#ao3 might take a bit see hand complaints

[factorialsotherfandoms]

"Do you think Philza's okay?"

Fit rolls over to look at Pac, his roommate staring up at the ceiling. He reaches over, cautiously offering his hand. Pac, of course, takes it just as hesitantly.

"Cell's back, maybe after you, and you're worried about Phil?" Okay, so Fit is worried too, but his point is well made. Pac had only told him some of the situation, in whispered tones and terrified whimpers a few hours ago, and he was worrying about someone who was at least safe?

Pac turns his head, and looks Fit dead in the eye. "You're with me. I know you won't let anyone hurt me. But who's with him?"

"He's safe enough," Fit says. "Physically at least."

"He just didn't seem, ah," Pac struggles with his words for a moment. "Well?"

"It's not really my place to say," he replies. "But he's Philza. He'll be fine."

"Will he?" Pac asks, fretting already. "If the Federation is inside his head, making him see things..."

It's a worry Fit has too, one he really doesn't want to think about. He wants to pretend that his old friend is fine, that going and murdering blazes and magma cubes will have fixed everything. He needs to believe it, because the alternative... The alternative is there's nothing he can do.

"Do you really believe him?" Pac asks. "That there was a book there."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Fit sighs, and sits up. He turns on the lamp and stretches, looking around his room of missing texture flooring and ugly walls - the safest place he could think to bring Pac when he heard the news.

"It's not the first time," Fit says. "Phil... He swears it was a dream, that he was just sleeping. He wasn't. Tubbo and me? We checked every corner of his house. He wasn't there. Then he takes us to where he thought he was taken and he swears there's nothing weird about it? But it's full of parrots - they shouldn't have spawned there. Tubbo even found an avocado sapling."

"Philza has a lot of avocados," Pac agrees. "You think the Federation took him?"

"I'm not sure, it's not their usual behaviour," Fit frowns. "But I don't know who else it would be?"

"The codes?"

"Maybe." Fit cracks his head to the side. "But I know Phil. Whatever he saw? It terrified him. And anything that scares Philza Minecraft is nothing you ever want to see."

"Should we ask him if we can visit?" Pac has a calculating look on his face. "I can cry scared all over again, I just need to remember why. And his bunker is very safe. They might look for me in your house, but they'd never think of his."

"Why? Is my company not good enough for you?" Fit is mostly teasing.

Mostly.

"No! No, no, no," Pac waves his hands in a desperate attempt to be understood. "I just... I'm worried, you know?"

"Yeah..." Fit sighs. "Yeah, I'm worried too... I'll ask him."

Pac nods, and Fit types.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I bring Pac over? We might need to stay the night.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sure mate

Ph1LzA whispers to you: is everything okay?

You whisper to Ph1LzA: We'll explain when we get there

That's the end of that; Fit shows his communicator to Pac, who agrees.

"I'm not really faking the tears," Pac promises, already tearing up. "I just don't think about it, and then it isn't real."

Pac's not the only one acting like that, Fit presumes; Philza's constant denials even with evidence in front of him... Whatever the fuck happened in that forest, it's nothing good. Something so terrible believing his memory is at fault is somehow better.

"To Phil and Missa," Fit reminds Pac, not really needing it.

They warp together, and at the same time.

---

Philza is waiting at the top of the hatch when the pair arrive. To most people he would look entirely normal, but Fit can see the way his eyes flitter as he waves. Pac waves back, while Fit gives his traditional "oi!!!"

Philza laughs, and leads them down into the basement.

"What's up?" he asks the two of them. "Need more toast or something? I thought you were both asleep."

"No, um," Fit looks to Pac, realising they didn't quite work out what to say.

"Bagi told me more about the murders," is what Pac says, his voice dropping very quiet as he does. "She thinks... We think someone from my past is on the island."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes for a moment. "How bad is it?"

"Last time I saw him," Pac's pace picks up; Fit squeezes his shoulder as he sees panic come in. "Last time... He nearly killed me. And the messages..." Pac grabs the hand on his shoulder and squeezes it back. "Some of them might be addressed to me."

Philza doesn't ask questions, he just glances around his children's bedroom, then looks at Fit. Fit meets his eyes.

Philza sighs, and caves.

"Alright," he says. "Do you want to sleep in Chayanne's room? I can adjust the door to just the three of us, Missa, and my eggs for now."

Fit knows it isn't for Pac's sake that Philza is changing the doors, he knows it for sure.

They get their beds set up, tucked behind the chests where a casual observer cannot see. Philza doesn't have a bed, but Fit makes them for him and Pac, placing them tucked away.

"Would you stay with us?" Fit asks, before his old friend can slip away.

Philza looks genuinely surprised by the request, "why, mate? I'll just be in the eggs' room."

"Safety in numbers, right?" Pac asks, glancing between the two. "I would... Feel safer if you were here too."

Fit knows its a manipulation tactic to convince Philza to stay, to make sure the old crow is not alone. It still rings so very true - and so very against everything ingrained within Fit's soul.

It's fine. For a few nights he can manage it, if its what his two closest friends need.

"Alright," Philza hesitates, but comes over and sits on the edge of Pac's bed. He takes off his backpack, and leans his scythe just in reach. Pac and Fit take the opportunity to remove their prosthetics, hastily reattached to travel over here, and stretch.

When Philza stands again, both of them can see how unstable he looks.

"Let's push our beds together," Fit says. "If we put Pac between us, there isn't an angle they can get him from."

Philza looks at Fit, and knows exactly what he's doing. Still, Philza crafts up a third bed, and squishes it between the two.

He nearly falls as he walks around to do it; Fit catches him, helps him steady, but is brushed off before he can say a word.

"Alright," Philza says. "Pac in the middle then. You won't get too warm, will you?"

"I'm Brazilian," Pac says. "It's always too cold here now Mike is gone."

They both see how heavily Philza drops to the bed, curling himself back to Pac and defensively ready. Fit, on his side, curls close to Pac - his one arm over him.

It's not really a surprise how quickly Pac falls asleep, with the sheer trauma and strain of the day on his back. He quickly falls into dreams, and Fit can only hope they are kind.

"Phil," he asks, once he knows Pac is asleep. "Won't you sleep?"

"You needed a guard," Philza says.

"You know we don't. You and I? We'll wake if anything so much as tests the hatch."

It's true, and they both know it.

Philza, however, doesn't speak.

At least, not for a long time; Fit considers conversation a lost cause and is about to give up and call this good enough when he hears Philza again, voice broken just like it was in the garden.

"If I sleep, will I wake?" is what Philza asks, whispered almost silently. "How will I know when the world is real again? What will I see this time?"

"I'll make sure you wake up," Fit promises, because he can. "And I'll do something to make you absolutely certain its really me."

"Promise?"

Philza sounds so weak, so small like this. Fit... Fit cannot stand it, not at all. He reaches a little further, and manages to put his hand on Phil's shoulder.

Philza's own hand reaches over, clinging to it.

"I promise," Fit says. "We'll wake you if we leave. We won't let anything weird happen, its just sleep."

Philza turns, and his eyes do not seem to trust Fit. But they are also exhausted, and desperate, and terrified.

"Go to sleep, Phil. I won't until you do."

"I'm sorry," Philza whispers, sounding absolutely broken. "Thank you. Both of you. I know... I'm sorry."

Fit squeezes his shoulder again.

"It'll be alright," Fit replies. "I've got you. I've got both of you. It's going to be okay."

Nothing else is said before they eventually fall asleep.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp fit #qsmp pac #this is what I actually wanted to write today but working out the stuff with Bagi as well was hard #coping mechanism: worry about someone else instead of yourself #none of them are okay and they all need a hug #they got one in canon! #this is some more #and now my hands are completely dead #fuck three minifics in a day ow #brain really is just on nyoom today #it will not shut up #ao3 might take a bit see hand complaints #i'd like to get it up before bed but we'll see if I can handle the mouse #else it'll be... sometime tomorrow I have meetings

[brbsoulnomming]

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies Part 14

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | AO3

-----

Everyone does end up having to go home. Except him, obviously, and Steve, whose house Eddie has learned he's apparently going to be squatting in until they can figure out a way to clear his name.

Is it squatting if he's invited? Eh, whatever.

Nancy and Robin swing by to drop off the prescriptions they'd picked up for Eddie. Both of them linger, long enough that Eddie thinks they might just stay - kind of wants them to stay, torn between wanting to be alone with Steve and not wanting to be alone with Steve.

Robin hugs Steve really tight, and he folds her up in his arms and holds her close, just staying like that for a long, long few minutes, talking so quietly they can't be heard. Nancy takes both their hands and squeezes when they're done, and surprises Eddie by giving his hand a squeeze as well. Robin looks like she kind of wants to launch herself at Eddie and hug him, too, but she settles for ruffling his hair, and then grimacing when her hand comes away grimy.

He laughs at her, and they promise to check in tonight, then they both leave.

Mrs. Sinclair comes to pick up Lucas and Erica and Max, and Eddie stays out of sight with his heart hammering in his throat, but they don't venture beyond the front hallway. Eddie can't quite make out what she says as she picks them up, but her tone is low and worried, and there's an underlying note of a familiarity, a gratitude, as she speaks briefly to Steve.

Eddie wonders, again, how long they've all been doing this. How many times their parents have worried about them, how many times Steve has apparently brought them home safely, looking beat to hell.

Mrs. Henderson is much louder when she comes to collect Dustin, though she doesn't go into the living room either. He can hear her fussing over the bandages around Steve's neck, asking how bad it is, sounding only mildly reassured when he tells her that it wasn't as bad as Starcourt. She asks him to come stay with her and Dustin, and Eddie thinks he can hear something like longing in Steve's voice when he declines, promising to come to dinner next week instead.

Then it's just him and Steve.

Steve collapses on the recliner, tipping his head back. Eddie's eyes are drawn to the long line of his throat, the stretch of tendons and muscle broken up by white gauze.

His mouth goes dry.

"I've got a guest room ready for you upstairs," Steve says.

His throat works as he speaks, and it takes Eddie a moment to process it.

"Fuck," Eddie mumbles. "Stairs, really?"

Steve laughs softly, tipping his head back up. "Yeah. It's got an ensuite and the bed's decent, we can set you up a lot better in there."

Eddie swallows. He wants to ask why Steve's doing this for him, but he's a little bit afraid of the answer, so he just makes an exaggerated whine of complaint.

It works to make Steve chuckle again, at least, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll be glad once you're in an actual bed. Look, I'll get you some food and your next dose of meds first, just hang tight for a bit."

Eddie grumbles unintelligibly, but honestly, Steve's probably right. He must doze off a little, because the next thing he knows, Steve is gently shaking him awake, helping him sit up, and giving him something.

"What's this?" he asks, blinking blearily down at the bowl Steve handed him. It kind of looks like chunky baby food, though it smells pretty good.

"Oh, uh, frozen shepherd's pie," Steve says. "Not a lot to work with right now, we'll have to see about a grocery run soon. But I figure it's probably at least better than snacks and hospital food."

Eddie shrugs. "Not exactly a picky eater over here," he says as he digs in.

It's warm, and tastes a hell of a lot better than it looks. Like meatloaf and mashed potatoes all mixed up together, all hearty and comforting.

"S'good," he mumbles around a full mouth, prompting Steve to make a face at him.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, gross," Steve bitches.

Eddie feels compelled to stick his tongue out at him, still with some mashed potato remnants stuck to it, and Steve rolls his eyes.

"You make this?" Eddie asks, once he's swallowed the rest of the potato.

"Yeah." Steve scratches the back of his neck, just above the bandage. "Sometimes I'll freeze up smaller portions if I make something big, so I have stuff to grab when I'm in a hurry. Or when I've got recuperating metal-heads in my living room."

Eddie huffs a little laugh. "That a common occurrence? And here I thought I was special," he teases.

"You're something," Steve returns, though the grin he gives him is wide and fond as he reaches for the prescription bag Robin'd dropped off, pulling out the pair of bottles within and reading them over. "You're not due for your antibiotics yet, but you can have the pain meds."

He opens the bottle up, then pauses, frowning down into it. "Did they give you the wrong prescription?"

Ah.

"No," Eddie says, feeling exhausted.

"But we have the same meds, and mine is like. Four times this amount, even though your injuries are way worse, infection aside," Steve says, looking back up at him with his brow furrowed.

"They said it's because I left against medical advice."

Steve snorts. "That's a load of crap."

Eddie sighs. "What do you want me to tell you, Steve? You know what my side job is. The whole town does. Every time I go to the ER for something, to them, I'm just drug seeking."

Steve looks stricken, and god, Eddie's not sure he can take any well meaning pity right now. He kind of wants the couch to just swallow him up.

There's just silence, though, and then Steve's jaw sets in determination. He gets up, leaving Eddie floundering a little and staring after him as he walks into the kitchen, returning with a bottle that looks almost identical to the one Eddie was given.

He sits back down, popping them both open, and promptly tips his bottle to start dumping his own pills into Eddie's.

"Whoa, hey, what the fuck!" Eddie struggles to get up without hurting himself or dropping his bowl, gives up, and tries his best to glare at Steve from his position on the couch under the blankets.

"You need them more," Steve says stubbornly. "It's not like I'm going to take them, anyway."

Fuck, that's worse than pity, and Eddie feels his blood boil.

"No, of course not." Eddie sneers. "Is His Majesty above such petty things like pain? Would he rather muscle through on sheer meathead determination than turn to drugs like the lower class?"

Steve goes very still. "Do you really think that?" he asks quietly.

Eddie opens his mouth to snap that he doesn't have to think it, that Steve just showed him it, but - he looks at the expression on Steve's face instead, how it's gone closed off but it isn't hard, isn't angry. It's just blank. Abruptly, Eddie feels wrong-footed, like he'd fallen back on old habits and responded as the guy everyone thinks he is, to the guy he used to think Steve was.

"No," he says, just as quietly. "I don't really think that."

Steve's frozen exterior melts a little, and he shakes a pair of pills out into his hand, holds them out for Eddie to take. Eddie does, swallows them dry, and shovels another spoon of shepherd's pie into his mouth to keep it occupied. Steve looks like he's thinking about something, and Eddie doesn't want to risk saying something to throw him off.

"It's not that I'm trying to muscle through," Steve says, apparently coming to a decision. "I was drugged last time we dealt with Upside Down shit, it was a whole thing." He waves his hand. "I was high as hell for some of what was going down, and it was. Not a great time."

Eddie tries to imagine fighting off the demobats while drugged out of his mind, and goes a little pale. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I can't really do anything stronger than alcohol or the occasional joint now."

"Fuck," Eddie says, softer and with more feeling. "Jesus Christ, I'm such an ass, why do you even like me?"

Steve opens his mouth, and Eddie flails, slapping his hand over Steve's mouth before he can say anything.

"Nope, nuh-uh, this is an apology, not a ploy to get you to say nice things about me," Eddie insists. "Okay?"

Steve's laughing at him, he can tell just by his eyes, but he waits until Steve nods before he pulls his hand away.

"That's not what I think of you," Eddie says again. "I got defensive and lashed out, and it wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

The laughter in Steve's eyes fades, and he looks - caught out, all surprised and vulnerable, and he's staring at Eddie with something like wonder.

It makes Eddie squirm, feeling both like he doesn't know what he did to get that look and like he never wants it to stop.

"Thank you. Apology accepted." Steve's quiet for a moment before adding, "I'm sorry, too. I could tell you were upset but you didn't want sympathy, so I just."

He shrugs, and Eddie's going to press him more about what he just, but first - "You could tell?"

"Yeah. Your face does this thing - you're usually so expressive, but you just kind of shut down, like you're resigned."

Oh. Fuck. He hadn't realized Steve noticed him like that, and he focuses really hard on the other thing he wanted to push about to avoid thinking about it too much. "So you just?"

Steve gives him a crooked little smile. "Jumped to fixing it. Robin says I have this thing, where if someone I care about is upset and I don't know what else to do, I try to fix it. But sometimes how I try to fix it and what they want are different things."

Eddie's mouth opens, and before he knows it he's said, "I'm okay with that."

Steve blinks at him. "Really?"

Eddie'd shrug, but he's not sure his shoulder - or his entire torso - is up for the motion right now, so he just tries to look as casual as possible while half huddled on the couch, in hospital scrubs. "Yeah. People don't try to fix things for me, not unless it's my uncle. Might be kind of nice."

"Oh." Steve's got this look on his face like he doesn't know what to do with that - maybe he hasn't gotten many people who let him try to fix things for them.

Which, fair enough. Under any other circumstances, Eddie'd probably be one of those, just - he doesn't think he's lying, even not touching the fact that Steve hadn't reacted to what he said. "I'm probably going to be a dick about it when I'm not recovering from being half dead, though," he adds, just to be safe.

Steve snorts. "You've met just about all of my friends, man, that's nothing new. Usually I do a decent job at figuring out when they're just being dicks and when I'm actually going too far, but they're good about telling me when I don't get it right. They do it when I'm being too much of a dick, too."

"I can do that," Eddie decides. "Tell you if you're going too far."

He probably shouldn't make decisions right after leaving the hospital against medical advice, but screw it, he's doing it anyway.

"Okay," Steve says after another moment of consideration, then narrows his eyes at him. "I'm still taking a rain check on telling you all the things I like about you. It's getting to be kind of a long list."

Eddie gapes at him. Fuck, he can feel his cheeks burning, and he really hopes he can blame it on the bite wounds or the pain meds.

Hopes Steve won't ask, because he knows that would be a lie.

"Go away," he says, curling over his bowl so he doesn't have to look at Steve. "Let me eat my luxury baby food in peace before I have to drag my ass up all those stairs."

Steve laughs at him again, but it isn't mean, and he does leave, heading upstairs to - Eddie doesn't really know what Steve Harrington does with his free time when he's not ripping apart demobats or complaining about babysitting, actually.

Huh.

He thinks he might like to find out.

He shovels the rest of his shepherd's pie down methodically, then sets the bowl down on the coffee table and eyes the stairs. Despite his earlier words, he's pretty sure there's no way he's going to make it up them on his own. He pulls in a breath and lets it out, then calls, "Hey, Steve?"

Steve emerges almost immediately, a couple of towels tossed over one shoulder and an armful of plastic bottles. "You done?" he asks, tromping down the stairs.

Eddie eyes him. "What's all that?"

"The hospital did a pretty good job at getting most of the Upside Down grime off of us, but I thought you might want to wash it out of your hair," Steve says.

And fuck, yeah, Eddie really, really wants to - it's not just Upside Down grime, honestly, what with the whole being on the run for a week thing, and it just feels gross. Still, Eddie grimaces.

"Not, uh. Not really sure I can stand up long enough," he admits. "Plus I'm not supposed to lift my arms that high yet."

Steve's ears turn just a little bit pink, and Eddie struggles to keep his expression neutral, not to let his eyebrows raise up or to lean in too hungrily.

"I can wash it for you," he offers. "The laundry room's got a pretty deep sink, and I can pull up a chair and have you lean back a little."

He looks so fucking earnest that it makes Eddie flounder a little, once again having to restrain himself from asking why. Why is Steve doing any of this? Is it just because this seems to be what he does, because he thinks of Eddie as part of their Upside Down fighting group now and is focused on taking care of a party member? Were the handful of stolen moments during all of the fuckery and in the hospital real, or is Eddie just fooling himself that this is something he could actually have?

"Yeah," he says before he even realizes he's agreeing, while his thoughts are still a tangled up mess. "Appreciate it, man."

Steve shoots a smile at him. "Gimme a sec, I'll be right back."

He disappears down the hall for a few minutes, then comes back to help Eddie up. It's slow going, with Steve taking most of Eddie's weight, but he knows it's not going to be near as rough as the stairs will be, so he tells himself it's a practice run.

There's a low backed chair pulled up in front of the sink when they get to the laundry room, a folded up towel already pillowed on the edge of it. Steve guides him to sit down and tilt his head back, neck cushioned by the towel and hair spilling into the sink.

And then -

Fuck, Steve is close.

He's been close before, obviously, he let Eddie get all up in his personal space when they were walking through the Upside Down and he leaned over Eddie's shoulder a few times to watch what he was doing, and Eddie's literally been leaning on him to walk since he got here, but - with all of that, there was something else going on, some kind of other purpose or at least a buttload of pain he was trying to ignore.

Sitting like this, Steve leaning over him as he fiddles with the knobs to get the water to a good temperature, he's just close. Eddie can feel the body heat coming off of him, and he can count every freckle and mole on Steve's forearms, where he'd pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He's not trying to look, but he can still see the scrawl of writing that disappears under the sleeve of his left arm, can just make out I don't think. He can hear the heavy beat of his own heart and the way his breath quickens, and he forces himself to breathe slow and even, trying not to draw attention to it.

Then Steve's fingers are in his hair, gently sweeping it all together as he starts rinsing it out.

"Shit, man, this might take awhile," he says apologetically. "The water's coming out as black as it did for mine, and I've got less hair."

Eddie hums noncommittally, afraid if he says anything he'll end up telling Steve that's fine by him, they can stay like this all night if he wants to. There's the sound of a shampoo bottle opening, and on his next breath in he's hit with the scent of something, he has no idea what, like a honeyed summer day, all sunshine and sweet and clean.

And then Steve's hands are on him again, fingertips rubbing small circles over his scalp, blunt nails scratching in just the right way to send shivering goosebumps down his spine.

He's not proud of the way it makes him fucking whimper, but mostly because the sound prompts Steve to freeze.

"That hurt?" Steve asks softly.

"No," Eddie manages to get out. "It, uh. Feels nice."

Nice is an understatement, but not a lie, so it's the best he's got right now. It makes Steve continue, at least, so Eddie's taking the fucking win.

His eyes slide shut, and he thinks he might drift off to sleep right there if it weren't for the fact that he really wants to cling to how fucking good this feels. God, he can't remember the last time he felt a physical sensation that wasn't pain or discomfort, and he tells himself that's the reason that this is making him react so strongly.

No one's ever done anything like this for him before. No one's ever wanted to, even before the murder accusations, and between the exhaustion settling over him and the pain meds kicking in and the euphoria of feeling good - Eddie's dangerously close to begging, here. To saying please, just, please can he keep having this, please can this mean something, can this be because Steve wants to and not because he feels obligated.

"You okay?" Steve asks quietly as he rinses Eddie's hair out, and starts lathering up for a second wash.

Eddie hopes it's just a general are you okay, in light of the whole everything, and not a specific hey you look like you're going through something right now. Doesn't actually matter, he guesses, because he still has to say something, and he doesn't know what to say that isn't a lie or isn't something that's too much.

"Haven't, uh. Haven't had anyone do this before," he admits, because that seems like the safest thing to acknowledge.

He thinks what he means by this was pretty obvious, but apparently not, because Steve gives a thoughtful little hum.

"Take care of you?" he asks, cradling Eddie's skull in his hands so delicately it makes him want to weep.

Or shove him off and run until he can't anymore, but that's not any better.

"Fuck, Steve, not holding back any punches here, huh?" he asks, his voice a little raspy.

"I mean. We almost got eaten by demobats together, and we're in kind of a bathroom. That's prime bonding time, for me."

Eddie'd shake his head, but he doesn't want to do anything to dislodge Steve's hands, so he settles for heaving a pointed sigh. "No, Steve, people haven't been lining up to take care of the freak. It's not like I need it, anyway."

Steve makes this little sound - Eddie's not sure he's even aware that he does it, really, but it's like the verbal equivalent to rolling his eyes. "Everyone needs it, sometimes. It's okay to want that, especially after all of this. This isn't the first time some of us have stayed together in the aftermath."

"Yeah? Who looks after you, then?" Eddie asks.

"Robin, usually, sometimes Dustin. Why, you volunteering?"

He can't see Steve's face, but he thinks that was probably meant to come out as teasing. It doesn't quite land there, though, a little too soft, a little too genuine, and it makes Eddie swallow.

"Maybe," he says, feeling his heart beat in his throat.

"Oh," Steve breathes out, his hands stilling for a moment.

Eddie fights not to open his eyes.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says, a little too carelessly, fingertips scratching back over his scalp again. "I look after you, you look after me."

That's not quite what Eddie meant, but he doesn't know how to say what he meant, so he just says, "You don't have to. Take care of me, I mean. Just because you think it's okay to want to be taken care of, you know, it doesn't have to be you."

He waits for Steve to point out that Eddie'd just said that no one else was lining up for the job, maybe make a joke about how it's him or nothing.

Instead, Steve says, "I know. I want to."

Fuck.

If this is the way Steve always is, Eddie can see why so many girls were into him in high school.

When he's reasonably sure his voice isn't going to shake, he says, "Thanks, man. For - all of this."

He's kind of worried Steve is going to tell him that he's doing it because he wants to again, but fortunately that seems to be enough talking about not quite emotions for both of them, because Steve just hums as he starts rinsing Eddie's hair again.

Eddie lets himself relax, sinking into the soft, floaty feeling that wants to pull him down, and just enjoying the feel of Steve's fingers in his hair, the edge of pain blurred and fuzzy from the meds, and finally, finally feeling like maybe he's safe.

It takes another round of lather and rinse for Steve to be satisfied with how clean his hair is, but Eddie sure as hell isn't protesting. Time kind of slips and wobbles, anyway, as he doesn't doze so much as just fucking melt into the chair and under Steve's hands, like all the tension from the last week plus is oozing out of him. He thinks Steve murmurs something about conditioner, but he honestly doesn't care, as long as he can keep sitting here like this.

Eventually, the water's shut off, and Steve's tilting his head up, draping his hair over a towel and gently scrunching it before wrapping it up.

"You awake?" Steve asks, voice a little sing-song like he's teasing.

"Depends on how you're measuring awake," Eddie mumbles back, not entirely sure he managed to get all those syllables out in the correct order.

Whatever he says, it makes Steve laugh softly. "Come on, Munson, up you go. Let's get you to bed."

Eddie's hindbrain immediately takes over, and the next thing he knows he's saying, "Fuck, yes please, finally."

Fortunately, Steve seems to take his eagerness as an eagerness to be in bed in general, and not in Steve's bed specifically, because he just says, "You gotta stand up for that."

Eddie whines, and Steve's hand on his elbow where he'd been tugging him to get up slips, and Eddie looks up at him, eyes wide.

Steve's staring back at him, and holy shit, Eddie might be high on pain meds and a boneless mess from what was basically a head massage, but he knows what desire looks like, knows Steve's eyes are probably a mirror of his own right now.

Then Steve's eyes are closing, and he visibly shakes himself like a fucking dog, before his hand finds its spot on Eddie's elbow again, nice and firm.

"Steve," Eddie murmurs, even though he knows he's missed his moment to speak, because Steve is already guiding him up and wrapping his arm around him to help him walk.

"Not too far, Eds, I promise," Steve says. "We'll be there before you know it."

"Steve," Eddie says again, and this time Steve pauses, swallowing once before he looks at him.

Steve's arm is still around him, and he's so close they're practically breathing the same air - so close he can see the flecks of hazel in Steve's eyes, see the way his lashes brush against his cheek, and Eddie -

He doesn't want to do it like this. Eddie knows he's pretty far gone right now, a little floaty and a little loopy, and he's honestly not sure what words he can even get out of his mouth, let alone if he's going to remember this tomorrow.

"This is gonna have to be mostly you," he says, not letting himself think about how it could mean more than one thing. "I'm barely standing after that, let alone navigating stairs."

Steve laughs softly, steering him out of the laundry room and towards the stairs. "Long as you keep your feet on one side of the steps, you'll at least have one up on Henderson last time I had to help him up the stairs."

"No promises," Eddie replies, but that does make him look down at his own feet, trying to be careful and deliberate about how he places them as they slowly make their way upstairs.

With the meds, it doesn't hurt as much as it probably should. It mostly just takes so much goddamn effort, feels like walking through jello, and Eddie's not ashamed to admit he's breathing heavily by the time they make it to what must be the Harringtons' guest room.

It's… well. It's boring, honestly, minimally decorated, but the bed looks huge and insanely welcoming at the moment, all the blankets turned down and the pillows carefully arranged to resemble the way he'd found was the most comfortable at the hospital. The lamp on the nightstand is glowing softly, and there's a glass of water and Eddie's bottles of pills next to it.

Clean clothes are laid out on the bed - a pair of black boxers, black track pants with a white stripe down the leg, and a dark blue Henley.

Another lump forms in his throat, and he swallows past it as Steve points out the door to the bathroom.

"I'm just down the hall," Steve tells him.

Eddie manages to mumble out a thanks, and only stares at him a little as he walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Honestly, Eddie's too fucking exhausted to sort out anything about anything right now, so he just shuffles his way over to the bed. He strips out of the hospital scrubs, leaves them in a pile right where they fall, and struggles into the clothes Steve's loaned him.

Like the stairs, it doesn't hurt, but he knows that doesn't mean he can risk overdoing it. He's careful, moving gingerly to pull the shirt on and sitting on the bed to step into the boxers and pants. Then he collapses back, tugging the covers over him. His head lolls to the side for a moment as he stares at the lamp.

If he's honest, his decision to leave it on is part that it feels like too much effort to turn it off, and part that he's not sure he wants to be alone in the dark right now.

Maybe in a bit, he thinks, but he's asleep before he can think anything else.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @vampireinthesun @koibug @estrellami-1 @mentalcyborg @allbimyself26 @questionablequeeries @the-s-is-silent @whimsicalwitchm @a-gae-af-racoon @tinyplanet95 @n0-1-important @velocitytimes2 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @newtstabber @jcmadgirl @roblingoblin285 @lexyvey @paperbackribs @goodolefashionedloverboi @evix-syne666 @raisedbylibrarians @stxrcrossed186 @nightmareglitter @greekgeek24 @starman-jpg @crazyhatlady86 @imfinereallyy @manda-panda-monium @deleataecount @prideandsensibility @chaoticvictorianspirit @maydillydally @disrespectedgoatman @scarlet-malfoy @i-less-than-three-you @hbyrde36 @hallucinatedjosten @dragonsandgayships @arepaconchocolate @g4ys0n @novelnovella @bisexualdisastersworld @ghostofyourvampiregf @scarletyeager @pettrichore @nerd-and-nervous @hiimlevi @queenie-ofthe-void @cinnamon-mushroomabomination

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Part 15

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie soulmate au #soulmate au #stranger things fic #this is pretty much entirely hurt/comfort #steve taking care of eddie #i'm so weak for this trope

[helaelaemond]

To Be Strangers

gif by @barbieaemond

Pairing: Tom Bennett x female reader

Word count: 2.6k

Summary: You're standing on the dock overlooking the ships in the small hours, and a certain new recruit notices you - he can't help it. He charms you - or at least that's what you want him to think - and together you for a memory to keep him warm when the tides take him. Cunnilingus, penetration.

Content warning(s): smoking, public sex

Rating: E

Ao3: here

The stars pop out overhead as the clouds clear above the harbour, and you take in a deep breath. Your coat flaps in the sea breeze, and you pull it tighter around you. It's peaceful here, even with war looming on the horizon. There's a slender figure just ahead of you, and you see the spark of a match. God, you need a fag.

Your heels click on the pavement as you slowly walk towards the stranger. He looks up, and in the light of the yellow streetlamp, you notice his sharp jaw, his sparkling eyes. There's a small grin on his face, and you try not to return it.

"Got a spare?" you ask.

The young man - a boy, really - nods and holds out the packet for you to take one. "No filter in them."

You take one and hold it between your lips. "I don't mind." In your pocket is a little pack of matches, and you strike one to light the cigarette. You take the first draw, and a wave of relief washes over you.

"Bit late for a nice girl like you to be out, in't it? What brings you down to the docks?"

"I like watching the ships." You shrug. You can feel his eyes roaming over you without shame. "And the sailors."

"Why's that then?" He turns slightly to face you and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, bringing himself closer.

A small breeze rolls in from the sea and you close your eyes, enjoying the coolness of it. You take another drag. "They never stay for long."

That makes him chuckle. "So let me guess; you never found Mister Right?"

"Or maybe I never wanted him. Maybe I only ever wanted Mister Right Now."

His grin is cocky. "I see. You're that sort of girl, then?"

"And what sort of girl is that?"

He takes a long drag on his own fag and lets the smoke pour through his nostrils, his parted lips. "The kind who sees the value in short-lived fun."

You bite your lip and laugh, your gaze never wavering from his. "Maybe. What if I am?"

"Then I think you and me might get on alright." He takes a step closer and leans against the railing next to you, so close that you can feel the warmth rolling off his body. "What's your name, miss?"

"Whatever you want it to be, sailor."

He chuckles and tilts his head to the side. "Want to know my name?"

"I already know your name."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You're Mister Right Now."

His grin widens. "What if I've already got a girl?"

"Have you?"

"Might have."

"Oh, well in that case-" and you turn as if to walk away.

He catches your hand without missing a beat and pulls you back to him. "Hey, where d'you think you're going?"

There are butterflies in your stomach as he towers over you, his young face handsome, sharp shadows thrown across it by the light overhead. "To find someone else."

"You're not going anywhere. I'm the best you'll find."

Instinctively, you rest your hand on his chest, almost like a barrier between you. It doesn't feel like a barrier. "Most cocky, maybe."

"I can't make any promises on that front, but I've never had a complaint."

You bite the inside of your cheeks to try to hide your grin, but it doesn't work. "But have you had anyone come back for more?"

"Once or twice, yeah. I'll have you back for more."

"You've only just met me! You've got an awful lot of confidence."

The way he's looking at you makes you feel naked, as if he's ravishing you right here on the dock. Half of you wants to push him away and into the water. The other half... well, the other half isn't rational and isn't to be listened to. It's the half that wants to pull him close and strip him as bare as he's making you feel.

He leans closer until you can smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath. "Yeah, and it's all for you."

"You're full of it, sailor boy."

He looks you up and down again, sizing up his prize, before leaning so close his lips graze your ear. "Do you want me to show you how full of it I am?"

"You're not impressing me," you lie, but the whisper against your skin has covered you in goosebumps, sent electricity down your spine. You don't even notice how it's made you bite your lip.

"No? Then why have you stopped breathing?"His long fingers grasp your chin, and he turns your face to look at him. He's so close that your vision of blurry. It makes your eyelids heavy. "C'mon. Why do I have to beg?"

Your hands find their way to his slim waist, and the curl in the fabric of his tunic. "Because there's nothing prettier than a man on his knees."

Mister Right Now looks up the dock one way, and then the other. Still wearing a broad grin, he sinks to his knees in front of you, right there on the concrete. The fag drops from his fingers, and he looks up at you. "Like this?"

You wind your hand into his short, soft hair and drag your nails across his scalp. He closes his eyes in bliss, and it's his turn now to bite his lip. You hear him sigh, and watch as his chest rises and falls with it. Every nerve in you is aflame. "Just like this."

Sure hands find their way up the backs of your calves. He is stroking your skin, and his touch glides up, up beneath your skirt, up your stockings, and before you have time to think, one hand winds to grasp your backside. The other presses firmly between your thighs, and you let out a sigh of your own. "Is this what you want?" he asks.

You open your eyes and see him staring up at you. He's cocky, arrogant - and practically begging. You nod, teeth digging into your lip.

"Right here? Where anyone could see?"

"You'll all be gone by morning. Why should I care?"

He laughs, and leans closer. He presses his face against your skirt, just over your stomach, and you feel him bite. The hand in his hair pushes him away slightly but he surges forward. He grabs the hem of your skirt and lifts it up. You thank God that you're not wearing a tight pencil skirt, and that the soft wool is loose and swinging. He ducks his head under it.

When he disappears from your sight, you can only feel. He tugs at your underwear and without even thinking of resisting, you step wider for him, you let him drag it down, and you relish his mouth upon your thighs. Above you, rain begins to drop slowly and lightly from the sky. The stars have disappeared behind inky clouds. The streetlight had blocked them out before, anyway.

You feel his fingers first. The young sailor glides two up the inside of your thigh, and he runs it slowly along your folds, not yet dipping in. It's obscene, what you're doing, but you're quickly forgetting to care. Anyone could see you, anyone could see the young man under your skirt, but it doesn't matter. He seems to know what he's doing.

"What's your name?" you ask with an unsteady voice when his fingers slip against your cunt.

"Tom." His voice is muffled under your skirt. He presses his lips against the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your hip. "Tom Bennett."

"Alright, Tom Bennett." You grin, and your head drops back. Thank God for the railing behind you - it's the only thing you can cling onto without worrying about falling into the harbour. "Keep going."

You feel him more than you hear him chuckle. His fingers press against your entrance and you bring up a hand to press against your breast, but he doesn't sink them inside. You whine softly in protest, but he drags them up to spread your folds wide, and then he does something that brings you to your toes.

The firmness of his nose touches your cunt first. He runs it along the sensitive skin there, and he breathes through it to both cool and warm you. It must be glistening wet, you think in the back of your mind, for even just talking to Tom Bennett has had you hot and ready. His tongue follows the line his nose makes, and then he presses it against your clit.

"Fuck." You breathe the word lowly, and without realising, you grasp his head through your skirt. "Just there."

As his lips seal around your bundle of nerves, he chuckles again, and the vibrations make the stars reappear in your eyes. He sucks gently at first, but then it gets firmer, harder, and you have to lean more heavily against the railing. He knows what he's doing. God, does he know.

At last his fingers press inside you, and it feels so good, so right. The digits twist and curl in time with his tongue higher up - when his fingers stroke, his tongue stills. When his tongue strokes, his fingers still. But it's so smooth, so practised, that it feels like one long and fluid motion. He dines on you like it's his last meal.

"Tom!" You sigh his name as the tension in your stomach builds. "Yes, don't stop." It's difficult to keep quiet.

In the moments that you climb the precipice, the young sailor stops, and he stands up suddenly. In his eyes is a wildness that you can't escape. He stares into you with an impossible fire, and it's only when you hear the clink of his opening belt that you realise why he stopped.

"You taste like the sea."

You can't help but grab him close. "Show me."

And then he kisses you. One hand fumbles with his trousers, and the other grasps the back of your neck, and he kisses you. It's rough, and he parts your lips without a second thought, and then his tongue is sliding against yours as if he is tasting for the first time. He's right - you do taste like the sea. You can taste yourself on him, and it makes you whine quietly. He grabs your hips and lifts you to sit on the railing, before his hands return to his trousers. They're barely pushed to his knees by the time his grasp is on your hips.

He looks you in the eye again, and his cocky grin is back. All teeth and determination. "You want this?"

You pull at the hair on the back of his head and return his grin. "Yeah. Fuck me, Tom Bennett."

"You don't have to say my whole name every time."

You reach one hand between you and it finds his cock, heavy and leaking. You squeeze gently, and in your grasp you can feel his heartbeat racing. Maybe he felt yours, too, when he pressed his mouth against your cunt. The noise he makes is deep and whining and it rumbles in his chest, and you wish for a fleeting moment that you were looking at his naked body, admiring him in the light of day. But no, this is good, too. On a rainy dock in the middle of the night, where anyone can find you. There's a thrill in that. He wants you so bad.

With your hand guiding him, he slides easily into you. You wrap your legs around his waist, already halfway to bliss, and hang onto the railing for dear life. The sounds of your fucking are obscene - wet and slapping noises echo along the dock and across the water, and you bury your face into his neck to muffle your sounds of delight.

"Shit!" He laughs quietly, his voice punctuated by moans with every breath. "Do you know how good you feel?"

"No!" you laugh in reply. The peals of delight devolve into moans again. "I've never fucked myself."

"You're missing out, then. Hey!" He slaps the hand away that reaches between you, and looks at you in mock indignation. "I'm taking care of you, aren't I?"

Your mouth hangs open in delight when he presses his fingers back against you. They trace just above where his cock slides in and out of you, and then they set a firm and fast rhythm against your clit. It feels better than anything you've had before, you've never had someone take care like this before, it's so good, it's so-

"Oh, Tom!"

"Fuck! Yeah, like that?"

You nod, and he kisses you deeply again. It's all heavy breaths and strained expressions now, but when your lips part, your foreheads stay pressed together. Sweaty, damp from the drizzle, it doesn't matter. It pushes you higher and higher.

"Tom, yes, yes-! I-!"

"Good girl, keep going, I-! Oh, fuck!"

What little sense remains to you reminds you to stay quiet. When he rips the orgasm from you, only the smallest squeak escapes you, but your eyes roll back into your head as heaven explodes through you. Your thighs, still locked around his narrow hips, tremble and shake.

"I'm gonna-!" He looks at you with wide eyes.

"Inside, Tom!"

His face scrunches up as he follows you over the edge, and his hips stutter while he comes. He buries himself as deep as he can, leaning forward on his toes, knees slightly bent, and you meet him with a few final grinds to release all the pressure. He pants, and rests his forehead against your shoulder. You wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close.

Eventually, your legs are too tired to hold him close, and you let them unwind from him. The ground rushes up to meet them, and then you finally land back on Earth. Bliss does not leave you, though.

It seems not to leave him, either, and even when he pulls out, does his trousers and belt back up, he looks satisfied. His grin won't fade. Even when he kisses you again, he is grinning.

"That was alright, weren't it?"

You can't help but laugh quietly. You pull up your underwear and sort out your skirt, and when you look at him, you're pleased to see that he's still looking at you like a prize to be won. "Yeah. Yeah, that was alright, Tom Bennett."

"I already said you don't have to-"

"But how else will I remember, if not by repeating it?"

He steps closer to you again, and he's towering over you again, and he's close enough to kiss again. "You want to repeat that?"

"Maybe. Come back from war alive, and maybe I'll be waiting here for you."

"Nah, not here."

You raise your eyebrow. "Oh?"

He's grinning. "Next time, I wanna fuck you in a proper bed. And next time, I'll be moaning your name."

"You don't want to be strangers next time?" It's a tease, nothing more. All night has been a tease.

"No. Next time, I want you to be mine."

#tom bennett x female reader #ewan mitchell #Tom bennett x reader #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett smut #world on fire fanfiction #tom bennett x ofc #mine #first time ive written reader fics................... SHAKING NERVOUSLY #mine pwp

[babytarttdoodoo]

if you're feeling it, maybe something hurt-comfort-y with jamie turning up at roy's doorstep (maybe with keeley there, too, but your choice!) after an altercation with his dad?

Not as ‘mini’ as I had intended but I really wanted them to earn a hug at the end. I hope you enjoy it! Apologies for the wait - I was thoroughly distracted by Ao3’s revival (huzzah!).

If anyone else is wondering, I’ll still be taking prompts for a few days. Feel free to drop me an ask at any point!

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

Roy wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see when he opened the door.

It was late. Dinner was long finished and there was some mindless talk show droning along on the tv. He hadn’t foreseen any more visitors.

But Jamie Tartt was seemingly here, there and every-fucking-where these days - including lingering awkwardly on Roy’s doorstep in the middle of the night.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

A year ago, there might have been heat and venom to the words. Now, Roy was just confused.

Jamie looked exhausted. He should have been home in bed, not fidgeting with his sleeves and avoiding Roy’s bewildered gaze.

“Alright?” Jamie cleared his throat, looking for all the world like he didn’t want to be there. “Look, I know it’s late. Can I, er…”

“Who is it, Roy?”

Keeley’s voice floated out from the living room and that, of course, was enough for Jamie to finally look up, wide-eyed and startled.

“Fuck.” he muttered emphatically, looking between Roy and the hall behind him. A hall that Roy could now hear Keeley’s soft footsteps approaching from.

He gritted his teeth against echoing Jamie’s sentiment and held up his hands.

“We were just…”

“No it’s fine, I’ll…”

Their voices stumbled over each other, suddenly sounding too loud in the quiet of the dark street.

“Jamie?” Keeley’s tone of concern cut right through them both as she leaned around Roy to get a look at who had come calling. “Oh, babe, you look awful.”

Roy winced and didn’t turn to look at her, focused as he was on Jamie’s reaction. Keeley was still such a raw, sensitive topic between them. He hadn’t dared to bring her up at all when they were alone since that stupid fight and Jamie had seemingly taken his lead, happy to avoid further confrontation.

He could only imagine how this looked after that whole mess.

But instead of twisting up in anger or hurt, Jamie’s face just sort of… collapsed in on itself and he huffed a sad, tired little laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon that’s probably true.”

Now that was really fucking concerning. “C’mere.”

Roy reached out and grasped Jamie’s shoulder, tugging him in towards the doorway. “Get inside. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jamie moved without complaint and Keeley immediately wrapped an arm around him, guiding his stooped frame towards the nearest couch while shooting Roy an alarmed look behind his back.

Right. Tea. He needed tea for whatever the fuck this was.

The familiar routine gave him something to focus his hands on while his mind whirled. He even put a bit of sugar in Jamie’s mug, though the footballer tended not to ask for it during the season.

It was a bit of a balancing act getting all three drinks out to the living room but he managed not to spill anything, eventually setting everything down on the dark wood of his coffee table.

Keeley had gotten Jamie settled though, Roy noticed, he’d gone back to tugging at the hems of his sleeves as she rubbed circles into his back.

“Right.” Roy swallowed, trying to clear some of the gruffness from his voice, and made a conscious effort not to just cross his arms and… loom. He took a seat. “You going to tell us what’s happened, then?”

Not the gentlest way he could have broached the subject but not the worst either.

“It…” The words seemed to catch in Jamie’s throat on his way out and he gave his head a little shake. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have come over. I’m sorry, I’ll leave you two to… to…”

He waved his hands around, encompassing the thrilling evening they’d clearly been having in comfy clothes in front of the telly. Keeley was already taking a hold of his arm so he wouldn’t get up.

“Don’t, Jamie. You aren’t interrupting anything.” she said firmly, glancing over at Roy. Not like she expected him to contradict her, but begging for backup.

“She’s right,” he agreed. “And even if you were, it’s not like I would just chuck you out, you muppet.”

Jamie stared at him, blinking a little stupidly at that revelation. “Oh. Er, yeah. Right. Obviously.”

Roy barely (just barely) refrained from rolling his eyes. The surprise wasn’t entirely unwarranted, he supposed. They didn’t have the best track record with ‘empathy’.

“Look, babes, you don’t have to tell us anything, yeah?” Keeley took over again, much better at speaking tactfully than Roy ever could be - particularly since he wasn’t especially keen on getting no explanation for what was going on. “But you’ve got us pretty worried now. We need to know you’re alright.”

Jamie heaved a deep breath and, after a moment, seemed to accept the truth of that and nodded. “Me dad came round. That’s all. It. It’s fine, I’m fine. I just…”

He brought his hands up to scrub at his face and so thankfully missed whatever Roy’s eyebrows were doing with that information. It was likely not good.

It took a humongous effort to not sound ready to start smashing skulls in when he found his voice again. “What. What did he do?”

Jamie shrugged, sinking more completely back into Keeley’s willing embrace and for some godforsaken reason still not looking at Roy directly.

“Shouted a bit. Hammered on the door. Didn’t let him in, did I?” That was good. That was fucking spectacular but Jamie wasn’t finished. “He’d been drinking.”

Ah.

Roy was aware that the piece of shit that called himself Jamie’s father had (apparently) been getting sober. Jamie had even gone up to Manchester a couple of times to see him, demonstrating more bravery and straight up decency than Roy had known anyone could be capable of.

That dick did not deserve his son’s support and Roy had not exactly been shy about voicing his opinion when Jamie had confided in him what he was doing with his rare days off.

“There was a City game in town tonight, weren’t there?” Keeley’s voice startled Roy out of his dark thoughts. She was frowning, still holding onto Jamie but looking to Roy for confirmation.

“He ain’t supposed to go to games,” Jamie mumbled, speaking to his own knees. “He promised.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Roy snatched up his tea out of a desperate need to do something with his hands and to buy himself a few moments to calm down. He drank deeply from his still too hot mug and counted to ten in his head, trying to drag the frazzled ends of his control back to heel like he’d practised with Dr Sharon.

Okay.

“Jamie.” He was pleased with himself that no anger had seeped into his tone. “Look at me. Please.”

It felt like an age before the eyes peeking out from that ridiculous boyband fringe met his own, but they did.

“You’re safe here, alright? I’m glad you got away and that you came here. He isn’t getting anywhere near you tonight. Understood?” Roy waited for Jamie’s cautious nod before he continued. “It’s your call what happens next. If you want to call the police or whoever’s supposed to be keeping an eye on him in Manchester.”

That raised some very good questions for another day.

“But it’s up to you, whatever you want to do. You’ve got me in your corner. And Keeley.”

She nodded vigorously and squeezed Jamie in agreement. “Of course you do, darling. You just let us know what you need.”

Jamie smiled a little and knocked the side of his head gently against Keeley’s. He leaned into her so easily that it made Roy’s chest feel tight. Right now, he was so, so grateful for it.

“You ain’t going to say you told me so?” The quiet question gutted out Roy’s stomach. 

Had Jamie come expecting a lecture? For Roy to ridicule him or turn him away?

“I… have my… Opinions. About your father.” he said carefully, acutely aware of the thin line he was treading. But he held Jamie’s gaze. “My opinion hardly fucking matters, though, does it?

“You’re your own man, Jamie. And you’re a damn good one.” Roy drew in a shaky breath. “I wouldn’t have given him another chance. Not after what he’s done. But you’re the better person for doing that. So, no, I'm not going to say 'I told you so' or anything else that isn't my fucking business.”

Jamie was hanging on his every word. It struck Roy sometimes - the power that he had over the infuriating, brilliant force of nature that was Jamie Fucking Tartt. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve that trust but he’d be damned if he was going to fuck it up again.

“What I will say, is that walking away now wouldn't make you a bad person or whatever the fuck else you’re thinking about it.” The little crease that grew between Jamie’s eyebrows confirmed Roy’s suspicions. Just like on the pitch, Jamie threw himself into every decision he made like his life depended on it, sometimes to his own detriment.

He had committed to helping his dad and so wanted to see it through. But it was a two-way street, as far as Roy was concerned, and Tartt Sr had done enough damage for one lifetime.

"You can sleep on it. Take all the time you need. Because you're safe here and frankly that's all I give a fuck about right now."

Jamie visibly mulled over his words and eventually sighed, shoulders lifting a little. He dislodged Keeley slightly so he could reach for his tea and for a few minutes no one spoke, they all just sipped their drinks and dealt with their own thoughts.

Roy caught Keeley’s eye and she smiled at him, which went a long way to making it feel like he was handling this whole shitshow okay.

“Was this a date?” Jamie’s voice drew a small jump out of Roy, as out of left field as it was. But he didn’t call Roy on it and he didn’t sound accusing or angry, either. He just looked between them curiously.

“No.” Keeley’s answer was definitive. “No, we just. We had some stuff to talk about, that’s all. Roy made dinner.”

He had. He’d invited Keeley over and he’d made her favourite food and he’d talked more about his own feelings than he probably had in his entire life.

For a while, it had felt like every step forward with Keeley came complete with two steps back. Once it had been pointed out to him that he had to be honest about the important relationships in his life if he wanted to keep a hold of them in any meaningful way, he realised that things between them were never going to just magically return to how they were before. 

But different was okay, whatever shape it took. ‘Different’ wasn’t nothing.

“You never cook for me, coach.” Jamie pouted at him. The teasing fell a little flat while he still looked like a stiff breeze could bowl him over but it was a very welcome glimpse of the little prick returning to normal.

“Well, I’ll need to make you breakfast in the morning then, won’t I?”

Roy tried not to smirk at the genuine surprise on Jamie’s face as he took that in. He still had some honesty about his relationship with Jamie to reckon with too.

“I think that’s my cue to get a move on.” Keeley put her mug down and leaned in to kiss Jamie’s cheek.

“You don’t have to go.”

Keeley looked to Roy, amused, and stepped in to kiss his forehead. “Let’s keep the proper sleepover for another night, yeah? We’ve all got work tomorrow.”

Before Roy could parse through whatever she meant by that, Keeley extracted a promise from both of them that they’d call if they needed anything and was gone.

They had both stood up to see her off and now Jamie was hovering in the middle of the room, seemingly at a loss for what to do without her holding onto him.

“You want to watch this?” Roy gestured at the tv that had at some point switched over to a quiz show in the background of their emotionally fraught evening.

“Not really.” Jamie shuffled his weight back and forth. “I’m really fucking tired, actually.”

Roy huffed a laugh and hooked his thumb over his shoulder towards the stairs.

“Go on, then. You know where the spare room is. I’m just going to…” He gestured to their empty mugs, indicating he would be up after tidying a little.

“Yeah.” Jamie nodded and, finally, the last of the tension he’d carried since turning up at Roy’s door seemed to drift off of him. “Thanks, Roy.”

He took a few steps before a soft “Oi.” brought him to a halt.

Roy pulled Jamie into a proper, tight hug, wrapping his arms right around his broad back. It wasn’t as strange as it should have been that it was becoming a familiar sensation.

Jamie buried his face into the crook of Roy’s neck and swayed into him, hands coming up to clutch at Roy’s clothes instead of his own. He always hugged like he needed an anchor to hold onto, or maybe that was just their tendency to do this when Jamie was facing some huge emotional upheaval.

Maybe they should change that.

“Thanks Roy.” Jamie repeated, mumbling into his shoulder. Roy just squeezed tighter and let him hold on as long as he needed to.

“Anytime, Jamie.”

#i will not apologise for my gratuitous use of commas #fic prompts #my fic #jamie tartt #roy kent #keeley jones #ted lasso

[saywhatjessie]

you should take your sweater off first, pal

Day six of the Advent calendar! Using this list. Day 6: Sweater Weather. Fandom: Ted Lasso - Pairing: RoyJamie 1.1k[Ao3]

“What is the fucking point of all the ugly clothes you buy if you’re just going to steal mine?”

“I refuse to be lectured on fashion from someone who only wears things that are black and black adjacent.”

“This isn’t a lecture – that was clearly an irritated aside on a different complaint. The complaint being you are wearing my fucking sweater.”

“Well it’s cozy, innit! Ain’t my fault you only have clothes from fifty years ago and they don’t make things like they used to.”

Roy grunted. He wanted to argue that the state of fast fashion was not his fault and he should not be punished but, if he were being honest with himself – and he tried to do that more these days – seeing Jamie in his clothes wasn’t exactly a punishment.

“Well what are we going to do when your stupid shoulders stretch it out?”

“I assume you’ll thank whichever god you want for giving you a boyfriend with such massive and sexy shoulders.”

Roy growled. Jamie stuck his tongue out.

“Well seeing as the damage is already done, you can keep wearing that one.” Jamie preened. “But no more. I only have so many sweaters from 50 years ago, I’d like you not to disfigure the others.”

Jamie pouted. “Well what happens when this one don’t smell like your old man stink anymore? I mean there are worse fates for a jumper than to smell like Jamie Tartt, but it shouldn’t forget where it comes from.”

“It can’t remember anything, it’s a fucking sweater,” Roy said, rolling his eyes. “You can just say you like that it smells like me.”

Jamie shook his head. “Can’t say that. You’ll get a big head.”

“We have fucked in my trophy room, I already know you’re obsessed with me.”

“Says the man who wanked to a youtube compilation of Jamie Tartt’s best goals!”

“You were there too! You fucking helped!”

“Well I know I’m fit, why wouldn’t I get off to me?”

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re getting sidetracked.”

Jamie retreated further into the sweater, pouting at Roy with his chin tucked in the collar and the sleeves over his hands.

Roy sighed. “I will wear the sweater when it loses my smell so it smells like me again. Happy?”

It’s all fine until Roy is called into an emergency meeting with the fucking Diamond Dogs.

Jamie grinned. “I’ll be happier if you give us a cuddle. I’m still freezin’. Honestly, grandad, you’re stinking rich. You can afford to properly heat your house.”

“I’m filing a complaint with HR,” Roy said as soon as the Facetime call connected. “I shouldn’t be called into these after working hours.”

Ted made a ‘pshh’ sound. “Diamond Dogs ain’t work, Roy! I’d say we’re more pleasure than business.”

“Well that’s definitely a call to HR,” Trent said, smirking.

“Higgins might be asleep already,” Nate noted, rubbing his eyes. “Ted, did you forget the time difference?”

“Little bit, yeah” Ted winced. “I never did get the hang of doing it the other way. So used to thinking backwards than forwards.”

“It’s not that late,” Roy grunted. “Higgins just might be asleep because he’s got so many fucking kids. Not sure what Nate’s excuse is.”

“Fell asleep on the couch watching a film.” Nate explained, shrugging. “Didn't mean to. This call waking me up actually probably saved my back.”

“Well good!” Ted beamed. “And what a treat it is to see you all in your comfy clothes, too. Trent is that a blanket hoodie?”

Trent hummed. “Softest and warmest thing I’ve ever owned.”

“I’m more surprised by Roy,” Beard said, totally deadpan. “I’ve never seen you anything so ill fitting.”

Roy looked down to see he was wearing The Jamie Sweater.

He grunted. “Used to fit until Jamie stole it. fucking muppet stretched it all out.”

“He’s like a labrador that still thinks he’s a lap dog even after he gets big,” Ted mused, fondly. Roy snorted in agreement.

“Why not just give it to him if it doesn’t fit you anymore?” Nate asked.

“I did.”

Beard raised an eyebrow. “But you’re wearing it.”

Roy growled, crossing his arms.

“Well,” Trent said, appearing very much like the smug reporter he used to be. "Knowing what I do about borrowing boyfriend’s sweaters – both being a boyfriend whose sweater was borrowed and having borrowed sweaters from boyfriends – I’d say Roy is performing the standard smell return.”

Beard grinned, crossing his arms too. “You’re making the sweater smell like you again for your boyfriend.”

“Shut it,” Roy growled.

“Aw, now Roy, that’s sweeter than an immediate hotel room full of chocolate bars.”

Nate nodded. “Suite full of sweets toot sweet.”

Ted and Beard pointed at him.

“I’m hanging up,” Roy said.

“I’m here!” Higgins said, call connecting as he wheezed through some requisite howls. “What have I missed?”

“Mostly Roy and Jamie being shockingly wholesome as a couple,” Beard answered.

“Aw!” Higgins smiled.

When they finished their meeting, it was half ten, and Jamie was already in bed. They didn’t do 4am training anymore since Roy was manager, but Jamie did get up and train on his own most mornings before they headed into Nelson Road. Gave Roy more time for all the shitty boring manager paperowk he had to do now but it did mean more early nights.

“No,” Roy said “Fuck off enough about me." He let out a massive bark. “Ted, what the fuck is your problem?”

Early nights they spent together because they were surprisingly wholesome. Fuck Roy’s life.

Roy removed his trousers and crawled in next to him, Jamie immediately turning to nuzzle into his chest.

“Fucking Diamond Dogs saw what you did to my sweater and think we’re sweet now.”

Jamie snorted. “No amount of clothes sharing could make you sweet. You’re Roy fucking Kent. You’re a bitter old cunt and that’s why we love you.”

Roy hummed. “Bitter like unsweetened dark chocolate.”

“Bitter like stale coffee you keep in the back of the cabinet for the weirdos who don’t drink tea.”

Roy smiled, a small thing that he was sure Jamie could still see even with his eyes closed. “Thanks, babe.”

Jamie hummed, his hand running over Roy’s chest. “You know it’s about the same level of furriness with and without the sweater,” Jamie noted.

Roy rolled his eyes. “I hate you,” he said, kissing the top of Jamie’s head.

“I know,” Jamie answered on a happy sigh. “But you’re really bad at it.”.

#Ted Lasso #RoyJamie #oops I wrote a thing #writing advent

[caspersickfanfics]

Written for @monthofsick Day 13: Professionalism Failure

Prompt List | AO3 | Ask | Rules

Warnings: Vomiting, fever, implied scat/diarrhea off screen

Anon asked:

Hey! I was wondering if I could request the professionalism failure for sick Cyno Tighnari caretaker? Maybe cyno has gotten food poisoning from a work event and has to somehow keep it together until tighnari can rescue him? Or maybe he can’t and has to deal with the embarrassment of it all. I just can imagine Tighnari being really protective over him if the other academy members give him a hard time~

A/N:

I don’t think this really makes sense in the canonical progression of things, but as I wrote this I imagined it taking place before Nahida had time to select actual good sages to replace the old ones. So the sages here are like the default ones who were next in line after Azar and that group. Essentially, they’re connected to Azar still but weren't directly convicted of any crimes and they have a lot less power. Idk, thinking about politics too much even in fiction makes me mad so I’m just gonna do a bit of a hand wave here.

This meeting has been a thorn in Tighnari’s side since the sages demanded to arrange it weeks ago. Despite his best efforts to wriggle his way out of it, the thorn had stuck. They’d backed him into a corner of sorts; the Akademiya demanded his presence specifically to even consider allocating funding to assist in the healing and maintenance of the Avidya Forest. Somehow, now that he’s in attendance, it’s even worse than he’d expected.

He scowls at the itinerary in front of him. It’s weighted so that anything anyone’s interested in will happen at the very end. No chance of leaving early. He probably shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

The one saving grace is that Cyno is here as well. While the matras’ financials are essentially secured as a matter of tradition, the specific way in which the money gets distributed is up in the air. Depending on the outcome, Cyno’s internal sense of justice may be placed in alignment with or in opposition to their mandates. This meeting may be even more important for him than for the forest rangers.

Which is why Tighnari is alarmed when, about 45 minutes into the 5 hour meeting, Cyno’s head is pillowed in his arms, resting upon the ridiculously long conference table. Although Tighnari is seated a distance away, he thinks he can see sweat matting the matra’s hair down. With any luck, he’s just being paranoid, though that seems unlikely. Even more so when Cyno raises his head and suddenly stands. His typically warm skin tone has paled to an ashy brown. He’s hunched over, too. His posture is altered so slightly that Tighnari doubts anyone else has noticed, despite all eyes turning his way at the scrape of his chair, but it’s glaringly obvious to him. Not to mention - this is Cyno’s second time interrupting the meeting. For the second time, too, he quietly excuses himself for the bathroom.

It’s fortunate that Alhaitham is still Acting Grand Sage. Tighnari had been somewhat grumpy towards his friend for the fact that he hadn’t been able to exempt him from the meeting, but the fiery grudge is doused when the ex-scribe’s glare silences annoyed complaints from the other sages about the General Mahamatra’s exit. If Alhaitham’s lingering frown is anything to go by, he’s noticed something off about Cyno as well.

The meeting continues on, and its participants are forced to split into breakout groups. They’re meant to be discussing the continued importance of knowledge to Sumeru, though no one seems to care enough to stay on topic. Instead, the people around Tighnari begin trash-talking Cyno.

“That’s enough gossip, I think,” Tighnari asserts dryly. He recognizes a handful of the nuisances around him as Bimarstan employees and smirks as they pale before him. “Sorry, who was it you were saying is unprofessional? I, for one, wonder about the ethical repercussions medical personnel might face if they were, say, reported for rudely speculating on a past patient’s personal life.” He resists the urge to make specific jabs at a particularly loud doctor whom he has quite damning intelligence on, but keeps the option available for future use as needed.

Fortunately, his colleagues are just barely smart enough to catch his threat. They carry their discussion to the topic at hand, and then onto some other irrelevant gossip that Tighnari doesn’t care enough to comment on. Instead, he’s distracted by tracking the time that Cyno’s been gone. Ten minutes, then 15. When the door finally creaks open, conversation lulls. Heads turn.

“I apologize for the disruption,” Cyno says upon entering. He looks… marginally better than he had when he’d left. The sages accept his apology with minor grumbling that is cut surprisingly short - again, likely thanks to the Acting Grand Sage. Tighnari will thank him, later. He tries to let his concern fade away, but is unable to resist clearing his throat.

“I’d like for the General to join our group, if that’s alright? I believe his insight would be rather beneficial to our current discussion.” A discussion to which Tighnari has been paying no attention. He is grateful once again for Alhaitham, who nods and silently leaves no room for disagreement.

Up close, Cyno looks exhausted. Tighnari was right to be worried. Cyno runs hot, but doesn’t tend to sweat; definitely not this profusely. He’s quiet by nature, but has never hesitated to voice his opinions. Now he says nothing even when their colleagues unapologetically speak with microaggressions and horribly biased misconceptions about the Eremites. His eyes are unfocused; Tighnari wonders if he’s hearing the conversation at all. As time passes, Cyno’s condition only worsens and he drifts closer to Tighnari’s side. Eventually, the matra’s stomach makes an angry noise and his cheeks flush. Tighnari pulls him aside.

“Do you need to leave?” He asks gently. Tighnari silently dares anyone else to comment with a quick glare at the rest of the group. They continue to chatter amongst themselves, shuffling out of earshot. Perhaps out of respect, an effort to grant some privacy; perhaps simply to gossip more. Tighnari simply does not care - not right now, at least. He’ll deal with it later if he needs to.

“I’m sorry,” Cyno says, voice weak. “I’m okay. My–” He sucks in a sharp breath and winces, his hand shaking as it drifts to his midsection. A moment passes; the pain intensifies and then relents. When he speaks again, Cyno’s voice is dulled. “My stomach is just disagreeing with something I ate.”

Clearly. If his partner were feeling better Tighnari would argue that this is a severe understatement. “You’ve been feeling bad this whole time?” Tighnari asks instead. The General shrugs.

“It’s manageable.”

Very deliberate phrasing, Tighnari notes. Outwardly, he nods. “Let me know if that changes, Cyno.”

The meeting carries on. It’s boring and obnoxious. The loud doctor continues to be vocal about his nonsense. Tighnari rebukes him occasionally for the sake of a bit of entertainment, but the other man is easily cowed. He defers quickly to Tighnari’s judgement each time. Uninteresting, but probably for the best; there’s no point in getting worked up over someone who will likely lose his position for malpractice in the next few months.

For his part, Cyno remains unspeaking in the presence of the rest of the group. He sits off to the side and fidgets, looking at the floor. His cheeks are flushed, which Tighnari suspects is due to both a fever and humiliation. When the side of his face comes to rest against the table, Tighnari resists the urge to remove his heavy headdress only because he knows that doing so would embarrass Cyno further.

Next on the itinerary is free discussion, meaning that everyone at the meeting is supposed to get up, walk around, talk to people… Tighnari does not care for this sort of connection making. He doesn’t bother moving, and responds politely but vaguely to anyone who approaches him. More importantly, he responds the same way when anyone tries to approach his partner - perhaps with a touch of extra heat. Of course, Cyno could fend for himself, even in his current state, but Tighnari has no doubt that at least some of their colleagues have picked up on the General's vulnerability and are deliberately targeting it. He’s just sent someone away perhaps a bit too forcefully to be called diplomatic, when a cool, clammy hand wraps around his arm. Cyno is looking up at him.

“Tighnari. I feel sick.” A queasy burp escapes him. Tighnari frowns.

“You’re nauseous? Cyno,” he chides. “You need to rest at home.”

Fortunately, Cyno nods in agreement. “I’ll let the sages know that I’m leaving. You should stay,” he says, waving away Tighnari's skepticism. “I can handle this and - hic! - there’s no need for the forest to suffer for my failings.”

Tighnari nearly rolls his eyes. He’s sure that neither the forest nor the matra need to face consequences as a result of an illness entirely out of Cyno’s control; though he can acknowledge there is some benefit in his presence here, if the other man is able to hold out on his own. If he stays, Tighnari could at least ensure nothing disastrous happens regarding either of their positions.

Still. He would easily sacrifice that for the sake of Cyno’s wellbeing.

He watches the sick man approach the sages, who sit in large, looming chairs, making Cyno look tiny. Alhaitham stands, as if to stretch his legs, and moves close. Frustratingly, with all of the chatter and the distance between then, Tighnari can’t hear a thing without imposing on the conversation directly. He can see Cyno speak, and then Alhaitham nods. The elder sages frown and one says something, before two more join in. Cyno's head bobs, then shakes, and then he muffles what looks to be another burp into his fist. He’s still for a moment, aside from his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. 

Even without knowing the exact words exchanged, it’s more than evident that the sages are unwilling to respect Cyno’s needs. Tighnari is about to interfere when Alhaitham’s voice jumps up a notch - likely deliberately at a volume just loud enough for Tighnari to hear.

“So,” he’s saying to the other sages, “you’re saying that a doctor whose medical skills are acknowledged by the Akademiya must verify that he’s ill?”

Tighnari tenses. He immediately glances around the large room, eyes searching. Alhaitham is still speaking.

“For example,” he continues. “A Bimarstan doctor?”

There’s no use checking whether the sages agree - Alhaitham has them cornered. Now Tighnari just needs to— Ah. There.

He barely resists grabbing the doctor by the ear and latches onto his wrist instead. Under his breath, he speaks with venom, “Cyno is sick, clearly, don’t you agree?”

The man is silent, probably stunned, and Tighnari continues. “Or would denying the obvious truth be worth risking—”

“Oh no, yes, you are correct, Master Tighnari,” the doctor rambles nervously. Tighnari pushes him before the sages. They glance at one another. Cyno looks up, as well, but stays quiet, taking measured breaths.

“Well?” Tighnari asks. “He’s a Bimarstan doctor.”

With the glares of both Tighnari and Alhaitham pinned on him, the eldest sage slowly nods. Tighnari turns his gaze to the doctor and taps his foot. “Go on, then.”

“Oh! Um, yes, I believe that the General Mahamatra is experiencing some, uh, gastrointestinal distress. He should rest at home for the quickest recovery.”

“And,” Tighnari jumps in before he gets a chance to scurry away. “Would you recommend that someone assist in his care during this time, perhaps due to the strain of having been forced to stay on his feet for so long?”

“Ah, yes. Master Tighnari is correct, it would be wise for him to accompany the General. Should– should you all agree–” His backtracking cuts off with a wheeze as Tighnari stomps on his foot.

The eldest sage doesn’t look pleased, but he sighs, unsmiling as he spits out begrudging words. “I will allow it. But the forest watcher must agree to reapply for his funding and return to the city in a few weeks' time... Should he still be interested in the Akademiya’s support, that is.”

Tighnari grits his teeth. These geezers always need to get the last word in. “Fine,” he snaps, foregoing any pretense of politeness. He all but drags Cyno out of the conference room - gently of course, though he’s sure they’re equally eager to be elsewhere.

As soon as they’re through the door, Cyno stops.

“Tighnari. The bathroom— urp!” He lurches forward with an empty heave, then scrambles away. Tighnari is quick on his heels, and finds Cyno in an unlocked stall, trembling with his head hanging over the toilet. He hasn’t been sick yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Hey,” Tighnari speaks quietly. “Deep breaths, okay?”

Cyno glances at him briefly, then nods and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Tighnari scoffs.

“For saving me from that meeting? Cyno, please.”

The matra shakes his head. “It was important. And now you’ll have to come back. Not to mention– ugh,” a queasy shudder runs through him before Cyno is able to speak again. “Not to mention having to do the paperwork a second time.”

It’s an annoyance, but the paperwork isn't a big issue. Tighnari tells Cyno as much. “Just focus on getting better.”

The sick man has lost a great deal of the color in his face, and sweat glistens on his temples. His whole body is tense. Tighnari brushes his hair back, hoping to protect it from any mess and provide some comfort at the same time. “Try to relax,” he says.

“Guh,” Cyno moans. “I feel so… gross.”

Tighnari aches in sympathy. For as ill as Cyno looks, he’s sure he feels even worse. Minutes pass slowly. Cyno’s stomach makes angry noises and he’s periodically wracked by hiccups and burps. Eventually, Tighnari coaxes him into leaning back against his chest. His hands card through Cyno’s hair as the sick man turns, pressing his face into Tighnari's neck.

“You’re okay,” Tighnari murmurs. There are warm little puffs of air against his neck and it tickles, but he remains still.

He’s just beginning to sweat from his partner’s body heat when Cyno lurches away from him, hunched forward over an empty but gut-wrenching belch. His entire body heaves three times until he’s burping up a flood of vomit. It pours out of him with alarming urgency. Tighnari keeps his hair out of the way, but he can do little else but watch as Cyno violently empties himself. Each time he thinks it may be over, Cyno’s stomach contracts again. He sways; Tighnari steadies him just in time for another jet of puke to splash into the toilet water.

Disgusted shudders run through Cyno while he tries desperately to catch his breath. When he gets close, he is overtaken by coughs that bring up more bile. He groans.

Fortunately, there’s only so much in his stomach. When Cyno’s retching fails to bring anything else up for a handful of minutes, Tighnari half-drags him out of the stall, away from the sour smell. It seems to help. Cyno wipes his face and swallows thickly.

“How are you feeling?” Tighnari asks.

Cyno shrugs. “Bit better. For now.”

Tighnari hums; it’s to be expected. He suspects a bout of food poisoning or the stomach bug, so the next 24 hours or so will likely be challenging.  It’s a humbling thing, being able to do so little in the way of comfort at such a time. Still, he does what he can, massaging the back of Cyno’s neck, feeling him relax in time with his ministrations. He only stops when the matra begins drifting off.

Tighnari pokes his cheek. Cyno cracks an annoyed eye open, and Tighnari raises a brow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to sleep here? In this bathroom? Where our colleagues will eventually find us?”

Cyno nods. Cheeky bastard. His words are slurred when he speaks, as if his mouth has relaxed along with his body. “As long ’s you keep doin’ that…”

With a snort, Tighnari pulls them both to their feet. “Let’s go, you big lummox. I’d much rather give you a massage on your couch than on these gross tile floors.”

“Mhm,” Cyno mumbles, leaning heavily against his partner as they walk. “Nari… thank you.”

Chest warm, Tighnari ruffles the other man’s hair lightly and presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Any time.”

———

Fanart for this fic!!!

———

If you enjoyed the fic, feel free to let me know by replying directly to this post, by sending me an ask, or by sharing your thoughts with me privately and anonymously through this survey! I would super appreciate it <3 Thank you so much for reading!!

#my writing #tw vomit #tw emeto #tw fever #tw diarrhea implied #tw scat implied #genshin impact emeto #sick cyno #genshin sickfic #cyno genshin impact #tighnari genshin impact #alhaitham genshin impact #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober #my writing: genshin #this felt like such a long fic but it isn't that long ?? #too much plot for me i think #anyway i may edit this later sorry if there are glaring errors!! #there probably are because my computer keys stick lmao #too bad i'm just sick of looking at it :) #genshin emeto

[spicycinnabun]

Delivered

WC: 3031 🥠 Rated: T 🥠 on Ao3

Somebody was banging on the front door.

“Who the fuck is there?” Mickey barked from the bathroom.

He had just gotten out of the shower and wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at the house tonight. Unexpected visitors were never a good sign. He wrapped a towel around his hips and held it closed, exiting the cloud of steam.

“Delivery!” came the reply, muffled behind pine.

“Ain’t ordered no delivery,” Mickey muttered, tromping to the door. His feet left wet patches on the carpet. He hadn’t even dried his hair yet, so it was dripping too, as he grabbed his Glock from the side table. Mickey opened the door without checking the peephole.

Sure enough, a delivery guy was standing on his porch in a green baseball cap and a tight grey t-shirt.

He looked startled for a moment, probably by Mickey’s appearance and the pistol in his hand, but he recovered with a (friendly?) half-smirk. “Order from Wok Around The Clock for Mickey?”

Mickey eyed the guy, trying not to focus on the broad shoulders or the sculpted chest. “Yeah, I’m Mickey, but I didn’t order any shit from—” he cut himself off, gesturing towards the logo on the guy’s shirt, “there.”

He’d ordered from Wok Around The Clock plenty of times—usually, he went and picked it up himself—but he was never going to repeat that stupid fucking name out loud.

“Well, someone did, and they used your name and address.” The guy held up a brown paper bag that was stapled shut and spattered with grease. “You might as well take it. It’s just going to go to waste otherwise. And hey,” he joked, “free noods. Doesn’t everybody like those?”

Mickey stared at him.

The guy ducked his head. With his cap obscuring his eyes, Mickey just saw the slightly pink apples of his cheeks and a magnitude of freckles.

“It’s already paid for? Guess it would be foolish of me to pass up free grub,” he admitted, putting the Glock back onto the side table. He snatched the bag from the delivery guy’s fingers, peeking inside. “What’s in here?”

“Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “The fuck is Ian?”

“My name. Thought you’d wanna know.”

What the fuck…?

Mickey’s head whipped up, and his face heated unexpectedly. “Why, you want a fuckin’ five-star review on your app or some shit? Already told you I didn’t order, man. I can’t do that.”

Why hadn’t he just slammed the door and started enjoying his free noods—noodles—already, damn it?

“No…” Ian laughed. He finally lifted his head, and the light caught his eyes. Green and sparkling with amusement.

If Mickey didn’t know better, he’d say Ian was checking him out, too. He was still wearing that half-smirk that was turning into a (more than friendly?) full smirk the longer Mickey looked at it.

But Mickey did know better. People didn’t do that to him. Guys didn’t do that to him. Especially not guys like… this. Attractive, tall, kinda alien-looking ones.

“I don’t need a review, but if you have any complaints, I can give you my number.”

Mickey let go of his towel in disbelief. It nearly dropped off his hips until he hastily grabbed it again with a scrunched fist. Ian’s eyes tracked the movement. “The fuck you just say?”

Had Mickey gotten water in his fucking ears that was disturbing his fucking hearing? Or…

“If you have any complaints—about the food, the service, anything—Wok Around The Clock would love to hear them,” Ian replied smoothly. He took a pen out of his pocket (like some fucking boy scout), uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote something down on the side of the bag that Mickey was still holding. “Or if you want to talk to us in person, we’re just… a wok around the block.” He winked.

Winked.

Mickey let it happen. The bad joke, the—the whatever this was. He was so flabbergasted that he had turned into a fucking statue.

Faced with Mickey’s silence, Ian finally started to look a bit sheepish. He capped his pen and slid it back into his jeans’ pocket. “Okay. Well, enjoy your meal. See ya.”

He ducked away before Mickey could pick his brain up off the floor, getting into a black pickup truck parked on the street. It growled to life, and he lifted his hand to wave at Mickey before speeding off.

Mickey stood there staring until one of his neighbors, Connie, walked by with her beagle and a little girl. Both the girl and beagle were on harness leashes, and Connie looked like she had gone one too many rounds with a tanning bed, all red and splotchy.

She stopped when she noticed him, yanking the leash straps and making the little girl squeal as she was pulled back. “Hey, Milkovich, nobody wants to see your tits! Go on back inside before you scar my neice with your pervert peep show.”

“Lookin’ at your overbaked lasagna of a face every day, I’m sure she’s already scarred for life, Ms. Hannigan,” Mickey said. He closed the door on her middle finger.

*

After he was dry and dressed, Mickey settled on his couch in front of the coffee table and took a few big, healthy shots from a bottle of whiskey to shake off some nerves he had no idea why he even had. Then, once sufficiently buzzed and relaxed, he started devouring the free food that was mysteriously his usual order—Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.

Christ, Ian wasn’t part of his usual.

Weird fuckin’ guy.

Weird, big shoulders, perfect for hanging onto.

Weird, sweet face that was kinda nice to look at?

Mickey’s teeth clacked against his fork. He felt warmth creep up his neck as his eyes strayed from the TV playing an old Friends rerun to the handwritten phone number on the side of the bag.

468-7883

Call me ;)

Call him. Like hell Mickey would call him. And that fucking winky face. That was suspicious, right? Why was it there?

His rescue kitten, Lucifur, took the opportunity to swipe a packet of plum sauce from the table and start playing with it on the floor while he was distracted.

“You think he was hittin’ on me?” Mickey asked him.

It was possible but… unlikely. The guy hadn’t seemed fruity at all. Didn’t do any weird shit with his voice or hands. Not like any of the fags Mickey had ever come across. More like him. Like, regular.

Lucifur ignored him, continuing to roll around happily with the packet. Mickey leaned over to grab it from him before he tore a hole in it with his claws and got plum sauce everywhere. He got scratched for his trouble but headbutted a few seconds later.

“Little shit.” Mickey scooped him up and stroked him affectionately. “You don’t got any opinion on this?”

Lucifur closed his eyes and purred, his whole body vibrating. Mickey leaned back, and Lucifur walked up his chest, curling up in the crook of his neck. Mickey couldn’t prevent the soft smile that bloomed across his face. “Guess not.”

Between the booze, the full belly of food he now had, and the tiny black fluffball of doom warming him from the inside out, Mickey could have fallen right to sleep.

He unlocked his phone instead, pulling up his contact list and adding a new one. He named it Complaint Dept. and shot off a text before he could talk himself out of it.

Yo I got a complaint about my order

Not enough beef

He dropped his phone onto his chest without waiting for the Delivered message to show up.

On the TV, Chandler said, “Oh please, could she be more out of my league?”

“He ain’t out of my league. He’s a fuckin’ delivery boy,” Mickey argued, defensive for no reason and talking to the TV like a fucking psycho. He really needed to get out more.

Lucifur mrrr’d like he agreed with that thought, tucking a paw beneath the collar of Mickey’s shirt and extending his claws to knead Mickey’s collarbone. Mickey let out a curse at the pinpricks in his skin but didn’t stop their assault.

His phone lit up with a notification. Mickey tilted the screen towards his face.

Complaint Dept. (now)

Oh really? I’m sure I can fix that. How much beef do you need, Mickey?

Mickey snorted and tapped on the notif to open the message, semi-drunk fingers fumbling over the tiny keyboard. He started this shit. He might as well play along.

It was also a good sign (why?) that the guy immediately knew it was Mickey. That meant he wasn’t a fuck boy who hit on every Tom, Dick, and Harry that he delivered food to. Probably.

How much you got?

I’ll take it all

Delivered

If they were talking about what he thought they were talking about, he was like seventy-five percent sure now that they were flirting.

Most guys can’t take everything I’ve got. You sure you can?

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. Okay, ninety-five percent sure.

Guys you been with sound like complete pussies

Delivered

That was probably a lie, too. Outside of porn, the majority of guys were less than average or average in the dick department. (Hell, Mickey included.) And the small handful of guys that Mickey had fucked had talked a big game, but when it came to actually whipping it out and performing… eh. Disappointing. In size and delivery. So much so that he’d actually stopped one mid-fuck and topped him instead.

He got a response a few minutes later. It was enough time for him to reach out for his pack of smokes on the coffee table and light one up, blowing the smoke away from Lucifur.

What are you doing right now?

Mickey bit his lip. Was that supposed to be a sexy question? Was Ian trying to sext with him or some shit? Should he send a picture of his dick?

“Nah, too desperate,” Mickey decided. No way was he about to give the guy a personal penis portrait to hang up in his bedroom.

He opened his camera app and reversed it, angling the lens above himself. He missed the shutter button on the first try and nearly dropped his phone on his fucking face, but he got it on the second try. All that was included in the shot was his chest, Lucifur, the lower half of his face with his cigarette caught between his smirking lips, and his left hand, middle finger aloft.

Chillin with this villain

No free nudes for you, sorry

Delivered

Mickey watched the screen. It didn’t take long for those three dots to start dancing.

I’ll take a hot guy with a kitten over a dick pic any day of the week.

Mickey’s stomach swooped, brows furrowing. Hot… Him? Nobody had ever called him that before. Dirty guy? Sure. Smelly guy? Definitely. But hot guy? That was fucking new. Slowly, his brows smoothed out, and a gay-ass smile spread across his face as he read the sentence a few (dozen) more times. He was glad not even Lucifur was awake to see this. Shit was embarrassing.

Ian asked him a few questions. The kitten’s name, where he got him, and if Mickey had any other pets. Mickey was baffled why the guy gave a fuck, but the whiskey was making him more open to conversation, so he answered and even asked one of his own.

You got any?

Delivered

A picture of a German shepherd popped up on his screen. Its upper half rested on what Mickey assumed was Ian’s lap, and its head was lifted towards the camera, tongue lolling out happily like it had just finished playing for hours. It wore a blue collar with a shiny gold tag, and an alligator-shaped chew toy was between its paws. A big, freckly hand was buried in its fur, in the middle of ruffling its ears.

My girl, Lyla. Retired military K-9 unit. Best dog in the whole country.

Well, shit. Mickey’s smile grew a little. Fact that Ian was an animal lover might’ve been attractive as hell. He ashed his cigarette in the tray and picked up the whiskey bottle.

Cute

Bet you spoil her to death

Delivered

Mickey looked at the picture some more. He could see a dusting of hair all over Ian’s corded forearm. Why were the visible veins in his hand kinda hot? The hair was orange-ish, coppery, too. He was a redhead. Fuckin’ hot. Mickey nearly spit out his whiskey when the next message appeared.

You wanna sit on my lap next? I could spoil you too.

Mickey swallowed wrong and coughed, putting the bottle back on the table and thumping his chest. Lucifur let out a mew of complaint as he was disturbed. Mickey’s heart went haywire as he reread the message. It was a dumb joke, he knew, but hell. Ian sure was shooting his shot.

Mickey could flirt back.

Sure you could

Delivered

Okay, maybe he couldn’t.

You don’t sound convinced. I can fix that too.

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting another whiskey-fueled blush. More like he didn’t know what the fuck to say.

Think you might be all bark

No bite

Delivered

A dog joke. Nice, Milkovich. Real flirtatious.

Oh, I bite. If you ask nice. Sometimes I even like it…ruff. 🦴️

Despite himself, Mickey laughed. What a fucking nerd.

Lucifur, having had enough of Mickey’s constant jostling, hopped off him, tiny tail flicking. He meowed demandingly until Mickey scooped him up by the belly and lowered him to the ground. Mickey watched Lucifur scamper to the kitchen, making sure the little idiot didn't brain himself on the corner of the wall, before focusing on his phone again.

The TV had already moved on to another sitcom. This time, a rerun of How I Met Your Mother was playing.

Do those awful fucking jokes ever get you any ass?

Delivered

The dots did their dance.

Only the coolest guys like my jokes. Are you cool, Mickey?

On the TV, Ted said, “Shouldn’t we hold out for the person who doesn’t just tolerate our little quirks but actually kinda likes them?”

Mickey pulled his lip into his mouth, grinning. He guessed he could stroke the dork’s ego. Just this once.

Coolest motherfucker you ever met

Delivered

Nothing happened on the screen for long enough that Mickey got up and cleared the coffee table, packing up his leftovers and putting them in the fridge for the next day. He noticed a lone fortune cookie in the bottom of the bag as he was about to crush it up and put it in the trash, so he fished it out.

He also refilled Lucifur’s kibble and replaced his water with some fresh stuff from the tap since the little guy was howling in front of his bowls like he hadn’t eaten in three goddamn years. Never mind he was only five months old and had eaten a can of wet food only two hours ago.

Mickey was a bit unsteady on his feet and just drunk enough that his dumb fucking smile was still plastered across his face as he cracked open the fortune cookie and unrolled the little piece of paper.

“The greatest risk is not taking one,” Mickey read out loud, smile disappearing. “You callin' me a coward, bitch?”

Great, now he was talking to fortune cookies.

His lucky numbers were…

4 6 8 7 88 3

That looked familiar. “You can’t be fucking serious!”

Mickey squinted, dropping the fortune and fumbling for his phone to double-check, but he nearly had a heart attack when he saw the notification waiting for him. His ass hit the couch again as his world went loopy.

Complaint Dept. (2 minutes ago)

Does that mean you’d agree to go out on a date with me?

…Ian, the delivery guy he’d just met, wanted to take him out on a date?

Not a hookup. Like, a real fucking date? With fuckin’ conversation and shit?

Mickey was not sober enough to answer that, but his fingers were moving before his brain could catch up.

Don’t really do dates

Delivered

Had never done it, was the truth. Not even with a woman. Not even with Svetlana.

What kinda date?

Delivered

He was out of his fucking mind. He shouldn’t have asked that.

The dots danced again.

We could go for a drink?

Or something sweet? I know a great ice cream place.

“Christ.” Mickey covered his face with his palms. His heart was racing like his dad was about to rise from the grave and burst through the door with an AK-47 pointed right at his head. Mickey peeked out between his fingers when his phone pinged five more times in quick succession.

But it’s okay!

If you don’t want to.

No pressure.

Though you will be missing out on some great comedy.

I have a whole arsenal of puns you still haven’t heard.

Over the years, Mickey had never talked to anyone like this. There was never an opportunity for someone to flirt with him or ask him out. He was short and to the point. None of his one-night stands had even made it to the morning. Out of his bed before the sun rose every time—if they even made it to his bed in the first place. Even chit-chat was kept to a minimum.

His door had been slammed shut and bolted with his back pressed hard against it, fueled by fear, since he was a teenager.

But maybe now it was finally open. Just a crack.

“Go to hell, you fuckin’ prick,” Mickey muttered, picturing Terry’s rage-filled face. His thumbs tapped out a message.

That’d be a shame

Won’t scream for it, but I do like ice cream

Delivered

You don’t have to scream for the ice cream.

But you might scream for me. ;)

Mickey sniffed, then blew out an amused snort. Fucking winky-faced cheesy fucker.

Yeah

Guess we’ll see about that

Delivered

#fic #gallavich #gallavich au #shameless #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #tw internalized homophobia #bad puns #flirting #meet cute

[amostimprobabledream]

When your head's in the clouds (keep your feet on the ground) - Ranpo Edogawa x Reader

Also available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45151330 Getting anything done in the Armed Detective Agency was a struggle sometimes. Case in point. Across the room where you were meant to be typing up a report on a case the agents had recently finished, Kunikida was yelling at Dazai for a slew of complaints that had been lobbied at him recently, apparently for trying to jump off a statue of a historical figure downtown, breaking it and coming out totally unscathed. Naomi was attached to Junichiro's back, cooing as he squirmed in embarrassment and tried in vain to shush her. Atsushi was flailing his hands and protesting some edgy comment Kyoka had probably made (you weren't really listening, you tended to zone out whenever she spoke). With all of it combined, you could barely hear yourself think, let alone write the damn report. Just hang on a bit longer til lunch. you thought, rubbing your temples, the beginnings of a headache blooming. You probably shouldn't have skipped breakfast, but Kunikida was a real stickler for punctuality and you couldn't always guarantee he'd be distracted by Dazai's antics to sneak in without him noticing. And you were running late that day after somehow sleeping in, breaking your favourite bag on the way in and a bunch of other stupid little mishaps, so you weren't in the best of moods.

As you waited for the noise to die down a bit so you could concentrate, your mind drifted to your current obsession - the crime thriller novel you've been reading. You were about halfway through it now and the urge to just whip it out and start reading it in the midst of all this chaos was all too tempting. You'd even brought it with you because you'd taken to wandering around with it in one hand. You were planning to get through more of it on your lunch break.

"You know, my snack drawer is looking pretty empty right about now...”

Your eyes flicked in the direction of the singsong voice. Ranpo perched himself on the edge of your desk and you hastily grabbed it before he ended up knocking it off like a cat would. You wouldn't put it past him.

"Somebody really needs to put a bell on you," you said, rolling your eyes. For somebody who spent most of his time either inhaling candy and never putting on an ounce of weight or sleeping all day, he could be sneaky when he wanted to. "You don't look busy," Ranpo continued, and there was that famous lack of tact of his. "Why don't you take over Kunikida's shopping? He's gonna be busy yelling at Dazai for a while so you might as well." You sighed, which you'd been doing a lot lately. If anybody else had walked up to you and said that, you would have asked them who the hell they thought they were, but it's Ranpo so you let it go because you know he doesn't mean anything by it.

“I’m busy, actually. I’m finishing up a report that’s due by the end of the week.” You told him, then smirked. “Last time I checked, you have working legs. Why don’t you go if your snacks are so important?” “No way! I’d get lost if I tried to find the supermarket all by myself!” Ranpo protested loudly and you marvelled that a twenty-six-year-old man could announce that so freely and confidently. “And anyway, you’re not busy at all – you haven’t typed anything for the last fifteen minutes. Either you’re already finished and just don’t feel like going or you aren’t done and don’t know what to write next so you’re stalling for time.” You’ve seen him do it many times, but you still couldn’t help but marvel at Ranpo’s galaxy brain. He got all that from merely listening for your typing? “I- wow.” You said, closing your mouth. “Okay, fine, you’re right, I am stuck.” “See?” Ranpo smirked. “If you go on a supply run, you’ll get to stretch your legs and can come back to your silly report later. Maybe it’ll give you some fresh ideas of what to write.” It’s sound logic, if a tad bit manipulative given Ranpo made it sound like such a chore a couple of seconds ago, but Yosano, who had also evidently grown weary of all the racket, chimes in. “You might as well go,” she said, shaking her head. “You know Ranpo won’t leave it alone until he gets his own way.” “Nope!” Ranpo admitted with a cheeky little smile that made Yosano smile in response. “If you hurry you can even get back in time to finish that dumb book you’ve been carting around everywhere, even if it’s so obvious who the killer is.” “Wha-?” you blurted out, glancing reflexively at your bag you’d dumped on your desk earlier, where sure enough, a corner of your book is poking out. “You haven’t read it, have you? So how could you-?” “I skimmed the back of it when you went to get a drink earlier,” Ranpo shrugged, and a bubble of relief welled up in your chest. So, he hadn’t actually read it, he was just being dismissive like he usually was when something didn’t interest him. And then he added, “But even so it’s pretty obvious the best friend has to be the killer.” Your mouth fell open. “What?!” you spluttered in disbelief. “That’s- you haven’t even read it! You just admitted as much!” “But the summary says the main character gets the phonecall when the best friend leaves the room to talk to someone on her phone, right?” Ranpo replied, pointing at you. “That gives her the perfect opportunity to overheard everything being said and rush back in when the main character sees what’s in the garden and screams. She has a watertight alibi because she didn’t leave the house the whole time, she was with the main character. Why else would the book even mention when the friend was doing at all?” You’re speechless. As much as you wanted to ignore him, throw his deductions to one side because there’s no way he could know that – the problem is that he can. And it all clicked into place. Every scene from the book was suddenly thrown into a completely different, sinister perspective. Every time the friend offered a shoulder to cry on or was mysteriously absent from the goings-on.

Mystery solved.

Anger boiled up in you, so fast it was like a geyser erupting. Perhaps it wasn’t just Ranpo’s words, maybe it was a culmination of things – stress, frustration, whatever, but it was just so…unfair. You’d been so exhausted the past couple of weeks, that book, the now ruined story, was one of the only things keeping you going. Reading it was your escape from all the annoyances of daily life and occasional dangerous threat that came part and parcel with working for the Armed Detective Agency. Being able to observe a world as a neutral third party, up close and personal with the problems but only as a puzzle to be solved? It’s a luxury that your job, your life, rarely afforded you.

And Ranpo, because he didn’t care, because he never thought about what he said before he just blurted out whatever he felt like, had ruined all of it in one fell swoop. All he cared about was waving his vast intellect around, careless as a madman with a gun. “What the fuck, Ranpo?!” you yelled at him. He had the nerve to look shocked, as well he might – nobody in the Armed Detective Agency ever yelled at Ranpo and the only person who ever scolded him was the president. Even Kunikida deferred to his intelligence and had given up trying to reign in any of his other behaviours. You’ve certainly never so much as raised your voice at him before, no matter how much of a brat he can be. But… “What?” Ranpo said, like he honestly had no idea why you were angry, like your rage had come in as quickly and inexplicably as a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. “I was – I was looking forward to finishing that!” you shouted, hating yourself for how ridiculous you sounded – it was just a book, for god’s sake, but somehow you felt like something had been torn away from you and you couldn’t control yourself. “And you fucking ruined it, you had to spoil it and you don’t even care! All you care about is your fucking candy! You just-“ You broke off just as abruptly, suddenly aware that if you kept yelling like this, you’d start crying and that’s the last thing you wanted. Instead, you just grabbed your bag and ran out of the office with an inarticulate, “Ugh!” of sheer frustration. Ranpo stared after you, his mouth slightly agape. Slowly he shut his mouth, and stood up from your desk, arms limp by his sides. “…I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered; more to himself than anyone else. “Was it really not obvious?” Yosano sighed. Your reaction had surprised her, true, and she had no doubt that once you had a little time to cool off, you’d come back and apologise for blowing up at Ranpo like that. It simply wasn’t done in the Armed Detective Agency – Ranpo was the reason it existed at all and everybody knew that. And she knew how fond you were of Ranpo, it was hard to stay angry with him for very long. But even so, she felt for you too. It may have seemed like a small thing, but sometimes it’s the small things that felt the biggest in that exact moment. “She’ll be back.” Yosano assured Ranpo, and he looked up at her. “But in the meantime, I have an idea…” ~ Your walk and subway ride to the supermarket was something of a fog to you – namely because you were so busy fuming to really concentrate on anything else. Arrogant, inconsiderate…manchild! You knew you were being ridiculous – it was just a book and your reaction was out of proportion to the situation. It was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. But now you knew you’d go through the day feeling flat and defeated. Now you’d just go scrolling idly through your phone or something and curl up on your sofa once you got home, without anything to look forward to. You could watch TV or play games or something, but…it wasn’t quite the same. And you felt kind of stupid for not realising such an obvious twist that Ranpo had discerned merely from glancing at the fucking summary, for god’s sake. It's not his fault he’s a genius. You reminded yourself, arms wrapped around your middle in some fruitless attempt at self-soothing. But he still didn’t have to say anything. He could have just let me enjoy it. Arguing with yourself proved to be a waste of time, of course. As you walked around grabbing things you were pretty sure the Agency was running low on (it wasn’t a perfectly ordered list like Kunikida would have had, of course, but that was too damn bad), you knew you’d already lost most of your initial outrage. You’d have to go back to the Agency with your tail between your legs and apologise to Ranpo. You knew you wouldn’t get one back, because he likely didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but you did still bad for hurting his feelings. When you got back to the Armed Detective Agency, you were surprised to see it mostly empty. Maybe a job had come up, or people had gone to lunch after you stormed off. You sighed. If that’s the case you wouldn’t be surprised On your desk was a parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Puzzled, you picked it up – you hadn’t expected any mail today and you didn’t usually get anything delivered to the Armed Detective Agency offices anyway, Dazai was horribly nosy and would badger you to tell him everything about any item you got. A brief thought flashed through your mind that it could be something dangerous, maybe sent from somebody in the Port Mafia, but you dismissed it just as quickly – why would they bother targeting you over someone who is a genuine threat to them? It made no sense, and you didn’t think it likely anybody would be able to sneak past both the CCTV, Dazai and Ranpo. Slowly, you tugged off the paper. It was a book. A gorgeous, sleek, heavy paperback book. The pages were so new they were almost blindingly white under the office lighting and the cover had pretty silver filigree around the border. Smoothing your fingertips over the cover, which depicted a woman standing under a street lamp, her profile in shadow, like she’d heard a noise and turned her head to look at it just as the photo was taken. You turned it over and read the synopsis. A crime thriller? Realisation dawned on you and your eyes widened. The door opened and the Tanizaki siblings, Yosano, Kenji and Ranpo all came in, chattering amongst themselves. Yosano and Kenji saw the shopping bags and approached you with a smile. “Hey! Sorry, did you just get back? We wanted to wait for you, but you were gone a little longer than expected. Here, we got you a bento,” Yosano said, rooting around in a bag of her own and handing it to you – it was still warm to the touch. “Thanks,” you said, smiling as you handed Kenji the bags, knowing he’d insist on taking them to the kitchen, and he went off with a happy grin to restock the cupboards. “Where’s Dazai and the others?” “They got a call about a disturbance downtown. They’ll be back later, I’d imagine,” Yosano said, wryly. “Assume this doesn’t have the Port Mafia’s dirty fingerprints on it.” “Right,” you said, but your eyes drifted over to Ranpo, who was already tearing open a bag of gummy bears Kenji must have passed him on his way to the kitchen. Yosano got the hint and excused herself to her clinic, saying she’d better have it ready for when Atsushi inevitably came back with some life-threatening injury. You picked up the book and, taking a deep breath, approached Ranpo at his desk. He pretended not to notice your footsteps until the last second, even though you could practically see his ears pricking up. “Ranpo?” “What is it?” Ranpo said, and though his tone was dismissive, there was a catch in his voice when he spoke. You wondered if it made you a pushover, but his studied attempt to appear unaffected by what happened earlier tugged at your heartstrings all the same. You smiled and leaned down, pressing a quick peck to his cheek, which was pleasantly warm against your lips. Ranpo’s head whipped around so he could stare at you, the sun catching his open eyes and making the green of his irises sparkle like broken glass. “Thank you.” You said, softly, the words only meant for him. You held out the book. “This looks amazing.” “Yeah, well, it should do. I’m the one who picked it out!” he said proudly, trying to play off the faint hint of a blush on his cheeks. “That’s a way better mystery, even I had to look at the first few chapters before I had it all worked out.” You stifled a laugh, imagining Ranpo standing around in a bookshop, holding a giant paperback in his hands and flipping casually through it like it was his own personal library. No doubt he inhaled a few muffins from the coffee shop upstairs while he was at it. “And I’m sorry about-“ you began, hurriedly, since you figured it’d be more awkward for you both to apologise with a room full of people earwigging, but Ranpo waved you off. “Nevermind that. Hey, come look at this new case I’m working on!” You smiled, knowing he’d already forgiven you – he didn’t show his own personal missions to just anyone, and sometimes when he did he’d abruptly dismiss you again once something occurred to him or he just decided he’d told you everything you needed to know. But listening to him talk about them was always fascinating, so, still clutching your new book, you sat down in a free chair and scooched closer. “Tell me all about it.”

#Ranpo Edogawa x Reader #reader-insert #Ranpo x You #Blogging #Fanfiction #This is just stupid fluff honestly #I don't know why I wrote this

[cookies-over-yonder]

it's not mutual pining, it's marriage

During a movie night, Taylor gets a bad headache from his horns growing in, and Link helps him out.

Swiftli Week Day 2: Angel/Demon & Hot/Cold!

ao3

The teens are watching a movie together at Link’s place, silent save for a few small jokes (everyone is exhausted), when Taylor doubles over with a whine, holding his head.

Link puts a hand on his back, rubbing small circles. Taylor’s been getting headaches a lot lately, growing pains from his horns coming in.

Right now they’re just tiny little bumps, barely perceptible, but easy to find by touch.

“Taylor, you okay?” Normal asks softly, though his expression betrays that he knows the answer.

“Mm-mm,” he groans.

Link remembers Taylor telling him that demon puberty supposedly happens when you’re nineteen, according to his dad. But Taylor’s barely seventeen, and from what Link can see, the growing pains have been consistently hellish.

Literally.

When Link shot up in height as a kid, his legs ached horribly . He remembers his dads massaging them until the pain subsided.

“Taylor, come here,” Link says, patting his lap.

Taylor takes his hands away from his head to crawl into his lap, with his back pressed against Link’s stomach.

“Is it okay if I massage your forehead? I think it might help.”

“Mhm.”

Link gently places his thumbs and index fingers at the bases of the little bumps on his head.

Taylor grabs a pillow from the arm of the couch and squeezes it, whimpering quietly.

Link starts to rub circles against the base of Taylor’s soon-to-be horns. He makes sure to he gentle, but to still apply enough pressure.

“Is that helping?”

“Think so.”

Taylor hums and leans further back against Link, letting out the tension in his shoulders.

The others have paused the movie. So now it’s quiet, save for a small conversation between Normal and Scary that Link can’t quite parse.

Taylor’s also been hotter lately. Like. Physically.

He becomes flushed rather easily nowadays, and his temperature to the touch is something inhuman.

He’s like a little space heater. Link likes it. As he tends to get cold easily, it’s nice and convenient to just scoop Taylor up for a rush of warmth. Taylor also gets flushed when Link does that, and it’s cute seeing his face all red and pouty.

Given the lack of whines and complaints, it feels safe to increase the pressure of the massage a little, so he does, pressing into Taylor’s warm skin with his thumb and index as he continues rubbing circles.

Taylor’s grip on the pillow loosens.

“Still okay?” Link asks.

No response.

“I think he’s asleep, dude,” Scary chimes in.

“‘M awake… ‘s good…” Taylor slurs softly, stretching his arms out before adjusting to press himself even further against Link.

Link can feel Taylor’s breathing slowing down, becoming heavier, and while he wasn’t planning on soothing Taylor to sleep, it’s not unwelcome at all.

Besides, Link doesn’t think he’s gotten much rest since these growing pains started up.

As the massaging continues, Link starts to feel a soft rumble coming from Taylor. At first, he thinks it might be snores, but it feels more like low, steady vibrations.

“Oh my god, is he purring?” Scary asks, a lilt of excited curiosity to her voice.

“Is that what that is?” Link asks, voice hushed so as not to disturb him.

“Aw, he’s like a little kitty!” Normal adds.

The purring gets louder as Link continues to massage Taylor’s forehead, and Link is sure he’s asleep when he suddenly turns around and nuzzles his face against Link’s chest. Taylor is a bit of a cuddlebug, but this is different.

It’s also really cute.

Link giggles, moving his hands from Taylor’s forehead to run them through his hair and cup his cheeks.

He’s so warm, and the weight against Link’s chest plus the purring is incredibly calming. It wouldn’t be the first time Taylor served Link as a weighted blanket either, but it’s just as nice every time. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, his eyes shut and a slight smile on his face, his breathing steady…

Link brushes hair out from the gap between his horns and plants a little kiss on his forehead.

Then he hears a giggle, and he glances up at Normal and Scary, Normal covering his mouth and Scary giving him some sort of knowing look.

“What?” Link whispers.

“Nothing,” Scary says.

“Your mutual pining can be silly sometimes,” Normal says.

“Wha—mutual pining?” Link asks, moving one hand to the back of Taylor’s head and one to the small of his back.

“Come on, man, you’re basically in love with him,” Scary says.

“I mean yeah, I love all you guys, not my fault Taylor is so cute,” he says, giving Taylor a squeeze.

“You’re cute too,” Taylor mumbles, his voice slightly altered from the rumbling in his chest. Ah, they must have woken him up. “‘S not mutual pining, ‘s marriage.”

“Yeah, we’re married, remember? You’re the ones making it weird.”

“Now everyone shut up,” Taylor says, squirming until his legs are stretched across the couch, with his feet in Normal’s lap and his head in Link’s, his face turned toward Link’s stomach.

“So much for movie night,” Scary teases.

“Fuck off, Scary! Bedtime now,” Taylor says, a little more aggressive than his usual light bickering with her.

“Jeez, sorry.”

“Sorry, Scary. Pain makes me sleepy. And cranky.”

“It’s okay,” Scary says, grabbing a pillow and standing up, bringing it over to where Taylor is lying in Link’s lap. She lifts his head and slides the pillow under.

Taylor mumbles a thanks to her before burying his face in it.

Right then, an alarm goes off, and Taylor whines, covering his ears before Scary grabs Taylor’s phone and shuts it off.

“Time for painkillers,” she says softly. “Since you two are compromised,” she shoots a look at Normal and Link, trapped under a sleepy Taylor, "I'll go get them.”

“Thanks wifey,” Taylor mumbles.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Got it.”

When she comes back, Link helps Taylor sit up, and he feeds him his meds and helps him drink some water.

“Is this what it was like when you got really tall?” Taylor asks Link.

“Yeah, pretty much. Except I didn’t have cute horns.”

Taylor giggles, but then he winces. “My back’s been hurting too… do you guys think I’m gonna get cool wings?”

“Nothing about you is cool.” Scary says, putting his glass of water back on the table.

“You don’t believe that for a second.”

“Fine, your red highlights are cool.”

“You did these for me!”

“Exactly.”

“One day you’re gonna accept that I’m cool. Link thinks I’m cool! Right, Link?”

“I think you’re cool,” Link says, poking Taylor’s cheek. “And cute.”

Taylor smiles, but then he winces again.

“You want me to massage your back?”

“Yes, please,” Taylor says, turning around to face his back toward Link.

“Alright.”

“Thank you, my angel,” Taylor says, caressing Link’s cheek and making him giggle.

“No problem,” Link says, turning to kiss the palm of his hand before getting to work.

#swiftli #dndads #taylor swift dndads #lincoln li wilson #dndads swiftli week 2024 #day 2 #cookies writes and cookies wrongs #fanfic

[melanie-ohara]

Take Yourself Apart For Me - Chapter 2

Whumpuary2024, Day 08 - Prompt: "Help Me"

Shin confronts her deepest fear: asking for help

I'll level with you: I cried a bit writing this one

AO3 Here

Shin spent the next two days in the Mandalorian's bed. Despite her escape attempt, they never attempted to put her back in the restraints - maybe they thought her injury would keep her captive. Or maybe they trusted her not to kill them in their sleep. Ahsoka Tano had given her back her lightsaber and from the weight of it Shin knew she hadn't removed the power pack, and she wondered what Baylan would have expected of her now. Tano was a war hero, he had told her, and she had no chance against her. She would sense her intentions even in the deepest of sleep and cut her down in seconds. But Sabine was weak: barely able to use the Force unless her life depended on it, unbalanced, and with aggression that rivalled Marrok. Shin had bested her in every contest they'd had, and she could kill her without breaking a sweat. 

Her eyes shifted down to the drawings on the wall. Did she want to kill her?

Baylan had sent her to Lothal. Morgan Elsbeth sent her on Seatos. Thrawn sent her on Peridea. Not once had she decided for herself. 

The door opened and Shin rolled onto her side to face the wall before Wren could see her face. Murley's portrait looked up at her, and Shin felt that its stare was a little accusatory.

"Brought you food," Sabine said, with cheer that didn't sound forced, no matter how much Shin wished otherwise. She lifted her hand and Sabine pressed the carton into her fingers without complaint. As always, she'd already put the straw in for her.

At Huyang's insistence, Shin was on a liquid diet of blended protein infusion until she was fully healed, and the thick, flavourless gruel she had to suck down through a straw sometimes made her wish Feldspar had actually killed her. She could hear Sabine beside her, unwrapping a protein bar for her own breakfast, and wished her presence didn't comfort her so much. She was sick of eating alone.

"Your armour," she said, after a long silence broken only by Sabine's chewing. "I heard the droid saying."

"It's wrecked," Sabine said, trying and failing to sound flippant. 

Shin remembered Sabine kneeling under a barrage of blaster fire from the bandits that had once been her allies. "Why did you save me?" she asked abruptly.

She didn't need to look to know Sabine had shrugged before she answered. "Ahsoka saw something in you," she said. Neither of them spoke for a moment. "Why didn't you go back to Thrawn?" Sabine finally asked.

Shin closed her eyes. She wanted to reach out for her lightsaber, sitting on Sabine's desk on the other side of the room - not to attack, just to feel the weight of it in her hand for a while. Instead, she pictured it: the orange crystal sitting at the centre of the emitter matrix, the delicate twists and curls of the cables that ran along the core to the power cells, the thick insulation sheath and the metal hilt that sealed it away. 

"I don't know," she lied.

"Right," Sabine said, scrunching up the wrapper of her protein bar and getting to her feet. "Good talk."

She sounded annoyed, and it reminded Shin uncomfortably of the way Baylan had spoken when she was younger, and failed one of his drills or didn't put her all into an exercise.

"Wait," Shin said, before she could stop herself. She rolled onto her back to check that Sabine hadn't left, and saw her standing with her head cocked slightly and her hand on her hips as she looked at her. 

"Go on," Sabine prompted. Gently this time. 

Shin swallowed hard, and then nodded. "Baylan left me," she said. The words caught in her throat, but she got them out. She had barely admitted it to herself before now. "I… couldn't leave him."

Sabine sat down again. "He's family."

Shin shook her head. "We're not related. But I've never known anyone else."

Sabine moved her hand, and for a frightening moment Shin thought she might touch her. Instead, she just laid her fingertips gently on the edge of the mattress, an inch away from Shin's arm. Her nails were painted deep red.

"I lost my family too," Sabine said quietly. "My planet. And Ezra, twice now."

Shin looked away from her eyes. "I never had any of that," she said to the ceiling. 

Sabine tilted her head. "Well, not many people have an Ezra to lose."

Shin thought it might have been a joke, but she didn't feel like laughing. It would hurt too much anyway. Sabine sighed and Shin felt her weight shift like she was about to get up, and she opened her mouth just to stop her.

"I haven't felt anything since that day." 

Shin couldn't tell which of them was more surprised by what she'd said, but it was true so she didn't try and take it back. She did try to stop the tears welling in her eyes and the tightness constricting her throat, but it didn't work. Slowly, Sabine leaned forwards.

"I've been there," she said softly. Shin felt a tear breach the corner of her eye and roll down the edge of her cheek into her hair. 

"Then… can you help me?" she asked.

This time Sabine did reach out to her, and Shin tried not to flinch too obviously when her palm came to rest on her forearm. She could feel the warmth of her touch even through the sleeve of her shirt. 

"What do you need?"

*

Sabine took her weight as she guided her across the common room to the cockpit access, one of Shin's arms over her shoulders. Her instinct was to loop her own arm around Shin's waist, but she had noticed how little she liked to be touched without warning and instead left it pressed awkwardly between their bodies as they walked. She kept an eye on the white surgical patch Huyang had pressed over Shin's wound once the skin had healed enough, looking for signs that she'd torn her stitches again, but they made it to the cockpit without incident. She lowered Shin carefully into the pilot's chair and then took her usual seat once she was settled. 

Sabine flipped the intercom switch. Ahsoka had left early to scout the mountain path ahead, but Huyang had stayed aboard with them. "Huyang, I'm taking us for a ride," she said.

"For what purpose?" the droid asked.

"Uh… We've been hovering for a week now, I want to run the engines for a bit. Make sure they don't dry out," she said, shooting a glance over at Shin. She was too busy familiarising herself with the cockpit to return it.

"This is a T6 Jedi Transport," Huyang complained. "The engines do not 'dry out'." 

"Ignore him," Sabine said. Shin was already ignoring both of them.

"Taking us out," she said, and tugged the yoke towards her. The ship rose gracefully into the sky and Shin accelerated a little as they climbed towards the clouds. Sabine watched her hands move over the controls with the ease of an experienced pilot and the care of someone who dearly loved to fly, and was reminded strangely of the way Hera flew the Ghost. She felt a pang of sadness then - Hera and Zeb and her old life were so far away now, and she would probably never see them again. Kanan was further away still.

"This suits you," Sabine told Shin, more to get out of her own head than anything else. It was true though: the other woman was sitting up straight with a look of calm concentration Sabine had never seen on her. When they fought, she looked feral - blistering focus and a vicious will to win - but now she looked in control.

"Baylan didn't like flying the ship," Shin said without taking her eyes off the wisps of cloud starting to break apart on the screen. "I taught myself."

She banked the ship a little faster than necessary and Sabine saw her relish the brief rush of G-force pressing them sideways into their seats. She didn't smile, exactly, but her wide unblinking eyes softened and the tension in her jaw eased for a moment. It returned quickly, though, and Sabine noticed her knuckles tense a little against the yoke.

"What is it?" she asked, and immediately regretted it. Shin hated her prying, but she couldn't help it.

Shin's lip twitched, but she answered the question. "The last time I flew, I was trying to kill you."

"That was you?" 

"You didn't know?"

Sabine thought for a moment, remembering the one-man fighter craft diving and twisting out of her gunsights every time she thought she had them locked. "The gold one," she said, and Shin nodded. "No wonder I couldn't hit you."

The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at Shin's lips, and Sabine let herself grin openly at the victory of finally cheering her up as Shin took one hand off the yoke to adjust the thrust vector of one of the engines, and then instead of putting it back on the controls she laid her hand, almost casually, on the console between them. 

Sabine stared, slackjawed and stunned, for several seconds. Then she looked up at Shin, who was looking very intently the other way. It was obvious, overt even, in a way she would never have expected from the woman who communicated in angry glares and five-word sentences. She almost didn't believe it, especially when Shin shied away from any attempt to touch her. Cautiously, Sabine moved her own hand - not close enough to touch Shin, but near enough that she would know she had noticed. She was reminded of facing off against her on Seatos, and the way she had read Sabine's guard and taken a counter-stance to match her. Sabine's heart was racing the same way, too. She looked over at Shin to see what she was going to do next. A barely perceptible blush rose on her cheeks under her gaze, and slowly, without taking her eyes off a point on the distant horizon, Shin moved her fingers out until they brushed against Sabine's own. 

Sabine couldn't help the gasp that slipped her lips, and she worried for a second that the sound made scare Shin off. Instead, when she looked over, she saw Shin looking back. She hadn't turned her head much, just enough that Sabine could see both of her pale, blue-green eyes. Her usual wide-eyed stare had softened, and now there was a definite smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Thank you, for this," Shin said. 

Sabine nodded slowly, and flicked out her tongue to moisten her lips. Cautiously, she lifted her little finger and let it drift gently across Shin's until she could curl it into the space between her third and fourth digit. Shin took her counter-stance: her little finger closed around Sabine's.

"So what happens now?" Sabine asked. 

"I don't know." This time she was telling the truth.

#whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno4 #help me #wolfwren #sabine x shin #sabine wren #shin hati #star wars #ahsoka #fanfic #writing #Pilot Shin #Not a hug #but close #hurt/comfort #the hurt was mostly caused to me #There will be a third installment #in February #I've run out of gifs of them for now

[fang-and-feather]

Ikemen Vampire - Isaac x Arthur x Reader - Triadverse AU

Words: 625

Summary: Once upon a time, the three of you had been wandering stars, Isaac the most lost of them all. But you found your place in the sky by each other’s sides. A happy constellation formed on bonds of love. And it grew, and now it was changing.

Written for May's Polyam Shipping Day Prompt: Stars from @polyamships

Not the fic I expected to write, but the fic that came out. Sometimes I think I give myself too little time to write, but I'm afraid if I don't I'll just start tearing it appart or throwing it away and restarting, again and again. That's what happened with this one.

Next Chapter / IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist / AO3 Link

“Isaac?”

He almost jumped at the sound of your voice, finally tearing his attention from the telescope and the mystery on the other side of the lens.

“When you offered to come get Julia, we didn’t expect you to just take her place.” Arthur laughed.

Despite the words of complaint, Isaac was surprised to find himself wrapped in a thicker blanket, sandwiched between you and Arthur.

“She found something interesting. It is bright like a star but moves like a comet. I never saw something like that.”

A smoking mug was thrust before him, keeping him focused on Earth and his partners.

It was a mixture of hot chocolate and coffee that Arthur had taken a liking to. His with less coffee and a bit more cream than the original recipe you made for Arthur. But although each of you drank it slightly different, it had become your triad’s drink.

Isaac took a long sip, while you and Arthur snuggled closer to him, drinking from your own cups.

“It might be a lost star, trying to find her own constellation.” Arthur suggested.

“I’m serious, Arthur.” Isaac protested.

“Me too, luv. Just like you found us. Don’t you think our family is just like a constellation?”

Maybe, in a very simple way, every triad was. They were individual stars, connected into a group. But they would always be just a triangle. Unless you counted the kids, who would grow to form their own triads, connecting their parents’ ones in a vast network.

“I think we would be more of a galaxy. A constellation soon to be linked to others.”

“Soon?” You turned to face him. “Do you think it will be that soon?”

“Before she went to bed, we were talking about the star, and about Giovanna, since she saw it first. I don’t know when their relationship changed, but even I realized it did.”

“And we already know they’re both quite fond of Vincent. It’s not that surprising.” You laughed.

“Just… early.” Isaac added, nodding.

“We’ll just have to watch over our little star for a little longer.” Arthur also turned to look at him.

“So are you really that okay with it?” Isaac asked him.

“Of course I am. She is old enough to make her own decisions.”

But Isaac could see Arthur wasn’t as cool with it as he wanted you two to believe. He had a discreet frown and a slight pout, not as happy that one of his little girls was growing up and falling in love.

And Isaac chuckled, before kissing his husband. He always loved these more insecure reactions from Arthur.

For once, he wasn’t the one anxious or worried. In fact, Isaac felt quite confident that they had raised her well, and happy she found love like that. He trusted her judgment.

“They will be fine. Julia is smart like her father.”

“Like both her fathers.” You added, kissing his cheek.

“You are pretty smart yourself, luv.” Isaac could feel Arthur holding your hand behind his back, as both you and him rested your heads on his shoulders. “And kind. And she took a lot after you too.”

At first, Isaac was unsure of how the children of your surprising family would turn out. Once upon a time, the three of you had been wandering stars too, and he was the most lost of them all. Isaac expected to be alone, and definitely didn’t expect to be a part of the same constellation as Arthur.

But you found your place in the sky by each other’s sides. And he was happy that his oldest daughter was finding her place, her own family, and the love he never thought he would have, but found in the two of you.

Tag List: @tele86, @nightghoul381, @natimiles, @bicayaya, @eventinelysplayground

If you want to be tagged/untagged on future writings, you can reply to this post or send me a message

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

#PolyamShippingDay #ikevamp #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp isaac #ot3: arthur x isaac x reader #polyamory #ikemen vampire #fanfiction #ikevamp fanfic

[sabraeal]

Come to Heel, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

It’s hair for which his brother’s beta is best known— not the richer auburn of Tanbarun’s nobility, nor the carrot-like hues familiar to more far flung nations, but a brilliant apple red; its bright sheen inviting enough to make even the most civil mouth water. Or at least it had been when she flitted through Wistal’s gardens, the second prince’s scent clinging to her as strongly as koko grass and sage; a curiosity to the court, uncertain whether she would emerge as a pawn in their games or a player.

Of late, however, the reports whispered in his ears speak more of her intelligence and cunning, of her determination and grit. A beta that would make a fine alpha for any that might try their hand at taming her. A waste of a sure talent, a certain lord and commander had written from behind his well-watched walls, with neither status nor inclination to bolster her. A judgment and offer both, neither of which Izana had been inclined to take.

But what truly set her apart from her peers— nay, what places her above even the most cultured of his courtiers, the loveliest of his court flowers— is the heady scent of her agitation. Beta she may be, but even an alpha would be hard-pressed to put forth a more enticing essence, both sweet and sour as it bursts in his mouth like the season’s ripest plum. Which is what she is fast coming to resemble the longer she perches in his salon, the long bones in her hands standing out as stark as a skirt’s pleats.

“I think,” she says, voice trembling with the effort of measuring each word. “That the amount of your attention will hardly overcome your instinct to disregard any advice you don’t wish to heed, no matter how reasoned.”

Oh, his brother’s beta might compose her complaint as prettily as she likes, but he long ago learned how to sniff out the kernel of truth from even the finest flattery. “Why, Mistress Shirayuki,” he hums, crossing one leg languidly over the other. “Are you calling your king reckless?”

Her mouth pulls perilously thin. He’s half-tempted to try to slip another strip of meat between them, if only to see if she might bite. “I’m saying that you think you’re smarter than everyone else, and you act like it. It’s a liability.”

Well now, that’s a bit bolder than he’s heard in some time. At least from lips other than his aide’s. “My my, do be careful, mistress. It almost sounds as if you think yourself more clever.”

His brother’s beta is conspicuously silent, her only answer an even deeper furrow of that stormy brow.

“Doesn’t this cause more than a few issues with your security?” Her shadow smirks as he tacks on a much belated and hardly heartfelt, “Your Majesty.”

Still, Izana allows himself to entertain the question. “Perhaps, if I were to attend Mistress Shirayuki in my official capacity.” He allows his lips to curl, drawing that even sweeter suspicion of out her. “But I doubt that there would be much interest harming one of the Master Herbalist’s esteemed colleagues.”

“Esteemed…? No.” Alarm sours her scent, fast enough he nearly coughs, eager to expel the flavor. “No, no, you can’t possibly mean…?”

One brow arches, a question rather than incredulity. “Why not? Master Lowen has already been established as one of your acquaintances. It would be a pity to let such a convenient cover go to waste.”

“It’s impossible!” By the blush blooming across those freckled cheeks— and the sultry scent of her chagrin— the words may have burst from her unbidden, but the square of her shoulders practically shouts that she stands by the sentiment. “You can’t just…pretend to know about herbalism. It’s taken me almost four years to learn just this much, and I’m nowhere near as good as—”

“I’m not asking to pass as one of your Lilias scholars,” he drawls, enjoying the spike of her scent as she struggles not to leap from her chair. “Just a competent enough pharmacist to convince the ones in Hyatess. I hardly think a backwater like that would expect anything more than decent.”

Her mouth purses, peeved now that the honor of her irreproachable profession has been impugned. Even now a retort foments behind that unassuming face, her agitation peeling back the thin skin of civility between them, showing the animal beneath hair by innumerable hair—

And yet, she’s saved from it, her shadow once again insinuating himself where he ought not. “It’s nice that you’ve got this little show all worked out, Your Majesty, but that doesn’t change that it’s you.   His Grace isn’t going to be happy if you traipse off without an entourage. Or at least a bodyguard.”

His brother must be more fool than he gave him credit for if he still believes this irreverent mutt to be an omega. The pest doesn’t even lower his gaze when he speaks, those strange eyes fixed on him even as he helps himself to another shred of meat.

“It is not His Grace’s place to tender permission.” Izana lets his tone implying her knight might remember his own. “Though, for what it is worth, I do not mean to travel unprotected either.”

“Oh?” That grin slices like a knife, teeth peering through the gash. “So, what? Are you going to pass Sir Zakura off as a coachman? An apprentice? No wait, don’t tell me— the dog?”

“Of course not.” Though the last is tempting, if just to see if that man could bend his knees if the occasion called for it. “I assumed you would be coming with us, Sir Obi. After all”—he bares his own teeth this time, enjoying the way that shadow shrinks— “it would be odd for our dear master herbalist to travel without her paramour, would it not?”

To say the scent of the room becomes complex would be an understatement; it is a pity that his brother could not be here with a better nose to suss it out. It might save them all a bit of time if he could.

“We leave in two days.” Izana unfurls upright, pacing back behind the sofa, making sure both its occupants feel every inch. “Sir Zakura will give you further details as they are made.”

“But—?”

His hand snaps out— not a blow, but a firm press of his hand to her nape; a reminder. Trust his brother’s beta to take a royal request as a starting bid rather than a command. “Make your preparations accordingly.”

To his dismay, the mutt laughs.

“Beck and call, huh?” The man practically shivers with delight. “Looks like it might take a little more than that for some people to come to heel.”

*

As simple as the decision to don his pharmacist disguise had been, becoming Lowen comes with several logistical issues. Touka Bergatt may have been expelled from Clarines’ borders, but Izana is hardly fool enough to believe that he does not have his own spies in the capital, close enough to have a good idea of his comings and goings. The treasury might pay a hefty stipend to each of the palace’s staff— compensation commensurate with competence and loyalty— but there are always costs even a king cannot anticipate, human foibles that cannot simply be solved with an application of funds.

Master Lowen might walk freely in the North, certain that he would only be recognized as a companion of the much-admired Mistress Shirayuki, but here in his own palace, there are few and far between who would not wonder why His Majesty had dressed himself as a humble merchant's son. A half day’s ride would quell that particular problem, but, well— if personal experience had taught him that the disappearance of a prince between one post town and the next would cause a panic, he could only imagine the newfound degrees of hysteria that would be discovered should a king do the same. And to make matters worse, there was the conundrum of Mistress Shirayuki: she could not be seen departing Wistal in his company, but she must arrive in Hyatess with Master Lowen.

It only made sense to spread the news that His Majesty meant to decamp to one of the royal country homes— the one further south, out on some far flung promontory near Yuris. It was hardly his favorite of their properties— he hadn’t been there since he was little more than a boy himself, bored to tears looking at the ocean but never being able to touch— but it made for a secluded getaway to woo his would-be queen, and the domestics were downright giddy in their preparation. By the time he mounted the carriage steps behind his beloved, their excitement was at a fevered pitch, a few of them even bidding him good luck before the door swept shut behind him.

“Good luck,” Shidnote huffs once they’re past the palace proper, legs sprawling across the carriage’s cab. “Now what’s that for? Do your loyal followers believe that you might have trouble locating your cock, Your Majesty?”

Izana restrains the urge to grimace. Perhaps his bandit is getting a little too comfortable with his royal company. “Sir, I’ll beg you to remember that there is a lady—”

Of good breeding, he means to say. That he nearly does, until the aforementioned lady snorts. To her credit, she does raise a hand— a demure attempt at a muffle— but it’s no good. Her shoulders still shake, the scent of snow rising sharply in the stuffy cabin, vivid enough he can taste ozone on his tongue.

He casts her a withering glance. A pity she is much immune. “Well, go on then, get it out.”

Her restraint doesn’t so much disappear as dissolve, girlish giggles just the same as they had been when Mother first introduced them: Arleon’s promising daughter and the prince without a proper coat.

“I’m sorry,” she manages, only after Shidnote turns his grin to the window. “It’s only that I had been thinking something similar…”

“Worse, no doubt,” Shidnote adds, too amused. “Knowing that brother of yours.”

*

City cedes to forest, and cobbled roads to well-packed earth. There’s no such thing as a quiet ride when it comes to traveling with Shidnote, and once Haki produces a set of cards and proposes a game the guards taught her— all the rage in the North, she promises, as if his aide needs an inducement to misbehave— all hope of it is scuttled. Whatever variation of match-three, run-four she’s brought them this time involves slapping, which his aide takes to with an enthusiasm that borders on aggressive.

“Why, if we were not such close companions, sir, I would be tempted to think you strike me on purpose,” Izana observes, shaking out his hand.

“Me, Your Majesty?” Shidnote hums, hand pressed earnestly to his coat, right where a heart would be if he had one. “But I would lay down my life for yours. Take an arrow, right through my belly. Suffer any torture to—”

He holds up a quelling hand. “Enough. Your dedication honors me, as always. But I cannot help but observe that you only seem to have such…unfortunate accidents when it is my hand reaching for the pot, and not the lady’s.”

His eyes widen— an act of innocence, belied by the twitch of his mouth. “Why, Majesty, are you saying that I should strike a lady? Even one so gracious and lovely as your—”

“I’m saying, that by my count, you should have had no interest in that pot,” Izana deadpans, “and yet, somehow, I am still the one wounded.”

“Count?” Shidnote’s brows raise to a thunderous degree, and ah, that had been a mistake. A slip of the tongue. Not one that would be soon forgotten. “This is why you get hit, Majesty, because you are a dirty cheater—”

“—it is hardly occult to possess the ability to count to seventy-two—”

“—has the carriage stopped?” Haki’s much-vaunted profile turns toward the plains on the other side of the glass, the scent of snowfall thick in the air. “Izana—?”

Shidnote holds out a hand, urging her back against the bench as he puts head and shoulders between her and the door. “Sit back, my lady, I’ll handle this.”

His aide might be a beta by inclination, but he knows how to stink up a place like an alpha— only the barest undercurrent of balsam and spice breaks through the alarmed musk filling the carriage, so strong his gorge rises, acid washing across his tongue. Only experience keeps the bile in his stomach; after all, a prince could not lose the contents of his stomach on a friendly visit to a vassal, no matter how uncivil the lord.

With a weary glare, Izana rises off his seat, reaching up to knock on the panel between carriage and driver’s box. “May I inquire as to the nature of our delay?”

“Ah, pardon, Your Majesty!” the driver huffs back, distracted. “Seems there’s a messenger for His Lordship. From the palace.”

Shidnote’s gaze meets his, brows hiked to his hairline, stretching the chasm cut across his nose. Though his aide might command a good number of eyes across the kingdom, there were few who would have news urgent enough— or near enough— to use one of the official messengers.

But Izana can think of one. His mouth curves, satisfaction sinking him deep into the bench’s cushions. My my, it seems his brother’s little beta might make this interminable trip interesting.

“Well, let him in.” he drawls, anticipation a steady thrum beneath his skin. “Let us hear what our master pharmacist has gotten up to.”

*

“Now, you know I’m not one to criticize, Majesty…”

A lie if Izana has ever heard it; Shidnote might not scold the way Haruka would, but he had his own way of letting his opinions be known. Mainly through loosing the sharp edge of that tongue of his. “But you’re going to start, I assume?”

Shidnote wipes the sweat from his brow, more weary than waggish. “I’m confused, is all. You’re the king, aren’t you?”

Ah, now this will be an interesting tack, to be sure. “I am.”

The sharp scent of clove spikes, enough that even a few paces away, Izana can perceive it. “And so everyone’s supposed to wait on your pleasure. That’s the way it works.”

“It is.” Mostly. Though he certainly knows better to test that particular privilege with Mother.

“Then why were we the ones who raced across the damned country just to squat in some backwater and wait?” Shidnote crosses his arms over his chest, casual lean belied by the rigid line of his shoulders. “I know those two deciding to skip town a day early wasn’t part of the plan, but all that should mean is that they’ve got to cool their heels longer. Not that the king of Clarines cuts his romantic getaway short to beat them to the inn.”

“As far as anyone else is concerned, the romantic getaway has not been interrupted in the slightest.” Though he would have to send his wife-to-be a very lavish gift for her gracious acceptance in the sudden change of plans. “It is not as if the king and his future consort would mark the departure of two messengers. Especially when one will return in such short order.”

“That’s not the point.” Shidnote sighs, scrubbing a hand over his scar. “The point is that you heard they’d get to the rendezvous ahead of you, and you tore out of there like you’d been told the place was on fire. You want to share why? Because I have to admit, Your Majesty, I don’t see it.”

And he wouldn’t; for as much as Shidnote had played alpha for his band of merry bandits, keeping them in line with the skill of his sword and the strength of his scent, it’s not his natural inclination. His lot might have marked their territory, the boundaries of that little outlaw town stinking of his musk to deter other alphas from thinking them easy pickings, but he wouldn’t think of a space like this— an inn’s room, large enough to hold a bedchamber and parlor, meant for well-off but transient occupants— as a place to declare dominance over all those who entered.

But that shadow would. Pity Shidnote didn’t have the nose agree.

Izana’s mouth quirks, wry. “Because it is important to start every battle with the high ground.”

The scent of sweet apples floods his mouth, the bright taste of honey chasing its heels, and his pulse quickens, anticipation making her flavor all the sweeter. It’s faint— faint enough that she must be at the stairs, idling as her knight carried their bags up behind her. There’s no scent to mark him, masked and suppressed as he is, but the sing-song of their conversation bounces down the hall, heralding his presence clearer than any footman. Giddy, that’s what it is; her scent and his voice, both barely contained.

At least, until boot heels scuff right outside the door. The shadow hesitates; Izana may not be able to catch his scent, but that man catches his, his silence ringing as loud as any alarm. But it’s not one his brother’s beta hears, not when she’s too busy fumbling with the door, trying to fit the key properly in the lock.

“There,” she sighs, key finally sliding home. “Let’s get our things inside, and then maybe we can take a look around before Izana—”

“—Miss!” her shadow yelps as the door swings open. “Maybe you should let me—?”

It’s too late, her boots have already crossed the threshold, that banner of red unfurling as her hood falls back, a sight as tempting as her scent. It’s followed by her eyes, flitting over the parlor as a butterfly might a garden, never alighting for much more than a moment as she takes in the whole. “Oh, I didn’t think it would be so nice! I wonder…”

Her flight stutters as it lands on Shidnote, still as a statue against the far wall, before it drops, searching every surface until she finds—

“Oh, no.” A sour spike of dismay floods his nose, her head shaking in slow counterpoint. “No, no. Absolutely not!”

He lifts his brows, letting a languid leer curl his lips. “What is the matter, Mistress? Surely you can’t take exception to your esteemed colleague sharing accommodations?”

“No, that’s not— it’s not the accommodations,” she blurts out, flushed and fragrant. “It’s…it’s…”

Izana adjusts the silver-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. “It’s…?”

“Well.” Her shadow coughs, covering a smile. “The fur coat’s a bit much.”

#izanayuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #1000 followers #my fic #abo au #come to heel #ans #i always think i'm going to get farther in these chapters #but Izana POVs really like to luxuriate in the political intrigue and lore building #literally had to cut a whole scene from the carriage being like #AIN'T NO ONE GOT TIME FOR THAT

[nostalgia-tblr]

Okay actually I do have a proper thought on the "sylki is incest" wank. which is that the "anti" take seems to be that Loki/Sylvie is obviously, glaringly, an incestuous pairing but its shippers deliberately ignore that because they like the pairing otherwise (yet also the accusation involves them liking the incest element... honestly it's a bit of a muddle, but let's move on). But. Well, here's the thing that is obvious, at least to me...

Go to AO3 and have a look to find the most popular (in terms of number of works) Loki pairing in the Marvel Cinematic Universe fandom as a whole. Actually, i'll save you the effort:

(These numbers are slightly out-of-date but the ratios remain accurate. I checked.)

Now, that. That is an incest pairing, isn't it? There is some fic which specifies an AU of some sort in which Thor and Loki are not related to each other but most of it is about brothers who are also lovers.

"But they're not really related," you say? Sorry, but in the important ways, they are. Every one of those films, and the Loki series, frames them as siblings-with-issues, and yes one of those issues is whether or not they agree that they are siblings, but I'd say the MCU comes down pretty firmly on the side of "they totally are."

And the point I'm making here is that the actual incest pairing is treated as such by its fans. If you don't feel up to reading any thorki fic I'll save you again and say that it overall leans into the "forbidden love" angle, and the shame and internal conflict of an incestuous attraction or relationship. So shippers of a given pairing do indeed know what incest is and they rarely try to avoid that aspect of such pairings.

Whereas. If you read the Loki/Sylvie stuff, that whole "thorki vibe" is entirely absent. Fans vary on variants, in terms of in what ways these two are or are not "the same person" but they agree on one thing: fucking some other version of yourself is not incest. This is pretty much a unanimous belief, and here I'll mention something else I think is relevant: there are a few sylki twincest AUs (many of which seem to have been written out of spite - LOL, fandom!) and in all of those the AU also features another crucial change - they are not both Loki variants in those fics.

Yeah, that's right! To make Loki and Sylvie siblings you have to remove the selfcest element entirely. Because - this may shock some of you, so sit down before you read this next part - you are not your own sibling. Even identical twins are obviously different people. A clone of yourself might get us into more philosophical territory but that's not what multiversal variants are either. Allow me to illustrate with another informative image:

You get me? Yeah, you get me.

So, to meander towards an actual conclusion here. The MCU!Loki fandom does not, in general, refuse to accept that romantic/sexual pairings that would be incestuous actually are incestuous. In fact if anything it embraces that element of such pairings. It is usually seen as the defining feature of them. If they think siblings are fucking then they will write about those siblings fucking, and they will not be shy about it!

And aside from that mentioned handful of AU fics, sylki is not written as incest. Because it just isn't incest. Look, if you personally see Loki and Sylvie as siblings to the point where the pairing squicks you out, then fair enough there's not much either of us can do about that. Do your best to avoid that content and don't be a wanker about it and I wish you well in your endeavours. But that isn't what most of the complaints stem from, is it? As usual in recent years fans who didn't like a pairing (which, btw, is allowed) wanted to have the moral high ground and some bright spark hit upon "this pairing is INCEST" via some slightly odd logic and it spread from there. Because we can't just not like something, can we? (Actually, that's also allowed!) No, we have to be better than those fans over there, who are all terrible people in some way. They are problematic.

And this is a lot of words for me to essentially say "no, the sylki fic and the thorki fic have very different vibes actually" but... well, they do. The sylki shippers are not denying the incest, because there is no incest there, and even if we for a moment pretend that "siblings" is a reasonable and indeed expected interpretation of the variants concept, it is clear from their content that the people who ship Loki/Sylvie do not see them that way. And that has nothing to do with DNA or otherwise, which I can prove with this very quick question: in one word (or less, if you can), what is the relationship between Loki and Thor?

You said "brothers" or "siblings," didn't you? No, you did. I know for a fact that you did, don't play coy with me on this. We all understand that these two characters who definitely share no DNA are, in every way that matters, brothers. This is not a difficult concept, it's not somehow confusing large numbers of fans either way.

tl;dr - Sylki isn't incest but if it was we'd all know that because the fans of it would not be constantly denying what would, almost certainly, be the main appeal of that pairing for them if that was the case. You can deny that all you want but 11,731 thorki fics (as of 10th December 2023) back me up on this one.

So there.

#sylki #thorki #loki series #cw: incest #like actually incest WHICH WE ALL RECOGNISE WHEN WE SEE IT DON'T WE JAN??? #fandom wank #wow that was a lot of words to state the completely obvious #if anyone's wondering yes i have read and written both sylki and thorki fic. PLEASE be sure to cancel me for the right one.

[corner-stories]

wildflowers in every direction

Mikasa Ackerman. Jean Kirschtein. Cottages. Flowers. Beautiful Dreams. 830 words. (ao3.)

On the edge of the forest is their little corner of the world, a rugged cottage surrounded by fields of green, a stream that leads into a pond, and trees of every size. The life it gives its inhabitants is quiet, but after a previous existence filled with blood, warfare, and battles of heaven and earth, a little bit of peace is the least they can ask for.  

At the back of the cottage is a slope covered in grass and wildflowers of every color. At the top is a tree older than the structure in front of it, one with branches so vast that it often casts shadows on sunny days. 

And here Mikasa lies, hidden under the shade in the midst of early spring, an afternoon characterized by the shining sun and the final throes of winter having melted away. She sleeps in peace, entangled in the arms of her lover as the only sound that fills her ears is that of a breeze, a gentle force that sways the leaves on the branches, creating a noise that is beyond soothing. The aroma of wildflowers in every direction combined with Jean’s clean, soapy scent and suddenly she feels like she’s living a life she never deserved.

A life of tranquility, nature, and not the neverending nightmares that had plagued her first nineteen years. 

She wrestles with survivor’s guilt more often than she would like — images of those she has lost slipping into her mind in moments that should be full of bliss. Why has she been spared? Why is she allowed happiness when they are not? Why is she given the chance of life when some deserve it more? 

The remorse never truly leaves, but in the last few years it’s been growing with her, becoming more refined and palpable as she ages. 

Because on occasion she’ll get a day where she feels free, a day where she feels like she deserves the life granted to her. 

Her existence now lies in the forest, where she splits wood before dinner while the dog basks in the sun, or watches Jean as he sits on the porch and sketches to his heart’s desire. On warmer months he’ll cool off in the pond at the bottom of the hill while she hides under the shade of the tree, and in the colder ones they’ll huddle close by the roaring fire. Sometimes he’ll kiss her hair or she’ll nuzzle her face against his chest, where she always likes to be, then make a quip or two about the unruly state of his beard, to which he might laugh and kiss her even more. 

On really good days she knows that this is what she’s earned. She’s spent far too many years in agony, and who’s to say that after all of that she isn’t entitled to just a sliver of joy? Who is to say a forest cannot grow back after being devastated? It just needs a little time. 

So Mikasa lets herself rest in Jean’s embrace, basking in the warmth of him and the sun as the afternoon goes on. 

She doesn’t know how much time has passed since she fell asleep, but after a few moments she opens her eyes. Her head is against Jean’s chest and one of his arms is around her shoulder, holding her close like she can slip away at any moment, but she knows she won’t. She could never. 

She looks up very slightly to see Jean awake. In his free hand he is holding an open book, which he reads as she rests. He does this often and sometimes she swears that the position he’s in cannot possibly be comfortable, but he has yet to utter a single complaint. 

Mikasa takes him in, the light hitting his sun-kissed hair and making the hue of his hazel eyes shine. 

Near their feet is the dog — a pointy-eared canine named Hugo who sports a mix of black and brown, but mostly black fur. Despite his jaws and wolf-like appearance, he’s a lot more comfortable napping with his masters as opposed to doing anything else. Fortunately, neither Jean nor Mikasa seem to mind. In fact, they prefer him this way. 

After a few moments Jean glances down and catches Mikasa staring at him. A smirk tugs at his pretty lips. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. The arm around her shoulder moves to play with the strands of her hair. 

“I did.” She then proceeds to nuzzle her face against his chest again, pressing a kiss to where his beating heart is. 

Five more minutes, she could whisper like she does in the morning, when slumber has been too kind to her and all she wants is a few more moments of peace. Nowadays Jean can read her like a book, so she never really has to say it anymore. 

“I had a beautiful dream,” she says instead before closing her eyes and letting herself fall asleep again. 

#jeankasa #jeanmika #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #mikasa ackermann #snk #future fic #hugo ackerman-kirschtein #Siri play Ashitaka and San for 8 hours straight

[invisibleraven]

Haunted Holidays

December 21: Wrapping Paper <-AO3 link!

“I think that’s everything,” Carrie said as she looked over the sea of bags and boxes surrounding her.

“It had better be, I think we bought out half of LA,” Reggie groaned from where he had flung himself onto the couch.

“You know some of that is for you right?” Carrie replied.

“I’m aware,” Reggie said, looking up from the arms he had covering his face. “Which is why you should hide them while I’m too tired to peek.”

Carrie hummed but did grab a few bags and rushed off, making Reggie bite back a grin. Honestly he loved that she used the holiday season to spoil their loved ones. Stuff none of them would buy themselves, but they all secretly wanted. Carrie was aces at gifts, and Reggie was getting better since they started dating.

“Okay Peters,” Carrie declared as she reentered the den with a clap of her hands. “No napping, we have to get wrapping!”

Reggie groaned, sitting up and looking at her. “Okay, gimme a beat.”

Carrie scowled and waved a tube of wrapping paper at him. “Come on you.”

Reggie gave a mock salute and started taking items out of bags, handing them over to Carrie so she could find the right gift bag or bow to go with each gift. “I always figured you’d get a professional to do this kind of thing.”

She shook her head. “That’s more my dad’s thing. I like wrapping gifts, giving it that personal touch. Shows that you’re willing to spend the time on it outside the thought of the gift itself.”

“When I was a kid I wrapped all my gifts in the comics section of the newspaper-saved up the colour pages every Sunday to do it,” Reggie commented.

“MeeMaw didn’t have paper for you to use?” Carrie asked. She knew better to ask about his parents-they only gave him shame, complexes, and recrimination, never presents.

“I wanted to do it myself,” Reggie said with a shrug. “She loved my version of a personal touch.”

“I bet you made her great gifts,” Carrie said. She had never met MeeMaw, the woman had unfortunately passed before she got the chance. But she loved hearing Reggie’s stories about her.

“Oh yeah, the best pages of scribbles, popsicle stick picture frames, and clay handprints you ever did see,” Reggie said, then a look of melancholy passed over his face. “She kept it all though, had a box of it all stored in the attic.”

Carrie scooted over , cuddling into his side. “She loved you, and treasured everything you gave her. I know I would.”

Reggie snorted. “Doll you gave me an itemized list of gifts.”

She had done that hadn’t she? And she knew he had bought her every one without complaint. “I know,” she whispered. “I think I needed a reminder that it isn’t what you get, but the love and thought behind it.”

“So I can return the ludicrously pricey scarf?” Reggie jested.

“Not on your life,” Carrie said, sticking her tongue out at him. “But feel free to wrap it in some newspaper if you keep the packaging on it.”

Reggie grinned, tilting her head back for a kiss. “You know, I just might do that.”

Then on Christmas morning, Carrie had to laugh when every single one of her expensive presents were wrapped in homemade paper-covered in Reggie’s doodles and lyrics.

She kept every piece. Which turned out to be worth it, as the next year she used the paper he had made to wrap his gifts in. RReggie gave a delighted bark when he noticed, and made a show out of oh so carefully peeling the tape off so they could use it again.

By the third year, it was getting a bit worn, so Carrie said they would just have to make new paper, and spent a lovely afternoon doing so. “But we’re still keeping the old stuff right?” Reggie asked shyly.

“Oh sinta of course!” Carrie assured him. “We could make a cool art piece out of them if you want.”

She missed the way his face lit up at that, but Reggie thought that was for the best because he now had a plan to blow all other Christmas’ out of the water!

Oh Christmas morning, Carrie came down the stairs, and saw something hanging on the wall, covered by a sheet. Reggie was standing next to it, looking a little nervous, a little tired, but still his gorgeous sunshiney self. “Hey doll, Merry Christmas,” he said, greeting her with a kiss when she replied in kind.

“You figure out what to do with the paper after?” Carrie asked, taking a step back to survey the large set up.

“Yup, you wanna do the honours?’ Reggie asked.

Carrie nodded and ripped off the sheet, then gasped. There they were --all the pieces of wrapping paper. Covered in their doodles, notes, and little bits of their history. A photo of the two of them after a paintball game where she had dominated and Reggie was just happy to be there. Riding side by side on horseback, though Reggie was doing so with considerable more grace.

There were programs and ticket stubs, and a few candy wrappers, lyrics to half finished songs, even a section for Tisdale, Carrie’s Shar Pei that Reggie used to walk every day-it was how they met after all. And though she had crossed the rainbow bridge, the both of them would forever be grateful for her influence in them getting together.

Then right in the middle, was an origami heart, with the words Open Me printed on it. Carrie grinned at Reggie, wondering what silly pun awaited her-he did love his jokes her man.

Only when she opened the heart, there were only two words printed there. WOrds that made Carrie’s heart race and her face break into a smile. A smile that grew even wider when she saw Reggie kneeling before her with a ring made of folder paper.

“I swear I got you a real one,” he said, offering it up. “But I kinda had to doll.”

“No no, this is perfect,” Carrie said, slipping the ring onto her finger. “Yes by the way.”

Reggie whooped and spun them around, all while Carrie admired her ring. She knew it would probably end up framed somewhere so she could keep it forever-but right now it outmatched even the brightest of diamonds, and was worth more to her than every gift under the tree.

#jatpadvent2023 #jatp sweet tarts #julie and the phantoms

[arqhms2]

RESTEZ AVEC MOI, LA NUIT CHANTE.

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X COBRA! READER

AO3 / MASTERLIST / MAIN ACC - @arqhms

WORD COUNT / 1.6k

WARNINGS / mentions of anxiety and panic attacks

SUMMARY / it’s one thing to be fearless, and another to fear your own domain.

AUTHOR’S NOTE / holy this is my THIRD time posting this. p sure my main is shadow banned so i’m here for now! (hopefully this fixes it, and if it doesn’t… man idk)

“Comin’ up for your shift, Lt?”

“Yeah, Johnny. Gimme a minute.”

Soap flicks his comms off, mumbling a few native insults while drawing out his “knackeredness.” The grumbles and complaints don’t end until he has his bag fully zipped up, glancing over in your direction with a lopsided smile.

“You sure you’ll be okay here, Cobra?” His brow quirks in slight concern, offering a dusted blanket over. “Bein’ alone with that dafty might drive y’a up the wall.”

“You’re not much different, Johnny.” The mock of Ghost’s accent on his nickname drives a scowl up his face, turning away with an impolite wave in your direction. “Night, Soap!”

“Haud yer wheesht!”

An amused snort follows the overly dramatic slam of the door, leaving you alone atop the headquarter’s watchtower. Despite being only roughly 100 feet in the air, you feel impossibly higher, nagged on by ravenous winds seeping through the open window above you. The loss of Soap beside you cultivates the space colder, crawling silent shivers up your spine despite the thick layers padded against it.

Siberia is a cold, dark place. Slithering with frigid hands and souls. Not a sliver of spare warmth would be welcomed in the Mother Lands, as if it was whispering to you in relentless gusts and coats of verglas.

You’re not Russian. You’re not welcome here.

In a sense, it was right. This was not your domain, and it showed in the steady increase of casualties and careless injury. Price had to call off his post from a fractured wrist, and Gaz nursed the brand of the bullet in his honor. Even worse, Ghost had bit the frigid depths of Russia with his forearm. The entire expanse of its left side, porcelain bandages dimmed to ivory in the night.

A soft abrasion of cloth and the dent of metal pieces what you could not see of him together. Quietly pulling Soap’s chair to the side to make room. Completely devoid of breath and reaction in his descent to the floor, and the silent twitch of his eyelid after that, snapped back to normalcy once he senses your gaze. The shift of his back against the sleeted concrete unshadows him further, breaking his quietude upon seeing the grin perched upon your features.

“What are you up to?”

The question is simple, tinged with a drop of faux irritation. You see straight through it, yet, feel the smile dropping from your face regardless. He’s quick to notice your change in posture, and turns away.

“Simon.” Your call falls to deaf ears, so you gently nudge his calf with your foot. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Don’t worry about it.”

His response is coarse, a bark amidst the chilling gusts of wind that carries it away. Filled to the brim with it a defensiveness you hadn’t witnessed in quite a while, packed with a sting that had you biting your cheek. You’d known it all too well, countless fights and acts of seclusion had spelled it out perfectly. And, as if you’d needed an extra push to confirm it, your eyes drop, taking in the soft jitter of gloved hands.

Just one of many callsigns of a brittle man’s anxiety. A fearless machine on the field turned to a wisp of the wind, eyes glossy and sour, silently corroding in his own skin.

It makes you feel sick, the pungent tang of fear coating your tongue in full. Your throat is chalk dry, sweat glazed eyes frantically coasting around the room. Desperately searching for something, a reason.. a way to stop it.

Ghost liked the scent of wood— liked nature even more. Wouldn’t have minded the slight mess of weaponry laid out in front of you, and certainly would’ve voiced his distaste on your habits if he had. Your mind raced as it went through a mental checklist of his behaviors, raking down to a slim line before you got it.

It was dark. Pitch black, nearly; only a soft glow of the moon reflecting off thick clumps of snow. The lack of illumination dimming his irises into a pool of gloom, flickering from the window to wilderness. Completely devoid of light.

You recalled it right there. In all the years you’d known him, some behaviors had remained the same. The way he would always gravitate toward the lighter side of the room, the bedside lamp he kept in his room, always on past noon. Even when it wasn’t dark. He abhorred the very thought of it.

It wouldn’t be an insane thought to say he was afraid, either. Never scared of a cointoss to tomorrow, or the day-to-day assaults on his life.

No, he was terrified of the dark. A loss of light meant the loss of traction. And with no traction, there’s no goal. No goal is the assailant of purpose. And without purpose, he is nothing.

A Ghost. He simply fears what he is.

“Hey.”

His back strikes up, fully effect and ready for the advance. Streaks of dirtied bone crawl up his face, settling around fiendishly creased eyes. Taut, vile, purely on the offensive. Tightly cradling an enigma behind snapping jaws. Snarling with the faintest taste of doubt.

“Soap left a flashlight around here somewhere, just hang on for a minute.”

Ghost’s eyes are practically shot open, watching mindlessly as the words replay in a broken record’s symphony. You’d figured him out, just like that, no strings attached. And God, it should’ve scared him. A consternation nestled deep within the mania. Command him to lash out on the breach of his security and—

Click.

The world goes quiet. His eyes shrink in the blaze of luminescence, back slouching down at the slightest as you set the flashlight down.

“You frosty?”

Exhausted. From the nightmares to the pain in the arse wound biting his skin.

“Fuck, affirmative. All good.”

Anyone is an enemy to him until he sticks around long enough. Mapping their face out, the things they hate, what he could get bit for and what makes him more tolerable. Bad habits that root him to an everlasting battle of loss and war.

“We’ll get your ass over here then, Simon.”

And, for once, he doesn’t feel like fighting.

The paralyzer demands he stays, act tough, you’re a goddamn soldier after all. It’s in his programming to isolate, but the deviant strand always lives. Hazed eyes remained fixated on the soft glow of the flashlight sprawled out across the post, licking into his soul, or what little he had left of it. And that part of him knew better, because it was full of you.

There’s no room to get hurt. But there’s no room to hurt, either.

He grumbles something lost to you, but moves nonetheless. Shimmying against creaking wood to claim the space beside you. Nearly mustering an eye roll as you drape a throw blanket over his shoulder. His skin is left searing from your fleeting touches, and he can’t help but look your way, following every finite motion of your irises.

You shift to the right, gaze pointed out the shabby window above. Ghost is quick to follow.

“I’ve heard some stories about the sky here. I forgot some of it, but they say the night sings around this time of year.”

“You sure that’s not some fodder you overheard this week?”

Your brows furrow, head lightly bumping against his shoulder. A glance is stolen your way before he’s back to the sky.

“That’s a stupid thing to lie about, don’t you think?”

“I don’t like liars.”

“Would that piss you off enough to kill them?”

He shrugs, offering a soft sigh of amusement.

“Maybe.”

Minutes drift into slow hours, dragging tranquility into the grey clouds drifting to and from your vision. Warmth escapes you at the quiet shuffle of Ghost’s feet, leaving half lidded eyes drooping into ice. Only when the grasps of sleep begin to claw at your consciousness are you roused once more, head tilting up at the soft call of your name.

“Think you’ll wanna see this.”

Both your and Ghost’s blankets are secured around your chest before you’re pulling yourself up, offering a questioning glance to the looming shape in the doorway. He steps aside, and you’re welcomed once more to the thrash and whip of Siberian breath. Yet, the cold stems at the surface as your eyes raise, mouth parting to suck in chill and awe.

“Holy shit…”

A blanket of flurried stars scatters across your field of view like splattered paint, giving background to the mass of constellations ahead of them. Woven further lies an array of colorful waves, stretching pink, green, and blue as far as you can see.

You’re rendered nearly speechless, infinitely impressed. Such a sight strikes ataraxia into the depths of your heart, circulating through the nerves and all that you are.

Ghost is nearly akin, eyelids pried open inches wider in a desperate attempt to burn it all inside. He’s allured, and he wants to remember you, collecting so much of the good that the hurt fades away. After that, perhaps he could forgive himself too.

Eventually, his gaze drifts down to you, who is no less shocked than you were five minutes ago. At this, he sighs. Long, cool, carefully enamored.

Such a feeling that eradicates the venom, allowing him to take a step forward and reach. Lowering his healthy arm to rest along the base of your shoulder. Timidly, softly as if you’d break. The star struck smile you return pumps life into his veins like a holy elixir. Shattering the boundary that is fear and the terror of what he deserves.

But, it is you. And, sometimes, it doesn’t feel like war.

#arqhms2 #call of duty #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic