than a true request. Avery nods seriously and grabs one of her picture books, sitting by her baby sister on the pillows decorating her bedroom floor.

He changes the ruined sheets in your bedroom, throws them in the laundry, pushes open the bedroom window to circulate some clean air and then makes his way to the bathroom with the sick bowl to pour the contents down the toilet. You and Beth sit across from each other in the bath. Even though you’re sick, Steve thinks this might be one of the most important moments of Beth’s life. Carving alone time with you, your hands rubbing soap over her little shoulders while you murmur praises at her, it’s incredibly sweet. He’s sorry to ruin it.

“You’re squeaky clean, baby, I barely gotta scrub you, such a clean girl. My Beth’s always been neat, huh?”

Steve washes his hands. Beth, bubbles up to her neck, says, “Hi, daddy. You’re coming in?”

“Not me. I don’t think you can fit me. And mom does the best job, anyways, she gets rid of all the stink.”

“Stink!” you deny. You have to clear your throat after. Your smile doesn’t wane. “She does not ever stink because she’s a princess, thank you very much, daddy.”

Back to Avery's room. So much of being a parent is retracing your steps, walking the same distance over and over and over. He encourages the girls into the bathroom and helps them brush their teeth, which Avery thinks is, “Weird as heck. You’re s’posed to brush your teeth after dinner.”

“But you’ve been sick,” he reminds her, kneeling with one knee in a puddle, Dove’s chin pinched between his finger and thumb as he brushes her tiny pearls gently.

“But we’ll have to brush them again,” she whines.

“I brushed my teeth too,” you say now wrapped in a towel, rubbing Beth’s hair with the hood of her bath-poncho.

“You’re a grown up.”

“So?” Steve asks, genuinely laughing. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Mom does stuff she hates all of the time!”

“Like what?”

“Like kissing you,” Avery declares.

You burst into laughter, which does not help his case. Avery laughs because you’ve laughed. Beth and Dove are easily infected, leaving Steve one against four and feeling bullied. You apologise profusely when you see his theatrical heartbreak and offer him a kiss to prove you don’t mind it. You won’t actually give him one when he puckers up.

“If you get sick too, we’re screwed.”

He leads his girls down the stairs in a freshly made procession and insists they all sit at the dinner table, you included. From there, he doles out Pepto Kids, crackers, watered down apple juice and forehead kisses. Beth doesn’t need any Pepto, and she gets some secret peanut butter on her crackers. He worries anything too rich will prompt a third upheaval for the rest.

You get regular old Pepto, and you hate it. “I’m having flashbacks,” you mumble. Pepto is a great anti-nausea medication, and you’d reaped its benefits heavily during pregnancy three.

Maybe he’s biassed on who needs more kisses. He lays them thick from one end of your forehead to the other and then, finally, sits down in the chair next to Dove with a tired groan.

Her hand reaches across the gap for his. She holds his finger with one hand, offers a cracker with another. “Dad,” she says warmly.

He takes it. If he gets sick, he gets sick. There isn’t a world that exists where he has the power to say no to her.

-

requests are open for more of this au <3 pls consider a reblog if u enjoyed cos im an attention seeker and they make me happy, thanks for reading!!! <3

[laundrybiscuits]

(FINE I guess this is a series now. whatever.)

“He’s where,” says Steve. 

“Off to see the wizard, my dude.” Argyle passes him a pipe. Steve’s not really sure where it came from or when Argyle packed it, but he’s got manners, so he takes a hit and hands it off to Jonathan. 

“Murray,” elaborates Jonathan, on an exhale. “The…you know. Oh wow, I guess you’ve never met Murray either. That’s weird, right? I mean, you were there, you were just…”

“Babysitting, probably,” says Steve. “Wait, why is Eddie meeting this guy?”

Argyle gestures in a big loopy way. It reminds Steve a little bit of how Eddie waves his arms around. “Eddie’s on, like, a spiritual journey. A dream quest, but…real life. The realest.”

“Not spiritual like church,” adds Jonathan. “Like, gay spirit. Is that a thing? Shit, why doesn’t anyone know Murray.”

“I don’t know Murray either, man,” says Argyle. 

“Is…Murray a real person?” Steve asks. He doesn’t think it’s an unreasonable question.

“Yes! Jesus. He’s real, okay? Nancy knows Murray, we—yeah. Nancy knows him.” Jonathan looks kind of dour and depressed, but he always sort of looks like that. 

“How’s Nancy doing?” Steve doesn’t really want to know, but it seems like the polite thing to say. 

“We’re fine,” says Jonathan. 

“Okay,” says Steve, who hadn’t asked that at all.

“Everything’s fine,” Jonathan repeats. Argyle reaches over to pat Jonathan on the head, then takes the pipe from Jonathan’s hand. 

———

“Hm,” says Murray. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking behind all the facial hair and glasses. “Okay, I don’t usually do this, but…what the hell. Kiddo, you are way too young to be talking like that. Your life’s not over, and if you’re smart about it, it doesn’t have to be over any time soon.”

Murray sits back on the couch, kicking up his feet. There’s a hole in his left sock.

“You think happily ever after only looks like one thing? That’s the thought of a child. If you really want, you can make some kind of picket fence life for yourself, suburbs and all. But you’re a queer, so that means you don’t have to do that shit because nobody’s expecting you to anymore. You get to decide what matters to you.”

“I don’t know any way to be gay that’s not lonely as hell,” Eddie says. 

“That’s because you’re an idiot and an infant,” says Murray gently. 

“You don’t have a—a boyfriend.” It comes out a little too sharp and mean, but Eddie’s feeling cornered. 

Murray laughs. “Kid, what did I just say? I don’t want a damn boyfriend. Some guy coming over here all the time, eating my food? Hell no. We’re degenerate homos, we get to decide what to keep and what to shove down the god damn garbage disposal. I got some arrangements in place, and that’s the way I like it. The whole lovey-dovey romance shit isn’t for me.”

Eddie draws his legs up, wrapping his arms around his shins. His boots are probably leaving marks on the couch, but Murray can deal. “I think it…I think that is for me. I want that to be for me. Um. In general.”

Murray actually tilts his head down to give Eddie a scathing look over the top of his glasses. “No shit, Joan Jett. Your whole ooh please push past my defenses to prove you love me schtick is visible from space.”

“Fuck,” says Eddie, knocking his head against his knees. He closes his eyes, humiliated beyond words, feeling scooped-out and awful. 

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.” Eddie feels a tap on his arm, and when he looks up, Murray’s holding out a glass with about an inch of amber liquid in it. “We all go through something like that. It’s a rite of passage, just like it is to get so wasted you throw up on the stranger you dragged into a club bathroom. You’ll do that too. You’re gonna be messy and embarrassing anyway, so just enjoy the ride. And take the damn Talisker, it’ll help.”

Eddie takes the damn Talisker and knocks it back in one go, just to be an ass. Murray rolls his eyes but pours him another one.

“Ah, practical shit…” Murray scratches at his beard thoughtfully. “Been a while since I had to do this. Poppers are great, don’t overdo ‘em. Splurge on the fancy medical lube if you want but Vaseline or Crisco’ll do the trick just fine. And listen up, kitten, because you can ignore everything else that comes outta my mouth, but you can’t ignore this: always wrap it up. I mean always. I don’t care if he’s your soulmate, I don’t care if it kills the mood, I don’t care if he says he’s a blushing goddamn virgin. If he doesn’t want to wear a rubber, he doesn’t care if you live or die.”

Murray looks down at his own glass. For the first time, Eddie thinks he looks—tired. 

“I know there’s probably a big part of you that doesn’t care if you live or die, either. But you gotta remember there’s people who do. The kid who sent you to me. He doesn’t want to go to your funeral.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. It comes out too quiet; he swallows and tries again. “Yeah. I know. I’ve—been to funerals too.” 

Murray barks out a surprised laugh. “God, you have, haven’t you? Think I was almost thirty, my first time. I’m sorry, Joan Jett, this isn’t a great time to be young and gay. Go make friends with some dykes, they’ll keep you sane.” 

Eddie, who has held Robin’s hair back as she ralphed into a bucket after losing a Peeps-eating competition with Steve, has his doubts, but he just nods.

Murray looks at him for a moment, then takes his face between two big hands and kisses him on the forehead. It feels neither sexual nor familial, but something beyond all of the easy categories Eddie’s known. 

“Now piss off,” Murray says. “Don’t get some crazy idea that this means we’re friends, or that you can start coming around whenever you feel like it.”

“So, just Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Sunday,” says Eddie, and ducks out before Murray can start cussing at him.

———

See, Eddie’s little crush on Steve is meant to be purely recreational. It’s fun to crush on unavailable guys he knows—way more fun than celebrities or whatever. It’s just nice, to feel his heart speed up a little when Steve’s around, safe in the certain knowledge that he’s never going to do a damn thing about it. It even feels good to hurt a little bit over it, achy and sharp, like pushing on a bruise. 

Yeah, Eddie knows he’s a little fucked up. But he figures this is harmless enough: a secret little vice that nobody’s ever going to know about.

Apparently, everybody knows. 

“Um,” says Jonathan, wide-eyed. “Was it…supposed to be a secret?”

“Yes,” hisses Eddie. “Because this is Hawkins, Indiana, and I don’t want to fucking die. Did we or did we not just have a conversation about the many and various perils this whole thing entails.”

“My dude, if you don’t want it to be, like, public knowledge, maybe don’t flirt with him so much?” 

“Betrayal!” Eddie gasps, staggering around like he’s been stabbed in the back, because he fucking has. “An unjust hit by Argyle the Assassin.”

“Argyle the Assistant,” says Argyle. “I’m assisting you, bro.”

“I don’t flirt with Steve!” Eddie screeches. “We’re friends! I flirt with you two dickwads more than I do with Steve, because I don’t flirt with Steve!” 

“You really do,” says Jonathan apologetically. “Kind of…a lot. Remember when we were out by the quarry, and you kept calling him princess.”

“As a joke!”

“Ohhh yeah,” says Argyle. “That was the day you, like…took his jacket, right?”

“I was cold!”

Jonathan grins. “Is that why you kept asking him how it looked on you?”

“As…a joke,” says Eddie, weakly. He’s starting to remember that it might’ve been even worse; the words do I look pretty in your clothes, Stevie may or may not have been uttered. 

“Hey, man, it’s no biggie. That was a million years ago and he didn’t say anything, so you’re free and clear. Totally righteous.” Argyle throws an arm around Eddie, who curls into him sulkily. Argyle’s tall and solid and kinda hot, so it’s a real shame Eddie can’t crush on him instead. 

Eddie sighs. “If Jonathan weren’t here, I’d ask you to make out with me until I felt better,” he says. 

“What,” says Jonathan. “You can’t—I mean, you can, and I, uh—support you? Should I leave?”

“Aw,” says Argyle, and ruffles Eddie’s hair. “That’s sweet, dude. If Jonathan weren’t here, I would.”

“What is happening,” says Jonathan. “I’m gonna—should I leave? I’m gonna leave.”

Eddie whines, “No, c’mon, stay, we’ll do that seance. That’ll make me feel better too. Maybe we can resurrect my deceased heterosexuality.” 

They don’t manage to raise any ghosts or any heterosexualities, but it does make Eddie feel a little better anyway.

[averagejoesolomon]

Here you go! Have another chapter! Can you spot all the things these boys don't say to one another, because boy howdy, there are a lot of them. Cannot wait for these events to unfold. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3.

Chapter Seven

“Boston’ll lead the season, but the Yanks are gonna take the series.”

The opposite end of the line is filled with clutter, dead air looping through the tinny background noise of a television on full blast. There’s talking, and laughter, and finally Joe’s crackling voice to cut through it all. “Put it on the record that this is our best phrase yet,” he says. “Seriously. Music to my ears.”

Matt rolls his eyes, leaning tight against the wall. He counts on his body to hide the bulk of this conversation, and hopes his shadow can hide the rest. “Yeah, that reminds me,” he says. “You owe me a rematch. I’m still not convinced that last move was legal.”

“It is in Virginia,” Joe confirms. “And in all but six other states.”

“I meant, like, legal as it applies to the rules of darts,” Matt clarifies, “but it’s nice to know where our barroom shenanigans stand in the eyes of the commonwealth.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’re a sore loser?”  

“Just my mama,” Matt answers. “And Danny Fisher, once, after he cheated his way through a potato sack race at the county fair.”

“Glad you’re not holding a grudge.”

“He didn’t go around the barrel, Joe.”

“Uh-huh.” It’s the same tone Joe always uses anytime Hay Springs gets mentioned, translated through thousands of miles of long distance calling. Rather than sit through another story from the Sheridan County Harvest Festival, Joe leads Matt toward more serious matters. Always so serious. “Is there a reason you called me? Or did you just need to get the Danny Fisher thing off your chest?”

With the promise of real and honest spycraft hanging over the line, Matt risks a subtle glance at one of the skillets hanging from the ceiling, checking his surroundings in the reflection. The Baxters are sealed inside their soundproof room, which Matt reckons is probably a blessing for everyone around. Rachel is locked in the cabin’s lone bathroom, with the shower to drown out anything he has to say.  In the adjoining living room, Townsend reads an old paper and pretends not to eavesdrop. That’s fine. Matt has something the kid wants and, for now, he’s probably too curious to sell out any details he might overhear.

It ain’t the most secure Matt’s ever been, but it’ll do. “I need some domestic backup,” he admits, catching on the conspiratorial sound of his own voice. He hasn’t noticed it until now, and it makes him feel like a rotten sneak. No wonder everyone thinks he’s trading secrets. “How’s your foot?”

Matt can practically hear the wind from Joe waving him off. “Forget about my foot.” Joe’s end of the line takes up a new rustling as Matt gets passed from one hand, to the other, then tucked into Joe’s shoulder. Matt’s listened to enough wiretapped feeds in his career to pick up on the faint ping of a pen pulled from its mug. The rip of an old message pad torn anew. Joe at the ready, for whatever Matt throws his way. “What do you need?”

Matt warns, “I’ve got something of a laundry list.”

And Joe insists, “I’ve got nothing but time on my hands.”

“S’not your hands I’m worried about.”

“Forget about my foot, already.”

That’s not likely, but Matt’s no fool. This is one of those moments Joe always tries to warn him about—a time when Matt needs to prioritize being a good spy over being a good friend. Fact is, he’s in a bind, and Joe is the only person he trusts to help him untangle these particular knots. “I need you to check my deposit box.”

Joe’s neat, military writing scratches through the line. “Which one?”

Another glance toward Townsend. Matt chooses his words carefully, passing along a puzzle only Joe can piece together. “The one with my passport in it.”

Back when Matt still made his living from listening to the Army’s persons of interest list, this was the sort of exchange that made the days run long. He’d spend hours trying to crack the unspoken, unofficial coded messages between rebel leaders and trusted advisors, agents and longtime informants, dealers and buyers with such clean operations that they could understand unknown depths of information after sharing just a few words. It never worked out in his favor, always ending in a plea to send an agent into the field for more insight. Codes like these exist outside of the vast mathematical reliability of ciphers and encryptions, and instead require minuscule context of a person’s day-to-day life. Codes like these don’t make any sense, unless a fella already knows that Matt banks at Washington National, and that he stowed away his honest passport three years ago at Joe’s recommendation, listing the account under Luke Andrews, with Zeke Rozelle as an authorized visitor.

 For Joe, it’ll be a ten minute walk to the train station, then a stroll downtown. For anyone else listening in, it would take weeks to comb through this kind of friendly shorthand, and even that wouldn’t do much. It’s surreal to stand on the other side of his old frustrations now, knowing that he and Joe could probably bring entire governments to a standstill without ever using a full sentence. Matt doesn’t have an Uncle Ben, but the words come to him anyway—with great power…

Joe doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve got company?”

“Here?” Matt replies. “Always.”

“Friend or foe?”

“Can’t tell yet.”

Joe’s not a fan of this answer, but to be fair, Joe probably wouldn’t have liked any answer except doesn’t matter, already shook him. “Do you need me on a plane?”

“I need you,” Matt insists, “to check my box.”

“Fine,” he says, but there’s a double meaning to it. A not-so-subtle subtext that promises Joe will be on the next flight out if he senses even the slightest reason for it. “I’ll check the box. What am I looking for?”

“Just need you to verify the contents,” Matt tells him. “I’m hearing some chatter and I’m trying to figure out how much truth there is to it.”

This instruction is cryptic enough to keep Townsend’s prying ears out of the core of the conversation, but it does leave Joe in something of a guessing game. Fortunately, Joe’s always been pretty good at guessing, at least when it comes to Matt. “Chatter about your passport?” he says, first try. “What about it?”

Over Matt’s shoulder, Townsend’s newspaper crackles. He’s good. He’s got the timing down just right. Really looks like he’s reading. Matt still doesn’t buy it, and drops his voice even lower. “Rachel’s under the impression that the Soviets are buying identities,” he says. “She thinks mine is among them, but we haven’t been able to prove it yet.”

It’s not a question, when Joe says, “You think someone broke into your box. Stole your passport.”

“Maybe,” says Matt. “Or maybe they took the other one.”

Two passports, each bearing the name Matthew Morgan. One in his deposit box. One on file at Langley. Joe knows the details just as well as Matt does, so they’re just one more conversational shortcut away from the complete realization. “And if Rachel’s right—”

“—and Rachel’s always right—”

“—and if we find a passport in your box…”

Matt nods, even if Joe can’t see him. “Could be a lead.”

The pair of them have been chasing the Circle of Cavan long enough to see its leads come and go, but this one feels different. More direct. For years, Joe was the Circle’s most active agent inside the CIA, and every shred of evidence would lead back to him. An op he ran. A transcript he sold. A legend that never quite made it on the books. But Joe was never working alone, even if he rarely knew who he was working with. It takes more than one man to bring down an organization like the CIA, even if that man is Joe Solomon.

If the right passport has fallen into the wrong hands, this is a chance to put a face to his mysterious partners. To name them, find them, stop them. Static fills the line as Joe considers the news. More TV laughter rolls through the background, eerie and broken. “You told me this mission was Rachel,” he says, in the tone of a man who never would have let Matt go alone, had he known the stakes.

“It is Rachel,” Matt assures him, in the tone of a man who has it all handled, honest. “But it could also be”—he stumbles over eager words, stopping himself before he can say too much in front of present company—“bigger than Rachel.”

“Hold on.” Maybe because he doesn’t believe his ears, Joe temporarily forgoes their underhanded back-and-forth to ask outright, “You think Rachel Cameron is chasing the Circle of Cavan?”

This, admittedly, doesn’t seem quite right, with the way Joe lays it all out. Matt considers this, then finally lands on, “Unknowingly, maybe.”

Joe scoffs. It muffles up the line. “That woman has never done anything unknowingly.”

Matt bites back a smile, small but mighty. “Suppose you’re right about that.”

“Get her out of there, Matt. I’m serious.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“A lady like Rachel has no business with the Circle.”

“She’s not exactly the kinda person you can just give orders to.”

“She’s going to get herself killed. The only thing more dangerous than going after the Circle on purpose is going after the Circle on accident.”

“What am I supposed to do? Drag her kicking and screaming onto the first plane out of Russia?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Doesn’t seem very covert.”

“Look.” It’s one of those weighty, serious looks that Joe only pulls out when he really wants to get his point across. “Covert is the least of your concerns. She’s in this because of you, so you need to be the one to pull her out. She’s looking straight down the barrel and doesn’t even know it. It’s not right.”

Something interrupts the seamlessness of their conversation—a little blip of unrecognizable code that makes the whole thing hard to follow. Matt takes his best shot at cracking this new character in their shared alphabet. “What do you mean, she’s in this because of me?”

Whatever disconnect Matt’s feeling, Joe doesn’t seem to share it. “What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“This is her op,” Matt reminds him. “I didn’t pull her into this. She called me, remember?”

A pause. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“Not a chance,” Matt says. “I pull your leg, and your foot might fall right off.”

“Would you just—my foot is not that bad, okay?”

“What do you mean,” he tries again, “she’s in this because of me?”

There’s no small amount of deliberation on one other end of the line. Joe could fill oceans with all the things he never says, and he’s giving the Atlantic a damn good effort now. “Matt,” he says with a relenting sigh. “Now isn’t a good time to pretend there’s nothing going on between you two.”

Beers at a Williamsburg bar. A bruised jaw in Baltimore. A backless dress at the Bolshoi. Matt’s getting his wires crossed, and now a Joe conversation somehow triggers all of his Rachel shorthand. The years flash through his chest and send a twinge of that pesky and persistent want through every last nerve. “Going on?” he sputters, trying to reel his thoughts back to here and now. “Going on how—going on where? What do you mean, going on?”

“You know.” Joe’s voice gets all caught up in Matt’s flustered beat, and now they’re both off their usual rhythm. “C’mon, don’t—you know. I’m talking about that, I dunno, Sam and Diane thing you’ve got going with her.”

Matt officially doesn't recognize the shape of this conversation. Talking to Joe is always supposed to look and feel the same way, but this is something new. Matt’s not sure he cares for it. “Sam and Diane?” His nose twists up. “Who are you and what have you done with Joe?”

“Oh, lay off,” Joe drones. “NBC stuck a Cheers marathon at the end of the Orioles game, and the remote is on the other side of the room.”

What? “Since when do you watch the Orioles?”

“Since I broke my foot jumping onto a moving train and my buddy left me alone to go chase the Circle, apparently,” he says. “What are you, the TV police?”

“So you admit your foot is broken.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry.” He thrashes around for a way to save the conversation, but he feels like a batter who’s just been told to run the bases backward. The best he can do is land back where Joe started and try to hit what’s getting pitched to him. “Sam and Diane. I’m supposed to be Sam?”

“You’re not Diane, are you?”

“Sam Malone is a pitcher.”

“That’s your problem with Sam Malone?” says Joe. “Not that he’s a drunk, and a fool, and a womanizer?”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

“Okay.” Joe accepts a small defeat in this tangential argument to take another shot at the one he actually cares about. “Well, I can’t tell you how you feel about Rachel—not least because I don’t know how you stand in the same room as that woman without wanting to punch your own lights out. She’s abrasive, and prideful, and she starts fights like she’s got stock in them.”

“Right,” says Matt, because this part of the conversation is straight over home plate. Joe doesn’t like Rachel. Sure. It’s so familiar, Matt could hit it straight out of the park.

“But,” Joe continues, and it’s got all the signs of a curve ball. “I can tell you that there’s no such thing as coincidences, especially not when it comes to Rachel. If she’s wrapped up in Circle dealings, it’s not because she’s going after them. It’s because she’s trying to cover you.”

Swing, and a miss.

It’s the same thing Grace had said, not even a full day earlier. She’s saving your ass, darling. From Grace, it had come at him from the outside, striking the surface of his awareness as something to take note of at some future date. When Joe says it, the sentiment starts at his center and climbs his guts like a cliff side. It’s urgent and suspended, old Circle calluses now shredded with fresh fears.

Of course Rachel is covering him. That’s what Rachel does. She covers Abby. She covers her father. And now she’s covering him, even if she has to do it blindly.

Don’t you care about me?

Of course I do.

Of course you do.

“Dammit,” Matt spits, low and resigned. It’s all Joe needs from him, but he throws in a bonus, “Goddammit,” for good measure. “She’s smarter than this.”

“Or just smart enough,” Joe amends. “For years, she’s been chipping away at you, trying to figure out what we’re up to. Maybe she decided she was better off coming at it from a different angle. It’s kind of impressive.”

“Yeah, well.” There’s a pulse in Matt’s jaw, right where his teeth grind together. “She’s an impressive kinda lady.”

“Get her out of there.”

“I know.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“I know.”

Moscow has never felt so massive. Hours away from any border and even further from a friendly one, the vastness of the USSR stretches out in every direction. It’s one thing to risk his own hide with Circle business in the East. It’s another thing entirely to risk Rachel’s. The danger of it settles like a Russian winter down his spine, and all of a sudden he’s got an urge like he’s never had before, to run, run, run, with her hand clasped in his.

For the very first time, Matt has a top-down view of the complete playing field, while Rachel’s stuck strategizing from the bullpen. She’s too close to it. Too far in. The next call has to be his, and it has to be right. “Listen,” he says to Joe, and now he’s serious too. “Tonight. We were working the op and I saw a friend of yours.”

Matt’s got Townsend at his back. Passports in the bedroom. A redheaded agent who would do anything to get her package back. A plan begins to form in the back of his mind, rough around the edges but strong at its core. He’s got all the leverage he needs to help Joe. To call the Circle off Rachel’s scent. To put the focus back where it should be—on him. Only him. He started this fight, and he won’t have anyone else stepping in to take his punches. 

Joe takes a beat. There’s not a single sound on his end of the line. “I don’t have friends,” he says. “I’ve just got you.”

“The redhead,” Matt goes on. “From Wrigley.”

Now it’s Joe’s turn to let out a soft, “Dammit.”

“Do you have any idea what she’s doing—?”

“No.” He’s just short of a snarl. “This is the opposite of laying low.”

“You told her to lay low?”

“For a little while,” Joe confirms. “She got herself into some hot water a few months back, and she’s had to take some sketchy jobs to get out of it.”

“Yeah, I think I just walked into the middle of one.”

“She’s in Moscow?”

“Joe,” Matt says. “She’s delivering the damn passports.”

In the silence that follows, Matt finds space to wonder about an old question he’s never quite gotten an answer to. He’s always known about this girl—that she’s out there, that she’s working both sides, that she’s one of the few people Joe knows from his days with the Circle. But every time Matt brings her up, even as a possible Circle lead, Joe shuts him down. Waves him off. She’s not a threat, he’d say, and then move on. Matt doesn’t know how much they still work together. Doesn’t even know her name.

“She recognized me,” Matt continues. “Said we were on the same side—”

“You are not on the same side as her.”

“Someone ought to tell her that.”

“Fine.”

If Joe thinks this is the end of this conversation, he’s sorely mistaken. “Joe,” he says, as gently as he can muster. “Have you ever considered that maybe she’s—?”

“She’s not the leak.”

“How do you—?”

“Because I’m the one that leaks everything to her.”

This is the closest thing to background Matt’s ever gotten on the girl, so he keys in and listens up while Joe’s still in a talking mood. “She’s a go-between,” Joe admits. “An agent on the front lines. She’s got two jobs—deliver whatever information I’ve stolen, and don’t get caught. And they don’t tell her a damn thing, just in case she fails that second one.” Matt waits for more to come. After an uncomfortable moment, it does. “The Circle paired us together five years ago. But when I... when we—I started to slow down, and she had to find other work.”

Something clicks in Matt’s mind. “Which could explain why she’s in Moscow.”

“Whatever work she’s doing over there, I don’t know who’s giving it to her.”

“How about we find out?” Matt tries. “Can you get a message to her?”

“You’ve got bigger problems, cowboy.”

“I think I can hit two birds with one stone, on this one.”

If a fella spends enough time listening to phone lines, sooner or later he picks up the ability to hear beyond the background noise, and straight into the core of the call. That’s how Matt hears the hitched apprehension in Joe’s breath, the debate in the static, and the always subtle truth about Joe Solomon—that he wants out of the Circle more than he wants anything else. More than he wants Matt to come home safe. More than he wants Rachel out of Moscow. More than he wants his redheaded partner to lay low.

It’s begrudging, but Joe finally says, “What’s the message?”

Matt passes along a time and a place. In the reflection, Townsend’s eyes flash over the top of his paper, then quickly return to the act of performative reading. That’s fine. Matt’s not stupid enough to meet this girl without backup—the kid’s coming with him.

“And Matt?” Joe says. “Just… take it easy on her. She’s really not a threat.”

As someone who still has a thin, silver scar on his shoulder from where her bullet grazed him, Matt’s inclined to disagree. But he trusts Joe, and Joe trusts her, so maybe that’s enough for now. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

“And think about what I said,” he goes on. “About Rachel.”

“Right.” That’s enough of that. “Maybe I’ll call Henry, too. See if he knows anything.”

“About Rachel?”

“About where your friend is finding this extra work.”

“That makes more sense,” says Joe. “Don’t ask Henry about the Rachel thing.”

“Really don’t plan on it,” Matt insists. “Let me know about the deposit box.”

“Already on my way.”

Matt can think of at least a dozen more requests—record the Royals game, pick up some milk, go to a doctor, check on his parents just in case. But the shower isn’t running anymore, Townsend’s reached the end of his pages, and this call was never truly covert to begin with. 

Still, Matt has one more question that he just can’t seem to shake. “Joe?” he says. “What’s her name?”

It takes Joe long enough to answer that Matt wonders if Joe’s already hung up, and he’s talking into dead air. “Her name is Catherine,” he finally says. “Catherine Goode.”

[tinylilemrys]

Lonely In London

Relationship:

Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso

Additional Tags:

Angst and Romance | Romcommunism | Friends to Lovers | Romantic Comedy | Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Summary:

Henry, worried about how lonely his dad seems to be in London, writes into an advice podcast for some help. A podcast run by an ex-colleague of Trent's – one that he listens to religiously. If Trent falls a little for 'Lonely In London' because he reminds him of Ted, well that's just coincidence. An homage to romcommunism, largely based on 'Sleepless In Seattle' with a few others thrown in for good measure.

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER 5

Ted can feel the panic starting, threatening to take over, but knows he can't let it. If there's ever a time he can't afford to fall apart, it's now. Instead, he runs through his grounding exercises, goes to the bathroom to splash his face with water, and grabs his coat, keys, wallet, phone, and after nearly leaving without it, his charger. He's going to be at the airport for a while and there's no way in hell he's going to be out the loop with what's happening with his son because of a dead phone.

He fights the panic all the way to the airport, clutching his little LEGO keychain like it's a lifeline, all the while wondering if Henry is okay. He panics when Henry is alone on a flight at the best of times, when he's been the one who signed him in. When he's watched the last view of Henry disappear with the flight attendant. This? This is torture. This is not knowing how scared Henry is. This is knowing Michelle is just as terrified as he is. This is knowing that it was Doctor Fucking Jacob that decided to take it upon himself to sign in his kid for an international flight.

Ted isn't typically a violent man, but he's thankful that he's on a completely different continent to the man. He has no idea what he would do if he saw him face to face right now.

It's not much better at the airport, except now there's nothing to distract him. He finds himself glancing up at the arrivals board every few minutes, even though he knows, of course, that he won't see Henry's flight number on there. He doesn't even know what Henry's flight number is. He texts Michelle in case she knows and settles back to do a whole lot of terrified waiting.

He's on such high alert, that he jumps and practically throws his phone when it starts ringing. Scrambling to get it, he sees that it's Michelle.

"Hey, any news?" he asks. He can hear Michelle is crying. His stomach plummets. "Oh, Michelle, what happened?"

"No, no, sorry," she says, finally able to speak again. "It's good. There's a storm and Henry's flight got delayed. I'm with him now."

Every muscle in his body releases. Michelle has him. He's going to be okay.

"Oh thank god," he says, rubbing a hand across his chest to calm his racing heart. "Thank god. Can I speak to him?"

"Yeah, hang on," she says. There's a bit of scuffle and then Ted hears his boy, his sweet, beautiful perfect boy on the other end. He's so glad to hear him that he forgets he's supposed to be mad. He can't be mad right now, he's just so glad he's okay.

"Dad," he says between sobs, "Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

"Hey," he says, the tears starting in his own eyes now. "Hey, we can talk about all that later. What's important is that you're safe and that Mom's with you now. You're gonna be okay. I'm honestly just so glad to hear your voice, Bud."

He talks to Henry a while longer, reassuring him, telling him that he loves him. God, telling him over and over again how much he loves him. It feels like a miracle that he still has the chance to. He's never going to take it for granted again.

When it sounds like Henry's getting tired on the other end, Ted suggests he gives the phone back to his mom. With one last "I love you so much, Kiddo", Michelle is back on the line.

"Henry's pretty wiped so he's going to take a nap for a bit," says Michelle. There's silence on the line between them for a while before Ted hears her deep, steadying breath. "I'm sorry, Ted. I'm so sorry. This never should have happened. I was working late and Jake was supposed to be taking him home from practice. I still don't know exactly what happened. I was too angry and worried about Henry to get into the details."

"Hey, it's alright," says Ted, wishing he could be there to comfort his family. "We can figure that out later once we're all a bit calmer. For now, maybe the two of you should head home. I'll make sure the tickets are covered. Get home and enjoy your Christmas."

"We're still coming to London, Ted," says Michelle, and Ted feels a flutter of hope.

"Michelle, you don't need to--"

"Henry is desperate to see you," she says, cutting him off, "and I can't imagine anything worse than going home right now. I think we both want to spend Christmas with you."

"Well, you won't catch me complaining," says Ted. The colour is starting to return to the world. In a matter of hours, his son will be here with him, in his arms.

"It also might actually be time for us to talk about moving over there," Michelle continues. "My company's opening an office in London and there's an option to transfer. In any case, Henry keeps talking about wanting to be there. He's determined to play professional soccer and the prospects are better in the UK. The only thing that was keeping us from doing it was Jake."

"And he's not a factor anymore?" Ted asks, guessing the answer.

"Fuck no," says Michelle. "We're as done as it's possible to be. He tried to insist on staying with me at the airport, you know? Like, trying to get a ticket himself. I told him that if he didn't leave, I was going to report him for kidnapping."

Get rekt, Doctor Jacob, thinks Ted, relieved that the man won't ever be anywhere near his son again.

There's another bit of silence between them, the sounds of Eisenhower International mingling with the sounds of Heathrow. He thinks about how great it would be to have Henry nearby again. How great it would be to have Michelle nearby again. They may not love each other the way they used to, but she was his best friend for twenty years. He's hoping there's at least some kind of friendship they can hold onto for Henry's sake.

"Michelle, are you sure about moving?" asks Ted. "I can't ask you to pack up your whole life to move halfway across the world. It's not fair to you."

"No, Ted, what's not fair is Henry being thousands of miles away from you. I mean, he tries to be brave about it, but he spends every day wishing he was there with you. Moving halfway round the world would be a small price to pay to see our boy smile more."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He knows Henry hasn't been himself since he left. He didn't know it was as bad as that.

"And the thing is, you're not asking us, Ted. I'm telling you what's going to happen. I mean, we'll definitely talk about it more once we're over there. For now, just know that we're excited to see you."

"Yeah?" says Ted. "I'm excited to see you too. Tell Henry I say goodnight."

Once he hears the beeping that tells him Michelle has hung up, Ted settles back into his seat and fires a text off to Beard.

Hey, sorry. I know it's the middle of the night, but there's been a situation with Henry and I'm at Heathrow. Crazy story, but I'll tell you everything when I see you. Can you please take training tomorrow? I'll owe you one.

He doesn't have to wait long for a text back.

Hey, of course I can. Something with Henry? Is everything okay? Do you need me there? I can get Roy to cover training. Say the word and I'm there.

Ted knows he would be, but team needs him more than he does right now.

All okay, Doris Day. He and Michelle are coming to stay for Christmas. Will explain everything soon. Thanks! ❤️

He gets a heart back in response, and finally, for the first time since Michelle's initial call, he feels himself relax.

He's got any number of books downloaded, and he figures that's as good a way as any to kill some time. Christmas Eve at Heathrow can't be the worst way to spend the day. In the back of his mind, he knows that there's a possibility that he might see this Isolated In Islington while he's here, but that's not for a while. And in any case, he plans to ignore them. After all, it's not like they know who he is.

***

Trent has never been more nervous about anything in his life. He wakes up on the morning of Christmas Eve, feeling like a great big ball of anxiety and nicotine withdrawal. In less than ten hours, he's going to be at the Heathrow arrivals gate waiting for Ted.

Whether Ted will be there or not is another story altogether, but he can't let himself think like that right now, or he'll never try. He knows it's a long shot. Ted has no idea that he's Isolated In Islington, and even if he did, Trent is not all that sure it would make a difference. They've agreed to be friends. They might not be on the same page about this.

But, no, Trent owes it to himself to at least try.

He spends the morning attempting and failing to distract himself with anything and everything. He takes a stab at writing, but all that's running through his mind is Ted and writing about him isn't helping.

He calls Anabelle to check how she's doing, but she's only four and her attention span barely lasts a few minutes at the best of times. There's the added factor of Christmas now, and absolutely everything seems to be pulling her attention away from the screen. Resigned, he tells her that he loves her, and hangs up. Shaun is dropping her off tomorrow, so they'll celebrate then.

By the time it hits early afternoon, Trent can't take being home a moment longer and decides, fuck it, he's got books in his to-be-read pile. He might as well read them at the airport. At least then he can fret in sight of the spot he's going to wait. He'll get there early, grab a bite to eat, and wait with bated breath to see if Ted ever actually does show up.

Pulling on the shirt he'd been unable to resist buying in Amsterdam, the yellow one with the print of Van Gogh's Sunflowers on it, and pairing it with one of his old faithful blazers and his best pair of jeans, he grabs his small pile of books and heads to Heathrow to either start the rest of his life, or make an enormous idiot of himself.

The last thing he expects to find in an airport at three in the afternoon, a full five hours before they're supposed to meet, is Ted slumped next to an outlet, charging his phone.

Trent's journalistic brain kicks into full gear, and he notices several things at once. Half of Ted's face is red with a pattern that looks an awful lot like a zipper. His coat is bundled next to him like it was recently used as a pillow. His hair is sleep-tousled and his eyes seem bloodshot. Ted's been here for hours, so whatever he's here for, it's not to meet him.

The sinking disappointment only lasts for a moment because when Ted looks up and spots him, his face breaks into the biggest smile he thinks he's ever seen on him.

"Trent!" he says, jumping to his feet and pulling him into a hug. "Oh boy, I've never been happier to see a friendly face."

"It's lovely to see you too, Ted," he says, because it's true. Even half-awake and looking like he's spent a lifetime in the airport, Ted is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He allows the hug to linger a second longer than it needs to.

"What are you doing here?" Ted asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Did Beard send you?"

Trent, realising he doesn't have a good reason for being here otherwise, decides it's as good an excuse as any.

"Yeah, exactly," he lies. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Beard didn't tell you?" Trent shakes his head. "Oh man, do I have a story for you."

They settle back down on the ground next to the outlet and Ted tells Trent about Henry booking himself a flight, about how he and Michelle are on their way to London. About how it was Michelle's new boyfriend, their former marriage counsellor, who signed Henry into the flight.

Trent didn't think it was possible to hate someone he'd never met, but the burning rage he feels at anyone being that irresponsible and careless and cruel is unlike any he's ever felt. He imagines what he would do if it was Anabelle and he knows that it would be ugly.

"Are you doing alright now, though?" he asks, looking Ted directly into his eyes, daring him to lie the way he used to when he was a journalist. Except he's sure that now it's even more intense because this answer is far more important to him than those ever were.

"Not altogether," admits Ted with a tired smile. "I'm furious, of course. Let's just say that Doctor Jake is lucky he's a whole flight away. I'm tired. Just so tired. I'm worried the way I always am when Henry and Michelle fly. But mostly, I'm so excited to see my boy that I could cry."

"I can imagine. I'd be the same if it was Anabelle."

Ted smiles at him, and Trent smiles back. The circumstances are far from ideal, but for the first time in months things between Ted and him are just… easy. There's no worrying or what ifs. He's going to keep Ted company. Ted needs someone to keep his mind from imagining the worst and Trent is only too happy to be that person.

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, before Trent finally climbs to his feet and declares that they're going to get something to eat. Henry and Michelle's flight is only going to land sometime around nine with all the storm delays, and Trent explains that there's no sense in the two of them starving until then.

And starving Ted was. He wolfs down his entire meal in the time it takes Trent to just get through his chips and immediately goes to order more.

"I needed that," says Ted once they're both done and heading back to their waiting spot with their drinks. "I haven't been able to think about food all day. And I threw up when Michelle first told me, so I was running on less than empty."

"Well then, I'm glad we could get something in your system," says Trent.

His heart is bursting with affection for this man. This man and his ridiculous moustache and kind, sad eyes and heart that tries to love absolutely everyone it meets.

And, not for the first time today, Trent thinks 'fuck it'.

He hesitates for a just moment before reaching out to take Ted's hand. To his surprise and delight, Ted doesn’t pull away. In fact, his fingers lace through Trent's.

"Thanks for being here," says Ted as they settle into their seats, still holding hands. When Trent tries to wave his thanks away, Ted's voice takes on that rare no-nonsense edge again. "No, I'm serious, Trent. This day has been hell, and when I saw you walking towards me through my foggy half-asleep vision it was like seeing an angel or something."

"Me?" Trent scoffs, although his heart is racing. "A hardened old muckraker? Hardly."

"I'm just reporting it like I see it," grins Ted.

They're sitting so close together, and his hand his in Ted's. The moment is so charged, it feels like the smallest movement would set off a spark. And for the first time since he's known Ted, he finds he doesn't care what that spark does. Let it burn the world down. It would be worth it.

Ted takes a deep breath just then, like he's gearing up for something big and Trent feels his breathing stop. He doesn't want to miss a second of whatever is happening right now.

"Look, I know you might not feel the same way about all this, but as much as I love being your friend, it's been more than that for a while. I know you know it has. That kiss…"

"That kiss," Trent agrees, and Ted's eyes snap to his. Questioning. Waiting.

Thinking back, Ted's always been the one pushing them to where they need to go. He was the one who shifted the conversation from professional chitchat to friendship, and then from friendship to wherever they were before Trent panicked and backed away. It's time for Trent to do the same.

"I've been in love with you for almost three years, Ted." Ted looks genuinely surprised at that. "What, you think I would give up a source for just anyone? That should have been your first major clue. I just… I don't think I know how to do this anymore. Not since Shaun. I was scared, both of getting it wrong and what it could do to everything you care about.

"And the thing is, Ted, you deserve so much. So much more than I could probably give you. But I'm tired of not trying. I'm tired of pretending that I don't want you. That I can live without you. And I know this may not be ideal for the club, but I'm ready to be a little selfish. Aren't you?"

For a moment, Ted seems frozen, like everything Trent just told him is processing. But then he's wearing that fond smile that turns Trent to mush, and he's reaching up to gently hold Trent's chin.

"For you? Anything."

And for a second beautiful time in his life, Ted's lips are on his.

It's different this time, though. This time there's no fear. There's no wondering who's watching. There's no hesitation. There's no doubt.

What there is, is Ted and Trent, just two men in love. The rest doesn't matter. They'll figure it all out as they go.

"God, I'm so glad you're here," says Ted, pressing his forehead to Trent's.

"So am I," says Trent, feeling so rapturously happy he might float away any second.

So what if his big, grand, romantic gesture didn't go according to plan? In time, he'll tell Ted about it and the two of them will probably laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

No, what he got instead was something small. Something beautiful. Something real. Something Ted. And he wouldn't trade that for the world.

***

The last few hours of waiting for Henry and Michelle are surprisingly easy now that he's got his back pressed against Trent's chest, with Trent's long arms around him, holding him together. Grounding him.

While Trent focuses on one of the books he brought with him, Ted fires off a text to Beard.

Thanks for sending Trent to wait with me. He's been a lifesaver. ❤️

He puts his phone back in his pocket, and picks up one of the other books from Trent's pile. As far as ways to wait at an airport go, this is definitely Ted's new favourite.

When the plane finally lands, Ted and Trent walk hand in hand to the gate to welcome Henry and Michelle. Ted's heart is hammering. As much as he's so excited to see them, he knows he's going to have to sit down with Michelle to figure out a the right consequence for Henry. Fraud's a pretty big behavioural issue they're going to need to nip in the bud. He pushes this to the back of his mind, for now though. Right now, he's focusing on just how hard he's going to hug his son when he sees him.

Trent gives his hand a squeeze as if he can sense Ted's nerves, and Ted squeezes back in thanks. Whatever happens, he's got Trent.

When he finally sees Henry and Michelle, Trent releases Ted's hand so he can sprint to them. Henry jumps into his arms, sobbing and Ted just holds him, bawling. They stand like that for ages, Ted telling Henry over and over again how much he loves him. After a while, he shifts Henry to one side so that he can hug Michelle with his free arm. The three of them stand like that for a bit, until Ted's arms finally say enough is enough and he sets Henry down. Trent seems to be keeping a distance, probably trying to give them their space, but when Henry spots him, he jumps into his arms almost as enthusiastically as he'd jumped into Ted's. Trent looks both surprised and delighted.

Michelle smiles and raises her eyebrows, and Ted knows she's asking if Trent is someone special. He nods and she beams, and whatever worry might have been there slips away.

Once Henry's back on his two feet and Trent and Michelle have been introduced, Michelle nudges Henry forward.

"Someone has a question to ask you," she says. "Although I think he's a little embarrassed to ask it now after all the drama. I told him that since it's the whole reason we're here in the first place, asking would be the right thing to do."

"Oh yeah?" asks Ted, with an idea of where this might be going. "Well, fire away, Bud."

Henry's face flushes the deepest red and he has to clutch onto Michelle just to be able to squeak out the smallest "Did… Did you get to meet Isolated in Islington?"

He knew he'd ask, and the idea of disappointing Henry is not one he's looking forward to. But there's Trent now and there's no way he's sabotaging that.

He sighs.

"Look, I'm sorry, Bud. I didn't." Henry looks crestfallen. "But remember how I said I have a good reason?"

Henry nods.

"Yeah well, this is my good reason," he says, taking Trent's hand and pulling him closer. "Thing is, I've been in love with Trent for quite a while. It wouldn't have been fair to anyone else to meet them and get their hopes up. Not when I couldn't give them what they were looking for. So, no, I didn't meet Isolated In Islington."

Henry nods, and then seems to take a moment to process what Ted said, just as Trent clears his throat.

"Well, actually…" says Trent next to him and Ted's head has never snapped around quicker. Trent drops to his haunches to look Henry in the eye. "Henry, perhaps Isolated In Islington sent that email after one too many drinks and regretted it for a while, but then decided to show up anyway on the small hope that something might come of it. Only to find Lonely In London already at the airport looking like they'd had the absolute worst day of their life. Maybe after Lonely In London and him figured out that they're already in love and they've been dancing around each other for far too long, Isolated In Islington didn't really see much of a point of going through with the crazy romcom moment."

"Wait, you're Isolated In Islington?" says Henry, face absolutely lighting up. "You're Dad's soulmate?"

Trent offers Ted a smile that Ted can only gape at. There is just no way.

"I mean, I really hope so," says Trent. "At the very least I think he might be mine."

"Hell yeah!" says Henry, punching the air as Michelle chastises him for cussing.

Trent stands level again and all Ted can do is stare.

"If I knew it was you," says Ted, when he finally finds the words again. "Trent, if I knew it was you, this would have been a completely different story."

"Well, it's me," says Trent.

"Henry, why don't we do get everyone coffees?" says Michelle with a wink to Ted, steering Henry away when he insists he wants to stay to see what happens.

Ted doesn't know what to say, so he laughs. He just laughs and laughs and Trent laughs with him.

"I should have known," says Ted. "You're wearing sunflowers. You said I'd know who you were when I saw you. I would have known it was you because of the sunflowers."

"I think you knew before then," says Trent. "We both did."

"Well, Isolated In Islington," says Ted, stepping back and offering a hand in greeting. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, Lonely In London," Trent replies, shaking it and then pulling him in for another kiss. If Ted has been happier in his life, he can't remember it.

As they stand there for a moment, Ted tracing the petals of the same sunflowers that helped him realise that he had to take a chance with Trent, he laughs again.

"I don't think those ladies at the podcast know how powerful they are," he says, and Trent laughs too.

"I'll be sure to email Lauren to let her know," he says. Ted is confused, but Trent explains. "She's an ex-colleague of mine. One of the better ones. Why did you think I was listening in the first place?"

"Well now that is a plot twist," says Ted, and then something else occurs to him. "Wait, how did you know I was Lonely In London?"

"Ah, well now, Ted you know I draw a hard line at revealing my sources."

Ted raises an eyebrow and Trent gives him a sheepish smile.

"I accidentally saw an email notification on your phone. Sorry. But I think I knew before then. The letter just sounded like you."

"Well," says Ted, "however it happened, I don't think we could call ourselves isolated and lonely anymore. How about we ditch the monikers and grab that coffee?"

"Now that sounds like a wonderful plan."

As they walk, Ted feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

What the hell are you talking about? Why would I send Trent and not just come there myself? Are you sure everything's okay?

Ted shows Trent the text, asking for clarification and Trent laughs.

"I didn't have a better excuse for being here," he says. "You try being all suave and slick when the person you're trying to impress with a big romantic gesture shows up five hours early for a completely different reason."

"Point taken," Ted laughs. He types a quick reply to Beard.

Everything is better than okay. I promise I'll tell you everything later. Right now I'm having coffee with my family. Have a fun Yule with Jane.

He slips his phone back into his pocket, and takes Trent's hand again. He's never been more of a believer in romcommunism than he is right now.

***

To: mail@helpimsosadpodcast.com

Subject: A Little Life Update

Dear Smidge, Bits, and Lauren

There aren't enough words in the English language for me to express how grateful I am for your show.

I know we went over all this in my last thank you, where I told you that this show is a big part of why the love of my life and I are together now. Why my son now lives in the UK and has most adorable little sister. Why I now live with the most incredible man I've ever met.

Well, I just wanted to write in and let you know that we're getting married!We both popped the question last night. Turns out, we'd both planned these big elaborate proposals, but then I blurted it out while we were doing dishes of all things and we both had to scramble to go grab our rings from their hiding places.

You might ask why it was doing dishes that made me realise that I couldn't go another moment without asking this man to be my husband, and I honestly couldn't say. But it was something about the way our elbows kept bumping. The way I had to keep sliding past him to get plates into cupboards. The way we were just so comfortably, happily, gratefully in each other's space. And I just realised that with him, I'm never alone. He's the reason that London isn't lonely for me anymore. It was just this feeling of overwhelming happiness, and I knew I never ever wanted to stop feeling that with him.

So we're getting married! Consider this your save the date. We would genuinely love to have you there.

Until then, keep doing what you're doing and never stop reminding people that even though things are bleak now, it doesn't mean they'll always be.

All our love

Lonely In London, Isolated In Islington, My Dad Is (No Longer) Sad, and Squish

🌻🌻🌻🌻

[theothersideofhim]

Secret, Mistake, Midnight

from [here]

Under the cut since it's A LOT and also a SECRET lmao

secret: What’s one secret your OC never wants anyone to know about them?

Easy enough: he's lonely. He's intensely, earth-shatteringly, irreparably lonely and it's directly because he's part of a duality where each part is designed to function alone. Me and Asche's personal lore for Stan is that he's "the other side" of God but that doesn't mean they're meant to get along. They're meant to be locked in a tidal orbit of never ending conflict, bound to each other but light years away. Stan is meant to be The Adversary and my personal lore is that he's just a little fucking sad about that.

Like he remembers helping to create the universe, hurling matter and heat in every direction, breaking down everything so Eli could pull it back together and form it into more and more complex elements, smashing atoms and meteors and whole planets into each other in a chaotic Mario Party Smash that lasted billions of eons and also just one flashbang

... so Eli could come in and create life on what was left.

And he knows that the only way to ever experience that sense of belonging and purpose again--at least on that "Mantle of the Adversary", cosmic level anyway--is to create a new universe. And he knows that in order for that to really happen the one they'd already made would have to be destroyed.

So there's that.

All this to say, I don't think Stan understands that's what he's feeling anyway. I think it translates to him as Angry and Sad. He'll show the angry part but he doesn't want people to ever know about the sad part.

Oh also he likes head touches and neck kisses shhhSHSHHHHHHH.

mistake: What’s the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Designing the platypus.

No but seriously, this one is really hard. I wanna say almost killing Lucifer, but is that really the worst? In all the millenia that Stan has been alive, his WORST MISTAKE was making Lucifer believe he was going to die at Stan's hands? Because in all honesty, the two of them will eventually find their way back into the toxic, symbiotic relationship they've had since Lucifer fell and everything will fall back into place again.

But will it??? Will it really????????? He effectively put Doubt in Lucifer's head for... basically as long as it's going to sit there. They'd gotten so close as for Stan to actually tell Lucifer "I love you", even if it was just a whisper, even if it was after just sticking a knife in the former angel's stomach, and they were both reminded that it could have been thrown away in a heartbeat over the pull of the Mantles needing to fill Roles.

Whether or not Lucifer moves on from it, Stan is always going to remember being slightly out of control... but not entirely. He was somewhere in the vicinity of the driver's seat and that is fucking chilling in its implications for Lucifer's place in his heart and Stan's capacity to have one in the first place.

So yeah I guess I'll keep it at that for now.

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

He has a fear of intimacy that is in direct conflict with his aforementioned loneliness, and yeah that actually keeps him up at night sometimes lmao. If you wanted to get deeper into that it's a fear of rejection. If you wanted to go even further it's a fear of abandonment.

That's too far woah woahhhh bring it on back now.

His nightmares are always full of songs sung by angels made by Him but Not Him, sounds he can't make that spin molecules together into planets and cities and people, beautiful and terrible but muffled and far away like it was a record playing in another room.

He never speaks in his dreams. His mouth wasn't meant to make sound it was meant to devour, and he never yells or screams or throws any kinds of fits in his dreams.

[specialagentlokitty]

Lokitty’s prompts

“You were the view I loved so much. More than any mountain top or sen set or roaming sea could give me.”

“What am I to you?” “You’re a reminder of the past and the hurt I cannot fix.”

“I never asked to be like this.”

“The one who heals others has no one to heal them.” “Then I’ll heal you.”

“If I told you about the darkest parts of me would you still love me?” 

“It scares me.” “What does?” “One day you’ll see me the same way I see me..”

“You have to fix it. You need to fix it.” “Fix what?” “Me…”

“He/she/they look at you so gently.” “He/she/they do?!”

“I’m scared if I touch you, you’ll die too..”

“I see you everywhere I look.” “I’m not real…” “I know… and that’s what makes it hurt so much..”

“I will return, don’t you worry.” “Promise me?” “I promise.”

“A memory?” “Yeah..” “of what?” “Of us.”

“Give this a chance. Us a chance.”

“I’ve got my eye on you..”

“I’ve tried to let you go.”

“I love you.” “No.” “We’ve been married for three years don’t you no me!”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“Why are you in my bed?” “I was sad.” “Well now I’m sad you’re in my bed, move.”

“Don’t argue with me.” “It’s a verbal debate.” “It’s an argument.”

“I won’t beg for you back.”

“No matter what happens, I’m here. I’m not going to leave you, alright?”

“I need to let my pride go..”

“Learn to love yourself.”

“I’ve waited long enough!”

“The suns coming up.” “What does it look like..?”

“I’m done running from you.”

“I spent my whole life scared! Because of you! Of who I would be if I didn’t have you here! You made me need you!”

“I wish you all the best.”

“I will not stand here and watch you sabotage us.”

“I love you to death.”

“You’re my favourite person.” “Why?” “Why not?”

“Yesterday I saw a rock.” “Okay?” “I thought you’d like it. So here.”

“I wanna see the world with you.”

“Do you remember anything?” “I remember you..”

“If the whole world was watching I’d still dance with you.” “You can’t dance.” “I don’t care.”

“I don’t wanna live this way…”

“We went our separate ways.” “But here we are in front of each other again.”

“I’m going back home.” “Where’s that?” “With him/her/them.”

“Would you run away with me?” “Do you want me too?” “Maybe…”

“I don’t want to die…” “you’re not going to die, okay? I promise.”

“Whatever you need in here.”

“I’ll look after you?” “Why?” “Because I care about you.”

“Nobody’s going to make you changes things you don’t like but you.”

“You need somebody to help you see how amazing you are, how smart you are.”

“Sing me my favourite song?”

“I see the look on your face..”

“Flowers?” “You said you’ve never been given flowers before.”

“Adopt me.” “What?” “I want you to adopt me.”

“I just need somebody to make it all better..”

“You’re a part of me that’ll never be mine…”

“Are you lonely?” “Sometimes.” “Does it bother you?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I did this to myself.”

“I left you in a house that hated you.”

“I burned the world and all I could think about was you.”

“Don’t leave me here alone.”

“You’re hurt.” “Congratulations you can see the obvious you idiot.”

“You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now.”

“Hold on to that feeling.”

“Come find me if you ever feel scared.”

“The suns going down.”

“I pray to god you never see me again.”

“I’d got right back to the moment we met if I could, and I would burn you from my mind.”

“Is that a confession?” “You’ll never know.” “I really don’t know if you’ve just admitted to caring about me or committing a crime.”

“It’s in the past.”

“Say my name.” “Why?” “I like the way you say my name.”

“Do you like the stars?” “Do you?” “Someday I’m going to be a star, just as bright as these.”

“You’re coming with me.” “Why?” “Because I won’t see you throw your whole life away for nothing.”

“Hey! Get back here!” “Catch me if you can you old man/woman!” “Stop running!”

“Do you like the rain?” “I do.” “Then let’s go for a walk.”

“I thought you would like this.”

“Stop doing backflips in the halls!”

“This is the third time you’ve climbed out the window this week. It’s Tuesday.” “Make that four.” “Get back in here!”

“Why are you on the roof?” “I saw a bird.”

“I was told to come see you.” “An hour ago.” “I got lost.”

“Throw one more snowball at me, I dare you.”

“I can be you friend or your enemy it’s your choice.” “I choose violence.” “Absolutely not.”

“You’re making me go grey.” “You’re old, that’s normal.”

“I’m trying to help you stop throwing rocks!” “Stop trying to help me!” “That’s not how this works!”

“Detention again? What did you do this time?” “I knocked over a table.” “Try again.” “I flipped a table.”

“Why are you laid on the floor of my office?”

“How the hell did you get in here?!”

[aajjks]

⚠️⚠️ it’s long & it’s sad ⚠️⚠️

TPOL!JK

“you? a saint? i doubt that” shrugs namjoon before throwing the cigarette on the ground and crushing it. he puts his hands in his pockets listening to jungkook lash out at him how he come in between the “relationship” you moved past years ago but he clearly hasn’t moved on. his poor friend looks pathetic in namjoon’s eyes, pity jungkook. he doesn’t remember jungkook acting like this when it came to him breaking things off with tina so he doesn’t understand why he’s so hung up on you. you’re not even his type.

you’re pretty small, a bit curvier, and have interests jungkook doesn’t even care about yet you somehow got him wrapped around your pinky and took two bullets because of him. yeah, namjoon knows about that too.

jungkook has always, ALWAYS been into models. 5’7 beautiful petite women whose status was on par with his own yet here he is obsessing over you, clearly infatuated with you while you seemed to have moved on. it reminds namjoon of jaekuk. that bastard ruined ji-ae’s life and even his last words were pertaining to her because he couldn’t let her go and here is jungkook doing the same.

obviously, namjoon is lying. he’d never hurt a hair on your head but he has to sound serious to get jungkook to back off and he’s getting there. his comment clearly threw jungkook for a loop and has hit a nerve of his. all namjoon has to do is sound believable. he is a lawyer after all.

“and guess what? she’ll still like me if i tell her. she took you back when you verbally abused her any chance you got, so this isn’t any different” shrugs namjoon who is clearly pressing all the right buttons to set jungkook off.

“i do love her. i love her enough to keep her away from a psychopath like you. so here’s what i’ll leave you with, stay far away from y/n and no one has to get hurt. not your mother, y/n, or you. cool? good, see you, kook” says namjoon before he’s heading back to you leaving jungkook outside alone.

once namjoon is back inside, you rise from the couch with a worried look on your face. “did…did everything go okay? are you okay? he didn’t hurt you right? guess what? he threatened yerin!” you say while checking for scratches and marks on namjoon.

“baby, baby, i’m fine but…you might be upset with me”

“why?”

“i…i threatened to kill you if jungkook didn’t leave you alone”

“WHAT THE HELL!!” yells yerin. “first he’s threatening me with my infidelity and now you’re threatening to kill her. the both of you are fucked up, seriously”

“why would you say that? that’s not funny, namjoon”

“you know i’d never do that though but he looked pretty convinced i would”

you’re rubbing your hands over your temples to help ease your oncoming headache from everything that’s happening on your birthday night. all in one night.

“i’m going home” you say before grabbing your stuff, clearly over the drama that’s brewing. it’s the jeon jaekuk situation all over again and you refuse to linger around.

“baby, please don’t be upset. i didn’t mean it” pleads namjoon who takes your hand and begs you to not be upset because he’d never hurt you, ever. “i just…i just want to rest okay? i’ll call you when i’m home” you say before planting a kiss on his cheek and leaving his apartment, clearly in your feelings about the situation. your birthday is ruined and you’re in tears about it.

why is it every time you try to gain some peace in your life, people threaten to disturb it or take it away from you. when you arrive outside, you see jungkook heading towards you but you don’t pay him any mind. he’s the reason why you’re crying and according to him, you’re strangers anyway so you’re sure he doesn’t care about your tears. he’s probably enjoying himself.

when you arrive to your condo, you’re greeted by an excited mochi but his excitement dials down upon your heartbroken face. you face plant into your bed and without holding back you scream in your pillows.

you’re angry, hurt, sad, scared, and lonely. your eyes look at the frame of your dead mother and that’s all it takes for you to breakdown. “i can’t do this, mom. i-i need you” you whisper while taking the frame and holding it close to your chest. you’re not happy without her and you can’t go on like this. surely there’s a better life for you somewhere and that is with her.

so, you fill your bathtub with cold water, grab two bottles of soju that namjoon left, and lock your bathroom door. you undress yourself and soak in the cold water while drinking your sorrows away. by the time you finish the first bottle you’re already drunk but you continue drinking anyways until you pass out.

your drunk mind hears banging on your door but you simply remove your hearing aid and toss it somewhere to drown out the noise. you don’t want any interruptions, you just want to drown because that’s what it feels like. it feels like you’re drowning and literally you are.

your head is below the water but you’re too drunk to realize it and too sad to lift it up.

Of course he is following you, even from far away, he could tell that you were really upset, and he’s also scared for your safety from his friend that just threatened to kill you.

And as soon as he is in front of your house, Jungkook gets out of his car and starts banging on your door and even rings the bell, “yn?!??” he has to see you he knows that he’s an asshole, and that you’ve moved on from him, but he hasn’t moved on from you- why can’t you be together? And he knows that he hurt you pretty bad and he still hates you a lot… but he just has a bad feeling about this.

He knows that you shouldn’t be alone right now. And your pathetic boyfriend didn’t even have it in him to apologize to you or come after you.

It’s so clear he doesn’t love you as much as Jungkook loves you. “Y-Yn!!!!!??!! Open the damn fucking door!” He curses under his breath because he’s been banging on your door for the past five minutes and you are not responding.

Jungkook screams in frustration as he yells “YOU ASKED FOR THIS I’M GONNA BREAK THIS FUCKING DOOR.” And with that he starts to push on the door with his whole strength. His body is banging against the door…. It is really hard to break through this.

But he has to even if it’s impossible.

Jungkook looks for another way, and then he remembers that you have a security code that he remembers all too well so he looks for the machine and he input the code- opening the door.”

And frantically he’s inside your house looking for you. When he doesn’t find you in your living room, he’s into your bedroom. Of course you’d be there.

But you are not, Jungkook searches your room like a desperate man, but you are not there. “Yn!!!!” he’s calling out your name with you are still not responding to him maybe you are too upset with him and maybe you’re just not home.

Jungkook closes his eyes and tries to calm down, but something is telling him that he has to look for you in your home- because something is about to go very wrong.

So he’s looking all over your house and then after he’s done, but there’s no sign of you, he has no choice, but to inspect your bathroom.

the door- it doesn’t open while he tries to open it but no use.

So he has to break this one down.

And after like a few tries, it finally breaks down- oh his shoulder is gonna be sore. But it’s all worth it.

As soon as he’s into your bathroom, he notices the tub filled with water in the water is still going on so worried he’s looking into your tub and what he sees next makes goosebumps appear on his skin, and his leg start to shake.

You’re drowning

“O-OH MY GOD YN!!?!!” He cries out your name as he tries to get you out of the tub- but your body feels too heavy- jungkook is frantic right now- he’s cursing under his breath, he’s trying to get your body out-

And finally, he’s got a hold of you.

So he quickly takes your body out of the tub and then he spots the soju bottles. Both are empty.

And then he realizes that you almost drank yourself to death

And haunts him if he was even a minute late then-

Jungkook picks your body up bridal style and lays you onto the bed- after running towards your bedroom with you in his arms.

“Y-Yn wake up.” He’s rubbing your hands- trying to give you some warmth because you are not conscious, and your lips are starting to turn a little blue.

Just how long were you in the tub???

“Y-Yn fuck!!!? DON’T JOKE WITH ME AND JUST WAKE UP!” Jungkook is crying, he doesn’t know what to do- the water was freezing cold he knows.

There’s only one thing left because you are not moving an inch. You are naked and your body feels cold.

So he in panic tries to think of something and then it hits him.

CPR.

He presses down hard, to a third of the depth of the chest, then he waits for the chest to come back up. After 30 chest compressions, you are still not waking up.

“YN!??!” He cries out.

You need to breathe.

So he immediately pushes his mouth into yours and tries to give you mouth to mouth, hoping you’ll wake up.

“YN WAKE UP OH MY GOD!”

[night-faye]

9) I loved pausing and taking a million screenshots because MAN Macky's loyalty is scary once you got him on your side. Seriously, like 20 minutes ago you were scared of Wukong's fist, and now watch closely as he first PUSHES WUKONGS ARMS DOWN and then BODILY THROWS HIMSELF BACK SO WUKONG IS ON TOP OF HIM using the momentum of his back *cough S3 Ep4 remember the furless rawness if that was real* getting scrapped across the ground, totally not reminding you of any similar pain. but it does its job, in doing that they were bringing the fight further away from MK and the staff. and then he pushes back against Wukong's knees to launch him away. they would be so good at gymnastics. every time they clash, it forms an eclipse lol. oh, Fluffy should show you the stupid faces and poses Macky's clones make in the background of some other episode earlier. anyways, THERE IT IS. Macky once again scared at Wukong's fist in his face, mhm. But he's sticking to MK's faith in him. also UGH at Wukong slamming into the earth dragging Macky behind him like a furry ragdoll, rapid pausing at every microsecond is so fun. He's literally getting shoved around like nothing, oh now that's reminding me of the "you're nothing" line mm, LBD and Wukong sure make this Warrior seem worthless in comparison. and finally tossed across the round and coldly stepped over <3 beautiful whump. 10) SunBurst Duo: *celebrating* "Macky is dying behind you." "This ain't about him. They look like that meme lol. So cute how Macky tries to talk to them normally like he's actually a part of the group. Lonely loser. How quickly did you get attached. Love the instinct to instantly leap to protect and LOL at his face when MK's butt lands on Wukong's head right in front of his salad.

11) LBD taunting MK for being a delivery boy. So was Wukong, he was delivering the scriptures! Wonder if that's on purpose. 12) Sandy said it would take him 22-48 hours to fix the T.E.A so. what's almost 48 hours of the gang hanging with Macky lol? totally eyeing his neck not to be a furry but bc he keeps it covered it's like 👀 woah, forbidden toe beans type of thing to me LOL. probably feels safer with a scarf. for animals, its a vulnerable place predators can sink their fangs into. 13) LITERALLY **EVERYTHING** that happened, and yet ShadowPeach needs just one look for instant communication AND NODDING IN SYNC. why are they like this. throwing them off a cliff and shaking em around like a chew toy. 14) Why is Macky using his power core like that the only one shown in a painful way. how come power core motifs are always shown with him. actually what is UP with his powers bc *gets dragged off stage* 15) ShadowPeach holding the staff together next to each other I SEE YOU.

16) and then everything with the banter afterwards especially "Still the same Wukong, doing whatever he wants with no regards for others." BECAUSE YOU SEE *gets dragged off stage* *claws back* I mean, twas only going to say we been knew its good to pay attention to Macky's comments :) 17) Wukong gets annoyed but instantly makes that cute round face expression as Macky turns to leave and starts flailing almost like he was leaning his entire weight on Macky and expecting it to keep his balance. 18) I love this flavor of Macky where he acts like a little 💩 "dunno. somewhere where I can do a bit of scheming, probably." 😏 CUTE. SNEAKY. CHEEKY DRAMA MONKEY. soft as ever with MK too. and lol Wukong you sound like a highschool enemies to lovers star with that "always acting like he's so COOL" with the sassy emphasis with your head like that?? gosh, I love StarBurst duo interactions too. so good, so goofy, yeah gotta lighten the mood. I see you, I know what's behind these jokesters :') Wukong looks like he's going to cry with that smile, I LOVE HOW THEY UNRAVEL AND TORMENT THIS MONKEY TOO. can you still joke and laugh if someone is dying in your arms. classic trope. Macky might still throw shade in that moment <-- entirely hypothetical. 19) Macky looking at the sun here VS looking at the moon in S3 Ep 4 yep, mhm. Btw, note: Wukong framed by the moon when he gets possessed. haha. talk about role swap. definitely keep an eye out for Sun/Moon symbolism next season early on ;) it's quite doomed by the narrative of them. 20) if you write up a post on that choking scene, I hope you were thinking "I cannot BELIEVE they did that" bc it's what I was thinking. tfw when you started this show feeling like you were in danger, and then the content gifts just kept on going ^_^

also seriously. why are you up. you can't process my asks if you need sleep 😭

God. this show is going to make me rewatch it so many times for analysis.

can't wait!!!

also no I am not over the core thing. every one else used theirs in a non painful way. meanwhile our boy over here is PHYSICALLY AND PAINFULLY RIPPING IT FROM HIS CHEST. BUDDY. MY GUY

also seriously. why are you up. you can't process my asks if you need sleep 😭

>*dabs*< Sleep disorder of SOME KIND. we have no idea which

I want it noted I still haven't slept. my derangement will only go down hill faster because of this

[resmarted]

i'm constantly searching out different pockets of samsara to find where i belong to no avail. nothing feels right enough, nowhere feels safe enough, inadvertently starving myself of the love i require to move all these mountains without a net to fall back into or a hope to cling onto. and you know me, you know i'm always doing the thing where i spoil people with love only to wind up the giving tree, lonely is such the martyr in me, i know. lately i am blistered and numb, food is tasteless and the little joys have become fewer and farther between. i yearn to ignore the horrors within so i learn every little detail about people i'll never see again and wonder about them in moments well past their casual departures. i find the intimate details in those closest to me even for moments, wonder aloud about their lives and count the freckles on their nose, and these have become my more delightful bits of time passing. i struggle with the notion of having no real use or place and then feeling despised any time i do make headway on potentially finding any little version of it. i don't want to feel alone so i put myself in situations with people where i only alienate and isolate deeper than had i never left my little hiding spot at all. i worry for people who in turn find me odd and unnerving, find reasons to excuse their treatment and the things they say that they think i can't hear. a real love thine enemies type conundrum. and look, i get it, okay? none of this is real and i am essentially being held hostage in a dark room, blindfolded into a state of constant projections and illusions. like fine, whatever, i've accepted it and can only play these silly little games at this point to distract from the pain of it all. constant hints of it being my fifth year in this realm since the reset and yet everyone seems to forget i have been here since the first dawn, i remember everything and i pierce through the veil a lot better than anyone thinks. and also it's like, who even cares at this point? i am starting to miss all the people who left me for dead. the bloody rabbit everyone is laughing at comes back to haunt them deep into the night but no one is laughing when furniture shakes and pictures fly off the walls as i'm demanding to play. nobody wants to play these games once i start winning, vicious children throwing their controllers in frustration at the monitors. i develop sixteen crushes in a week and have disconnected from all of them by noon. voids filled and then emptied again like water barrels in a flood storm, i am constantly reminded of how i cannot afford to be naive but so desperately want a companionship that only the huntsmen want to provide. and sometimes pride morphs into apathy through a rigorous programming of emotional starvation that eventually i'm just like, yeah that's fine, just make sure to love me before you destroy me. but then they don't even finish the job and i am left broken winged while someone feels too conflicted to face me. there's always someone that leaves me for dead but doesn't kill me, needs to explore what else is out there and when I manage to crawl out the grave, the anger boils and rage rushes through the winds because how dare I not only survive but move on? how dare i not sink deeper into the pit and wait ever so patiently with such gratitude for the dirt i am fed?

a couple of months ago i sobbed hysterically in my bathtub every night praying for a real friend and every day i look around and wonder, is it you? is this another trick? am i eternally placed in battlefields having to dodge the mines of deceit while other people get to leisurely laugh over beignets and reminisce about their wild night out with their trusted companions? people tell me to leave for my own good and i wonder if it's because they work for the enemy. i am constantly hiding in plain sight and have been my whole life, often veiled by a jealous man that wants to own me like a dog and barely feed me scraps even when i am being good, even when i so loyally and lovingly greet him at his feet and sing his praises better than anyone else. any sense of true love or friendship from anyone else and he is out to destroy it before it begins, wants to keep me in my little hole unseen and starving only for him. i wish to be untethered from all that attempts to deplete me of my light or siphon from me in any way, it's been so long now and i am so tired from being robbed. i want to look into a set of eyes that remind me how different the world can be if i just tilt my head a certain way and see it from a different axis point. i want to be one with the stars and to tell someone it's going to be okay even when we are both scared shitless, i know that when it comes from my voice it is more believable because even i start to become convinced. and i know that i can pull myself out of anything and survive the hardest hits, but i'm very tired from doing it alone for so long and it seems like there should have been some sort of reprieve by now. it is very exhausting never knowing who to trust and feeling like there is no one above corruption, that people will eye me suspiciously from vicious gossip and a looming sense that i can't possibly be the person i portray myself as, as if i could ever find the energy within me to put on an act after all this gut wrenching honesty i hand out so casually on a normal day. i want to live by the ocean, i want to be a child again, i want a path that isn't worn down by all the battered and broken people who did it before me. the energy needs to be cleared, the room feels too stuffy, my lens needs adjusting because all i can see is someone that everyone else wants to hunt down like ravenous beasts under a blood moon and i don't like the sound of butterfly nets clanking together when observing something so pretty and free. i know all too well what it means to be locked in a little cage by the watchful eyes of a possessive handler and i won't do it to someone else, even when the inkling starts to take over and i ache to hide away in these teeny tiny little pockets of samsara to kiss your face quietly while the stampede tramples everything in its path outside of us. and i feel stupid and sore and like the nightmare may never end, but then i look at you and for like, the smallest most miniscule moment, i can see the ocean and hear the waves and i swear to god i am a child again. i swear to god with you i am free.

[oddaodd]

· Wailing Teapots ·

Summary: When Tommy begins suspecting of Y/n's true allegiances he goes and questions her in her apartment only to discover a dark secret. (Angst/Fluff)

Warnings: Implications of abuse. (Nothing too graphic but just in case).

Author's note: I'm back! It feels so good to write again! My life has been a bit hectic lately, but I hope I can continue to make time for my writing because it honestly feels like coming back home after the most exhausting of voyages. Anyhow I hope y'all enjoy this and have the loveliest of days. ❤️

·

Three strong knocks on the door stole Y/n’s attention from the live fire burning in her fireplace. With quiet feet she tiptoed to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob and stood still hoping to hear something that could tell her who it was behind the door, but she could only hear her own heartbeat beating violently in her ribcage as she held her breath.

She slightly hated herself for being afraid, but she couldn’t not be afraid, not with all the letters that had been delivered to her home.

“I know you’re in there Y/n”

As soon as she recognized the voice as Tommy’s, she finally breathed again before partly opening the door a weak smile gracing her features when she took in the sight of him. Before she could ask him what he was doing there he pushed the door open and allowed himself inside.

The smile vanished from her face in an instant and she quickly closed the door. There was something different about him, something that made the hairs on her arms stand up in trepidation. His eyes didn’t look like they had done a few nights prior when he took Y/n to the outskirts of town for a walk. The kind of walk in which one shares the kind of conversations that makes people grow closer together, the kind of walk which ends with a gentle kisses and fleeting touches.

“This is a nice place” he commented taking off his peaky cap, not even sparing Y/n a glance as he began walking slowly through the apartment which though small and plain held a considerable amount of expensive yet tasteful looking knick knacks that brightened up the whole place despite the old furniture that had beed there when Y/n first moved in.

“You couldn’t have waited for a formal invitation, could you?” She asked in a light tone still standing by the door, in the hope that it could change Tommy’s odd aura, but he ignored her question all together

“Almost too nice, wouldn’t you agree?” He asked picking up a vase and examining it before finally turning to look at Y/n.

“Tommy?” She asked, not really knowing why was he acting so strange.

“I know I pay you fair wages” he began, putting the vase down fixing his eyes on the fireplace where small traces of burnt paper rested “but I highly doubt you were able to make yourself of such an array of treasures with what I pay you.”

“All of this came with me from America.” She said feeling like she ought to explain herself and though her answer was an honest one, Tommy didn’t seem convinced, nevertheless, he hummed in mocking understanding before clearing his throat .

“Aren’t you gonna offer me tea?”

“Sure…where are my manners?” she said with a nervous laugh before walking to where her stove was and putting a kettle on.

Tommy followed her closely and drew a chair from her flimsy kitchen table before sitting down and taking notice of her shaky hands as she tied around a bit in the kitchen with her back to him as he sat on her favorite chair.

“Wish you had told me you were coming, I would have..”she began as she opened her pantry to put away some bread.

“You’ve been burning letters” he interrupted, not being able to shake off the image of the paper remains.

Y/n stilled for a moment before closing her pantry, thing which he noticed.

“Yeah, I don’t have the room to keep every single letter I get ” Y/n said, a defensiveness lingering softly in her words.

“I agree” Tommy said in a cold tone “specially when you are getting so many of them. Paul tells me he delivers at least 10 a week here” he continued, referring to the mailman who after being questioned by Tommy forgot all about post confidentiality.

“They are my mother’s” Y/n stuttered out.

The teapot then wailed, making her jump slightly before going to remove it from the stove and finally turning around to go and pour Tommy a cup.

“Right” Tommy said, his eyes not leaving Y/n’s figure as she poured the tea.

“Yeah, she’s ever so passionate about plants, been telling me all a-a-about her new greenhouse.” She continued pressured by Tommy’s heavy stare and silence.

Tommy offered a small cynical smile that Y/n didn’t see, she didn’t want to look at him. She felt like crying for she realized just then how suspicious she looked.

The sound of the chair being drawn again teased at Y/N’s ears, forcing her to look up at Tommy who was calmly walking towards her. She had never been afraid of him, but she couldn’t help but back away as he inched closer to her, her eyes widening.

“Who is Clyde Attenborough?” He asked producing another letter from his pocked like the many ones Y/n had been receiving for a while now. Same stamps and everything.

Color drained from her face at the sight of the letter and she found herself unable to produce an answer as her back came in soft contact with her pantry.

“What does he know? He asked.

“Where I live” Y/n whispered sorrowfully as a tear finally slipped down her cheek. Her eyes being for mercy.

“What have you been telling him?”

“Nothing” she answered truly.

“I bet he pays generously to know how the company works”

“I swear im not working for anyone else” Y/n stuttered, finally understanding why Tommy was so suspicious. Being his secretary, she knew plenty about the skeletons the family kept.

“Then why are you crying?” He pressed.

“Because you’re scaring me.”

Her words seemed to have an effect on Tommy for he immediately backed away, throwing the letter on the table, his back to her.

”I’m not gonna hurt you” he stated, beating himself up for corralling Y/n like that. His voice much less menacing than mere seconds ago. “Who is Clyde Attenborough?”

“I haven’t been honest with you” she finally confessed sniffing. To hell with everything.

At this Tommy turned around to look at her an unpleasant mix of emotions swimming in his eyes.

“Im married” she sobbed “Clyde’s my husband”

For the first time in a long time, Tommy was caught off guard.

“I came to Small Heath because I ran away from him, I figured he’d never find me but..” She said taking the letter in her shaky hands as if the thing were to blow off in any given second “I guess I was wrong. I-I don’t know how he found me”

She shifted her teary gaze from the letter to a shocked Tommy “I swear im not passing information” she chuckled sadly, the knot in her throat choking her a little.

Tommy stood glued in the same spot, not knowing what to do. His world had come crashing down when he began suspecting of Y/n’s alliances after Polly suggested he look into it. A pretty American girl, moving to a grey English town, taking up a job that was exhausting at best. It reminded him a little too much of Grace.

Now that he knew the truth , he didn’t feel any better.

“Is he dangerous?” He found himself asking after a few seconds of silence.

Y/n sniffed as she walked to her fireplace “I wouldn’t have left if he wasn’t” she said as she threw the letter into the crackling flames.

“Is he in Birmingham?”

“He keeps writing that he’ll come get me if I don’t go back, but im not sure” she answered.

Tommy fought the urge to go up to her and take her in his arms and instead put his peaky cap back on before heading for the door.

“I’m sorry” he whispered before stepping out of her place, The guilt of intimidating her in her own house gnawing at his insides and the newfound anger her husband created present on his drive home.

The next day Y/n noticed as she peeped out the window two men, both in peaky caps standing at the entrance of her apartment complex.

Three more days passed and Y/n was again surprised tby the sound of three knocks on her door as she read one evening.

“Its me, Y/N” Tommy’s voice flowed through the door shortly after the knocks.

Y/n quickly got off her couch and made her way to open the door. Her eyes falling on Tommy’s apologetic features.

“It’s dealt with” he said in all seriousness. The thick accent she loved so much vibrating through her ears.

As soon as she registered what Tommy had just said she let out a strained breath, her lips turned into a tired smile and a lone tear slipped out her misty eyes.

“Wanna come in?” She asked after a few seconds, feeling happier than she had felt for days.

“Is this a formal invitation?” He asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips, relieved that his antics from a few days prior hadn’t maimed Y/n´s trust.

At his question she just smiled, looking at him lovingly before taking hold of his hand and pulling him into her apartment before pressing her lips to his in a soft yer passionate manner. Without breaking the kiss, Tommy then closed the door.

·

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @peakyxtommy @nyotamalfoy @writeroutoftime @babylooneytoonz @lilymurphy03 @slytherinicequeen

[f4irycafe]

sunday lovers

summary: you and adrian spend a well deserved weekend in bed.

pairing: adrian tepes/alucard x reader. modern!au.

warnings: tooth rotting fluff + sum kisses <3

notes: i'm gonna be writing quite a few blurbs for different characters based off of the song "wars" by montell fish. this one encapsulates the overall sweet vibe of the song rather than the words. PLEASE REBLOG.

it was rare that you and adrian ever got to laze around in the mornings anymore. with both of you being at the tipping point in your respective careers, you both spent more time out of your apartment than you did inside of it. not that you would have it any other way of course, it always filled you with such joy to know that you were chasing after your dreams with the man you might very well spend forever with.

it did get lonely sometimes. waking up in the mornings with fleeting goodbye kisses and hugs, meeting each other whenever you had time during the day, going to bed alone because of the differing times in your schedules. it had been almost a month of this non-stop work. this was the first day you could remember where you both had the entire weekend off, free to do as you pleased. you had spent most of saturday in bed. adrian had cooked breakfast for the both of you, then proceeded to have his second and third breakfast when he ravaged your body. not much talking transpired that day.

but as you lay in your ridicuosusly fluffy bedsheets (courtesy of your boyfriend) as the early sunday sun began to peek through the windows in your bedroom, you let your frustrations get the better of you. adrian found you scowling at your phone that had been blowing up for the past ten minutes on your bedside table.

"should i be worried for the safety of your electronic device?" he teased as he kicked the door shut with his heel, walking over to you with a fresh mug of your favorite tea.

"if it keeps ringing like that you might," you replied, not bothering to turn to him. adrian breathed a deep chuckle, a sound that always made you weak in the knees as he crowled over to you, bringing your back against his chest.

"ignore it." he said as he began to place tempting kisses along your collarbone.

"how come on the first day off i've taken since getting this job they decide to tell me i need to come in today. what the fuck is up with that?" adrian could practically feel the smoke blowing out of your ears. he needed to distract you, and quick, before you actually did throw your phone against a wall.

"ignore it, darling," he said, angling your face towards his with his index finger. you let out a sigh when you finally managed to tear your eyes away from your phone, an adorable little pout coming to your face as you melted into his hand.

"you work too much."

"that's rich coming from you." you were both workaholics and you knew it.

"this is your day. our day. turn of your ringer and let me remind you of how much i love you." the kisses began again, this time starting at your cheek and moving down to your jaw. you couldn't help but let out a content sigh, your head lulling to the side as he cherished you.

before he could place another trecherous kiss to your skin you leaned over, powering off your phone completely. adrians hands wanderes your hips and thighs as you did so, barely able to keep his hands to himself.

"see. that wasn't that hard."

"oh yeah? and what about your phone?"

"i seem to have misplaced it friday night. i haven't seen it since."

"oh have you now?" you asked with a smile, leaning in until your noses were touching.

"how mysterious. i'm sure it'll turn up by monday." at this point, you couldn't tell where your breaths started and his began, your lips ghosting over his as you spoke.

"i'm sure," he muttered, barely above a whisper.

"i love you." he said after a moment of silence.

"i know."

"let me show you how much."

work could wait. everything could wait. you needed this, needed him. the outside world be damned.

elles ramblings: i wrote this in 20 minutes at the baltimore airport btw. tired as shit rn y’all. i love this man so much and i feel like i barely write for him. he will always be my #1 self ship and anime husband. he’s the sweetest out of the few i have.

[mypoisonedvine]

peaches & cream || soft!dark Jake Wyler x reader

for @stargazingfangirl18​'s 5k challenge! I used the prompt, "the town golden boy isn’t as sweet as everyone thinks."

word count: 3.6k

warnings: smut (noncon), stalking/obsession, some degradation/negging (but lots of praise during the actual smut), kinda yandere vibes?, touch of breeding kink at the end, definitely flirting with the boundary between soft!dark and regular dark but I like to think it’s a fine line

“Sorry, but that’s a seasonal flavor,” the girl at the counter explained in a snarky monotone.

“Well, yeah, but isn’t it still… the season?” you pressed; normally you weren’t the sort of person to argue with a cashier over a milkshake, but the look she was giving you made you feel like she was holding out on you— especially when the promotional poster for the very thing you were trying to order was just behind her head, and said the flavor was available for two more days.

“We’re out,” she answered firmly, but then her face suddenly shifted to a much more pleasant expression as you heard the chime of the front door opening behind you.  

You felt his body hovering behind yours just as his hand laid on the counter beside you, caging you in.  It was even more unsettling with the context that there was a whole line of people waiting behind you already.

“I’ll get your usual,” the girl promised to the man beside with a flirtatious smile as she disappeared to the back, returning almost instantly with a shake in her extended hand.  “Peaches and cream milkshake— extra whipped cream, no cherry.  Enjoy!”

Your eyes widened at the reading of your own order.  “I thought you were out!” you protested, going completely ignored.

"If you were my girl, this sort of thing wouldn't need to happen."

You recoiled from Jake's voice in your ear, and he smiled in spite of your snarl, bringing the straw to his lips slowly.  With a shudder you walked away, deciding it was probably better to forgo a milkshake anyways— especially if it was a chance to avoid everyone’s favorite senior, the football king who basically owned the whole town for no other reason than being good-looking, athletic, and allegedly “charming” or whatever.

Of course, he followed you, sitting across from you in a booth and silently shooing his posse of fellow teammates to go off and give you two some space.  If only he would give you space.

“We can share,” he offered as he held the milkshake out towards you.  “I know it’s your favorite… it’s mine too.”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you explained quickly as you pulled a book out of your backpack, intent on ignoring him since you couldn’t physically force him to leave.

He shrugged and returned to sucking on the straw, watching you unwaveringly as you tried to read your book— staring at the page was going well, but you couldn’t seem to actually get any words down.  Had you forgotten English as a written language or something?

“Could you leave?” you finally asked as you groaned and looked up from your book.  “You’re distracting me.”

“I’m literally just sitting here,” he reminded you.

“And it’s distracting!”

He smirked proudly.  “My presence tends to have that effect on people.  Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You rolled your eyes, burying your face back in your book.  “You know, you may have everybody else fooled, but someday you’re gonna have to leave this pathetic little town and go into the real world where throwing a ball isn’t a career and nobody fawns over you just because you have the audacity to be attractive.”

He chuckled lightly.  “Right, because you have those big city dreams of yours, but believe it or not some of us like this ‘pathetic’ little town.”

“Well, of course you would,” you snorted.  “Your dad’s the mayor and your girlfriend’s the head cheerleader.”

“My ex-girlfriend,” he corrected, finally getting your attention enough to make you shut your book.

“What?” you blurted out.

“Yeah, she dumped me,” he explained plainly.

“Why would she do that?” you asked, making him look much too proud of himself again.  “Finally snapped out of the brainwashing, huh?” you added, effectively killing his smug expression.

“I guess you could say that.  She met some college guy from out of town… I think her parents liked me too much, she needed a bit more rebellion.”

“Well, my condolences to you,” you smiled, “and my congratulations to her.”

“I thought you hated her,” he scoffed.

“Well, now she and I have something in common: a complete lack of interest in you!”

“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far,” he smirked, “she still comes over every now and again to suck my cock.”

You choked on nothing, face getting warm at his crude language.  He didn’t talk like that with anyone else; it was so cruel the way he kept everybody in town under his spell except you, the way he let you in on his real darkness with no one else to confide in or believe you.  

It was so fundamentally lonely, being the one person who wasn’t in love with Jake Wyler.  It was even worse being the one person Jake Wyler loved.

At least, that was the word he used multiple times in his semi-anonymous letters, his incessant calls and emails, his speeches outside your window.  He’d actually cooled off lately, you wondered if maybe he had finally let go of this ‘the one thing I can’t have’ obsession and learned to appreciate his girlfriend (who, for all her personality flaws, was objectively gorgeous, and seemed to at least be nice to him if nobody else).

But now that she left him (which you were still trying to process, honestly), you were surprised he hadn’t already moved on to the next best wannabe model and/or reinstated his campaign to win you over.

Then again, the look in his eye kind of made you think you were about to witness the second one.

“You know, when she does come over, I can only ever finish because I’m thinking about you,” he revealed in a low voice.  You grimaced and slid out of the booth, stuffing your book into your bag and barely managing to throw him a goodbye before you dashed out.  

It wasn’t like you really thought you could get away from him— he had made it clear over and over that you couldn’t— but the idea of being crammed in that booth with him, surrounded throughout the diner by his adoring fans who somehow didn’t manage to overhear him when he said those awful things, made you feel nauseous.

What you should’ve considered was that, fans or not, those people were witnesses, and now that you were running out into the dark streets of the town and he was chasing after you, you didn’t have any.  It was just you and him, and when you turned into an alleyway to try to get home faster, even the dim glow of the streetlights couldn’t see you anymore.

“Hey,” he stopped you with a tight grip on your arm, pulling you back into him.

“Let me go!” you whined, trying to tug yourself away but only ensuring that his hand would leave a bruise on your arm.  

“I will when you just hear me out, okay?” he hissed, spinning you around to look up at him.  "Why don't you just give me a chance?  Don't you wanna be popular?" 

"I don't want to be anything that requires being within ten yards of you!" you spat.

He seemed bewildered, but you knew he wasn’t actually that stupid.  "Why?"

"Because you know why!"

He sighed, slumping his shoulders a little.  "Are we still on that, really?  I told you, you should take it as a compliment.  You know how many girls would kill to catch me jerking off in their panties?"

"You're sick, Jake,” you sighed, “and you're really good at hiding it from everyone else but I know what you really are.  You told me you needed help with algebra and I actually believed you, for months you were lying to me to get close so you could perv on me when you already had a girlfriend and two side chicks anyways— god, Jake, you're crazy!"

You yelped when he pinned you to the wall, blue eyes darker than ever.  "I really, really hate that word."

Against the wall, your back straightened as you felt the tone shift completely for a moment before he was back to his jovial self again, giving you a somber but almost-genuine smile.

“The only kind of crazy I am is crazy about you,” he defended with a laugh, leaning in a little closer.  “Why can’t you see that?”

As his eyes moved from your own to your lips, a renewed sense of fear shot through you.  “Jake…” you mumbled, apparently your feeble attempt to ask him to stop.

“Just one kiss,” he bargained, “and then I’ll let you go.  Okay?  That’s all I need.”

“N-no,” you whimpered, turning your head away as he leaned in even further.  “Stop.”

“Come on, it’s just a kiss, baby,” he cooed.  “Then you can leave.  Hey, you might actually like it.  You know, I think that’s what you’re really scared about… and I get it!  When I first realized I was in love with you, it was scary for me, too— I mean, I’m the most important guy in town and you’re just some bookworm, it’s sort of social suicide for me so I had a lot to worry about.”

There he went with his negging again, trying to bring you down to his level.  Your brain knew that, it saw right through it, but your gut still sank with doubt.

“But I know now that love is nothing to be afraid of,” he concluded.

“No, Jake,” you whispered, feeling tears well in your eyes, “I’m afraid that you’ll hurt me if I don’t do what you want.”

“Well, that is something to be afraid of,” he replied with the coldest laugh you’d ever heard; you didn’t hear any agreement, but the lack of denial was deafening.  “So just be my good girl and let me kiss you…”

You swallowed dryly, your eyes wide open and searching for anywhere to look but up at him.

He was so close now that his lips brushed against yours with his command: “say it.”

You stammered over your breath, not sure exactly what he was asking for, and you winced as you felt his grip tighten on your arms.

“Say, ‘kiss me’,” he clarified in a harsh whisper.  “Say, ‘please’...”

“Please,” you repeated awkwardly, hearing it in your voice but so clearly not your own words, “kiss me.”

He let his mouth intertwine with yours and your eyes were still wide open as he let his own fall shut, moving his hands to clutch your face gently instead as you gave a weak effort to kiss him back.

Objectively, he was good at this.  A lot of things were objectively true about Jake: as much as you forced yourself not to see it, he was handsome; as much as it didn’t really matter to you, a boycotter of all things sports, he was talented; and, as much as no one else realized it, he was completely deranged.  For every word of kindness from him there was another of anger.  For every love letter in your locker, there was a threat left scrawled on crumpled paper inside your bedroom, just so he could remind you that your parents would let him into the house if he asked and never question it.

Which was why it was extremely important that you did not enjoy this kiss.  You needed to hate the way his fingers traced over the pulse in your neck, the way his tongue tickled yours, the way his teeth just barely grazed your lip until your knees went a little weak.  

But wow, there was something primally satisfying about melting into his arms, feeling his strength support you like it was nothing when he held your waist and pulled you closer.

You could almost forget that it was him.  But then he mumbled your name into the kiss, nearly moaned it in fact, and it pulled you back to reality.  With a gasp, you pushed him away and blinked your eyes open, not even realizing you’d closed them; hating how quickly you’d started to give in to him.

“There, one kiss,” you mumbled, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve.  “I’m gonna go home now—”

“You can’t be serious,” he laughed incredulously.  “You’re gonna kiss me like that and tell me you don’t feel this, too?  We’re so meant for each other— we even order the same milkshake!”

“That doesn’t matter!” you denied.

“I love you!”

“That doesn’t matter either!”

You turned to leave but he grabbed you again from behind, covering your mouth with his hand when you opened your mouth to scream.  “Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” he hissed in your ear, “and don’t walk away from me.”

Fighting against his grip did nothing but exhaust you: he only needed one arm to hold you back as he dragged you deeper into the alley.  Your legs swung wildly and landed a kick to his shin, and he plugged your nose while he was covering your mouth so you couldn’t breathe.

“Listen to me, you stuck up little bitch,” he growled.  “I’m really sick of this ‘hard to get’ act.  I know you want me.  So shut up and let me show you what you’ve been missing out on, okay?  You gonna be good?”

In that moment, you would’ve agreed to anything for a chance to fill your lungs with fresh air, and so you nodded, the back of your head rubbing against his chest.

“You gonna be nice and quiet so nobody catches you getting fucked like a whore in this alley?”

Another nod, more feverish than the last, ended with a sharp inhale as he let go of your nose.  But he was still covering your mouth, his arm around you now feeling less like restraint and more like an embrace.

"I've wanted you for so long, you can't even imagine," he explained softly as he leaned down and kissed your neck, gripping your waist tighter.  "You and this perfect body of yours.  This smart little head that thinks too much…"

You swallowed dryly as his hand trailed lower.

"This pussy you've been hiding from me for much too long," he added darkly, roughly shoving his hand up your skirt.

You whined behind his hand but he didn’t seem to care; he pulled your skirt up and grinned at the sight of your panties— because he recognized them.

“I remember these,” he purred.  “They look good on you, baby, but they looked better covered in my come.”

Your cheeks burned with shame— you already hated yourself for still wearing the pair he’d tampered with, but it was harmless after a few runs through the washer, right?  You weren’t going to stop wearing your favorite panties just for him, that would mean he won, in a sense; or, that’s what you told yourself to justify not burning them.

“Don’t worry, they’re gonna be soaked by the time I’m done with you,” he purred, slipping two fingers between your legs and growling slightly.  “Well, actually, you’ve already done a lot of the work for me.”

He pulled the fabric aside and explored your pussy instead, tightening his grip over your mouth as you made little muffled yelps.  The rough pads of his fingers found and targeted your clit instantly, that megawatt smile pressed against your ear as he started to rub your bud harder.

“Mm, feels good, huh?” he taunted, moving even faster as your hips jolted unintentionally.  He stopped only to bring the fingers to his lips, humming at the taste of you which he sucked off of them.  “So sweet, babygirl— better than any peaches and cream milkshake, that’s for sure.”

The wet fingers trailed down your body again, finding your entrance that he suddenly pushed into; it was a little too much without any warning and it made your eyes shoot wide open, a squeak barely escaping your throat.

"Just as tight as I imagined, baby,” he sighed, “all those times I used your panties, or hooked up with somebody who almost looked like you from behind.  You’re gonna feel so good on my cock, I know you want it so bad.”

He took his fingers out of you to reach back and open his belt with one hand, the sound of the buckle matched in upsettingness only by the sound of his jeans sliding down to his thighs.

You heard your own breath loud and heavy against his hand as you felt his hard cock press against your thigh, a drop of precum smearing on your skin.  Your breathing halted suddenly, though, when he slid himself between your legs to rub his cock over your exposed and swollen pussy.

“Oh, babygirl, you really are too good to me,” he grinned, kissing your ear tenderly.  “So fucking wet and ready for me, huh?  You need it that bad?  You’re gonna get it, baby, ‘m gonna give it to you so good…”

Bracing yourself as best you could, you felt the head of his cock push against your entrance before he slammed in all at once, making you hiss in pain.

“Oh god,” he groaned, “fuck, you’re so warm…”

Already he was fucking into you roughly, pumping faster and deeper, paying no mind to your choked sobs of pain from the wide stretch.  Even when it stung it felt oddly good, and the underside of his cock seemed to slide perfectly over your g-spot with each movement until your eyes began to roll back in your head.

“So fucking good,” he moaned hoarsely as he braced you against the brick wall for leverage, reaching back down with his free hand to rub your clit again.  He chuckled when your legs quivered, and he must have felt your walls tighten around him, too.  “I wanna hear those pretty moans, baby, if I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” he asked darkly.  You nodded, enjoying the brief feeling of freedom that came from not having his hand over your mouth anymore.  But then again, it was humiliating that now he could hear your panting breaths, your desperate mewls that you failed to swallow down.

He made a sound that was almost like a laugh as he watched you squirm in his arms, one more way he had to lord this all over you, as if forcing you to take him in an alley wasn’t enough on its own.

His breath against your ear was hot and strained, each meeting of your hips to his accentuated with a little grunt from him.  It didn’t help at all that his fingers were rubbing you just right, with so much skill that you wondered if he’d somehow figured out how you touched yourself when you needed to get off.  Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him to have spied on you before, even if you couldn’t figure out when or how.

The hand that used to cover your mouth slid up under your shirt and pulled your bra down, a large, rough hand groping each breast and pinching your nipples until you bit down on your lip to stay quiet.  For all the mocking and teasing he’d done before, he was pretty direct now— like he was trying to make you come as fast as possible, overloading your body with sensation.  

And did he have to be so fucking good at it?

“I know you’re close, babygirl,” he whispered in your ear, “just let go…”

“Jake, please,” you sobbed, too far gone to appreciate that no begging would make him stop now.

“Come for me,” he demanded roughly, fucking you even faster as he sucked a mark onto your neck, and finally it all came crashing down with a choked-out cry of his name and a gush of warmth dripping out around his length.

“Ohh fuck, there you go, fuck it feels good when you come for me,” he grunted, thrusting even faster.  “You’re gonna milk my cock with that pretty pussy, babygirl— you’re gonna make me come…”

“J-Jake, not inside!” you interjected, getting his hand back over your mouth in return.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, “waited too long for this to pull out now.  Feels too fucking good.”

Behind his hand, the difference between whines of hatred and moans of pleasure was irritatingly subtle.

“I love you,” he reminded you in a voice exhausted yet heavy with desire, “so fucking much…”

A few more erratic, brutal thrusts accompanied by heavy pants and he was gone; you could feel his cock pulsing with each rope of come that filled you, so deep that your head fell dejectedly with the realization you had no hope of washing it out now.

His hand fell from your mouth but he didn’t pull out for another few moments as he caught his breath, gently peppering your neck and cheek in slow kisses.  “Baby,” he finally sighed, breaking the crushing silence, “you’re so fucking perfect.  I knew you were made for me.”

I hate you, you wanted to cry out, but words escaped you as he hugged you tightly and pulled your panties back into place, soaking them with his come as it leaked out of you just like he’d promised.  He stuffed his cock back into his jeans and helped you adjust your clothes back to looking almost presentable, finishing it off by turning you around and smiling at you with serene pride before kissing your forehead.

"You're gonna make such a beautiful prom queen," he cooed, “especially if you’ve already got a nice little bump showing…”

His hand rubbed beneath your belly button for emphasis, making you whimper and force your eyes shut as tears rolled down your cheeks.

"Shh, don’t cry, baby,” he soothed, kissing your cheek softly.  “Trust me, you're gonna love being my girl."

[seijorhi]

nostos.

well it’s not exactly monster fucking but um... here there be monsters.

Kuroo Tetsurou x female reader

TW implied non-con, nsfw-ish, blood, gore, minor character death, animal death, um somebody gets munched... 

Every good writer needs peace and quiet. Fresh air and a change of scenery.

You’re not running away, it’s more of a… tactical retreat. Two weeks disconnected from well meaning friends, pushy family members and your eternally irritating editor, with nothing but the beautiful, sprawling forests to keep you company.

The mountains are familiar, if isolating, you think, leaning against the porch railing with a warm mug in hand as the breeze picks up and the tall maple and birch trees rustle in response. The leaves are turning vibrant reds and gold with the falling temperatures and even in the eerie quiet of the cold morning, you can’t deny that it’s breathtaking. 

It reminds you of your childhood, the countless vacations you’d spent here with your family, always in autumn, always in time to watch the leaves change before the first snows of winter set in. Fond memories of running through the trees chasing after cute little bunnies, giggling even when you tripped up and scraped your knees. There was something mystical about the forest back then, something special. But it’s been years since you’ve been here last, and the first time you’ve ever come alone.

And yet it feels different somehow, colder despite the nostalgia. You’re no longer a child, looking at the world through innocent, wondrous eyes. The forest is just a forest. 

Of course, you weren’t an idiot; disappearing off the grid was one thing. Disappearing off the grid without anybody knowing where you were going was another entirely. They’d been surprisingly supportive of the plan – until you told them where it was you were planning on running off to.

‘Why go back to the mountain, honey?’ your mother had asked, her smile wavering and an odd tightness in her eyes. ‘Why not go to the coast instead? Or spend some time in the city?’

But this isn’t a fun little vacation. You don’t want to be distracted by beaches and crowds, you need space to finish your book and time to work through your mess of an emotional state without any interruptions. You want to be untraceable, at least for a week or two.

God knows the last thing you need right now is your ex tracking you down to try and apologise again.

Part of you had thought – somewhat naively, perhaps – that by coming back you’d spark… something. Your memories of the mountains are full of warmth and happiness, but as you stare out into the wilderness, all you feel is a cool chill that runs down your spine and the goosebumps that prickle at your skin. 

Setting your now empty mug down, you pull tighter at the thick knit cardigan draped over your shoulders. Enough reminiscing, your manuscript awaits.

—

The mountain’s too quiet. You don’t notice it so much during the day, the sound of music softly pouring from your laptop and the gentle clacking of keys as you type enough to distract you  from the eerie stillness outside the cabin. Even at night, you’re preoccupied with dinner, and then curled up on the couch with a warm throw rug watching reruns of your favourite shows on Netflix.

It’s only when you lie down, burrowed into the blankets to try and sleep that you notice just how silent the forest at your doorstep truly is. At first you think it’s simply being away from the hustle and bustle of home. There’s no cars driving past, or the sound of neighbours floating through your open windows, there’s not even the distant hooting of owls or dogs barking.

But it’s more than just quiet. There’s nothing. Even the trees seem to still once the sun falls beneath the horizon. And it shouldn't bother you, shouldn’t unsettle you, and yet…

The first few nights, you don’t sleep well. Tossing and turning in bed. When you do sleep, your dreams are plagued with unpleasant things. Not nightmares as such, but an uneasiness that bleeds into otherwise pleasant thoughts. On the fourth night you wake, gasping for air. Whatever dream you’d been in the grips of fades like smoke, and as you draw in another shuddering breath your throat itches and burns.

Water. You need water. 

You don’t switch on the lights as you fumble your way down to the kitchen, trying to preserve what little remnants of sleep are still in your system. Even with the moon almost full and the night sky clear, the canopy shrouds it. 

And it’s in that darkness, as your eyes flicker up from the faucet, that you see it for the first time.

A shape, huge and looming, silk shadow against black. 

For a moment, as your heart hammers against your ribs, a chill creeping down your spine, you don’t dare trust your eyes. Maybe you’re asleep still, dreaming, or your mind’s playing tricks on you, because there’s nothing that should be lurking in the woods outside of your window that size.

Two golden, cat-like eyes peer back at you.

They’re still there when you race to flick on the lights, unblinking, curious as you skitter backwards, hand over your racing heart.

You’re tired, emotionally drained and this–

This is nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination, a child creating monsters from the shadows in their bedroom. Yet even as you run back to the safety of the bedroom, yank the curtains shut and huddle under the meagre warmth your blankets afford you, squeezing your eyes shut, you feel it out there still, watching.

And in the stillness of the mountains outside, you swear you hear footsteps.

—

You wake to fresh snow, too early in the year, even at these altitudes. It dusts the ground, covering the mossy paths in glittering white, clings to the branches of the trees – the red leaves looking like droplets of blood scattered across a grey sky. The snow will undoubtedly melt as the sun rises, turn to slush and mix with the dirt, but for now it’s a thing of beauty.

For a moment, you allow yourself to forget how tired you are, how unsettled, venturing out from the cabin with wide, excitable eyes. It never used to snow when you were here as a kid, and while you get the occasional snowfall back home, it’s nothing like–

You stop dead in your tracks. 

There’s two human footprints imprinted on the snow – only two – right outside your bedroom window, crisp and clean, as if they’d been left just moments before.

—

Your mother sounds worried when you call her. Of course, you don’t tell her about the lone footprints at your window, or the creepy pair of eyes you’d seen through the dark, you know how that sounds. You’re not crazy, and even if some part of you truly believed what you’d seen, your mom is the last person you’d admit it to.

Once upon a time, when you were little, she’d indulged in stories of fairies and spirits, but that was a long time ago. Now she turns up her nose and sneers at the myths and legends that your grandma still spouts, dismissing them with a scoff.

It’s not the kind of thing well-adjusted adults talk about in polite conversation.

She’s a good woman, but you can’t tell her this. 

And you’re not even sure you’re entirely sold on it either. The eyes could have been from a wild animal – big cats might be rare in Japan, but they do exist here. You were half asleep (half terrified) when you had seen them, you don’t want to make a fuss over nothing. The footprints are less easy to explain away. If there’d been tracks leading away, you could convince yourself that it was a lost hiker and nothing more.

But there weren’t any tracks leading away; just the two footprints. And what kind of hiker doesn’t wear shoes in weather like this? It’s possible that this is some kind of prank, a mean spirited trick designed to unsettle you – a job well done, by the way – but you can’t quite bring yourself to believe that either. 

In any case, you’re hardly going to admit over the phone that you’re freaking out over some footprints in the snow. God knows she’s already worried enough about your mental state, has been ever since the breakup, and you’re not going to give her any more ammunition. 

But perhaps there is something to that maternal instinct, because despite your best efforts to reassure her that you’re doing just fine, that your novel’s going great and you’re so glad you came out here, she still sounds entirely unconvinced.

“Honey, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong,” she tells you, her voice strangely hesitant. “You don’t sound yourself, are you sure everything’s okay?”

You don’t know why you called her at all. You always have been a shitty liar, and she’s always been able to see right through you. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Honestly the fresh air’s doing me good,” you tell her. “It’s weirdly quiet here though, I’m not used to it,” you laugh, and even to your ears it sounds hollow and fake.

There’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line, and if you close your eyes you can almost picture it, your mom leaning against the kitchen counter, teeth worrying into her bottom lip–

“I just don’t like you out there all by yourself.”

Relax, what’s the worst that could happen?

The words almost, almost slip out, an instinctive reaction to a mother’s well meaning but overbearing concern. But it feels like tempting fate, and whether or not you’re fully convinced that there is something strange happening, you’re not that bold. Instead you begin to tell her (again) that everything’s fine when she suddenly speaks again.

“Bad things happen in those mountains. Just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

Abruptly, the line goes dead. 

Pulling the phone from your ear, you glance down at the illuminated screen, only to frown when you see the little ‘SOS Only’ flashing in the top corner. Huh, you’d had a few bars when you’d started the call, but… 

The weather’s gotta be messing with your signal. Stranger things have happened, right?

Shaking your head you resolve to give her a call tomorrow. And yet, even as you try to put her parting words from your mind and throw yourself back into your writing, you can’t help but feel that familiar sense of cloying unease seeping through your skin once more. 

What the hell had she meant, ‘bad things happen in those mountains’?

—

A good night’s sleep can do you wonders. 

Well, theoretically speaking. You can’t remember the last actual decent sleep you’d had, but regardless, the point stands. All you need is an uninterrupted eight or nine hours, and this… paranoia will go away. Things’ll be clearer in the morning, so long as you sleep.

The mantra doesn’t help you any, of course. 

You don’t need to peer through the window to feel those watchful eyes staring. And maybe it would be easier to ignore the prickling sensation at the nape of your neck if it weren’t for the noises.

Music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the mournful wails, like a wounded animal crying out in pain. It’s incessant, inescapable, reverberating inside of your eardrums until it’s all you can focus on.

It’s instinctual, you think, the urge to creep from your bed and try to find the creature making that sound and help it. But even as your feet touch the cool floorboards, your gut clenches, hackles rising. Something deep inside of you warns you from leaving the safety of the cabin.

Whatever creature is making those noises, it’s not calling for help.

You don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, but you must have because at a certain point in the morning you blink your eyes awake, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

And this time it’s not snow that greets you, but the mangled remains of a doe ripped apart on your porch. Deep, jagged gouge marks run along its flank, organs spilling from the cuts and there’s little left of its neck, the whole thing torn out with teeth. Yet for the gruesome injuries, the only blood you find is congealed, pooled beneath the poor creature.

Whatever happened to it, it didn’t happen here. The knowledge doesn’t soothe you like it should – the park ranger you spoke to on the phone mentioned that while it’s rare, sometimes bears venture a little too close to buildings, though he sounds doubtful even as he says it.

He sounds even less interested when you tell him this doesn’t look like a bear attack, but promises they’ll send someone down in the next few days to check everything out. In the meantime, he suggests, it’s best to stay indoors. 

Yeah, not gonna be an issue.

And so with no feasible way of moving it, you’re left with the butchered corpse of a doe just outside your front door. And the thing that bothers you isn’t so much the body, though you still can’t look at it without wanting to throw up, but the fact that it was just… left there.

Not eaten. No, aside from the missing throat, the deer’s all there. Ripped apart with its guts spilling out, but otherwise untouched. Growing up you had a cat, the sweetest little thing, but every once in a while she would get out of a night, find some poor little creature to torment and without fail, she’d bring it back home, leaving it half dead on the doorstep like a gift.

‘See what a good hunter I am?’ she seemed to say, smugly sauntering back inside. 

It wasn’t about food. It wasn’t hunger that drove her, but instinct. As you stare out the window at the doe, at the milky white emptiness of dead eyes, you wonder whether that’s the same here. There’s no tracks in the dirt, no blood smeared across the ground – it wasn’t dragged here. No animal could’ve done this. 

A gift? 

Or perhaps something less benevolent. A threat. You’ve crossed into territory you don’t belong and the deer, cruelly ripped apart and left to bleed out on your doorstep is a line in the sand.

Either way, as tears fill your eyes, a sob tugging free from your chest, you realise that it was a mistake to come here. You don’t know whether you trust your eyes and your ears anymore, but there is something deep inside of you that tolls like a warning bell and as much as you’d like to bury your head in the sand and pretend there’s nothing wrong here, you can’t.

Bad things happen in those mountains.

You need to leave.

The next ferry to the mainland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, but it’ll have to do. Once you stop shaking and calm down enough to carry a conversation, you call the local cab company to arrange a pick-up first thing.

You can survive one more night, you just need to throw yourself back into your writing… if you can only just ignore that sense of foreboding prickling at the back of your neck.

—

There’s a boy running through the trees, giggling as he glances back at you. His hand’s outstretched, wrapped ‘round yours tugging you along as he laughs at you to hurry up.

It’s late, the sun dipping below the horizon, but you don’t wanna go back just yet.

You’re having fun, playing in the forest. And the light is golden, filtering in through the pretty red leaves, your sides burn a little from all the chasing and laughter but it’s a good kind of ache. You don’t want today to end.

His name is Kohsuke, you remember, and he lives down in the village by the valley. He’s only one year older than you, and you’d follow him anywhere. 

You think you might be a little in love with him.

‘C’mon, hurry up! It’s only a little further!’ he calls, and you nod, scrambling over the fallen trunk of an oak tree. There’s old spirits who live in this forest, he’d told you, and today you’re finally gonna see one.

It’s dark now. Cold too. You’re tired and hungry and you kinda want to go home, but Kohsuke won’t let you. ‘Just a little longer! Don’t you wanna see them?’

You do. Of course you do. It’s just that you’re starting to get a funny feeling in your stomach… Can he hear the footsteps too? Is somebody following you?

There’s a voice in your ear, a soft, silky purr that makes a shiver roll down your spine, but you can’t make sense of the words, they’re not in any language you understand. You don’t tell Kohsuke – he can’t hear it, otherwise he would have said something. You just clutch his hand tighter, skipping closer.

‘W-we should go back, Koh,’ you murmur, wincing when it comes out in a childish whine. ‘We’re gonna get in trouble.’

You aren’t supposed to stay out playing after dark, he knows it as well as you do. ‘You trust me, don’t you? Stop being such a chicken!’ he snickers as your cheeks heat.

The voice at your ear growls, low and threatening. You need to go back, now.

You blink, and the scene changes.

You’re curled up on the forest floor, hands covering your eyes. Somebody’s screaming – Kohsuke – crying out your name through ragged sobs, pleading–

There’s a crunch, a ripping sound, a wetness sprayed across your cheek. 

Kohsuke’s not screaming anymore.

Something warm and heavy touches your head, drags through the locks of your hair and you just huddle tighter, eyes squeezed shut, shaking like a leaf as more tears spill. You don’t wanna die here. 

The crunching sounds continue, and you keep your eyes tightly shut. It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t–

A loud knocking jerks you back to consciousness, your body jolting upright, almost swiping your laptop off the table as you try and gather your bearings. Right, you’d been working on your novel, sitting up at the kitchen table, you must have dozed off… A quick glance out the window tells you that you must have been out of it for a while – the late afternoon shadows are starting to creep in, the sky a golden orange. 

What the hell was that dream?!

“Hello? Uh, anybody home?” a masculine voice calls, another loud knock sounding. “We got a call about a wild animal attacking deer…”

Oh, you think, trying to shake yourself out of your stupor, the wildlife people, yeah. You feel a little nauseous, feverish and trembling, though maybe that’s just the result of your erratic heartbeat. 

Swallowing down the bile in your throat, you turn your attention to the door. Truly you hadn’t actually expected that they’d send anybody out to investigate, much less that they’d arrive before you left, but you can hardly turn him away now.

Especially not when there’s a freshly butchered deer corpse lying only a few feet away from your front door. Quickly, you run a hand over your hair, taking a moment to try and collect yourself before you answer.

It doesn’t work – there’s a knot in your throat and for every step you take towards the door it feels like your legs are gonna give out from under you. You move in a daze to unlock the door, only just remembering to school your features into an expression slightly less alarming as it swings open. 

A ranger, tall with a shock of black, messy hair that reminds you oddly of a rooster greets you with an easy grin. “Oh good, I was starting to think nobody was home. You the one that called?”

Distantly, you nod, fingers clutching at the edge of the doorframe. The ranger glances over at the remains of the deer, still lying in a pool of half dried blood, studying it for a moment, hazel eyes sweeping over the deep gashes in its side. You can’t bear to follow his gaze, you’re not sure you can look at that thing again without throwing up. 

He whistles lowly, shaking his head, “Well you don’t see that every day,” he laughs.

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly. It’s not his fault, you know that, but you can’t help the flicker of irritation that sparks at the cavalier attitude. This is just his job, you get it, but you don’t exactly feel like laughing right now. 

“You still think a bear did this?” you retort, the words coming out a little sharper than intended. 

But the ranger takes it in stride, shrugging as his smirk widens. “A bear, huh?” Amusement glitters in his eyes, sharp and mocking. “Why don’t I come inside and you can tell me all about it?” he offers, stepping closer towards you. 

And there’s no reason for your heart to skitter, your blood running cold as he looms over you in the doorway, still wearing that stupid, irritating smirk. There’s no reason for your insides to clench either, or for the tiny, jerky step backwards you take, your body moving of its own accord.

The ranger pauses, head tilting to the side as he stares at you.

Really stares, like he’s waiting for something. And as discomfited as you are (and as much of an asshole as this guy is), a weary apology is halfway to your tongue when he shifts slightly, propping an arm up against the door – the last, dying rays of light catching his face. 

It’s just for a second.

A heartbeat.

But long enough for you to watch those hazel eyes shift to gold, pupils elongating into slits. 

You stumble backwards, breath coming in a short, ragged gasp as your eyes widen into saucers. “What are you?”

The ranger before you chuckles and you catch a glimpse of his teeth; pearly white and glinting, sharper than they had been only moments ago. “Why don’t you let me in and find out for yourself, kitten?”

You shake your head, retreating further into the cabin, heart pounding. 

“No? You don’t like this body, is that it?” he asks, a cruel edge to his smirk as he takes a half step backwards and slowly spreads his arms. “Something more familiar, then.”

And you don’t think there’s any room left in your heart for more fear, your stomach already twisting in sickening knots, but you blink and standing right there in front of you is Kohsuke.

It’s a punch in the guts, a knife slipped between your ribs, yanked ruthlessly through your still beating heart. He’s beaming up at you, those same adorable dimples, the same ridiculous bowl cut, bleeding youthful innocence. “How about now?” he asks, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers like he expects you to take it. “You’ll let me inside now, right?”

A strangled noise escapes you as you fall to your knees. Tears fill your eyes, blurring your vision – you blink them away but more take their place. 

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks, and you wail in response.

It’s too much. You shake your head, hugging yourself tightly, as if your arms are the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely. 

He calls your name – not in Kohsuke’s childish lilt, but that deep, ancient purr that makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Let me in.”

“Go away,” you gasp through tears. “Please– please go away.”

The creature shifts again, the dark haired ranger back in Kohsuke’s place. He eyes you, those unnatural gold irises watching with utter enthralment as you sob pathetically on the floor, still pleading – though you know it’ll do you no good – for him to leave. 

“Last chance, kitten. Let me in, or I’ll make you come out.”

He – it – doesn’t sound nearly as put out by the prospect as it should be. 

And you don’t know why giving permission matters, all you know, all you care about, is that it’s keeping that thing at bay for now. It can’t come inside and so long as you don’t leave the safety of the cabin, it can’t hurt you. The words are nothing but an empty threat.

Right?

You shake your head, defiant even as your voice hitches and trembles, “No.”

“Stubborn little thing,” the creature croons, the smirk on its face widening until the visage no longer resembles anything human – mouth splitting its face in two, rows of long, sharp teeth revealed. “So be it.”

A low growl resonates in its chest, and you can only watch, petrified, as thin, vein-like black marks begin to appear over pale skin, growing thicker, cracking as shadow curls from underneath. The creature itself starts to grow too, limbs elongating as muscles ripple and swell, claws bursting forth in place of fingernails, shoulders broadening – until it’s towering over you, wreathed in thick shadow, grinning with that terrifying mouth. 

This is the thing you’d glimpsed that first night. A creature ripped from nightmares and primal fears, strong enough to tear you apart with a single hand. That’s what it’d done to Kohsuke, to the doe, what it’d do to you if you gave it half a chance.

“You wanna play, kitten?” it asks, head tilting to the side. 

Slowly, it backs away from the door, keeping its gaze fixed firmly on you. For a moment, you think that it’s going to disappear back into the forest, or plant itself by your window to watch for another night, waiting you out till dawn, but instead it stops by the old oak that overhangs the porch and stills entirely, simply… waiting.

“Let’s play.”

Abruptly, the oak beside it bursts into flames. It takes only a heartbeat for the entire thing to be engulfed, red and orange flames licking along the trunk, the gnarled, spindly branches, even the leaves are alight, burning away into ash and floating off in the breeze. The heat from one tree alone is searing, the crackle of burning wood and your own horrified, shuddering breath the only sounds in the night.

It snowed only a few nights before, but the fire spreads with unnatural ease, flames racing across the canopy, embers lighting up the undergrowth, and in the space of a few seconds there’s an inferno raging through the forest before you. And through the smoke and the red, burning haze, the creature watches, smirking.

The heat from the wildfire sears painfully at your skin, the air around you suddenly thick with smoke, stinging your eyes, choking your lungs, and yet you can’t seem to tear yourself away. It’s like a dream, a nightmare, some kind of… hellscape.

And for a moment you forget that there was a purpose to this, too lost staring in mute horror as the forest you’d played in as a child burns–

At least until a single leaf from the oak tree, edges curling as it’s consumed by flames, falls, carried by the breeze and lands on the wooden railing of the porch. With a soft whoosh, the old wooden beam catches fire, and with your chest heaving, panicked breaths falling from parted lips, you rise to your feet as flames spread, the fire eating everything in its path until the entire porch is alight, burning.

Run. 

You don’t know if the voice in your head is yours or not, you don’t have time to care. You scramble for the back door, throwing it open, and you run.

Run until your lungs burn, til’ your bare feet are scratched and bleeding, run, pushed forward by the sweltering heat at your back, the chilling crackle of laughter that follows. You run through tears, through pain and air so thick with smoke that it hurts to breathe.

And you know the creature’s giving chase, you know that you won’t – can’t – outrun it, nor the inferno that blazes around you. You know that it’s futile, that you’re probably running to your death, but that’s human, isn’t it?

To run when you’re scared?

The sky’s awash with a hazy red glow when it catches you, throwing you to the ground, and still you try to crawl. Desperate, choking on broken pleas and sobs, nails raking through the dirt as you try to pull yourself forward. 

And when your pants are ripped from your legs, a puff of warm air ghosting over the nape of your neck as you’re shoved back down, those long, black arms settling either side of you, caging you in – you know that you’ve lost.

“Mine,” the creature growls, and you barely have time to scream before its cock shoves into you with one brutal, merciless thrust. “Mine.”