#the italics are copied in!!

[killerpancakeburger]

Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2)

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

 “Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him. 

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified. 

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily. 

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it. 

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst. 

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks. 

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.” 

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…” 

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that… 

“Pretty please?” 

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?” 

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context. 

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart. 

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you  can’t have.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed. 

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality. 

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor. 

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter. 

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it. 

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

#mine #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #johnny soap mctavish x you #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #soap fanfic #soap fluff #soap cod #cod soap #cod fluff #soap squad™️ #soap quad #WHY THE FUCK DOES COPY PASTING TEXT INTO A TUMBLR POST MAKE THE ITALICS VANISH???

[lambergeier]

all your ducks in a row – 7k, phoenix/miles, a prequel to the pacific rim au

it's done :) first two scenes below

After waiting ten minutes in Ema’s lab sans Ema, Miles makes an extremely flashy show of checking his watch.

“Who are you doing that for?” Phoenix asks him. “I bought you that watch, you think I don’t know how expensive your watch is?”

Miles growls at him, brings the watch a few inches closer to his face (not a show, Phoenix took most of their nearsight for an earlier briefing and has yet to give it back), then shakes his sleeve back over his wrist. “She’s late.”

“You know how I knew that? I don’t have a watch, it’s sad, but there is a clock on the wall that—”

“Oh, shut up,” Miles says, and buffets Phoenix with an old memory, rubbed near to loving smoothness, of: Phoenix Wright, newest technician at the Los Angeles Shatterdome. Big wounded eyes, crisply-starched uniform, the way he’d tottered to attention like a baby flamingo every time Miles Edgeworth passed him in the hall, like if Miles would just spare a look for the razor-thin crease in Phoenix’s slacks he might drop to his knees right then and there and—

“Alright, alright!” Phoenix laughs, waving a hand between them as if Miles’ love is a cloud that might ever be dispelled. “You can have your little vanities.”

“Thank you,” Miles sniffs, prim, and smiles as Phoenix does. “She is late, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. One more minute and then we’ll give her a call.” It’s well into evening but loud in the Dome, the thumping boots of night shift filling the halls as swing shift stumbles past them to their beds. Miles wants them out of here, quickly. He’s doing his best to keep his impatience to himself but the little hooks of it snag at Phoenix, too. When Phoenix reaches into the space between them, the aura of Miles’ incoming migraine haloes his vision. “She’s almost here,” he says to Miles.

“And how could you possibly know that,” Miles replies with an unbecoming roll of his eyes at the exact moment Ema throws herself into the room.

“Sorry, sirs!” she yells, stack of papers clutched to her chest, and Miles doesn’t acknowledge Phoenix’s smirk as they make their greetings and all sit down except that he’s forced to, intrinsically, because he melted his neurology to Phoenix’s in a massive industrial accident. Sucker.

“Okay,” Ema says, leaning over her spread of papers like a dealer trying to remember which color chip is the 50. “So I finally got my guy on the phone.”

There’s a little sparkler of panic from Miles, who can’t get the memory in time. Phoenix provides: her guy is an academic and neuro specialist that Meraktis reluctantly put Ema in touch with before his retirement. Well, “retirement.” His wife and two of his three children died trying to escape the city during the last attack and he’s leaving California while he still has a family left. Maybe better to just keep calling it a retirement.

“He thinks it might work,” Ema says.

Miles leans forward, whole sordid body alert. “He does.”

Phoenix says, “Keep talking.”

When Miles and Phoenix’s tangled health began, a few years after Ratel Cerulean, to stabilize, the good Dr. Meraktis had told them to consider themselves unbelievably, inconceivably lucky. Symptoms that were bad in a predictable way were a gift from god compared to the alternative. When they knew all of Miles’ migraine triggers, and all the weather patterns that would make the screws in Phoenix’s spine sing like malevolent tuning forks, and it had been years since they’d last had a seizure of even the little baby kind—that was a real life. They could live like that. Miles had been intensely grateful, as had Phoenix. He’d never say he wasn’t. But Ema, then Meraktis’ spunky neurology sidekick, had thought there might be more they could still try, and Meraktis had called her ideas ridiculous, but Phoenix had heard her out. Their problems were the making of a drift gone wrong. Could they be further resolved by a drift gone right?

It took years to get Miles on board. Until Meraktis fled the coast and couldn’t stop Ema from making her pitches anymore. Miles still isn’t totally on board—as he listens to Ema describe imaging results and hypothetical neural bridges, his fear is a bright and chattering flame.

Phoenix imagines the sensation of his hand on the back of Miles’ head, pushing his fingers through Miles’ hair. He remembers the feeling, many years familiar, of the stubbly back of Miles’ neck rubbed beneath the pressure of his thumb. In the seat beside him, Miles’s hands slowly release their white-knuckle grip on the arms of his chair. “So all we would need to do,” Miles says, as Ema’s explanation slows for breath, “is start a new drift?”

“I think so,” Ema says. “It could work. There’s no guarantee, there’s no, like, precedent for what’s going on with you guys but—I think so.” She shuffles her papers across her desk with a nervous hand. “I think so.”

She’s not selling this so well, certainly not enough for Miles’ flagging confidence. That’s fine. Miles doesn’t need to be sure of it. Phoenix is, enough for them both. This will work. This will help them. This will be okay. He cups Miles’ faith in the palms of his hands.

“Alright,” Miles says. “Let’s try it.”

---

Miles’ tentative optimism doesn’t withstand the rest of their working day, which includes a review of the Jumphawk’s latest no-light maneuvers, a call to Brussels, a call to his sister (way more harrowing than the EU), and a final visit to Angel, who hates them, just before the clock flips to 2:00 AM. It’s bad for both of them—Miles who was up at six yesterday morning and Phoenix who will be up again at six this coming morning. If Miles hadn’t begun to spiral as they trudged towards their mockery of a bedtime, Phoenix might have actually started to worry.

“We are—we’re delusional for even considering this,” Miles says, pacing their awful fucking rooms with his arms locked right behind his back. He’s going to pull something in his shoulder. They should really let the janitorial staff dust in here more often. “Frankly,” Miles says, “we should court-martial ourselves and hand control of the dome to Franziska now, for even thinking of this.”

“Sure, baby,” Phoenix says. His forearm lays heavy over his eyes. He tracks Miles’ movements by other means. “We both know how much you love handing your sister control of things.”

He remembers, before Miles can stop him, the “surprise” “party” Franziska has organized for Miles, the one time they’d visited Sydney before Miles became Marshall. It had been a poor surprise and an even worse party. When Franziska had mistaken Flight Commander Wright for a member of her own terrified support staff and ordered him to fetch more non-alcoholic wine spritzers, Phoenix had experienced nothing except relief.

“You weren’t wearing your uniform,” Miles muttered, face heating sharply. “How was she supposed to recognize you?”

She wouldn’t have even perceived the uniform. Phoenix could have been wearing a trophy from all three of his and Miles’ kills-to-date and she still would have told Phoenix to go get more toothpicks for the cocktail weiners which no one was enjoying and everyone was avoiding.

“Back to my original point,” Miles growls, before Phoenix can really get started on remembering the taste of the weiners (bad).

He sighs. “And what was that, baby?”

“Phoenix. We haven’t tried to drift in years. To just throw ourselves at it like this, with no practice, with no time to think—”

“We’re currently drifting. We’re drifting right now. What other practice do we need?”

Miles turns in his pacing at the edge of the bed, his inner ear off tonight, the pivot too deep for comfort. “This isn’t a game. This is dangerous. What—if something goes wrong, after what it did to you last time—”

“To us,” Phoenix says.

It’s Miles’ memories that sweep them this time, strong as the breakers. Phoenix as he’d hung from the harness in Ratel’s burning, electrified cockpit. A corpse, a scarecrow, a bare-ribbed carcass awaiting the butcher, etc. etc. Phoenix wasn't really there. Phoenix remembers very little of the four hours it took their rescuers to cut into Ratel Cerulean, hesitant as they were to set off her distempered nuclear heart. He remembers pain and Miles screaming. Howling. He’d been informed afterwards, by surgeons and Miles’ fear, how bad it had been. Miles remembers, far beyond his own pain, the burning smell of Phoenix’s skin and the blood emerging in fat slugs from the seams of Phoenix’s suit. Miles’ mind had been peeling open like fruit beneath a knife. He’d been so sure, for days after, until Phoenix woke up and could be examined himself, that Phoenix’s eye had been gone. He was sure he’d seen it sluicing away.

Phoenix, in bed, rubs a hand over his eye, calluses catching on the scar. It was just the scar. His eye was fine. The eye had been fine. “You didn’t do that to me,” Phoenix says. “Don’t apologize for that.”

Miles had been commanding officer.

“C’mon,” Phoenix murmurs.

Miles slides away from him, slipping the noose of Phoenix’s grace. That’s not his word—Phoenix would never call it grace. Miles, half the room away, says, “It’s dangerous. It’s—beyond that. God knows what we’d risk. How many people in the Dome’s medical staff are even aware of our neurology?” He hates calling it a drift. “What happens when something goes wrong and they have no idea what they’re looking at?”

“911’s still operational, right?”

“Phoenix, take this seriously!”

“Miles, it’ll be okay.” Miles doesn’t believe him. Phoenix says it again. “We’ve been over this a million times. We’re not out fighting a kaiju this time. We’re not even leaving the shop floor. We’ll be in the dome, with Ema, with her two guys that know the stuff, with like one Jaeger tech, and no one else around. Nobody’s going to find out about our drift and nobody else will need to find out, because it’ll be fine. It’s just a drift test. It’s going to work. We’ll be fine.”

He’s still so afraid. He’s only admitted to like half of the things he’s terrified of. He starts to pace, stops again. Here comes another big slice of the pie: “What about Trucy?” Miles asks.

“She won’t even be here,” Phoenix says. “Maya’s picking her up tomorrow. You know that.”

Miles hates that, too, though he won’t fully articulate why and doesn’t appreciate Phoenix picking at that lack of articulation, thank you. Trucy distant, Trucy away—Miles’ fists tighten bloodlessly into themselves.

“What, you’d prefer she stick around?” Phoenix asks. That Trucy would give them a week of subtle teenage hell for canceling her girls’ Kurain weekend is too obvious to need saying. “You’d want her to see if anything goes wrong?”

“So you admit something might go wrong!”

Phoenix groans and laughs and finally lets his arm fall from his eyes. Their junky old room is dim and hazy, pressure-spotted a sickly green. Miles watches him from just out of arms’ reach. He looks just miserable.

“You really should have been some big, hot-shot lawyer, you know that?” Phoenix says. “Always putting me on trial.”

He holds out his hand. “C’mere,” he says.

Slowly, Miles takes it. Phoenix pulls him into their bed. He helps Miles kick his shoes off, nudging them off of the sheets. He sets Miles’ watch on the table beside their bed.

Miles, voiceless, traces the dark flat scars of the burns on Phoenix’s neck. His fingertips shake.

It must be nearly 3:00 AM. “S okay,” Phoenix says. “You didn’t do that to me. It’s going to work.”

Miles wants so badly to believe him. Miles wants, with a desperation he loathes, to catch just a handful of the thing that makes Phoenix so sure.

Neither of them will get to sleep like this. “C’mere,” Phoenix says again, taking Miles’ hands in his own.

He pictures the snow. Mt. Shasta, when he was young, maybe eight. He remembers sitting in the formless powder. He’d been warm. The sun had been just above the trees. No cold drips down his gloves yet, no slush in his boots. The sky had been blue and entire. The world was in concert hushed. Snow had moved with the ease of air between his fingers.

Miles is beside him. He draws Miles’ hand into the snow, making a many-fingered shape with his own. He shows Miles how to sit deeper in the powder, to let it form around you in a smooth bowl. He breathes and Miles breathes with him, exhalations rocketing from their mouths.

read the rest on ao3 👍👍👍

#ace attorney #narumitsu #the italics did not copy in and i'm not fixing that because i am on mobile waiting in line at the corner store lol #in better light #is that a tag already?? guess we'll find out!!

[kintrash413]

Summary: Dalv is very preoccupied starving without any access to blood. The last thing he needs is a visitor

#no excerpt today cuz. i usually just copy and paste until i get to italized text. and the first italics is very early on. oop #corn yaoi #undertale yellow #dalv #starlo #uty #fanfic #ao3

[remholder]

finally watched a certain episode yesterday

i think it got to me:

#star trek #ds9 #deep space nine #kira nerys #odo ital #kiraodo #my art #i am in DEEP with these two #not verbatim of course because i dont want to lose my place in season 5 #ALSO CROSSFIRE FUCKED ME UP BYE #lasso - copy - paste my beloved

[yuesya]

update!

New chapter for zenith of stars is up!

Chapter 48 (update #51) has been posted.

FFN | AO3 | SB

#updates #zenith of stars #weekly updates finished #ffn was giving me some trouble #couldn't upload new documents for some reason #so i copy/pasted and had to also add back italics

[isogenderskitty]

yknow that line in treasure planet where delbert is trying to talk to captain amelia and he goes “well thank you! i have a lot of help to offer anatomically- aN— ASTR— ANAMOMICA- ASTRONOMICALLY.”

pete in those unseen 2 weeks of studying with steph probably

#lautski #npmd #starkid #hatchetfield #small edit i copied and pasted this from discord and forgot that asterisks dont translate into italics here lmao #(it was my discord message i dont mean to imply i stole it sob)

[halloweenhoneylover]

slow going

summary: things have been weird between reader and steve and they’re trying to figure out how to not be weird (steve harrington x fem!reader)

word count: 10.2k (holy shit)

warnings: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, fem receiving oral, penetrative sex) (don’t read if you’re under 18!!!!!)

author’s note: still trying to get a handle on steve’s character, but i’m too obsessed w him to not write anything. i apologize in advance for the excessive use of run-on sentences and polysyndeton, but i don’t apologize for establishing steve as the king of consent. also first time writing smut pls be nice!!!!

if you’d like you can read the prequel to this, here

The tinkling of chimes alerted Steve to the presence of a new patron in Family Video. It had been a long evening of little action, no hordes of teenage boys wreaking havoc or families perusing for weekly movie nights. Likely it was due to the massive storm that had rolled in, rain pouring down in sheets and thunder that seemed to shake the foundations. June rain always came heavy like Genesis and rebirth in Hawkins. But the town was unfortunately unable to boast of the most state of the art infrastructure, and driving on those roads in this kind of weather was a perilous task that few braved. Steve was not excited to drive home at the end of his shift in an hour if this kind of weather persisted, but he didn’t mind the lack of customers; it offered some peace and quiet to log rentals and categorize incoming tapes. 

The sound of the door opening drew his attention away from the computer, ready to launch into his corporate-mandated greeting, but the words died in his throat at the sight of a long-time friend and short-term stranger dripping on the store’s welcome mat. 

“[Y/N],” he murmurs gently, unsure of how to acknowledge your unexpected appearance.

“Hi, Steve.” A small smile rests on your lips, feeling coy and unfamiliar under his gaze. A relatively new feeling with Steve. 

Determined to disperse the tension that had solidified almost instantaneously, he shakes his head and forces congeniality. “Dude, you’re soaking. Did you walk here?”

Still recovering from the sight of him, you stammer slightly, “Uh, no. I—uh, I biked.”

“You biked?”

As if only just realizing you were totally wet to the bone, you look down at your jacket sleeves sheepishly. “Yeah, I thought the storm was dying down.” You meet his gaze again. “It wasn’t.”

Steve can’t help himself when he barks out a laugh. Faced with the ridiculousness of the situation, you can’t help yourself when you join him, giggles pouring out of you. And for a moment, you both forget that things have been really weird between the two of you and that neither of you know how to act around each other now, and you laugh for a moment, and it’s like old times. It’s like you never confessed your feelings, and it’s like he never left you on that curb alone. But memories of that chilly night in March seep back in, and the laughter dies. Things aren’t right between you, but it’s a little warmer than before. 

“Well, is there anything I can help you with this fine evening?” Steve’s eyes are friendly, but his mind races with questions of why you came in tonight, and his veins are flooded with nostalgia and something else that he can’t really put finger on, but it feels eerily like regret. 

“Maybe. Do you guys have Alien?”

The look he gives you is withering. “With the amount of times you’ve rented this movie, you probably could’ve bought it five times over.”

A mischievous grin paints your features. “Yeah, but there’s something fun about watching you get mad at the money I’ve wasted every time I rent it.”

He rolls his eyes at that and hops over the counter to steer you to the sci-fi section. Sure, you know where it is, you’ve been here countless times, but he has to do his due diligence as an upstanding employee of Family Video, right? “I’m not mad, I just know you’re smart, and it’s a shame to see you neglect those brain cells every time you do something stupid like rent your favorite movie instead of buy it.” 

He pulls the familiar VHS case from the shelf and hands it to you, but you’re grinning up at him, and he feels something inside him shudder pleasantly. He chalks it up to the two and a half months he went without seeing you. And the thought of those months clouds his mind, and he clears his throat, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“How have you gone almost three months without seeing this movie? Did you betray the Family Video name and rent it from the library?”

The way he says it, it sounds like a joke, but the fact that he had acknowledged your friendship hiatus dampens your mood greatly, and something like shame shines in your eyes. “No, I could never betray FV, heh. Just—uh—Ben didn’t really like sci-fi.”

Deep down, Steve feels his ribs crack and his stomach drop at the mention of Ben, your new boyfriend. Robin had let it slip sometime mid-April that you were seeing someone, and while he played it off very cool and unaffected, Steve had felt abandoned. Something he hadn’t expected to feel and definitely wasn’t allowed to feel when he had abandoned you first. He had known Ben in high school; they were on the swim team together. He was a sweet enough guy and maybe good-looking, but Steve never paid enough attention to much outside of himself to notice, but he sure was paying attention now. 

“Ben didn’t like sci-fi,” he echoes faintly. 

You swallow harshly, uncomfortable. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t want to like, push my interests onto him, or something like that.” You spout an awkward laugh to cover the weird moment of unanticipated vulnerability, but Steve’s eyes only soften with a glint of something you perceive as pity which you hate. “But um, we kinda broke things off, so….”

Steve’s eyebrows raise and his eyes search yours. “Oh. Uh, I’m—I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you muster weakly.

He clears his throat again before ducking around you back to the desk. “Let’s get you checked out then.”

It’s silent as he clicks away at the computer, and the quiet is unbearable. Your hands clutch the counter, and you look anywhere in the store but Steve. He sneaks a glance at you. You seem to be glowing in the orange neon light of the FV sign behind him, skin shiny with rainwater, and he’s always known you were pretty, but there’s something about seeing you for the first time in months, and it churns in his gut. He hits a button before handing you the tape.

“How much do I owe you?”

He swipes his hand noncommittally and shakes his head. “Nothing. This one’s on me.”

“Steve—”

“No, no, I insist.” He looks at you with sincerity and a terribly remorseful smile, and it silences you instantly. You wonder why he looks sorry. 

“Okay.” It’s a near whisper. 

Despite some tether to Steve that urges you to stay, to muddle through whatever weirdness resides between you, you start towards the door with a wave.

“Oh shit,” he says in a way that is too loud for all of the moments that preceded it. “It’s still pouring, and you biked. Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate a moment. “What time does your shift end?”

He glances at the clock on the wall before waving it off. “I’m supposed to get off at 10, but this place is a ghost town. Nobody came in hours before you, and I highly doubt anyone is gonna come by later in this shitstorm.”

You shift a little, your clothes waterlogged and heavy on your body. “I don’t want you to get in trouble….”

He scoffs, “There’s no way Keith’ll find out, unless you tell him.” And then he looks at you very seriously, but you can see the joke simmering behind the umber of his eyes. “[Y/N/N], are you gonna snitch on me?”

It’s your turn to scoff. 

“See, there you go. I’ll be fine! Let me just grab my keys, and we can head out.” 

He heads into a backroom, and you wait, clutching Alien close to your chest. Excitement bubbles in your chest, and then a weird discomfort leaks in when you become aware of the excitement. Excited for proximity, excited for closeness with Steve. I’m excited to see Steve because he is a dear friend who I have not seen in a long time, and I have missed him as a friend. 

While cementing your new mantra, Steve bursts from the back with his keys dangling from his pointer finger and a vigor that you don’t quite understand. On the wall behind the desk, he flicks a switch and the illuminated Pretty in Pink poster on the wall and the neon Family Video lettering go dark. He jogs towards the door, opening it and gesturing you out politely, and you helplessly watch his mania, slightly confused but mostly entertained. “M’lady,” he sing-songs with the cheekiest grin. 

Your face morphs into one of bemused disgust, and you stare at him as you walk out of the store. “You’ve been hanging out with Robin and Dustin too much.”

He shrugs casually. “They’re pretty much all I have now that—” he stops himself and grimaces with the knowledge of his slip-up. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence for you to know that it ends with now that we don’t hang out. 

Guilt echoes in the cavity of your chest painfully, but you don’t really want to go back to painful silence, so you say, “They’re good company, though.” You smile at him, and he smiles back, but neither of you really feel it. 

And maybe because you’re a masochist, you continue with a forced light tone, “You used to be on dates all the time. Is the female population of Hawkins not also good company still?”

He looks out to where the rain is still heaving with an unreadable expression. “I don’t—I don’t really go on many dates anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Just got tired of it. None of them….” Steve tries to think of something to say that won’t give him away entirely because he can’t say none of them were you. That wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair to you, who had laid your heavily guarded heart on full display for him on that crumbling asphalt, an offer that he had wrapped up nicely and handed right back. “None of them were right for me, I guess.”

You nod solemnly. “I hope you find your right one, Stevie.”

He looks down at you with a wounded expression and wide eyes, and you cannot understand why he looks like that, but you persist anyway. “I really do.”

The silence that follows is filled with mourning. Mourning for missed opportunities and the fickleness of chance. The air is thick, and neither can bring themselves to break it. 

So, Steve nods, and with a gentle hand on your elbow, he ushers you to his car. You both scramble to find refuge from the rain, fumbling with the door handles, and by the time you’re sitting in the front seat, you’re both panting with the frantic effort. 

“We can get your bike tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He starts the car, and you expect him to pull away into the night, but instead, he sits with the engine running, staring straight ahead. Your brows knit with concern “Steve? Are you o—”

“Did you ever think Ben was your right one?”

The question shocks you into laughter, which has him frowning in confusion. “I don’t know.” You ponder for a moment. “I really don’t know! It was only a couple months, I don’t think you’re supposed to know after that long. He was cute and smart. He thought I was pretty, maybe.” The insecurity tacked on the end makes something in him buckle, wondering how someone could not be completely and utterly convinced that you are one of the prettiest people alive. “I don’t know. He was nice to me.” Your voice is feeble, and Steve can’t help the shame that floods his brain, thinking of the time that he most definitely wasn’t nice to you. And while he feels completely incapacitated, he nods slowly and puts the car in reverse. 

He stretches a hand behind your headrest to see out the back as he reverses, but his closeness makes you ache as you stare up the length of his strong arm to his handsome face concentrated on driving. He takes his hand back to set the lever to drive, and you want to grab it, keep it close, set it on your thigh, your waist, your cheek, anything, but you remain still. 

You drive in silence for a minute or two, listening to the rain and the beat of the windshield wipers before Steve summons the courage from somewhere he can’t understand and says, “Do you want to come over?”

It’s the second time tonight that he’s really shocked you, and he registers your shock before backpedaling. “You don’t have to, it’s just I live closer than you do, and I have some dry clothes you could borrow.” He grips the steering wheel for support before continuing. “And we haven’t seen each other in a while. I thought it’d be nice.” His breath is short, feels like he’s working really hard to reclaim everything that belongs in his lungs. “Plus, we could watch your movie. Sigourney Weaver’s hot.” He’s about to cringe, and then you laugh, and he wishes that was his only job, to make you laugh.

“Yeah, she is,” you murmur pensively. Steve can see you thinking, and his chest feels like it’s about to burst with the desperate hope flowering inside. You offer him another small smile before it widens graciously, and you nod your head. 

“Yeah, that sounds fun.”

—

The sound of your footsteps upstairs jolts Steve with pangs of familiarity. He’s sitting on his kitchen counter, losing his mind, because it’s been a long while since you’ve been in his house, and he wants to make sure that you’ll come back sooner rather than later. Next to his head, the microwave hums and casts a honey-colored light on his face as the kernels inside it begin to burst. And before he knows it, it’s beeping, and your socked feet are padding down the stairs.

Grabbing a bowl, he pours the popcorn in and turns his head to see you lean against the doorframe. Your still damp hair has been pushed out of your eyes, and you’re wearing an old Hawkins High basketball sweatshirt of his and a pair of shorts he’d long forgotten about. You look clean and somewhat revived after shedding your previous outfit, and he feels like you fit here, smiling and gentle, wearing his clothes. 

“Thanks for letting me change.”

“Of course, you were starting to look like a drowned cat.”

You chuckle again, and he has to tamp down the soaring of his heart at the sound. 

“I was starting to feel like one too.”

You cast a few glances around the room, the home still so familiar but seeming somehow different this time around. Wordlessly, Steve grabs the bowl of popcorn and jerks his head towards the door to the basement, signaling you to go ahead. You snag the rented VHS from the counter, push open the door, and start trundling down the stairs. “How many times do you think this’ll be for you?” you call up after him.

“What do you mean?” He rounds the couch, setting down the popcorn and instinctively catching the VHS you toss his way.

Settling into the well-worn leather of the couch’s corner, you rest your legs on an ottoman pushed up against the couch. “How many times do you think you’ll have seen this movie now?”

He’s kneeling to put in the tape as he shakes his head with a tender smile and answers, “Hard to say. You made me watch this at least once a month for a year and half, but I’m bad at math, so I don’t know how many that is.” He doesn’t realize his teasing lands sourly, and when he turns to look at you again, you’ve crossed your arms defensively and retreated further into the couch with a sullen, thoughtful look. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. You didn’t make me; I really like Alien. You know, hot Sigourney Weaver.” He tries his joke again, but it doesn’t elicit the same reaction the second time around. You’re worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wishes you would stop because you have a bad habit of biting until you bleed. 

Finally, you look up at him with big sorrowful eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Confused, Steve collapses onto the couch next to you, and his eyes search yours, all wide and shiny. “For what?”

Before he’s done looking, your eyes shift away, and he feels a little hollow without you looking at him. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “Being a bad friend, I guess. Forcing you to like all the stuff I like, being overbearing.” A beat. “We’re not very alike, are we?”

When your eyes meet his again, there are tears pooling at your waterline, and he feels his chest imploding at the sight, wishing with all his might for you to stop crying, especially when you did nothing wrong. “No, we’re not, but that doesn’t really matter. That’s what friends do: they watch their movies and listen to their music and go to their basketball games. I like things because you like them, and you’re my friend. It’s not overbearing, it’s love, ya know, it’s contagious.”

He’s seen the face you’re wearing before: all vast and exposed and defenseless, every emotion swimming plainly beneath your lashes, and your jaw tilting up like you want to be kissed, and you’re watching him like your life depends on it. He saw it on that night in March when he denied you, and now he thinks that he could never deny you anything if he tried, wonders how he ever denied you before. Slowly, he presses forward, gingerly nudging his nose into yours, silently asking permission. You close your eyes, and your lips part ever so slightly, so he closes the distance and kisses you. 

It’s a homecoming with fluttering confetti. He moves slowly, the world suspended, and he brings a hand to your jaw, sturdy and lithe underneath his fingertips. He only realizes it’s all he’s ever wanted until it’s happening and he never wants it to stop. And with this realization, he deepens the kiss and pushes into your mouth gently like he wants to consume you because he does. The desperation on his tongue is evident, and a giddy moan rumbles in your chest, a sound he eagerly swallows. The hand on your cheek skims down the skin of your neck, the fall of your shoulder, and finds its home on the curve of your waist. Steve’s above you, holding you, and it’s a dream come true, so when he pulls himself away, gazing down at you with soft, dark eyes, to whisper are you sure?, your answer is a wheezing please.

Something feral inhabits him with the desperation in your voice, and he’s licking at your jaw, mouthing at your pulsepoint until that something overcomes him, and he bites your neck, a heady groan erupting viciously from your throat. He’s got an elbow propped by your head to give himself leverage, and his other hand is roaming, squeezing, gripping your hip like he’s afraid this is his last chance to touch you and he has to know what every soft part of you feels like. 

“Steve.” Your voice falters under the weight of your desire. 

“Steve.” It’s not a question or a command, just another way of confirming that the man over you is real and is touching you like he wants you. 

His one hand finds the edge of your sweatshirt, and he breaks away once again to look you in the eye. “Can I?”

You nod dumbly, and he sits up, allowing both of his hands to find the hem and tug it over you. It’s mostly a successful venture until something gets caught, and everything is out but your head. Muffled slightly comes, “Steve, wait, I’m stuck.” It slightly clears the haze of lust that permeated the basement, and Steve can’t help but laugh. “Nooo, don’t laugh,” you chide but the unmistakable beginnings of a giggle fray the edges of your seriousness. “Steve, help me!” Peals of laughter collect like shiny curls of ribbon while he finally pulls the sweatshirt over your head, and you both remember that you are friends, good ones at that, who like each other and make each other laugh, and it’s perfectly happy. 

It takes a minute for insecurity to catch up to you in this state, but it’s perennially punctual, and while you’re still smiling, you cross your arms. “Don’t do that, let me look at you.” Your hopes of hiding are dashed as Steve tenderly wrests your arms apart, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful, and with the appraising look in his eyes, you finally feel it. He stares at your body for a long time, longer than you ever thought someone would want to look, and he traces a single finger down the skin above your rib cage. “You really are something else,” he murmurs. 

You can’t help but press, “In a good way?”

He smiles wide at that. “In the best way.”

He takes both hands to your face, leaning down to kiss you because he can’t not kiss you anymore. His hands make their way to your waist again, and you don’t feel bad about it. His fingertips press into your skin and press up your body until they meet the elastic of your bra. When his eyes meet yours this time, he doesn’t have to ask, and you’re nodding vehemently. Arching your back to grant him access, he slips a single hand to the clasp, which he undoes expertly. He leans back to take the bra with him, but you hold it to your chest. 

Searching your eyes for insecurity, he only finds prickly, teasing suspicion.

“You’re kind of a pro at that. One-handed.”

It’s his turn to be sheepish, and he doesn’t really know what to say.

“Have you gotten a lot of practice with that? Take all your girls down here and impress them with that move?”

Leaning back on his heels on the ottoman, he grins down at you all laid out and cheeky, having finally claimed the upper hand. “So it was impressive?”

You shrug coyly, but the way your lips curl is anything but. “Maybe! Who’s to say? Really it lets me know that you, Steve Harrington, are a total womanizer.” He looks to the side away from you with a smile and a blush that is unfamiliar to you, and it makes your heart squeeze. “I’m willing to let it slide…for a price.”

His eyebrows lift incredulously, and he shifts his gaze back to you. “How steep are we talking?”

You pretend to contemplate it very seriously with a pensive finger tapping your lips in thought before you gasp theatrically. “I think you need to take your shirt off.”

His laughter spills out, your giggles accompanying soon after. He shrugs with the biggest, most smug grin on his lips and grabs the hem of his sweater. “Well if fair is fair….” And it’s over his head in a second, revealing his broad, tanned chest, and you don’t mean to, but you heave a quick intake of breath because while you’ve seen this before at his pool, at the lake, you’ve never seen it in this context. A context where you’re allowed to touch. 

So you do. Mirroring his earlier touches, you reach out and trail a couple fingers down his hard stomach, fingertips tracing down and brushing the happy little trail of hair that collects at the bottom. He watches you fondly, granting you this moment of appreciation after being allowed it himself. “Stevie,” you whisper. “You’re so pretty.”

“I’m pretty?” His smile cannot be contained. You’ve got the moon in your eyes, and he can’t really believe it’s there while you’re looking at him.

“Yeah.”

“I’d argue you’re prettier.”

“It’s not a competition.”

He chuckles again at that, taking your hand feather-soft in both of his and bringing it up to his face. He delicately places kisses on each fingertip and on your palm before curling your fingers in and pressing your closed hand against his face. 

It burns the tip of his tongue, churns in his stomach. I love you. 

But he doesn’t say it. He can’t explain why, but he doesn’t. Though he thinks that if you’re any good at reading him (which you are), you would be able to see it written plainly across his face, see it in the way he looks at you. 

And maybe you do see it because you gently pull your hand away and grab the straps of your bra resting loosely on your chest. You’ve always been made up of walls and defensiveness and toughness, protecting a soft, pink inside. All heady eye contact and heavy breath, you slowly pull the garment away from your chest, and Steve thinks it’s a metaphor. Then, he can’t believe he’s thinking about metaphors and English class while the girl of his dreams is taking off her bra in front of him, but nonetheless, to him it’s a metaphor for crumbling walls and vulnerability because he can see it in your eyes. You look scared. Like at any moment he might decide he doesn’t want you anymore, and he’ll leave you soft and pink and bleeding. Guilt curdles in his stomach because he knows he’s done that before, but he vows to make you know that he’ll never do it again. 

So, he reaches out, his arms strong and sure, and he runs his hands down your sides to hold your hips firmly and lets his gaze run wild over the soft expanse of you. He lets you steal his breath as he holds you down and looks at you. His eyebrows are furrowed and his head shaking when he whispers, “You’re not real.”

Your eyebrows pinch in silent questioning.

“You’re not real,” he repeats. “There’s no way. You can’t be real. This has to be a dream. You are a dream.”

“Steve,” you chide, but the smile pulling at your lips is unmistakable as your insides twist and curl joyously. “You’re being cheesy.”

“No, I’m not, [Y/N/N]. I’m just telling the truth.” He starts to grin because you’re laughing again. “I’ve got to be sleeping because there’s no way you look like this, and you’re letting me touch you.”

“Steve!” Your admonishment falls flat under the peals of your laughter. 

“I’m being serious!”

“Okay, weirdo.”

Holding your waist, Steve leans forward to lay wet kisses on your collarbone. “I’m a serious guy.”

You run a hand over his head to hold his neck fondly. “I know you are. Super serious guy.”

The teasing subsides as his mouth laves lower on your chest, from the hollow of your neck to your sternum to the gentle curve of your breast. He can feel the rise and fall of your ribs as your breath gets deeper, shakier. His lips are soft until his teeth are not, and you cry out. “Sorry, baby.” If you weren’t breathless before, you definitely were now after the pet name, and he continues his kisses with smug lips. He switches sides, kissing and licking and sucking, and once he starts using his teeth again, you know there will be purplish spots to look forward to. 

His hands with minds of their own have found purchase on your hips, mindlessly fingering the hem of your shorts. It tickles a little, but you are somewhat preoccupied with his mouth’s business that you can’t find it in yourself to reprimand him, but it doesn’t stop you from squirming slightly. One finger boldly slips over the short’s elastic, and he glances up at you from under his weirdly luscious boyish eyelashes. “May I?”

A breathless laugh. “What manners you have.”

His eyes remained trained on yours, waiting, your answer not sufficing, and the seriousness in his eyes almost sucks the levity from the room. You want to spend hours considering his thoughtfulness, his care, but you don’t have hours, so you nod and whisper, “Yes. Steve, please.”

He’s kissing you again, and his hand is making its way down your shorts. When a solitary finger runs the damp gusset of your underwear, you rasp in a gust of air. He chases your lips for a chaste peck. “Are you still wet from the rain, or are you just happy to see me?” He breathes a laugh into your mouth which opens into a brilliant giggle. 

You don’t have the time to come up with a witty response before he’s rubbing that finger along you again. There’s nothing precise about it, but the pressure alone is enough to leave you panting. Steve, thoughtful as ever, kisses your neck again, leaving your mouth free to choke down air. By the time his hand is moving again, the cotton of your underwear is nearly soaked. He snaps the elastic of your underwear against your stomach, eliciting a pitchy whine he’s never heard before but would like to hear again. His fingers slide underneath the waistband, and you’re completely mindless with his hand against the real thing. He cups your mound, just holding you for a minute, and you think it’s comforting until you feel something down there gush, and you’re mortified by the wet that must have doused his fingers. Steve notices you shift uncomfortably, so he looks up to your face where your embarrassment is written plain in the heat of your cheeks. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, in fact it’s extremely hot, so Steve pulls his hand from your shorts and pins you down with his gaze while he brings his shiny fingers to his lips and sucks two in his mouth. Maybe it’s unprofessional, but your jaw drops, and you gawk, still holding eye contact. He pulls his fingers out with a soft pop.

“You taste good.”

The whiny moan you let out sounds like something from those movies in the back of Family Video, and Steve can’t help but smile to himself as he slots his hands down your shorts again. He slips his middle finger into your folds where the slick hasn’t stopped accumulating, and he gently runs it from clit to opening where he teases slightly. Any semblance of control over the noises you’re making has been lost, and you’re glad, for once, that his parents are never home. He expertly collects some of the wet to grease little circles on your swollen clit, and his mouth is on your chest again, his tongue about as wet as your pussy. You’re not sure it can get any better until his middle finger slides down to your entrance and his thumb finds home on your clit. The pad of his thumb is moving up and down while his middle finger carefully pushes into you. He curls his finger inside you, and you never knew Steve was so dexterous, but you’d never be caught complaining now. His touch is gentle but purposeful, knowing exactly where to stroke to find the soft spot inside that drives you wild. When he feels your cunt is no longer gripping his finger so tightly, blooming with arousal, he presses a second finger in, a move that has you keening into a throw pillow on the couch. 

Your mouth is open in a silent scream, jaw tight. He notices this and brings his unoccupied hand to tenderly tuck stray strands of hair behind your ears. He then cups your cheek, his thumb swiping fondly over hot skin. His fingers are still moving, but he’s whispering now, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Maybe it’s the heat he’s stirring up in your lower half, or maybe it’s the plain affection in his tone, but tears spring to your eyes.

“Steve, please.” It’s a plaintive susurration, and he knows what you need, pressing his lips to yours. It starts soft and reassuring but turns into a devouring. Your hungry lips seem to be the only thing capable of expressing the ache in your chest. 

You would have been content to stay there forever, but the heat in your gut is becoming increasingly hard to ignore, and after a particularly strong stroke of his thumb against your clit, you’re crying out again, more urgently this time. 

“Pretty girl,” he says against your open mouth, noses pressing into each other. “You can let go, I’ve got you.” His fingers continue their ministrations until a deep gasp, and he knows you’re there. Your breath is hot on his face, your moans hotter, and he smiles to himself, not smug but sentimental as all hell. He works you through it because he’s a gentleman and because he needs a moment to recover himself after becoming conscious of the slick of your cum collecting in his hand. 

Your eyes are closed with a blissful smile pinching your cheeks when you have finally revived enough to speak. “I’d heard you were good, Harrington, but I didn’t know you were that good.” 

“Was always getting ready for you.” It’s partially a joke, and it’s partially not. 

Luckily, you only hear the joke and laugh, so he doesn’t have to confront the very real part of him that becomes aware of the not-joke’s implications. He can’t really think about that right now, so instead, he carefully retrieves his hand from between your thighs, wipes it clean on his jeans, and places long strokes up and down your bare arm as your breath finally settles.  

When you open your eyes, Steve is carefully tracing your body with his gaze, his shoulder and chest pressed up against your side, but he grins when he sees you looking at him. “Do you wanna keep going?”

Nerves dance lightly in your chest, but they’re good nerves, so you nod with a matching twist of your lips. 

His eyebrows raise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, hold on.” He removes himself from your side, and the loss is devastating. You weren’t really aware of how much heat he was generating against you until he was gone. Grabbing a nearby pillow, you hold it to your chest to maintain a decency that doesn’t really matter anymore and twist to see over the back of the couch where Steve has gone to a closet that you had previously known as VHS tape storage. He stretches up to the top shelf, and you no longer try to dampen the warmth in your stomach at the sight of his freckled back rippling with muscles. He gets down a box and pulls out a condom, and you scoff in disbelief. “You’re telling me the VHS closet has doubled as the condom closet this whole time?” 

He shrugs. “You can’t reach the top shelf.”

“Oh my god.” But your incredulity has dissolved into laughter once again, and his grin is absolutely shit-eating as he replaces the box on the shelf and rounds the couch. He stands, inspecting you sprawled on the couch and ottoman.

“Yeah, this won’t do. Hold on.” 

You yelp as he grabs you by the knees and reorient you so you’re laying on the couch length-wise. He seems pleased to manhandle you and to see how breathless you are after doing so. “Much better.”

He crawls onto the couch, and you heave your legs apart so he can settle in between them on his knees. “Eager much?” he quips lightheartedly, but he can see the flash of self-doubt in your eyes, the fear that maybe you were doing too much, wanting too much. He places a hand on your calf and skims up and down. “No, me too.” He swallows funny before venturing into touchy-feely. “I don’t think you know how much I’ve wanted this.” There’s a whisper of confusion on your face that disperses as fast as it came, and you smile softly. 

He notices the pillow still covering your chest and reaches to tug the corner. “Can I have this?”

You let go of the pillow, and you feel bare, the cold of the basement no longer mitigated by Steve’s proximate warmth, causing your nipples to harden. His gaze is openly obsessive, ravenous and the pillow in his hand forgotten. “I don’t think this view will ever get old.”

“You’re gonna catch flies.”

He whips back into shape with your teasing and remembers the pillow. Sticking the condom in his pocket to free up a hand, he sneaks the hand under your hips. “Lift.” You do as he says, and he slides the pillow under you, canting your hips up to him. His hands attach to your waist and slide to your hips, once again fiddling with the waistband of your shorts. With furrowed brows, he glances over the shorts (his shorts) and looks up at you with concern. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but the lending period on these bad boys has elapsed.”

With a roll of your eyes, you stare back unamused. “Steve, I know you are not using a Family Video script as dirty talk right now.”

Despite your protests, he persists with the bit. “I really am sorry, ma’am, but with your permission, I need to take these back.”

“Okay, yeah fine alright.” You sigh and let your head loll to the side.

“Alright?” he asks, a shade more serious.

You meet his eyes and nod. “Alright.”

“Alright!” And with renewed enthusiasm, he tugs the shorts over your hips and down your legs, tossing them to the side. “And because I believe in equality,” he says while standing. “I’ll also do you the honors.” Proud as ever, Steve slides his pants down his legs, leaving him in boxers. Chuckling, you clap lightly and give a little whoop! He bows like a dork.

He starts toward you but quickly stops, mumbling an oh shit as he drops to the ground and searches his jeans’ pockets. Triumphantly, he pulls out the condom he nearly forgot, and you snort. “My hero.”

He comes back and settles between your legs on his knees again, setting the condom on the nearby ottoman. His attention zeroes in on your underwear, and his fingers are greedy, petting down your lower stomach and finding the waistband. He sees how shiny the inside of your thighs are and how soaked the fabric is, and his suave persona falters, baser instincts making something in his stomach tighten. “We really made a mess down here, didn’t we?” You flush and let out a nervous giggle. His gaze tracks to your eyes, asking the silent question. You nod. 

He pulls the cotton down your legs slowly, reverence in his gaze, in his hands. A shuddering breath from both of you. Once free of your legs, your underwear is tossed aside. You’re not really sure what’s going to happen next, but he picks up your leg, lifting it to his lips. Locking eyes with you, he presses chaste kisses to your ankle, up your calf. He sets your foot down, knee bent a little, and stretches out, laying down on the rest of the couch. He continues his line of kisses, brushing his lips against the inside of your knee tenderly, and it makes you shiver. Your chest is heaving with heavy breaths, your fingers gripping the leather of the couch. Giving your other leg its proper due, he laves wet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh, growing closer and closer to where you want him most. He’s nearly there when he decides to nip the soft skin of your thigh, his teeth sharp but his tongue soothing. He noses against the plush of your skin affectionately, and something about it makes you want to cry. Then he’s where you need him, and instead of touching you, he’s breathing in deep through his nose. He’s smelling you, and you want to cry for a very different reason.

“Steve, please.” Begging sounds unfamiliar on your tongue, but he doesn’t mind it one bit. He hoists your legs over his broad shoulders, one hand wrapped around the expanse of your thigh and the other holding your hip in place. He purses his lips and blows a quick burst of cold air to your wet center that has you whining before licking into the velvet of your sopping folds. His kisses are ravenous, starved. He knows how to eat pussy with skill and dexterity, but at the moment, he’s more concerned with getting his mouth on as much of you as possible, and you don’t seem to mind, mewling helplessly. After a long stripe up the length of you, something in you cracks, and your fingers twist in his hair to hold yourself together, and lightheaded, he thinks that he would never leave his place between your thighs if you gave him the opportunity. 

Finally satisfied that he’s tasted as much of you as possible, his movements become more specific, sucking your clit in between kitten licks, and it seems like you like it because your cunt is weeping, slick pouring out of you and onto his face. You tug on his hair, and it’s his turn to moan voraciously. 

“Stevie, baby—” If you were going to say anything else, the words are lost as a groan rips from your chest, Steve diving back into you with a hunger he’s not sure will ever be sated. He’s licking into you, and your stomach is jumping with the pure pleasure, your blood boiling. When he comes back to your clit, kissing gently, it happens all at once, unexpected, and you’re gushing again. Thighs closing around his head, Steve laps at the wetness flowing out of you, taking until there’s nothing left to give. He’s too much, and you’re too sensitive, and you’re crying out, but he doesn’t relent until the heel of your hand presses against his forehead, pushing him away.

You’re out of breath but manage to quip, “Eager much?”

He huffs out a laugh, leaning his head against your thigh and slick gleaming on his face. You sit like that for a minute, letting your breathing slow and him nestling into the warmth of your legs. When he checks in on you, your eyes are closed and your breathing deep but an ever present smile on your lips. “D’you wanna go to bed?”

You chuckle. “Stevie, we didn’t come this far to stop now.”

“But we can, though.” His brow furrows, and he looks at you seriously. “We can stop whenever you want.”

You can’t help but smile at his concern, and you grapple for his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his. “Thank you, Stevie. But if you’re down, I would absolutely love to have sex with you right now.”

He grins. “Yeah, alright.” 

Reluctantly pushing himself out from between your legs, he moves to a sitting position, lifting his hips to take off his boxers. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch him with a goofy grin, stupidly excited just to have fun and feel good with him. He slips his underwear off, his cock springing up and leaking precum. 

“Woah.”

He grabs the condom from the ottoman. “What?”

“Just—confronted by the man, the myth, the legend.”

He swats weakly at your leg with the back of his hand. “Shut up.”

He rips the condom open, rolling it on with practiced ease. “What! You’ve been the talk of the town for a while, King Steve, and I just gotta say you’re living up to your reputation.” 

Rolling his eyes, he shifts back onto his knees on the couch, but when he looks at you, he can tell your disguising your nerves with teasing. He softens, running a hand down your leg. “We’ll go slow.” You meet his gaze and smile gratefully. 

Shuffling up close to you, he leans over you to kiss you. It’s gentle and says everything he can never say to you out loud. Your hands lift to his jaw, holding him to you, not letting him break away, but he’d never leave if you wanted him to stay. You pull away for a moment, foreheads still pressed together. “I’m ready if you’re ready,” you whisper. 

He nods with a smile, running a hand over your head to land on your neck while placing a peck on your hairline. The small dose of affection has your heart racing and butterflies stirring in your stomach ruthlessly, and you lay back, giddy. He sits back on his knees and takes a second to let the immensity of this moment weigh on his shoulders, on his heart. You’re otherworldly laying soft and pliant, hips tilted up, presented to him. One hand grabs your hip, thumb massaging into the fullness of flesh there, and the other takes your knee and hikes against his hip, palm skimming down the abundance of your thigh. His grip on you is tight as if the tighter he holds, the more real this moment is, the longer he can hold onto it, and when you’re looking up at him like he hung all the stars in the sky, it knocks the wind right out of him. “You’ve got to be a real life angel, [Y/N/N].” His words make your eyebrows pinch, and you’ve lost count of the amount of times tears have sprung to your eyes this evening.

He keeps a steadying hand on your hip but takes the other to hold himself while he lines himself up with your entrance. One last glance up to you for a silent nod of permission, and he begins to press into you. It’s ever so slow, but he’s girthy, so you’re already letting your head loll while moans pour out of you thick and unhurried like hot syrup. Steve’s wrangling his own feelings at how tight and wet you are, and he has to get himself together so he doesn’t blow before the real thing has even started. He’s only a few inches in when he hears a hiss of pain and an ouch! His stomach lurches with guilt and worry, and he stops moving immediately and looks to where your face is scrunched up. “Are you okay?”

You nod vehemently, eyes still squeezed shut. “Yeah, I just—ah—I’ve never done this before with someone so….”

“Yeah, I know.” His hands are back at your hips, thumbs working the muscles there to relax you and ease any discomfort. 

“You know?” you chuckle breathlessly. “That’s a little presumptuous of you.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“S’okay, Stevie baby.” The pet name is said jokingly, but his heart squeezes, so he squeezes your hips. He laughs, full of mirth, and it makes you laugh too, and he can feel you start to relax, the tension in your body dissipating. 

“Do you wanna stop?”

“No, I think I’m good, you can keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

The slide in is easier now, and you’re tight now only because you’re clenching in pleasure. “Ohhh,” and it’s like you’ve only just realized that this actually feels really good. A second more and Steve is fully sheathed in you, and you’re both groaning relentlessly. He doesn’t move, letting you get acclimated to the feeling of being full. 

“You feel so good,” he pants, head thrown back and Adam’s apple bobbing. “You feel so good.”

“Steve, baby, please move.” At your behest, he’s pulling out slowly still, and it sounds obscene and wet because your slick is incessant, and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever love a pussy as much as he loves yours. Your whine is coming from deep in your throat with the loss of his thickness in you, but it explodes into a girlish wail as he starts pushing back in again. Fully seated in you, he readjusts, resting an elbow by the side of your head and sliding an arm beneath your back. Melting into his embrace, you throw your arms around his shoulders to feel the warm, freckled expanse of his back. Like this, it’s all skin on skin and breathing each other’s breath, and if you could crawl inside his skin, you would. His hips begin a faster rhythm, pistoning steadily into your wet heat which is getting hotter and wetter by the moment. It’s all curling pleasure, and you don’t mean to, but your fingernails dig into the muscle of his shoulders. Everything in you is trembling, so you bury your face in his neck, where he smells like cologne and sweat. 

“Steve!” It’s muffled by salty skin.

“I know, baby, you’re doing so well.” His praise rips a whine from you. “Taking me so well, pretty girl.”

He wants to kiss you, but your mouth is hidden, so he does the next best thing: mouth wetly at your neck, bite the spot below your ear, suck bruises into the well of your collarbone. You respond with a bite to his shoulder, and it almost makes him want to laugh. Your cunt has grown tighter again, and he knows you’re close but that something has to change to get you there. His hot breath washes against the shell of your ear. “Hold on.” 

Holding you tight to his chest with the arm already underneath your back, he pulls you both into a sitting position, you on his lap. He knows he’ll be able to get deeper this way, and he can tell you’re already feeling it by the way you’re mewling sweet nothings. “Stevie baby, I feel you in my stomach.”

“I know, I know.” Your eyes are squeezed shut, this time in unfathomable pleasure, and he studies your face. The sweat that seems to make you glow, your swollen, kiss-bitten lips, the lashes that rest so delicately on the apples of your cheeks. With tender fingers, he pushes the hair out of your eyes again, tucking strands behind your ears, smoothing what can’t be tamed back into the mess of your hair. Your eyes flutter open, and the brown of his eyes shines with incredible fondness in the dim light of the basement. Your shaky fingers push a few errant locks behind his ears, and he laughs at the reciprocated gesture. Your hands find home at his jaw, bringing his mouth to yours. These kisses are slow but not gentle, and you’re licking into his mouth, and he’s licking into yours. His hands settle on your hips once again, and your surprised gasp yawns into a gaping moan as he holds you up and then drops you down onto his cock, his tip bumping your cervix. 

And with that, you’re back into it. Your thighs quiver as you try to keep pace with his thrusts. Everything between your thighs is slippery and fast, and all you can do is hold his shoulders for support. You’re already so pent up, and the heat is stirring in your stomach, and you know you won’t last long. A particularly deep thrust has you clenching, and he holds your hips down for a moment, spearing into you before resuming his pace. 

You’re babbling mindlessly, trying to repay his good dirty talk, but it’s mostly incoherent groans and various iterations of so big, so good, so deep. It’s hard to think when he’s fucking you like his life depends on it. Another hard thrust, you’re crying out, and something about the way your voice stretched thin, he knows you’re close.

“Come on, pretty girl. You’re doing so good, you can come for me, I know you can.”

One hand leaves your hip to find your clit, giving quick back and forth strokes that have you buckling. 

“Steve.” It’s urgent, and he knows you’re right there. One more stroke, and you’re collapsing in his neck, his hips slowing but not stopping.

“There you go, I’ve got you.” The hand on your hip slides around your back to pull you closer. You’re inconsolable, whining endlessly into his skin. Your breathing starts to slow, but a gasp interrupts the gradual descent. You pry yourself from his skin and look him in the eye. “You haven’t come.”

“You’re tired.” He shakes his head nonchalantly, but the way his chest heaves with stuttering breaths gives him away. 

He should know by now that you’re stubborn and won’t let this slide. You’re shaking your head emphatically. “Not too tired.”

He’s about to protest when you reach behind you, setting your hands on his knees and your chest puffing out, and the sight of your tits presented proudly in his face is enough to silence him wholly. With great effort, you lift up your hips and slam them down, and he’s already shuddering. Despite your exhaustion, you find a moderate rhythm, grinding into him on the downbeat. His hands find your waist, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the way your tits bounce with the rise and fall of your hips. You can tell he’s close because the muscles in his lower stomach are jumping, so you swirl your hips experimentally, and that’s all he needs. He grunts with a jerk of his hips into you, spilling into the condom, and his head falls into the valley of your chest, murmuring softly prettiest baby and angel and perfect.

He’s hugging your waist and pressing kisses to your chest which is already littered with purple and red bruises, and you bring your hands to the sides of his head, smoothing his hairline at his temple with your thumbs. Nestling your nose into the mess of his hair, you press kisses to the crown of his head. It’s his turn to bury his face in your neck, and it gives you a chance to look down his back. Remorse crumples beneath your ribs as you see the red lines of your nails sweeping down the length of his spine, so you turn away, pressing your face to the back of his head and stretching your arms to wrap about his neck. It’s a well-deserved moment of quiet, just the hushed sounds of breath evening out. For as much as his mind was racing earlier in the evening, Steve’s brain is finally quiet, content. Your head, on the other hand, is quite full, but the loudest thought is just that it feels so good to be held!!!! To be held by him!!!!

Neither of you wants to pull away, but after a couple minutes, the dampness still trickling out of you demands attention. With your legs still wrapped around him, he turns to lay you back down on the couch, and he hangs over you, propped up on one arm. Knowing you’re going to be sensitive, he looks you in the eye. You nod. Slowly but surely, he starts to pull out of you and in the process, pulls a groan from you. He pauses halfway through, “You alright?” You’re nodding again but you also grab his wrist to steady yourself. Your grip tightens as he finishes pulling out, and you’re both panting, mourning the loss of fullness and warmth and closeness. He dips his head to plant a kiss on your knee. “I’ll go grab a washcloth, yeah?”

He stands and grabs his underwear from the floor. 

“Hey, can you toss me the sweatshirt?” You point to the first discarded piece of clothing, and he throws it back to you. You tug it over your head while he swiftly removes the condom and ties it off before slipping into his boxers. Rounding the couch to go upstairs, he leans down to kiss your forehead, and the simple affection seems somehow much more intimate than everything that preceded it. 

“Be back in a sec.”

—

Steve’s padding his way down the stairs, so you know he found socks somewhere upstairs. He makes a show of hopping over the back of the couch to sit at your feet. You’re hugging a pillow to your chest, knees bent and pressed together. With a slow hand, he pries your legs apart and presents the washcloth to you with a smile which you return halfheartedly. He’s ever so gentle, wiping carefully to remove all the stickiness from between your thighs. Once satisfied with his work, he sets the cloth aside on the end table. “And because I think you’re really gonna wanna wash your underwear before you put it back on, I brought you these.” He pulls out a second pair of boxers. “Plus, I thought it’d be fun to match.”

He’s grinning at you, and you try to match his energy but fail, taking the boxers from him and slipping them on. “Thanks, Stevie.”

His arm rests on the back of the couch casually, but he watches you with furrowed brows and great concern. He waits for you to explain yourself, and when you don’t, he begins to prod, “You okay?”

Swallowed in his sweatshirt, you tighten the pillow against your chest, trying to shore up all of your defenses before proceeding. You stare at the ceiling. “I have a question, but I don’t know how to ask it.”

He shakes his head, eyes trained on you. “You know you can ask me anything.”

You swallow harshly, and you still can’t meet his gaze. “Was—was this just an easy way for you to get off?”

He wasn’t sure where you were going to go with your question, but he finds himself thoroughly unprepared for what you do ask. “What?”

“Was I just…an easy fuck? I know you said you hadn’t really been on dates recently, and I don’t know, I just thought maybe you saw me as an easy target ‘cuz you already knew I liked you.”

His mind is reeling from your accusation, and he wants to be mad but only finds himself deflated and at a loss for words when he sees the scared look in your eye. He can see you going over everything he did, everything he said that night in your brain, searching for sincerity. His mouth is open as he searches for something to say. 

“No,” he whispers. “No way.” Much more firm. 

“Then, why did you do it?” You sit up to demand more. “Why now? Because you were very clear before that you didn’t want me the way I wanted you when you walked away without saying anything when I told you I was in love with you!” Embarrassment blooms at your outburst, so the next words come out quiet. “What am I supposed to think?”

“That I’m a jerk,” he replies weakly. “That I’m a stupid jerk who doesn’t know how to understand his feelings, let alone talk about them.”

Your eyes are wide. “I don’t feel bad for you.”

“You shouldn’t.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “I guess I just kept thinking about how things would change between us, and I didn’t want anything to change. Not that I didn’t like you like that, but I thought it’d be so much easier to lose you if we went for it. Then I went and lost you anyway….” He trails off, empty eyes trained at the floor. “I just didn’t know how to tell you any of that, I didn’t have the words. So I left.” 

The silence that follows is physically painful, and when he finally musters the courage to raise his gaze to you, you’re already staring back at him with an unreadable expression. 

“No offense, Steve, but that’s stupid as fuck.”

Of course, you know how to make him laugh after the terrifying, impossible task of sharing his feelings, and it feels good to laugh with you about it because it had made him sick with guilt for months. 

“It’s hard to talk about your feelings, I get it, but dude, there are better solutions than walking away from someone and then avoiding them for literal months.”

He runs his hands over his face. “I know, I know. But you make me stupid.” 

“You do stupid just fine on your own.” 

He’s glad you’re smiling again. 

“I do really like you,” he confesses with the ghost of a grin.

“As a friend?” you tease with a raised eyebrow.

“As way more than a friend.” He wants to say it, wants to say the word sitting on the tip of his tongue so badly, but everything in his body is refusing. So he looks at you with these big, round, adoring eyes, and he hopes you get it. You smile like you understand. 

“Okay, just checking.”

“And I think we should go for it.”

This genuinely surprises you, and while you’re not one to say no to what you want, you have to make sure he means it. “Really?”

“Really. The last two months sucked without you. All that you never know what you had ‘til it’s gone shit.” And he can’t tell you he loves you, so instead he says, “If I could spend the rest of my life with you, I would. No question.”

This makes you laugh, but he knows it’s not a joke. “Alright, slow your roll, lover boy.” The mirth fades slightly from your face, and he can tell what’s coming next is hard for you to say out loud. “I’m glad you’re all ready to go, but—” A deep breath. “But I need you to know that you hurt me.”

He’s nodding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

The apology is genuine.

“I forgive you.” You mean it too. “But it just means that we’ll have to take it slow. If you’re okay with that.”

His hand seeks out yours, finding it on your knee. He squeezes tightly. 

“I’d wait for you forever.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #major apology to everyone who had to read this without italics i forget they don't transfer during the Great Google Docs Copy Paste

[autisticlee]

I know I need to "just do things by myself" like literally everyone tells me, but I really wish I had someone I can always ask to go places with me even if it's just to one store for one quick thing.

I barely have the ability to function enough to take care of myself daily. leaving the house for any reason is basically impossible most days. I don't have the energy and ability to drive, find the thing I need at a store, interact with people, and do the checkout dance, then drive home, all while acting "normal" (or appropriate/presentably human enough) in public with the added bonus of sensory overload. for most people, going to the store is one single task. that's all it is. for me, it's hundreds of simultaneously occurring steps I need to remember to do and maintain the entire time....

it's so hard to explain this to people. no one gets it. but i need someone else to do the human-ing for me and I just follow along. they drive, answer or ask questions and let focus be on them, lead me to the thing I need, let me copy them so I dont stand out with my weirdness...so many times i'll go to a store to get a few things alone. the sensory cacophony of everything hitting me at once makes me forget what I'm looking for, tunnel vision on the offending sensory input and can't see where i'm going, can't find things even if they're in the same place they've always been, i've run into people and things, knocking stuff over, because my body disconnects from my brain and it's hard to control. if people talk to me, I can't process their words or respond. I can't ask questions if I need to. i'll wander lost for way longer than I want to be there.

this whole time, i'm trying my best to put on a mask and appear "normal" so I can blend in, but i'm struggling and it's probably obvious because idk how to act "normal" or as expected when alone. so many times I come home without one or more of the things I needed from a store even if I had a list in hand.

I completely space out and dissociate way more often than i would like. not even stores when i need to go in and out quickly, but anywhere. if I try going to a thing that's supposed to be fun, like say a festival or aquarium or anything else, and I go alone because I don't have a friend to go with, I spend the whole time in a sensory overloaded, dissociative state, while being required to perform "normal human" rituals and masking. then get home, realizing I didn't enjoy it or retain much of it because my brain was overworking and i got exhausted as soon as i got there. i didnt get to relax and enjoy any of it because it was so much work and my brain shut down while there to try protecting itself. it's a whole brain exercise that exhausts me beyond belief. this whole time. i'm trying my best to put on a mask and appear "normal" so I can blend in, but i'm struggling and it's probably actually very obvious because idk how to act "normal" when alone and don't have someone to copy and follow.

if I have someone familiar with me, especially someone comfortable who i dont have to lead or entertain, I can ground myself better and focus more on them. I follow and copy them so I dont have the try as hard to be a human and think about doing human things. it's easier to copy someone doing the things than to try to think of the hundred steps you probably forgot and perform them alone. they always answer people so fast before I even processed half the words that were said to me.

it always surprises me when people do that. they'll answer a question before I even processed it was a question! I always need someone to be there for me to answer for me because i'm too slow, they get impatient, and/or I answer incorrectly, if i'm able to speak at all being semi-speaking. at least half the time if I do get words out, they don't hear me or mishear me. for example, just yesterday, I made my mom go to a new sushi restaurant with me. the waiter apparently asked if I was ready to pay, my mom was gesturing to me ans asking if im ready or something and the waiter was looking at me, but my brain couldn't make any of it out at all. I was staring between them like ???????? and gave up and just shook my head no. my brain was trying to figure it out and process anything at all, but i got incredibly confused and completely froze up. my mom answered "not yet" and they left. I was like, what was that about ? She said "they wanted you to pay now. you're ready to go right? now we have to wait again." I didn't get any of that, and if I was alone, that would have been even worse because I wasn't able to figure out anything or even say words. I need someone with me at all times to cover my perpetually lost and confused ass lmao

but it's also a struggle when the other person is like this too, puts too much attention on me, or expects me to lead us both. it causes the same effects as if i'm alone, plus the added bonus of needing to entertain and/or advocate/answer for and lead THEM, when I can't even do it for myself! I had a friend like that and it was annoying and immediately exhausting every time we hung out.

I don't know if any of this is making sense. i'm sure at least one person's gets it, though, right? how it's hard to consciously and appropriately act human in public when alone, but copying or hiding behind another person makes it easier than thinking about it all yourself, while sensory overload! if i can I just exist along with them and the focus isn't all on me like it is when i'm alone, it's a lot easier.

acting "normal" like a human, or basically what's "appropriate" in public spaces around others takes so much brain power that most people don't have to even think about! because it's automatic for them. so they can't fathom how much i'm struggling and it's so easy for them to say "just do it/you don't need help/you don't need someone to do it with or for you/you're being lazy!" plus adding on sensory overload you can't ignore, while everyone else is able to completely tune out and ignore the horrible lighting, the squeaky cart wheels, the crying babies and screaming kids, the 50 different conversations, the loud phone ring tone a few aisles over, the annoying music playing, someone dropping a box of something, crinkling of wrappers, the cash register beeps, the air being a bit too chilly, the annoying seam on your socks, the scratchy material of your jacket, the overly bright display of products, etc. everything all at once in great intensity. people who can ignore this don't know how lucky they are. they also don't understand what it feels like. it's exhausting.

i'm like a cave gremlin seeing light and the world for the first time ever, every time I leave my room. everything is confusing and overwhelming, but because i'm human shaped, everyone expects me to have the expected human behaviors and they freak out when i dont meet those standards. they don't care how difficult it is for me and how much i'm struggling. they won't help or accommodate me. it has to be my fault I made them uncomfortable.

exposure doesn't make it any better and arguably makes it worse because more sensory overload and more need to use my brain to overthink every word and movement I do, leading to a very deep exhaustion immediately 😫

this is why functioning labels or comparing me to my "good" days/experiences sucks and shouldn't happen. I often need help/support and people expect me to ~do it myself~ and refuse to help me so I struggle and fail to exist correctly.

#autistic #autism #lee rambles #actually autistic #neurodivergent #audhd #autism things #sensory processing disorder #sensory overstimulation #sensory overload #i copy pasted this from where i first typed it and somehow pasted it in the incorrect order because tumblr app is a nightmare #it kept jumping as i was trhing to paste so things pasted jn the wrong spots. but i *think* i fixed it. apologies if not lmao #its one of those days. where i wish to go a place and do a thing but have no one to ask so i will not go #i need a dedicated beat friend i can always ask who preferably has the same work schedule as me or flexible time #or become rich and hire someone to do things with me l m a o #why is tumblr app such a nightmare though why is it jumping around while i type #and why does it turn a whole paragraph italics when i only highlighted ONE WORD. #and dont even get me started on trying to rearrange pictures in a post lmao #this has been a rant within a rant #autism stuff

[ros-is-writing]

Polyeclipse arranged marriage/mafia AU drabble pt3!

Characters: Zam, oc, Vitalasy, oc(?)

Word count: 1573

Previous

Zam adjusted his shirt collar again, making sure it was sitting straight. Even if he didn’t care what anyone in the Eclipse Mafia thought of him, he still wanted to look nice. For himself at least.

“Stop messing,” Varellie swatted Zam’s hand away. Her own clothes were perfect, of course, a black trench coat falling elegantly over a yellow blouse and matching black slacks. Her clothes didn’t scream “mafia boss” alone, but with her in them, they gave the impression of danger. She made the clothes, they didn’t make her.

Zam on the other hand looked like his clothes were straight jacketing him into place. His belt was too high, his collar was too tight, and the earrings he had on kept catching in his hair. Varellie shook her head and started adjusting his clothes, wiggling and pulling the fabric around until it sat right on Zam’s body. She gave him a hair tie to put his hair up, then started unbuttoning his shirt collar.

“Hey, wait-“ Zam objected. “Keep that closed, my sexy collarbones have to stay hidden.”

Varellie laughed, “what? You’re engaged to him, he can see your collarbones.” She kept going, popping about four buttons open before Zam stopped her, his hair sufficiently tied back.

“Okay, that’s too much,” he closed the button she just opened. “I’m keeping my chest hair to myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Varellie shrugged and turned on her heel, coat swishing behind her. “Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.”

Their heels clicked as they walked across the marble floor towards the elevators. The building they had chosen to meet the Eclipse Mafia in was in former Pierce territory, meaning it was neutral ground for both of them. That was good, Zam decided. Eclipse was notorious for having unfair advantages on their own territory because of exploits. And he didn’t want to deal with that bullshit.

As they entered the elevator, Varellie hit the button for the top floor. A few bodyguards filled in behind them, more of a courtesy than a requirement. The agreement was going to be peaceful, and Varellie and Zam could handle themselves just fine. But it couldn’t hurt to have a couple meat shields.

Zam wasn’t nervous per say, but there was something making him chew his lip and fidget with the weapons concealed under his clothes. This was Eclipse they were talking about. Sure, Zam was known to be overly ruthless and bloodthirsty, but Eclipse was on a whole other level. They didn’t just kill people, they tortured people.

“Stop messing,” the Boss snapped again, waking Zam from his thoughts. Zam snapped his hands behind his back and stared straight forwards until the doors opened, fitting perfectly into the picture of Mafia heir. Maybe Varellie’s boss voice was good for something.

The elevator opened with a quiet ping! announcing their arrival to the people already there. They turned when the sound of the Boss’s and Zam’s heels sounded in the room. Six people, Zam counted, the Eclipse Boss, four bodyguards, and of course, the Midnight Fox.

Zam didn’t look at him as he and the Boss arrived at the table. There were four seats, two on each side. All of them sat at the same time out of necessity rather than courtesy. Even on neutral ground, any action could be seen as threatening or as a power move. They had to be careful.

Only after both bosses pulled out written agreements and began to speak did Zam look across the table from him at his future husband (ew, Zam did not like that). He was currently focused on the bosses, so he didn’t notice Zam staring. Good, because Zam needed to know what he was stuck with for the next however long.

Vitalasy was pretty of course, Zam did in fact like men, that was an unchanging fact. And the two of them had met before, though often on opposite sides of a heated treaty table. But now Zam had time to really take in Vitalasy.

They called him “The Midnight Fox” because of his trademark fox mask that we wore when doing assassinations. Looking at him now, Zam would say that he had the features of a fox in his real face too. Well… Zam reworked his previous statement: Vitalasy was pretty in an eerie way. He looked a little like a reflection of a person in water, just a little too defined. But hey, at least he was nice to look at.

While Zam had been taking in his future husband (ew, again), the Boss had been speaking with the Boss of Eclipse. Zam tuned back into their conversation just in time to hear his name mentioned.

“Zam, do you object to living in Eclipse’s proxy headquarters every other month?” The Boss asked, turning to Zam smoothly like the movement was choreographed.

“I do not object,” Zam answered with no hesitation. He and the Boss had discussed the terms of the agreement earlier, so he knew what he was agreeing to. (He did in fact object, but for the alliance, he supposed he could stomach it.)

Vitalasy was asked the same question, then the Bosses turned to both of them.

“The purpose of having you in each other's headquarters is not only to discourage assassination from the opposing side, but to keep you close for strategizing too.” Oh boy, the Boss was about to lecture.

“You two will work together to recover the Pierce family's heart trade, and incorporate it into our families,” the Boss tapped a piece of paperwork that likely had that exact thing written on it. “You’ll be given full access to any associates stationed at your headquarters, and you have permission to bring in any members from our headquarters, though they may only go if we allow.”

Okay, simple enough. Zam already knew this part. It would be like a fun little puzzle for him, he’d been doing this stuff since he was little.

“It’s important that you maintain a public appearance of marriage,” Eclipse’s Boss said, and Zam felt like a knife was twisting in his side. That was the part he didn’t like. “If either of our sides sees that you mean nothing to each other, the alliance will crumble.” Eclipse’s Boss looked at both Vitalasy and Zam sternly, making eye contact to ensure they were paying attention

“Make them believe you are family,” the words felt like a coffin slamming closed. Fuck. This. Zam did not want to be seen as friendly with anyone in Eclipse, much less in love.

Then Vitalasy cleared his throat lightly, making everyone look at him sharply. He let their gaze settle on him for a moment, preening, before opening his mouth and speaking.

“For personal reasons, may I ask that the physical wedding be held in six months rather than three?” He asked calmly.

Everyone at the table stiffened. It was one thing for Vitalasy to ask to change the agreement, but bringing in “personal reasons”? No one did that unless they were desperate. Zam sucked in a sharp breath, with the people in this room, this could go any way.

Eclipse’s boss tilted his head diplomatically, “Vitalasy has discussed this with me and I second this proposal.” Zam nearly gasped out loud, this was uncalled for. Shit just didn’t happen like this, what were they trying to pull?

“Do you have a secondary agreement paper?” Zam found himself asking. A few seconds later his brain caught up and he realized that if Eclipse was changing the wedding date, they could have very well changed another specific of the contract too.

“We do,” the Eclipse Boss pulled a folder from his side and placed it on the table. “It is identical to the first one, but the wedding date is changed.”

Varellie slid it over to their side of the table almost immediately, and put both agreements side by side. Zam put his finger over the wedding date change so she knew to ignore it, then let her scan both documents. He traced behind her, albeit slower, to double check.

“Very well,” the Boss said, leaning back from the paper. She separated the new documents from the folder given to her by the Eclipse Boss and handed one copy to the other side of the table. Then she supplied a pen out of her own coat and signed the new agreement with precision. Zam printed his neat, loopy signature next to hers on the line provided. Then they switched agreements and repeated the process.

Once the agreement was signed, both parties took a copy and said their stiff goodbyes. Zam was two seconds from booking it the fuck out of there before Vitalasy suddenly grabbed his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. They were still on opposite sides of the table, Zam froze. Vitalasy said nothing, just squinted and stretched his hand still holding Zam’s over to his side of the table, implying that he should kiss Vitalasy’s hand too. Zam bristled, but did it anyway, lips barely brushing Vitalasy’s weird veiny hand before he pulled back and shoved Vitalasy’s hand away.

Varelllie quickly guided him back to the elevator before either Eclipse members could pull any more bullshit. As soon as the doors closed, she banged her head against the wall, a long sigh leaving her mouth.

“And we’re officially allied with exploiters,” she groaned.

“I’m marrying one!” Zam shrieked.

#i haven’t figured out how to copy and paste into tumblr and keep the italics #someone help please #lifesteal smp #lssmp #lsshipping #mcytshipping #princezam #vitalasy #polyeclipse #vitalasubzam #ros fics

[an-inky-fingered-lass]

be the stillness of the moon

An alternate version of my fic, whistling static when the young learn to fly. Rated T.

Read on ao3.

He found her out on the porch, back against one of the cabin walls and one knee tugged to her chest.

Hunch proving true, Coulson snagged a familiar, heavy woolen blanket on his way out and eased the door open, letting it squeak just the slightest bit.

“Hey.”

May was staring off into the distance, the slope of her shoulders letting him know she’d heard and acknowledged his presence. She was still in pajamas, the soft, worn fabric not nearly warm enough for this kind of chill.

Phil made his way over carefully and settled down onto the wooden bench, noisy steps and his shoulders soft and easy. “May.”

“Wanted to see the sky.”

Her voice came out just below a murmur, but Coulson exhaled quietly -- relief and surprise both.

“One of those nights, huh.”

It took a long second, but she nodded. Coulson slouched comfortably, wedged his shoulder against the wooden slats of the cabin. Their cabin.

“How long’ve you been out here?” It was light, but the edge of concern appeared without his permission. It was alright.

May just shook her head.

She’d been off the last few days, snappish or a different sort of silent than usual. He’d kept an eye out but let her be, knowing she would bring whatever it was up if she needed to, and also that sometimes all he could do for her was give her the time and space she needed to deal in her own time, her own ways.

It had been months now, settling into this little cabin and building the kind of peacefulness he’d barely ever dared to imagine; enough time for him to recover his strength somewhat, for that barely perceptible air of tightly wound exhaustion that had surrounded May for years to begin to dissipate. They’d been able to start settling in, building the routines that they both, May especially, needed.

So much of it still felt new. They had thirty years between them, plenty of those spent living in close quarters and through the kind of hard years that taught you the most about a person, but it was still…different, when it was just their four walls; a smaller space, none of the responsibilities that had been a distraction and a stressor and a sanctuary all at once.

He’d gotten to hear May laugh, really laugh, for the first time in so long. He felt more like himself now than he had in years, settled and steady in his own mind and skin. They were still bound to have bad days. Always had, even back when they’d been barely more than kids, only beginning to learn what it would mean to live the life they’d chosen. May was still so used to shouldering everything on her own, and despite contrived appearances to the contrary, Phil actually sucked rather magnificently at the whole talking about it thing. They were working on it, like they were on everything else. It was still hard, sometimes.

“Wanna tell me what’s up?”

“You don’t have to stay,” May said quietly. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Okay, not an answer, but not a no, go away either. The fact that she wasn’t claiming to be fine now said…a lot.

“I’d like to, though.”

May blinked at him, genuinely surprised.

“If that’s okay?”

It took another moment, but she nodded. Phil tapped the blanket in his lap, drawing her attention to it, before he lifted it up, gave it a flap and wrapped it carefully around her shoulders. She had too many old injuries to be out in this kind of cold, and the weight would help. “You in pain?”

He saw her hesitate, falter. They’d had the be honest talk a few weeks ago, both of them equally as bad about powering through pain when they no longer needed to. It had taken May literally collapsing on her bad leg after pushing it for weeks for that to happen.

“Some,” May said finally, and Phil breathed out another little bit of worry. “Just stiff. I’ll take care of it later.”

Phil gave the blanket another pointed flick until she bundled herself up more securely, a little of the tension bleeding off her shoulders as she did. They had a few hot water bottles bundled up in one of the kitchen cupboards. He doubted she’d be up for a massage any time soon, but he could go dig those out in a bit, boil some water. As much as he wanted to, he knew better than to suggest going inside just yet.

The stars were bright, this far away from any light pollution. May loved it out here, despite the cold, the endless depth of the sky stretching on and on and on. Phil squinted habitually at his watch (he wasn’t wearing one) and then up at the moon, digging up rusty memories and figuring about three a.m., the angle of the waning crescent.

Pine was sweet in the air. It was still so easy to remember a world cracked apart. Phil swallowed against swelling relief, not for the first time, the reminder of more than he could have ever wished for.

May exhaled softly, letting something go. Phil took the cue and broke the silence, taking a leap.

“You went to see Robin and Polly today?”

May shook her head. “Didn’t go. Drove halfway there and turned around. I called Polly to apologize, made up some excuse, I don’t know.”

Oh. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Couldn’t.”

Phil took a slow breath, making sure he would sound the way he wanted to. “Daisy’s not upset with you, you know.”

There was a long, trembling pause. May’s voice was quiet, when she finally spoke. “She has every right to be. It was stupid of me to yell.”

Their pseudo-daughter (when had it gotten so easy to think of her like that?) was sound asleep in the little room off the hall (officially declared hers whenever she wanted it), here to stay with them the two weeks until Mack called her in to report for her new team’s first official mission. May had come home struggling, hiding it well enough that even he’d missed it at first, and it had been over…nothing, really. Daisy had stared after May’s retreating back with nothing but concern, reading the real reasons for her old mentor’s sudden lashing out in her rigid stride, the harsh lines of her back and shoulders. She knew May so much better than Phil thought either of them realized, these days.

He took another breath, still tempering his tone. “Stupid is the idea that you don’t deserve to be loved.”

May actually startled, turning around to stare at him with a look that tried its hardest to be a glare but fell quite a ways short. “I…what?”

Phil shrugged, keeping the movement gentle and easy despite the ache pulling tight in his chest. “C’mon, May. It’s not like I don’t have some idea of what’s going through your head. But it’s stupid. And I’ll keep saying so ‘til you believe me.”

“This isn’t about…” May closed her eyes with a growl, letting her head thud back against the paneled walls. “I don’t know how to do this, Phil.”

“Do what?”

“Live. Like this. Just be, I don’t know, a person. ”

“May…”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” May turned to stare at him, implacable. “I’m not the person I want to be, not… I’m working on it, but it’s not worth it if I’m hurting you— if I’m hurting everyone along the way.”

Phil shook his head, bewildered. “Where is this coming from?”

May just shook her head.

“Is this about--”

“It’s not about anything,” May snapped. He just blinked at her. There’d been no real heat in it.

May shook her head and looked away, propping an elbow on her good knee and letting her shoulders slump, palm bracing her forehead. Phil could feel her retreating, slipping farther and farther away.

He sighed and scooted closer before he could think for too long about it, rubbing a hand softly up and down the length of her spine. May wasn’t tense, didn’t flinch. Phil exhaled softly.

“Hey.”

May leaned slowly against him, her head still bowed, and he shifted to better settle her weight against his shoulder, breathing gentle and steady.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He shook his head, knowing she could feel it. “What’s eating at you?”

It’d been so long that the unspoken things just kind of spoke for themselves. May’s snappishness over the past few days hadn’t been the kind of snappish she got when she was pissed about something -- this sort of scattered lapse in control was the exact opposite of shutting down, of keeping everything contained the way she was wont to do. She was doing her best to let him in now because she was in a place to accept support without depending on it, because grounded and self-reliant when it came to emotional stability had always been May at her happiest.

The kind of trust in the trying had carried them through more hells than he could count. It’d been a constant in his life for so long. He’d never taken it for granted. It still meant the world.

She was on the side of the hand he could feel, and the blanket was soft under his palm as he rubbed careful circles over her back.

“I walked the perimeter,” May muttered at last, muffled. Phil just nodded. He’d noticed the mud earlier, caking her boots.

“Checked all the weapons, the locks, the go-bags. Just sat there taking the gun apart, putting it back together. I haven’t gotten like this since that stupid detail in the Alps, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Too stressed,” Phil offered softly. The frustration in May’s scoff came through loud and clear.

“With what. ”

They were opposites, in this respect. He needed time to unwind if he didn’t want to start losing his mind, always had been that way. That was why field command hadn’t bothered him, why Director would have always been a little bit miserable. The weight of it all, he’d learned a long time ago how to carry.

May could handle anything while she was in the middle of it, would take the weight of anything and somehow still manage to stay centered, steady. It was once things slowed down that she’d get wound tighter and tighter, frustration usually the first thing to break the dam. She’d never really thought that was a valid reason to struggle, either. May knew all of it, and still thought she ought to be better than all things that made her human.

“Too much, too soon?”

May scoffed harder.

“What happened today?”

“Nothing. That’s the point.”

Phil just waited.

May straightened a little, after a while, pulling away and scrubbing her hands over her face. She looked away for another long moment.

“Nothing happened. It's just me.” The anger there was a clear mask, now, something heavier underneath. Bitterness?

He stayed quiet long enough to be sure she wasn’t planning to say anything else just yet. “Kiddo loves you, Mel.”

May looked more tired than ever, looking back at him.

“She misses you, wants to spend time with you. There’s no version of that where it’s a bad thing.”

There was another long silence. Phil kept quiet until he felt the air start to unravel, the weight slowly dissipating. May grappled silently with herself, motionless at his side.

He could feel the moment she decided to speak. May didn’t look at him, the words just barely there.

“I see myself hurting her.” Pause. “You. Daisy.”

Phil made a soft sound before he could stop himself. May shook her head in response without looking up.

“I know. I know it’s just… there’s no meaning to it. It’s not… but I…

“There’s nothing to fight here,” May said softly, as close to helpless as she ever let herself sound. “Just…”

“Yourself,” Phil said softly.

May nodded. “And that’s what I wanted. I need that, need to deal with… but I’m no good to be around like this.”

“What if we want to, though?”

May just looked at him, frustrated and desolate. After a split second the look vanished; she was unreadable to him, for a moment, blank.

“May. There’s nothing you could do that would make us-- make me want you far away,” he said quietly, steady, and watched the mask begin to crack. “If you need some air, some time to yourself-- that’s different. But, May, nothing is going to make me want to give up on this. I don’t want anything more than to see you happy.”

He watched her swallow, struggle a second to speak and then decide against it.

“We need you,” he said gently, because he was trying to say, do you understand how much you are loved? and sometimes that was the version of it May understood best. “Me, Daisy. We all do. You are so loved, Melinda, you know that?”

May pressed the heels of her hands hard into her eyes for a second, dropping her hands back into her lap as she lifted her head to stare out at the night.

“I love you,” Phil said, and watched the tears well up, the way May closed her eyes tight. “Melinda, hey. Look at me?”

She did, finally, and he reached out to cup her cheek with the hand he could feel, wiping away the tears trickling down her face. May had been fighting this for so long, but now she just looked at him, unblinking and vulnerable, her hands folded together in her lap.

“You’re gonna be able to hear it without crying,” Phil said quietly. “Even on bad days. It’ll take time, probably, but we have time, okay?”

It hadn’t been a hard thing for her to say, the first time. She’d just waited for the right moment. None of that was a surprise, once he’d gotten his wits back enough to stop gaping in the hall like an idiot. He needed words, sometimes, to understand, so that was what she’d given him.

It was still different when it came to herself. It wasn’t hatred May carried for herself any more, hadn’t been for a while; there’d been a quiet morning and a good hike and in far fewer words she’d told him that much herself. It wasn’t quite peace yet, either, but in so many ways it was forgiveness. He’d watched her fight for it for years, these hard-won inches of kindness, had realized a while ago that that was something he still needed to learn for himself.

May’s strength had never begun or ended at her ability to beat people to a pulp. That had never been the part he was in awe of.

Thing is, strength has never been known to make anything any easier -- not unless you’re moving house with a grand piano. It’s just a promise you’ll make it through.

“It’s okay,” Phil said, steady. It wasn’t so gentle, this time. Melinda needed certainty almost always more than she ever needed gentleness; he’d never entirely gotten over the surprise of realizing that was something he could give her. “You’re not alone, alright? We’re here. We have time.”

They’d lived so many lives, so many years spent choosing the world over theirs. Years of sacrifice, years sacrificed. They were never getting any of that back, but this was still a gift. Nothing had ever felt so much like hope to him as it did to be able to say that so easily -- we have time.

May didn’t say a word, but she leaned forwards to press her forehead into his shoulder, one arm reaching out to hold on tight.

He held her until she stopped shaking, until her breathing settled back to steady.

After a long time, May pulled away, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Eyes red, she managed to look disgruntled enough that Phil had to bite back a laugh.

“Lighter?” he suggested gently.

May grumbled. “Headache.”

She’d hated to cry since he’d known her. Claimed she had since she was a kid, that it always just left her feeling worse than before, wrung out. He’d said lighter because he could hear it, though, the edge of strain gone from the way she breathed whether or not she’d admit it. He would never manage to explain to her the relief it was, May allowing herself to unravel this far without so much of the old pain behind her eyes, him being able to just hold her without any terror gripping at his chest, so he didn’t try.

They sat there in silence for a few long, slow moments. Once the sense of ease had settled, Phil got to his feet, holding out a hand.

“Stars’ll be there tomorrow,” he said with a little grin, as May blinked up at him. “We need to sleep, Mel.”

May hesitated, but grabbed his hand. She didn’t wobble, as she stood up, but she didn’t quite succeed at hiding a wince, either. They wrapped arms around each other, familiar movements (except now they were just old, not recently injured), and made their way a little creakingly towards the door.

And paused, just inside the threshold.

A lamp was alight. Daisy’s dim outline was at the stove, but they could see her grin as she turned round at them, visibly chewing over potential remarks and discarding most of them.

“Morning,” she landed on, cheekily, and he heard May groan, struggling to extricate herself from her blanket and his steadying arm without the considerable indignity of toppling over.

“Why are you awake.”

“Were we too quiet?” Phil asked, grinning back at their girl.

“Mm-hm.”

May limped over towards the little counter and Daisy moved to meet her, holding out a mug and a hot water bottle. May accepted both.

“I’m sorry,” Phil heard her say, quietly, as he made his way over to sprawl over the couch. Daisy’s answering tone was soft, genuinely warm.

“S’all good, May. I know… but I think I know what you were trying to get at, maybe. We can talk about it later?”

May nodded. Phil smiled a little at the relief bleeding off her shoulders. She couldn’t exactly reciprocate, with both hands full of recently boiled liquid in various forms, but she leaned into it, when Daisy wrapped her in a brief hug. The look that passed between them said more than words ever could. Daisy’s smile was soft, as she pulled away, and that was that.

“AC?”

He grinned up at her as she came over, delivering another mug. Over at the counter, May braced herself against the scrubbed wood and took a sip from her own, looking up with one eyebrow raised.

“Bitter.”

From May, that was the highest compliment a mug (or a maker) of hot cocoa could receive. Daisy grinned over at her.

Phil took a sip in his turn, and wow. “Bitter,” he agreed. He figured he sounded only a little bit dismayed. He caught the pointed look May sent him. Not a little, then.

“Good.”

Daisy edged very obviously away, gathering up a mug of her own. “Uh. Don’t taste mine.”

May eyed her for a second. And lunged.

Daisy yelped, evading; May feinted neatly (Phil recognized the move and grinned) and wound up with two mugs in her hands, Daisy flailing. “May-- ”

They’d figured before that Daisy still couldn’t outclass May when it came down to raw speed, not in this case without quaking either her or the cocoa -- how that was still true given the amount of pain May’s stance said she was in, he didn’t know, but neither of them had spilled a drop. Phil just sighed. May took a sip.

“Daisy --”

“It’s just a little sugar-- ”

“This is not a little --”

“I’m young, my metabolism can handle it--”

“It’s the middle of the night--” May stopped. Glared. “Are you calling me old.”

“Nope!” Daisy said, as brightly as humanly possible. “Never! C’mon, it’s almost morning, mom, it’s like a once a year thing, we’re already up, you need to get warm, c’mon drink yours and gimmie!”

Mom. No one so much as blinked. May might have maybe handed over the mug with less grumbling than she otherwise would have. Maybe. Phil grinned to himself when he saw her scrub at her eyes behind Daisy’s back, just out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re coming on a run with me tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Daisy bundled towards her, herding towards the sofa. “First you need to get off your feet, sit, please, you’re freezing.”

They wound up all bundled up on the sofa together, sipping mugs of cocoa and tangled up in all the blankets in the house. Phil started telling stories, because there was cocoa and why not, dredging up some Daisy had never heard before and that May would have grumbled at, at length, on almost any other day.

Daisy’s ringing laughter filled every corner. The world closed in around them, just for a little while, a little circle of warmth, safety. Family.

May just listened, leaning against him again with Daisy’s head on her shoulder, eyes soft and content.

She was the only one of them who hadn’t gotten any sleep at all, but it was Daisy who dozed off first, her cheek still on May’s shoulder and no tension at all between her brows. May lifted her mug into the coffee table and slipped a pillow beneath her cheek but otherwise wouldn’t move, hands feather-light as they brushed a strand of Daisy’s hair gently out of her eyes. Her eyes were wet again, but she just looked at him, aching and steadfast in the darkness, the gentle light of a waxing moon.

They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to.

They would all wake up the next morning groaning, lower backs yelling obscenities and Daisy’s neck stiff from being bent at a near-right angle for far too long. For the few hours of darkness remaining, they all slept peacefully.

May awoke with the first rays of sunlight, blinking her eyes open to find her family huddled comfortably around her, upturned faces washed in gold.

They were at peace, safe and warm. All of them bore ghosts in their shadows, stubborn and lingering; some things would still hurt, come morning. Light tumbled shyly through the window, growing in strength until it sprawled, defiant, into every corner of the room.

The day was going to be beautiful. May exhaled, soft and slow.

#oh gosh italics don't copy over huh #why do i use so many italics #anyway #not sure how this happened entirely #i was never really planning to post this but i have two wips i'm really hoping to finish and post soon and #upon reread this one just zoomed past 'em #and i'm trying to not be so critical of everything i do and put some more stuff out there #so here we are! #hopefully gonna be posting more stuff soon #series: get out my machete and battle with time once again #the peaceful retirement au #melinda may #phil coulson #daisy johnson #agents of shield #agents of shield fanfic #aos fic #aos #agents of shield fanfiction #philinda #philindaisy #river's writing #inkspinner fic

[halsins-herbal-underpants]

I've seen a handful of those 'what do you use to write your fics?' polls/questions and every time they never list how I do it. I'm starting to wonder if its so out of the box its the the equivalent of writing out your grocery list in your car on an old McDonald's napkin with a broken colored pencil. Which I only bring up because that is how I write my grocery lists almost every time. (The pencil is blue)

#it's Notepad #I write every fic on Notepad #yes even the 57k one #beginning to end #i manually add the html for italics and bold around the words #at the very top of the file I put all the names locations and foreign words I use so I can scroll up to check spelling #i write disordered chunks of scenes and copy paste them into a proper timeline then add connecting bridges #when I stop editing I type NOT FINISHED YET & use ctrl+F to find the section later #the save file is always a keysmash #sometimes a new fic is the same keysmash and I have to add a zero #sometimes I have to add multiple zeros #i'm literally a possum from a garbage can someone taught to type

[some-creep]

Happy Friday. Uh. Sorry if this is messy I just wanted it to be done at this point. It's been sitting in gog docs for ages now.

"That's me?" The Inkling asked, pointing at a picture hanging on the wall in the unfamiliar apartment she'd been brought back to. It had hung there a while, judging by the layer of dust that had made its home in the decorative edges of the frame.

She stared at the image, but no recollection came. It was her, supposedly, dressed in a shimmery black dress standing next to a girl in much the same costume. That was the girl that brought her here. "That's…us?" She continued, looking over at the other Inkling, who had said her name was Callie, and who had done nothing but fret over her since they'd met. Callie said they knew each other, insisted on it, but always got too emotional to explain how they had known each other.

The other girl nodded, pointing up at the picture, "it's from our first big concert together."

"Concert?" She turned her attention back to the picture on the wall, but she could have just as well been looking at anybody. She rubbed the back of her neck, shrugging. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell."

Callie frowned, glancing down for a moment before speaking again. "That's alright, Marie, the doctor said it would take a while."

Marie, that was her name. That's what the hospital staff had called her and Callie seemed to agree. The name didn't seem all too familiar, but neither did anything else. The doctor told her not to stress herself out about the memory loss, and that eventually she'd start to remember, though no one would tell her why she had forgotten so much. There was an accident, that was all she knew, but it didn't make any sense because she had no injuries.

"Have we lived together a long time?" Marie asked, stepping away from the photo to further explore the apartment. It was a small, two bedroom apartment full of personal touches that, as far as Marie was concerned, were placed by a stranger.

Callie nodded again, scampering after Marie to give her a tour of their own apartment. "Yep! You found this place when we moved to the city because it was cheap and close enough to the studio." She explained, stumbling over her words as she spoke, realizing Marie didn't seem to react to any of it.

Marie could only nod, humming in response. It wasn't as if she didn't care, she just didn't know how to react. It was a perfectly fine apartment, full of unmatched decorations and a carpet that hadn't been vacuumed in months, causing a musty smell to follow her with every step. It just didn't register as home.

She walked into a bedroom and flipped on the light switch. Nothing seemed out of place, as if she was looking at a guest bedroom for a couple without any family to visit them. Marie didn't know if that's what they were, and Callie wouldn't elaborate.

"This was your room. Kinda." Callie explained, eyes scanning the room in hopes of finding something to fix Marie. Marie didn't give her enough time to mentally rifle through the drawers to decide what to show her next.

"Kinda?"

"We slept in the same bed together. In my room. Did you wanna see it?"

She shrugged, letting Callie pull her by the hand to the adjacent door that sat open. This room was far more lived in, with clothes scattered around the dresser and the floor. The bedspread was pulled down, half fallen off the bed.

Marie stepped over to it, staring blankly at it for a while before speaking up. "Can I sit?"

Callie would have tackled Marie if it meant getting her to sit on their bed again, but she settled on a weak little "yeah"and a quick head nod.

She sat down, looking around in silence. Callie, she assumed, had decorated the walls herself with complex patterns and cute decals. It was a far cry from the dull gray room that was once hers. She thought, maybe, that this room smelled familiar, though she couldn't be sure. Marie looked up at Callie, rubbing her hands on her knees, stopping only to pick at a loose thread she felt. "Are you my girlfriend?" The question felt inappropriate.

Callie froze, mind racing at the question. 'Kind of' wasn't a good answer, or even a correct answer, but it was a safe answer. No might be a safer answer but it was a worse answer because she still loved Marie and hoped Marie still loved her, or could love her again. But then there was the dangerous answer that Callie didn't want to say because it had gotten them in this mess to begin with!

"I am!"

—------

Marie had taken the news better than Callie anticipated, though she still couldn't shake the gnawing regret in her stomach after the fact. Marie just accepted it just as she'd accepted her name was Marie and this was where she lived, and had lived for years. She'd never had this much control over a person before, and Marie really had no choice but to trust everything she said. It wasn't a lie, but it still didn't feel right to talk about so soon, not when she was still squarely in the role of caretaker.

Still, those weeks of hospitalization had made her lonelier than she'd ever felt before. Their brief time out as solo artists with radically changing schedules hadn't felt as lonely as this.

Callie was scared to leave Marie alone for more than a few minutes, knowing what could happen if she did. If Marie noticed or even minded all of the extra attention, she didn't show it. Maybe she took it to be a normal part of their relationship that she simply couldn't remember and she didn't want to upset things any further than her memory loss already had. It made sense, given how unusually agreeable she was now. Callie explained to her things they usually did together, and Marie just went along with it, not knowing any better. That's why it felt disingenuous to make Marie cuddle up to her on the couch, but she'd missed her so much! It wasn't her fault! No one could blame her for being lonely.

Callie lay with her head on Marie's lap, curled up on the couch cushion beside her. She decided to hold Marie's hand, hoping it would keep her off her phone. They were still front and center in the media after what had happened, and Callie dared not think about any of it for too long for fear of crying unprompted and risking Marie asking too many questions. Callie knew Marie would learn too much too quickly if she was allowed online. She couldn't keep Marie in the dark forever, but she'd do it as long as she could. Maybe that way nothing bad would happen when things finally went back to normal! Callie didn't know how all that was going to work. But it was. It definitely was.

"Did we do this a lot?" Marie looked down at Callie, who she had accepted on her lap. Callie seemed naturally clingy.

"Yup. All the time! Especially after long days at work. Or if we hadn't seen each other for a while."

"Did we work a lot?"

"Usually, yeah. Even though you hated getting up early for stuff. But you get up with me now! Which is nice. I like to have company in the morning. I used to go for jogs and stuff on my days off and you'd still be sleeping when I got home."

Marie frowned. "I don't sound like I was a very good partner to you…"

"Huh- no! No no! No, don't take it that way!" She sat up, grabbing Marie's other hand and looking her in the eye. "I liked to come home and see you still all sleepy and cute and comfy and stuff! You just worked on stuff late after I went to bed is all! Like. Finances and stuff. Numbers!"

"Oh."

"Yup. So don't think I meant I didn't like that stuff. I did! In fact I really did maybe a little too much. Cuz, see sometimes because you're so cute when you're asleep and because you love me so so so much you gave me permission to… um." Callie stopped her rambling, blushing. "Nevermind that right now."

—----

Callie wasn't used to taking care of everything all by herself. Her and Marie were a team! But she never realized how much Marie was carrying that team until now. It wasn't just cooking and cleaning. Callie could grocery shop but she couldn't drive to get there. She couldn't take Marie with because someone could notice them and say something. They had the money for delivery services but was that sustainable long term? It would have to be. Then there were matters of business, both her own and Marie's, which she was now solely responsible for. Then there was the PR nightmare of this whole affair. Their manager wasn't equipped for this and had subsequently stepped down from the position. Callie couldn't blame them. Then there were personal matters. Social matters… Callie tried to focus on the housework.

It wasn't as if Marie didn't want to help, far from it, but she found it difficult to remember even the most basic things now and again. She'd try to do something simple at Callie's request like clean up the kitchen and her mind would just freeze up. She couldn't understand what was so difficult about helping with chores.

She found the whole thing frustrating. So much so she caught herself crying whenever she couldn't remember how something worked. It was worse when she could do it once, but not a second time!

At least Callie was patient with her…it didn't stop her from feeling like a freeloader. She knew she shouldn't feel that way but it was hard not to when she saw just how worn down Callie was becoming. This whole thing was her fault. If her brain hadn't up and stopped working for no good reason!

"Are you ever going to tell me why I was in the hospital?" Marie asked, rubbing the palm of her left hand with her right thumb. "Maybe it would help?"

Callie kept her head down and her hands busy folding laundry on Marie's bed. She hadn't figured out which way to fold what items, so she had more of a mess than anything. "You had an accident," she said, "that's all."

"Well, what kind of accident?" Marie frowned. Why all the secrets if it was only an accident?

"Just… I dunno, I'm not a doctor. But you had an accident here and it made you forget stuff. That's all I know is what the doctor said!"

"Who took me to the hospital, then?"

"I called an ambulance."

"Yeah, but, why? What happened to me?" Marie grabbed Callie's shoulder, not content with being brushed off like this. "Callie."

Callie whimpered, shaking her head with such force, one of her long black tentacles sent a stack of clothes onto the floor. She closed her eyes tightly. Marie might not remember anything, but she did!

Marie backed off, pulling her hand away from Callie. If it was this upsetting, maybe she was better off not knowing.

Kneeling down, she scooped up the creatively folded pile of laundry and dropped it back on the bed. "Maybe we should just hang all this up instead."

—----

Sex should have been off the table completely. At the bare minimum they should have waited until it was Marie's idea. But Callie was impatient, lonely, and unloved. More importantly, she trusted Marie to say no if she wasn't comfortable! Memory loss or not, she'd know if she wanted to do anything intimate. She just…quietly never mentioned the fact they were cousins. That little detail seemed like it would just get in the way.

Marie was trying to sleep when she felt Callie sneak into bed behind her. She didn't bother to roll over, knowing by now Callie seemed to enjoy holding her. She waited until she felt Callie slide her arms around her before she exhaled slowly, relaxing into her arms.

"It's late, isn't it?"

"Were you asleep?"

"Nah. It's easier when you're here."

Callie blushed, hugging Marie tighter. Marie was so sweet to her, even at a time like this. "I love you," she whispered, nuzzling her back.

Marie hummed a response, which wasn't unlike what she used to do. Callie knew she couldn't say it back yet because she didn't remember being in love to begin with.

"I heard your phone call earlier. Sorry if I wasn't supposed to be spying. I mean. I didn't hear any of the details, just that you sounded upset."

Marie rolled onto her back, looking up at the dark ceiling. Callie snuggled closer.

"Just my mom was all."

"Oh." Marie lulled her head to the side to look at Callie, who wasn't looking at her. "Do you guys have a bad relationship?"

Callie didn't answer. Instead, she turned her head up to kiss Marie. Marie didn't kiss her back.

"I don't want to talk about that." She mumbled, sliding her leg over Marie to sit on her lap. Callie sat still, hoping for her to make a move. She didn't seem interested, just confused.

Marie squirmed to sit up against her pillows. "Callie?"

"Please…"

Marie cocked her head to the side, confused by her pleading. Callie wasn't looking at her, instead, focusing on her fingers that were playing with the hem of Marie's shirt.

"Like we used to…"

"I don't –"

Callie wrapped her arms around Marie's neck, pressing herself against Marie's somewhat stiff and awkward frame. She wanted to feel like Marie still loved her, same as before. But Marie didn't. She couldn't. And it wasn't even either of their faults.

Still, she hadn't yet said no.

Marie returned her embrace, closing her eyes. She didn't say anything as she ran her hand in a small circle against Callie's lower back. Her smell seemed familiar, and Marie hoped that by going along with her, maybe things would get better. Though touching her still didn't feel right.

Callie tried kissing her again, promoting a half hearted response from Marie. It was enough of a yes for her.

"I love you, okay? So much. So, so much." Callie pulled off her own shirt, hoping that, eventually, Marie would be into it.

—-

As soon as Marie had fallen asleep, Callie went to the bathroom and threw up. She sat naked on the cold tile and cried silently, eyes squeezed tightly shut so she wouldn't have to look at any part of herself. Marie hadn't said no, but she hadn't really said yes, either. She had just gone along with it like she went along with everything else! She trusted Callie so much. It was her job not to hurt Marie. But she had.

Was Marie going to hate her? If not now, when she got better? Callie was trembling. All she wanted was for things to go back to the way they used to be.

She wondered if Marie felt this way on the night she…

Callie pulled herself up, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looked tired, maybe even older. The longer she looked, the less she recognized herself. Maybe she didn't know what she looked like anyway, behind all of the makeup and photo editing and fancy lighting and directors who yelled at her to turn her head a certain way or managers that made sure she "stayed on track" with her diets and increasingly strict workout regiments. Did Marie see her like this? Now that she no longer felt any connection between them? All messy and sad and…alien. She had to be strong. Stronger, in fact, after this moment of weakness. She fell back to the floor to cry for a while longer.

She hated herself. How could she take advantage of Marie like this? They'd been taken advantage of enough by the people in charge of them, and then cast aside the moment their story became too messy to contain. And their peers? None of them saw a reason to defend them. Then again, what was defensible about it? What sympathy did they truly deserve? They made their choices and now they had to deal with the consequences. Even if those consequences came so close to tearing Marie away from her.

But that had been Marie's choice, too.

She heard her bed squeak as Marie moved in the other room. Callie scrambled to her feet, throwing open the bathroom door to stand face to face with Marie before she could catch her a sobbing mess on the floor.

"Oh. There you are." She said, rubbing her eyes. Marie was barely awake, and she braced herself against the doorway with her hand. She hadn't bothered to get dressed, either.

Callie blushed, turning away so as not to stare and risk making Marie uncomfortable. "Sorry I just. Umm. Woke up. And. Uh." She didn't have an excuse. She never expected to get caught like this. Maybe she should have learned by now.

Marie reached out, grabbing Callie's shoulder. She had obviously been crying and her voice still shook. Marie decided not to mention it. Callie could bring it up if she really wanted to.

"Are you gonna come back to bed? I mean. Just if you want."

—-

They didn't get many visitors at the apartment. In fact, Marie hadn't noticed anyone coming to check up on them as the weeks drifted by. That seemed odd, if they were supposedly mega stars like Callie had said. It was possible they just lived exceptionally private lives, or that Callie thought the stress of visitors would be too much for them to handle and so she barred anyone from showing up. Whatever the case was, Marie felt a curious sense of delight when she heard a knock at the door.

Callie was away buying groceries after Marie had insisted she'd be alright on her own for a bit. And she would be! Just so long as she didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Answering the door for a stranger might be out of the ordinary, but she wasn't likely to get hurt from it.

She didn't recognize the girl on the other side, but that was hardly new at this point. Marie wasn't sure, but she thought she saw the unfamiliar Inkling flinch when she saw her.

"Hi there. Are you a friend of Callie?"

The Inkling stared at her, short yellow tentacles framing her wide eyed expression.

"Marie..?"

"Oh, so you're one of my friends? Sorry about that. Callie said I had an accident and that's why I can't really remember anyone. Did you want to come in and wait for Callie to come home?"

"Marie if this is some kind of joke I- I'm sorry. I'm here to talk about what…happened…"

Marie's expression didn't change. "Joke? What do you mean?" She paused, reaching out towards the girl, "hey, are you alright? You look like you're about to pass out."

The Inkling let Marie pull her inside and help her to the couch to sit down. Callie would want her to help, she figured, even if she couldn't really do much.

"I can get you something to drink if you want. Or do you want to just rest for a while?"

"Do you really not…remember? Any of it?"

"Mm-mm. Sorry. I couldn't even remember my own girlfriend when she brought me home. I guess I still don't…not really. But she said that's okay."

"Girlfriend? Are you talking about Callie?"

She nodded.

The girl on the couch winced.

"What is it?"

"Nothing! It's. It's nothing."

Marie sat down on the plush chair that was adjacent to the couch, still watching her visitor.

"So, what did you stop by for? Just to check on us?"

"Something like that. Kinda surprised you guys haven't moved yet."

"Why would we move?"

"Forget it. Don't worry."

Silence hung between them, disturbed only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Marie wanted to make conversation, but how could she? She didn't know this girl. Maybe that was a good place to start. It's how she and Callie started.

"Sorry if this is rude but, what's your name?"

The Inkling opened her mouth, then closed it again. Marie waited. And waited. Watching the girl pondering her answer.

"Four. You can call me Four."

—-

"Why are you here? Haven't you caused enough trouble for us?"

Callie had arrived home shortly after Four had come knocking, and much to Marie's surprise, she didn't seem happy about having a visitor. Callie had, with unusual coldness in her voice, asked Marie to please put the groceries away for her while she and Four talked. The apartment wasn't big enough to not hear them, but she didn't think she was supposed to listen.

"I came to apologize! I didn't think things would turn out like…like this." She couldn't look at Callie and Callie didn't want her looking at her.

It felt violating to have Four's eyes on her. The last time Four had seen her it had been through a camera lense as she spied on her and Marie during what they thought was a private moment. Marie had often lamented there was no such thing as privacy for them anymore and, at the time, Callie had disagreed. It was just harder to find, she'd insisted. And for what. For it to all come crumbling down around them.

"What does that even mean? What did you think was going to happen?"

Four shrugged, rubbing her arms. "I don't know! Not this! I didn't know how famous you guys were and even then I just. I just thought you'd get made fun of for a few weeks and everyone would forget about it! Isn't that what always happens? I never realized this is why Marie was freaking out so bad…"

Callie didn't respond. She knew she'd start crying if she did. Tears already threatened to form. She clenched her hands, trembling. She tried to just breathe. In and out. In and out.

"I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what I can do to fix things."

"You leaked a video of me and Marie! What do you mean fix it! How can you fix something with no pieces left to put back together!"

"Not the whole thing! Not…on purpose."

"It doesn't matter. You still recorded it. You still let everyone know you had it. The full thing still got out." Callie wanted to hold back. She wanted to deny Four the satisfaction of an answer. But she couldn't. She just couldn't. "Not that that makes a difference. Everything was ruined before that. Reporters went to my parents house. They didn't even know about it yet. I hadn't even had a chance to tell them what was going on. Now they. They don't even wanna talk to me anymore. My mom said…she said I was disgusting. Th…that I ought to be ashamed of myself. That I wasn't welcome home anymore 'til I… I apologized. Can you believe that? She wants me to apologize and it's not even my fault. But what good is sorry anyway? It doesn't change the fact paparazzi freaks showed her all kinds of pictures from that stupid video. That people keep finding ways to send her…to send her and dad the most graphic parts… cos they thought it was funny. Guess you thought it would be funny too. I don't think it's very funny."

By now her voice had raised so much Marie had no choice but to step back into the living room. She knew she wasn't supposed to but it hurt to hear Callie so distraught.

"I finished putting everything away, Callie…" she grabbed Callie's hand, hoping a distraction would help de-escalate things. "Maybe, uh, maybe Four should go home. I think."

Callie sniffled, throwing her arms around Marie. There was no longer a point in being ashamed. Four had already seen so much. What was a hug compared to everything else?

—-

"We're cousins."

The answer didn't come easily for Callie, but Marie was no longer willing to let go with her questioning. Not after her outburst. Not after her sobbing. Four had successfully ruined what little peace they had once again. Marie had made her sit down and made her talk about it. She did deserve to know, but Callie wanted to hide from it just a bit longer. Just until things were better.

Marie didn't take the revelation well, though she wasn't angry like Callie feared. Nor was she disgusted. What she was, was confused. Hurt? It was hard to say for sure.

There was something strangely comforting about the knowledge Callie was related to her, a distant familiarity that the old Marie still remembered even though she'd long since blocked it out.

"I don't understand. Did you know this whole time?"

"Do you hate me, Marie?"

She shook her head.

"Well why not!"

She shrugged. "So you did know?"

Callie turned away, hugging herself. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Like you just did I guess." She frowned, chewing on her lip. "How come you said I was your girlfriend? And how come you… uh. You kissed me and…stuff."

"Because I love you." She mumbled, feeling dizzy and nauseated.

"Did we do this kind of thing…before?"

Callie nodded.

"Oh. Oh… kinda weird… I guess."

"So you hate me now, right?"

Marie lay her head back against the couch cushion, looking up at the ceiling. She felt cold. Numb to her emotions. Just more information she didn't really understand. Just more facts Callie told her.

"Nah."

"How!"

"If it was always like this between us. I don't know." Marie grinned, hoping to put Callie even a little bit more at ease, "and besides. You're pretty nice to look at. Y'know as far as the girlfriend thing goes."

Callie didn't laugh, but she did turn to look at Marie. "You mean it?"

"Yeah. How come you got stuck with me?"

"Don't say stuff like that. I'm not stuck with you, I chose to be with you. We've always been together… in one way or another. No one else could understand me like you!"

"Yeah, but still, your cousin? How's that even happen?"

It was a genuine question, Callie knew, but it still felt like Marie was mocking her. The truth was she didn't know how it happened. One day it just was happening with no clear path from point A to point B. Marie wanted her, Callie wanted to be wanted.

"Cos you love me and you cried about it."

"That right?" She smiled, and for the briefest of moments, Callie thought she looked like her old self again. So natural and at ease with her.

Callie reached up, rubbing Marie's cheek. Marie was still hers, deep down.

"Will you finally tell me what happened to me?"

Callie's hand slipped away from her face and her gaze dropped. "It'll just upset you."

"Probably."

—-

News in Inkopolis spread faster than Salmonids chasing glowflies on high tide. Marie didn't know exactly when Four had sold off her blackmail, but it felt like mere seconds after she'd walked out of the apartment. She couldn't even break the news to Callie herself because before she had even walked through the front door, her phone was blowing up with texts and emails and calls from anyone and everyone who had access to her contact information.

Articles were quick to follow. Breaking news not just in gossip rags and pop culture interest sections, but real news outlets. Dozens and dozens of articles flooding her news feed with titles ranging from pure shock value to trying to dissect what led up to this. Marie didn't want to look, but it was like watching a trainwreck through a mirror. None of it felt real.

Kissing Cousins: the Shocking Exposé on Pop Sensations "The Squid Sisters"!

"More than Sisters?" An Anonymous Source Reveals the Duos Biggest Secret

Obvious All Along? Dissecting the Symbolism in the Most Viewed Squid Sisters Music Videos

Those were the tame ones, compared to what was to come. It didn't take long for interviews with former friends to begin popping up. Then family. Their parents. Callie's parents were quick to deny any knowledge of what they were up to. Marie's, on the other hand, publicly disowned her, claiming they'd always suspected she was screwed up and had already distanced themselves from her. That much was true, but did they need to make a big show of it?

Days all felt the same after that. A whirlwind of numbness and despair. How could they focus on one thing to feel bad about when the next thing hit them before they even understood the one before it? Brands quietly dropped sponsorships with them, erasing any evidence of their involvement as people rallied together to express their outrage. Some even called for their arrest, insisting something they'd done had to be illegal.

Disgust aside, it hadn't.

Though Four had committed a crime. Marie had briefly considered a lawsuit. They'd win, sure, but what point would there be? The principle of it? Four couldn't pay out a settlement. It wasn't going to remove every image floating around online even with constant vigilance and cease and desists. They could try. They could fight for the rest of their lives. They had been wronged. But in the eyes of the media, of their fans, they had betrayed everyone's trust.

No one was upset with the real Callie and Marie. Not outside of their parents, anyway. They had no authentic public selves. The characters of Callie and Marie had acted out of line, gone off script. That's who destroyed thousands of para social relationships with a single still from a video. It was the Squid Sisters' brand that had failed the world. It was the product that had been a disappointment. No one cared how they felt, as two young women who had just had their privacy violated. No. That didn't matter. What mattered was the fantasies they had destroyed. The obsessed fans who no longer saw a chance with them romantically. The children who looked up to them for their story of leaving a small town and making it big. Their pain wasn't important. Everyone else's was.

And then, somehow, some way, the full recording got out.

Maybe Four hadn't realized how valuable what she had was. Maybe someone nosy had found a way to hack her. Maybe someone had been so desperate they stole the equipment for themselves. Or maybe Four had been the one to do it herself. It didn't matter. The outcome was the same. The mockery and ridicule got worse. The shock and disgust turned to anger and hate.

People were bored. Everyone loved a good scandal. And who was going to go against the crowd to defend them? To defend someone who was fucking a family member? It was indefensible.

Marie just wanted it to end.

Callie's parents called her often. The arguments were different, but the message was always the same.

"Leave Marie and come home."

"Leave Marie and come home."

"Leave Marie and come home."

Callie said no. She'd cry and fight and argue and yell and cry some more, but it was always to say no. No. No. No. She wouldn't leave, she'd never leave.

Marie started to feel like it might be best for Callie to go back home to Calamari County. Somewhere quiet. Quieter. Maybe move with her parents elsewhere, out to Splatsville where no one would recognize her. Probably.

Callie wouldn't listen. She wouldn't leave without Marie. But if Marie wasn't around to leave with…

This was her fault all along, wasn't it? She'd been the one to pressure Callie into a relationship. She was the one who kept her under control. She made sure she controlled every aspect of their lives so Callie couldn't stop her. And! She couldn't even drive! She relied on Marie for everything! It didn't matter how true any of that was. It felt true.

Marie had bought sleeping pills after Callie had disappeared.

—-

"Cal?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think I like remembering this story very much."

"I told you you wouldn't and-... Hey, wait. What did you just call me..? And did you say remembering like you mean that you–"

"Sorry, Cal. Love you."

#aohota #hotaao #Callie x marie #I'm not adding all the pretty italics i added in the actual document #Tumblr should just let me copy and paste them #whatever enjoy this sequel

[gingiekittycat]

Does anyone else struggle to read AO3 fics with the super triple spacing between paragraphs?

Like there are some fics that I really want to read but cannot focus with that spacing.... It just feels so much like they're section breaks

Does anyone know of an easy way to combat this or do I just need to try and get over it?

#I imagine it's one of those dumb formatting issues from copying and pasting into AO3's editor #It always fucks up my italics too (puts extra spaces where I have something in italics) #I have made it through some fics like that before but it is such a challenge for me idk #😕 #ao3 #Fanfiction

[rist-ix]

at this point I’m not above begging the old gods for a tbhtbh update and I’m sure as hell not above begging you so please please-

(At least a snippet???)

okay so there’s a whole bunch of asks in my inbox asking for a snippet and I keep putting it off to answer them, because surely I should answer them when I actually have written on? And surely that’s gonna be soon, right?? Right????? But now it’s been months and I’m haunted by all the nice words and funny jokes and cool asks that I never answered because UGH my brain hAS NOT DELIVERED and I didn’t want to show up empty handed, u know? my anxiety is building and my time to write is shrinking and I am A Mess, BUT!!! I’ve also decided to say fuck it and just throw out the stuff I’ve ignored for a good few weeks. So at everyone whose asks I’ve ignored, please know that I am tormented by shame and adhd in equal measures, a never-ending cycle of horror and procrastination.

Anyway. Magix City my beloved!!!

His roar of fury follows her into the hallway, but she doesn’t slow down. Her one chance, her final chance, is now. She knows from Darcy herself that the witch isn’t scrying for her when she’s with Valtor, and she knows from Stormy that the handcuffs’ lifetime is dependent on how strong the captive is. Right now, Valtor is much, much more powerful than her.

She’s paced these corridors for days, weeks. She has gotten lost, confused, and distracted in these hallways, but she has also grown familiar. And now, tonight, it all pays off.

She finds the way. Finds the portal. Far behind her she can hear Valtor call her name, can feel the bond surging with regained magic as he gives chase, and she knows that her window is closing.

Those last few meters feel like eternity. Any moment his hand will close around her shirt, her arm, her neck; any moment she will be torn back and everything will be over. She thinks of Stella, of Flora, of all her friends and how they’d laughed at Alfea, strolled through the city. I’m coming, she thinks. I promise.

She can feel the building heat of a spell behind her.

But it’s too late.

She sets foot into the thin, glowing circle of the portal, and then there’s the blinding light of teleportation.

Just like that, she’s through. She’s out.

The brilliant magic of the portal plucks her from the cold, pale sphere that is Domino, catapults her through thousands of lightyears of space, and spits her out on black asphalt.

She fails to catch her fall, her momentum causing her to roll over her shoulder and bruise her knees on the rough ground. When she comes to a stop, her palms are scratched open and there’s a little bit of blood running down her shins. She hisses in pain and tears her hair back, looking around, preparing to fight off whoever comes through after her.

But he doesn’t appear.

There’s only the dark, rain-wet street before her. Reflecting the colourful lights of the skyscrapers lining it, the streetlamps, the tail-lights of hovering cars zooming by. A rainbow of vibrant blues and purples and yellows, of red and pink and so, so many others. Neon signs and brightened windows cutting through the cloudy night sky, still roiling with the promise of rain.

Magix City. She’s in Magix City.

She’s home.

A wave of sound crashes down on her and she falls right back onto her scraped knees, too stunned to cover her ears. After the long, unnatural silence of Domino, everything is so loud. Angry, beeping horns of cars in the distance, engines whining and roaring, the pitter-patter of a million steps as people mill about on the sidewalks, heeled shoes against wet stone. A prism full of colors in just their clothes, their hair, their faces as they stream by.

Even at night Magix is a bustling metropolis, full of life and noise and light.

She’s assaulted by so many impressions all at once she feels like she might go blind and deaf from it, and still she can’t look away. Three years she hasn’t been here. Almost four, now.

It’s so, so beautiful. In that shrill, dazzling, vibrant way only Magix can be. She feels just like she did then, when she’d first set foot into its labyrinthine, multilayered streets. Like she is on the cusp of something new, something chaotic and magical. Limitless and never-ending, never-resting.

Freedom. She’s free.

A blaring horn snaps her back to the present, and she whirls around only to shield her eyes from the blinding headlights of a car. Someone’s yelling for her to get up, get off the street, are you insane? She jumps to her feet and realizes that she’s in the middle of the road, in her pajamas, and cars have had to hit the brakes or they would have run her over.

Adrenaline hot in her veins, she stumbles back towards the sidewalk, looking around. People have stopped walking and are pointing at her, some talking to each other behind raised hands. Some look worried, some are snickering, and some look alarmed. Shocked.

She remembers that her picture had been plastered across screens and billboards for years, combined with a shady excuse and a bounty that no sane person could have spent in their entire lifetime.

And that Magix is crawling with Valtor’s marks.

No sooner had she finished the thought than she feels the gaze of dozens of eyes snap to her, all at once. Faces in the crowd turning towards her as if magnetized, their eerie synchrony sending goosebumps down her spine.

There’s no life in their stare. Because they’re not the ones looking.

She doesn’t wait for them to come any closer. She ducks her head and starts sprinting, slipping through the gaps in the crowd like a fish against the current. From the corners of her eyes she can see them start to move, to follow her, and her thundering heartbeat seems to choke her in her throat. She hasn’t thought this through at all, there’s a reason she never returned here with Stella. But the only thing on her mind when she’d stepped through that portal had been her friends, how happy they’d been, and the magical gateway had dropped her at the closest match to that nebulous feeling it could find. In the middle of a street, at the heart of this city they had loved.

And now Valtor knows she’s here.

A hand snatches her wrist, and another grabs her hair, marks swarming towards her from all corners of the city. She cries out in pain and hears people start to shout in confusion, but even if they wanted to risk helping her, they wouldn’t have the power to get through the mind-controlled puppets.

But she does, she remembers as the marks try to pull her back, push her down.

A blaze of light and she is bursting free, fluttering wings carrying her up above them and the crowd. Glittering cyan settling on her skin, golden tiara flashing in her hair, and if there had been any doubts in anyone as to who she is, they are now shown irrefutable proof.

#i have so many feelings about magix city and im frankly underutilizing it in every fic i write #asks #fic: to be hunted to be haunted #the copy pasting from my notes app has sadly robbed it of its italics #but whatever #winx club #maybe now I’ll be able to answer all the other asks without cringing with embarrassment for my procrastination #I’m pretty busy with the internship until autumn but I hope I’ll get some writing done until then

[phantomdecibel]

FUCK you: re-canonifies your Flower!AU

Anyways what if Polites actually still dies flower au au (bit o context in the tags, just so this drabble makes a bit more sense since it doesnt exactly follow canon aha-)

Rattlesnake Root

shield, step carefully.

Watching Ajax rush across the deck, calling out orders while cradling little Astyanax in his arms, the realization hit Odysseus like a brick.

This is what Polites had meant.

Eurylochus’s voice still echoed in his ears — but Odysseus wasn’t hearing any of it. Everything sounded muffled, like he was listening to (one of) his best friend chew him out from underwater. He must have started yelling louder, because the teenager glanced over at the two of them, something Odysseus hesitated to label as anything other than concern written across his face.

He wanted to yell.

He wanted to scream, keep shooting venom like arrows, jump up and pace, even.

Instead he stood, hands clasped over the rail, staring blankly past the blurred shape of his friend. It was both too loud and yet too quiet and annoyingly chilly and somehow everything was way too bright. It felt like there should be a storm brewing overhead, yet the only rain falling came from his eyes. The sun shone down unapologetically overhead, and Odysseus fought back an unintelligible scream.

This is what Polites had meant, what he’d pleaded back in that forest.

If you don’t talk to us, if you don’t trust us, then how can we help?

He’d thought he’d had it all under control, that his own hangups weren’t affecting anyone else, but clearly he’d been wrong. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or just plain ignorance, but Odysseus had fucked up, pushed too far.

He wanted to sob.

He was already crying, Odysseus realized in a vague, sort of detached way. His face felt… damp, and tight from the salt already starting to dry. Something hit his hand; again and again and again, and rolled down his knuckles.

Eurylochus yelled again, throwing his arms out, and Odysseus flinched.

How long had this been brewing?

How long had he been pushing his crew, his friends to the edge? For how long had he been pushing them to the side, ignoring their concerns and needs, forcing them to pick up his slack?

…when had his efforts to protect them start to hurt instead?

Slowly, Eurylochus’s face came back into focus.

His mouth moved and Odysseus could, technically, hear him still, but the words themselves were lost to the buzzing in his head. The tilt to his eyebrows would have looked angry — really, really angry — to anyone else, but Odysseus knew his friend. Eurylochus was angry, sure, but mostly he was just worried (and tired, so tired, and grieving, too). The man’s eyes glistened wetly, shining with unshed tears.

Odysseus barely noticed as he started to shake.

He did this. This was his fault, the result of his negligence. Polites was dead because of him, and now he was driving away the other person he should be supporting, looking after the most.

Odysseus clenched the rail tighter, clearly hearing it creak under his grip. Eurylochus’s voice faded in and out, nothing but background noise.

He’d failed.

Odysseus blinked once, twice, trying to alleviate the pressure growing behind his eyes. The tears, which had been slowing, built again, suddenly, and everything was just too much.

Oh. He dimly realized again. I did this.

And Odysseus…

…Odysseus broke.

Odysseus broke, tears falling like a waterfall. He choked on a sob, shaking violently, as his knees wobbled and knocked together. Eurylochus’s voice, angry and harsh, snapped back into focus, and Odysseus keened weakly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, falling to his knees as he swallowed back another sob. “I’m sorry-“

Desperately, shaking all the while, Odysseus clutched at his friend’s chiton, head pressed to Eurylochus’s knee. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-“

Eurylochus’s angry rant trailed off into shocked silence as Odysseus tripped over his words. Apology after apology spilled from his lips as he sat shaking on the wooden deck of the ship, legs collapsed awkwardly beneath him. He didn’t dare look up as silence crashed against the ship like Polyphemus’s club crashing against men and stone, just kept choking out desperate apologies into the empty, oppressive air.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sobbed, like a mantra. “I’m sorry,”

The moment seemed to stretch for an eternity; a terrifying, heart-stopping eternity.

He couldn’t do this.

Odysseus- he couldn’t. He’d tried, fuck he’d tried. Tried to carry every burden he could, tried to protect his people, and look where they were now.

It was all a mess, a fucking disaster.

And- and Polites was gone, now, really truly gone, never-coming-back gone.

Dead.

And Eurylochus would be too- not dead, not if Odysseus had any say in it, but gone, leaving.

Leaving him, because Eurylochus would do what was best for the crew.

Odysseus was just dead weight.

The leg he leaned against, clutched in desperation, was pulled back, and Odysseus let it go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, trying and failing to blink away his tears as his hands dropped down to dig his nails into his own knees instead. Something thudded against the ground ahead of him, but all Odysseus could think was ‘this is it’.

This is it, this is where his friend, his last surviving best friend, his brother, even, left him.

And by the gods if he didn’t deserve it.

“‘msorry,” his words slurred together. “‘msrry’msorry,”

He deserved this, for hurting his friend and daring to proclaim otherwise. Why should Eurylochus stick around? Odysseus wasn’t worth the work. He hunched in on himself some more.

“‘msorry,” he might have begged. Please don’t go. You have every right to, but please, please. Don’t leave me. “‘msrrymsrrymsor-“

Odysseus coughed.

Oh, that was odd.

He couldn’t breathe, for a moment there, air knocked from his lungs as his chest collided with something warm and solid. Something strong tugged his forwards, pulled him tight against it.

Warm arms wrapped around his shoulders, and Odysseus suddenly found his head tucked into the crook of Eurylochus’s neck as he shook. He tried to choke out another apology, but Eurylochus held him too tightly to properly speak the words.

Oh.

Oh.

Odysseus shook some more, hands slowly worming their way from his knees to clutch this time at the front of his friend’s chiton.

Eurylochus was hugging him.

Eurylochus. was hugging him.

Odysseus sobbed again.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to force out again, but Eurylochus just pulled him impossibly closer.

“It’s okay,” his friend whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s going to be okay.”

mans is a bit harsh on himself :,)

He doesn’t q u i t e get the point, but he’s getting there-

Anyways so flower au; asty lives and also @hahahaghosty and I are soft for lil ajax :P

I know I always say this, but they were a huge inspiration for this (bc they fuel me w like 75% of my writing ideas lmao-), so thank you a whole lot!! wouldn’t be possible without ya :) they're really fucking awesome, go check out their stuff!! do it- Do It Now-

anyways that all from me for now, thanks for reading :P

(me: check out the tags for some context :) also me: throws way to much shit in them-

just. just read the beginning and end and itll all make sense if u wanna)

#uggggghhhhh I copy-pasted this and it got rid of my italics sadge- #anyways I wanted a flower that meant ‘please don’t go’ or smthn but could’nt find one and didn’t feel like digging too much lol #yes I know lil ajax is not actually a teenager. no I do not care #anyways context? #poli nd odys kidnap/adopt asty. poli dies. euryl thinks they should get rid of asty odys disagrees. they’re both Super Stressed- #(nearly starved to death + Polyphemus + grief) #so they fight. odys has been pushing everyone away bc he wants to do everything himself #so he can protect the friends he has left. this only creates more stress for euryl (shocker) #lil ajax just wants to help out :) #so yeah that’s what’s going on- #listen euryl is soft for his friends 🥺 #u can’t change my mind #that doesn’t mean he’s afraid to kick their asses (he will. absolutely). just that w poli the designated Hug Man gone he will step up to #(awkwardly) #offer some good ol comfort :] #… #Me whenever I write literally anything: anyways this is entirely @hahahaghosty’s fault :) #flower au #epic the musical #the odyssey #odysseus #eurylochus #polites #he’s mentioned but also dead sorry- #lil ajax #astyanax #both there for about a sentence lmao #no clue if they actually know polyphemus name but whatever #oh yeah also I’m imagining neither of them have slept for a while aha- #grief/mourning

[ethereousdelirious]

FINALLY managed to write something for my special little sensitive crybaby princess OC. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing.

There are a few context things I'd like to explain, so bear with meeee

(He has the flu in this. There's mentions of nausea at the end, but nothing happens with it)

Some Context (this is optional so just scroll down to the bolded text if you want to skip):

I've written about these characters before, but I've changed the world and plot of the novel they're supposed to be in, so if you remember anything about that world, just flush it.

Since this is essentially fanfiction of a story that doesn't exist yet, here are some things you're supposed to know about the characters: All of them are in their mid-20s. Hewitt and Sterling are close friends and have recently met Gilles, who had to move out of his family home after they all moved back to France without him (long story). Or fantasy France. I haven't decided if this fic takes place in the "real" word, so to speak, or a fantasy/alternate world. I'll use real world terms for now to make it easier. Gilles is Black and originally from France. Hewitt is white and British. Sterling is extremely mixed race and American.

You'll see Hewitt making vampire jokes at Gilles and referring to Sterling as "Adonis," which are both references to inside jokes woth the characters that I'm not gonna bother to explain because it doesn't matter

Sterling uses Celsius measurements when he's trying to be courteous to his European friends and Fahrenheit when he's alone or distracted.

Okay das all I think

Story starts here

Gilles’ belongings sat in a disordered pile on the cobblestones, dwarfed by the narrow three-story house looming behind them. He swallowed, throat stinging. This was it.

Sterling bumped him a little on his way to the front door, murmuring his apology. Gilles scarcely heard. Even that light touch had made him flinch, sent goosebumps all up and down his arm. His heart pounded. This was really it.

God, he didn't know these people. What if they killed him in his sleep?

“Gilles?” Hewitt bumped him with his hip. That, too, hurt more than it should have, made him shudder. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Gilles shook himself and forced a smile. These were his friends. New friends, yes. But friends. “It's only polite, you know.”

“Fine, but just know I have garlic hanging on all the walls.” Hewitt grinned and beckoned Gilles to follow him over the threshold. “Come inside! Oh, but grab a box or Adonis will yell at us.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” Sterling asked, appearing in the doorway. “Gilles, don't listen to him. I'll need you to help me with the furniture anyway, since Heaven knows Hewitt won't be able to.”

Gilles nodded, following Sterling to his dresser. The glossy wood gleamed in the late summer sun, and the beveled edges dug into Gilles’ palms.

“Well,” Hewitt said, “have fun carrying that up two flights of stairs.”

“There's still plenty of work for you to do,” Sterling said, nodding at the various boxes surrounding them. “But being a distraction is not among them. Ready, Gilles?”

“Ah—” Gilles swallowed and his throat stung again. Worse, this time. “Yes.”

His muscles protested the weight of the dresser at once. Every discomfort, which had felt so insignificant not 30 minutes ago, magnified itself as he shuffled across the living room.

That wasn't right.

He and Sterling had carried this out of his house— out of the house with no problems. It wasn't even that heavy. So why were his legs shaking? Why couldn't he breathe? They were still on flat ground.

“Coming up on the stairs,” Gilles said breathlessly, steering Sterling toward them.

Sterling gave him a quizzical look, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Need a break?”

“I— N-no, I…” Gilles shook his head and had to stop talking to focus on ascending the stairs. His knees bumped the edges of the dresser and the sharp pain rippled outward along his skin. “I'm fine.” The words burned in his throat.

“Al‐right.” Sterling furrowed his brow and hefted the dresser.

He seemed to be doing a lot better than Gilles was, despite the obvious effort. His breathing, though heavy, remained steady as they bypassed the landing and continued up the stairs, and he was remarkably steady on his feet. He seemed to have the layout of the house memorized, oftentimes turning before Gilles could even give him an instruction.

Not that Gilles was good for much at the moment. Pain pooled in his palms. The dresser might as well have sliced them open, though the only liquid on him was sweat. It ran down his temples, down his back.

“It's here on the left,” Sterling said, though there was no need. The doorway to the right clearly led outside, and the only other option was to go left.

Dutifully, Gilles shuffled into the vacant bedroom, and then the dresser slipped from his hands and thudded onto the carpet. His whole body shook, his thighs tensing and releasing in minute spasms. He clung to the side of the dresser, staring at the silver dots glittering across the beige carpeting.

“Gilles?” Sterling sounded like he was back at the bottom of the stairs. But that couldn't be right. Maybe it was just… his breathing…. He was breathing so hard his chest hurt, and it was loud. “Gilles?”

He went down slowly, eyes open, and the room tilted in a sickening whirl of white and beige, and the ceiling light seared his eyes.

Somebody had a hard grip on his ankles, shoving the leather of his low-cut boots hard into the tendons.

Gilles’ throat hurt.

He stared at the ceiling light and his breath came back to him.

“Gilles? Are you with me?” Sterling asked.

Gilles lifted his head. Sterling… Sterling was holding his feet up by the heels, staring at him with clinical concern.

Heat flooded Gilles’ face. “What are you doing?”

Sterling let go of him and sat back on his heels. “Facilitating blood flow to your brain.” He cocked his head as Gilles sat up, staring at him. “Do you faint often?”

“N-no.” Gilles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It hurt to talk. “I've never fainted before.” A wave of chills rolled over his skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. How embarrassing. He must have looked like such a fool, overexerting himself like that.

Not that it should have been so difficult. What was wrong with him?

“Er, Gilles. You're shaking.”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles croaked, the words burning like acid in his throat.

“What— No, It's 28 degrees and you're shaking.” Sterling leaned forward and hesitated. “May I?”

Gilles blinked at him, tears pricking his eyes. “28 degrees?”

“Oh—” Sterling huffed and planted his hand on Gilles’ forehead. “You're sweating. That's good. How's your head?”

Gilles' breath caught in his throat. He flinched away from Sterling and coughed into his shoulder, all his muscles complaining at the motion.

“Never mind.” Sterling sat back again.

Oh. Gilles shivered and tried to sit up, but couldn't tear his arms away from his chest. “I'm so sorry,” he croaked, clawing at his collar. “I didn't know— I can—” What? There was nothing he could do. He was sick, and all his worldly belongings were sitting in the street. “I, I can— I can still—” He moved to stand up, forcing his arms down despite the painful chills running through him. Another coughing fit nearly knocked him down again, and he clung to his dresser, legs wobbling.

“Gilles, relax.” Sterling stood and, not asking permission this time, caught him under the arm. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“Y-yes…” He would manage the stairs. He'd have to be half-dead before he'd let anyone carry him.

Hewitt's puzzled expression melted into one of alarm. “What happened?” he asked, rushing forward, then darting out of the way like he'd changed his mind.

Gilles couldn't help but wince in anticipation of his humiliating episode repeated.

But Sterling remained silent as he guided Gilles to the couch, only speaking once Gilles was seated. “Gilles’ come down with something,” he said, calm as ever. “The flu, I think.”

“Really?” Hewitt peered at him like a child, blue eyes gleaming like marbles. “But you helped us move all that furniture onto the wagon.”

Gilles shrugged. If he’d been sore then, he hadn't thought much of it. It was a lot of heavy lifting, and he’d already been for a run that morning. But the reminder sent a spike of nausea through him, and a chill that had nothing to do with his fever. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, squeezing himself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “Really, I just need a moment, and then I can—”

“You're crazy,” Hewitt said bluntly.

Sterling nodded like that settled something and leaned over to open the blinds, revealing the street and all Gilles’ boxes. “Hewitt, make sure nobody gets any funny ideas, will you? I've got some phone calls to make.”

“This is a very safe area,” Hewitt said once Sterling had gone. “No one will get any ‘funny ideas.’”

“Oh,” Gilles said faintly. Words and meanings were rapidly becoming two distinct entities. His body ached with the cold and all he could really do was shiver and think about how badly this all hurt.

“I do wish he'd been a bit more bossy, though.” Hewitt sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I never get sick, and Sterling really never gets sick, so I'm not sure what to do. Do you want to lie down?”

Gilles freed a hand and pressed it to his forehead. This was too much. He needed a blanket and he couldn't just borrow one, nor could he bear the idea of asking Hewitt to search through his boxes until he found one. So he'd have to get up. And find one of his pillowcases while he was at it, because he couldn't bring himself to subject his locs to the tweed throw pillows surrounding him on the couch.

Nothing for it.

Gilles got up.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

His knees didn't want to work and his muscles ached.

But he was standing.

“Oh!” Hewitt stepped back to give him some space. “Look, you really don't have to worry—”

“I just need a few things,” Gilles muttered, and made for the door.

Hewitt followed him. “I could get them for you! Unless they're… secrets? I suppose? Do you have a lot of things you don't want me to see?”

The summer sun engulfed Gilles, soothing some of the pain from the chills. Cobblestones burned under his knees as he fumbled with a random box, his hands shaking.

“Why don't you just let me help you?” Hewitt asked. “I promise, I only judge people I don't like.” He stepped forward and opened the box for Gilles, revealing stacks of folded shirts.

“I just…” Gilles fell back on his heels, head hanging. This was a mess. He was embarrassing himself. “You and Sterling have done so m-much for me…” He stifled a few coughs into his elbow, tears burning in his eyes. He'd taken and taken, accepted their kindness with nothing but a few paltry words of gratitude, and now here he was, taking again. It was terribly rude.

“Well, look,” Hewitt said, “you can repay us by not worrying us sick, alright? Just sit back and tell me what you're looking for. And let me know if there's anything you don't want me to touch.”

This, at last, was too much. Gilles nodded, but the tears pooling in his eyes finally spilled over and he couldn't speak except to choke out an apology in French that Hewitt wouldn't have been able to understand anyway.

“Don't cry!” Hewitt's fingertips touched down on Gilles’ back. “I'm sorry! What did I say?”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles said breathlessly, coughing. “I'm not usually so—” He broke off, falling into another fit of coughing.

“Sick,” Hewitt finished for him, moving his hand to rest on the back of Gilles’ neck. “You're burning up.”

Gilles shook his head. “I'm c-cold.”

“Well, have you got anything in here?”

“Um…” Gilles blinked away tears. Did he? “Maybe?”

“Let’s have a look.” Hewitt wasted no time, pawing through Gilles’ shirt with total disregard for how carefully he'd folded them. “There's a lot of green in here.”

Gilles wiped his face. “It's my favorite color.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Hewitt continued digging through the box, until he finally produced the gray sweatshirt Gilles wore running on cold mornings. “How about this?”

Gilles nodded and took it, only remembering to thank Hewitt after it was halfway over his chest. The sunlight was nice on his skin but really couldn't help with the bone-deep chills running through him.

“Anything else?” Hewitt asked, his gaze darting down Gilles’ body in short, jagged lines.

Gilles pulled his locs free of the sweatshirt’s collar and nodded. He was still freezing, but… the cobblestones were warm and the street was quiet and…

Hewitt snapped his fingers. “Don't fall asleep!”

“Sorry…” Gilles ran his hands down his face and tried to rally. “Ah… Something. Silk or satin. A shirt, or one of my pillowcases.” He blinked slowly, his vision blurring a little. “Please.”

“Well, you've got a silk shirt in here, but—”

“S'fine.” Slowly, Gilles reached out for it. Even that small motion took twice as much effort as it should have. How was he going to get back inside? He curled his fingers around the fabric and stared at it.

“I think you need to lie down,” Hewitt said hesitantly. “You don't seem… Can you stand?”

Gilles shook his head.

The world softened to a dreamy blur as Hewitt manhandled Gilles inside. The effort of moving was almost enough to make him feel warm, but… Well, he wouldn't notice either way soon.

The couch was the only thing in the living room, the satin was the only thing on his skin. He lowered himself, aiming the shirt toward one of the throw pillows.

Sound came in little gentle washes of awareness and a bitter chill in his chest.

“Sterling!”

“Yes, good to see you, but please keep it down.”

Thudding and murmurs and footfalls.

“He's still out?”

“I don't think he's feeling well at all. Earlier, I mean—”

“He's shivering.”

Unfamiliar voices. The rush of the sink.

“Last one, I think.”

“Oh, good.”

Gilles awoke in sunset colors, curled on his side under a thick blanket. His dry throat burned and his chest spasmed with sharp, deep coughs.

Water.

He sat up, already breathing heavily, his vision narrow and vivid. The kitchen wasn't all that far, but… It might as well have been miles.

“Don't get up,” said a voice.

Gilles flinched and turned and found Sterling seated in an armchair with a book in his lap.

“Unless you need the bathroom,” Sterling continued.

“N…” Gilles started, but his voice cracked and he started to cough again, eyes streaming. His ribs already ached with the strain and now his head pounded with each forceful exhale.

Sterling got up without a word and sat beside him, holding a glass of water up for Gilles to take.

He seized it and drained it as soon as his body would let him, and fell against the back of the couch with his chest heaving. “I'm sorry,” he panted, staring at the ceiling as his face burned. “Th-thank you, Sterling. Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sterling said. “You're our friend and we're happy to help you. Now.” He stood up and set the empty glass on the coffee table, where it must have been resting before. “I'd like to take your temperature, and it would be good if you would eat something.”

Gilles occupied himself getting back under the blanket. It was one of his own, thank god, and he'd managed to work it into a tangle.

“You're still cold?” Sterling asked. He moved as though to press a hand to Gilles’ forehead and stopped abruptly. “Here.” He held out his hands. Gilles passed him the blanket and Sterling shook it out, then tucked Gilles in like a child.

“Thank you,” Gilles mumbled, looking down. His own weakness was terribly embarrassing, but the way Sterling looked after him was so matter-of-fact, so natural. How could he resent it? “Why are you doing this?”

“Just as I said.” Sterling looked at him, his brown eyes nearly black in the low light. “You're my friend.”

“Yes, but…” Gilles shut his mouth. This was all extremely rushed, this… this intimacy. This kindness. “You don't know me.”

“I will,” Sterling said. “Is it bothering you? I can go.”

“No.” Gilles pulled the blanket up, unable to meet Sterling's eyes.

“Good. Maybe I take your temperature now?”

Gilles kept his gaze fixed on Sterling's hands, their pale brown looking ghostly in the light that filtered in through the blinds. This connection, however sudden, was perfectly real. If Sterling meant him harm, he'd had a dozen opportunities to deal it.

“I supposed I haven't been entirely honest,” Sterling said, lifting a glass thermometer to Gilles’ lips. Gilles opened his mouth. “There is a reason I like you so much.” Sterling angled the thermometer in, slid it carefully over Gilles’ teeth. “It's because Hewitt likes you. I don't think you know how rare that is.”

With the thermometer in his mouth, Gilles could only look at Sterling curiously. Hewitt had only ever been friendly to him. Albeit his bit about vampires had been an unusual way to break the ice, but Gilles could take a joke.

Sterling settled back into his armchair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “He was making fun of you that day. He didn't expect you to get the joke, much less continue it.”

Silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Gilles muffled a few coughs behind his closed lips, tensing to keep the thermometer in place without shattering it.

For some reason, Sterling laughed and sat up. “No, of course that wouldn't offend you,” he said warmly. “Hewitt is a wonderful judge of character, but his criteria are a bit unorthodox. I'm glad you aren't offended.”

This was more words than Sterling had ever strung together before. It had to be some kind of record.

Gilles sighed through his nose and slumped against the couch cushions. His body heat had finally caught up to him again, but even the thought of letting the blanket slip was enough to make him tense up. His eyes wandered around the living room, though not much had changed since his arrival that morning. The same floral prints hung on the walls, the same furniture filled out the expanse of flooring that transitioned into the kitchen. Only the minutiae had changed, little things Sterling had brought. A glass of water and a pitcher stood on the coffee table beside a small stack of handkerchiefs. And on the couch, Gilles’ silk shirt had been replaced with a proper pillow in a black satin pillowcase. He smiled a little, tracing the lines of his initials on the corner. GB, in wobbly yellow embroidery floss. Adéle had been so uncharacteristically shy when she’d shown him.

“I hope you don't mind,” Sterling said. “Hewitt mentioned you'd been looking for your pillowcases.”

Gilles shook his head, checked himself, then nodded. That was no good; that didn't mean anything. He smiled instead, wearily.

Sterling got up. “Let's take a look at your temperature.”

“Mm.” Gilles took the thermometer out of his mouth and squinted at it. He'd never gotten the hang of translating numbers to English and his head was far too fuzzy to really apply himself to it. He passed the thermometer over to Sterling rather than speak.

“39.4,” Sterling said. He pressed his tongue beneath his lower lip, brow furrowing. “I suppose that's alright as long as you stay hydrated. And lucid.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lucid?”

“Yes,” Gilles said, and couldn't keep himself from adding, “unfortunately.” Speaking hurt his throat, but the pitcher on the table seemed… inert. Unsatisfactory.

For some reason, this made Sterling relax. “I was afraid you might be too stoic for your own good,” he said, and poured Gilles another glass of water. “What do you want to eat? Anything you want, I'll get it.”

Gilles looked at the water on the table. He'd have to get out of the blanket to pick it up, and it would be cold. And it would sit in his stomach, just sit there. Anything would. “I’m… not particularly hungry.” A few coughs forced their way up his throat.

“I know you're not,” Sterling said patiently, pushing the glass closer to Gilles. “You have a fever of 103. But I also know you haven't eaten since this morning. Just tell me what you think you can stomach.”

If Sterling knew what a particular torture this was, he didn't seem to care. Gilles only just resisted the urge to hide his face in his blanket. “I don't know… Coffee.”

“What else?”

“Nothing,” Gilles moaned, giving into his childish desire to not be seen. He tucked his head under the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Every instinct screamed at him to raise his head and apologize like an adult. Sterling was only trying to help, and he did need to eat.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked after a beat.

“What?” Gilles raised his head. Sterling was looking at him with the same patient concern as always, no trace of annoyance in his face or posture.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked. “Or would you like me to leave you alone?”

Gilles just stared at him. Thoughts came fast and shallow. Sterling… leaving? Not hungry. Shaking.

“You did tell me you were lucid,” Sterling reminded him, but with a small smile. Teasing.

“I know… I just— I can't really think.”

“That's the opposite of lucid.”

“I'm sorry.” Gilles closed his eyes. “I'm not trying to be difficult.”

“It's alright.” Sterling was quiet for a moment, shifting in his armchair. “What about hot chocolate?”

Well, it was better than anything Gilles could come up with. He opened his eyes, staring at Sterling's hands where they rested in his lap. “That would be fine.” God, he was like a prince sitting here, forcing Sterling to dote on him.

Of course, Sterling didn't see it that way. He only nodded and got up. “Good.”

—

Hewitt came in around the time that the taste of chocolate started to go sour on Gilles’ tongue. At least the warm liquid had warded off the worst of his chills, but, as he'd feared earlier, his stomach didn't appreciate the intrusion.

He kept hold of the mug, letting it warm his hands, and looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Did you miss me?” Hewitt asked, flopping down in the armchair beside Sterling.

“Terribly,” Sterling said, but he kept his eyes on Gilles.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Gilles forced a wobbly smile to his lips and shifted, bending forward a little to try to control the nausea building in his belly. “Where were you?”

“Seeing Adonis’ friends home,” Hewitt said airily. “You slept right through their visit, you know.”

Gilles frowned. He had heard voices, hadn't he? The memories came murky and cold, disturbed by the pressure in his stomach.

“They helped move your things upstairs,” Hewitt continued.

Gilles ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Please thank them for me…” He shifted again. The nausea was building, but slowly. He just couldn't… Couldn't get comfortable; it pushed on him. Hunching over had only helped for so long, but straightening up didn't really help either.

“We made your bed, if you'd like to go to sleep,” Sterling said after a pause.

They'd both been eyeing Gilles with varying degrees of concern and suspicion; their eyes burned on his skin.

Bed… That would be good. If only he could manage the trip up the stairs. His stomach wouldn't like it. Even just sitting up was nearly unbearable.

“Maybe… maybe in a moment.” Gilles shifted yet again and laced his hands over his stomach.

“You're terribly shy, you know,” Hewitt said. “If you tell us what's wrong, we can help. And you needn't be embarrassed. I told you, we never get sick. Looking after you is a bit of a novelty, to be honest.”

“Hewitt,” Sterling hissed.

They kept saying that, that there was no need to be embarrassed. Something in Gilles just couldn't believe it. All his ailments seemed so childlike, something he should have outgrown.

“Or you can keep your secrets,” Hewitt said. “But we didn't find anything particularly scandalous while we were looking for your bedding—”

“Hewitt.”

Gilles would have smiled if his stomach wasn't bothering him so much. The pressure seemed to have reached a peak, but he wasn't getting used to it at all, just stuck with the sensation of a hearthstone lodged firmly in his abdomen. Instinct took him and he doubled over, both arms wrapped around himself. “Sorry; I'm alright,” he said to ward off any words of concern. “I just… need a m-moment.”

“Now what's wrong with you?” Hewitt asked. “Are you dizzy?”

“It's really nothing. I get like this somet—” Gilles cut himself off with a hard swallow— “s-sometimes when I have a fever. My…” He bit his lip and released it. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why was this happening? “My stomach's a bit upset.”

“That can happen,” Sterling said. “Do you need to be sick?”

“I'd rather not.”

“But do you n—”

“No, Sterling.” Gilles grit his teeth and swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

“Sh, it's alright.”

“Do you ever get angry?”

“Oh, he does,” Hewitt chimed in. “Probably won't ever get angry at you, though.”

“Mm…” Who were these people? Gilles’ head spun, thoughts aimless and shallow. He might as well have been falling, picking up speed with every passing second. “I think I need to stay here,” he said. “I… I'll lie down properly in a moment, if— if you could just…” Words failed him then, and a terrible coughing fit jarred his ribs and his stomach, rattled his head.

“Yes,” Sterling said. His clothing raised against the fabric of the armchair as he stood. “We won't go far. Call us when you need us.”

Gilles didn't say a word.

#as usual my italics didnt copy over and im too lazy to fix it so just use your imagination #ethereous writes #ethereous ocs #gilles is my BABY