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penrose-quinn · 2 years

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Green Light | Part Ten

“You’re not bad,” Izana told him, a mutter at first as if the sentiment was so delicate and important, but he didn’t bury it in his chest anymore that it gleamed in his gaze, looking up to him.

“You’re my big brother. Of course, you’re not bad.”

Shinichiro should’ve corrected him. He’s only half his age. He didn’t know what he was doing, though he’d learn that most adults didn’t either and he just didn’t want to screw up so much for his words to no longer matter.

pairing: shinichiro sano/gn!reader

content tags: childhood friends. angst and hurt/comfort. slice of life ft. gangs. idiots to lovers. old friends trying to reconnect but are being dumbasses about it. they don't deserve the friends to lovers tag because they're stupid and pining. my sad attempt at writing shinichiro’s backstory. implied infidelity. implied death of a relative. underage smoking and other reckless shit kids shouldn’t do. tokrev manga spoilers.

a/n: happy belated birthday, shin! just gonna remind everyone that we start with his backstory at 17 years old and onwards to the present. this chapter and the next one are special to me, poured all my heart and soul and tears into every word just for this guy, so i very much appreciate every like/reblog/comment this receives!

m.list ❁ read on ao3

Shinichiro trudged back home late with a tired grimace.

On another day, he'd think he's lucky because his grandfather – who had zero tolerance over a sink stacked high with grimy dishes – was asleep, though he's still a bit injured after a recent fight. Don't I get a break from this?

Manjiro and Emma were watching cartoons in the living room after hauling out a bunch of VHS tapes stored in the TV cabinet. Their third watch was a Ghibli film and it'd probably be their last when it's late in the night.

Raising his voice a bit, he asked one of them to come over and clear out the crockery from the dish rack. This, however, set off an argument between them that his request went ignored and he had to remind them about it again when he finally padded in the room with a sigh.

Emma piped up that she already did the first batch of dishes this morning while complaining about how Manjiro neglected his chores today, which had him cross his arms adamantly, excusing himself that he'd been occupied with karate training.

He was caught in the lie when she ratted on him that he actually snuck out to meet-up with Keisuke and Haruchiyo. He didn’t speak up to defend himself this time, acting all huffy and disgruntled, cheeks puffed up from the accusation.

Then Shinichiro cleared his throat, voice pitched low and stern. "Well, Manjiro . . ."

"Whatever. I'm not watching with you anymore."

"Fine," shot back Emma, pressing play on the remote.

Before Shinichiro could mediate between them, Manjiro slid off the couch and made a beeline to the kitchen sink. True to his word, he went to bed sooner.

After washing the dishes and wiping the counter spotless, Shinichiro joined Emma a little later on. He already knew how it ended before the credits rolled.

A part of him was bothered after belatedly realizing that the movie was too mature for her, even though he’d been close to her age when he first watched it himself; curious, confused, and a bit horrified but morose to all of these hideous concepts about war and loss, death and desolate youth, the poverty of children.

Siblings striving, he thought. From the brutality of a world no different from what he had seen and would rather keep her safe from.

His little sister was brave, though.

Shinichiro often wondered whoever taught her to be, sitting through the film as if she understood what had happened in it anyway. He likened the quiet between them to something almost forlorn before moving on from the sentiment and stating that it was a really sad story.

Emma blinked at him, slow and drowsy, misty-eyed. He didn't ask her if she cried.

Ever since one of the kids from the dojo called her a crybaby, she'd clench herself and refuse to acknowledge her tears. She felt more inclined to do this after Manjiro scared off the boy. This didn’t register to his brother yet, even when his honest intentions were to protect her. Shinichiro didn't want anyone to hurt. He didn’t want her to cry, but he told her that it's okay to let it out. We need to cry, sometimes.

Still, he had to be delicate with her. His mother always reminded him to be more sensitive to girls. He didn't tease her, though he did confess that he bawled from a scene – see, it's the one where all the fireflies died and she had to bury them – and when Emma asked why, he said he forgot the reason, just that he could still recall his emotions so vividly.

Grave of the Fireflies wasn’t even one of his favorites and a lot of it didn't make much sense to him at the time, but he sobbed so much that day, grieving before he could understand what would be lost to him.

Emma listened, but she didn't comment after that. Then her nose wrinkled at the damp spot on his shirt; his sloppiness. He lazily waved it off. Eyes poring over his arm, she asked him if she could doodle on his plasters and he would’ve said yes though she let out a yawn, making him recall that it's time he got her ready for bed.

Teeth brushed and frocked into her cotton pajamas, she was tucked in her covers. Before Shinichiro closed the door of her room, he overheard her murmur longingly for her big brother that he knew was neither addressed to Manjiro nor him.

When Emma hadn't eased up to him yet, she told him that she already had Izana and that he'd never replace him.

When Shinichiro asked her why he wasn’t with her, he didn’t expect that his words would unintentionally hurt her feelings, and you shook your head in disapproval when he recounted the tale after he begged you to talk to her instead. C’mon. Just help me out, please?

You did, and you still would when you explained to him how adoptions worked, all that complicated, jargony stuff.

Then you asked him what was all of this for. The better question was for who.

On his next visit, Izana got himself a nice guitar. Someone lent it to him, but he didn't elaborate more about that or the scratch on its side when he began playing him a verse of Sweet Child O' Mine. He sulked a bit, deeming his attempt amateur, though Shinichiro assured him that he recognized the song – from heart, he’d even proclaim with a pat to his chest, and Izana always knew but he’d still roll his eyes – and he improved by a mile, knowing he'd been self-taught from his letters.

Shinichiro could barely even pull off the basic chords, believing the F chord actually stood for Fucking Hard in English. Izana agreed but he told him that he should just practice and quit messing up the tuners.

Shinichiro hadn’t mastered playing the guitar months later. Even so, Izana would approach him, asking if he could teach him how to ride a motorcycle. He’d rather teach him how to talk to girls, though he still guided him through the clutch, the throttle and brake, the steering for a bike to roll smoothly, but he wouldn’t actually let him drive until Izana would rush ahead and do it by himself at thirteen.

Shinichiro was there in all of Manjiro and Emma’s milestones. He wanted to be there for Izana’s too.

Ueno Park almost felt bare on July.

Perhaps, there was melancholy in prolonged misplacement.

That there weren’t any cherry blossoms abloom in the park and his mother wouldn't be celebrating Hanami next spring.

His immersion of the surroundings seemed to change after a long stroll to Hanazono Inari Shrine, bedecked with torii gates that couldn't grant wishes, carmine stippled with green shadows overhead. The heat swayed with the trees that it could make a bug curl under a rock and nestle itself there with dreams of the coming season. There’s a zoo nearby, though Izana would rather glance at the fishes from the pond. A smile bent his lips when the fat, red-bellied carps swam under his feet once he fed them morsels of his taiyaki. One of them jokingly brought up cannibalism or if carp liked sweets as much as people do.

His mother would probably say something as absurd, like that time she claimed she was his best friend on this same bridge, a sprig of transient flowers clutched between her fingers. Manjiro was two, but he wouldn’t have memories of her outside the hospital as much as he did. Shinichiro wasn’t sure what kind of child he would be without his mother always holding his hand, though he still threw a fit that what she insisted was downright embarrassing.

Shinichiro reflected over her words, if she had only told him that so he wouldn’t feel as lonesome as she did.

It made him wonder if it was inherited. If Izana had it too, averting his eyes after lingering for too long at the crowd from the distance, couples with strollers and children with parents.

Parks were spaces meant for big, normal families. The shape of which had been hollowed out of them, and through each other’s pensive gaps, Shinichiro just knew he had to take him anywhere but here.

They spent most of the time around the city, going to a corner store where he bought himself a pack of smokes without being asked for an ID; to Okubo-Dori and had Korean corn dogs slathered with too much mustard and sugar; to JB’s Music Store, owned by an Aussie who wore John Lennon tea shades everyday. You tipped him about it because this was the place where you usually purchased CD albums at a cheaper price, though this wasn’t where he got Izana’s Walkman. It’s secondhand, but one could never go wrong finding the best kind in Akihabara.

The both of them gawked at 70s band posters and memorabilia, listening to some random, garbling song by Led Zeppelin, then T. Rex, The Doors, Kiss, Queen. Izana had quick hands when he stuffed a cassette tape inside his hoodie, though the owner had sharper eyes beneath those pitch-black shades and chased them out of the store, making them scram three blocks ahead like their lives depended on it.

Shinichiro would’ve paid the man if he wasn’t low on cash today. He still reprimanded Izana for stealing, panting shallow breaths that gradually heaved out a wild laugh, because the cassette tape was worth the trouble when he eyed the track listings, a collection of the all-time greatest rock hits.

You’re insane. Don’t ever lose it, Shinichiro told him, tousling his hair. Izana didn’t have much back at the orphanage anyway, and there’s really something alive in his eyes that warmed his chest.

They wandered around graffiti walls and railroad ways, neon-signed establishments, scraps of Tokyoite urbanity that smoldered at dusk. There’s the arcade near the pachinko parlor, and there’s the oceanside park at the edge of the city, where the sand stretched for miles that their footprints had been lost to the sea, to the smoke and asphalt on the highway towards the horizon.

There’s a lot of places his brother still hadn’t known yet and some could span far and wide as long as the road could take them together.

Izana didn't like to talk about his mother so he pondered over the father that he never had the chance to know. Or perhaps, was fortunate enough to have never known more about because that meant his father could be anyone; someone who could've been the pillar of his life; someone who he would be proud of being called as his father's son.

"You and Emma have the same father," recalled Izana. "What's he like?"

"He worked hard. When he was around, we watched TV sometimes. Hm, he’d get me out of trouble when Grandpa's about to give me an earful. Always had an excuse," Shinichiro let out a clipped chuckle, then stopped, blank and bleak, when he recounted that his father didn’t discipline him as much as Takeomi’s did and maybe that’s the case because he’s almost never home.

He wondered if fathers were lost creatures. Or if his had only gone astray.

Shinichiro grinned roguishly. “Look at how I turned out to be.”

He hoped to cradle them forever, reminded of the same, fulgent feeling from years ago when Manjiro had first babbled his name and the world around him changed ever since, brighter.

There was a time Izana made a strange promise that he'd break the leg of the guy who got him hospitalized someday, which ought to be raising his concern with how little it sounded like a joke. Shinichiro wrote to him that he reminded him of Manjiro for that and what he drew out of it was a stranger reply. He’s serious apparently, though no word on the comparison.

Even if Shinichiro recounted about Emma getting along with Manjiro in his letters, Izana would dismiss him in favor of his sister. Oftentimes, he wouldn’t acknowledge them together at all.

He penned back that he should stop getting into brawls so much, recollecting how he had to rewrap the bandage on his ankle in his last visit. It’s one thing to fight in self-defense, and another to rampantly commit violence.

His lenience would then provide him that he was only defending a friend. The name kept eluding him.

He searched for one, but his eyes found conviction in a sentence instead.

I just want to be more like you.

Shinichiro almost read that in Manjiro’s voice, but he knew better than to mention it.

At sixteen, Shinichiro thought his biggest hurdle was approaching his grandfather into adopting Izana in the same vein he attempted talking the caretaker to just let him adopt him because they were related anyway—so what if he was still in high school? A delinquent? He led the Black Dragons a year younger and raised his siblings when he’s barely even a teenager.

You’d refute him that he’d only stop being a child at eighteen and would legally be an adult by twenty. Besides, his grandfather was at a certain age wherein he shouldn’t be taking care of another kid anymore. Then you would nag him about the process, the long duration, the qualifications of a guardian. The statistics were slim. There’s a reason why adoptions were so rare and difficult.

At seventeen, he had to accept that the truth was harder to swallow.

Did you ever look back and think why his mother didn’t abandon him with his little sister in your house?

Shinichiro stopped wondering how he could keep a terrible secret for over a year when he'd already been good at keeping them far longer, just so his mother's smile would endure. Izana deserved a kinder life.

They could’ve been listening to records in the vinyl shop downtown or marveling at fiery zelkovas on the route to Omotesando.

But they’re out here lounging around a deserted basketball court, chain-wire fence on their backs, squatted under the late-autumn sun.

"All this legal stuff is stupid. I wish you never had to wait." Shinichiro sighed. "I wish I could bring you home."

Izana was so quiet. His breaths were even, muffled in the wool of his scarf, though he couldn’t seem to scream out his disappointment; he stared. The distance was indistinct, almost leaving no trail but the despair in his eyes. Shinichiro couldn’t help but feel as if he let go of his hand in a crowd, making him crumple down to his knees.

"You,” murmured Izana. Then he glanced back at him, searching. Shinichiro had seen something like this before, so long ago. “You'll come back for me anyway, right?"

"Always," Shinichiro promised, ruffling his hair to shake him off it, as if to gently remind him he’s still here. "But you won't feel too lonely at the orphanage, will you?"

His shoulders trembled; his arms taut around his knees for something else to cling on because Izana looked like he’d been through it a hundred times, and Shinichiro reached, anchored him by the arm, though he couldn’t offer any more consolation than this.

"Kakucho will," Izana realized wistfully, "if I just leave . . ."

"You won't leave him then." Shinichiro smiled, but the corners of his mouth ached. "'Cause you're a good friend."

His eyebrows pinched. "Kakucho's my servant."

Ah. His brother had to work on that.

"Okay. He's your friend," Shinichiro told him this as if he hadn't heard him, provoking a peeved reaction. He just reached forward and pulled at his cheeks to tug up his frown. "Jeez, who calls his friend a servant? You're so weird."

"You're so annoying, Shin," Izana countered defensively, twisting his face away from his hands. "You're the worst!"

Even after the both of them ended up jostling each other in a stutter of soft, exasperated laughter, Shinichiro knew that he really was.

Shinichiro was doing homework.

The book you chose was one of the older copies in your small collection. He's not good at deciphering stuff like this, finding himself not reading the prose but the history: indentions, lignin on paper edges, cracks on the spine like faults or broken lightning.

In Akutagawa's Life of a Stupid Man, you went on about how Death and Illness had two entries each that shared the same title. Perhaps, the meaning should be telling to both the author and the reader, though he couldn't help but be more invested on the singularity of his third entry, The House, highlighted with a faded, broad stroke of neon green as if to scream the passage in an adolescent voice:

He often wondered, in that suburban second story, if people who loved each had to cause each other pain.

Shinichiro ended up copying and paraphrasing your essay when you lent it to him with a shrug.

Sometimes, he pondered if you were the one that highlighted that sentence when the book, like the rest, had belonged to your big brother once.

The truth was he didn't know what to feel about his father.

Shinichiro wondered how could someone hurt another when they weren’t there anymore, and in some despondent way, he understood you a little better.

His father left him a house. His grandfather was too old and his brother was too young. He forgot that he was a child on the day he began to carry the roof of the household on his shoulders, make a pillar out of the boy, tall as ten years and growing.

His mother wept for him that time, spilling soup on the edge of her hospice bed, and he picked up the lacquer bowl as if to salvage something in the remains. There’s a dent on the lip of the bowl that he wouldn’t acknowledge, forcing a smile for the cracks not to show. He told her he’d be strong for all of them. Her tears still kept falling.

You called him unbreakable once. He often wondered if it was true.

The train was slow and swift at the same time when you're standing in the middle, hands clutching on the grab handle above you as if in white-knuckled prayer, but your face was passive, not peaceful. You were gazing at the window behind him and Shinichiro saw the setting sun reflect back in your eyes.

The stop to Meidaimae, then passengers flowing in and out once the doors opened; one of them was the old lady who sat next to him, wading through the crowd with a trolley bag full of canned goods. He still had the Pancan she meant to give to you on his hand.

"Can you sit with me?" Shinichiro asked.

It's just that you looked more content where you were, but it's like staring at a painting for too long and after you acquiesced, he's painfully aware of the distance between both of your shoulders lately, if the gap between them could measure to a fracture.

He defied the sentiment, deciding to rest his head on your shoulder, even though he wasn't tired. He was still heavy, so heavy these days, but he knew you – you were strong, safe in every single way no one understood you for.

You didn't groan out that he should get off you as he clasped to your warmth, hanging himself to the neckline of your sweater in a mutter, "what do you think about Izana?"

You shifted a bit. "I don't know. Fond of you, I guess."

There's a part of him that wanted to convince you that he's a good kid, a terribly lonely kid, but he needed to know your opinion of him first before imparting everything else.

"Is he really your little brother?"

"He is," it's not a lie.

"Then he is," you repeated. "He doesn't act like one, though."

"What do you mean?"

"He acts more like he's your only brother."

"He just hasn't met Manjiro yet." Shinichiro paused. Suddenly, everything mattered and the confidence of his previous statement wavered from a low, sullen, "do you think they'll get along?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

Because he tried.

Stop talking about Manjiro.

When he couldn’t provide a clear answer, you did it for him, even though he’d probably dislike what it was.

“They’ll fight,” you sounded more somber and profound than you should. “Siblings always fight.”

Shinichiro remembered how you shed blood and tears in Chiba; the open wounds of your eyes, a wound for years.

“But you’ll know how to stop them. That’s actually one of your least annoying traits.”

“Then what’s my most annoying trait?”

“When you’re like this.”

A sigh rolled off your lips, and he held a breath as if to snatch the air between them.

"I can't help you when you're like this, Shin," you reminded him, exasperated and resigned and tender, but even when your sentences weren't knife-edged, he felt like he'd bleed from the truth regardless. "You can't just keep hiding things to yourself, you know that?"

"I know," Shinichiro murmured pensively. But you wouldn’t understand . . .

Maybe, he shouldn’t have made promises he couldn’t keep. Maybe, he should’ve let Izana and Emma meet earlier, but would it have made a difference if it wound up towards the same conclusion? Would he hate Manjiro? Would they hate each other?

They’ll fight. The words held a tremor of dread and frustration because the truth would be something Izana would hate most of all.

But Izana held so much hope on his throat, and what big brother was he to let it become his noose.

You wouldn’t understand.

The next two stops should be closer to your place and he counted the seconds like how he counted the passing months on a calendar and the snow-capped roofs of houses slanting under the evening sun. February was ending soon.

"Can you walk me home too?"

You did with a sigh, not even protesting when Shinichiro persuaded you to stay there for awhile, and he's almost tempted to ask if you'd do anything for him. The words didn't quite spell out as he silently hoped when the both of you ended up bumming on a cigarette in the garden, coalesced over a waft of fragrant incense his grandfather lit from the house. He mentioned to you that Manjiro didn’t know how to properly pray to the butsudan and you shrugged because you never had a reason to pray either, offering smoke to no one but him.

He could've been more honest that night, though he didn't want to tell you that he's afraid he didn't know how long he could still have you like this.

A year after you left for Nagoya, Shinichiro told Takeomi about Izana.

You’re just trying to protect them, was his only reassurance.

Shinichiro wished he could do better at it. Months from now, it wouldn’t be enough.

It's like you have a little sister, Shinichiro announced on the day he first held a baby in his arms; a privilege, perhaps, that he should've reserved for Manjiro but he didn't know he'd have a little brother yet, and you furrowed your brows, denying his statement. No, Keiko's my niece.

You would repeat it whenever you were tasked to watch over her from the crib because your sister was grinding away in her second part-time job during the weekends.

Shinichiro hung around with you till his curfew. In fact, he had so much free time that he could play hide-and-seek at home by himself and still get bored for years while responsibility was thrust upon you earlier for him to misinterpret your petulant unwillingness for disaffection.

You scowled over changing diapers and looked like you're about to collapse into tears the moment you heard a piercing, infantile cry, though you would always know when Keiko was hungry. Permit her to grip your glasses like a toy when she's saddled on the hook of your arm, a hand rubbing her back. You're the same with your nephew too, a little boy named Yoichi, sucking his thumb when he followed you around everywhere.

Whenever Shinichiro saw this different side of you something inside him unfurled, about what it's like to hum some soft, lilting lullaby to put one to sleep or to grasp a toddler's hand, crossing the pedestrian lane.

What's it like to hear a baby burp out a laugh? You told him it was the weirdest sound Keiko ever made, revealing a warm liveliness to you behind the humor and a pang of jealousy in his grin.

Then Takeomi had Haruchiyo, and the feeling carved through him.

Shinichiro didn't have anything like that. He didn't think he would want something so much until his mother rested a hand over her womb and then he called you over the phone, so overjoyed that he yelled at the top of his lungs that he's going to be a—

“Can I see you?”

“I can't exactly come back to Tokyo.”

“No, I'll come over to you.”

“Right now? Really?”

“Yeah . . .”

“All right. Hey, Shin,” a soft, concerned pause. “Did something happen—” Are you okay?

Shinichiro pretended to not hear you, pressing end call after lingering for a second.

Taking the bullet train to Nagoya hadn't really been the most impulsive thing Shinichiro had ever committed, and despite it being the most expensive ride he’d ever spent, he still got cold feet from meeting you.

A part of him was hollow, an ache between the space in his bones. It’s like he’s missing a rib, curved along your smile from the window of the café, a sigh ghosting through the glass as if to make the sentiment apparent in the longing. How it wasn’t the same without each other’s presence anymore.

You didn't appear like you changed all that much yet. He no longer wondered if he did.

Shinichiro asked for directions, burned the soles of his shoes across the city to find you, and once he did, he lost the half of him that you might’ve loved. Where did all of his courage go? Why did it feel selfish to barge back into your life and believe everything would be as it was?

He pulled out his phone and sent you a message that something urgent came up. I’m sorry.

In a way it kind of was.

Fearing the thought that it’s there in Nagoya; your resolve of wanting to search for yourself in a world without him.

Shinichiro dismissed it entirely as he bolted into a sprint, running through where he went wrong when Izana was thrown in juvie, and Manjiro scarred Haruchiyo, and he didn't really know where he hurtled himself into when the descent felt more real and harrowing than anything, spewing his guts out on the pavement from some alleyway.

It was Takeomi who found him and brought him home that night, half pitying and half responsible for him.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he told him this as if he’s been living in it, and Shinichiro wanted to ask if he’s okay.

But Takeomi would probably brush it off, something about having to prove he’s tougher than this, and he shouldered the weight of him, even if he did look brittle himself. He’s unshaven too. The both of them used to joke about stuff like that, growing beards and pubic hair.

“Something like that,” offered Shinichiro, thinking maybe they could meet somewhere in the anguish. “Hey, I really missed you.”

There’s a stiffness to his shoulders. Sometimes, affection to Takeomi was a scar, callousing a little more over time, and he didn’t say the words but it’s still there, on the firm grip of his hand. The silence between them was scuffed with footfalls, like coming out of a war again. He never had to do it with blood or bravado, though he only had to be the boy he remembered from a lifetime ago.

“Please don't let Manjiro and Emma see me like this.”

Shinichiro figured he'd understand, ignoring the kaleidoscope of wicked, blinding lights from Kabukicho, the scent of tobacco and another woman's perfume on his best friend’s clothes like his father's . . .

If someone were to ask him about his father, Shinichiro would always tell you that he couldn’t recall much of his face. There were photo albums and picture frames on the walls, but somehow, all he saw was a stranger. Then he’d glance on the mirror and trace out the lie.

All the unlikely bright spots of his memory resurfacing, like the fresh smarting of a bruise.

How his father compensated by giving him that Nintendo console he'd been begging his parents to buy for him on his eighth birthday; how he smoked more than his grandfather, but unlike him, he's mindful enough to tamp his cigarette under the heel of his shoe when Shinichiro was around him; how he loved him very much, perhaps in all the poignant ways absent fathers could for their children that he had to wonder for the longest time why his father couldn't return all of this love to his mother.

Shinichiro had contemplated about it for a decade and locked it so close to his chest that it had long since lost a voice from every secret he had kept for him.

He just didn't want anyone to hurt – never again.

Shinichiro wasn’t alone in his room.

Manjiro had been playing his Gameboy.

Shinichiro was a little disoriented, a little ready to reproach him to not play games all day, though once he stirred from the bed, he woke feverish with a cooling pad plastered on his forehead. Swaddled in his comforter, his body ached and shuddered; throat parched.

Manjiro was attentive beside him, putting down the Gameboy and reaching him a sweaty glass of water. The condensation trickled along the line of his wrist, but it's nice and cold on the pads of his fingers, tilting up the glass to his mouth. His mind was still muddled.

“Grandpa called Yoneda-jiji that you were sick today.” Then Manjiro pointed at the plastic container from his nightstand; warm clumps of onigiri inside. “Emma made you those. Sorry, I ate one,” he added, flicking the grain of rice on his t-shirt.

The hem tag at the back of his collar poked out. It’s thoughtlessly childish, endearing really, and Shinichiro was about to mention it until Manjiro spoke for Emma’s behalf. “She wanted to stay behind too, but I told her that she should go to school.”

Then Shinichiro craned his head at him. Cleared his throat again. “Why aren’t you in school?”

There’s resolution in his dark eyes.

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

“I’m fine. Don’t skip school, dummy,” dismissed Shinichiro, but he didn’t mean to sound mildly annoyed about it. He wasn't exactly the model of good health, but his body had endured the worst so he searched for all the cuts and scabs that weren’t there because he never had a fever since he was about his brother’s age and he'd rather be annoyed than admit how much he felt like a burden.

Manjiro was unyielding in his concern. “Promise me you’ll get better first,” he demanded with a clench to his fist, like he’s looking for a fight. “Then I’ll go back tomorrow.”

Shinichiro just tucked the hem tag back inside his t-shirt and gave him a pat on the head, his hair soft and unkempt under his hand, seeking comfort. Gentleness wasn't new to Manjiro, but it's a language he struggled at conveying so he dropped his gaze, uncertain and a bit lost.

There's a heaviness to his eyes that made him slouch on the bed and the both of them were reminiscing of a simpler, more vulnerable time.

"You never get sick," Manjiro told him with an edge to his voice that's close to trembling. "You just never do, Shinichiro."

Shinichiro sighed under his breath. “I’ll be okay, all right? I’ll be better.”

His throat ached. He sounded so much like their mother.

Shinichiro didn't quite realize how his reticence could hurt his brother when the both of them knew that there's something profoundly wrong.

They really were related. They're Sanos. Awful with words, awful with feelings; a shared helplessness.

Manjiro feared the weakness of it more than Shinichiro had withstood for all his life, but he didn't mind. He could learn from his big brother's failures, know when to not step on the cracks from his path, rise up again if he did so that the fall wouldn't wound him as much.

Manjiro could even kill a person right now and Shinichiro would still do anything for him. He'd do the same for Izana.

Terrible and twisted, his brothers, but Shinichiro loved them anyway. Emma and Grandpa did too.

They're all what's left.

They're a family.

Later in the afternoon, Shinichiro would be faced with dishes on the sink with a stab of betrayal, and be bombarded with errands from his job tomorrow, and be attending Manjiro and Emma's PTA meetings right after work. He still had to make amends with Nitta-san for Manjiro's aggression towards her son. There's so much laundry to do . . .

But then he’d also recall how Emma beamed when he complimented her that her onigiri was perfect after laboring on it for hours just to get the shape and taste right; her fingers slightly burned from a clumsy attempt at molding hot rice. Manjiro was the one who suggested grilled salmon flakes as a filling because he knew it’s his favorite and dashed towards the grocery store to buy the ingredients himself.

His grandfather was always the stoic one. He'd scold him a lot, but they never argued and no one had the real temper to combust. Nothing was deeper; every response was delayed and every conversation was either terse, ruminating ones or complete silence like in Mokuso. Even in the kitchen table where they sat together for years, he brought the austerity of the dojo with him.

Shinichiro wouldn’t inherit the family dojo. He had no interest in pursuing martial arts. Had other plans.

His grandfather asked if he was doing well anyway, and Shinichiro was close to saying that he's sorry for being a disappointment but he bit it off at the last second before telling him that he was good.

That's good. He nodded and nothing much else.

Perhaps, Shinichiro could never get more from this, but it's all right. They would drink tea in silence and fall back to the same, mundane talks in circles until he turned twenty, not feeling older than he should, because he was still his grandfather and he was still his grandson. It was good.

Exposition corner:

[1] “his father's son”: a reference to the names of Shinichiro and his father, Makoto, from the Sano Family Tree; Makoto [真] and Shinichiro [真一郎], [真] being the kanji for ‘truth’ or ‘sincerity’ and [一郎] for ‘first son.’ Another reading of [真一郎] could be Makoto’s First Son. Full credits to Yoko for this one! If you see this, you my friend are amazing for picking this up!

[2] Hanami: The Japanese traditional custom of viewing cherry blossoms when they are in full bloom, usually accompanied with family and/or friends. On the topic of Hanami, Ueno Park is popularly known as one of the best cherry blossom viewing spots in Tokyo.

[3] "[...] torii gates that couldn't grant wishes”: Shinichiro was referencing the Fushimi Inari Shrine from Kyoto, in which the Senbon Torii there are believed to grant wishes.

[4] “[…] he’d only stop being a child at eighteen and would legally be an adult by twenty”: According to the Child Welfare Law, a person under 18 is considered a child while under the Civil Law Act, the age of adulthood is 20 in Japan. In context of the story, Izana could leave the orphanage when he’s 18. If Shinichiro wanted to adopt Izana, he would have to be 20 because he wouldn’t be considered an adult if he’s still 18-19. Sadly, even if he was already an adult, adoption in Japan is a whole can of worms. It is rare and difficult. It’s known that orphans are likely to grow and move out from their orphanages than to be adopted.

[5] Life of a Stupid Man: It’s an autobiographical short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. It’s his last written work before he committed suicide right after.

[6] House: In Japanese, [家] translates to ‘house’, but it could also mean family, household, and family’s lineage. Hell, Family [家族] is one part a character for the term. I don’t want to bore anyone with the subtle distinctions between [いえ] and [うち], but my main point is ‘house’ carries the same weight as ‘family’ to Shinichiro specifically. If I were writing this in Japanese, this would’ve made more sense, but I’m just playing with my words in English (^_^)

[7] Butsudan: It is a shrine commonly found in temples and homes in Japanese Buddhist cultures. Its primary use is for paying respects to the Buddha, as well as to family members who have died.

[8] Mokuso: It is a type of martial arts meditation practiced in Japanese martial arts like Karate and Kendo.

a massive shoutout to ObsidianMoonstones's Tone of Things to Come and As long as I’m dreaming, I’m alive – they told me the dead don’t dream. his characterization of izana is the best i've ever come across in any site. heck, how he writes izana is my main source of inspiration! i highly recommend everyone to check out his works!!

a/n: next chapter is the second part of his backstory so we're still going to suffer a bit. sorry, if it feels a bit incomplete for now, but i swear if i didn't cut this in half, all of you wouldn't get the chance to breathe because I'm pretty sure yall know what's coming next :')

part nine ❁ m.list ❁ part eleven

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mychemicalrachel · 1 year

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prompt 10 with adam x kavinsky could be fun,,,

(This turned out way longer than I intended oops)

For the prompt; you’ve been breaking into my car to sleep at night and I’ve let it slide because it’s been cold out but I have a date and I need you to find somewhere else (fine, go in my house/garage, I don’t care, you’re not messing this date up for me)

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Henrietta didn’t have an autumn. There were the burning days of a seemingly endless summer and then, abrupt and harsh and frigid, winter fell like a bomb. Even though it was only mid-October, there was a chill in the air that crept beneath Adam’s collar no matter how tight he pulled his jacket around himself. The water heater in his apartment was broken– again– and phone calls and texts to his landlord about fixing it had gone unanswered– again. As he hurried across the parking lot to his car, he distracted himself from the cold by daydreaming of the day when he would be able to leave this shitty apartment building behind. If he could afford any place better, he would’ve told his landlord to go fuck himself ten times over. But he was a college student living off of minimum wage working at the campus bookstore in no position to tell anyone to fuck themselves, much less the person in control of his housing. He couldn’t even afford a new jacket, let alone a new apartment.

At the top of his daydream list, right beneath a nice winter jacket and an apartment with hot water, was a new used car. He’d been driving the same shitbox since high school and it had been ramshackle back then. Now it was downright decrepit. The door whined reluctantly when he pulled it open and the engine sputtered angrily, but it worked. It was held together with duct tape and a prayer, but it worked.

Fiddling with the heat, wheezing asthmatically and offering little puffs of cool air, Adam wondered if he needed more duct tape or prayers, or maybe a new blower motor. He closed his eyes and hoped that it would just get him through the winter. If he could make it through winter, he could temporarily go back to biking to work and maybe save up enough money to get the car fixed. He just needed it to get him through the winter…

He tossed his backpack into the backseat and froze when it grunted at him.

Slowly, Adam turned.

Then he screamed.

In the backseat of his car, half hidden under a pair of dirty coveralls and an old moving blanket, was a man. He stirred, frowned at Adam’s backpack, noticed Adam watching horrified from the front seat, and screamed back.

Adam gripped the steering wheel tightly like he could possibly use it as a weapon if it came right down to it. But the man in the backseat didn’t seem like much of a threat, even now that he was awake. He was bone thin, visible because as he sat up and the blanket fell away, Adam could see that he was wearing nothing more than a white muscle shirt. He blinked blearily and pushed a hand through his hair, though it fell back in greasy strands across his eyes a moment later.

Adam had never had it easy growing up, first living with abusive parents and then getting emancipated and working himself into the ground to pay for college and his own place, but he’d also never been homeless. Even in the particularly rough times, he always had his friends to keep him from falling too far. He’d never hit rock bottom, not like this. Not pushed to the point of sleeping in a stranger’s car. Looking at the man in his backseat, Adam’s initial terror slipped into something akin to pity. He brushed that aside that thought– he didn’t like to be pitied and so he would not feel pity for this stranger. Even if he did have dirty clothes and unwashed hair and– fuck, he didn’t even have a jacket.

The stranger picked up Adam’s backpack by the strap. “Dude,” he said, his voice gravely. Adam wondered absently how long it had been since he had something warm to drink, or an actual meal to eat. “Did you throw this at me?”

He hadn’t intentionally, but he probably would have if he had known the stranger was there. Instead, he asked his own question; “What are you doing in my car?”

The stranger shrugged. “It was unlocked.”

“The locks are broken,” Adam said, and shook his head. “That’s not the point! You can’t just break into someone’s car to sleep. That’s illegal.”

The man didn’t seem concerned with the legalities of it. “You actually drive this piece of shit?” He laughed. “I didn’t even know it worked. I thought it was abandoned.”

Something like fury burned away any pity that remained in Adam. He didn’t think this homeless stranger was in any position to be criticizing his car, even if it was objectively a piece of shit. “That’s still illegal,” Adam pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah,” the guy waved him off– literally waved him off, like he was a bothersome fly. “Won’t happen again, I’m leaving.” He climbed over the moving blanket, got his ankle tangled in the coveralls, and pushed the door open. The immediate blast of cold air from outside froze Adam all the way to the core.

He closed his eyes.

He blamed it on his own selfish interest– he couldn’t very well go about his day knowing he had forced a homeless man out onto the street to freeze, he’d feel guilty and it would put him in a bad mood the whole rest of the day– when he said, “Wait.”

The stranger waited.

Adam sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Kavinsky,” the stranger said. It sounded too odd to be a fake name.

He was already running late and he regretted it before he even offered, “Can I drop you off anywhere?”

Outside the car, Kavinsky mulled it over. He thought about it so long that Adam almost took back the offer and left him there to die in the parking lot. But eventually he shut the back door, made his way around the car, and climbed into the passenger’s seat. He fidgeted with the vents, angling up and then down. He didn’t seem to notice the chill as much as Adam did, just playing with the settings on the heater. “You never told me your name,” he said.

Adam pulled out onto the street. “Adam. Stop fucking with that.”

Kavinsky shot him a grin and continued fucking with the heat.

“Where should I take you?” Adam asked. He was having second thoughts already. He hoped wherever Kavinsky wanted to go was close. The sooner Adam could get him out of the car, the sooner he became Not Adam’s Problem.

Kavinsky looked over at him. “I don’t know. Christ, it’s early. Where are you headed?”

“VCU campus,” Adam told him. “I can drop you anywhere between here and there.”

“VCU,” Kavinsky repeated carefully, seeming unfamiliar with the concept. “Sure, okay. VCU it is. Does your radio work?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The radio did work, sometimes, in certain areas, with varying degrees of success. Mostly it was sporadic tunes from different stations overlaid with static. Kavinsky didn’t seem to mind, changing it from one station to another without pause. He fidgeted a lot and Adam found himself wondering if he was on drugs– that probably would have been something to know before he offered to give him a ride. But it was too late now and they were nearly there.

When they finally arrived on campus, Adam was more than ready to part ways and pretend this morning was a lapse in judgment, a near miss, a cautionary tale to remember later. He got his bag from the backseat as Kavinsky got out and patted his pockets. When he retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes, Adam was silently grateful he’d at least waited until he got out of the car to smoke. Kavinsky looked around curiously at the buildings, the early risers with early classes bustling half asleep down the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“No problem,” Adam lied. “Just– you can’t sleep in my car anymore. This can’t become a habit.”

“No problem,” Kavinsky echoed. His lips curled into a smile around the cigarette. “Won’t happen again. It was a one time thing. Promise.”

It wasn’t a one time thing.

A week after their first encounter, just as Adam was starting to forget it ever happened, it happened again. This time, as Kavinsky roused from the backseat, he didn’t seem as surprised to find Adam as Adam was to find him.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “Morning.”

“No,” Adam shook his head. “No, do not ‘morning’ me! What the actual fuck? What are you doing back there?”

Kavinsky seemed to take this as an invitation to move from the backseat to the front, climbing over the center console to do so. Once he’d settled in the passenger’s seat, he smirked sideways at Adam. “You always get up this early?”

“What are you doing here?” Adam asked.

“I’m sleeping,” Kavinsky said. “I was sleeping. You hit me with your bookbag again.”

“Kavinsky–” Adam said.

Kavinsky smiled. “Adam.”

Adam had a million choice words on the tip of his tongue and half of them were swears, but Kavinsky’s crooked smile and his rough sleep-addled voice brought Adam’s retort to a withering stop. He was wearing the same white muscle shirt, the same faded jeans, all hanging loose off his wirethin frame.

“Are you on drugs?” Adam asked.

Kavinsky’s sharp laugh echoed in the interior of the car. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not right now.”

Adam wasn’t going to judge him. He wasn’t. It wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his business– except it kind of was. It became his business as soon as Kavinsky decided to start sleeping in his car. He started the car without another word and had pulled out onto the main road before he spoke again. “You can’t keep sleeping in my car.”

“How come?”

“Well, because– because it’s…” Adam sputtered for a response, each one dying in his throat. Because it was illegal, but it was only illegal if Adam pressed charges. Because it was unethical, but it was also maybe the safest place Kavinsky could find. He frowned at the road and sighed.

“You got a last name, Adam?” Kavinsky wondered offhandedly.

“That’s personal,” Adam said. “Why would I tell you that?”

“That’s personal,” Kavinsky mocked. “Fuck that, man. I know where you live, I know what you drive, I know where you go to school. But last names are too personal?”

“What about you?” Adam asked. “Do you have a last name?”

“Kavinsky,” Kavinsky said.

“Kavinsky? Your name is Kavinsky Kavinsky?”

“Wow, pretty and smart.” Kavinsky rolled his eyes. “My last name is Kavinsky, dipshit. Never said it was my first name.”

“So what’s your first name?”

Kavinsky made a sucking noise with his teeth. “I don’t know, Adam. That’s kind of personal.”

Adam could pull over right now. He could leave Kavinsky stranded on the side of the road. Honestly he doubted anyone would blame him.

But Kavinsky just laughed, that chilly sound as before, and said, “Joseph. But nobody calls me that.”

Joseph Kavinsky. If he was to be believed, at least Adam would know who to report to the police if this did end up being a massive mistake. “Parrish,” he said.

“Adam Parrish,” Kavinsky said.

Adam pretended he didn’t like the way his name sounded in that gravely voice, but if he rolled the memory around in his head afterwards, imagining other ways, other tones, other scenarios that his name would sound in Kavinsky’s mouth, no one had to know.

He started checking in the mornings before he tossed his bag into the backseat. Sometimes Kavinsky would be there, snuggled comfortably among the moving blanket and sometimes the car was empty. Adam didn’t want to admit it, but he started to enjoy the company in the mornings on the drive to school. Kavinsky was brusque and funny in a dry way. Maybe it was vanity, but he thought Kavinsky enjoyed his company, too. He laughed at Adam’s sarcastic comments, filled his quiet mornings with commentary about whatever happened to be on his mind, whether it was criticizing Adam’s car or asking about Adam’s degree.

He never asked where Kavinsky went during the days or where he stayed on the nights he didn’t spend in the backseat of Adam’s car. He convinced himself that it wasn’t any of his concern and, if Kavinsky wanted him to know, he would tell him. For the time being, Adam could offer him the solace of a somewhat warm place to sleep and hope that was enough.

When Blue asked him out, Adam panicked. He knew her from around campus; they had a few classes together, he’d talked to her briefly in the bookstore when she was buying a few used environmental law books. She seemed nice enough, but Adam hadn’t considered dating much since– well, ever. His ten year plan involved meeting someone eventually, after he graduated, after he got a steady job. So when Blue asked him to accompany her to the Christmas tree lighting at the local tree farm, Adam kind of freaked out. It didn’t sound like a real thing and it certainly didn’t sound like somewhere he would take a girl on a first date, but he didn’t have anything better to do so he said yes. When she grinned, touched his arm, and said, “It’s a date!” he knew he had fucked up.

He couldn’t back out without seeming like a jackass, and it wasn’t like he could ghost her because they went to the same school and she was actually kind of cool, even if he didn’t want to date her.

So he would suck it up, suffer through a cold night surrounded by Christmas trees, and at the end of the night he would let her down gently. He could do that. As he walked briskly across the parking lot, he considered what he would say. He’d never broken up with anyone before, and he wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for telling someone you’d rather stay friends after only one date. Shit. He would figure it out. He had to.

It was habit by that point, as he climbed into the car, to look into the backseat. He didn’t expect to find anything, but sure enough, nestled in the blanket, was Kavinsky. He looked different than Adam remembered from the first time, sleeping peacefully. He looked… soft. Relaxed. Adam wondered if that was maybe an effect of the drugs.

“Hey,” Adam whispered loudly. “Kavinsky. Wake up.” He reached back and nudged the blanket. It wiggled as Kavinsky moved.

Blinking slowly, Kavinsky rubbed his eyes. His words slurred together sleepily when he asked, “Is it morning already?”

“No,” Adam said, “it’s like nine PM. But you can’t be here. Not tonight. You have to go.”

“Go?” Kavinsky asked.

“Yes,” Adam said. “Like… get out.”

Humming, Kavinsky closed his eyes and sank down further into his cocoon. “You gonna make me?”

“Kavinsky,” Adam said. “Look, I’ve let this slide but you can’t be here tonight.”

“You got a hot date?”

Adam was glad that it was too dark to see his blush, but Kavinsky must have heard it in his silence.

He shifted, sitting up a little. “Oh, shit, Parrish. For real? Who’s the lucky lady?” He pointedly raised his eyebrows. “Or lad.”

“Lady,” Adam said, then realized Blue would probably hate to be described as a lady, so he corrected, “Girl. Woman.”

Kavinsky seemed wholly amused when he climbed into the front seat. “Where are you taking this lovely girl woman? Are you picking her up? I hear ladies love cars, but this piece of shit might be the exception. If it breaks down, will you let her steer while you push?”

“K,” Adam said. “I don’t have time for this. You have to go.”

“I can stay in the backseat. I’ll be quiet, I promise. Unless,” he looked over at Adam with the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, “you plan on getting lucky back there.”

“Kavinsky,” Adam snapped.

Kavinsky must have realized he was pushing too far and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, fine. I’ll go.”

“You don’t–” have anywhere else to go. But Adam didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he swore under his breath, checked the time, and said, “You can stay in my apartment tonight.”

Kavinsky’s eyes widened.

Adam interrupted before he could say anything. “One night. That’s it.”

When Kavinsky smiled, it was more than a shadow– it was an entire beam of sunlight. He was quiet as he followed Adam into the building, up the stairs, looking around curiously. Adam expected him to make crude comments about the stains on the floor and the constantly present smell of must in the air, but he said nothing at all. When they reached Adam’s door, his fingers fumbled with the keys in the lock. Once it was open, Adam grabbed Kavinsky and pulled him inside before he could think any better of it.

Kavinsky’s wrist was thin under Adam’s fingers, the kind of frail he remembered being back in high school when he was rationing his own meals. He could feel the thundering of Kavinsky’s pulse echoed in his own.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Adam told him, “and a spare blanket in the closet if you want to sleep.” He paused, and added, “On the couch.”

“You sure about this, Parrish?” Kavinsky asked. He ran his finger along the single small bookshelf Adam owned, perusing the titles of his secondhand books. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you about stranger danger?”

“I don’t know if we’re strangers anymore. You sleep in my car,” Adam said. “You know my name, where I live, where I work, where I go to school.”

It wasn’t lost on him that Kavinsky knew all of that and yet he hardly knew anything about Kavinsky. All he knew at the moment, all that mattered, was that Kavinsky was homeless, he was cold, he was tired, and he needed help. Adam didn’t have much, but he was going to offer what he could.

“Just don’t break anything,” Adam said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Kavinsky hummed, plucking a book off the shelf. Adam wondered if he could even read and then chastised himself because of course Kavinsky could probably read. He had already kicked his shoes off and was settling down on the couch before Adam was out the door.

The date with Blue was worse than Adam imagined. It was cold and his jacket was too thin to keep out the chill, his fingers were practically numb by the time the tree lighting even happened and that itself was entirely underwhelming. Blue talked about her family and her major and pointed out the different types of trees to Adam, but Adam couldn’t focus on most of what she was saying. His mind kept wandering back to Kavinsky.

It was probably a mistake to leave Kavinsky in his apartment alone. He kept imagining the horrible things Kavinsky was doing– setting the kitchen on fire, eating his entire week’s supply of food, clogging his toilet, annoying his neighbors, using up what meager amount of hot water he had. Maybe Adam would come home and the entire apartment would be emptied out, everything he owned gone. Not that he had much that was worth anything anyway, but what he did have was his and he’d left a complete stranger– a poor homeless, possible drug addict– alone with it all.

When the night was finally over, Adam was practically vibrating with the urgency to get home, to fix whatever mess Kavinsky had left. He drove as fast as his car would let him and took the stairs two at a time up to his floor. When he pushed the door open, bracing himself for the absolute worst, Adam was surprised– shocked– to find Kavinsky exactly where he’d left him. He was halfway through the book he was starting with Adam left, in the same spot curled up on one end of the couch. A pizza box was open next to him, half finished.

Kavinsky looked up when Adam burst in. He used his finger to hold his place and the book in his lap fell shut. “Honey, you’re home. How was your date?”

Adam ignored him. He looked around, closing the door carefully. Everything looked the same, not a dust mote out of place.

Kavinsky noticed his unsubtle once over and barked out a laugh. “I didn’t break anything. I made dinner. Hungry?”

He was, and he tentatively took a piece of pizza from the box. “How did you get this?”

“I ordered it.” Kavinsky looked at him like he was dumb. “I used the phone. They have this cool new thing where you can order food online and someone will bring it to you. Modern technology, man. It’s a motherfucking wonder.”

Adam chewed as it mulled that over. He knew a lot of homeless people had government-provided cell phones and it wasn’t entirely unusual that Kavinsky had enough money for a single pizza. But it still felt weird. He felt like someone had told a joke and he was missing the punchline. He finished his bite and swallowed it down, dry and rough, before he found his voice, breaching the subject he had, for weeks, managed to avoid. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Huh?” Kavinsky looked back up from the book.

“Somewhere to stay,” Adam repeated carefully. He considered the pizza. He knew what it was like to be hungry. When he was a teenager, pizza was a delicacy he couldn’t often afford. “They have shelters, places with heat and beds, somewhere safe you can sleep for a few nights. I can help you find somewhere if you want.”

Kavinsky blinked at him, then blinked again. “Hold the fuck up,” he closed the book again and sat it down in his lap, then folded his hands on top of it. “Parrish, are you talking about a homeless shelter? Like for poor people?”

“Well,” Adam wanted to put it more delicately, but he couldn’t figure out a way. He grimaced. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, a single moment, before Kavinsky laughed, loud and raucous, full and hardy. He sank down into the cushions, tossing his head back to expose the winding veins in his throat.

Now Adam was certain he had missed the punchline.

He waited until Kavinsky calmed down, his laughter tapering into an amused chuckle. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, “do you think I’m homeless?”

Think? “Wait,” Adam said. Looking back on the meager things he knew about Kavinsky, it wasn’t a thought. It was a fact. Kavinsky was homeless. Unless, of course, he wasn’t. “Are you saying you’re not?”

Kavinsky stifled another laugh that came out anyway, sounding like a strangled hyena. “Obviously I’m not fucking homeless.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. He felt suddenly like he was the punchline of this joke and he didn’t like it one bit. “How was that supposed to be obvious? You’ve been sleeping in my car for weeks!”

“It was unlocked,” Kavinsky said.

“The locks are broken!” Adam shouted. “That is not the point! What the hell is wrong with you!?”

“You should really get the locks fixed,” Kavinsky said calmly. “Anyone could just break in.”

When Adam just glared at him, Kavinsky bit down on his smile.

“You seem upset.”

He felt way past upset. He was confused and fuming and embarrassed and he was burning under Kavinsky’s humored gaze. “You have a place to live,” he said, though it came out as more of an accusation than a question.

“Where did you think I was sleeping when I wasn’t in your backseat?”

Probably under a bridge, but Adam didn’t say that because now he clearly knew that was the wrong answer. He asked, “So what was this? Why did you keep breaking into my car?”

“Why did you let me?” Kavinsky challenged.

“Because,” Adam said slowly, making his words very deliberate, “I thought you were homeless.”

Kavinsky pursed his lips. “You let a homeless man with a drug problem sleep in your car and then invited him into your apartment? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Kavinsky–” Adam started, and stopped. “Is that even your real name?”

“Course it is. Why would I lie about that?”

Adam was going to murder him. He was going to strangle him with his bare fucking hands.

Maybe Kavinsky sensed this because he put his hands up, placating, like he was talking to a caged animal. “Okay, okay. Sometimes my parents fight. It’s nice to get out of the house and find some peace and quiet. That’s all.”

“And you decided my backseat was a good place for some peace and quiet?” Adam asked, disbelieving.

Kavinsky shrugged. “The first time was an accident. I really did think the car was abandoned, and I was too wasted to care.”

“But you kept doing it. You could have gotten a hotel room or stayed with a friend or something, right?”

Kavinsky nodded.

“Why did you keep going back to my car?”

“Because,” Kavinsky said and his smile was back, a sparkle gleaming in his eyes, “I realized the guy who owned the car was kind of hot.”

Adam stopped. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it again. Kavinsky seemed proud at having rendered him speechless. “You broke into my car,” Adam finally managed, “because you think I’m attractive?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck?”

Kavinsky’s grin was sharp and sharklike. “In simple terms; I like you, shitface.”

Adam’s face burned. “Why wouldn’t you just ask me out like a normal person?”

“Well it seemed inappropriate to show up where you lived or worked just to ask you out.”

“And breaking into my car wasn’t inappropriate?”

“You didn’t stop me,” Kavinsky reminded him. “You let me sleep in your car.”

“Because I thought you were homeless! I mean,” Adam gestured at Kavinsky, “you have one shirt and it looks like you haven’t washed your hair in two years.”

“First of all, I have many shirts that all look alike. I’m a very simple person. And second,” Kavinsky said, “that was rude. I have washed my hair like twice in the past year, at least.”

Despite himself, Adam snorted.

Kavinsky smiled. “You never answered my question. How was your date?”

“Terrible.” Adam kicked off his shoes and shoved the pizza box aside so he could sit on the other end of the couch. “She talked about trees the whole time and I was just thinking about you the entire night. Not like– I mean–”

“No, keep going,” Kavinsky insisted. “You thought about me while you were on a date with someone else?”

Adam did his best to glare at him, but it lacked the heat he’d felt before. “I thought about how I was never going to get my security deposit back because I let a homeless drug addict into my apartment.”

“Recovering addict,” Kavinsky corrected. He leaned back and let his head fall to the side, watching Adam curiously, the same curiosity as when he’d been on campus the first time, and when he’d come into Adam’s apartment. A look of genuine awe. “Adam Parrish, I can promise you I have my own car and I live with my parents, but I’m not homeless. I have a part time job and a checking account with real grown-up money in it.”

“K, stop talking,” Adam interrupted, “I’m impressed, okay? Just ask me on a fucking date already.”

“I’ll take you somewhere nice,” Kavinsky grinned, “and I won’t talk about trees at all.” His gaze flicked briefly down to Adam’s mouth and he licked his own bottom lip. “And if the date goes well,” he said, “maybe you can find out what the backseat of my car looks like.”

#prompt fill #thanks for the ask!!!#Adam and Kavinsky are such a fun ship #what are they called?#Kavarrish #Adansky #parrinsky #someone help idk how to tag this #adam parrish #kavinsky #joseph kavinsky

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wallgirl · 2 years

Text

Frustration (Saiki x Teruhashi)

Now in their first year of college, Saiki and Teruhashi reach an unexpected but inevitable roadblock in their physical relationship. Contains fluff, wholesomeness, two adults communicating responsibly and supporting each other, and humor.

Word count: 1,300

Warnings: Explicit conversation about sex and birth control; no actual sexual activity.

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"So..." Teruhashi began flirtatiously as she sat down besides Saiki on his bed. "Nendou is out for the night, right? He mentioned that he was going home to his mother's."

Yeah. Something about her having a cold.

"Then you have the dorm to yourself. Well... we have it to ourselves." She smiled and brushed her hair behind her ear. "I brought some items with me. The sales-lady helped me pick them out. I think you'll like them." She held up an opaque pink shopping bag that was held firmly shut with multiple pieces of tape. Of course, Saiki already knew what was in the bag, but as exciting as her purchases were, they would see no use tonight.

Teruhashi... Saiki deliberated on what to say next. He'd known this topic would be addressed in the near future; he should've planned ahead what to say instead of something as generic as this. We need to talk.

She immediately froze. "Talk about what?" He could see the anxiety in her eyes.

He pursed his lips and leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. ...I know what you're planning on us doing tonight.

"Well, that's not such a surprise," she scoffed, although her face rapidly turned pink. "I know you can read my mind... and see into the bag."

I don't want you to think that I'm rejecting you.

"Why are you talking like this?" Teruhashi frowned. Concern furrowed in her brow. "What's wrong?"

Kokomi... We can't have sex.

She blinked, looking stunned. Then Saiki felt her anxiety start back up in full force, and he braced himself for her response. "What do you mean, we can't?! We were just kissing and groping each other Friday! Are you saying that you're not attracted to me anymore?"

Saiki found himself appreciating her forthrightness in this moment. It made pressing forward surprisingly easier. No, not at all. I'm still very much attracted to you. But as our physical relationship has progressed, I've been doing some... experiments.

Teruhashi still looked stung, but she tilted her head and nodded for him to continue.

The truth is that it's simply not safe for us to have sex.

Her dejected expression became one of shock. "Why is that?"

Saiki took a deep breath. My orgasms are different from that of other men. Do you remember what happened when I had allergies?

"You almost destroyed the dorm with every sneeze!" Teruhashi clapped a horrified hand against her mouth as realization struck her. "Don't tell me that's what would happen if you-?"

As expected, this part was a bit awkward for Saiki to confess. Yes. During my... experiments, it's a similar outcome.

Teruhashi's jaw went completely slack. Then a hysterical giggle escaped her before she could stop it. Saiki saw exactly what had flashed in her mind's eye, and despite how gruesome it was, it would've been darkly funny if it hadn't involved the two of them. He looked away awkwardly as she quickly composed herself. "That - that would be a problem. No, that would be..."

Deadly. Or disfiguring, if not lethal.

She sighed and tapped her chin. This was an unexpected problem in their love life, and she slowly took it in. Okay. One thing at a time. "So, then... Say the explosion wasn't a problem. Would we be able to, then?"

Birth control would still be a problem. My sperm move fast enough to break through condoms. And spermicide wouldn't be able to kill the sperm. They're as invulnerable as I am.

Saiki could hear her reeling thoughts. Oh, this has to be some kind of horrible joke, right?! God, I thought you loved me more than this!

Me too.

"Oh! How about birth control that I take?" Teruhashi brightened up. "Like the pill, or the shot, or... something."

That would prevent fertilization, but there's still the danger of my orgasm. Saiki wanted to disappear into the ground; never had he thought he would be having such a disappointing conversation with a lover about the dangers of his own orgasm. Part of him wished he'd been hornier as a teenager, so he could've discovered and solved this problem before it caused issues in a relationship. But his sex drive had been understandably non-existent until he was able to see people as something other than meat nuggets... and by then, it was too late.

"Why don't you just wear your ring?" Teruhashi tilted her head at the ring that sat on his nightstand. "You do wear it when we make out from time to time."

There's still a chance of my powers bleeding through when I use it. It's not a risk I want to take, especially since I won't be able to control my abilities when I climax.

Teruhashi's face was still red, but it was more out of frustration now than lust. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands. "So, what, we can't make love unless we're willing to risk pregnancy... or death?!"

I wish there was an easier way around it. But I don't think it's a good idea to take that risk. Even if there was no physical danger to you, we just started college, and starting a family as broke students is a bad idea.

"You're right," Teruhashi sighed. "It's just frustrating. And I can't think of any birth control options that completely eliminate the chance of pregnancy, short of more invasive solutions..."

We'll figure it out. Saiki knew she needed reassurance, and he took her hand in his. I'll come up with something.

"Well, no matter what, I'll always stay by your side." She smiled at him weakly. "Even an obstacle like this is nothing. I still love you... even if we can't make love at the moment. Besides, it's not like we can't be intimate in other ways." She set the pink bag aside. "We can always save this stuff for later."

Saiki put his arm around her and pulled her close. He appreciated her nobility, and he knew she was telling the truth, but he could also sense her sexual frustration. He didn't want to further upset her by showing his own feelings, but this barrier frustrated him as well. Their time together had shown him how enjoyable and important physical intimacy was in a relationship, and now it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under them. Assuming their relationship lasted for the rest of their lives, which Saiki had faith it would, would they never be able to consummate it? Would they never be able to have children?

It was times like this that Saiki wished he were a normal man who could just go to the doctor and get a prescription or some other solution to this situation. But no one in the world understood his anatomy, or the powers he possessed, so there was little chance of...

It was then that the solution hit him, hard enough that his eyes glazed over and his lips parted. Teruhashi's eyes widened in concern. "Kusuo, what's wrong?"

"I know the solution," he muttered. The only person I can turn to for help...

God is cruel, indeed.

---

Kusuke had just started on his third cup of coffee that day when his younger brother spontaneously appeared before him. "Kusuo, what a surprise! Why didn't you tell me you were coming to visit?!"

There were faint bags under Saiki's eyes, as if he'd spent the rest of the night in turmoil over his chosen course of action. But there was no hesitation in his mind's voice as he came forward and put his hands on his brother's shoulders, making such an unexpectedly vulgar demand that Kusuke promptly spewed hot coffee everywhere.

Help me have sex with my girlfriend.

#the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiteru #terusai #saiki x teruhashi #saiki kusuo #teruhashi kokomi #teruhashi #saiki #fanfiction #saiki no psi nan

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gentlemancrow · 3 years

Text

OH MAN I MADE MYSELF SAD WITH THIS ONE OH NO OH JEEZ OH CROW WE'RE REALLY IN IT NOW. But this one was FUN. 83. I mean the prompt also just SCREAMS for something truly fucked up for Jmart and UHHHH I HOPE I DELIVERED? ENJOY EVERYONE!

Oct 5th: Nightmare/ “It’s not enough anymore.” (CWs for major character death SORT OF? References to major character death?? unreality and dreams!)

The Archivist surveys his domain from a broken throne. Crimson cast in the long fingers of light from a dying sun, what was once a wonderland, a cornucopia of horrifying delights, is now just a gutted-out carapace, gnawed clean and bleached red. Everything is sand and rusted girders and shattered glass and bone and hungry silence. What few things that still exist to shiver and be afraid are wrung dry, lifeless creatures more of sorrow and resignation, of defeat and yearning for oblivion than of fear. Sorrow still tastes of fear, in a way, but it is thin and malnourishing, a placebo to glut distended bellies on limbs too thin and weak to carry them on through the wasteland.

He has never had need to leave his ivory tower to wander, however. He can see everything, after all. The mylar veins and nerves of him root him to the core of the Earth and had drunk their fill for countless eons. He had watched from ocular buds and many-eyed vultures feeding the green dandelion iris of him sitting high in his panopticon as all of existence knelt and cracked open their skulls and chests and spilled their secrets unto his waiting pastures. There is nothing now.

No secrets, no history, no science or art or books, just the fluttering of crumpled black strips of mylar tape. The sky falls, piece by piece, and there are no stars in the wounds left behind, only the void of nothingness and crouches with wide-open jaws ready to breathe in the dust of them when they are gone. Something else bellows out, a foghorn headed thing echolocating blindly in the emptiness, searching in the hollows of a lonesome world for that feeling which cannot exist within itself. There is no one left to miss, no one left to watch, no one left to stalk in the dark, no porous flesh to make a home, no stories left to tell. No one even to bury. Their time is ending. His monarchy crumbles around him and all he has left to do is bow his crown and weep.

Tears flow from countless eyes to water the newly fecund soil beneath him and in a few scraggly, achingly defiant bursts of color, fearless primordial life makes its final stand, heedless that it too, will soon blink out of existence. The delicate, starry petaled blooms trace out an ancient shape and memorialize a long-forgotten form in final repose beside him. Always beside him, no matter where he went. They grow between eternally reaching fingers, up through the cathedral of crumbling ribs, in a halo around the head laid forever in reverence and love at his feet, lively pink and sky blue and purple for him. He lays what once must have been a head, a blushing cheek, the corner of a mouth full of teeth like marble commandments, down upon the crumbling cage of bone. If he searches long enough through the endless annals of his knowledge, he can find the sound of the heart that once beat there. There must have been a voice once. Laughter. A smile. But they’re so far away, buried so deep, and he is so weak.

He wonders if maybe he will be waiting for him, wherever he is going, wherever things like him go, if they have not exchanged existences too many times to do so just once more. He wonders if maybe one day he will close all his myriad eyes for the final time and open them again into a sea of cobalt blue. He wonders if maybe there is peace beyond the stars, if they can both lay their heads down in the silken crystal fires of creation and sleep at last, together. There is a twinge of old excitement in a thing he does not know. There is hope again in that word, maybe. Just maybe. Maybe he can see him again. For now, The Archivist just curls against the remains of that thunderous, bright chest, winds a few tendrils of tape around the half-buried fingers, and waits for extinction. Or a dream. Whichever comes for him first.

And then Jon wakes up with a strangled cry from where he was snuggled into Martin’s chest, eyes wild, streaming with sweat and fighting to fill his lungs with air. Martin catches him immediately, envelops him up in his strong arms and blankets and love and softness, peppers kisses all over his face and brings him back down into the comfort of their bed.

“Shhhh, shhhh… it’s alright, you’re alright, Jon. It was just a nightmare. I’m here, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice a cosmic hymn in the wake of such complete oblivion.

“S-Sorry… I’m sorry,” Jon whispers tremulously into his chest, “It was just… it was awful.”

“I’m sorry, too. D-Did you want to talk about it…?”

Fingers glide through his hair, shedding warped images like sand into the sheets.

“Maybe. I-I… It’s hard to… put into words. Feelings mostly. Not good ones… E-Everything still feels a little fuzzy.”

Martin chuckles a little.

“They say you can tell if you’re dreaming if you try to read. Can’t read in dreams, you know.”

Jon manages a lopsided smirk.

“Is that so?”

There is a stack of books on Martin’s nightstand. Jon does not allow their titles to catch his eye.

“Aren’t you supposed to know everything now, hmmm?”

“What is there to know about dreams? We don’t know why we have them. As far as we know they serve no discernible purpose, they may as well not even exist,” he replies, tetchy academia bleeding into his still sleep-thick voice.

“But they do exist, they are something, a memory, a feeling, a fear…”

“Or all of them at once.”

Silence swells between them, punctuated by the ticking of the clock on the wall. A chaffinch sings an aria somewhere unseen.

“…Are you afraid, Jon?”

“…All the time.”

“Why don’t you have a peek at the clock, then? Clocks can tell you, too. Time doesn’t work right in dreams,” Martin continues sweetly.

Jon does not look.

“You don’t work right in dreams,” he teases instead as the edges of unreality begin to crumble.

“Oh, very original…”

Jon pays for his crimes by being tackled into the mattress and tickled, and he forgets for just a moment, the smell of desiccated plastic and sand in his nostrils and the cool touch-polished bone against his cheek. He forgets with his fingers tangled in russet curls, forgets in their tussling and kissing and laughing in the billowy cloud of their comforter, their bed, forgets until it all bleeds together into a muffled blur in his ears. He steals a furtive glance at the clock on the wall as Martin kisses his neck and shoulder and envelops him utterly.

The second-hand ticks backward just once.

And Jon no longer knows which one of them is having the nightmare, and which one of them is the nightmare.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonMartin #Jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #Magnuspod #Emotober #emotober2021 #Crow Writes #Fan fic #CW unreality #reference to major character death

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lubdubsworld · 3 years

Text

Nights in the City.

Crime Boss! Min Yoongi x Sassy College student OC!

Part 1/?

For all that city is supposed to be a thriving metropolis with bustling traffic no matter what the hour, it still felt incredibly creepy to be standing inside a deserted midnight mart, clutching three packs of highlighter pens, a pack of condoms and a pack of tampons.

But it was finals week, and that generally meant that either

a.) I would stress the fuck out of myself and my period would come on early

b.) I would run out of highlighters , fail to highlight the most important part of my notes , forget all about it during the exam and end up dropping a whole grade over it.

c.) I would be so horny, would manage to sneak a guy into my room and at the last minute , we would both realize we didn't have protection.

Sounds oddly specific?

These are actual things that have happened to me so, one could say I was merely being smartly proactive by preparing a contingency plan for when or in case things went wrong.

Such wisdom, much wow.

And so here i was at the local all night mart, waiting for the drunk out of his mind kid to pay for his flavored water .

My legs ached, it was pouring cats and dogs outside, and I could feel a headache come on.

Just as the guy finished paying, i felt a surge of relief. Great, I could pay and finally leave, thank you Lord, angels and every saint chilling next to Jesus-

A hand shot out from behind me slapping a wad of 100000 won bills on the counter.

"Need to see the CCTV footage from this evening kid." A low gravelly voice rumbled in my ear , so disgustingly hot it bordered on obscene.

I turned around to glare at the stranger, only to feel my breath catch in my throat.

A breathtakingly beautiful man stood right behind me, dressed in what looked like a Valentino Tux, ebony dark hair and tattoos that stood out stark against his pale skin.

He was tall and lithe, eyes cat-like yet blazing with anger ? passion? a love for opera music?

Well whatever it was, it was potent.

As was his cologne .

I gagged a little.

"Excuse me, pretty boy.... you're in my space." I snapped .

He looked surprised, like he really hadn't noticed my five foot four ass dressed in a lime green fleece jacket and purple yoga pants.

He tilted his head.

"Excuse me?"

That fucking drawl.

Rolling my eyes i pointed at the board that said " Wait your Turn."

"Can't you read?" I snapped.

He didn't reply, merely staring at me carefully, as though memorizing all my features before giving me a very blatant once over.

Not to be outdone, I did the same to him and the small smile on his face grew into an amused smirk.

The cashier's panicked voice drew us both out of our little eye fuck fest.

"Miss, please if you could step aside... hyungnim I'm so sorry...let me get the tapes for you at once..."

"That's alright. i'll send one of my men to get it later. Why don't you finish billing her items first?" He said softly. He gave me another small smile.

"Since you asked so nicely, petal." he rasped out, reaching out and gently brushing the hair off my face.

i frowned at the little endearment.

Well, no matter.

Satisfied , both at having stood up for myself and not having it backfire in my face, I grinned wide at the cashier.

Why did he look so terrified? Geez.

I finished paying and then politely stepped out of the line, indicating to Mr. Tuxedo that he could go next.

But he didn't .

instead he followed me as i walked out.

"Where do you live?" He asked casually.

I blinked, confused.

“What? Why?”

“So I can drop you off. It’s late and the city gets dangerous at night.”

I rolled my eyes.

“The city isn’t dangerous..” I lowered my voice , curling my fingers to get him to lean closer. He obliged obediently, moving closer and bending low till his ear was almost level with my lips, “ I am dangerous.”

He straightened, brows raised and lips parted.

“Oh? You are?”

I grinned conspiratorially.

“Listen, you look rich and kind of handsome so I’m going to assume that you aren’t going to mug me, so I’ll show you. Now, the reason I’m wearing this jacket that makes me look like the hulk jizzed all over me is, this jacket is the only jacket I have with big enough pockets to carry this.”

I slipped a hand into my pocket and pulled out my trusty pepper spray.

“Ah. Smart.” He nodded in approval.

“And Dangerous.” I reminded him.

“Definitely dangerous.” He nodded again, solemnly.

Satisfied, I slipped the can back in.

“So really, kind stranger I’m perfectly safe to walk the dark streets of Seoul on this night.”

He smiled and held both hands up , stepping away respectfully.

“A strong independent woman who don’t need no man.” He said with a grin, “ Noted.”

“I’m Shinhye. What’s your name?” I asked brightly.

“Yoongi.” He smiled.

I nodded.

“Alright, Yoongi. I’m gonna go now… By the way why’d you want the CCTV footage?” I smiled at him.

Yoongi hesitated before giving me a small shrug.

“I stabbed a guy in the neck in the store this afternoon . Just wanted to make sure my men turned off the CCTV when it happened.”

I was still smiling, waiting for him to laugh at the joke, which was definitely creepy, but perhaps just in theme with what we had been discussing.

But he didn’t laugh.

And I felt the first stirrings of worry.

“Ha ha ha.” I said nervously.” That’s funny. L-O-L.”

He tilted his head.

“You think stabbing people is funny?”

I blinked, horrified.

“What, of course not… I mean… You didn’t actually stab anyone did you?”

He hesitated.

“To be fair, he stole from me. If I didn’t stab him and drop his body in the Han, then other people are going to think its okay to steal from me too and I just can’t have that.” He said with a shake of his head.

I opened my mouth to say that the joke had stopped being funny, when three other scars came skidding into the parking lot. I yelped, stumbling on a stray rock and Yoongi caught me, hands firm on my arms , drawing me into the warmth of his chest to keep me from falling.

“Careful, petal.” He breathed right against my ear and I froze staring at the men climbing out of the cars.

Now, these men, I could believe were capable of stabbing people.

They wore small dagger at their waist, the outline of pistol holsters on their sides and their thighs.

“Boss, it’s done. We got rid of him. He’ll be fish chow by the morning.” One of them said cheerfully.

Wait.

No.

No way.

This was a dream.

I had dozed off by the tampon aisle and I was having a fever dream.

“Excellent Jungkook-ah. Boys, say hello to my girlfriend, Shinhye.” Yoongi said casually.

I jumped, trying to get away but his arm came right around my shoulder, forearm resting on the swell of my breasts as he held me closely.

“ Your- your what?”

“Girlfriend. I haven’t met a girl this intriguing in a while and well, you’re quite easy on the eyes too…”

“I… I’m not… No.. Please…” I couldn’t quite form a coherent thought.

“Oh, petal , I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t accept that no. I’m going to pick you up for dinner tomorrow night at …well wherever you live. Our first date so wear something pretty yeah?” he nuzzled my neck.

Actually nuzzled it.

What the actual fuck.

“You’re insane. I’m not dating you!” I said shrilly.

“Eight O clock.” He hummed, still pressed right up against my back. The warmth of his body was ridiculously comforting in the chill night air.

Then before I could process what he was doing, one hand came up to curl over my chin in a gently grip, tilting my face back so I was looking up into his beautiful face.

“Don’t make me wait, petal.” He said softly, before reaching down and closing his lips over mine.

It was a soft kiss , over before I could even process it.

“You said you’re dangerous right baby? I’m dangerous too. Maybe together we can be absolutely terrifying , yeah?” he was laughing now.

And i wasn't.

Infact,

I was going to pass the fuck out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note : this is just something fluffy and ridiculous to keep me sane while I write the angsty fics.

#yoongi mafia au #bts mafia au #fluff and smut #bts smut #yoongi smut

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violetwolfraven · 3 years

Text

Modern!Wormsies Headcanons because I’m terrified wormsies is going to die before 2021 gets here

Tw for mild horror. I don’t think this is that bad but read at your own risk. I don’t l know why I created it I just felt compelled to but don’t read it unless you’re as insane as I am and are fully prepared to read the most cursed thing I have ever created. Seriously. This is by far the most cursed thing I have ever written. Good luck. 💜

So anyway they’re not selling to survive obviously since it’s modern au.

In my modern au they’re all theatre nerds cause why not.

So they’re backstage one day and Race finds this blue thing behind an old set that has probably been there for several years.

Lo and behold, it is a worm on a string.

And Race is kinda weirded out and wondering who left it there but he’s like aight guess I’m keeping this thing.

He ties it to a strap on his backpack and forgets about it for the rest of rehearsal.

Then Romeo (one of Race’s 3 adoptive brothers, the others being Jack and Crutchie) notices it and f l i p s o u t.

Romeo drags over Specs and Jack and Crutchie to show them the worm Race found and they’re all like omg this is the best thing we’ve ever seen.

Race is still kinda confused but like hey whatever this might as well happen and he just figures if his brothers and his little brother’s boyfriend are gonna obsess over worms, why not join in?

They all get worms somehow. Romeo gets a green one, Specs gets a purple one, Jack gets a dark blue one, and Crutchie gets a yellow one.

When they all show up to rehearsal a few days later with worms, a few others pick up on it and are like lmao let’s join in on the insanity.

So anyway Albert gets a red one, Smalls gets a green one, Mike gets a purple one, Ike gets a yellow one cause it’s the opposite of purple, and Elmer gets a green one.

All the others are all kinda just whatever do what you want don’t involve us in your insanity.

BUT THEN

Over the course of the next couple weeks, only a couple more people join in on getting worms.

Sniper gets a purple one and Finch gets an orange one.

But what’s strange is that everybody starts noticing...

The kids with worms pick up choreography...

Faster and Better...

Than the kids without worms...

They’re stretchier and more agile...

...almost like..?

Almost like...

They...

don’t...

have...

spines..?

They wiggle just like their worms wiggle wiggle wiggle.

And Specs is the most logical of the ones with worms but even he fully believes his worm gives him special powers.

They spend their snack breaks talking about this and a few more people decide to get in on it.

Jojo gets a yellow one, Mush gets a dark blue one, and Blink gets a light blue one.

Davey, Spot, and Katherine still refuse to believe in this.

Sarah got a pink worm and they were all terribly disappointed in her.

But anyway they hold out their lack of belief despite how the kids with worms continue to perform better in dance numbers than the few left without.

Kenny caves and gets a dark blue one somewhere in here.

There are now a lot more kids with worms than kids without and the holidays are rolling around.

Ike gets Hotshot a red worm and Hotshot in turn gets red worms for all his crowd on the stage crew (Bart, Rafaela, Joey, Hildy, York, and Vince).

Hell, even the crew kids perform better with worms, it turns out.

Cause they can run fast to get places they need to be and squeeze through spaces they shouldn’t be able to squeeze through.

But anyway Katherine and Davey and Spot are starting to get a little creeped out.

Cause their friends and partners are starting to act more and more like they’re in a cult, even more than the cult that they’re already in (the drama club).

They pretend their worms have fucking personalities and make tiny hats for them and stuff.

And the ones left without worms are dropping like flies and getting assimilated to the other side.

Buttons gets a light blue one, Tommy Boy gets a pink one, Henry gets an orange one, and

And Sarah gets Les a green worm.

That’s kinda the last straw for Davey.

He fucking waits until his siblings are asleep and he throws their worms in the trash.

But mysteriously

They both have their worms back in time for rehearsal.

And Davey gets home that night and there’s a light blue worm waiting on his pillow.

He throws it away but it’s tied to his backpack strap the next day.

He flushes it down the toilet and it shows up in his favorite hoodie pocket.

He tells Katherine and Spot, super freaked out, but they don’t really believe him cause there’s no such thing as magic worms... right?

Then Katherine finds a purple worm on the seat she usually sits in during breaks.

She’s moderately creeped out so she leaves it there and goes to a different seat but the next break the worm is on that seat.

She can’t remember seeing anyone move it.

Meanwhile Spot is making out with Race behind a curtain (obviously) and Race

Race fucking pulls a red worm out of his sleeve like a scarf trick and gives it to him.

Spot is super weirded out by this and wants to just throw the dumb thing away the minute he and Race are done making out, but he just...

He can’t.

He can’t get rid of the worm, so he ties it to his backpack.

Katherine and Davey are mildly horrified that Spot has given in and won’t give up his worm even though you’re encouraging their cult-like behavior, Spot, come on.

Spot insists that he could throw away his worm if he wanted to, he just... doesn’t want to. And besides, he can keep up with the others on theatre stuff now, so why would he?

So Kath and Davey are

The

Last

Ones

Left

Without worms.

Davey’s worm is still following him around but he refuses to give in and he always gets rid of it as soon as he finds it but it always pops up again.

Katherine’s shows up less frequently, but it starts getting more and more frequent and she starts getting more and more freaked out as one night, she goes into her room and that fucking purple worm is on her pillow.

None of her friends have been to her house in the last 24 hours so this development is fucking terrifying.

She calls Davey and flips out on the phone to him about it and he’s trying to calm her down but Sarah ends up stealing his phone after a few minutes because she’s my girlfriend, Davey, not yours.

When Davey gets the phone back, Katherine is significantly calmer. He asks her if she threw the worm away.

She

Didn’t

Throw the worm away.

She claims it’s fine, that they might as well give in, Davey, we’re the last ones left without worms, just out of stubbornness. And anyway our friends with worms are doing fine; look at your siblings if you need proof.

Sarah and Les are having a tea party with their worms and Davey is getting pretty scared at this point.

He’s the last one left without a worm, though that blue one still always seems to show up wherever he is.

Until

Opening night

Their

Show

Afterwards everybody’s pumped up and ready to go to Applebee’s to celebrate and Davey is relieved because no one has mentioned worms in the last 24 hours or even really looked at the ones still tied to their backpacks.

He thinks maybe the others got bored with it and this thing is finally dying, especially since that damn light blue worm hasn’t showed up today either.

But then Davey is just sharing a nice coffee alone with Jack backstage (which he hasn’t done since the worm thing started because honestly his boyfriend was creeping him out).

Jack suddenly starts crying, and Davey’s all like hey what is it? Babe look at me what’s wrong?

And Jack just goes I’m sorry love I know it hurts now but it’s better in the long run trust me.

That’s when Elmer, Specs, Sarah, and Mush burst in behind them and grab Davey, shoving a bag over his head and dragging him somewhere.

When the bag is taken off of Davey’s head, he’s tied to a chair in the middle of a choir room that all his friends have somehow squeezed into.

They’re all holding their worms.

And Davey is like guys if this is an elaborate prank it wasn’t even that funny to begin with but now it is very very much not funny.

But Sarah just goes in a sad tone it’s not a prank Davey.

Les not looking like he’s trying not to laugh is what makes Davey believe it’s not a prank.

And Davey is legitimately terrified at this point because even Spot and Katherine are looking at him with a solemn kind of pity and when he asks them for help they just shake their heads and tell him everything will be okay.

He turns to Jack and is still clinging to that last little bit of hope that one of the people he loves might not have gone off the deep end.

That last little bit of hope that the boy he loves is still the boy I fell for. I know you’re still in there so please just untie me Jackie.

Jack looks like he’s trying not to cry but he doesn’t move.

Instead he says I love you Davey. It’ll all be over soon.

Do it, Race.

Race steps forward and Davey just about has a heart attack because

He’s

Holding

That

Goddamn

Light blue

Worm

And he takes some rainbow duct tape out of his pocket and tapes it to Davey’s shirt.

And the others all start chanting one of us one of us one of us as Davey can practically feel the spine leave his body and travel to another dimension where there’s a man who collects them.

It turns out the others were right that he should just give in.

Now it’s time for them to get the rest of the school.

Edit: here is my attempt to justify myself for this. 💜

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magnetictapedatastorage · 3 years

Text

Cataclysmic Certainty

What if the last two people left in the zombie apocalypse were a vampire and a human? 1k words, two women that are endlessly uneasy.

Day 77:

It rained all day, so I drove slowly. I pulled over early to watch the sun go down. When I was sure it was gone, I woke her up. She was hungry. I didn't want to go to sleep, but the rain on the metal roof, the clean-smelling sheets, and the pitch darkness from the taped-over windows did me in.

"You're not eating enough," she told me. "Are you trying to lose weight?"

"I'm trying to stretch our supplies, I don't know how long this stash will last."

She looked at me oddly.

"I can see the logic in that, but I can secure more dry goods quite easily."

It was true, the undead- or rather, the other kind of undead- weren't much danger to her. The only real threat for her was starvation, so keeping me alive was a top priority.

"Well, if you're offering…"

"Of course," she said smoothly.

"I'd love some shredded raw coconut, if there's any that's still good. It looks sort of like grated cheese, and in stores it should be in the refrigerated section near the fruit. I don't think any houses will have it though."

"Got it, what else?"

I thought for a moment. "More D batteries for the hotplate, and whatever washing powder you found last time, because these sheets smell amazing."

---------

Day 101:

She asked if I wanted to waste the day with her in the dark. I agreed, because there was no good reason not to.

The summer heat was only slightly deflected by the van's white paint job. The absolute darkness was disorienting, not that there was much space to get lost.

‐--------------

Day 346:

Winter has stretched on into infinity. The days are short and simple, she helps me, I also help her, but not as much. We live very high up in a building, and I eat something there isn't a word for. Sometimes it tastes like salt, sometimes pennies, sometimes cinnamon. She invented it, said it was the way to ward off disease. My joints stopped aching, whereas in the fall they creaked whenever I moved, so I believe her.

She spends the long nights reading next to me, and every time I open my eyes- a sort of reverse blink- she is finishing another chapter in one of those heavy textbooks. She is learning so much.

"How long have we been here?" I asked her, wondering how many hours I'd been sleeping in a nest of destroyed office chair cushions.

"It'll be a month tomorrow," she tells me. "How are you feeling?"

I stared at her, unable to form words. She stared back, not coldly, but not with sympathy either. Finally, I ventured to answer. "I'm… confused. How has it been a month?"

She bookmarks a worn copy of Advances in Renewables (4th ed.), to come closer. "You've been sleeping a lot lately."

"Oh." I still wasn't quite getting it. "Why? I mean- why am I… I don't remember changing my sleep schedule."

She finally softened a bit. "Remember in the summer, where I was spending 15 hours a day locked in a box? Not that I blame you- it was the best we could do at the time- this is sort of like that. I've been making the most of this season, staying awake 20 hours at a time, but that requires rather a lot of energy. Namely, yours. You haven't been awake for more than 4 hours a day this week."

"Oh," I repeated myself, feeling my body tilt with vertigo when I sat up from the nest. "Is that…?" I wanted to say healthy, but that would be a rude question. All blood loss is unhealthy, after all. "That level of, uh- that can't be good for my lifespan, if I'm knocked out from blood loss…" I stared at nothing, scrabbling through the basic math, while single digits slipped through my fingers, "...20 hours a day. Wouldn't I remember going into shock?" Aside from the instinctive terror of the first minute or so, feeding only became truly unbearable if she took far too much. We'd done experiments, at the hospital, after she'd cleared it out from the zombie infestation. I'd agreed at the time, but the instinct to fight seemingly-certain doom had been strong. There had been a deep bruise across my chest where she'd held me still- it'd looked like one of those seatbelt burns from a serious car crash.

"That's not what's happening, I wouldn't do that to you for no reason," she insisted. "This is different. I-" she stuttered, a rare event. "I started giving you something, to help you. You were constantly bored because you couldn't see without sunlight and you hated the food and you made so much noise when I was trying to think… one of the pharmacies was really well stocked… so I tried to make it better for you. I tried to make it harder to notice the things that made you upset."

I was… I should have been horrified, clearly. It was exactly what I'd been too afraid to think about in the spring: she'd lock me up as a mindless blood-keg. I had a hard time working up the energy to fear her. And damn if she wasn't good at seeming like the good guy.

"It's nothing harmful, really, nothing even all that strong, just a first-generation antihistamine, over-the-counter, it just helps you sleep more, that's all," she explained breathlessly.

"How much?"

"Any time you ate, I've been giving you two capsules in your food. Sometimes, if you were waking up and I didn't want to be distracted, I'd just put them in your mouth before you were all the way awake."

Something was seriously wrong. "That's a lot of pills," I said vaguely.

"I know, but I didn't want to risk using something stronger."

Day 347:

"How long have we been here?"

"3 days," she answered quietly.

I blinked at her, about to argue, but decided she must be right.

"I had the strangest dream."

"Eat, then you can tell me all about it," she said, pushing a bowl of something at me. She was engrossed in an intimidatingly thick manual about wind turbine construction.

"Sort of a nightmare, actually," I mumbled between bites.

She hummed in acknowledgement.

Something hard had been mixed in, but I didn't bother picking it out to inspect it. Probably vegetable marrow or crushed Tums or some other odd supplement she decided would be necessary. It was the least I could do to follow the diet she wanted me to have. She was, after all, the breadwinner. I just happened to be the bread.

#my writing #vampires #loose/freeform but still decent imo #first person #loosely inspired by CDDA

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athenasbloodyspear · 3 years

Text

The Viper: Chapter Two

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Find this fic on Ao3.

This fic is 18+ for violence and eventual sexual content. Please read at your own risk.

Master list

“I know where to find her.” Nat pipes up from her spot at the table.

No one had moved since the Viper had shot out the security camera.

Tony whipped his head to look at her and scoffed. “Oh? Are you an omnipresent God who knows all? Because if Friday can’t find her, I think we’re fucked.”

“I know a place in the city where someone like her could disappear. Where I would disappear if I were her. It’s a hunch, but I have a feeling it’s where she is.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Care to enlighten us?”

“The Mist.” Nat said simply.

“Okay that just sounds fake.” Sam scoffed.

“It’s not.” Nat snapped, “It’s an underground nightclub in Brooklyn. Famously has no cameras anywhere. The name is a nod to the fact that it’s a blind spot in the city. It’s filled with people in similarly seedy professions and rich and powerful people looking for illegal fun.”

“Alrighty then. Sounds like my kinda place.” Tony rubbed his palms together. Steve just groaned.

“You’re telling me this woman would hide out in a nightclub full of people who potentially know there’s a bounty on her head?” Bruce chimed in.

“Yes. It’s highly frowned upon for outside business to interfere with the fun inside, so if anyone is hoping to make the hit they would have to wait for her to leave. Hence why I bet she waits there a long time.”

“How do you know about this place Nat?” Steve countered.

“How do you think I know about this place, Rogers?” She spat back.

“Whatever, you two. Suit up for an evening at the club and meet us all back here in an hour.” Tony interrupted before Steve could stick his foot in his mouth. “Banner, you’re excused.”

“Thank god.” Bruce sighed.

“The rest of you are going. I’m staying here to monitor cameras with Friday and see if I can scrounge up any more interesting tidbits on our new friend.”

“Great.” Bucky muttered to himself. A club. His favorite thing in the world.

Not.

After a particularly complicated series of sneaking into various clothing stores in Manhattan you’d finally stolen something acceptable to wear for your evening of fun.

You could feel the adrenaline pumping through you still. This whole thing was a massive gamble and you knew that.

At any moment it could all come crashing down. In a lot of ways.

You hadn’t been this out of control in a very long time. It was terrifying.

But you would gamble with your life if you had to. It didn’t matter to you anymore. There was only one thing that did and you would give everything for it.

So you’d continue to spiral out of control. To rely on others' choices.

You didn’t have any other options.

Bucky was relieved to discover that while this underground club was a club it at least wasn’t deafeningly loud. At least not in every section of the club.

He was horrified to discover that the “underground” descriptor wasn’t only figurative. The club space was in the basement of a non descript warehouse that screamed Hydra wannabe. Everything in the club was a shade of black. There was an upper floor, where the team was currently spread out, with many lush couches and smaller tables. It was more reminiscent of jazz bar’s he’d been to in the 40’s. The upper level had a metal railing that looked over into what could only be described as a pit. There was a large black marble bar along one wall of the lower floor and the rest was a dance floor. Or at least that’s what Nat had said, all he could see was a sea of bodies smashed together writhing. Apparently that was dancing.

Even more horrifying was the fact that there were no windows. Not a single one. And the only exit that anyone knew of was the single door they came in. It was eating his skin alive. He felt so suffocated. Trapped in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew if he voiced this to Steve, he would immediately tell him to go home and the rest of them would probably be fine on their own. However, there was something keeping him here. He felt a pull towards this enigma of a woman and he needed to see her with his own eyes. Something in his gut told him she needed his help. He didn’t really know how or why, but his instincts were rarely wrong and he was tired of ignoring them.

Even if his instincts were fighting within him at the moment.

“Anything?” Nat questioned through the coms from where she sat on a sofa, pretending to chat with some diplomat from a country Bucky couldn’t think of right now.

“No one who looks like what I think I’m looking for.” Steve replied. He’d been the only one who had offered to venture downstairs surprisingly. Bucky didn’t know how he could do it.

“Sam?” Nat prompted. Sam had taken to exploring some of the strange and windy back hallways of the upper floor that lead to restrooms and stock rooms and who-knew-what-else rooms. Again, Bucky didn’t know how he willingly ventured into this creepy hell hole.

“Nada.” Sam mumbled, “Have seen lots of faces I recognize from front pages of magazines. Most in compromising positions. Gonna be hard to forget.”

“Gross.” Bucky muttered. He heard Nat’s soft laugh filter through the com. “I haven’t…” Bucky started. His thought cut off abruptly.

He was standing at a railing, looking down on the pit from an aerial view, when he saw her.

She was stunning, even though he knew she was trying to keep a low profile. It wasn’t anything in the way she looked necessarily, even though she looked amazing in her slim black velvet suit. When she shifted he noted that she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath the blazer and he hoped that there was some sort of tape involved to keep the lapels in place on her chest. The smooth expanse of skin he could see between the jacket was nearly too much to handle already.

No, it wasn’t the outfit that made her stunning. She simply was so commanding and present that her energy was intoxicating, even from his perch a floor above. He didn’t understand how everyone around her wasn’t staring at her. He couldn’t really remember what he was supposed to do now that he was faced with her.

She was the new him, he realized. Her hair fell to her shoulders, almost a direct replica of the mop of tousled locks on his head, only darker. He noticed she didn’t look nearly as robotic in this space compared to the videos he’d seen of her.

I knew it. He thought. This is the real her.

“Care to finish that thought big guy?” Sam chuckled through the coms, snapping Bucky out of whatever trance he’d fallen into.

“I uh…” Bucky started again. “I’m lookin at her.”

He heard voices come through the coms, asking where the hell he was and where she was but he couldn’t speak.

He watched her, you, toss back a shot of some dark liquid.

As he stared, your eyes shifted up and locked with his.

Every sound in the world disappeared for him. Bucky couldn’t hear a thing but the pounding of his own heart. There was a string between the two of you that went taught as you stared at each other.

Some part of his brain registered his increasingly frustrated friends trying to get his attention through the coms but he didn’t even dare blink, let alone speak. He was convinced that if he even twitched you would disappear into the smoky haze of the room.

“I see her.” He heard suddenly through the com. Steve must have spotted you across the room from him downstairs. “I’m closing in.”

Bucky watched the corners of your mouth peel into a tiny little smirk. His dry eyes forced him to blink and when his lids opened again, you were gone.

Fuck. He thought.

“What the hell was that, Buck?” Steve snapped through the coms. “I lost her. Anyone else still see her?”

“The only way out is the front door.” Nat breathed. Everyone shifted instantly to beeline for the front. Even if you snuck out before them, Bucky knew you couldn’t have gone very far.

You careened out the front, gasping in fresh breaths of air as you peeled to the left and down the sidewalk at a quick pace. You felt grateful you’d forgone the heels for high top sneakers tonight as you needed to haul ass. Fast. You didn’t really know why you suddenly felt the need to flee. Your intention had been to attempt to speak to them inside, where you had the upper hand.

But every well laid plan had flown out the window when you’d locked eyes with the Winter Soldier. Or Bucky as he was now called.

He looked the same.

He looked different in every way possible.

It ripped a hole in your chest.

So you ran.

You paused briefly to stuff your fingers to the back of your throat, forcing the liquor you’d nervously pounded out of your stomach. You were gonna need every bit of your cunning. They were all there, and you were vulnerable out on the street now.

You were so fucking stupid.

Why had you run? Why did you run from him?

You heard the door crash open a half a block behind you.

Bucky was the first one out the door. Sam had to wind out from the back of the building, Nat had to disentangle herself from conversation and Steve had to make his way up from the bottom floor. He was at an advantage.

His instincts were telling him that he needed to be the first one to intercept you. He felt territorial about it. He didn’t know why, but something shifted while you had stared at each other. It was a glimmer, nearly lost in the recesses of his mind, but he knew you. Somehow.

When he looked to his left, he captured the image of you, curled over your knees, emptying your stomach onto the curb.

What the fuck?

“Please don’t run.” Bucky yelled. “Please I swear we don’t want to kill you.”

He watched you straighten yourself up, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth.

“That sounds exactly like something someone who wanted to kill me would say.” You chuckle.

Your voice. It’s… exactly like he imagined it.

It’s nothing like he imagined it.

Before he can process the whirlwind of emotions in his head, you’ve taken off. He bolts after you. After a few strides he hears the door blow open behind him as the rest of the team flies out of the establishment.

He has to get to you first.

You sprint as hard as you ever have. It hurts more, now that you’re fully in control. You hate it.

You love it.

It makes you furious.

You careen around corners and slip between crowds of people, trying your damnedest to throw them off their trail. Eventually you skid to a halt next to an older BMW parallel parked on a busy street, slamming your elbow into the corner of the back window, shattering the glass. You reach through the now open hole and manually unlock the drivers door, not caring that the remaining glass catches and opens your skin.

“Wait!” A voice calls across the street. It’s him. You fight the urge to cover your ears. That voice.

You scramble into the front seat, reaching under the dash to rip the wires of the starter out of the plastic covering. As you fumble with your hands you glance up, watching the Winter Soldier fling himself expertly through moving traffic towards you.

“Shit shit shit.” You mutter to yourself. You finally free the wires, ripping the ends open and tapping them together until they spark and the engine roars to life.

Thank god.

You shift into drive, rip up the E-brake and prepare to step on the gas. You glance once behind you to monitor the traffic roaring down the one way street. There’s an opening.

When you shift your body back forward to grab the wheel, he’s almost to you. His eyes are wild.

Pleading.

What are you doing?

I’m holding your hand.

Why?

I don’t know.

The pain in your chest is nearly unbearable now. You force your facial features to shift into a wide smirk and flip him off before slamming on the gas as hard as you can.

The e-brake holds the front wheels in place as the back wheels squeal on the ground, spinning the vehicle around in place until you’re facing the wrong way down the one-way.

Finally.

You punch it.

Bucky watches you tear off in the stolen car, panting for breath.

There was a moment. Just a moment where he’d seen something in your face and then a mask had locked down over your features.

He couldn’t make sense of it. The agony in your eyes when you saw him just now.

He must know you.

How?

“I lost her.” Bucky pants into the coms. “I… lost her.”

Nat and Steve came sprinting up behind Bucky, placing her hands on her knees to suck in hair.

“I’ll tail her.” Sam called. Swooping up in the skies and taking off in the direction where Bucky’s eyes were trained.

“I don’t understand.” Nat pants. “She would never have been found if she didn’t want to be.”

“Why did she run?” Steve questioned.

“I don’t know.” Bucky murmured. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from the last place he’d seen your car.

“What happened in there Bucky?” Steve turned to look at him.

“I… don’t know.” He murmured again.

“I’m gonna need more than that pal.” Steve prompted, placing his hands on his hips.

“She… She looked at me.” He choked out. Steve guffawed, dropping his head back to look at the sky. Beside him, Nat eyed him curiously. “I can’t explain it, but it felt… like I knew her. Like we were connected somehow.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean Bucky?” Steve clipped. “You just stood there while she ran.”

“Shut the fuck up Steve.” Nat snapped.

“What?” Steve turned to her then. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he was basically paralyzed in there?”

“No.” She snapped. “I think that there’s some deeper story here we don’t understand and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a part of it.”

Steve looked to Bucky then, a little more sobered now, and murmured. “You know her?”

“No.” Bucky said immediately. “At least, not really. But there’s something. She looked at me like…”

Like you did when I was falling from that train.

Just then Sam dropped out of the sky and landed next to them.

“She must have noticed me and ditched the car a few blocks over. Went into a subway station.” Sam sighed. “Needless to say, I lost her.”

The whole group stands together, panting staring down the street where they’d last seen you.

Bucky finally breaks his silence.

“I need to find her.”

His damned voice.

TAGLIST:

@maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals

#Bucky Barnes #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky x Female Reader

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fallen-gravity · 3 years

Text

awaken the stars, ‘cause they’re all around you

Stanford Pines never really believed in soulmates.

He can't imagine the idea that there's one person out there for him in the multiverse who would stop at nothing to love him for who he is, despite everything he is and everything he's done. He can't imagine that someone out there is meant for him, someone who will stand by his side until the end of time.

Or maybe he'd just been looking at it from the wrong angle.

Notes:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @stariousfalls!!!!! I can't believe we've been friends for upwards of five years now?? You've been a huge inspiration of mine from my first day in the gravity falls fandom back in late 2014, and now you're one of my closest friends. I've been spending the last week and a half working on this behind your back, because I wanted to surprise you with a gift I thought you'd love!!

7.5k words of fluff was....not my original plan, but fluff brain wanted to go feral for you, I guess.

Huge, huge shoutout to @ariasofelegance for helping me keep my mouth shut about this, I absolutely would've internally combusted without your help & support

AO3

Ford never saw the appeal of romantic relationships.

One night when he and Stan were kids, they snuck downstairs in the middle of the night after their parents were asleep to dig through Pa’s “Secret stash” of movies he thought he was good at keeping a secret. They’d thought for sure they’d be coming across bootleg cuts of action movies that were still playing in theaters, or documentaries about how all of the politicians in power were secretly aliens.

What they actually found was much more…sensual. They were both horrified, to say the least, but each time Ford had to turn away to prevent himself from gagging, he’d hear Stan beside him struggling not to laugh.

For years, Ford was convinced coming across those tapes before he was old enough to fully comprehend what was happening in them is what had turned him off to relationships altogether. It certainly didn’t help that he was never able to experience romantic relationships firsthand, as every time he tried asking someone out in high school he’d just be laughed at or called a freak.

Though college was another story entirely, his feelings towards romantic relationships never seemed to change. He went out with a girl from his dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons club for a few weeks, a guy from his advanced physics class for almost two months, and even tried going out with Fiddleford for upwards of nine months, but he never felt that deeper connection with any of them, no matter how much he wanted to feel that connection.

It’d be forty more years before he learned the term aromantic, but when he was still in college he would brush off his parents’ questions about his relationship status by telling them he was too busy working on his thesis, which technically wasn’t all that far from the truth anyway.

Still, the faint sense of yearning never seemed to leave him be. Whenever he found gaps in his schedule, he would spend hours in his university library reading up on the science of relationships and their place in society. Though he no longer remembers most of the papers he read, one scientific study that’s always stuck with him was a dissertation written entirely on the concept of soulmates.

Everyone has a soulmate, the paper claimed. Though it may be decades until you properly meet, your path always leads to the moment that you and your soulmate are finally united. Once finally together, not a single force on earth can tear you apart. Even if you are apart physically, the stars will always align to bring you together. Weirdest of all, the paper mentioned soulmarks, which were described as “the phenomenon that a person’s very soul is marked with a piece that belongs to their soulmate, which may appear as a physical anomaly on a person’s body, such as an oddly-shaped birthmark”.

Ford had thought for sure that somebody must’ve moved a romance novel into the sociology section of the library as a joke. The only sort of anomaly he had going for him was his polydactyly, and thinking too much about how that could connect him to a single person who was destined to love him gave him a headache.

Nowadays, though, Ford tries not to give it much thought. He’s perfectly happy right where he is, watching the sunrise from the deck of the Stan O’ War II through the steam visibly rising from his coffee mug.

He sighs contently.

“Mornin’” Stan’s voice sounds beside him, gruff with sleep. When Ford turns to look at him, he’s rubbing at his eyes with one hand while he holds a steaming cup of coffee in his other. He’s already donning one of the sweaters Mabel mailed to him, a deep blue with a tropical island and a treasure chest stitched across the chest.

Ford smirks. “You’re up early”

Stan cocks an eyebrow as he sips from his coffee. “A’course I am. I always get up early when we’re docking to see the kids”

Ford blinks, the teasing smirk on his face melting into a gentle smile. “That’s today?”

“Haven’t you checked the calendar lately?” Stan tosses a second handmade sweater at Ford. This one’s the same shade of maroon as his journal covers, and pictures an angry cycloptopus squirting ink towards the bottom left corner of the sweater. “The kids are on spring break. They talked to their parents about letting us have ‘em all week”

Ford is quick to pull the warm sweater over his head. “All week?”

He can’t help sounding like a broken record, but it’s been months since the last time he saw the kids face to face. Sure, they talk over video at least once a week, but nothing beats seeing their smiling faces and having them nearly tackle him to the ground in a hug in-person.

“Heh, you miss em too, Sixer?”

As little as two years ago, Ford would’ve flinched at the nickname. But Bill is gone for good, and Ford knows that Bill is gone for good, and Stan made a promise to do anything in his power to help him reclaim the nickname. He brings his mug close to his face without taking a sip, allowing himself to take in the warmth in his hands and the steam in his face.

“Not as much as you, clearly” Ford smirks, and Stan crosses his arms over his chest.

“You bet I missed them more than you. I’d been taking care of them all summer before you showed up and fell in love with them in half that time”

Ford smirks as he finishes up his coffee and heads into the navigation room to set their course. “By that logic, wouldn’t that mean that I miss them more, since I had less time with them?”

“Hey!” Stan groans as he follows him into the room. “It does not. It means that you don’t know them like I know them, genius. Everyone knows that it’s all about how much time you’ve spent with a person that determines how close you are with them”

Ford laughs as he enters the coordinates they need to get to the seaport they were meeting the young twins at. From the looks of it, it’d be three hours before they arrived.

“Mm, and who put that study together? Was it you?”

Stan doesn’t reply with words, just a noise that sounds halfway between disgruntled and baffled. It makes Ford laugh even harder, and he wipes at his eyes with a wrist. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Stan’s overdramatic pout melt away until he’s laughing too.

The sight of it makes the smile on Ford’s face widen. It’d been decades since the two of them were able to just be like this. It’d been so long since the last time Ford heard Stan’s genuine laugh that he’d gone and forgotten what it sounded like altogether. When he was still traveling the multiverse, he searched far and wide for a shred of hope, something to keep his anxieties and nightmares from catching up to him.

What a fool he’d been to ignore his childhood memories of home.

The trip is a quiet but familiar one. Ford can’t talk much when he’s steering because he needs to be on constant lookout, but Stan remains in the room to talk at him and keep him company anyway. The sun is well over the horizon by the time they reach the seaport, and call it instincts, intuition, or something else entirely, because Ford spots the kids sitting on a bench in the near distance the moment he and Stan step foot onto the dock.

They’re squished closely together, watching a video on Mabel’s phone. Whether they’re aware of it or not, they’re swaying their legs back and forth underneath the bench in perfect unison. On the ground beside them are their backpacks, overstuffed with so many things that both of them are popping open.

Most importantly, neither of them have noticed that Ford and Stan are approaching them.

Ford exchanges an amused glance with Stan, and clears his throat to catch their attention.

The phone nearly stumbles out of their hands in shock when they look up and meet their eyes.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel squeals, standing to sprint past Ford to knock Stan off of his feet. Ford chuckles at the sight, but not quickly enough to hear Dipper’s “Great Uncle Ford!”, and before he knows it he’s hitting the floor too. The young twins are laughing messes, and stumble over each other as they try to stand to their feet and help their Grunkles up.

Mabel spits out the hair that stuck to her mouth, and pulls a hair tie seemingly out of thin air to tie her hair up into a ponytail. It’s only now that Ford realizes that she and Dipper are also both wearing sweaters, and if Ford had to guess, it looks like Mabel made both of these sweaters as well. Mabel’s is a galaxy print with actual twinkling stars, and Ford makes a mental note to ask her later what she did to make it glow like that. Dipper’s is also space themed, though his pictures the big dipper splotched across a black night sky with a bright orange meteor shooting through the center.

“You have to tell us about everything you’ve encountered”, Dipper beams, once Stan finishes brushing himself off.

Stan cocks an eyebrow. “Two years’ worth is a lot to get through, kiddo”

“Exactly!” Mabel beams, turning to pick up her backpack and put it on. “Which is exactly why you can tell us on the way to the hotel!”

“Hotel?” Ford and Stan ask in unison.

“Surprise?” Dipper giggles. “Our parents rented us a hotel room for the week cause they figured you’d appreciate some time away from the boat”

“It’ll be like our summer in Gravity Falls all over again!” Mabel grins. “But in reverse! You’re in our territory now”

Stan laughs. “You’re the boss, kiddo”

“You bet I am!” She beams, and hands Dipper his backpack. “Now c’mon! If you tell us all of the horrors you’ve encountered out at sea, we’ll tell you about all the horrors we’ve encountered in high school!”

“I...think I remember those horrors pretty well already, thank you” Ford smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “But we’d be more than glad to tell you some of our own stories”

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, but Ford honestly wouldn’t mind if they walked all the way to the hotel on foot if it meant an extra half an hour with the kids. They’re just as eccentric as he remembers, attached at the hip but still wildly different people all on their own. Dipper’s still hanging on to every word he’s saying, and Mabel’s still skipping along like she’s in her own world.

Once they reach the hotel and check in, Dipper collapses face first onto one of the beds the moment he steps into the room, groaning.

Stan smiles. “Something bothering you, kiddo?”

He turns on his side to look Stan in the eye, his face smushing into the pillow. “Mabel didn’t let me get any sleep last night. She insisted on getting to the seaport three whole hours early because she insisted that she had this gut feeling that you guys would have the same idea and we’d magically show up at the same time”

Mabel pouts, and sits on the bed besides him. “Well it’s not my fault you stayed up late reading that dumb book of yours. Plus, would you rather have kept them waiting for three hours?”

Dipper removes his hat and places it on the table beside him, exposing just enough of his forehead through his hair to reveal his birthmark. It has the same faint glow to it as Mabel’s sweater, and Ford wonders how the two could possibly reflect off of each other.

“Their boat has beds and a fully stocked kitchen, Mabel. They can afford to wait. All we had were those strawberry pop tarts that you ate five minutes after we got there”

Ford can’t help but smile softly at their banter. He missed them so, so, much more than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s got half a mind to stow them away on the boat at the end of the week and homeschool them both himself so he never has to be apart from them again.

Apart. The word still feels like a knife twisted into his chest. There’s nothing he regrets more than trying to separate the young twins from each other two summers ago because he’d been so caught up in projecting his own fears onto the pair. He’d tried apologizing to Mabel over the whole ordeal, but she stopped him before he could even start to tell him he had nothing to worry about.

He only wishes he could learn to forgive himself as easily as she did.

“...Can we, Grunkle Ford?”

He blushes. Had he just said all of that out loud?

“Can we...what?”

“Take the boat out! Not right now, since Dips is being a grumpy-grump and insists on wasting precious time with a nap, but we’ve been talking about it all week”

From across the room, Stan snorts. “Let me get this straight,” he takes his jacket off and hangs it up in the closet. At this point Ford swears his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because Stan’s old burn scar is glowing just as Mabel’s sweater and Dipper’s birthmark are. “All the time you spent groaning and complaining about fishing every time I took you in Gravity Falls, and now you’re asking to go fishing?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a joy ride,” Dipper yawns from under the covers. “But if agreeing to go fishing is what gets you to say yes, then sure”

He’s smirking under the covers, Ford can tell, because he inherited that expression from Stan.

Stan’s about to bite back, but Dipper must not have been exaggerating about how long he and Mabel were waiting for them at the dock, because he’s already out cold. Stan smiles at him, gently ruffling up his hair before he takes a seat on the adjacent bed, kicking his shoes off so he can kick his feet up on the bed and relax. Ford sits beside Stan, and Stan slings his arms behind him to support his head in his hands as he glances over at Ford.

“They make you wanna retire the whole ‘treasure hunting’ thing and move into the city to be closer to ‘em too?”

Ford chuckles. “I’ve already considered hiding them away on the boat twice today already.” He taps at his chin. “Though I suppose that moving in with them would go over better with their parents then taking them away to live on a boat”

“Hmm…” Stan taps at his chin as well. “Being stuck in the same stuffy high school for four years, or living on a boat traveling all over the world whenever they feel like it? I dunno about you, Sixer, but I have a pretty good idea on what the kids would prefer”

“Grunkle Stan? Grunkle Ford?” Mabel’s voice suddenly chimes in, and Ford blushes, wondering how much of that she just heard.

“What’s on your mind, pumpkin?” Stan asks.

“Well, uh, Dipper was right about us only eating once really early this morning, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh” She twirls her hair between her fingers. “Cook something for us? For old time’s sake?”

Okay, it’s settled, Ford’s never letting these kids go again.

“Sure, kiddo. Soon as your brother’s up we’ll head right back up, okay?”

“Okay!” she beams, and crawls back into her side of the bed, staring at Dipper like she can will him into waking up on command.

Though Ford would’ve been okay if they’d had to wait hours for him, it’s really only about twenty minutes before Dipper opens his eyes again and nearly shrieks in surprise at Mabel’s face hovering three inches from his own. He smacks his hand into her face to shove her away, and she giggles as she rolls off the bed and onto the floor.

Beside Ford, Stan smirks. “Better get up before we leave without you and all our food goes to Mabel, kiddo. You’ve got plenty of time to crash in Ford’s bed on the ship, since he never seems to use it anyway”

Dipper yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he kicks the covers off. “I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep”

“I didn’t realize you were even capable of sleep, bro-bro” Mabel punches him in the shoulder as she walks past him to put her shoes on. He glares at her wordlessly, and Ford has to cover up his snicker with a fake cough.

This time, the bus ride and the walk back to the ship are a quiet one. Ford never really lets himself let his guard down and relax for an extended period of the time, so he cherishes any moment he can get where he finally feels like he doesn’t constantly feel the need to check over his shoulder for signs of danger. Most of the time, if you asked him about his heightened senses, he’d call them a curse. But on days like these, when he can hear the birds chirping and the waves smacking gently against the boats in the seaport, he’d almost go as far as calling it a blessing.

The kids take a seat at the dining table as soon as they enter the kitchen, and Stan grins at them from over his shoulder as he clicks the stove on. “Whaddya say, Stancakes?”

Dipper and Mabel grimace in unison. “Ewwww, Grunkle Stan, you promised lunch!” Mabel scrunches her nose, and Stan’s grin only widens.

“Ah, ah, you said like old times. That means I get to decide what to make, and you have to eat it because I’m your legal guardian”.

“Well I wasn’t even awake when you were talking about old times, so I’d say that cancels out” Dipper crosses his arms over his chest, and Ford can’t help but smile warmly at the three of them as he reaches into the cupboard for his favorite coffee mug. The younger twins clearly had just gotten two copies of the same mug, but crossed both of them out so they’d say #1 GRUNKLES on them instead of #1 UNCLE. Stan has the other one, of course, but he keeps it on his bedside to hold small treasures and keepsakes because it’s, in his own words, “Too special to waste on something as ordinary as coffee”.

Ford sits himself in the seat between the younger twins at their okay, and after some back and forth banter between the four of them, they end up settling for burgers. Truth be told, this is the first time Ford’s eaten a meal in a group larger than two since the last time he and Stan visited the young twins in the winter, and he can’t help but smile into his food at the thought. The closest he’d come even remotely close to eating with others in his research years was his very, very brief time at the truck stop diner, and the experience had soured his view of...well, other people for near decades.

Now, though, he’d burn his own research dozens of times over before he’d even consider eating alone.

Stan’s chair scraping across the floor as he stands pops Ford out of his bubble of serenity.

“Now that that’s taken care of,” Stan cracks his knuckles, smiling mischievously at Dipper and Mabel. “I think I remember a couple of kiddos finally promising their Grunkle Stan he could take them fishing”

“Promise is a strong word-” Dipper starts as he stands to place his plate in the sink, but Stan’s already placing a fishing hat on his head before he can finish his sentence.

“Course you did! You wanna take our baby for a joyride, you gotta earn it first”

Dipper turns to Ford, like he’s expecting him to back him up.

Ford chuckles. “I don’t know, Dipper. That sounds perfectly reasonable to me”.

Dipper scoffs, sitting back down at the table. Mabel laughs.

“Aww, C’mon, Dipper! Aren’t you all about the supernatural? For all we know, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford could be harboring magical glowing bait that only attracts, like, magical talking fish men, or something!”

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just receive a bottle message from Mermando last week?”

“Exactly!” Mabel flashes a grin. “That must mean that he’s in the area!”

Stan laughs. “You tellin’ me you only agreed to go fishing so you could kiss and make-up with your long-distance fish boyfriend?”

“Grunkle Stan, what kind of person do you take me for?” she gasps. “He’s married! You know I would never want to break apart such a loving couple!”

Ford’s smile only warms. Where else could he partake in such a conversation that doesn’t turn heads and result in judgmental whispers? Where else can he just be like this, surrounded by loved ones who are just as weird, just as out of the ordinary as himself? In his younger years he thought for sure his place would be among the monsters and cryptids everyone in his childhood made him out to be, but even in the weirdness capital of the country he felt more alone than ever.

“...Don’t think you’re immune, Sixer” Stan’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and before Ford can ask what he means Stan is smacking a homemade fishing cap on his head. “It may ruin your badass image when we’re monster hunting, or whatever, but we’re fishing with the kids.” Stan gestures to them with his thumb. They’re already outside, leaning over the railing to look out at the water in a perfect mirror of each other. “If they have to embarrass themselves by humoring me for a few hours, so do you”

Ford waits for Stan to join the kids outside before he takes his hat off to admire the stitch work. It’s not perfect, and nowhere near the fancy embroidery he and Stan have found in various markets across their world travels. But it’s personalized, and Ford knows it comes from a place in Stan’s mind that’s been stuck behind lock and key since he was seventeen.

Ford runs his hands along each individual letter, which reads POINDEXTER, before placing it back on his head to join the others outside.

Stan has, miraculously, already pulled out his joke book. Stan’s laughing too hard at his own joke for Ford to really make out what the punchline is, but the younger twins’ collective groans is all he needs to know about it. When Mabel notices him stepping out of the doorway, though, her expression shifts entirely.

“So…” she draws out, stepping towards him. “Is there a trick for attracting merpeople to your boat? I mean, asides from being super cute, obviously”

Ford chuckles, taking a glance behind her to make sure that Stan is out of earshot. “Stan’ll kill me if I tell you this, but they’re really attracted towards shiny things. If you tied one of his gold necklaces around a fishing pole and dangled it into the water, the boat’ll be surrounded in minutes”

Mabel offers up her pinkie finger. “I won’t tell him if you won’t”

Ford interlocks his pinkie with hers, smiling. “I think he’ll notice when a whole family of merpeople show up”

“Hmmm…” Mabel taps at her chin with her free hand, visibly mouthing a plan to herself. “Oh! I know! Come with me,” she beams, and before Ford can even open his mouth to respond she’s already dragging him back into the kitchen. She kneels down on the floor and opens the cupboard below the sink. “Got any empty bottles I can use?”

Ford blinks. “Empty....bottles”

“Yeah!” Mabel pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of her skirt. “If I can send out my response letter the same time we throw Stan’s necklace over, he’ll never be able to tell the difference!”

“Wait, wait” Ford shakes his head. “You really are dating a merperson?”

“Listening skills, Grunkle Ford” she taps at her forehead, folding the letter back into her pocket as she continues to dig through the cupboards. “Used to date. We met at the Gravity Falls Public Pool, where he was stuck, but then I drove him to the lake in a golf cart I stole from the pool grounds because he really missed his family, and then he was my first kiss, and then we were in a long-distance relationship for like, two months, and I kept every single bottle he sent me, but then we had to break up because he was arranged to marry to prevent a big undersea war.” She picks up a bottle, shakes it, and puts it back when it’s too full for her liking. “I know it sounds, like, super complicated, but it’s all okay, because we’re still pen pals!”

Ford laughs, shaking his head. “No, Mabel, I had to ask because I, uh…” his cheeks warm, and he clears his throat. “Before I...came to term with my orientation, I...dated a merperson too”

The bottles in the cupboard rattle as Mabel’s head smacks against the doorframe. She’s rubbing the spot where her head hit, but there are stars in her eyes. “Really?”

Ford’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Yes,” he whispers, and takes a knee so he can get at her eye level. “Technically he was a siren, but yes, we dated for about a month. He promised me he wouldn’t entice anyone else while we were together, but I guess there wasn’t anything...there.” He turns to help her shuffle through the cupboard, and finds a near-empty bottle of olive oil that’s definitely been sitting down there for at least a year. He hands it off to Mabel, smiling. “I’m glad that things worked out with you, though”

To his surprise, Mabel drops the bottle and throws her arms around him in a hug. “I can’t wait to introduce you! He’s gonna love you”

Ford huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls her close as he winds his arms around her as well. The hug only lasts for a few brief moments, but it feels to Ford in those moments that time itself had stopped. Mabel stands, taking the bottle in one hand and offering to help Ford up in her other.

Mabel places the bottle in the sink and turns the water on to rinse it out before she turns back towards Ford, stretching her arms up in the air as if she were warming up for an exercise. “Alright, here’s the plan. You tell me where Grunkle Stan keeps all of his jewelry, and I’ll sneak in and take his necklace while you distract him. Got it?”

Ford smiles. “Got it”.

As Mabel splits away for Stan’s bedroom, Ford heads back out to the deck. Dipper’s leaning over the side of the boat pointing at something jumping out of the water, rambling excitedly to Stan beside him. He’s holding his fishing hat in his hand to stop it from blowing into the water, and his hair is bouncing in the breeze. It’s just enough for the edge of his birthmark to poke through his bangs, and even in broad daylight it seems to be emitting a faint glow.

“I found it!” Mabel cheers, bounding up from behind him. She’s wearing the chain around her neck, and for some reason the gold seems much dimmer in contrast to her sweater. She takes it off and hands it to him. “You wanna do the honors while I go and throw this overboard?”

Ford smiles, ruffling her hair. “Sure thing.” He walks over to where Stan and Dipper are chatting and picks up one of the extra fishing rods. Making sure that Stan’s too engrossed with his conversation to notice, Ford starts wrapping the chain along the line, and at the signal from Mabel, he tosses his line as far from the boat as he can manage.

Five minutes pass before Mabel squeals so loud that Ford’s afraid his glasses might shatter. He reaches for the gun he knows he’s got stashed in his pants pocket, but when he turns to run to her aid she’s leaning halfway over the boat wrapping her arms around a young merman in a tight hug.

“...so good to see you again!” She’s beaming. “I didn’t think you’d be able to find us so quickly!”

“Yes, well, you were easy to track down after we figured out the coordinates to the seaport” the young man says in a thick Spanish accent. “It is good to see you too! My family was so excited to meet you”

“Your family?” she gasps. “Did they all come with you?”

“Of course!” he grins. “We merpeople are very family oriented. Wherever we go, we go together”

Ford winces at the uncanny familiarity of the statement. Mabel must recognize the statement too, because she responds with “Oh, that reminds me! There’s someone I want you guys to meet! Wait right here,” she says, and comes bouncing back over to Ford. Taking his hand in her own, she starts to drag him back to where she’d just been leaning. “C’mon! He’s the one I was just talking about!”

Three more merpeople emerge from the water when she gently knocks on the side of the boat again. “Grunkle Ford, this is Mermando!” she grins, gesturing to the young merman she’d just been conversing with. “He’s the one I helped reunite with his family after they were separated by tragic circumstances.” She wraps her arms around Ford in a side-hug. “Mermando, this is my Grunkle Ford! He was also separated from his family by tragic circumstances, but I helped with that too!”

Mermando laughs. “Even when you think it’s the end, family always finds its way, doesn’t it?”

Ford laughs, shaking his hand. “It always seems that way to me”

“Awwww!” Mabel squeals. “I knew you’d get along!” She grins, and turns her attention back towards Mermando. “Before I forget, though, did you see where Grunkle Ford threw that gold necklace? If I don’t get it back my Grunkle Stan’s gonna kill me”

Mermando laughs again. “I was wondering if that belonged to any of you!” He takes off his shell necklace to reveal that he’d put Stan’s necklace on around his neck. He takes that off, too, and offers it to Ford. “I much prefer this one, anyway” he clicks his shell necklace open, revealing it to be a locket with a picture of his family inside.

Ford takes the gold necklace back, and he means to thank him, but a bell ringing from elsewhere in the port interrupts him before he can open his mouth. Mermando turns to Mabel, taking her hands in his own. “We must go. I’m so sorry we have to leave so soon, but we merpeople recognize the sounds of fishing boats very easily. We’ll try to come back later this week” He opens his arms for her once more, and Mabel wraps his arms around him in a quick hug before she watches him and his family swim away.

“I am so glad that all you were doing was hugging,” Dipper shudders as he and Stan approach Ford and Mabel. “I’m not sure my stomach could handle witnessing you two kissing a second time”

“Awww,” Mabel punches him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous that I had a boyfriend before you did!”

Dipper cringes. “If you having a boyfriend before I do means I didn’t have to be the one dating a fish, then I’m glad you were the one who got stuck with him first” He punches her back, and gestures at Stan over his shoulder with his thumb. “But anyways, I came over here because Grunkle Stan says he wants to get out on the open water before everyone else gets the idea, or something”.

Ford pockets Stan’s necklace and makes a mental note to put it away sometime later tonight when Stan is too distracted to notice. “Tell Stan I’m going to untie the rope from the edge of the dock, and when he sees me back on board we’re all set to go.”

Nodding, Dipper bounds off towards the navigation room where Stan must be waiting, and Ford steps off of the boat to take care of everything else. On the way to the bow, he traces a hand along the white painted STAN O’ WAR II, and a feeling of warmth sprouts in his chest. Once back on board, he waves to Stan as he passes besides the navigation room once more, and takes a seat on one of the beach chairs they liked to keep aboard.

Most days, Ford prefers to be the one at the wheel. But every once in a while he just wants to be. All he wants to do is lean back in one of their beach chairs and let the sun warm his face. It’s a good kind of warm, the same way spending time with the kids and heavy rain hitting his bedroom window and planning new escapades with Stan feel warm. After so, so long of only knowing unbearable burns, it feels indescribable to have a constant back in his life that heals, rather than hurts.

“Mind if we join you?” Dipper asks, and Ford glances over to see both of the young twins dragging a chair behind them.

Speaking of healing constants.

“Sure,�� Ford says, and can’t help the warmth spilling through his tone. They pull their chairs up on either side of him, and curl up to enjoy the warm breeze. Dipper places his hat on his lap to let the wind blow through his hair, and Mabel stretches her arms out behind her head to act as her own pillow. Ford chuckles silently at the pair, and closes his eyes to let himself relax.

All is quiet when Stan finally finds them a spot out on the open water without a single other boat in sight. The water is nearly still, save for the occasional small wave that gently sways the boat. The sun is at its afternoon high, turning the water beautiful shades of teal and aqua. Fishing is tedious, but it’s careful work, and gives Ford something to put all of his focus into. Two whole hours pass before any of them catch a thing, and Stan laughs himself to tears when it’s Dipper who pulls up a single sardine.

Typically Ford prefers much more immersive activities, but right now there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. The sun is starting to set before they realize they aren’t going to have much luck catching anything, and instead decide to take the boat for another ride around the harbor to look for a better place to eventually watch the stars.

“...Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper approaches him shyly once they’ve anchored the boat.

“Yes?”

He tugs shyly at the edge of his sweater. “I…” he starts. “I know you’ve told me that the multiverse was dangerous, and all, but...was there ever anything you enjoyed about it?” He pauses. “What were the sunsets like?”

Ford chuckles, patting at the seat beside him, and Dipper’s eyes light up as he sits down.

“You’re right,” Ford starts, folding his hands together. “I wouldn’t wish what I went through on even my worst enemies, Dipper. It was practically impossible to get any decent amount of sleep and even harder to find food digestible by human kind. I lost some of my best years to the multiverse when I could’ve gone on to become the most renowned scientist in the world.” Ford turns his gaze away from the sun setting on the horizon to meet Dipper’s eyes, but he’s frowning, eyes cast downwards towards the deck of the ship.

“But,” Ford adds before the poor kid can get too lost in his own head, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It definitely had its perks.” He smiles. “The sun in Dimension 18.2 would emit a sound that mimicked a lullaby every night as it set. Dimension 47’23 had three moons that would shift phases before your very eyes. I haven’t told Mabel because I’m afraid she’ll try activating a portal of her own and run away, but in Dimension 25-12, everyone and everything looks like a watercolor painting. There’s danger in the multiverse, but there’s beauty in equal measure”

“Do you ever miss it?” Dipper fiddles with his hands, like he’s trying real hard not to say the wrong thing. “I mean, I know you don’t miss being lost, or having no idea if you’re ever going to see home again, but...is there any dimension...where you could’ve seen yourself staying, if you thought you couldn’t make it back?”

Ford shifts in his chair so he doesn’t have to twist his neck so much to look directly at his nephew. “Occasionally,” he muses. “I met the most friendly faces in Dimension 52, so my mind does tend to wander there from time to time” he smiles. “But rest assured, there is something in this dimension that makes it my favorite”

“Oh yeah?” Dipper’s eyes light up. “Over every other dimension you’ve passed through? What is it?”

Ford gently nudges Dipper’s shoulder. “You and your sister”

Dipper’s cheeks turn bright red, and he looks as though he’s struggling not to bury his face into the collar of his sweater and disappear. “Really?” his voice squeaks.

Ford nods. “Everything I had in those other dimensions were fleeting, Dipper. At a moment’s notice everything I grew to love could disappear in the blink of an eye. The very thing happened to me in Dimension 52. When I fell asleep, I woke up in a new dimension I didn’t recognize. Things may have been more advanced, and there may have been dimensions crafted to give you your greatest desires, but in the end nothing ever lasted.”

Now it’s Ford’s turn to divert Dipper’s eyes, gaze casting towards the floor. “Stan was cut from my life completely in the dimension that claimed to be a perfect world. I had nobody. Even in dimensions that actively worked towards my happiness, I was all alone” Ford shakes his head, and turns his gaze once more out on the horizon. The sun is still touching the horizon, but it’s dipped just low enough that some of the stars are beginning to show in the sky.

“But...here, at home, everything is consistent. I don’t have to worry about waking up in the morning to find that everyone I love is gone. I can keep everyone in arm’s lengths, even when Stan and I can only communicate with you and your sister over a video call. I’m…” Ford gently squeezes his hands to reassure himself that this is real and now. “...happy. Happier than I’ve been in decades”

Beside him, Dipper yawns, and when Ford spares a glance over at him he’s smiling at him sleepily. “We’re really happy you’re here too, Grunkle Ford” he murmurs, and his eyes slip closed. Ford’s cheeks flush pink, and he has to choke back a laugh because that’s one of the first times Dipper’s felt comfortable enough to call him Grunkle.

Ford stands, so as not to wake Dipper from his nap. A small glance to his right and he catches a glimpse of Stan and Mabel leaning against the side of the boat watching the sunset just outside of earshot of his current conversation with Dipper.

“You finally bore him to sleep with all your nerdy science talk?” Stan asks as he approaches, sparing a glance behind him at Dipper. “Was starting to think that the poor kid would never get a nap in”

“Yes, well,” Ford smirks. “I’m sure it helped plenty that you bored him to death by taking him fishing first”

Stan gasps in mock offense, and slugs him in the shoulder. “Hey, at least I’m engaging them in something they can actually interact with, unlike your kooky alien stories, or whatever”

Ford can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Bold statement coming from the man who dedicated thirty years of his life rescuing me from said kooky aliens” he says, returning with a punch of his own. Stan opens his mouth to argue back, realizes he has nothing to say, and closes his mouth. The sight of it makes Ford laugh even harder, keeling over and slapping a hand on Stan’s shoulder to support himself. It must be contagious, because it’s not long before Stan is laughing too.

Ford removes his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes, and cleans off the lenses with the edge of his sweater. Once his eyes adjust after he puts them back on, his throat nearly catches in his throat when he glances back out towards the water. He’s just able to catch a shooting star before it disappears over the horizon, and the boat’s just far out enough on the water that there isn’t an ounce of light pollution obscuring the rest of the stars in the sky. He takes a few steps back so he can look up and admire more of them at once, and if he looks close enough he can see them twinkling.

Before he can ask the others if they’re seeing the same thing, a bright flash of light coming from somewhere on the boat cuts into his thoughts. He turns, to make sure that none of the lights in any of the rooms are on, but no, they’d turned those off when they’d started fishing. Scratching at his head, he turns to Stan and Mabel to ask if they have any idea where the light is coming from, but that question catches in its throat as quickly as it formulated.

They’re the ones emitting light.

Or, rather, Mabel’s sweater and Stan’s shoulder, approximately where his burn scar should be. Those are emitting light.

...Surely it must just be the reflection of the starlight on the water, right? That same bright light must have woken Dipper from his nap, yes?

He turns heel to ask Dipper the same question, but freezes in his tracks before he can take a single step forward. Dipper’s forehead is glowing too, the same way it has since he and Stan docked the boat this morning.

It...It can’t be, can it?

Gripping his forehead, Ford takes a number of steps backwards until his back hits the wall. Maybe...maybe he just needs to call it a night. He’s been awake since sunrise, maybe his vision is just blurring because he needs to lie down?

He waves his hands in front of his face, but no, those don’t look any different. He squints, to make sure his hands aren’t shaking, but no, they’re perfectly still.

He squints at Stan and Mabel, just to try and see if his eyes are watering, and-

He gasps.

Mabel’s sweater, Dipper’s forehead, Stan’s shoulder; they’re not glowing; they’re twinkling like the stars. It was hard to tell in broad daylight, but now that they’re surrounded by a thousand shining stars, the resemblance is unmistakable.

But...that’s not possible. If he can see them twinkling, but none of them have said anything about it, that could only be if those were…

...soulmarks.

Ford suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out.

He slides to the floor.

Is...Is that even possible? Ford thought for sure that study he read years ago was nothing but a joke. Someone...who does everything in their power to bring you two together, no matter the cost? Someone who, even though you may not meet for decades, will feel as though you’ve known each other their entire lives? Someone who will do anything for you, no matter the personal expense?

Someone...someone like Stan, who spent a painstaking thirty years teaching himself quantum physics to rescue someone that anyone else would assume dead? The man who sacrificed his very mind, his very life, so he could be spared physical torture?

Or...someone like Mabel, the first friendly face he saw after emerging from the portal? The one who forgave him so easily after he tried to separate her from her brother? The one who insists on calling him a good person, despite all of those he knows he hurt?

Or...Dipper? His kindred spirit in all things supernatural? The one who, alongside his sister, sacrificed himself as bait for the most dangerous being in the entire multiverse? Who saw memories of him at his very worst, and apologized to him for snooping?

After everything he’s been through...could things really work out that well in his favor? To not have one soulmate but three, and the guarantee that they’ll never leave, because they’ve already expressed how they love him so?

There’s a tear streaming down his cheek at the thought, but he’s too distracted by a fourth light suddenly emitting from...himself to really notice.

He spares a cautious glance downward, and notices a pulsing light emerging from his chest in perfect time with his heartbeat. If he looks closely, he notices that the light travels down his arms and ties itself into a translucent bow around his fingers. If he looks closer still, the light looks as though it’s slinking faintly across the deck of the boat and reaching towards the gentle twinkling of Stan and Mabel’s marks.

Ford places a hand to his forehead, throws his head back, and laughs his throat dry, paying no mind to the tears pouring down his face.

#gravity falls #my writing #syd #cool kid squad 2.0 #ILYSM FRIEND

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] Lucien’s R&S - The victim who disappeared (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (消失的遇难者) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN🍒

Angst warning!

More Lucien R&S from this event:

> regarding what books don’t say (important to read this first!)

> my love rival older brother

> the victim who disappeared ♡

> since that rainy night

[ Chapter One ]

Recently, the girls in the precinct have been addicted to a variety program called “Miracle Finder”. When it’s time for lunch, there’d be a bunch of them piling in front of the computer screen, watching and exclaiming.

Filled with curiosity, I lean over to take a look. The girls immediately stop me, recommending it fervently.

“Captain Fan, do you watch this program too?”

“This week’s guest is Professor Lucien. He looks so handsome!”

I shake my head in resignation. “You girls only know how to look at appearances the whole day.”

“Captain Fan, you can’t say that! Our Professor Lucien became a neurologist at a very young age.”

“Exactly, exactly! He’s also a guest professor at Loveland University!”

“Sigh. If I had such a handsome teacher back then, I’d have definitely worked hard.”

Watching the girls chat, I can’t help but tease them. “Don’t all of you have an even more handsome-looking superior? It isn’t too late to start working now.”

The moment I finish speaking, their exclamations completely cover my words. Seems like the young and gifted “Professor Lucien” they’ve been talking about has appeared on the screen. Seeing his refined manner and gentle appearance, I actually feel a sense of familiarity.

“Hurry and look! Even Captain Fan is dazed!”

“We were right, weren’t we? Doesn’t he have an especially good temperament!”

The crinkled and smiling eyes of that boy in my memories overlap with the person on screen. That unresolved case which almost disappeared finally has a favourable turn after so many years. Even though I know that the chances are slim, I still wish to grasp this new lead.

“What’s his name again?”

“Oh? Wasn’t Captain Fan completely uninterested just now?” The girls notice the change in my attitude, becoming enthusiastic in an instant. They start introducing him, their words pouring out in an unceasing torrent. “His name is Lucien, a neurologist who returned after studying abroad. I heard that the thesis he released at twenty was published in an internationally renowned science magazine...”

“Isn’t he just as intelligent as that boy?” I mutter softly, the hope in my heart brightening by a few notches.

Although the name doesn’t fit, if that child managed to survive after that incident 19 years ago, it feels as though he would have gone down such a life path.

“Uncle has worked very hard. Kid, have you been doing your best over the years too?”

Even though I’m unable to find concrete evidence to make public the incident 19 years ago, the least I could do is to shed some light on the truth concerning that kid and his family.

In the midst of a cruel reality mixed with tears and blood, and the truth which cannot be found, the me of the past finally decided to step out of the days of living in a wasteland, plunging deeper into a depthless pool of truth.

[ Chapter Two ]

At night, I dreamt of that day yet again.

It was that boy’s 7th birthday.

Early in the morning on that day, he had headed out with his parents. Before he left, he specially gave me an invitation card to his birthday party in the evening.

He rarely revealed the innocent smile a kid should have. Instead, his mouth remained merciless, saying something unadorable. “I’ve already spoken with my dad. Tonight, he can tell you how to play chess. If you don't improve in your chess skills, I won’t know how to play with you anymore.”

I snatched the invitation card in his hand in an impolite manner, deliberately provoking him. “You’ll have to make do with it, little genius. I’m the only one who’s willing to play with you.”

In a huff, he ran over to where his parents were waiting for him not afar off. Taking their hands, they left while talking and laughing.

I rarely saw this busy couple accompanying their child outside over the weekend. They must have taken a day off from work specially for his birthday.

“Kid, have fun!”

“Mm.”

“Also, happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Brother Fan.”

His parents and him turned around to wave goodbye at me, the three of their smiles under the sunlight, sparkling and bright.

On hindsight, I should have given him his present then.

It was a sci-fi novel which was popular amongst kids, and I’d frequently see children gathered in the yard discussing it together. Although I didn’t know if that kid liked reading other books aside from those profound science materials, I felt it wouldn’t hurt for him to engage with things people his age liked.

He was still a child. From the bottom of my heart, I hoped that he could live a little more like a child.

However, this wish that I never said aloud was completely shattered by that car accident.

That evening, which should have filled with presents, cake, and the sound of birthday songs, only welcomed pattering and whistling rain, as well as blood stains on the asphalt road which couldn’t be washed off even with a scrub.

Sirens from the ambulance and police cars intertwined. Mixed with the sharp cries of passers-by, they composed the saddest and shrillest background music.

[ Chapter Three ]

“Oh my goodness, that’s so horrifying! Those two people are covered in blood!”

“Let’s leave, it’s too pitiful.”

The crowd in the surroundings remarked in soft voices, showing sympathy towards the victims they weren’t acquainted with.

The incident happened on the road outside our estate. After receiving the task, I rushed over to the scene. When I saw the names of the casualties, I was both shocked and had a flicker of hope in my heart, praying that they were people who happened to share the same names. However, after confirming the identities of the two bodies underneath the white cloth, coldness rushed through my body--

Those were the parents of the little genius.

In just the blink of an eye, the couple who had greeted me with warm smiles had turned ice cold, lying in a pool of blood. I didn’t dare to imagine how such a young kid would be able to face such a cruel reality, and my insuppressible tears, along with the rain, drenched my face.

The captain came over to pat me on the shoulder, consoling me with a lowered voice. “Settle your emotions, and do a proper investigation.”

I nodded my head silently, lifting my hand to wipe my tears away. After that, I started taking down records of what the witness had to say.

The witness was a boss of a news-stand nearby, around 45 years of age. He was in a state of fright, hugging his elbows and shivering.

I asked if he needed a rest before supplementing the record, but he shook his head repeatedly, saying that it’d be better to record it early, since he wouldn’t want to recollect such a horrifying image afterwards.

According to his description, the cause of the accident was a large truck which had lost control. It was yet to be confirmed whether the reason for the loss of control was due to a human error, or the slippery road.

After realising that there was an issue with the truck, the driver had frantically tried to turn. But in the end, it still ended up hitting the family of three who were walking on the zebra crossing.

The three of them were sent flying a great distance. The places where they fell turned into pools of blood not long after.

As for what happened after, the boss of the news-stand expressed that he didn’t pay attention due to fright.

After handing him over to the medical personnel to console his emotions, I continued making notes for the next witness.

The images described by all the witnesses were virtually the same. From the various indications of the scene, this tragedy could have been a normal traffic accident.

When I finished making the records, the scene was more or less cleaned up. After wrapping up my work, I inquired about which hospital the boy was taken to. But I was notified that no injured child was found on the scene.

“How’s that impossible! That sketchbook over there belongs to him! That boy suffered such grave injuries - where else could he have gone!”

Agitatedly, I pointed at the exhibits collected, one of them a sketchbook coated in blood. At a glance, I recognised it as the book that boy would carry with him all day. That’s because the flower garland on the cover was a work he was proud of, and it was exactly the same as the one drawn on his birthday invitation card this morning.

He was definitely at the scene when the accident happened. Also, he definitely couldn’t have left on his own.

“Has the scene been investigated? Are there any other suspicious areas or areas we’ve overlooked?”

"Didn’t all the witnesses say there was a family of three at the scene? There’s definitely one more kid!”

“How much time passed after the incident before the scene was cordoned off? Could the kid have been taken away before that?”

I tossed out points of contention in succession, but the expressions of my colleagues remained confused and blank. In a moment of anxiousness, I burned with impatience and went to check the surveillance tape on my own. However, I didn’t notice any suspicious people entering or exiting the scene before or after the incident.

I didn’t have a single clue regarding his whereabouts, and could only hold onto hope as I contacted his relatives one by one.

They were generally not from the city. Most of them didn’t even know that the family had met with an accident, much less the whereabouts of the boy. After consoling their emotions, I hang up dejectedly, turning back to the scene of the incident.

The police cars stationed around earlier had long since left, and traces left on the asphalt road had been washed clean by the rain. Everything returned to peace and quiet, as though nothing had happened. Only the lingering grief served as a reminder that it wasn’t over yet--

The sudden car accident, the missing child, the ignorant relatives - all of these seemed to remind me that this wasn’t a simple traffic incident.

Without any orderliness, I started investigating the vicinity, imagining countless times for that smart fellow to suddenly lunge out from a dark corner, telling me that this whole thing was just a prank he pulled.

However, that didn’t happen. Even after checking every corner of the large streets and small alleys, I ended up empty-handed.

In the end, I sat down tiredly along the side of the road, looking at the pitch-black sky as it started turning into a grey dawn.

Although it was dawn, the truth of the matter would forever be hidden in that dark night.

All my hopes and hopelessness fell into pieces, leaving behind a maze of doubts, akin to a dense fog.

[ Chapter Four ]

On the morning of the second day, without even washing my face, I headed to the news-stand to buy various newspapers, looking through them seriously to search for any reports on the matter.

As it was temporarily classified as a normal traffic accident, the length of all the articles were very short. Also, they were placed in nondescript corners.

I closed the final set of newspapers, realising in disappointment that none of them mentioned the missing child.

It’s as though he had evaporated from the world. Aside from me, no one else remembered his existence.

I couldn't stand for the case to be closed just like this, and finally understood the anxiety family members felt when they asked for our help in conducting investigations. As long as it was related to a living person, there wasn’t anything not worth investigating.

With a determination to investigate the matter and leave no stone unturned, I once again returned to the scene of the accident. I asked around the small shops along the roadside, hoping to obtain just a tiny hint.

Heaven will not disappoint the person who tries. From the lips of an owner of the shop facing the zebra crossing, I received an important lead which wasn’t brought up before - a black car.

“When the accident occurred, I was busy, and even had a scare when I heard the truck braking. By the time I set down my stuff to watch, the police cars and ambulance weren’t here yet. But a black car was stationed here for quite some time.”

Regarding this lead, I first expressed shock. Then, I had doubts.

Based on the surveillance tape I watched on the day of the incident, no suspicious cars appeared. If this person deliberately toggled with the surveillance footage to capture the kid, the remaining investigations would likely be a bitter struggle.

“Why did he take the kid away?”

“Could there be a conspiracy behind this?”

That black car had taken both the truth and that boy, disappearing into thin air.

The scene I had witnessed, the images depicted by the witnesses, the true footage of that surveillance tape, pieces of evidence which weren’t able to fit together, created paradoxes. The entire incident was akin to a vicious cycle, tangled and complicated, twisting and turning, unable to grasp a hint of it, and left one spinning around on a superficial level.

In the end, the police classified this matter as a normal traffic incident. And I could only continue investigating in the dark.

[ Chapter Five ]

Many years passed. From a small police officer who had accomplished nothing, I struggled and worked hard, becoming a captain who solved countless cases.

Even so, the unresolved case concerning that boy hasn’t had a breakthrough.

Over ten years, I found some leads, but they would ultimately be flawed fragments. And along with the passage of time, they’ve eroded even more.

This time, the person called “Lucien” was probably the finally hope of this case.

I visit Loveland University over the weekend, asking the kids about this “Professor Lucien”, but receive scant results even after a long while. He’s indeed very popular amongst students. But regarding his personal life, everyone expressed that they weren’t clear about it.

“Then again, which student would be so free to ask about a teacher’s personal life?” With a wry smile, I take a seat at the resting area of the math building. Without realising it, someone sits beside me. While feeling puzzled over why someone would choose to sit next to a middle-aged uncle when there are so many other empty chairs around, I see the face of the person I was looking for.

“Lucien?!”

“I heard from the students that you were asking about me. So I thought, why not let you ask me in person directly?” His tone is as calm as what I saw in the program, but I can vaguely sense a hint of irritation.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t mean to offend you.” I find an excuse on the fly. “It’s just that after watching your program, there were some issues I didn’t quite understand, and wanted to consult you.”

He listens patiently to the many unorganised questions I have, and explains them thoroughly. That look of concentration makes me think about the boy again.

Finally, I can no longer contain myself. When I’m about to bid farewell to him, I ask, “It might be a little presumptuous of me, but could I ask if you’ve always been living abroad since young?”

There doesn’t seem to be much change in his expression, but he raises his eyebrows slightly.

“In that case, could I be also be presumptuous and ask why you have such a question?

Since things have already reached this stage, I decide that there’s no longer a need to conceal anything. So I tell him the honest truth. “You kind of resemble a kid I used to know, but he’s gone missing.”

Upon hearing this, a sadness dyes his eyes in an instant. He lowers his eyes, his expression sad, as though he had also once known that pitiful child. “I feel deeply sorry for that child... but it’s a shame that I’m not the person you’re looking for. From the moment I could remember, I’ve been living in an orphanage.

“Ah... sorry about that.” I feel uncomfortable knowing that I’ve rubbed someone else’s sore spot. As though he’s talking about matters pertaining to somebody else, he says relaxedly, “It’s all right. I hope you can find that child soon.”

His eyes really do resemble the boy. It’s just that he’s much more modest in how he conducts himself. I increasingly hope that if the boy were still living on this earth, he must definitely be a person who is just as well-liked.

“Many years have passed. To tell you the truth, I think whether or not I find him isn’t that important.” I look into the distance, making a wish from the bottom of my heart. “I just hope that in a corner of the world, he’s living happily and well.”

After Lucien hears this, he chuckles lightly. “I’m almost envious of that boy - that he was able to meet a kind-hearted person who would think of him even after such a long time.”

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc lucien #cncancelled #...T-T

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fvckyouimaprophet · 3 years

Text

lights low, flames high

5x11 alternate ending where tabitha and betty "vibe" while they're on shrooms, and by vibe i mean make out | read on ao3

The music bounces off the bunker walls—small and insulated as it is—and melts into Betty until she’s not sure where it ends and she begins. Then again, she supposes the shrooms are partly to blame. She’s never been good at relinquishing control, and Jessica’s words loop in her head. Let the trip take you wherever it may go. She’s certain that the budding anxiety in the pit of her stomach is not what Jessica meant. It doesn’t help that the last time she was drugged—

Her nails dig into her palm, cutting off that thought. Deep breaths.

“What is this?”

Tabitha’s question makes her jump—the thought of anyone else in the room long out of Betty’s mind.

“What?”

“This music.”

“Oh, it’s from Hair,” Betty says.

“That’s that anti-Vietnam musical?” Her lips betray her, quirking upwards in amusement, but nonetheless, Tabitha sways along with it and drags her finger along the edge of the table.

“Most of my musical theatre knowledge comes from Kevin,” Betty admits. She closes her eyes and runs her fingers along the bed. So many memories for a hole in the ground—and mistakes too.

She pushes the thought out of her mind and focuses instead on the feel of the fabric and the pilled polyester of the pillow cover. Its touch is strangely satisfying and absorbing.

“Can I lay down too?” Tabitha asks, and Betty blinks her eyes open and back into focus as the room swims around her—the red of the lava lamp making the walls look aflame. Betty nods her head before she recalls the spare mattress and hobbles up.

“Wait, I have a better idea.” She tugs at the edge of the mattress, but her grip slips and tugs the bedsheet off instead. It’s hard to focus with her body floating, and she stumbles backward.

“Careful!”

Before Betty can fall into the table, Tabitha places a hand on each of Betty’s arms and steadies her with a light squeeze. As unexpected as it is, the sudden warmth of someone beside her feels nice, and her breath catches in her throat. With Tabitha this close, Betty notices—not for the first time—the scene of her perfume. It’s oddly comforting, if unfamiliar. She breathes in slowly, careful not to give herself away.

“Thanks,” Betty says, and when she turns around, Tabitha’s hands drop. The sudden lack of contact is inexplicably disappointing, but her mind can’t focus enough to linger on it. The music swells around them, swallowing them both, judging by the look on Tabitha’s face.

“What were you trying to do?” Tabitha asks.

“There’s a spare mattress. We can just move them to the floor if I can just…” She tugs at the mattress again, careful this time not to grip it by the bedsheet. And when it starts to budge, she grins.

“Let me help.”

They make quick work of pushing the table to the side and getting the mattresses to the floor, especially considering how much of a chore it is to move at all. It’s not the most graceful she’s ever been, but here in the comfort of the bunker, there’s little to worry about.

And the shrooms—Betty has to begrudgingly admit they make things a little softer at the edges. The moment Betty thinks she’s grasped a thought, it's out of reach. With everything that’s happened with Polly and the chaos of Charles and Chic, it’s a relief to be floating, untethered.

“You know this music isn’t half-bad, but I don’t know how Jessica had time to prepare it when we weren’t paying attention,” Tabitha says, and Betty rolls on her side to face her.

“I still can’t believe she drugged us. And then left us here with some music like that makes it all okay!”

They look at each other, the intensity of Jessica’s actions washing over them before Tabitha bursts out laughing. “I have to admit, this isn’t how I imagined spending my night, but it’s not so bad. You’re not the wet blanket Jughead made you out to be.”

The words linger between them for a second, Jughead’s name harsh and unforgiving.

“I shouldn’t have brought him up,” Tabitha quickly adds.

“It’s fine,” Betty says and is surprised by the fact that she means it. The silence draws out for another moment, and Tabitha rolls over onto her side as well. With their mattresses on top of one another, it means that Tabitha’s face is inches apart from hers.

It’s an intimacy Betty’s nearly forgotten. Glen hardly counts; half the time, Betty doesn’t remember him—which says something considering his role in recent events. And her training hasn’t lent itself to many new friendships. But now, with Tabitha so close that Betty can smell the artificial sweetness of a strawberry milkshake on her breath, it feels reassuring.

“What do you think of Riverdale so far?” Betty asks.

Tabitha laughs and puts a hand under her head, propping it up. “I’ve… never seen a place quite like it.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“What’s yours?”

“Haunted. Or… Sometimes I wonder what I’m fighting for. I grew up here, and I have all these memories, but it feels like I’m holding onto something that’ll never exist. I used to think the town would heal itself—that the bad things that happened were the exception, but I’m not so sure I think that anymore. When it was just Jason and Mr. Blossom, that felt like an anomaly. But then it turned out my dad was a serial killer and Veronica’s was a power-hungry egomaniac, and Jughead’s mom came to town and rallied the Ghoulies to sell Jingle Jangle, and—”

“Jughead’s mom did what?” Tabitha asks and stares, horrified and wide-eyed.

The absurdity of it all hits Betty until she can’t help but smile. “Oh yeah. And that’s hardly the highlights reel.” Her filter’s too far gone to stop herself, so she adds, “You know, we set her drug lab on fire.”

Tabitha shakes her head and laughs in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

“And I haven’t even told you about the cult, or the creepy video store that sold pornos and illegally filmed sex tapes.”

“My grandfather told me some stories—mostly about Hiram and Veronica, for obvious reasons.” She hangs her free hand over the mattress, close to Betty, and Betty glances down, distracted by it. “And hey, maybe you’re right that this place is cursed, but I gotta believe in it. I’ve invested everything into Pop's, and as fucked up as Riverdale is, I don’t think it’s a lost cause. And I don’t think you’d have chosen to stay here if you thought that either.”

Betty bites her tongue, ignoring the automatic urge to argue. “Maybe,” she says, but her voice doesn’t sound entirely believable, even to her own ears.

Tabitha reaches out prods Betty’s shoulder with her two fingers—light and teasing. “I can practically see the effort it’s taking you not to disagree.”

There’s no use lying. The shrooms have made sure any knack she has for it is out of reach. “Sorry.”

“It’s a little rude, but I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you.” She smirks at Betty, and it strikes Betty that Tabitha must be as at ease as she feels. The Flesh Failures—her favorite song from the soundtrack—starts to play, and Betty adjusts herself, dropping her hand just slightly until her fingers touch Tabitha’s.

It’s silly perhaps. But she can’t stop the thought of Tabitha’s hands on her arms from flickering through her mind. It’s been so long since she’s found a touch that she hasn’t wanted to pull away from but, instead, lean into. She waits for Tabitha to move her hand back to her mattress, but she doesn’t. The realization takes a second to settle in as Betty watches, her stomach tightening in anticipation.

When she glances up, Tabitha is staring at her.

“I can—” Betty starts, pulling her hand back, but Tabitha reaches out, her fingers hooking around Betty’s to stop her.

“You don’t need to.”

Her world feels fuzzy around the edges, and Betty can’t stop herself as she lets out a breathy oh. The sound of her own heart rises over the music, and she’s suddenly aware of how hot the room is. Next to her, Tabitha inhales sharply through her nose and leans in.

Betty’s hit with a brief moment of clarity just before they kiss. It cuts through her, all the emotions she’s kept curled inside spilling out. They wrap around her as the song starts to wind down, and their lips meet. It’s tentative and gentle, careful to give Betty room to move back if she wants.

But she’s tired of overthinking. Her body aches from near-sleepless nights punctuated by nightmares. All she knows is that Tabitha’s lips feel soft and inviting, and, for once, she isn’t going to question it. Betty leans in, sinking into the kiss as she reaches out and wraps her fingers around Tabitha’s shirt.

Tabitha cups Betty's jaw, and the feel of her skin against hers is electric. Betty’s eyes close, and a small whine leaves her lips as she tries to steady herself against the rush of blood in her head and the dip in her stomach. The high is still riding full force, amplifying each little movement they make, and it’s all too much.

Betty pulls back, breathing deeply and quivering.

“You okay?” Tabitha asks. She squeezes Betty’s hand as her brow furrows with concern.

“Yeah, I—” Betty struggles to find the right words, so she just nods her head and concentrates on her breathing until she settles into her body once more.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Tabitha says, although she doesn’t look like she quite believes it.

“This,” Betty says, motioning to herself, “has nothing to do with you kissing me. Or, if it does, it’s in a good way.” A cautious grin spreads across her face. “Can’t say I saw that coming from you, though.”

“Well, you should know better than to underestimate me.” Tabitha grins back.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The sound of the needle in the runout groove fills the silence, and Betty sucks in a sharp breath before pulling herself up with some difficulty, aware of how heavy her body feels. The mattresses, even just on the floor, look appealing.

“How do you feel about sleeping?” Tabitha asks, echoing Betty’s thoughts.

“I feel great about it.” Betty steps over to the record player, lifting the needle up and turning it off before making her way back. She half-falls as she sprawls back out.

Against the scratchy fabric of the mattress, her body feels weightless. It doesn’t take long for her to start to drift. She focuses on the sound of Tabitha breathing beside her until her mind starts to wander half toward dreams.

Just on the precipice of sleep, a hand brushes against hers, warm and familiar. Betty smiles, and the dreams overtake her.

#tabitha tate #betty cooper #tabetty #babitha #riverdale #riverdale fic #my fics

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

avoidance

From a wonderful prompt I received! “A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”

Hope you enjoy this short little sickfic! Featuring hard of hearing Tim, especially for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt :)

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness. “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss James, I’m horrified! You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,” Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet. “How are you today? Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose. “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“Excuse me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk. “You’re the one who fraternized with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“Why are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated. “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults! Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips. “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, sir—“

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm. Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts.

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah. God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him looks from both Martin and Sasha. “What? He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him, you know, like a normal boss. But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look. “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that. Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate. We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile. “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it. It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever. For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest. The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

What was the number again?

God, I’m dizzy.

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

Right. 01319…0…8? 9?

Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway.

Won’t need to get up again, at least.

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea.

Pathetic.

“Jon? You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him. “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

Oh.

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course. Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment. He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon? You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

Don’t don’t don’t

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright? Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to breathe—

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god. Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument. “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside. “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

Wait.

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get me ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity. “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

Oh.

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve. “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether. Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away. “Oh, I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder. “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay? You need to rest. I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner.

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift. “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking. “I—thank you. I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift. “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma sickfic #hurt/comfort #sickfic #my writing

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whump-mania · 3 years

Text

Anything You Want

TW: explicit r*pe/non-con and threatened non-con, DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18, kidnapping, non consensual touching/kissing, cursing, brief mention of nausea

Please read at your own risk!

“So let me get this straight. You came all the way here to ‘rescue your brother’, and brought no weapons at all? And you didn’t even suspect that someone would be here to stop you?” Aaron’s voice was filled with sick glee as he laughed. “GOD, you’re fucking stupid.”

Chloe struggled in her restraints and yelled through the duct tape over her mouth as she glared at Aaron with rage. If looks could kill, Aaron would be dead on the floor. But there he was nonetheless, arms crossed and staring down menacingly at his new captive.

Ben was on the ground next to Aaron, barely able to move due to his wrists and ankles being tied together. He wanted to stop Aaron from possibly hurting his sister, but there was nothing he could do as Aaron got closer to her.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad, though,” Aaron added. “You two ARE twins, after all.” He leaned in and stroked Chloe’s face, whispering in her ear as Chloe tried to move away as far as possible. “I could do so many terrible things to you and make Benny here watch,” Aaron whispered excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be-“

“NO!”

Aaron turned away from Chloe and looked down at the figure below him. He chuckled and let go of Chloe’s face, turning to crouch down by Ben.

“What was that, Benny?”

Ben swallowed. “Don’t…d-don’t touch her, p-please, she doesn’t deserve it.”

Aaron sighed deeply. “And what are you gonna do about it? It’s not like you have any power to stop me. I can do whatever I want, remember?”

Ben blinked back tears and continued. “Leave her alone and I’ll never fight back again. You can do anything you want to me. I-I’ll…” He bit back a sob. “I’ll be good for you. Just don’t touch her…please…”

Chloe violently shook her head and yelled, her words muffled by the tape. Aaron’s chest filled with excitement at Ben’s offer. He hummed and took Ben’s throat in his hand.

“I don’t think you know what you just agreed to, baby.”

The kiss came faster than Ben could expect and it caught him off guard. His surprised yelp gave Aaron the opportunity to slide his tongue into Ben’s unwilling mouth, exploring every inch he could. Ben whimpered in disgust and considered biting down on the offending tongue, but he made a deal. He had to be good.

Aaron pulled away after a while and Ben was finally able to breathe as Aaron moved to his neck. Ben sucked in deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. He knew what was going to happen and he wanted to run and fight because his SISTER was watching, for God’s sake, but if he made one wrong move, it could be her in his place.

Aaron sighed happily, eyes lidded with lust. Ben wanted to throw up. “You taste so good, baby…” He thumbed over a bruise forming on Ben’s neck and smiled as the younger man winced. He shifted his eyes over to Chloe, who was clearly trying to plead through the tape.

“If I catch you looking away, you won’t like what comes next,” Aaron told the trembling girl, still struggling in her bonds. “And keep it down, too. I can always find out what your little whore mouth can do.”

With that, Chloe fell silent and watched with watering eyes. She locked gazes with her brother. Ben gave her a look that said, “I’ll be okay, I’ve done this before,” but Chloe was still horrified. Nothing could justify what was about to happen to her brother, and she would never forgive herself.

Aaron pulled away from Ben and looked over him with excited eyes. “Strip,” he commanded, absolutely loving the flushed expression from Ben as he began removing his clothing.

After a lot of hesitation, Ben was naked, and he wanted to hide himself but he was afraid of what would happen if he did. He looked at the ground, not knowing what he would do with himself if he saw his sister’s expression.

“Don’t just stand there, Benny. You know what to do.” Aaron waited with his arms crossed as Ben slowly went down onto his hands and knees, trembling like a leaf.

Aaron smirked and knelt down, unbuckling his own pants. “I really like you like this, you know. Completely at my mercy, not even one complaint…I should’ve taken your sister from the start, don’t you think?” Aaron didn’t wait for an answer as he lined himself up.

He thrusted inside of Ben with no warning, earning a pained cry from his victim. It took Chloe everything she had to keep looking, and to stay silent through all of this. Tears fell from her eyes as she sobbed as quietly as she could.

Ben clenched his eyes shut as he was violated, wishing he was anywhere else, wishing he was safe at home with Chloe and only Chloe, watching TV and talking about what order for dinner. He missed his home, he missed college, he even missed his parents. He wanted to escape, to be back to normal in a universe where the monster on top of him never existed.

“Fuck, Benny…you’re so good, so good for me…holy shit…” Aaron picked up his pace and practically bathed in the little noises Ben would let out. He was drugged out in bliss, a demon in heaven.

Aaron’s thrusts became uneven and choppy as he finally finished, pulling out and clothing himself once again. Satisfied, he stood up and brushed himself off.

Ben lay still on the floor, still bound and unable to stop the tears leaking from his eyes as he was left to come to terms with what had just happened. Chloe could only cry for her brother and try to forget. Aaron moved toward the door and opened it.

“I’ll be back in a few hours. Keep yourselves entertained until then.” He grinned smugly and locked the door behind him, leaving the two siblings alone in the cold, tiny room.

#whump blog #whump community #whump scenario #whump writing #tw noncon #tw kidnapping #tw nausea #tw threats #ben #aaron #chloe #whumper #whumpee #caretaker #intimate whumper #abc writing

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creacherkeeper · 4 years

Note

Catradora + A kiss for each year alive.

ao3

“Hey.”

Adora jumped, looking away from the window. Catra cut a sharp silhouette with the light from the hall behind her, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and tail flicking.

Adora took a moment to drink in the way the dark suit fell against Catra’s body. She’d seen her in a suit before. A few times, now. But she never stopped enjoying it.

After a moment, Catra shifted away, crossing the unused bedroom towards Adora.

“You slipped away,” she murmured, stopping a few feet away from the window seat Adora had draped herself into. She tilted her head, giving her a considering look. “It’s been a while. Thought I’d come find you before Sparkles got it in her head to.”

“Thanks,” Adora said, shooting her the best smile she could muster. “Just got a little overwhelmed.”

Even from this far away, tucked in a disused hall in the far end of the castle, Adora could hear the distant call of thumping music and shouting voices.

Catra quirked a grin. “Ragers not really your thing?”

A small laugh pulled from her chest. “Not really.”

The grin dropped as Catra continued to look at her. Self-consciously, Adora wiped away her fallen tears.

“If you want, I can go back and tell them you got too drunk and I had to take you to bed.”

“What,” Adora asked, bottom lip trembling traitorously, “I’m not allowed to bail on my birthday?”

Catra blew out a dramatic sigh, considering, as she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Well … I’ll allow it.” She shot Adora a sly look. “With some convincing.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Now, Glimmer, on the other hand …” Catra shook her head, ignoring Adora’s comment. “I’m not sure we can go at that straight on. There may need to be a heist of some sort involved.”

“Oh, a heist. You’ve always loved a good heist.”

“Ignoble. Dramatic. Classy. Roguish. What’s not to love?” She smirked briefly, but the expression soon found its way back to concerned. Her tail flicked behind her, smooth then sharp, smooth then sharp. “The offer stands, though,” she continued, dropping her voice, “if you want me to tell them you’re not coming back.”

Adora pulled a breath through her nose, her eyes going blurry with tears. She bit her tongue against them, and they didn’t fall. Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

Catra was quiet for a long few moments. Then, she lifted her foot to tap against the base of the window seat.

“Mind if I join you?”

Adora swallowed. She wiped at her eyes, teeth still held fast around her tongue, but she did scoot over until there was room.

Catra sat opposite her, her legs stretching out parallel to Adora’s. She turned for a while to look out the window, up at the stars that peppered the dark sky. When Adora didn’t speak, merely watched with her, Catra finally dropped her hand to Adora’s leg and squeezed.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” Adora quickly responded.

Catra clicked her tongue. “See, that wasn’t supposed to be your answer. You’re supposed to reward me for being so considerate by telling me what’s going on.”

She knew it was a joke, even if a half-hearted one. It was meant to be funny, teasing at worst. Still, Adora couldn’t help the bitter words that drew out of her.

“Well, life doesn’t always go how you expect.”

Catra’s brows furrowed. She watched her steadily, then blew out a breath.

“Well, that’s maybe something to unpack.”

Adora shook her head, arms wrapping around her stomach. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”

Catra’s foot knocked against her side.

“Is this about your birthday?”

“No, I’m just sitting in a guest room crying by myself and staring at the stars and it’s not related to the fact that all of my friends and loved ones are celebrating my birthday downstairs.”

Catra hummed. “That makes sense. It was stupid I thought they were related. Well, if there is anything bothering you, you’re just going to have to come out and say it, because clearly, I can’t put it together by myself. I haven’t reached the ‘Adora mind-reading powers’ level of my therapy sessions yet. Those come with powers, right? That’s why I’m doing those?”

Adora huffed a laugh, wiping away some of her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m being such an ass.”

“A bit. Not a pretty look on you, princess.”

Adora laughed again, letting her head fall against the window. Her expression dropped, and she reached up to wipe her face again.

“So, are you actually going to tell me what’s wrong? Or are we just going to sit here looking gloomy for the rest of the night?”

Adora shrugged, her gaze turning back out the window. “It’s nothing. It’s not even worth it.”

A sharp pinch.

Adora yelped.

“Catra!”

Catra’s lips quirked as she smoothed over the red skin of Adora’s leg with her thumb.

“Every time you say something real dumb, you get pinched. You want to try again?”

“You can’t have learned that from Perfuma.”

“Oh, absolutely not. This would horrify her. Unfortunately for you, Perfuma is drunk off her ass and was making out with Scorpia, last I checked. Which means it’s just you and me.” Her thumb circled again, with just a bit of nail, this time. “So, you want to try that again?”

Adora shook her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Dick.”

“I’m waiting.”

Adora swallowed, her eyes falling closed. The glass was cool against the side of her head, grounding her. She circled her arms around herself tighter, chin dimpling as she tried to say what needed to be said.

“Do you ever feel like …” Her throat tightened, and she had to take a breath before she could continue. “Do you ever feel like- like maybe, you’re just … not supposed to be here?”

Catra was quiet for a moment, but her thumb continued to stroke irritated skin.

“Pretty often,” she admitted softly. “It’s better, now. But … this castle. These friends. Roaming space and spreading magic. It’s not how I thought my life would turn out.”

Adora felt her throat go hot as tears trickled down her cheeks.

“That’s not what I meant.”

The thumb stopped.

“What did you mean, then?”

“Do you ever—” An inhale—quick, wet. “-feel like you not supposed to be here? Like, at all. Like, just—” Her hands rose and waved in the air, a short slice.

“Adora.”

“I’m 21 today.” Her eyes finally opened, and even through the wet, she could see Catra’s quiet worry. “And I really never thought that- I didn’t think I would make it this far. I really- I never- And now what? Now I’m- I’m here, and … what for? What’s the- the purpose of me now? The war is over, everyone’s safe, there’s no more fight, and I’m just … still …” She shrugged. “Here.”

She blinked, and the held tears escaped from her eyes. She could see, clearly now, that Catra’s eyes had flooded with their own.

“Why would you be anywhere else?”

Adora sighed, a short breath through her nose. She looked down, eyebrows scrunching.

“I just … I didn’t plan for this. I never accounted for … just … I don’t know. This. Just living, like this, and everything that means. I never … I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Do you—” Catra shifted, not looking at her. “-wish that you weren’t? Here, still.”

“I didn’t—” Adora shook her head, wiping under her eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

Catra sighed, leaning her head against the wall behind her. “Okay.”

“I’m not … Today just brought up a lot of weird feelings, that’s all. I’m just a little confused. I’m not going to do anything.”

Catra nodded, staring at the cross of Adora’s arms over her stomach.

“It wasn’t …” Catra had to stop, clearing her throat. “It wasn’t about the fighting all the time, right? I know we were raised with the war, but … There were a lot of times in there where … where you were just Adora. And those times were just as important.”

Adora’s stomach twisted. She moved her head in a nod. “Yeah. But it’s … hard to remember that, sometimes.”

“Well. Maybe you need a reminder.”

She stared at Catra as mismatched eyes slid to hers. Catra waited two heartbeats, four, before she began to move. She curled forward and crawled into Adora’s lap, staring down at her as she settled heavily onto Adora’s legs. Adora stared up at her, brows furrowed.

Catra’s hands rose, settling on each of her cheeks. Her thumbs stroked the tears away as she leaned, ever so slowly, to place a kiss against Adora’s lips.

“One,” she murmured.

“Catra?”

Their lips met again, warm and slow. Adora uncrossed her arms to rest her hands on Catra’s thighs.

Catra pulled back, but didn’t go far. “Two.”

“What are you doing?”

Another kiss, chaste, gone before Adora could question it. “Three.”

This time, Adora kept her mouth shut.

And then, once more.

“Four,” Catra said. “The year we met.”

Adora was quiet, looking up at her as Catra slowly stroked across her cheekbones.

“You gave me a name,” Catra breathed, voice wet. “I might’ve had one, before, but even I don’t remember it. It’s … It’s the kind of name a four-year-old would give someone, but you were the only one who bothered to. And despite everything, it stuck.”

“Catra …”

Catra leaned in and kissed her.

“Five. I said my first word. You were so excited, you ran around telling everyone. But when Octavia asked you what it was, you wouldn’t say, because you didn’t want to get in trouble.”

Adora hiccupped a laugh, tears spilling. “You picked it up from the older cadets. Only you’d have a swear as your first word.”

A kiss. “Six. You told me a joke when I was sick, and I laughed so hard I threw up.”

“I don’t even remember what it was,” Adora admitted. “It was probably really dumb.”

A kiss, pressed against the corner of her mouth.

“Seven. We played our first prank on Kyle. We put tape in the bottom of his shoes, and he couldn’t get them off.”

A kiss against her wet cheek.

“Eight. We got in our first fight. A real one. I felt like the world was ending.”

Adora swallowed. “Me too.”

A kiss against her forehead.

“Nine. We found a stash of Shadow Weaver’s wine while we were on kitchen duty, and it was the most disgusting thing we’d ever tasted. We swore we’d never touch it again as long as we lived.”

Against her closed eyelid.

“Ten. Lonnie tried to kiss you, and I punched her in the mouth. You got mad at me, but afterwards you told me you didn’t understand the whole kissing thing anyway.”

“It sounded gross,” Adora said, laughing at the irony.

A kiss on the bridge of her nose.

“Eleven. We decided we were going to stay together forever, no matter what.”

Adora’s face fell. She reached a hand up and wrapped her fingers around Catra’s wrist.

Catra knocked their noses together. She let their foreheads meet as she let out a breath.

Then, another kiss, gentle, against her lips.

“Twelve. We stayed up all night talking. Rogelio asked you if you liked boys, and you told him you didn’t know. But, that night, you told me you knew the answer. I never slept in my own bunk after that.”

Adora blinked her eyes open. “That’s when you decided to sleep in mine?”

“You’re so dumb.”

“I am,” she said.

She squeezed Catra’s wrist as she leaned forward and kissed her.

“Thirteen,” Adora said. “Shadow Weaver got mad at me and you yelled at her in front of everyone.”

Catra kissed her back.

“Fourteen,” she said. “You broke your wrist trying to do a flip.”

Two kisses in quick succession.

“Fifteen,” Adora said, “we found out what ‘I love you’ meant. Sixteen, we said it for the first time.” A kiss. “Seventeen. I learned how to drive a skiff and immediately crashed it.”

Catra chuckled. “The first thing you weren’t instantly good at.”

A kiss.

“Eighteen.” Adora swallowed. “I … found the sword.”

Catra hummed, shaking her head. “Eighteen. You found Bow and Glimmer.”

“Right. Eighteen … I befriended Bow and Glimmer.”

Catra hummed against her lips as she kissed her, but when she pulled away, she didn’t speak.

“Nineteen,” Adora whispered. “I, um … I got drunk and made out with Huntara a little bit.”

“Oh?”

“Just a little.”

A breathy chuckle pulled from Catra’s chest. “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” Adora said. She leaned forward and let their lips meet, and for a long time, she didn’t pull away. Catra was heavy against her legs, and Adora still had a hand wrapped around her wrist. She moved her other hand up to slip inside of Catra’s suit jacket, resting on her waist. Her fingers clenched against the silky material of her button-up, and Catra’s chest rumbled in a purr.

Finally, she pulled away. Catra took a breath.

Adora looked up at her through her lashes. She didn’t know how she’d gotten here, how she’d gotten so lucky.

“Twenty,” she said, leaning into the hand against her cheek. “We found each other.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Catra’s lips. “Yeah. We did.”

Adora let out a sigh as she closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth of Catra’s hands against her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You forgot one,” Catra whispered back. Her weight shifted as she leaned forward to place a kiss, soft and reverent, against Adora’s forehead. She pulled back, letting their heads rest together. “Twenty-one. You’re safe, surrounded by and celebrated by the people who love you most in the world. You have a whole life ahead of you, filled with endless possibilities, and endless people ready to support you on whatever path you take. You have two best friends who, while idiots, always have your best at heart. And you have a girlfriend who would do anything at all just to see you smile. You have a good head on your shoulders, the body of a goddess, and enough ambition to fill this whole castle and then some. You have all the possibilities in the world, Adora. And now you get to choose.”

Adora took a moment to sit and breathe. Catra wiped each tear away as it fell.

“Do I have to choose today?”

“Not today,” Catra murmured. “Today, you get to celebrate with your friends, eat as much cake as you can stomach, and try not to trip over your own feet in front of all our guests. Oh, but you have to pretend to like all your presents. I asked around. Most of them are pretty bad.”

Adora huffed a laugh, opening her eyes to stare at the softly squinting mismatched set looking back.

“Hey.” Catra tilted her head with just a hint of a smile. “You know you’re gonna be okay, right?”

Adora watched her. Her own mouth was beginning to climb upwards at the ends.She wasn’t even able to help it.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

#she ra #spop #catra #adora #catradora #she ra fic #spop fic #i started a drabble collection on ao3 so i can write some shorter stuff like this #instead of the 8k behemoths i keep accidentally churning out #come get yalls angst #i wrote a meta about this a while ago but i had to write it into a fic #existentially fucked up adora #Anonymous #[edit] SORRY TO THE PEOPLE WHO HAD TO LOOK AT THIS LONG ASS POST I DONT THINK THE READ MORE BUTTON WAS WORKING #is it fixed now?? wtf tumblr

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