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coridallasmultipass · 10 days

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Personal vent and ugly mental illness symptom talk

So, I should unpack this with my therapist, but shit's embarrassing, so I'm just gonna vent it out on the public internet lmao.

I was typing out a whole thing about how I KNOW I'm aromantic, and despite that, still have moments where my brain gaslights me into believing I'm in fairytale love.

I should preface by saying I have not officially been diagnosed with either additional mental illnesses I believe that I have (B.P//D and AD//HD [which lol being on AD//HD meds since antidepressants didn't do anything has given me some notable improvement, but I'm still without a diagnosis], nor Au//tism) DESPITE repeatedly asking multiple therapists multiple times and a psych like 100 times to give me a definitive yes or a no.

But holy shit. So I'm typing about how I've 'Favourite Person'-ed multiple people at multiple points in my life across all ages, and I'm like, okay, it's been a hot minute since I refreshed my definition of that, I should make sure that's still a thing and not something I just made up or has been dropped from the symptoms or whatever the case. I wanna make sure I'm using it right in this rant about how falling into Favourite Personing people in the past has made me believe 'wait, maybe I'm not aro, this HAS to be like the deepest truest love in existence, despite my years of knowing I'm aro.' Like, I'm so aro I once calculated out the date, months in advance, I was gonna tell someone I was dating that I loved them, only because it seemed like a socially acceptable amount of time to say it. I wasn't thinking about what I actually felt lmao. (And that was probably not a FP relationship, too, so I know that was absolutely an aro incident.)

Anyways, so I'm reading a couple articles to make sure I articulate my points about how it's conflicted with being aro, and I read about how people falling into having a FP will even hate that person for the slightest perceived wrongs. (I knew this, I just was thinking about the love incidents since that's what was related to my point about being aro.)

And holy shit. That just. Unlocked a memory I have about when I was an older kid, like probably 9ish (and older), I HATED my best friend of many years and who would continue being my bff for more years. Who was my everything. I couldn't stop thinking about how much I hated them. I would lie awake at night (insomnia too tho) thinking about how much I hated them and I couldn't understand why I didn't just stop being their friend and start hanging out with old friends more instead. I just couldn't do it, I wanted to hang out with THEM. I was so sick and feeling jealous of them whenever I found out they'd been hanging out with someone else one-on-one and I wasn't invited. Even when it was their own family. One time they brought me a plate of cookies by surprise for (before) a holiday that they'd just made with their cousin or something. And I felt so sick about how I wasn't there for that, it felt like an insult. I couldn't have put this into words, unless I just now read that point in an article and made a connection. It was so confusing, because usually the people who hated their 'best friend' was like, the mean girl kinda character who intentionally does it to hurt the innocent main character or something, but I was the one who felt wronged every time those feelings would come up. And this wasn't just a 'man it's so annoying when they do this specific thing.' This was active stewing, in a slow cooker, all day and all night kinda thing.

I was never romantically or sexually attracted to that person, but I probably wrote all this off as either unrelated sexuality or gender bullshit when I figured that out later. But knowing now that there was definitely someone (actually, I'm thinking of WAY more people as I'm typing this, and just realized why I stopped loving a band and started hating them 'for no reason' wow lmao) that I FP'ed who I definitely WASN'T attracted to, suddenly convinces me that I was probably right in suspecting B.P//D. (Or, y'know, maybe I don't have that specifically, and it's the symptom from a different facet of mental illness or whatever.) I've been so hung up over how I'm aro, sometimes ace, and then this 'only' happens towards people I am attracted to. Like, 'maybe it was love and I'm just terrible at it.' (No! It's not! Aro is correct! That's just the brain manipulating me to get another hit of dopamine off a FP! It's just easier to happen to someone I'm attracted to!)

It's no fucking wonder why I always worried about people hating me in secret, and it's because I was absolutely making myself insufferable because of that worry. I know for a fact that some people definitely did hate (or. Lmao. Shut up. Like, 'resented' maybe fits better) me for demanding constant attention that was never reciprocated by anyone I've ever met in my entire life.

I probably wrote-off so many symptoms as 'I was a moody teen and kind of an asshole.' Except it happened before and after I was a teen, too. I would have excused everything that happened during and before high school, when I should have been looking for these patterns I kept following for years after. It doesn't help that my first relationship was wildly toxic (mostly against me in this one case), and while I didn't feel particularly bothered by it after I got over the nightmare breakup, I just kept going 'What if it was the sole cause of all of this and I'm just repressing that?' Well, phew! No, it's not, that was thankfully just a toxic embarrassment, and not the source of all my problems. I was already on the shitstorm trajectory. That's a major relief. If you can call it that. I really don't like discussing that one, but not in a trauma way, more like a, you don't really wanna discuss pissing your pants on accident kinda way. Unpleasant to remember, wildly embarrassing to talk about, but ultimately not a life-altering event.

Ughhhhh. Maybe I should bring this (the mental illness not the relationship) up to the therapist. But like, I haven't been close friends with anyone in like 6 years or so, so I don't have any current or even recent examples about how being in friendships has always turned out Russian Roulette for me. My therapist doesn't seem to believe how bad it was for me to be in friendships where I was unintentionally FP'ing someone. Because besides the depression and anxiety (and mild OCD), I'm a totally normal person to her who's just dealing with shit health problems and grief (and frustration from being trans and not in a safe place to transition). Y'know, normal life problems most people will feel at some point, just chronic in my case. I may be weird, but I'm obviously far from the worst she's seen. I'm not uniquely mentally ill.

((Except the whole 'treatment resistant depression' diagnosis bullshit from the psych, but I'm learning it's not just mental issues I have that are treatment resistant lol.))

I tried talking to her about a small part of all this before, but IDK what I did wrong, she took it 100% as me being the one unintentionally wronged and not setting MY own boundaries (lmao), so like I don't know how to word this in a way she'd understand that most of my problems in this area were my own fault. (I mean that both negatively and neutrally, because it's an ugly side of mental illness, but not one I chose or know how to help.)

Not being in close friendships with anyone has had an understandably sane-ifying effect on me (barring the, y'know, depression/anxiety/OCD and baseline weirdness), which has gotten me trapped for the 5th time in 6 years of making my therapists believe I'm better off than I actually am. (I've done this to every therapist I've ever had before that, too.) But like, again, at least for the past 3 therapists and the latest psych, I AM actually better for not having close friends lmao. Only one therapist ever had one visit of me wanting to address these concerns specifically while they were currently active, and by the next visit, we had to shift exclusively to sudden new grief lol. (What a shitshow. It somehow always ends up that whenever I wanna treat an illness, it's like opening a can of worms, except the worms are firecrackers and I didn't set the can down and step back a few feet.)

Like, it obviously feels safer to not have close friends at all because there's no fear of abandonment if I have no one to begin with. And, genuinely, I operate better when I'm alone. But now that I've known safety, it's hard to imagine throwing myself back into the roulette wheel, hoping I don't land on red OR black. But fuck, man. It is lonely.

And being aro? It's freeing, and validating too, to have a word for it, but I'm not gonna mince words here, I hate it. I wish I could feel romantic love. Like normal, not mentally ill ""love."" I feel platonic love all the time, like for friends (not FP) always. I love saying 'I love you' to friends and meaning it. But I want to feel romantic love. I just don't. I just feel friendship, Favoriting, and/or sexual attraction sometimes. Probably why I'm so into shipping and fanfics. I got a lot more "probably why's" but I don't wanna go down that in this already vulnerable post lol. (I already made a whole post about one of the why's back in like 2013 or 14 lmao, without connecting it to this.)

Anyway, I put this whole mental illness and relationships deal into ugly imagery in a current fic WIP I'm working on, since recognizing I was aro took living through FP'ing a few 'romantic' relationships, before I even first heard the term FP. I only saw my experiences as 'I don't think I've been experiencing love' and that by itself felt like it fit. I didn't realize there was anything wrong, even as I outwardly said shit like 'I don't think I'm fit for being in a relationship' to the few people who asked me out, even when I wanted to say yes.

And then I kept trying to make relationships work lmao. I don't know why I even bothered. I just wanted to be wrong about being aro, especially when it was a point of contention (aro and ace separately) with some of the relationships.

I'd probably have to meet another aro person of the exact same flavour of aromanticism to make it work, but even then the mental illness would just be a ticking time bomb. No one wants to be the recipient of FP 'affection', except maybe sometimes the fictional people in a certain fiction trope that winds up being fetishistic, even if it's not intended to insult real people (but sometimes it is). And it's just a reminder of how I was probably a big source of toxicity for probably half the people who have ever been close with me, if it's even half of how fiction portrays people with this symptom.

I dunno where I wanted to end this vent, so here's probably a good place. Just wanted to get this off my chest, because it just now felt like a pretty big revelation that my problems weren't related to romanticism, I've had purely platonic instances of this dating back to being an older kid, and more during high school, and I just never connected the two before now.

#dont read if u think im cool #id rather stay cool lol #long post #delete later / /#(in case i change my mind or wanna edit)#Cori.exe #Post.exe #man i talk a lot #shouldve spent this time writing fics instead but i rly needed to talk (type) this out since i dont wanna bring it up in therapy again yet #anyway lmao there we go #rly excited for the fic tho. besides the stuff i mentioned i also took this popular trope and #wait #why am i spoiling it im not gonna convince anyone who read this post lol youll just have to wait for the hot platonic smmmmmut #and hilarious storytelling by one char #and then (still a wip) round 2 #bc no fic is complete until theres a round 2. imo.#((yes i know i have a different round 2 thats over a month late past when i was gonna post it lol i havent forgotten))#here we go writing an essay in the tags now too lmao #ok i need a break for my eyes and then im gonna try to write the platonic one more #hhhh anxious tht my reputation will tank from posting this. idk how i or my 2 followers will survive th consequent backlash and cancellation #(joke)#(still anxious tho)#(i have diagnosed chronic anxiety lol)#eager to know what id be cancelled from tho. maybe my puppetfuckinglicense gets revoked.#maybe my shrimp get taken into protective custody #shrustody #sorry i dont mean to make light of legit cancellations im just trying to convince myself its okay to post on my own blog #good fucking luck catching all those shrimp tho i dont even know how many i have. they control their own population at this point.#they probably have their own system of... shrovernment #Prime Shrimpister Isosceles rules with an iron swimerette i wouldnt wanna interfere with that sovereign nation

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martyrlamb · 8 months

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✶ when the clock strikes / leon kennedy

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: you’re starting to think a certain agent might be faking his injuries to see you.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, a bit of angst as a treat, love at first sight basically, silly workplace love story, nurse!reader, 1 year post re4r!leon, no use of y/n, extremely mildly passively suggestive, leon takes his shirt off twice (woohoo!), kissing, swearing, leon is awkward as hell, you are too though so it’s okay, description of bruises, cuts and a muscle knot (not detailed), medical talk, slight mention of gore and blood, reader has a backstory, reader has a mother.

note: i blinked and suddenly there were 8k words in my doc idek how that happened. im actually so nervous to post because this is my first one shot ever!! my cherry has been popped… but also apologies if things are kind of all over the place bc im still trying to get the swing of it all. trying to write in the present tense was like being beat over the head repeatedly so im sure theres many grammatical mistakes in that department

word count: 8.5k (got possessed sorry)

Everyone thought you were crazy when you accepted the offer.

It is crazy—but you aren’t stupid. You knew what you were getting into a long time ago as a nurse; people get hurt, and then you save them. Clockwork.

Years ago, you started studying to be a nurse in some middle of nowhere midwestern school. You remembered the rolling hills and the ungodly heavy blankets of snow that fell during the winter months, the fallen leaves that the snow covered. It was all so peaceful for a while… until the outbreak.

You never saw it coming, no one did, really. At least, you hope no one predicted the atrocities that were about to be witnessed by thousands of innocents without warning.

Gnashing teeth and hands with dried blood that streaked down arms like veins plagued the memory of that point in your life. It was surreal to believe that you got up that morning and made your breakfast like any other day, you slid your shoes on and grabbed your keys, and then your foot hit the front porch and the trajectory of your life changed permanently.

The virus started as a woman with red-ringed eyes and pallid skin that reflected off of the blinding overhead lights—she looked visibly ill. That’s all that mattered at the time. You were actually the one who situated her and her husband in their room, he smiled at you and thanked you for your time and you scribbled down notes before hanging the clipboard and leaving the room for the doctor. The screeching horror music plays when you get to this part of the memory.

A type of calm before the storm. You hold your breath every time.

A few hours later people started screaming, and someone—something ran out of that room and wrenched its grip on the first person it saw. Blue scrubs dyed a nasty crimson, like crushed raspberries on cloth. The next part is a blur of running, watching your coworkers die, and using your medical expertise to help anyone who needed it. People were hurt. You saved them.

Like you said, clockwork. You try not to think about it too hard.

By the time help came, you had cramped a large handful of survivors—albeit, injured survivors—into a small house that was a mile or two from the hospital. Your quick thinking protected many people that day, and your skills were recognized.

A week prior, you were a simple nursing student who was lucky enough to be placed in a hospital, and by the next Sunday, you were being offered a position as a medic with the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team. You finished your schooling, you got your specialized training, and now you’re on your way to your first assignment out of the country.

So, granted, maybe you are a little crazy for accepting such a prestigious and dangerous position after your humble beginnings. Your mother never ceases to remind you of this, with what little information you were allowed to tell her.

Iceland? she said, pulling her lips into a line. Are you crazy?

You begin to think that you are now that you stand in front of the base, arms tucked around yourself and teeth chattering as a sergeant points you around like one of his troops. Between the hustle and bustle of agents hurrying around and the amount of civilians sitting beneath the large, brown medical tent, you understand why they needed all the help they could get.

Things in Iceland were bad apparently; Umbrella thought the remote location would protect what little was left of them, and their research, from being exposed. Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for everyone else) the AUPIT caught wind of what was happening and vowed to put a stop to it. You, freshly out of training, were sent to help with the sudden influx of displaced non-combatants and wounded agents.

Within the hour of the helicopter landing, you settle in and pull your cold weather scrubs on.

There aren’t many other nurses—only two—and neither of them seem to be very fond of you. The head nurse is older and straight-laced, following procedure, not mingling with you unless she has to. You don’t think you’re ever going to be put on a shift with the other nurse, but they spare you a few ireful glances. It’s like they could smell the fresh blood, and the scent made them turn their noses.

Nonetheless, you weren’t there to socialize, so you rolled up your sleeves and did your job, trying to ignore the passive aggressive looks being thrown at you from left and right. This kind of mutual ignorance worked for about three days, until you were placed on the night shift… every single night.

Before you came along, it was determined that the night shift could be manned by one person, as injured civilians were sent to the safehouses by nightfall and nearly all of the agents were either out on work or taking a much needed rest. There was no reason for both nurses to be awake when one could conserve their energy and rest while the other worked. So, most nights you spent alone, sitting by the fire in the back of the tent as you waited for the sun to come up.

One of those nights crept up on you again. You bounce your foot against the ground until your ankle aches, sitting in a lawn chair next to the fire with a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. Nothing chirps in the distance like the environment you’re used to, the only noises that float through the air are the wind rustling bare-armed bushes and your own breathing. There was a rip in the tent whistling, too, but you’d be damned if you let the incessant noise drive you insane. You were scared of the eerie silence for the first few days, but that quickly became replaced by the complete boredom that followed it.

You blow a raspberry as you spin a pen in your ungloved hand, fingers numb and stretched stiff with cold. I’ve ought to ask someone for a book, you thought to yourself, or a new job. You immediately push the second contemplation out of your head like it was something dirty and sat up a little straighter; your annoyance made sense, but this is what you wanted to do with your life. You want to help people in need.

Not that there were many people around.

In the distance, like divine intervention, you hear the crackle of wheels against snow, and a black mini-van rolls to a stop in front of the tent. A scuffle inside ensues for a moment, then the doors open and a man comes hobbling into the shelter with his arm over another man’s shoulder.

You nearly fall out of your seat with how fast you stand up and stride over to the men, assisting the injured one onto a cot.

“What happened?” you ask, pushing a cart of equipment to his bedside.

The uninjured one remarks from beside you, “Some snow gave way and he went down this hill with some pretty nasty bushes at the bottom.” His voice is quick and clicky. He looks young.

Clearly, they’re two agents, judging by the leather holsters strapped around their waists and shoulders. You purse your lips and place a lantern on the cart, gently inspecting the injured agent. There’s thorns lodged along the entirety of his left side, looking a bit like a child’s crude attempt at art with toothpicks and styrofoam.

He grunts when you gently lift his arm to check underneath, and you mutter an apology before you turn to the other agent. “I can take this from here.”

The agent nods and spins on his heel, disappearing into the darkness once he stepped out into the open air.

You turn your attention towards the man in front of you and pull on a pair of gloves, the latex makes a sharp snapping noise when you let go. His intense gaze follows your movements with great intrigue—or suspicion… you couldn’t really tell. You pick up a pair of tweezers and set them on the cart. You also finally got a good look at the wounded agent.

Blue eyes that strike down what little defenses you have and brows that spend their time permanently creased, almost erasing the space between them while he inspects you. His ability to make you feel thoroughly grilled with a simple fixated stare would have made you squirm years prior, but now you merely stare back with your eyebrows lifted. The blonde—possibly light brown haired, the darkness didn’t give much way in the form of colour—man averts his eyes first, as if he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive, but that’s not your focus right now.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, flicking on a flashlight to check his pupils. Healthy, good. He squints at you through the beam.

“Like I fell into a thorn bush.”

Looks like someone feels funny. You deadpan at him, unamused with the sarcasm while you try to help. Your expression beckons a better answer and he backpedals.

The man’s head bobs subtly, like a scale in his mind is weighing his thoughts on either side, and then he says, “I’m just fine.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” you reply, blowing out a not-so-inconspicuous huff of annoyed air that swirls above you in the cold. The agent raises his brow at your reaction but doesn’t seem too keen on speaking on it. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to be a lot of poking and prodding.”

He lets out another grunt that could have possibly been an Mhm… but you aren’t sure. You hold the tweezers between your fingers and begin to pluck them out, placing them on the metal pan on your cart. Clink, clink, clink. They fall from the tweezers with tiny noises.

To your surprise, he doesn’t writhe or make much noise, only occasional grunts and sighs and Shit’s under his breath when you pull at particularly deep thorns lodged in his arm.

Even for an agent, his arms are an impressive size, which means a lot more surface area to extract from. Not that you really mind, as you would have helped him either way, but surely you would feel differently if you were in his shoes.

However, the silence is… awkward; sitting there with your face inches from his huge arms—he could definitely feel your breath fan across the surface with how his skin dances with warmth and goosebumps and you do not want the attractive agent to focus on that. So, you break it with a question.

“You weren’t wearing a jacket?” A valid query, all things considered.

He blinks at you like it was obvious. “It came off.”

“Oh,” is all you say until you extract the last thorn from his arm and begin to slide the leather shoulder holster off of him. “I just need to take this off.”

He frowns slightly, and you realize his brows had been furrowed this whole time because that was all his face seemed to know how to do. When his expression changes, you stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking it off so I can look under your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“You could’ve pulled something and I need to bandage you,” you pause. “Is that okay?”

Maybe you wrongly assumed that he had done this a million times. Don’t get you wrong, you know how resilient agents had to be and how good they were at their jobs, so it isn’t like you thought he got hurt often… But with a short glance into his eyes, you could tell he’s a hardened delegate with years of experience under his belt. Wasn’t he bound to need help occasionally?

The man gives you a slight nod and shrugs off the holster; it falls to the bed with a soft thud from the weight of the knife tucked into the leather.

His muscles tense under your fingers when you roll the black sleeve over his shoulder. The feathered, pale edge of a bullet scar peeks out from beneath the dark clothing and it makes you wonder how he managed to get it. A mission? Probably. It looks old. You’ve seen scars of all kinds at that point, and each of them held a story that ended in pierced flesh.

They remind you that they will never not be where they came from—your own scars will never not be where they came from. You shake the thought out like a stubborn rock in your shoe.

“Lucky you, it doesn’t look like you pulled anything in your shoulder,” you comment under your breath.

“If this is luck, I’d like to see what happens when I get unlucky.” For the first time, there’s humor in his tone—so faint you nearly miss it, but it makes you chuckle. When he isn’t huffing out responses, his voice almost sounds kind.

You rotate his shoulder slowly and inspect the length of his side, finding fewer thorns than the amount anchored in his arm. Still, your lips press into a line, pitying the fact that his bare skin will be exposed to the frigid, below-freezing air so you could remove them.

“Well, you should’ve knocked on wood,” you reply, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get the rest of the thorns out and check your ribs.”

Silently, the man hikes his shirt up and over his ribs for you, snaking his arm out of his sleeve and then laying on his side.

As he comes down, stretching, he groans. You see his muscles tense under his skin when he inhales, the dips and divots of his torso flex involuntarily when the squall of air nips at his newly exposed skin. The surface holds blossoms of red and deep purple that litter themselves across his ribs like splotches of messy watercolor dripped onto paper. Scarlet scratches bleed pebbles that drip onto the fabric of the cot.

You suck in through your teeth as you inspect the area. Even without the damage from the thorns, it doesn’t look good.

“Not good?” the agent questions as if he could read your mind. From over his shoulder, he turna his head to look at you.

“Not good. You bruised your ribs, I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t broken.”

“I didn’t hear a crack.”

“It should be monitored for a day or two, at the very least.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Look, I understand—“

“I’ll be fine.”

You sigh softly and remove one of your gloves to rub your face in exasperation. Unfortunately, this wasn’t your first rodeo with stubborn patients, so you slide on another glove and begin to pluck at the thorns in his torso. “You won’t be doing much work if you permanently damage them.”

He twists his head away from you again and grunts softly, muttering a short, “Okay.”

How articulate. You guess he doesn’t get paid to talk to people.

“Okay? As in…?”

“As in, fine,” he replies, then pauses for a moment as if to prove a point. “But I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You laugh at this, then stifle it into your elbow so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. He still rolls over a little to look at you, confusion laces his eyes that dart around as they go from your face to the rows of empty cots behind you. Busy? You begin to laugh again.

He can’t be serious, you think as you fan your face. You let your laughter dissipate like it was being dissolved into water. “Sorry… no, you’re right,” you snort, “I was drowning in work before you arrived, agent.”

“I’m sure,” he chirps back, the ghost of a smile haunts his lips.

“I think I can squeeze you in, though. Might have to clear some of my schedule, but… I’ll make it work.”

The pleased look that graces your face is involuntary. You find it endearing how worried he is about becoming too much extra work for you and the other nurses, despite the fact that there isn’t any reason to gather that he would and—believe it or not—it’s your job.

The agent lets out an amused breath through his nose. “Should I be flattered?”

“Oh, of course.”

You place the last of the thorns onto the metal pan and tend to his wounds with gauze and bandages and nimble fingers that have done this hundreds of times before. Sometime along the way his body relaxed—just a little—and you think he fell asleep until he sits up like a puppet that had his strings yanked and puts his shirt on properly.

The sudden movement makes you blink, and he stares at you for a long pause filled with dead air and an expectant look in his eyes. That damn rip in the tent whistles.

Finally, his eyes flicker down to your badge, then back to your face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here not too long ago,” you inform him honestly, a little embarrassed to admit your newbie title to a seasoned employee of the organization.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you take the reins.

“Well, I think we’re set,” you say, rolling the latex gloves off of your hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Agent…”

You never asked him his name?

“Leon Kennedy,” the agent, now with the name Leon Kennedy pinned to his face, finishes for you.

His name twirls around your head and makes you dizzy to think about. I should have known, you think to yourself once he bids you farewell to report to his superiors.

From what little time you spent at the base prior to meeting Leon, you had heard whispers during dinner drift from mouth to ear of the elusive agent. That he was a man of few words (immense understatement, you consider it more socially awkward, but true); that he had half of the base swooning every time he walked by (you don’t want to comment on this); and that he was immensely attractive (that is also true). You have to admit… you see why he had such an air of intrigue around him. To be so quiet after such successes he’s accomplished—people were on the edge of their seats trying to figure him out.

You also had to admit that you weren’t immune to it either.

During your meals and breaks you found yourself playing Where’s Waldo? with Leon, attempting to catch glimpses of him in his natural state to confirm or deny these claims. Which was impressively difficult for absolutely no reason other than that he did it for his own benefit… the motive for this was lost, and still is, on you.

The few times you did spot him, he had the same clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. He never stayed in the same place for very long and frequently you only spotted him—or rather, his broad shoulders and white-knuckled fists as they turned corners and disappeared to do whatever he did all day. Important agent things.

Regarding your coworkers… it hadn’t improved much, either. The head nurse, who you later learned was named Winona, loosened up on you a bit—which was practically nothing when both she and the other nurse had been so cold to begin with. However, your determination to help those around you seemed to impress her… most days.

(Peeks of Leon’s ashy blonde hair stolen from cracks in the tent. His fur-lined coat hangs off of his sizable frame, enveloping his arms in the thick fabric—it makes them look even bigger. Not that you care, per say, but—

“You aren’t getting paid to stalk agents,” Winona jeers, jolting you back to Earth from your subject of stolen attention. You swear she smiles at you wryly. “Should’ve tried for one of their jobs if you wanted to do that.”

She turns on her heel and goes over to a trio of injured civilians with her cart, the knot of hair tied taut at the base of her neck stares you in the face. You’re left hot faced and embarrassed for the entirety of the next check-up with your patient.)

The endless night shifts never seem to cease rolling in and you’re afraid it’s begun to catch up on you. By the end of breakfast, when you could finally drag your corpse-like body to your quarters and into your bed, your head drooped comically into your bowl of oatmeal and some of the newer agents had a blast laughing at you. Whatever, assholes.

(You were deeply embarrassed.)

So, you opted for allowing a short nap in here and there during your shift—ten minutes at most—whenever your eyelids began to feel itchy and weighted and you couldn’t help but close them. You really couldn’t. Being sat by the fire with a hot drink made you so warm and the sounds of blowing wind lulled you to sleep in the darkness under the moon.

Truly, a terrible work performance from you, but no one was around to see and surely you’d be awoken by even a hint of an emergency.

Tonight, you count sheep with your wool blanket tucked up to your chin and your head lolls against your shoulder like it’s about to fall off its hinges. One, two, three. They mock you as they hop into their pasture and curl up into white, fluffy spheres, falling asleep within the warmth of their home.

From a distance, your ears almost register the sound of footsteps that approach the tent, crushing the crunchy top layer of snow under their feet as they stop in the entrance. It isn’t enough to completely wake you until they clear their throat and say, “Hello?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head so fast you think it might go flying across the room. Really smooth of you, considering Leon is the one to get your attention. By the smug look on his face and slight chuckle that wracks his frame, you know he isn’t fooled with your act awake performance.

He stands there, towering and rigid, unlike the night you first met him, with his palm outstretched flat like he’s trying to show the world something.

“Oh, hey, what do you need?” you reply quickly, standing from your chair as you let your blanket fall off of you.

Leon glances at his hand and then at you. “I, uh, got a papercut.”

“A paper cut,” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, mouth agape as his words register as something he was actually saying to you.

“Well, get comfortable, then. I’ll patch you up.”

In reality, you’re terribly confused about a special forces agent needing first aid for a paper cut, but how could you complain? He needs help and you’re there to offer it.

The blonde sits on a cot near the fire—not before picking up your blanket from the ground and placing it back on the chair, though—and you situate yourself on a stool facing him.

You take Leon’s hand in yours gently and inspect the wound. It’s fairly shallow, but placed in the center of the webbed skin between his index finger and thumb. Tough spot. When your digits graze his rough knuckles he inhales sharply and you glance at him due to the sudden motion.

He doesn’t expect a reaction from you because he pauses for a second then asks, “You think I’ll live?”

“I dunno,” you answer, sucking your teeth. “Could be a close call.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know. My condolences.”

“For myself?”

“Uh-huh.” You turn his hand over so his palm faced the sky. “This’ll sting.”

When you disinfect the injury, Leon’s face twitches into itself but he keeps quiet, opting to focus his gaze on your face while you patch him up. You try not to shift under the intensity.

“What made you want to do this?�� he queries, his voice cuts through the silence and startles you a bit. Leon looks pleased with himself and you roll your eyes.

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s corny.”

Admittedly, it was—the original story as to why you wanted to be a nurse. You’ve had people laugh at it before and you mostly don’t want to repeat history with someone you find rather charming, but something in Leon’s face softens and he shakes his head briefly.

“Try me,” he challenges.

“Oh, fine.” Like there was a fight put up when you relent, smoothing a bandaid over his cut. “You know those things you’d fill out as a kid? Where it’s like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leon nods.

“Every single time, I would write superhero,” you laugh sourly because you got used to other people laughing when you said this, but he listens as if you’re the only sound he’s ever heard. “I’d draw myself with a little cape and all that. Then at a certain age the teachers start telling you, pick a real job, pick something that exists. And, I dunno, I thought: there are real superheroes. They save people every day because they want to.”

“I mean, I always knew I didn’t have all the right assets to be the one rescuing people from burning buildings and punching the bad guys. I wanted to help people when they couldn’t help themselves, you know? I can't carry the weight of the situation—it’s just not in my nature—but I can carry them. That’s why I started doing this, I guess.”

The look he gives you when you finish speaking is indescribable. He gazes deeply into your face like he’s trying to find a new feature he missed the first time. Something akin to pulling apart your mind with his eyes as if it’s clay made for the shaping and a load of a melancholy that’s too heavy for him; like he’s asking you, how do I carry it? Tell me how to carry something like that.

Your hand still lingers in his, over the bandaid you placed on him; you slide yours so the curves of your thumbs interlock and you grip the hilt of his palm. A hidden embrace.

Leon’s eyes dart toward your hands and he makes no effort to remove you from his grasp, his fingers relax against your wrist. He feels your heartbeat. You feel his. When he looks up again, all he sees are your eyes.

You don’t know why you went on that anecdote in the first place, not really. Only that you were finished patching him up and wanted—needed—him to linger for a bit longer.

“What about you?” you ask, voice hushed close to nothing.

“I wanted to help people, too.” He sounds uncharacteristic—sheepish? “That’s it… I can’t follow up with something as articulate as you.”

“It matters just as much even if you can’t express it,” you assure him, your head tilts.

Leon clears his throat and nods, slipping his hand from yours and looking anywhere that isn’t you. You created a shadow in front of his face, back facing the fire, but you can see the subtle dark tinge of his cheeks when he avoids your eyes. He chooses to look at his feet. There he goes, being endearing again, you think.

The harsh edges of his face are lit up with an orange glow, darkness shoots somewhere in between in a soft gradient, and he looks positively ethereal. If you reached out and cupped his face, you know it would be warm to the touch like laundry right out of the dryer. It makes him look all the more delicate and this feels more natural than the pointed looks and pinched expressions he usually wears.

You look back down at his hands. You’re trying to memorize the way they felt against yours (coarse and hot to the touch) and you get the picture of how hopeless you are—even an idiot could see you have a crush on him.

That doesn’t stop you from protecting your pride and you keep it to yourself. You stand up to put the disinfectant supplies and box of bandaids away without a word.

Leon stares at his hand like it’s missing a piece.

You have your head buried too deep into the cabinet to think much about that. Screaming at yourself was an understatement for what you’re doing in your head… a better description would be begging the floor to swallow you entirely with one gulp.

Surely, Leon has someone at home. He’s an attractive, intelligent man with an arguably stable job that pays him oodles more than he would ever need; not to mention how well-built he is, but again, for what seems like the millionth time you push this thought to the back of your mind. You could not focus on that.

“Are you okay?” his voice carries from the cot.

You take a moment’s breather and shut the cabinet door. “I’m good. How are your ribs?”

“They’re good.” Leon pauses, then adds. “Thanks.”

The shake of your head comes faster than your words; muscle memory. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a good job.”

“I’m just a medic.”

“A good one.”

As you utter your gratitude for his comment, you hope he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your face from so far away. You weren’t one to get shy from such simple words, but you find your eyes glued to your boots because of his gentle bonniness. Damn you, you curse at him in your head—it held no weight.

The blonde stands from the cot and walks over to you. He bends slightly to catch your eyes in his. “I have to go now, but... yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Kennedy.”

“Don’t start using formalities now,” he half-laughs, half-breathes. His face contorts when he stretches back, and his hand came up to massage his right shoulder—you even go to comment on this movement, being a medic and all, but he beats you to it with a smirk. “Stick with Leon.”

And then, in a few strides, he’s gone as fast as he came.

Your entire body deflates when you let out a guttural sigh. How come every time you watched his back, you were left reeling?

Unfortunately for you, that blasted man had ingrained himself into your head, sitting pretty in your thoughts as snug as a bug in a rug while you tried to do your job, or attempted to focus on anything other than your feelings for him. On the contrary, he returned to clearing out Umbrella facilities for the time being, which meant he was out of the base for days, or even weeks, considering he was one of, if not, the best agent they had. This saved you from the embarrassment of being caught trying to catch glances of him from inside the tent or during meals.

This, however, did not stop you from daydreaming when work got slow.

You wondered how someone like Leon behaved domestically, if he was completely different outside of the AUPIT, or if he was still just the sweet, reserved man who needed your aid often. Did he have any pets? What music did he listen to? You guess you’d have to ask him later, but you imagined that the pieces would fall into place and suit him. They’d be so perfectly Leon that when he told you, you would think to yourself, huh, why didn’t I think of that?

The amount of daydreaming you did was not lost on Winona, and occasionally she snapped her fingers in front of your face and grumbled under her breath, “I’ll kill that boy.” With no real threat to her tone.

Please, you can’t help it. He has arms with the muscle definition of a god and he told you-you were a good medic; you were a goner before you even realized it.

On the other hand, your family never let up with their pleas for you to return home, despite the fact that it simply wasn’t possible unless you had a very good reason for it. Which you didn’t, and you didn’t want to—people just didn’t get it through their heads that, yes, your job was difficult, and yes, patients got on your nerves sometimes, but no, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. This meant more to you than anything else you could fathom. You knew the fear these people felt first-hand, and you knew they needed a saving grace; just like you had.

(“Just come home,” your mother coos into the phone, her voice static-y and chopped from the poor signal. You could imagine her face right now, all worried and exhausted like you’re a child balancing on a wet playground. “There’s a hospital not too far from here… I’m sure they’d take you.

You promptly spend the next hour explaining to her that it isn’t that simple, even if you wanted to, and you remind her every few minutes that you aren’t going to leave, either. You’re happy, all things considered; which is why you make the executive decision to leave out all of the bad parts of your work so far.)

As for the efforts against Umbrella, you hear whispers of successes during dinners and fewer agents appeared at the medical tent’s door in need of assistance than when you arrived. So, you think things are going rather well for your organization. Less tired eyes and solemn faces; the fight wasn’t over, but everyone could rest a little easier with every night that passed.

And yet, those damned night shifts. You swear Winona and that other medic were scheming against you for no reason other than pure spite, on the basis of simply because they didn’t feel like doing it. It has to be funny to them by now, seeing you half-asleep at breakfast and looking all mussed at dinner because you woke up ten minutes prior. You let them laugh all they wanted because frankly, you began to enjoy the night shifts. The world went to sleep, and you enjoyed some peace and quiet.

You kick your feet up onto a stool and drape a blanket over your legs, book in hand. The soft sounds of Icelandic pop music crackles out of the radio and floats throughout the tent. You mouth the noises of the songs, unsure of the lyrics, but you’ve heard it so often by now, you could recognize the tune from the first few beats. You scat a few of the instruments, tapping your foot along. You don't notice the figure that stopped in the doorframe.

“Enjoying yourself?” Leon. You shut your book and turn to look at him, embarrassed. “I always feel like I’m coming at a bad time.”

“Never,” you reply with a haste that humbles you further. Worried about his sudden appearance in the medical tent after being gone on agent duties for nearly two weeks, you ask, “Are you okay?”

The corners of his mouth upturn and you barely see a flash of uneven teeth between the slit it creates, cute. This distracts you from how smug his face is. “I think I have a fever.”

“A fever this time?”

“Yep.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Leon.”

A paper cut, then a fever. You begin to think of his inability to soothe his minor maladies as an excuse to visit the tent. Your stomach flutters at the thought, but you have to make sure… just in case he’d fallen ill out there in the cold.

You find the thermometer and placed it in his mouth gingerly. It hangs crooked from the corner and he watches you with a certain keenness that makes you smile. After a few minutes, you check his temperature: 98.7. An amused hum escapes your lips without meaning to.

“Dying?”

“I don’t think you have a fever,” you answer, using the back of your hand to press against his forehead and cheeks. The first cheek is cold, then the left cheek warms under your skin—Leon’s expression falls bashful. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for reasons to come see me.”

It’s his turn to hum in thought. “Maybe.”

“You could just come talk to me.”

“You’re on the clock,” the blonde reminds you, grunting. In a swift movement, his hand presses into the curve of his neck and he rotates his right shoulder, face straining.

You see an opening. “That I am. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

“I was stretching.”

“Does it hurt?”

Leon grumbles a response under his breath, unimpressed that you might have found something you could actually treat him for. You raise your brows. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Agent Kennedy.”

He pretends not to hear you.

“Leon.”

“Fine,” he gripes like a child being forced to get a shot and maneuvers to lay his stomach flat on the cot, his back faces toward the ceiling. He takes off his brown, fur-lined jacket and discards it onto the next cot over. You get a whiff of musk and cinnamon from the breeze it makes.

The shirt that clings to him left nothing to the imagination—a tight, black compression shirt stretches snugly over his muscles. You spread your fingers like fans to warm them up, then begin to run them over his shoulder and along the meat of his back.

You tsk, full of knots. This man needs a masseuse. You make a mental note to refer him to a good one you knew.

With the issue at hand, though, you find an impressive knot in his shoulder, which is likely the cause of his discomfort.

You huff, your work cut out for you. “There’s a big knot in your shoulder, Leon. How are you living like this?”

“I wake up and roll out of bed.”

“I need to get this out.”

Leon turns his head, his cheek presses to the cot. He gives you a look that says nothing short of, are you serious? You smile as sweetly as you can at him, an attempt to coax him. To your surprise, he averts his gaze fast and relents. The blonde agent sits up and shrugs his shirt off. It’s tossed next to his jacket.

Under the fire light and the dim glow of lanterns that hang in a line down the center of the tent, strings attached to the ceiling, you see the way chills prickle over the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, like rolled carpets being kicked open, unfurl down his arms rapidly and he lays down on his stomach once again.

Your face burns in the dark—you’d be surprised if you aren’t glowing like one of those lanterns from the amount of heat it exudes.

You use a dollop of skin cream to keep the area relaxed and pliable as you work out the knot with your fingers. You push it in the right direction until you got it in a better spot, then you knead it firmly. It crackles within his body.

“Fuck…” he groans in relief, nestling his head into the fabric of the cot as he sighs. “They teach you massages in nursing school?”

“That might be just a learned from life thing,” you state in total honesty. You wipe the excess lotion from your hands on a rag.

Curiously, he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You have someone back home you do that to?”

A laugh falls from your lips, though your face feels even hotter than before (if that is even possible). “No—not at all.”

Leon lets out a pleasant hum and sit up from the cot. Good, he says without saying it.

He snatches his shirt and tugs it over his head; you pretend to make yourself busy so you have somewhere other to look than at him. You hear him sigh with great reprieve as he rolls his shoulder back and forth, it must’ve felt like a freshly oiled hinge.

He comes up behind you, his shoulder skims the back of your neck when he peers down at what you were doing on the counter. Which is a whole lot of nothing; moving cotton swabs from one container to the other, counting how many rolls of gauze you had left for the hundredth time. Mindless hand ministrations to distract you from the heart that pounds in your chest.

“Is this what you do all night?” he questions, mildly amused.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be glad I showed up.”

“Something like that,” you tease, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

You watch his withstraint break a little inside of him. He inhales sharply, losing the words you said somewhere between your eyes and your lips—he couldn’t focus with your faces so close to each other and neither could you. Leon reaches for the hand that rested on the other side of you and drags you in between him and the counter, twirling you to face him. Then he pauses and appears lost, like he doesn’t know which way is left and right.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to do, you think. You don’t really know either, so you go on about what you do know.

“You should probably use kinesiology tape on your shoulder,” you comment, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of all of your limbs. His eyes don’t leave your lips. You’d be a liar if you say yours left his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The man’s body heat radiates off of him and it’s magnetic, pulling you closer, away from the bitter cold. Your breath hitches. His hand hovers over the curve of your neck, then it decides to rest on the side of your jaw, thumb pressed against your flushed cheek. You remember the texture of his warm palm, coarse and calloused from years of wear.

You try to memorize every fine line and crease that scuffs your face as he beckons you to close the gap with the slight tilt of his head. I’d make a terrible agent, my resilience is slim to none, you theorize when your body moves before your mind does. His mouth hovers over yours, his breath traces your cupid’s bow. You close the distance enough that your lips graze each other until someone clears their throat from a few feet away.

Winona stands like a judgmental statue, thin brows raise expectantly. You, and Leon, jump away from each other. It rocks the counter with a loud clatter that echoes.

“Agent Kennedy,” she acknowledges him first as a sign of respect. He nods back awkwardly. “You two look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Neither of you talk for a moment and you find yourself desperate to create any word that could explain what that was. Leon’s eyes dart around the room.

Finally, something solid comes to your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

And then she laughs in both of your faces. Her hand waves like it’s fanning your words away from getting inhaled. You and Leon glance at each other, brows knit in honest confusion.

“Kids,” she exhales. “Stop distracting my medic, Kennedy.”

Then he speaks, but it sounds more like a nervous cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winona shoos him with a gesture of her wrinkled hand and he musters a sheepish, apologetic smile for you as he hurries away from the tent. You don’t make much of an effort to move as you prepare your ego for the chew out it’s about to receive.

“And you. Try to keep the fraternization out of the tent.” With that, she continues past you to search through some files, snickering to herself and shaking her head.

You aren’t about to push your luck. You get to keep your job and ego intact, and that’s enough for you. So, you whisper a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” And go on with your day.

The encounter with Leon left you feverish and all tingly in every limb whenever it crossed your mind over the following days. You saw him out and about around the base, and during meals he offered you frail waves that faded in a breath.

Truth was, you’re too afraid of rejection to ask him about that night—go figure. Maybe you’re a cliche. Maybe you’re both cliches. Who cares? Well, you do, and you thought the ruffled, pink-tinted expressions on Leon’s face whenever you crossed paths meant that he did, too, but neither of you made a move to approach the other. You questioned if you would rather be told that his only plans for you was a short work fling with no strings attached, or if he felt the connection that you did. A terrible predicament, really, and soon your desire for a straight answer outweighed the fear of hearing something you didn’t like.

When you went to find him in the meal tent, sitting alone in one of the back corners, he wasn’t there. Okay. You waited, then decided to check the nooks and crannies of the base where you knew he hung around, and nothing. Leon vanished into thin air the moment you gathered enough courage to speak to him. Somehow you thought he read your mind and planned for this to happen, just to be able to tease you without being present. But that was simply ridiculous. He had to go to work, just like you had to do yours.

A week went by, then two; no sign of Leon’s reappearance cropped up and you began to worry you wouldn’t get the chance to speak to him at all. The only reminder that soothed you was the fact that you knew the organization was on the home stretch for completely wiping Umbrella’s power in Iceland. This reassured you for many reasons. Mainly, that you’d be able to sleep in your bed again at a proper time that didn’t leave you exhausted; but you also found comfort in the idea of finally getting a word with the blonde agent that clung to your brain like a disease once everything was over.

Of course, you had fleeting thoughts that he died and you’d forever be left wondering about what could have been. But, that was just ridiculous—he’s Leon Kennedy, the agent that saved the president’s daughter from certain death. So, you chalked it up to your anxiety being built up as doubt about the succession of the mission began to be put to an end. That yes, you would all return home soon, and no nothing terrible and tragic would happen just as you were about to win.

Eventually, you all received the verdict of the mission. Success. The sun shone through the clouds brighter that day, in ribbons of gold that elevated all of your senses to something dreamlike. Another catastrophe prevented. More people saved—clockwork. To say you were pleased with the conclusion of your first ever out of country operation would be an understatement; you were ecstatic.

Still, you find yourself fretting over that thing with Leon as you help pack up the equipment in the medical tent.

Winona, who has grown increasingly engrossed in your love life, gives you a knowing look when your lips tug downward and you send a pointed glance toward the entrance of the tent for the tenth time in the last hour. She tsks and shakes her head. It gains your attention.

“Just talk to him,” she insists, shoving a couple boxes of bandaids into the case. She’s unimpressed with your antics and just wants you to get a move on.

You sigh and preen your hair like he’ll walk in at any moment. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Hopeless,” she grumbles in response. “Hopeless. If you won’t do something about it, stop looking at the door like a kicked dog and help me.” Winona retreats further into the tent and you succumb enough to follow her.

You must glower the whole time because she won’t stop sending you dirty looks while she tapes the cardboard boxes with a tape gun. Her movements are threatening. You try to fix your expression when the line of spokes reflects off of the bright horizon outside the tent as it slices the tape.

After the innards of the tent are packed into a dozen or so boxes, you’re the person left to pick them up one by one and drop them off with the rest of the cargo that needs to be shipped. Your back is sore from the sorry excuses of beds you have and your arms ache from hours of cramming things. Kicking snow with each shuffled step, you heave out a lengthy sigh and pause to breathe. There’s a reason I’m not an agent.

“Need a hand?” Leon asks from behind you. You’re wondering how he’s always sneaking up on you.

Still, you nod and can’t help but be relieved. “Please.”

Like it’s filled with air, he takes the box from your hands and cocks a barely-there grin at your awed expression. Smug and content, he marches ahead with you in tow. You don’t really know what to say to him, if anything at all.

You walk alongside him for the first time in the daylight, and you take in his features now that they aren’t muddled in the darkened firelight or blurred by distance. He’s chiseled, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones with that intense look on in his eyes—but there’s something else—boyish, is what you think. Soft jaw. Moles and freckles litter themselves across his face.

Leon is beautiful and you would like to kiss him right now.

He stops at the drop off point, places the box next to the others and turns to you. Suddenly, he looks nervous and you feel some resolve escape your mind. He’s about to ask you something. He opens his mouth, rosy lips parting and you break—you pull him behind a tall stack of boxes and kiss him.

The collar of his jacket is clutched between your fingers in a moment and your lips are on his; the fur tickles your skin. His lips are chapped and cold but you create warmth within him, you could be a summer’s day in this frigid air. His hands come to your waist, then your hips and his fingertips make indents when he holds you tight like this was always supposed to happen. When you part, you’re both breathless.

He searches for his words again, the question he was going to ask. “Would you—dinner? On me.”

You hum in faux thought and peck him on the lips again, then again, and a third time for good measure. He smiles into the last one.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t start that by saying you stubbed your toe and needed my help.”

Leon chuckles. “I thought about it.”

He pulls you in again, tongue grazing your bottom lip. You lean in further, desperate for connection until you both go slipping like baby deer. The thin layer of snow on the ground left everything icy. He tumbles into some supplies and you land on top of him. You’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. You’re both happy.

You chime together, like clockwork.

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hotluncheddie · 3 months

Text

Memories of somethin' even smoking weed does not replace.

wc: 3.3k | cw: alcohol, weed | rated: E | part: 2/2 | tags: pre/post s4 au, handjob, hurt/comfort, raised catholic steve harrington

part 1 | ao3

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00:20 January 4th: Basement

It’s nice, Steve thinks, down here in the basement. Where theres a hazy cloud of smoke from a group in the other corner, cigarettes and weed mixing. Where Steve can relax, let his mind wander to how it smells the same down here as Eddie’s hair had when he leaned towards him on the staircase.

His mind floats there. In the pews, thinking about Eddie. It makes Steve’s knees itch.

He slipped down to the basement because he had to. Too many people up there with solid plans of how to get out. Too many who already made it, visiting Hawkins like a novelty, a little trip to some place you can associate with the past, separate from the present.

They kept trying to draw him in, upstairs, wanted to get to know the guy with the good aim. Some of them don’t even know about King Steve. He’s just some guy, too some, up there. Steve doesn’t know what’s worse.

It all made Steve start to fidget, uncomfortable. He doesn’t have a plan to get out, doesn’t think he could even if he did. Hawkins isn’t a novelty, not to Steve, it holds his leash. He knows he’s tethered to the place, anxious and afraid to step too far over the thresholds. Knows it’s a little pathetic. But he can’t escape the fear that it’ll all fall apart, crack open and gape and he’ll be locked out. Fail those people who he can’t. Loose the barely there grasp he has on their attention already.

But, even in the muddy swamp of his thoughts, he’s enjoying his spot in the corner, on an empty sofa.

He’s definitely feeling the beers now, feels floaty and heavy at the same time. But he also downed a cup of water before sneaking away. So, it’s not taken him too far, not lowered his inhibitions enough to remind him of flower faces and underground fortresses.

It’s more, just, suburban wallowing. A familiar tipsy sort of buzz. A burning in the back of his throat as his brain jumps from brown eyes to varsity hoodies and back to long dark curls.

He does the breathing exercise a nurse taught him. Breaths in, holds it, breaths out, sinks into the couch.

He’s okay. Robins okay. She’s having fun. He’s here and it’s okay.

‘What was that about not liking attention Stevie, hm?’ Eddie asks as he sits down next to him, handing over a plastic cup and knocking their knees together.

Steve starts, tries not to show how his heart rates gone up. How Eddie’s fingers brushing his own makes his blood fizz. ‘What’s this?’ He asks, clearing his throat, blinking to clear his head.

Eddie wiggles his eyebrows, all drama and mischief. ‘Eggnog.’ Then he taps his nose. ‘Special eggnog.’

Steve raises his, takes a sniff. He almost asks Eddie why he’s down here but that would be stupid, and make Eddie leave. He’s not drunk enough to do the first and, also not drunk enough to admit how his chest caves in a little at the thought of the second. ‘Where’d you even get this?’ He settles on.

‘Fridge. Said it goes off tomorrow so, figured I’m kinda doing them a favour.’ Eddie smiles. He speaks so easily, deep and lilting and musical, drawing Steve in with every breath.

Steve shifts on the couch. Lets their knees touch, slide together. It’s heady, and viscose, like swimming through stained glass. Steve wants more. Steve decided to take, wants to take. Can kneel and see what he gets given. Smooth wooden pews. A basement at a party.

Steve downs some, it’s sickly. It’s strong. That buzz seems to double.

He steps into the robes of who he used to be, who kissed Nancy in the girls bathroom. Who’d whisper in girls ears at parties, make them moan. Blow a kiss up at the stands at baseball games. Did it all, like it was nothing.

He sucks air in through his teeth, wincing at the taste. ‘This is gross Munson.’ he says, laughing. He reaches over and pours the rest of his cup into Eddie’s, pushing their shoulders together and feeling the heat radiating off of Eddie’s bare neck. ‘Plus, if I drink any more my dick won’t work.’ He doesn’t think, just says, low and murmured.

The rosary beads are back, circling his throat, Steve thinks he likes the way they bite.

‘Is that so?’ Eddie ask, smile obvious in his voice, gleeful and surprised. Speaking almost in Steve’s ear.

‘Yup.’ Steve turns his head fully to the side, so close to Eddie’s face. Lets his eyelids droop, licks his lips. ‘What about you, King Freak, that never happen to you?’ He’s pushing, treading from shallows into deep muddy depths.

‘Do not fucking call me that dude.’ Eddie shoves him lightly, the way girls used to, push just so they can pull him back in. ‘But yeah, obviously I do know, it’s science man.’

Steve slouches back next to Eddie on the sofa. Still close, still sharing body heat. ‘Dude, man, what’s up with that, bro?’ Steve teases, set alight.

‘What’s up with that, bro?’ Eddie slides a hand down his face with a groan. But Steve can see he’s fighting a smile, hiding it behind his palm. Eddie’s rings glint in the lamplight.

Steve thinks he could get used to this, being so close to Eddie. Watching his face split in half with his grin. Wide open, pink and white. Steve wants to taste.

Eddie looks at him, incredulous, but his eyes are sparkling. ‘For a smart guy, you’re kinda dumb when you drink.’

Steve smirks, but something in him feels porcelain and breakable. ‘Dunno how I fooled ya into thinking ‘m smart. But ok.’ He says, smirk falling, he swallows, remembers again who he is, who he is now.

‘Well you’re the only person on this sofa with a diploma.’ Eddie says, something hard in his eyes, but eggshell thin.

‘Technicalities.’ Steve moves in closer again. As if reaching out.

Steve sees it now, they’re hard-soft. Church wafers before the spit. So similar in their differences. And Eddie knows.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He stands slightly to pull at the legs of his jeans and put his cup on the floor. When he sits back down Steve notes that they’re definitely closer than before. Hip too hip, shoulder to shoulder. He can feel Eddies bony elbow and the muscle on his thigh, weed-cigarette filling his nose, along with something warm, something Eddie. His eyelashes are long and thick. Steve swallows. Fiddles with his empty cup.

‘Your question before, about attention?’ Steve starts, shifts so he can look up at Eddie’s profile better, take in the line of his nose. ‘I still like it, attention. Just, only when it’s from, certain people.’ And Eddie turns to look at Steve, eyes a little guarded, but Steve takes a chance, glancing at eddies mouth, for just a second, licks his lips. Watches as eddies lips curl up at the corners.

Eddie stands and Steve feels sticky, hot and cold. But Eddie turns towards him, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a perfectly rolled joint.

‘You wanna come outside? Help me smoke this?’ Eddie asks.

Steve looks at it, looks up at Eddie. ‘No.’ Steve looks at Eddie’s handcuff belt buckle. ‘But I’ll come outside with you.’

Steve looks back up through his eyelashes and Eddies eyes are hungry.

00:59 January 4th: Eddies Van

‘Shut. Up. Harrington.’ Eddie says into Steves lips, tugs at the back of his hair and Steve feels his eyes roll back on a moan.

Nancy used to do that to him sometimes. He doesn’t want to think about Nancy. Eddies hands are bigger, stronger. Nancy seemed to get flighty if Steve ever let go too much, unmoored and untethered, she didn’t like to swim in the deep end.

They’re in the back of Eddie’s van, Steve leaning against the side, legs sprawled out in front of him, Eddie in his lap.

He can just hear the the music coming from the house still, its muffled but, they’re not that far, Eddie’s right, Steve supposes.

He also doesn’t really care. He just wants. Smells varnished wood, and incense.

‘Make me.’ He goads and his insides light up at the dark fire enveloping Eddie’s eyes.

‘I knew you’d be dangerous.’ Eddie murmurs to himself.

Steve desperately wants to know what the fuck that means. But Eddie just stubs his blunt out and pinches the end to save it for later. ‘Hold this’ he taps it against Steve’s bottom lip and Steve opens immediately. Tongue darting out to wet his lips, taste Eddie on them. ‘Don’t let it fall, okay Stevie?’

Steve nods, rock hard. An intense, soul crushing need to be good has him clamping his lips tightly around the joint, ear ringing.

The clack of his belt being undone makes Steve close his eyes and breathe deep through his nose. Eddie palms Steve’s cock over his jeans, eyes hooded and dark.

Eddies nimble fingers go for his fly, he lifts one of Steve hands to rest on his shoulder. Gets his cock out of his boxers so fast Steve feels himself sink, the van melting away until it’s just Eddie. Just Eddie in his lap and the smell of smoke and ash. Steve holds on for dear life.

He lets his other hand come to Eddie’s hip, thumb stroking where his t-shirt sits at his waistband, dipping to feel skin. Eddie’s hand on his cock is making him feel desperate, but he doesn’t make a noise, just feels his eyes wet.

‘That’s it, staying so quiet, take what you need.’ And Steve’s lets his hand roam. He wants to feel, touch skin. He strokes Eddie’s neck, fingers trailing over his torso, searching up under his shirt. Slips his hand around to Eddie’s back pocket and squeezes. Eyes rolling in his head again over Eddie’s lean lines, his sharp edges and soft parts. The hand twisting his dick so perfectly. He’s not gonna last.

He opens his eyes again and Eddie’s bore into him. Dark and big and eating him whole. His mouth is open, slack, relishing in taking Steve apart. Steve whines weakly in his throat, Eddie’s hand comes up and grabs that handful of hair again, tugging once.

Steve tips over the edge, spilling into Eddie’s hand. Shuddering through his orgasm with a muffled groan, his hands still squeezing what they can reach of Eddie. One hand under his t-shirt, fingers in ribs, Steve wants to crack Eddie open, reach inside.

Eddie tucks him back in his boxers. Takes the joint from his lips and places it behind his ear. Steve’s breathing still not back to normal but he leans in for another kiss. Needs to feel tongue and heat and know that this is really real. Really happening.

That it’s not Steve of ’84 or ’85, that he made it to ’86. That he survived, that he didn’t nail himself on a cross and leave the rest up to fate. That he chose, he offered and took.

Eddie kisses back holding his jaw with a clean hand and sucking on Steve’s lower lip. Steve goes for Eddie’s fly but his mouth gets pulled off, Eddie pinching him at the chin.

‘S’all good sweet thing. Can’t cum when I’m crossfaded, mind gets all muddled and I can’t focus enough.’ And he says it with a smile, like it’s no big deal, just a fact. Steve feels his insides churn with need.

He needs to repay the favour. That’s how, how he can show it. Show how he needs, how he wants. How his hearts is just begging to be ripped out, bloody and still beating. And he can give that over, he can. He wants to.

Eddie pecks his lips again and moves off of Steve’s lap, tossing the hanky into a corner.

‘I gotta find Rob first but, uh, you wanna come to mine? Hang out? My parents aren’t home.’ Steve asks, maybe he can still fix this, keep it. His voice is higher than normal, still breathy. He clears his throat, swallows, tries to feel the van under his feet.

Eddie’s settles across from him, holding his lighter. He looks over with a little lazy smile. ‘Ah, sorry toots, that’s a little too close to romance for me.’

Steve tries not to let his cracks show, but he knows his valleys can open, sometimes the maw in his chest can’t be close quick enough. ‘What’s wrong with romance?’ He asks, his bandaged up heart lodged in his throat.

‘Just not something I do, it’s no stress, I’ll just see you around Harrington, yeah?’ And it’s so casual. So final.

Steve swallows and nods and checks his fly is done and slips out the back door. Hopes his cracks weren’t too blatant, too ugly.

He aches. He needs to confess.

6:15 July 15th: Hawkins General, Room 136

Eddie was finally healing. His blood had been drawn and his skin had been grafted, he’d taken his meds and even attended a couple government mandated therapy sessions.

He’d admitted in them that yeah, he didn’t trust easy. But no one other than Wayne had shown him they cared with such consistent acts of kindness. Everyone else left him in the dirt. So no, he doesn’t trust easy.

They’d said you have to give people a chance to be kind to you, and if they do fuck up you’re always within your power to leave. But that sometimes kindness goes both ways.

Eddie knew that. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t still terrifying.

Even more terrifying because Eddie had a face for the kindness. A place he aches to send his own, packaged and pretty and waiting to be unwrapped.

See, Steve Harrington was kind. Steve Harrington gave Eddie some of his blood, he’d helped the nurses change his bandages once or twice when the staff numbers were too sparse during a shift. Filled his water cup and cut his ugly but actually pretty good hospital meatloaf for him.

He’d kept Eddie squeaky clean, no chance of being kicked in the dirt, left dead in a ditch, whatever metaphors works best.

Steve was good. Eddie knew it. He did. But that doesn’t mean he’s not scared.

Because Eddie wanted to be kind back. He hoped holding Steve’s hand though getting his blood drawn, and letting him nap half curled on Eddie’s bed were enough for now. To let Steve see. See that he always wants to stroke his hair if a nightmare hits, not just when they’re fresh from hell. That he always wants to hold his hand, not just when there’s needles involved.

It’s actually, like, all the time that he wants to hold it, it’s really bad. Terminal.

The first time Steve filled his water unprompted Eddie honestly thought he heard a church bell ring, like, how can someone be so good?

And, even worse maybe, is that Steve Harrington was also a dork.

A genuinely silly guy. Cracking jokes unprompted just to get someone to laugh, someone to groan which makes someone else laugh. And he sits amongst it, this happy little chaos he’s created, and he beams.

Eddie thinks about it sometimes. That night in his van, at that random house party he can’t remember. He only remembers Steve, where Steve was, what he was doing, how he looked. Eddie thinks about that.

Thinks about his face when Eddie said he couldn’t hang out, how he seemed to masking tape himself back together, disappointed and fragile. But Eddie just couldn’t take anything further. Couldn’t risk letting Steve see him.

Sometimes Steve follows Wayne to the hospital chapel. He doesn’t ask, but he wants to. Wants to know who Steve prays to, what about, why his knuckles are still bruised when most of his other injuries are healing. Why he never talks about his parents. Why he hates the colour red. Where he goes when he zoned out and his whole face mangles into a frown, into an aching maw, Eddie wants to know, if just to help a little, ease his pain.

Eddie thinks about Steve, as he knew him and as he knows him now. About people being kind, about a therapist saying it goes both ways. And Eddie thinks he wants to be brave.

For Steve Harrington, Eddie can be brave.

‘Look what I snuck in for you today, fit for a king, no?’ Steve slips two Yoo Hoo’s from the inside of his jacket. Coming to sit in the plastic chair by Eddie’s bedside.

(Covered in crochet blankets that Robin brought over the moment she clocked that Steve fell asleep here sometimes. Steve likes to stick his fingers through the holes while they watch tv. Eddie likes to watch Steve’s fingers.)

He looks tired, Steve, deep purple stains under his eyes. But Robin said he’s brighter when he’s here, knowing Eddie and Max are alive, getting to see them. She said it was like he forgets when he’s not here, ghosts clouding his vision. Maybe it’s just more distracting here. Eddie doesn’t know. He just knows Steve’s here now. That he brought him chocolate milk and that he’s smiling.

Eddie holds the drink up to the light with two hands, opening his eyes wide, like it’s something holy. ‘Ah, the stuff of angels.’

Steve snorts and reaches up to open it for him. Eddie’s heart clenches.

Steve is kind, and good and brave. Eddie can try and be half that, for Steve.

He takes a sip, watching Steve do the same. ‘This kinda reminds me of eggnog.’ He muses, heart rate picking up.

‘I’m not putting whisky in it Eddie, Wayne would skin me alive.’ Steve says, flat. Beaming when Eddie snorts. He’s so wide open, so eager, and bright.

‘I know that.’ Eddie says. ‘Just, I guess it’s you then, reminding me, of eggnog.’ He tries, hiding behind his riddles.

Steve looks confused, glancing between their drinks and Eddie’s face.

He needs to spell it out, Steve deserves his plain honesty, Eddie takes a deep breath.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ Eddie starts.

‘Dangerous’

‘Shhh!’ Eddie fights down a grin. This is serious. He, ugh.

‘I’ve been thinking about uh, changing opinions’ Eddie tries again, folding his hands in his lap and squeezing the pads of his fingers with his nails.

‘Oh yeah?’ Steve’s still wide open, still pleased and bright.

‘Yeah, first is that maybe, ah, maybe I do want to try romance. Now, actually.’ Eddie forces. Holding his breath.

Something flickers across Steve’s eyes. half hopeful, half guarded. He turns his head, but his eyes stay trained on Eddie.

Eddie flounders, for a second. Aware suddenly of where they are, how this is maybe not the most romantic place to talk about it. Them. But, Eddie also doesn’t want to wait any longer. He’ll be able to leave soon, he just, he wants. Needs Steve to know, before everything changes again, while he’s between worlds and mostly healed and Steve it here. Steve was smiling.

‘Maybe I’ve found someone who, who deserves it.’ Eddie takes a deep breath. ‘Who I couldn’t be there for before, but I want to be here for now.’

Steves eyes soften ‘Oh.’ he whispers, fighting down a smile, looking down at his lap. He fidgets, pulls at his jacket, takes another swig of his drink.

He moves his chair closer to Eddie. Won’t look him in the eyes but he grabs Eddie’s hand that’s sitting on top of the bedsheet, linking their fingers together.

‘Wheel of Fortune’s almost on’ Steve’s says, looking ahead, still not letting his smile fully bloom. He’s squinting. It’s ridiculous.

Eddie grins. ‘Yeah, right right, of course’ He squeezes Steve’s hand and grabs the remote. Vows to not let go unless he has to, vows to keep Steve safe, help his bruises heal. Show him romance and kindness and love.

˚♱₊✩‧₊⋆｡‧˚♱⋆₊✩‧₊

written for Lex’s Spicy Six Winter Challenge! run by @thefreakandthehair and using the prompt: 'spiked eggnog'. it’s finished! ty again for organising!!!

Tag list (open): @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @scoops-aboy86 @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor @marvel-ous-m

Also tagging: @museumgiftshoperaser @kas-eddie-munson @ellietheasexylibrarian @sofadofax @i-amthepizzaman @estrellami-1

title from 'stick season' by noah kahan (edited slightly to fit better)

#it’s finished <3 #hotlunch #steddie #steve x eddie #my fic #pre s4 au #catholic steve harrington #<3

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meruz · 7 months

Text

Lightbox Expo 2023 is over!! Thank you to everyone who stopped by the table. I can't believe I sold out of both my sketchbooks AND my digimon fanbook... (multiple prints too?!)! I'm incredibly grateful... I will have a 2nd print run of both sketchbooks and online orders for the digimon book up in the next couple weeks so please keep an eye out for that!

More gushing abt the weekend under the cut

I sell at an average of idk... 3-4 events a year? So I would consider myself a frequent congoer though not necessarily full time lol. I'm a little jaded like it's not that I don't enjoy going to cons but theres definitely a bunch that feel like just-another-con-weekend to me lol, sometimes it's more work than play I guess. But this con felt really different! For the first time in a while I left a convention feeling really thrilled and giddy that I had been there. The kind of feeling I used to get when I would table at anime cons in highschool! And I think a lot of that is the people I met and talked to and the overall vibes at the event. Oh also I literally just had surgery and going to this con is like the only thing ive done this week besides lay in bed and play Story of Seasons on the nintendo switch and I thought I would be in pain and miserable but actually I HAD SO MUCH FUN...!!!! even when i skipped after-hours socializing every night to go home early and sleep 12 hours lol. SO ANYWAYS. YEAH. IT'S CORNY. BUT I wanna say thank you again to everyone who stopped by the table. Especially all the coworkers and long time mutuals who I met in person for the first time this weekend!! And the long time followers who told me they have been following me since homestuck or naruto or whenever. And college classmates who I haven't seen since graduation, crazy talented underclassmen who I'd never met but stopped by to say hi... So many people who absolutely made my day. SPECIAL thank you to my table partner Emi who is the best and such a good sport and accommodating to the point that I feel ridiculous when she thanks me for anything. And um also thank you to the artists who were cool and nice when I went up to their tables and blurted out 24917596 compliments in rapid succession. or only got one really awkward compliment out to LMAO... I felt so inspired and awe struck by everyone's work! God it was just so cool to be there. I LOVE ART....

Ok yeah thats it. its been a while since ive written a post-con blog post so earnestly lol.. here's my obscene haul photo I was buying stuff at this con like I was dying and couldn't take it with me LMAO.

I'm not gonna go tag everyone because I don't think everyones on tumblr but if you dont mind doing a little google search legwork: big x-men prints from chase conley, prints from jacki li/bguavas, azusa tojo, xanthe bouma, nicodaboy, susan yung, hormstuck, nessa tweneboah, linda liu, ash tahilan, zines also from jason dwyer, ash tahilan, aprilyn cunanan, veggiecakeface, deb lee, dune5and, uhh yoichi nishikawa art book and parakid calendar, stickers again from ash, marie lum, hormstuck, chiou, and emi hartana/crowlets OKAY I THINK I COVERED EVERYTHING THANKS FOR READING

#lifeblogging

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sugar-omi · 5 months

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TRANS MASC COVE TRANS MASC COVE (sfw +nsfw hcs pls,, id love your thoughts)

NO BC NOW YOU'VE PUT THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD N I NEED HIM DESPERATELY eta while im in the middle of writing: after this i... i can no longer hold onto my fem!cove thoughts. n i am eating up trans!cove like a starving ANIMAL.

tags : SFW + NSFW, transmasc (ftm) cove, switch cove/reader, some mentions of body/gender dysmorphia, im sure theres 1 transphobe walking around sunset bird so the smallest mention of that clown

SFW

i've been seeing a lotta top surgery scar tattoos on my twt timeline lately, and pls some of them i need for myself bc they're so!!!! pretty!!!!

so i can definitely see him getting tattoos there

not because he wants to cover em up, i just think he sees so many flash sheets over time that he's SOLD

mmm i wanna say that fem/afab!cove would have small boobs

or B cups at most

either way, i almost wanna say that his boobs before surgery wouldn't bother him as much unless someone was sexualizing him or he was exercising n his boobs were bouncing too much or smth like that

even then its usually complaints of, "ugh, this bra isn't supportive..." or something like that

ofc he still has his moments

i also think he only binds sometimes, rarely

doesn't do it often since it's often hot outside, or especially if he's sporty, its uncomfortable

(also looked it up just to be sure) but since he's always on the beach its inconvenient/unnecessary to wear if he can't wear it in the water

but like i said i think he'd be pretty flat/small anyway, so i think he's okay

mm definitely doesn't give up having long hair, or wearing the occasional dress/skirt ofc

but will correct one of the old sunset bird residents if they try and say "see honey, it was a phase, you're wearing a dress today!"

also idk abt yall, n this is more of a general thought, but i feel like step 2 cove's impulse control is. deathly low.

so one day, he has long/long-ish hair

and the next he has a mullet, wolf cut, or buzz cut.

he's so chaotic to me pls

now i've had fem!cove on my mind for weekssss now

so i'm not just saying this

but cove is still buff

thick muscly thighs, NICE ARMS. REALLY NICE ARMS

mm so i feel like he looks pretty androgynous or masc anyway

now im projecting here.

but cove has irregular periods, n they're pretty heavy most the time

or lasts awhile (ok im done projecting. sorry cove</3)

also think he deals with cramps (IM SORRY COVE)

i think his period is the biggest trigger of his body/gender dysmorphia too

although i think fem!cove would hate her period anyway altho tbf who doesnt

he'd definitely appreciate some comfort!!!

bring him another heating pad, your comfiest hoodie or blanket and snacks

he's very happy for the thoughtfulness and the company

step 2 cove would definitely be moved by such thoughtfulness... he's in tears

so after the first time it's a trend to spend time together in his bed, watching movies or something while he's cuddled into your side or next to you in a cove-rrito, all sleepy n comfy...

NSFW

had to stop writing the SFW to write this bc i had a thought

cove laid out all pretty... his chest rising and falling and he's all teary eyed as you're between his legs, eating his cunt until he's seeing stars.

pls his cunt with be so sensitive, and he'd be so pretty to fuck

would shake so much too

his thighs quivering so bad he clamps around your hand

you'd have to hold his legs up so he doesn't nearly flatten your head between his thick thighs

"y/n!" cove cries, his hands tangled in your hair and he's trying so hard not to squish your head between his thighs, but your tongue is flat against his sensitive clit, sucking and bullying the poor button while your fingers make a loud, sloppy mess of his hole.

he whines, hips shaking in your hands.

you tighten your grip on his waist, your fingers digging into the flesh, grumbling irritably around his clit but cove just cries out a loud moan and slurred word, torn between your name, a cuss word, and a cry for god.

you pull of his clit, your fingers still curling against that spongy spot inside his sloppy walls. "stay still, you're gonna crush my head..." you start to kiss his thighs, small kisses turning into you sucking deep hickeys into his tan skin, and that turning into biting.

cove gasps for air, his eyes fluttering closed as he squirms.

"fuck, y/n, please..." he mumbles, tugging at the bedsheets.

you stop the assault on his thighs, leaning up on your elbows so you can give cove a kiss, your lips lazily moving together...

anyway... horny aside for a moment<333

mm i could see cove not getting or really wanting bottom surgery

i think trans cove would be pretty comfortable with his body's appearance overall

and he's probably read into it a lot since it's not like he hasn't thought about it, i could just see him probably deciding its not something he wants

ARGGHH HE'D BE A DEMON WITH THE STRAP THOUGH

ahh. cove holding you down or folding your legs against your chest while he slams his hips against yours...

his strap hitting your poor prostate / cervix, he'd coo about how cute your whines are and that you're making him leak

would definitely upset he can't fill you up w cum

especially if you wanna get pregnant, rambles about how much he wishes he could fill you up with his cum again and again and again...

arghhh fuck imma lose my MIND

definitely takes advantage of those squirting dildos

can at least admire how you look oozing milky lube

omfg definitely wakes up all excited to tell you if he dreamed about it too...

has an array of straps

we already know he has a tentacle dildo or two deep in his closet...

yeah tries them out on you

"don't get tired yet, i have one more.. and it has a knot!!!"

he just likes to experiment on you a little~~ bit <333

ohh please tell him he looks handsome/sexy while you're giving him head

he'll die.

FUCK HE'D GO CRAZY IF YOU RIDE HIM TOO I KNOW IT

yeah he's still the same cute, secretly horny, big crybaby pookie <3333 i love him pls

#olba #our life: beginnings & always #cove holden x reader #cove holden #smut #cove x reader #cove x mc #cove our life #cove holden smut #cove holden x mc

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fruity-mercenary · 9 months

Text

Hey!! Trying something New! :D i wanna get back into writing so ima do some reader and characters, oc and canon, and canon and canon writings whenever i get bored! I’m currently on a waiting list on A03 so i’ll post it here for now! I would deeply appreciate feed back and suggestions! (Especially since I struggle with character Dialogue and Comedy even though its my favorite genre 😅) i do hope you enjoy however! <3

This is the first one! Its Earthspark Bumblebee and Reader (you) You wake up sick and he does everything he can to make sure your comfortable and cozy.

The first thing you see when you wake up is big, blue, worried eyes staring down at you. At first it’s a little confusing, but as you come to you realize it’s Bumblebee.

You smile weakly and stifle a small cough that turns into a larger one. You shift and pull the blanket closer as you shiver. It fits just right, its soft and gray, with little white dots that turn into stars.

“Are you okay? Can i get you anything? Soup? Water?” Bumblebee bombards with questions. Hes gentle as adjusts your pillows. You take a moment to comprehend what he just said.. “tissues… maybe a cough drop..?” You Sniffle and cough but not has harshly as before.

“Yes! Will do!” he hops up quickly, rushing off to find said things, the ground shakes softly as he walks to cabinet to cabinet in the base under the barn. Your thankful the hay hasn’t followed into the cozy space.

You feel kinda drowsy and start to close your eyes. You wonder whats taking bumblebee so long. It isn’t long till he comes over and hands you glass “hehe..so there really isn’t any human things down here! But i’m sure Dorothy can make some soup and get you those tissues and cough drops! Would you like that?” He asks politely as he nervously rubs his neck

You laugh softly as bumblebees awkwardness, it’s obvious he cares about you and wants to make sure you feel better. You cough into your hand, not wanting to get your germs on him even if he can’t get sick. “That would be nice…” you say in soft, hoarse voice

He smiles and jumps up with a little hop in his step. “Cool! Cool cool! I’ll go get that!” He points to the door and rushes to go, stopping when you call out his name. “Yeah!?” He becomes calmer, frowning, he wishes you well.

“Thank you…” you curl up closer to yourself, coughing hard. You hope to feel better soon..you like the though of fresh air and to play tag with the terrans. Maybe a walk in the woods to clear your mind.

Bumblebee smiles softly, tilting his head at the gratitude. “Anytime, get some rest” he says in that warm like honey voice he uses when hes appreciative.

You feel your eyes start to close.. you watch him leave.. a part of you doesn’t want him to go, you feel like crap, your shivering, coughing and sniffling. You want to curl up next to him to feel the warm of the engines. You know hes gone to take care of you and he’ll be back. But theres always the anxiety that maybe he’ll get caught up on a mission or its all a dream and you’ll wake up in your room you had before you met bumblebee.. but as you think all this you breathe out your mouth and drift off to sleep.

***

When you wake up again you still feel sick, but you’re awake now, still wrapped up in a blanket and in the cozy nook area. You smell the wonderful soup, surprisingly its still hot too. Though now your head is propped up and instead of a head rest, your head is in bumblebees leg. Is oddly soft even if its still metal. You smile but still feel bad you are getting your germs all over him.

He seems to be sleeping. Or maybe meditating? Its hard to tell but you like it all the same. You grab a tissues that was on the bed side table, along with a few cough drops, the un-drunk glass of water, and the soup with a spoon. It makes you happy that you have so many people (and bots) who want to nurse you back to health. Especially bumblebee.

He looks down on you as you grab the bowl of soup, he smiles and uses his index finger to rub your hair. You two dont need to speak to know how much you care for each other. Bumblebee will be patient as he helps you get over you illness. He’d love for you to be smiling and running around, tracking his speed record and practicing basketball.

Bumblebee isn’t too familiar with human sickness but he definitely knows you dont feel good, just by the way you sound when you cough is telling enough. And though hes a little grossed out by the too-late-uncovered-sneezing he cant seem to care that much.

Bumblebee notices the small frown on your lips, even if you seem to be enjoying the soup. he grabs the remote and puts a show on. He skips threw a few channels, he cant seem to find something until you sit up.

“Stop!” You cough out

He stops switching channels

“Go back.. back further.. keep going…… stop! Forward” you whisper, though the soup is soothing it still hurts to talk. “There..” you smile when you slump back down and curl up closer to bumblebees engines, they feel warm on your shivering arms, exactly what you needed to keep cozy to the max.

You look back at the tv when bumblebee turns the volume up. You told him to stop and go back because the channel had your favorite movie on. You could recognize it form any part, especially since the movie was already 30 minutes in.

“You like this movie?” Bumblebee wondered, since being a scout he didn’t really get to just sit down and enjoy many earth films. He saw bits and pieces when the terrans decided to watch something but it wasn’t really his speed.

“Duh!” You cough and blow your nose. “Sh sh.. the best part is coming up!” You smile as you make bumblebee watch. His reaction is what you’d expect. Your glad hes into your favorite movie, cause then he couldn’t stay your friend.

You were kidding, you didnt know what you’d do without bumblebee. Hes sweet, a bit silly even if it doesnt mean it. And a bit oblivious to some of the jokes you made. But its what made bumblebee, bumblebee and thats what you loved about him. You may there watching the movie. You’d make some comments if you were feeling better, but you wanted to finish your soup and down your water.

You weren’t tired but weren’t quite awake either. You just lay there, content as you could be in that moment. Bumblebee puts his hand in your back and you feel soothed. If you could you’d bask in the moment forever.. minus being sick. You got comfortable agains bumblebee oddly soft metal and focused on the movie.

Especially since bumblebee liked it too… it made you happy and safe. You already had a list of movies in your mind of what you think bumblebee might like.. once your feeling better a slumber party was just the perfect thing for the both of you.

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astranite · 4 months

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Respite (Spun Glass and Golden Light)

Scott and John, or sky and star!

It's another long one at a bit under 5000 words! Tags copied from ao3 as look, I really should be asleep already.Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, theres a fair spectrum of emotions here, Brothers, Thunderbird Five (Thunderbirds), Nightmares, John is also pretty not okay here too as well as Scott but they are both working on it, space metaphors thrown in for good measure, Cuddling & Snuggling, because everyone needs a hug of course, another fic where John and Scott drink hot chocolate!, they are both also learning they can let each other in and Scott is realising this.

Many thanks to the fab @idontknowreallywhy for all the cheering on and wonderfulness!

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“Do you want to come up to Five?” John asked.

Scott answered far too fast. “Yeah.” His voice broke in the middle.

John thought it would take more convincing, it always did to get Scott to accept anything approaching help. But this time…

He caught one last flash of blue eyes made bluer, meeting his and piercingly desperate, before the hologram shut off from Scott’s end and John was blinking away the after images in the suddenly dark comm hub.

Scott, in rumpled day clothes at 2:47am Tracy Island time, hair falling across his forehead in uneven waves of curls. Scott, whose dark circles under his eyes had startled John into thinking they were bruises, his sharpened features thrown in harsh relief by the dim lamp by dad’s desk. The hologram was fuzzy at the edges, all noisy static between him and his brother, but John couldn’t miss the way Scott looked over his shoulder like he expected something to be there. Or someone.

Ghosts of his past, John thought, then shook himself.

Scott had nightmares, they all knew it. But he always pretended he wasn't shaken by what he saw. Tried to carry on like they didn't happen, like nothing ever happened, and Scott was as invincible as the legend he’d built around dad was.

John saw, more often than the others. There was a reason he monitored the villa feed for movement outside of usual hours when the rescue alarms hadn't gone off.

He’d caught a few funnier moments for blackmail, namely Alan and Gordon attempting to steal storebought baked goods from the fridge and getting them mixed up with Grandma’s latest creations in the dark. Repeatedly, because they’d never figured out how Scott and Virgil conspired together to swap the containers.

But there were worse ones for all of their family. Nights Alan slept on the couch because being in his room, alone inside close walls was too much. Gordon making his subdued way through the halls, cheerful facade gone with gasps of pain unable to be stifled, going to get painkillers from the infirmary for his back. Kayo, prowling on silent feet, checking, triple checking security feeds for any slightest threat, not able to believe in the safety of their island anymore. Jagged notes of piano, near silent from keys barely pressed, while Virgil had tears on his face.

And Scott, of course Scott who had it the worst of all of them, who was the bravest of them but couldn't see it. Late nights, ending slumped ragdoll-like over endless paperwork from endless responsibilities put on his shoulders. Agitated pacing, wearing only socks so he wouldn't wake anyone, ragged breaths louder than his footsteps. The times when Scott was a trembling ball of tears, curled under dad’s desk where he barely fit anymore, hands over his head blocking everything out.

Sometimes John talked to them, offered company and comfort, other times he let the moments pass silently. He was used to witnessing things he could never speak of again; his own moments of pain rarely had anyone but he made sure his siblings’ did, just in case they needed someone reaching out for them.

Watching over Scott in particular to make sure no harm came to him was an unsaid duty John took as his own. Virgil was there in the day, with him on the ground during rescues, but John amongst his stars kept the nights within his reach.

He’d already sent the space elevator down and now he waited, marking careful timings as Eos quietly spoke them. Scott was suiting up. Scott was finishing pre-launch checks. Scott had reached the Kármán line, the beginning of space.

John drifted through a gravity-less Five, switching to lights that gave off a soft, golden glow. They filled the Thunderbird up like she was one of those ancient incandescent bulbs, long since obsolete. Like she was delicate spun glass as well as cahelium strength, two opposites the same, together complete where glass could break and cahelium bend. She was different from her sister ships, a different purpose and way of approach, but in the end she was the same. Rescue. Salvation. Pulling them all back from the void.

He couldn't take the nightmares away, the fear and pain scarred deep in his brother’s bones, but he could offer respite. Warmth and light and safety, with some distance from it all. A set of arms to hold Scott close and a shoulder to cry on when it was needed. It was something, it was everything, in the rare times Scott could reach out and take it.

And John needed it too. He could watch over Scott from afar, he always would, he couldn't not. But he also needed his big brother close enough that he could feel his heartbeat, how his chest rose and fell with each breath, not just as numbers on a screen, but here and real and close. Maybe he wasn't the touchiest person generally, but his brothers wrapped up in a hug or sides pressed together where they sat, their soft voices in the bubble of quiet, that meant safety. With only arm’s reach to check if they were okay, especially for looking out for Scott. There was a reason that otherwise he had to have all of the data. But right now he needed Scott.

John waited for the familiar clunk of the space elevator docking, for Eos to give the all clear for her checks for the airlock being correctly pressurised, before the doors opened.

They silhouetted Scott in their frame, stuck halfway between the warm lights of Five and the cooler, harsher ones in the space elevator.

Scott hesitated, like he always did here, a hand blue-gloved in space issue suit gripping the edge of the airlock.

John opened his arms, because Scott needed this as much as he did. They were the same this way.

He was met by a brother tumbling towards him, clumsy out of their element, in a crashing hug. For a moment, John almost expected it to be Alan, eager and young, those blue eyes— But Alan was nearly as graceful up here as John these days. And his eyes didn't hold the same nightmare bright intensity and John hoped they never would.

Scott hit him in a collision of bodies and John had to stop their combined momentum, a foot finding a wall to slow them until his shoulder slammed into a bulkhead cabinet anyway. Automatically, he wrapped himself around Scott.

“Just a bit of a bump, nothing that hasn’t happened before. You gotta have a lighter touch when you kick off in micrograv,” John said cheerily. Scott was still mumbling repeated apologies under his breath.

John took the moment, in spite of his words, to just cling to Scott, like Scott was clinging to him, burying his face at his brother’s neck. A moment, a minute, a respite.

Finding handholds on Five’s inner surfaces was as easy as it was familiar. John could find every one of them blind, oxygen-deprived, with no Earthly directions as a frame of reference. He had, before.

He shifted to get his fingers around Scott’s wrist, a quick tap on his hand to warn Scott first, then Scott’s locking around his own in a rescue grip, to pull them through a quietened Five as one.

To the galley. Hot chocolate wasn't quite the same when it came in a foil pouch with a straw as opposed to Earth’s ceramic mugs, but it was chocolate and you could still warm your hands around it.

John made up two, passing one off to Scott where he hung about against what was nominally the wall, though the orientation didn't matter without gravity’s bounds.

“Thanks.” Scott tried for a smile. He was still gripping the hand hold with the white-knuckles-beneath-gloves grip of someone unused to being without gravity and scared to drift away.

John settled on the ceiling in arms reach, with just his toes tucked under a bar.

Quiet lulled between them. John’s favourite type of quiet, with just the soothing hum of the life support systems, the ever-present undercurrent of Five, and their own breathing.

Technically, it wasn't hot chocolate, but nutritionally-complete chocolate-flavoured drink didn't have the same ring. It wasn't the same as a proper meal but a stressed Scott barely ate, John wasn't exactly sure how many hours had passed but it’d be too many if he counted, and right now Scott needed something sweet and calorie-dense and easy to get into him.

It was fine until Scott shifted, his hand slipping momentarily with a sharp intake of breath and that all too familiar flash of panic swiftly hidden. Except up here that split second where he flailed before freezing up and stopping himself sent him into a spin.

John caught Scott’s outstretched arm to steady him. He moved next to Scott with a graceful twist to be against the same wall so Scott could hold onto him. Taking the hot chocolate from him, John gently guided Scott’s hands, one to the grab bar, the other to his baldric.

“You can’t fall up here, not really. Even if it feels like it sometimes,” John said. Reassured. Because this was his sleep-deprived big brother he was talking to, not the perfectly put together Commander.

Scott’s eyes searched his face, latching on to John’s with the same unbreakable trust that let John lead on missions where he could see more from above and Scott actually listened.

“Okay,” Scott said, like it was that simple, like anything in their lives was simple. Because he believed John.

They were close enough that John could see how the strands of Scott’s hair were matted together by old gel not yet washed out. More grey was flecked around his temples, his hair surrounding his head in a floating halo from the lack of gravity and the way it caught the light.

Scott flinched at the soft click-rush-clunk of ventilation systems cycling as they should be, a sound unusual for Scott but not enough to normally be a threat. Scott’s fingers tightened on John’s baldric.

Both of them breathed slowly and carefully, to a steady rhythm of calm until the moment passed.

With how Scott was obviously still struggling with the lack of gravity, John quietly decided to make it easier for him when he wouldn't ask.

“Eos? Gravity back on please,” John murmured aloud to ensure Scott had some warning.

The lights around her camera blinked, flashing to a sunset tone in acknowlegement.

“Will do, John,” Eos said.

The gravity ring mechanisms whirred as they accelerated to the appropriate velocity, providing a force at what would soon be slightly less than Earth standard gravity.

“Hello, Scott Tracy,” she added in greeting. John had noticed they’d been getting on better recently, he was glad of it.

Gently, he guided himself and Scott until their feet touched the floor. Until they could sit next to each other on the ground, cross-legged with their knees bumping, to finish their hot chocolates.

When Scott slumped with relief, letting out a long, shaky exhale, John knew he’d made the right call.

They stared out at the stars now ‘below,’ stretching out into infinity. Always captivating.

Scott hadn't looked out there, eyes carefully averted until he’d shuffled even closer to John, and John had tucked an arm around him to hold on. Because while Five and her warm glow, her connection to everything meant safety like any Thunderbird did, for Scott the gaping void of space held only danger and the need for rescues. Only with John it became their sky again, like they were stargazing on the roof of the farm house on Earth, far beneath them and years ago.

“You want to talk about it?” John asked softly, an opening so that Scott knew he could share and he’d listen.

“Uh. I don’t know. Maybe?” Scott’s usually well hidden uncertaintly bubbled to the surface.

“I’m here for you. Either way it’s okay,” John reminded gently, because Scott needed to hear him say it aloud even though it was always there implicitly.

“Nightmares. It was the snow again.” It was a sign of how far Scott had come that he would talk about what was on his mind, instead of burying it deep inside in a misplaced attempt to protect them. John found Scott’s hand and gently squeezed it.

Scott shuddered, continuing, “Probably from the rescue the other day, the entire mountainside came down. But it was with all of you guys instead and it looked more like the skii slope from the avalanche and mum, but I was too late and I couldn't save you, there was nothing I could do, you were all gone and I was alone—” Scott’s voice rose, distressed.

John could feel him shivering against his side, had only to glance to see the tears building in the corners of Scott’s eyes, the way he had his teeth sunk into his trembling lower lip, the same as he always did when he was trying not to cry. John’s heart broke at that, it always did. He gripped Scott’s hand, tightened the arm around him in a wordless effort to make sure Scott knew he wasn't alone, John was here and he wasn't going anywhere.

Scott took a deep breath and went on. “I know it wasn't real, but it felt like it.”

John made a quiet, empathetic noise. In the moment, in the haze where the lines blurred between sleep and wakefulness, nightmares did feel real. And in the sick feeling after when you just couldn't shake it. He’d been there too.

John could imagine the warmth of Scott’s hand through their space rated gloves as Scott squeezed his. “No matter what happens I’ll always fight for you all and I know you’ll all do everything you can to make it back home to me. And we have systems and procedures in place, and better equipment designed for bad conditions, and everything to make sure that never happens. But it still scares me,” Scott admitted.

“It scares me too.” Usually he didn't say that part aloud though with the work they did and the consequences they saw it never hadn't been in mind. “But we hold onto hope and each other and never let go.” John’s voice came with a fierceness he hadn't quite realised was still buried inside him. They had to believe in it. Or they were already broken.

“We’re Tracies. We’re not going to stop trying to make it home.” Scott returned with a fire John had missed before he dropped quieter but no less determined. “All of us. Even— even me.”

John hung onto him because he knew how long it had taken, how much it still took for Scott to say those words. To mean them.

He pressed his forehead against Scott’s temple. The fear of losing Scott to his own sacrificial, heroic recklessness bit at John even now, along with the need to somehow protect him from the world.

But they both were alive, here and now, in spite of the odds so far.

Scott leaned into John.

The feelings, the fears were there, but together up here amongst the stars they lost enough of their power that they could sit with them and they would soften, the raw edged terror of nightmares washing away.

Five was a bubble of light surrounding them, sheltering them from both the void of space and all that was outside. He and Scott were wrapped up in their own little world, as tiredness itched at John’s eyes and Scott lay his head on his shoulder. John pulled his big brother closer, not that there was really any space between them anyway. They were safe as much as was possible in this big, vast world. More importantly, they were here together.

John waited, not wanting to break the moment for as long as possible, wanting in a childish way to stay here with Scott forever, until his legs were numb and achy from sitting on them, until his eyes were threatening to slide shut, until Scott’s weight against his shoulder was resting heavily against him. Even then he was loathe to move.

A gentle poke and repeating his name had blue eyes blinking sleepily up at him from how Scott was slumped.

“Bedtime, big brother.” John trailed a hand through Scott’s hair, brushing back the stray strands fallen over his forehead.

“Mmmph,” Scott grumbled, tucking his face further into John’s neck.

Scott’s characteristic instant alertness come online a couple of seconds later and he pulled away. All for that he hadn't been properly asleep, merely content and dozy, a rare sight John treasured.

They walked, pressed shoulder to shoulder, to John’s tiny bedroom, tucked away on the nearer side of Five’s gravity ring. Reduced gravity made their footsteps lighter but the company did that too.

Scott hesitated at the door of the second cabin, mostly used on the occasions when Alan was up for training, put there because Five wasn't initially designed to be manned alone which John purposely didn't think about.

When Scott shrank a millimeter closer to John, John pretended not to notice the display of what Scott would call weakness in himself but never in anyone else, and nudged him with a casual, “C’mon. Puppy pile?”

“Does it still count without everyone?” Scott replied, following him though.

“Mmm,” John thought, “Yeah.” He knew he missed out on plenty on Earth too.

A hug pile of just them might be just what they needed. Both of them at this point. Memories of the whole family in a tangled, happy heap were some of John’s fondest and he knew that went for Scott too. But it was a lot and right now Scott needed calm and quiet to rest and not to feel as if he had to put on a brave face in front of everyone.

John pulled pyjamas out of his cupboard for them both, tossing an obligatory space pun t-shirt and pair of comfy sweat pants at Scott. Sharing clothes with Scott was easy given they had the most similar builds of their siblings, tall and slim, with Scott being slightly broader across the shoulders and John running more awkwardly lanky. IR space suits were comfortable but not the most for sleeping in, despite how often John ended up doing so.

They changed into pyjamas in silence, except for when John yawned midway through peeling his suit off, then Scott did too, causing them both to giggle in the way of the well past tired.

John smiled to himself while he put on a pair of socks, watching Scott poking about his room, trailing fingers over the spines of his paper books, then inspecting the stickers on his window and the handful of glow-in-the-dark stars John had up here because they reminded him of home even with the real ones right outside. His big brother’s curiosity even over these tiny details of his life, a facet he didn't often see with John up in orbit so much, made him warm inside. Especially with the way Scott was so relaxed up here in what was John’s space, a stark contrast to earlier and the staticky comm feed. The dark circles beneath his eyes remained though.

With a jaw-cracking yawn, John tipped backwards to lie on his bed. He wriggled his galaxy patterned duvet out from from beneath him where he’d landed on top of it, unattaching it from the side of his bed where it fastened to formed more of a sleeping bag to prevent him from drifting away when he left the gravity off. Which he probably did too often when the days blurred together, rescues and downtime without separation.

Stars, he was tired. Too many rescue calls, not enough sleep for— he no longer kept track of how long, but that was another day’s problem. Right now, he was here and Scott was here, so John could believe everything was going to be okay. Provided they both got some shut eye sometime soon.

Shuffling over to the wall made more room for Scott, even if John usually curled up right in the middle. The bunks on Five were larger and far more comfortable than the narrow and too short for anyone who wasn’t like, Gordon height, ones he remembered not so fondly from his NASA days. Still, not exactly sized for two people both over the six foot mark but they could make do.

“Promise I won’t push you off,” John joked.

Piling all of their siblings, because if one person was getting cuddles everyone suddenly wanted them, onto beds and couches definitely not designed for so many had led to the occasional person falling off the side, usually facilitated by shoving from the victim of a grievous crime such as ate the last sweet.

Scott rolled his eyes and repeated John’s motion of flopping down onto the bed, long limbs all everywhere, complete with tossing an arm over John’s chest and a foot over his ankles. He let out a dramatic sigh, looking to John out of the edge of his vision for his reaction.

John couldn't even pretend to be annoyed. This was Scott messing around playfully and John had missed this even as he still didn't take breaks from monitor duty and all his emotions were bubbling up in his chest until he was laughing, until there were tears in the corners of his eyes.

And Scott was laughing too, John could feel him shaking with it. Nothing was even that funny but here they were, giggling like a couple of careless, carefree kids, the sound echoing off of the walls. Five filled up with their laughter, contained it in a cocoon of light and air and protective walls between the vacuum outside where no noise could travel.

They were both left grinning exhaustedly at each other as the world came back to the reality that it was well past 3am, they needed to actually sleep especially with Scott having come down from the adrenaline crash of a nightmare and rushing up here. John rubbed at his gritty, tired eyes.

A word to Eos in addition to a goodnight had the lights switching off, the room only illuminated by the stars outside the window. Shutters would automatically close when Five’s rotation would put them facing the sun, but for now John could look out and marvel that he was here as he used to do every night, reaching up to touch one of his glow in the dark stars, a familiar green on the wall.

Scott watched him and John gave a half-shrug before shuffling closer. And he wasn't alone.

John shook his head to clear it before rolling onto his side, holding out his arms to Scott.

Big brother immediately went in for the hug, burying his face at John’s shoulder, clinging to him with maybe a little left over fear or maybe just because John was near. He wrapped his arms around Scott tightly. Took a moment, another moment just to be.

Wondering how long it had been since he’d been part of a cuddle pile with any his siblings, instead of an outside observer in holographic format was not something he wanted to waste time on right now. Or how it still took a horrific nightmare for Scott to seek respite from all the pressures of the world that seemed gathered around dad’s desk. Or for John to get respite from falling on the wrong side of the distinct divide between solitary and alone. Not that he could ask for it, he and Scott were too similar in that way. Instead, John let himself sink into the hug.

“You alright, John?” Scott’s concern was not unusual, he always found a way to check up on them.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” It could be interpreted in several ways, glad for Scott, glad for himself. That’s all John had, the rest he couldn't possible articulate but it was enough for now. He tucked his nose into Scott’s hair.

The sun shutters slid over the windows exactly as they were supposed to. They were left with the green glow of his own stars.

Scott’s chin was digging into his collarbone. Neither of them would likely have slept enough to be safe to fly tomorrow with the hours they were running to.

He shifted, making a quiet noise. Gently rearranging them was easy when Scott willingly followed through with John’s actions, guiding him to lie with his back to John’s chest instead. John wound his arms around Scott, ending up with his hands resting over Scott’s stomach, able to feel the rise and fall of it with each breath. He bumped his forehead against the back of Scott’s neck.

“‘M not the little spoon,” Scott protested even as he snuggled against John.

“Reality would suggest otherwise,” John returned, an observation, with the edges filed off as his deadpan humor had turned accidentally cutting these days.

It was rare that their positions were not reversed no matter the little brother involved. This made sense on a surface level, Scott’s height was greater than anyone else’s, long arms to pull them close, wrapped up safe. He was big brother, the eldest, their leader, he was the one who protected them from the world.

But John could also be there for him. Usually that meant from afar, a hologram projected from a wrist comm they always kept on them or beside flight controls, a voice in his ear, an extra set of eyes. All the data at his fingertips and a Tracy’s determination to keep their family safe. He didn't know whether anyone realised how many crises he averted before they became problems. He protected Scott, and it was far easier now he would let them in.

Scott was warm and something tightly wound inside John loosened. They were there for each other, it was a balance, this was how the world worked. Now that Scott let them take some of the weight instead of carrying the whole universe on his shoulders, it was easier to lean on him too because they shared things like this. To not follow Scott’s less than stellar example of hiding struggles, but from a big brother who tried to do and be everything instead of the little ones, because John couldn't bear to add anything else to the pile. Scott trusted him, he could trust Scott too.

John was just about to drop off to sleep when Scott suddenly tensed up.

“I don’t want to go to sleep. I don't want to have more nightmares.” The words came out jagged and scared, whisper quiet.

Scott was exhausted but the fear was stronger, unpredictably resurging just when everything seemed alright. John had seen how Scott would try to escape it before passing out into uneasy unconsciousness. He found Scott’s hands, sought them gently and linked theirs together.

“I can’t make them stop but I will be right here if you have one,” John said, “I promise.”

“I know.”

Scott settled again, letting out a deep breath.

John felt Scott fidgeting with his hands, carefully curling and uncurling his fingers, tracing over his knuckles, pressing their palms together, as the fear ebbed again.

The sounds of Five washed over them, humming softly as if breathing with them too. Familiar and home. John’s family was also his home. He needed them too. They needed him. He and Scott were rest and safety for each other as much the Thunderbird was for the world.

John made sure to give an, “I love you,” to his big brother while he was still awake to hear it because these things were important to be said and to be heard in reply.

Slowly, ever so slowly the grip of Scott’s hands relaxed, remaining loosely entwined with John’s as sleep finally came.

John kept holding onto Scott. A Scott who knew he could come to John for anything and had come to him tonight. Scott was here, they were both here together on Thunderbird Five amongst the stars. The rest of John’s thoughts trailed off at sleep’s approach but they were filled with a quiet hope.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #john tracy #scott tracy #sky and star #astrawrite

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