#brain crashed a dozen times while making these

[philiponmycracker]

A study in expressions Tom Hulce edition: Kisses, kisses and more kisses, every kind and everywhere

[neil-gaiman]

I stare at the screen for hours, trying to make the words come out, but they won't. I can't compel myself to take a break, because there's this voice screaming at me from the base of my brain...

"You've been told you're a great writer, and you want to be a published author. But all you have to show for it after forty-four years are a dozen crash-and-burn writing projects. When you have the time to write, you don't, for a host of reasons. If you don't have something written by the time you die--which comes closer with every passing day--you've wasted your gifts, you've wasted all the effort people put into educating you, and you've wasted your life. So sit down and WRITE, you worthless piece of shit!"

How do you get past the paralysis caused by the obligation to produce? Is there a way to trick your brain and your body into writing? Or do you just slog on through, no matter how long you have to sit there to get a thousand words a day out?

Perhaps you could try to be kinder to yourself.

I always give myself permission to write or to do nothing at all (staring out of the window or at a wall is okay). After a while spent staring at a wall it's often easier to write.

Remember if you write a page a day -- 300 words -- at the end of a year you'll have a 100,000 word novel.

[witchywithwhiskey]

🍬💖 Sweetheats Game 💖🍬

Ari Levinson

You Wish

I like how that could be sweet... or bitter.

better than the book

pairing: best friend's brother!ari levinson x female reader

summary: your best friend can't go with you to the romance bookstore having a post-Valentine's Day sale, so you end up on a day trip with her brother, who has plans to visit the hardware store in the same town. but when he crashes your book browsing and sees what you're interested in, he decides he needs to show you he's better than the book.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, protected sex, vaginal fingering, brief masturbation (m and f), nipple sucking, cock warming, dirty talk, praise kink, brief light degradation kink, aftercare, begging, teasing/banter, pet names (sunshine, gorgeous, baby), possessive behavior, feelings confessions, happy ending, referenced monsterfucking (it's in a book reader picks up/Ari buys for her)

word count: 9.0k

a/n: ahh Eralen, this was such a fun character and prompt combination, i hope it's ok the fic ended up being on the longer side 🫣 this was also partially inspired by a conversation i had with one of my coworkers (who i've known for 10 years and am friends with outside of work!) about the book Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta, which makes a little guest appearance in this fic 🤭 anyway thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

“What’re ya reading, sunshine?”

The deep, delicious voice was familiar enough that you didn’t startle (much), but the honeyed tone of Ari Levinson definitely did distract you from the back of the book you’d been reading.

Glancing up at your best friend’s older brother, you found him wearing an easy grin. He was seemingly entirely at ease in the monster erotica section of the romance bookstore. 

For a moment, you could only look at Ari. 

His brown hair was swept back from his face, like he’d run his hands through it dozens of times already that day—which, you knew for a fact, he had. It was one of his habits, and you couldn’t say you minded, since it only served to highlight his handsomeness. 

Ari’s blue eyes were sparkling like the sun glinting off the sea, even in the unflattering fluorescents of the store, and his smile was as warm as a summer breeze. His beard was long and scruffy, like it had been for years, despite his mom and your best friend begging him to shave it. 

Secretly, you were glad he’d kept the beard. You liked it. It suited him somehow, and added to his already excessive amount of handsomeness and affable charm. 

Still, though Ari always seemed to be at ease no matter where he was, it was a bit surreal to see him in a romance bookstore, surrounded by everything from bodice rippers and dark mafia books to modern-set rom-coms and romantasy epics. Your brain couldn’t quite make sense of it.

But then, your brain couldn’t quite make sense of any of the events that had led to this moment. 

It had all started with a glass of wine at your best friend’s house (as most of the stories in you life did)…

Ari had been over at her house, fixing the sink, while you’d been catching up with your best friend over some wine and charcuterie. You’d already had a glass, so you might’ve been a little overexcited as you made a case for why she should join you on a day trip up the coast to the romance bookstore that was having a big post-Valentine’s Day sale.

Your friend had given you a sympathetic frown and told you she had plans. And then she’d turned to Ari and asked him if that was the same town that had a specialty hardware store he’d been wanting to go to. Ari had given his sister a strange look, but confirmed it was the same town.

Before you’d quite known what was happening, your best friend was finalizing the details for the day trip you were going to take with Ari, to the town with the romance bookstore and hardware store. 

You’d tried to stop her, you really had. You even tried appealing to Ari, telling him you were certain you could look at books much longer than he could look at hammers and screws and whatever else they had in a hardware store. 

You didn’t want him to get stuck waiting around for you.

“I’ll wait for you all day, sunshine,” Ari had said in his low, deep voice, that easy grin on his face.

Despite the fact that you were sitting in your best friend’s kitchen, hearing Ari say those words, in that voice, had butterflies fluttering in your belly, and you couldn’t help but squirm a little in your seat. It wasn’t until you’d looked away from Ari’s gorgeous blue eyes and taken a sip of wine that you’d been able to get yourself under control. 

But then your best friend had caught your eye, an ecstatic and triumphant look on her face, and you’d had to roll your eyes.

For years, your best friend had not-so-secretly been convinced that Ari was in love with you, and she’d spent half that time trying to convince you to marry him so that you could be sisters. But you just couldn’t see it. 

Sure, in your heart of hearts, you harbored feelings for your best friend’s older brother. He was charming and friendly and thoughtful and kind—and he was hotter than any other man you’d ever seen in real life. But you’d never gotten the impression he felt anything aside from platonic fondness for you. 

Even when he called you ‘sunshine’ and made comments about being willing to wait around for you all day, you didn’t put much stock in it. Ari was known for being a flirt, and you’d seen him make plenty of women swoon, only to go about his day as if he had no idea of the effect he had. 

Unfortunately for you, on that evening in your best friend’s kitchen, Ari had taken his sister’s side, and faced with the stubborn determination of both Levinson siblings, there was nothing you could do. 

So you’d woken up early that Saturday morning, donned a dress and a jacket to match the unseasonably warm February weather, and taken care to do your makeup and hair just the way you liked. Nerves jittered anxiously in your belly, and you’d had to keep reminding yourself that your day trip with Ari was not a date. 

But when he’d pulled up in front of your house in his old truck, he’d hopped out and rounded the front, helping you into the passenger seat. That had made your heart race enough, but then Ari had gotten back into the driver’s seat and handed you a to-go cup of coffee and a plain, white paper bag with breakfast inside.

Of course Ari Levinson had gotten your coffee and breakfast order exactly right. And all you could do was murmur a quick, “Thank you.”

For the rest of the drive north up the coast, Ari had remained pretty quiet, leaving you to your thoughts while soft rock played on the radio. 

You were grateful for the peace. You weren’t exactly the most talkative person, especially in the morning, and it was nice to enjoy the scenery and your coffee without any awkward conversation.

Somehow, you knew Ari had also known this about you, which had made your already tangled thoughts get even more snarled. 

Ari was going so far out of his way to be attentive and considerate, and though you’d never spent much time alone with him, it was getting harder and harder to think your best friend was totally delusional about him having feelings for you.

Once you’d reached your destination, Ari had parked along the main street and walked you to the bookstore. Before parting ways, he’d pointed out the hardware store where he’d be in case you needed him. Then you’d gone inside the bookstore and let yourself get lost in the shelves. 

At least, until Ari had snuck up on you in the moster erotica section.

You already had a sizable pile of books in one arm, and even you were hitting your limit of browsing, but you’d been considering adding another to the pile. One that had quite a tantalizing title and a provocative cover. 

Biting back a smirk, you responded to Ari’s question by lifting the book in your hand so he could see the front. 

Although you tried to act cool and collected, heat blazed in your cheeks as you thought about what he was seeing—a classic-style romance cover, but with one major difference to old-school bodice rippers. 

There was, of course, a woman wearing a dress, the neckline slipping low on her breasts. But instead of being joined on the cover by a man, she was clutched against the big, hulking chest of a minotaur.

“Morning Glory Milking—jesus christ, sunshine, what kinda shit are you reading?” Ari scoffed, but he snagged the book out of your hand, flipping it over so he could skim the summary on the back. 

When his eyes flicked up, catching yours in a way that you knew meant he expected an answer, you had a harder time holding in your smirk, but you managed to shrug carelessly.

“Minotaur porn, obviously,” you answered, deadpan. 

Shock flitted across Ari’s face, and you couldn’t help but toss your head back with a laugh. 

Your humor only served to make Ari mutter unhappily about the impossible mechanics of a woman fucking a minotaur. A dark look settled across his expression, like a cloud blotting out the sun. 

“I bet I could get you off better than this bullshit,” Ari grumbled a little louder as he finished reading the summary and handed the book back to you.

When his words registered, you froze. Your fingers, which had been curling around the edge of the book, stilled, and a gasp tumbled freely from your lips. 

For a brief, awful moment, you thought you might’ve misheard him. But then you forced your gaze up, meeting his eye.

Deep in the bright blue of Ari’s gaze, there was something you’d never seen before—something that caught your eye like the sun glinting off treasure beneath the sea. 

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you looked closer. The emotion swirling in Ari’s eyes was as dangerous as a rip tide, threatening to pull you under, but you found, for once, that you didn’t want to pull away and save yourself. You wanted to dive into whatever you were seeing in Ari’s gaze.

Laughter sounded closeby and the spell of the moment was broken. You took the book from Ari and added it to your pile, shaking out your shoulders and trying to brush off the intensity of the look the two of you had shared. 

If that look, that emotion, in Ari’s gaze had been a rip tide, you were running from it now. Cocking a hip, you settled your pile of books on top of it, giving Ari a doubtful look as you scoffed. 

“You wish.”

An almost predatory smirk curved Ari’s mouth and he took a step closer, then another. 

He moved slowly, and yet, before you knew what was happening, his big body was looming over yours, caging you in between his broad chest and the hard bookshelves at your back.

Lifting one hand, Ari settled it on a shelf above your head, ducking down so his eyes were level with yours. 

“Would you like me to prove it to you, sunshine?” His voice was a low, delicious rumble that trickled down your spine and settled heavily between your thighs. “Would you like me to show you just how good I can get you off?”

Your thoughts were nothing more than cotton candy clouds floating aimlessly across your mind, so all you could do was let your instincts take over and respond honestly. You nodded your head dazedly, blinking up at Ari like he was the sun and you were desperate to bask in his warmth.

That smirk on Ari’s face deepened, softening a little with an affection so tender, it felt like it could cut straight through all the walls around your heart if you let it. In that moment, you were eager to let it. 

“I’m gonna need words, sunshine, tell me what you want,” Ari murmured in his deep voice, his words encouraging. At some point, his other hand had slipped onto your hip, and he squeezed you gently, urging you to do as he said.

Although a part of you knew you were still in a decently crowded bookstore, surrounded by shoppers all looking to take advantage of the shop’s post-Valentine’s Day sale, a larger part felt like you and Ari were the only two people in the world. 

All you could focus on was him, his warmth and his closeness, the scent of him—salt and sunshine—surrounding you like the most perfect cozy blanket. 

Your heart yearned with the desire to lean into him, to revel in the comfort he offered, while another part of you ached with the hunger to take him up on his offer, to see just how good he could get you off.

One of those needs seemed easier to satisfy than the other, so you tipped your head back and let your hand rest on his chest. Curling your fingers in the soft fabric of Ari’s worn flannel shirt, you held his gaze as you spoke.

“I want you to show me, Ari, now—please,” you whispered, tacking on the last word desperately, as if you thought good manners would get you what you wanted. Thankfully, it seemed to do the trick. 

Ari’s eyes darkened, churning like the sea during a storm as they raked over your face. It was like he was searching for something, but whether it was doubt or hesitance or something else entirely, you didn’t know. 

After a moment, he nodded as if to himself, seeming satisfied by whatever he saw in your expression.

“You got it, sunshine.”

Then Ari was pulling away, taking the scent of salt and sun with him. You might’ve let out a little protesting whine if his big, calloused palm hadn’t skimmed down your arm and taken your hand in his, fingers tangling with yours as he began leading you toward the front of the store.

Your feet tripped happily after Ari, your mind wandering a couple dozen steps ahead and wondering what exactly you’d gotten yourself into with your best friend’s brother. Was he really going to prove he could get you off better than some fictional guy in a book? Why did he even care? 

Since you were in a daze of lust and questions, you didn’t notice Ari coming to an abrupt stop, and you crashed lightly into him. He chuckled softly and eased the stack of books from your arm. 

Before you could process what he was doing and protest, he’d pulled out his wallet and paid for all the books—even the minotaur one—then scooped them off the counter to skip the step of having the cashier bag them. 

Ari bid the bookseller a brisk, “Have a good day,” as his fingers tangled in yours once again and he tugged you toward the door. Your mouth opened and closed as you trailed along with him, trying to find the words for what you wanted to say.

It wasn’t until the crisp February air hit your cheeks—still unseasonably warm for the winter month, but chilly compared to the warmth of the store—that your mind cleared a little. 

Ari was already striding down the street toward his truck, your books tucked under one of his thick arms while his fingers kept you tethered together. You took a few quick steps, catching up to Ari’s long gait, and curled your body around his arm, trying not to get distracted by the way his hard biceps flexed against your soft breasts. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Ari, I can pay for my own books,” you said, a little breathless as you fought to keep up with Ari’s long stride and quick pace. 

He tried to slow, glancing down at you with a little crease of worry between his dark brows, but you only pushed him on. You were just as eager to get back to his truck as he was, and it was only a little bit further down the block so you could keep up the fast pace.

Ari was silent, a serious look on his face, until the two of you got to his truck. There, he opened the passenger door, stowed your pile of books in the small backseat, and helped you up into the cab. Methodically, he secured your seatbelt across your lap. 

You were beginning to think he wouldn’t respond to your comment about buying your own books, but once you were settled in the passenger seat of his truck, Ari fixed you with a stubborn look you’d seen only a handful of times before—including when he’d decided he was taking you on this day trip.

Ari’s hands were braced on either side of you, one on the back of the seat and the other beside your hip, his body effectively caging you in against the leather seat. But just like in the bookstore, it only made you feel as if you were the only two people in the world, as if something might blossom between the two of you that became something real.

“When you’re my girl, you’re gonna have to get used to me buying you things,” Ari said, pausing to let his words sink in.

The breath in your lungs froze and your heart stuttered in your chest, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. 

But when he simply stared at you, that obstinate look in his eye, you knew he meant what he’d said. You knew he had every intention of asking you to be his girl. And the fact that he was so sure you’d say yes was intoxicatingly hot. 

It took you a long moment to realize Ari was waiting for you to respond, so you nodded mutely, showing your understanding. His eyes watched your face closely, taking your shock in stride, before leaning in so his breath brushed against your cheek. 

“Especially your filthy, smutty books,” Ari rumbled. The warmth of his beard was so close to your face, you wanted to close the distance and nuzzle into it even as your body burned from his dirty words. “Someone’s gonna have to take care’a ya when they get you all hot and bothered—and it’s going to be me.”

A soft, wanton moan slipped from your lips before you could bite it back, and Ari chuckled, the sound going straight between your thighs and making you squirm. You were seconds away from curling your fingers in his warm flannel shirt and pulling him into the truck on top of you, but before you could, he pulled away.

Ari’s beard rasped against your cheek as he moved back, and you knew he’d done it on purpose to tease you because of the entirely too self-satisfied smirk on his face as he straightened. You pouted up at him, but he only continued chuckling, closing the door of his truck with a firm snap. 

He left you squirming and practically panting in the passenger seat while he rounded the front of his truck and hopped in. The grin on his face was easy, and his movements were loose and relaxed, but there was a bulge in his jeans he couldn’t hide and you knew he was just as affected as you, which made him even more inexplicably hotter.

If it wasn’t for the seatbelt Ari had secured across your front, you would’ve slid across the leather bench seat of his truck and curled into his side. You wouldn’t be able to control yourself for long, your fingers pawing at the sizable bulge pressing against his zipper, teasing him while he drove…

In the long moments it took you to drag yourself from your lustful thoughts and find your tongue again, Ari maneuvered out of the parking spot along main street and merged into the light traffic of the quaint seaside town. 

He was driving north again, you noticed, not toward the town where you both lived, which was south along the coast. 

But you hardly had the capacity to wonder over where exactly he was taking you—you only hoped it was private enough for him to show you how much better than your book he could get you off—when you were still so stuck on the words he’d said and the surety in his voice when he’d said them.

“When I’m your girl?” you asked, your voice coming out small and hesitant in the quiet of the truck cab. You’d meant to sound accusatory, but it seemed your yearning heart was in control of your tongue, and she needed to know what exactly he wanted. “You want me to be your girl, Ari?” 

The truck came to a stop at one of the few stoplights in town, and Ari looked over at you, a series of emotions flitting across his face so fast, you could hardly recognize them all. There was surprise and skepticism, followed quickly by exasperation and warm affection.

“Yes, sunshine, I want you to be my girl,” Ari said plainly, his eyes holding yours so you could see the genuine honesty in his gaze. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

The light changed, but Ari didn’t look away from you. He held your gaze as you processed his words, your mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out. 

What could you say? You’d assumed for years that Ari was just being nice to you, that he flirted with everyone, that he didn’t have any real feelings for you. But you’d been wrong, so very wrong. 

“I didn’t want to pressure you, or come between you and my sister,” Ari went on, a slight panicked look creeping into his eyes the longer you stayed quiet. “But I thought you knew—my sister has been anything but subtle about trying to set us up.” 

He gestured vaguely around the cab of the truck, and a sudden understanding crashed over you like a tidal wave. 

“Oh.” It was all you could manage. “Oh.”

Memories crashed through your mind like one wave breaking right after the other, and you were reminded of all the times your best friend had finagled you and Ari into the same setting. 

There was that birthday dinner she’d hosted for him, where you somehow ended up sitting next to him, despite the table being filled with his friends and family. And the summer barbecue when you and Ari had been assigned tasks that kept you in the kitchen away from the rest of the party.

Even the evening you’d spent with her when you’d mentioned the bookstore sale, she could’ve rescheduled to a night when Ari wasn’t fixing her sink. Or she could’ve changed the plans so you were hosting that night. 

There were dozens of other instances you could think of, all of which you’d thought nothing of at the time. But it was so obvious when you looked at it all together. You felt a little ashamed that you hadn’t noticed the extent of your best friend’s matchmaking. But Ari clearly had.

“She always insisted you felt the same,” Ari admitted, his body still turned toward you in the driver’s seat, the truck still stopped at the light, which had cycled back to red. “She told me I just needed to be patient, but I thought she was overestimating how you felt about me.”

“She wasn’t,” you said, the words falling from your lips before you could stop them. But you didn’t have a chance to feel embarrassed, because a wide, pleased grin spread across Ari’s face, brightening the small cab of his truck. 

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about her being unhappy that her brother’s dating her best friend,” Ari joked, shooting you a wink before turning back to the wheel. 

The light switched over to green and he turned at the intersection, using one hand on the wheel. Ari lay his other hand on the middle of the bench seat, palm up. 

It was a clear invitation, and, with a sense of near-breathless freedom, you realized you didn’t have to feign disinterest in him anymore. You could take his hand because he liked you. He wanted you to be his girl. And you wanted him to be your guy.

The callouses on Ari’s hand were rough against the softness of your skin. He was a contractor, someone who worked with his hands, and you enjoyed the evidence of it. You liked how steady and strong his hand felt as your fingers twined with his, and how warm his palm was against yours.

For a long moment, you and Ari sat in silence, his truck cruising along a road that ran beside the rocky coast. With the ocean on one side, and Ari on the other, you felt a happy smile pull at your lips. 

You tugged Ari’s hand a little closer and sighed, wishing you could curl up against his side and watch the ocean. The only thing that could make the moment better was if you were surrounded by Ari’s warmth, instead of only feeling it through your joined hands.

Ari heard your sigh and squeezed your hand.

“You still up for this, sunshine?” he asked, drawing your attention away from the ocean and back to his handsome face. 

His hand was resting easily on the steering wheel, but his brows were pulled low over his eyes, a crease of concern between them. His gaze kept darting toward you, and you realized he must not’ve seen your smile with your head turned away, and he’d misread your sigh.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he said quickly. “I could take you home, take you out properly, then see where the night leads us…” Ari’s voice trailed off suggestively, though there was still an undercurrent of worry in his tone. 

You let a laugh fall from your lips, already shaking your head vehemently. “No, no, I want this now, please,” you said firmly, tugging Ari’s hand closer like you were worried he was going to pull away. Staring down at your joined hands on your thigh, you went on, your voice quieter, “I’ve wanted you for a long time, too, Ari.”

Ari squeezed your fingers in his, the gesture comforting and grateful all at once, as his shoulders relaxed and he drove on. The road began to curve away from the ocean, so you found yourself watching him, memorizing the profile of his face.  

A few minutes later, he pulled onto a street lined with beachside cottages and tall trees that would be lush with greenery in the summer, shading the sidewalks that led toward the ocean. At the end of the street, there was a narrow road that led between two large sand dunes cresting higher than the truck.

On the other side, there was a small, deserted parking lot overlooking the beach and the ocean. Faintly, you could hear the waves crashing on the near-distant shore, and their comforting rumble grew louder when Ari pulled the truck into a spot at the very edge of the lot and turned off the engine. 

For a moment, you got lost in staring out at the water, the golden afternoon sunlight sparkling off the whitewater of the crashing waves. You’d lived your whole life by the ocean, but its beauty never failed to enchant you. 

In fact, you were so transfixed by the view, you hardly noticed when Ari reached over and unbuckled your seatbelt. 

Your gaze was only pulled from the sight of the sea when Ari’s big hands grabbed your hips and he hauled you across the worn leather seat to press into his side. 

Instantly, you leaned into him, breathing in the scent of salt and sunshine that always clung to him.

Blinking slowly up at Ari from under your lashes, you took a moment to appreciate the handsomeness of his face up close. You could see the creases in his tanned skin, the evidence of aging that made him so much hotter, and the light dusting of freckles across his nose. 

His bright blue sparkling eyes were like tiny oceans, churning with lust and desire and affection—all for you—while his mouth was curved into a slight smile, nestled into his invitingly soft brown beard. Even his hair, streaked with golden blond, looked perfect in that moment. 

As you looked at him, Ari’s expression softened, his smile deepening and his blue eyes darkening. 

“Keep looking at me like that, sunshine,” Ari rumbled, his voice dipping low in a way that had your belly swooping and your core heating. His calloused palm smoothed over your cheek and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “And I’m liable to give you more than a few books and a couple orgasms—I’ll give you the whole sea.”

A soft laugh bubbled up your throat and spilled from your lips. You turned your head and pressed a kiss into Ari’s palm before looking back at him. Your hands reached for him, fingers sinking deep into his beard as you cupped his face.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” you said somberly, feeling the corner of your mouth flutter as you tried to hold back a smile. “But it’s a sweet thought, Ari.”

“I’ll show you just how sweet I can be,” Ari grumbled a second before he ducked down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but sweet. 

The months and years Ari had been holding back, restraining himself from touching you, from kissing you, were unleashed all at once the moment his lips brushed against yours. His deep, guttural groan rumbled in his throat, sending sparks of pleasure cascading through your body as you opened for him, welcoming him in with just as much fervor.

Ari’s tongue plunged into your mouth as soon as your lips parted, scattering your thoughts on the ocean breeze, leaving you to revel in the pure, feral feeling of him. You were nothing but blazing desire, and a deep, throbbing ache needing to be filled—to be filled by Ari and only Ari.

Your hands couldn’t stay still, moving between carding through Ari’s hair, twisting your fingers in his beard and curling around the collar of his thick flannel shirt. You kissed him harder, just as greedy for him as he was for you, and pulled him closer, until you were bent so far backward, you were nearly laying down on the bench seat.

“Fuck, sunshine,” Ari cursed when he wrenched his mouth away from yours, nipping and kissing and sucking his way down your neck. His strong arms were wrapped around your back, holding you tight to his chest while you panted and squirmed. “I’ve wanted you for so long, I’m not gonna last, but I promise I’ll make it up to you—I’ll fuck you better than that fictional minotaur, I swear.”

An incredulous laugh burst from your lips before you could hold it back and you tugged on Ari’s hair until he lifted up enough that you could meet his eye and he could see the truth in yours when you said, “It’s already so much better, Ari, because it’s real and it’s you.”

Surprise and something tender flickered across Ari’s face a second before he closed the distance between you, slanting his mouth to yours for another breathtaking kiss, his lips working against yours so covetously, it stole the air from your lungs. 

When he pulled away, you were panting for breath, his chest heaving with his own need for air, and when you locked eyes, a frisson of lust passed between you. Your hands reached for one another, your fingers equally greedy as they tugged at the clothes that were suddenly grievously in the way of what you both wanted. 

“Need this off now, sunshine,” Ari rumbled as he pawed at your dress, his voice so deep and rough, it was nearly a growl. “Need to be inside you—fuck, c’mon gorgeous, help me out here.” His fingers were fumbling around the bodice, looking for a zipper and not realizing there wasn’t one.

Huffing a laugh, you shrugged out of your jacket, then grabbed the skirt of your dress and tugged it off over your head, Ari’s hands skimming up your sides, then your arms, and he helped you. You tossed the garment into the backseat and turned back to Ari, who was sitting there stunned by the sight of your bare body.

You felt his hungry gaze like a hot caress as it swept down your form, lingering on the way your tits bounced slightly in your bra from your heavy breathing, before continuing down over your soft tummy and settled on the spot where your thighs were pressed together.

Ari’s gaze lingered for a long, hot moment, the expression on his face contorting into something feral, the twisting of his mouth telling you he was seriously considering burying his face between your thighs and not coming up for air for a long, long time. 

But then you whined and reached for him, your fingers twisting in the front of his flannel shirt, and that seemed to snap him from whatever spell your body had put him under. His big hands skimmed up your thighs, groping your soft flesh with greedy fingers while he leaned in for another kiss.

It took some maneuvering in the tight quarters of his truck, but Ari helped you rearrange yourself on the bench seat so you could spread your thighs around his thick waist. As if he couldn’t control himself, his eyes dropped hungrily to the thin cotton panties covering your pussy, and he groaned loudly when he saw the wet spot you’d already left.

“Sunshine,” he rumbled, desire thick in his tone as he dragged his darkened blue eyes up to yours. “When I get ya in my bed, I’m going to feast on this pussy until you’re screaming my name so loud no one will ever question if you’re my girl again—least of all you.”

Ari’s eyes were dark pools of lust, his words so honest and filthy, you felt your breath catch in your throat, desperate arousal heating your blood. You were nodding your head before you even noticed yourself moving, your lips forming the words, “Yes, please,” and saying it in such a sweet tone that Ari chuckled in amusement.

“Always so polite, sunshine,” Ari teased lightly, ducking forward and sinking his teeth into your lip, biting down until you moaned loudly into his mouth. “Let’s see if you’re still so polite when your cunt is filled with my cock, huh?”

“Please, Ari, please,” you begged, his words driving your need impossibly higher, until you were clawing at the buttons of his flannel, half ripping them through the holes in your impatience to get the shirt off him. 

As soon as enough buttons were undone for his head to fit through, Ari grabbed the back of his collar and pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it into the backseat. You had only a moment to admire Ari, thick and barrel-chested, filling out his white t-shirt, before he tugged that off too. 

Then his chest was bare in all its glory.

A soft sound of awe slipped from your lips, and your fingers pressed to his heated skin, tracing the ridges of his muscles and threading through the thick, dark hair dusted across his pecs. He had a thin layer of softness padding his muscles, and your fingertips sank into it greedily. 

A smile curved your lips when your nails raked over his golden skin, delighting in his tortured groan.

“Panties off now, sunshine, or ‘m gonna blow in my briefs like a fucking teenager,” Ari growled, gently batting your hands away so he could work open the button of his jeans. There was a thick, hard bulge pushing against his zipper, and your body warmed as you watched him breathlessly.

With your gaze fixed on Ari’s nimble fingers, you quickly undid your bra and tugged it off, tossing it in the backseat. Then you gathered your knees to your chest and pulled your panties down and off your legs. Those, too, joined the pile of clothing in the backseat of Ari’s truck.

At the same time, Ari shoved his jeans and navy blue boxer briefs as far down his thick, hairy thighs as they could go. But you weren’t looking at his hands anymore. Not when his hard, heavy cock bounced free, stealing the breath from your lungs when you saw how big and thick he was.

Ari gripped his stiff length in his hand and pumped it slowly, his thumb brushing over the tip and gathering the precum there, smoothing it down his shaft in a practiced motion. 

It was mesmerizing, watching Ari jerk himself off slowly, making your slit grow even wetter. Unable to sit still, one of your hands trailed down your body, your fingers sliding between your drenched folds and finding the aching button of your clit.

A rough, rumbling sound came from Ari’s chest when you moaned at the brush of your finger against yoru clit, and you finally tore your eyes away from his cock. Glancing up at his face, your sucked in a gasp at the sheer, naked hunger in Ari’s expression. 

His blue eyes were as dark as the depths of the ocean, and he was looking at you so gluttonously, like he craved you from the bottom of his soul, that your heart thudded in your chest. You felt your own desire reflected in his expression, and it suddenly wasn’t good enough to simply look at him, you needed to feel him.

The fingers of your other hand reached for Ari, and that broke him from the enchantment your naked body had put on him. His fist squeezed around the base of his cock and he shook his head, his free hand pushing his hair back as it flew in his face. 

Ari snatched your hand from between your thighs, licking the taste of you from your skin, his eyes sliding closed briefly. Then he pressed soft kisses to your knuckles and fingertips, his heated eyes finding yours. 

“Just gimme a sec to find a condom,” he said in a husky voice, dropping your hand on your belly as he reached for the glove compartment of his truck. 

Instead of watching him fumble through the junk in there, your hands played idly with your tits, groping your soft flesh and teasing your nipples with flicks of your fingers. All the while, you watched Ari’s face, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth when his eyes kept drifting to your chest, the hand around his cock stroking himself again.

Ari cursed at himself and dragged his eyes away from your tits, rededicating himself to his task. After another brief moment of searching, he found an unopened box of condoms, tore it open and made quick work of the foil package before rolling the rubber down his hard length.

While he fisted the base of his cock, Ari slipped two fingers into your tight heat, your pussy so wet you took him easily. A moan tumbled from your lips and your spine arched up off the leather seat, your hips bearing down on his fingers as he pumped them in and out of you. 

“Ready for me, sunshine?” Ari asked in a deep, rumbling voice that was thick with his own desire. He added a third finger to your dripping hole, stretching you enough to take his thick girth. “Ready for the cock that’ll ruin you for your fictional minotaur?”

At his words, you let out a decidedly impolite snort, the sound devolving into helpless giggles at both Ari’s ridiculous question and your indelicate response. 

In retaliation, Ari thrust his fingers deeper inside you, stroking against a spot that had you moaning helplessly, squirming and writhing beneath him. Your thighs spread as wide was they could in his truck, while your hips wriggled greedily for more.

“Ari, please, I’m ready—I need you,” you cried, reaching for him and curling your fingers in his beard, pulling him down on top of you. Your mouth brushed against his in a teasing, breathless kiss, and then you were moaning and arching into him. “Please, ruin me with your big, fat cock, Ari—make forget all about that fictional minotaur.”

Before you could stop yourself, you let out a snicker, and Ari’s chest heaved with an answering chuckle. Laughter spilled from both of you, tumbling past each other’s lips and filling the truck with the sounds your amusement. 

When his laugh finally died out, Ari’s mouth captured yours in a searing kiss. Then he pressed his forehead to yours, the feeling of his warmth and the comfort of his familiar scent filling you with a happiness unlike any you’d ever known.

“You’re never going let me live this down, are you?” he asked on another laugh, his head ducking down so he could nuzzle your cheek with his beard, making you giggle as it tickled your skin.

“No, never,” you confirmed with a shake of your head, another peal of laughter spilling from your lips. “But I promise not to tell anyone you were jealous of a made-up minotaur in a smutty book.”

Ari huffed a reluctant laugh, distracting you momentarily when he pulled his fingers from your pussy, replacing them with the thick tip of his cock. He pressed against your dripping hole, making you moan helplessly.

“Guess I just have to make good on all my promises then,” he muttered, shunting his hips forward and pushing inside you a couple inches. “Gonna have to show you how good I can make you feel, huh, sunshine?” He pulled back and thrust forward, pressing deeper and splitting you open on his thick cock.

“Oh god, Ari,” you moaned, nails raking up his sides as you hooked your legs around his hips. The heels of your feet dug into the thick muscle of his thighs as you urged him on. “More, deeper, please, Ari, please!”

“You really are always so polite, aren’t you, sunshine?” Ari teased, his voice filled with laughter and desire, even as he gave you what you begged for. He pushed in to the hilt, burying himself so quickly in your cunt, it made you gasp.

He felt so good—so big and thick and stretching you so perfectly. It was all you could do to curl your fingers in his soft brown hair and cling to him, your pussy pulsing around his throbbing cock like your body never wanted to let him go.

Ari’s chest heaved against yours, the firm feeling of his muscles and the soft hair on his pecs teasing your nipples deliciously. He pressed down on top of you, his arms digging beneath your back and holding you tight in the cradle of his big, broad body. 

“S’good,” he slurred against your cheek, his breath hot as it fanned across your skin, making you shiver. He grunted when your pussy squeezed him tighter, sucking him deeper into your heat. “How’s m’cock feel, sunshine?”

“Sooo good, so big and thick, filling me up sooo good, Ari,” you babbled, your thighs squeezing his waist, fingers tugging impatiently on his hair. “Fuck me, Ari, please, I need it—make me feel good, please, Ari, Ari, Ari.” 

“Fuck yeah, gorgeous, you sound so pretty saying my name,” Ari groaned, pressing messy kisses along your jaw before capturing your lips in a heated kiss. “Gonna make you feel good, gonna give you everything you could ever dream of—I promise you, sunshine, promise you.”

Ari’s words trailed off as his mouth found yours again. He kissed you, deep and filthy, while he fucked you slow and sweet. He was pulling out until only the tip of his cock remained in your tight cunt before pushing inside you slowly, deliberately, making you feel every thick inch of him filling you up over and over again.

You could feel your release building deep inside you, the pleasurable tension coiling tight in your belly, but you needed more. You needed it harder and faster, you needed Ari pounding into you, fucking you rough enough that you’d be feeling him long after he’d made you cum.

“Ari, please, fuck me,” you whined in his ear, fingers twisting desperately in his hair, your hips lifting up off the leather bench seat to meet his thrusts, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the truck. “I want it hard and rough—show me I’m yours, Ari, make me yours.”

“Fuck, sunshine, ya gotta filthy mouth on you, don’t ya?” Ari growled, picking up his pace until he was fucking you like a feral animal. “It’s all that dirty smut, isn’t it, turning you into a needy little slut, huh, gorgeous?”

Ari’s hands trailed down your back, grabbing your ass and digging his strong fingers into your soft flesh, holding you still while he rutted into you. Your fingers let go of his hair, reaching up and pushing against the inside of the passenger door, loud cries of pleasure and slutty moans falling from your lips unabashedly. 

“You want me to fuck this pretty pussy till she’s mine, baby?” Ari went on, his breath hot and heavy next to your ear as he kept up his relentless pace, sending you careening toward your release. “You want me to fuck you so good, you’ll never forget who you belong to?”

“Yes, yes, yes, oh god, please, Ari,” you cried breathlessly, your voice high and keening, your body writhing beneath Ari’s broad form. You were barreling toward the edge of bliss, Ari’s hammering cock shoving you closer with every ruthless thrust. 

“Fuck yeah, sunshine, beg me to make you mine—you beg so pretty and polite for such a slut, baby.”

“Please, Ari, make me cum, please, make me cum all over your cock, make me yours, Ari, please, please, please,” you babbled, your words devolving into a sob as Ari fucked you harder, rougher, grinding his cock deep into your cunt until you were screaming in pleasure. 

“Cum for me, sunshine,” Ari growled, hilting his cock deep inside you and grinding his hips so your clit rubbed against the base of him. “You’re mine—all fucking mine—now cum all over my cock like my perfect, gorgeous girl.” 

The tension in your core snapped suddenly and you shattered apart, coming with a scream that was drowned out between the crashing ocean and cresting sand dunes of the deserted beach. Pleasure washed over you in unending waves, your body trembling beneath Ari’s rutting form.

He followed you over the edge a moment later, burying his face in the crook of your neck and muffling his grunting, pleasured groans in your skin as he thrust wildly into your spasming cunt. You felt him twitching and throbbing deep inside you, the feeling making you shiver with another wave of pleasure as he found his release in your body.

For long, delightful moments, you and Ari writhed together, your hips rocking idly while his were grinding deeper into you. His mouth kissed up your neck and along your jaw, finding your lips and drinking down your soft, pleasured cries like they were water in a barren desert. 

“Tell me, sunshine,” Ari rumbled into your mouth, his beard rasping against your cheeks and making the corners of your lips tip up in a smile. “Was that better than the book?”

You made a soft, questioning sound, nipping at Ari’s full lower lip before licking away whatever sting your teeth had left. He grunted his pleasure before responding to your unasked question.

“The minotaur book—did I get you off better than the minotaur book?” 

A surprised laugh tumbled from your lips, but when Ari didn’t join in on your mirth, you eased him away so you could look into your eyes. His gaze was serious and expectant, which only made you laugh again, incredulously.

“Yes, Ari, you were way better than the book, you impossible man,” you said, muttering the last three words with affectionate exasperation as you pulled him down for another kiss.

When he pulled away a moment later, Ari was grinning from ear to ear, looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

“Told ya I’d be better,” he quipped, making you tip your head back and laugh. Ari took the opportunity to bury his face in your neck, kissing your delicate skin until you were letting out breathy little moans.

Eventually, though, the chilly February air encroached on your blissful, post-orgasm haze, seeping into the truck cab and brushing against your damp, cooling skin. When you shivered from the cold more than his beard, Ari pushed up onto his knees, gently easing his softening length from your body and made quick work of disposing of the condom.

While you sat up, he grabbed his thick flannel shirt from the backseat and wrapped it around your shoulders, helping your arms into the sleeves and buttoning it up your chest—after giving each of your tits a quick farewell kiss and promising to pay them more attention next time. 

You giggled at his silly antics, but were grateful when he buttoned up the shirt almost to the top, encasing you in the warmth of the soft fabric, the scent of salt and sun still clinging to it. You turned your face into the collar, and breathed in deeply, humming happily when the smell of Ari filled your lungs.

Ari had paused to watch you, his expression a little dumbfounded, but when your eyes met his, he smiled that easy grin of his, though there was a warmth and a softness to it you’d never seen before. There was also a tenderness in his gaze you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of seeing.

Before you could get lost in each other again, Ari reached into the backseat and pulled out a pair of clean sweatpants, helping you into those as well before he redressed himself in his jeans and white t-shirt. From there, you both pulled on your shoes, and Ari got out, rounding the truck to help you down. 

While he jogged to the closest garbage can to throw out the condom, you made your way into the beach restroom off the parking lot, thanking the universe that it was open and clean, even during the offseason. You quickly went to the bathroom and cleaned yourself up, finding Ari waiting outside to help you back into the truck.

When he hopped into the driver’s seat, you scooted across the bench seat and tucked yourself into his side, looking up at him with a stubborn expression on your face. 

Instead of trying to argue that you should sit in the passenger seat, Ari dug a seatbelt out from between the seat and the back. It was only a lap belt, but he insisted on buckling you in for your safety, then wrapped his arm around your shoulders and held you close while he pulled out of the beach parking lot.

The drive back down the coast was much different to the one you’d taken that morning. You and Ari never stopped talking, starting with you telling him about the books he’d bought for you, and him explaining what he’d wanted at the hardware store in town. 

By the time Ari’s truck neared your house, you were arguing good-naturedly about where to go on your first official date. 

The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting your little neighborhood in golden light as Ari pulled his truck to a stop in front of your house. You were happy to be home after so many hours spent in Ari’s truck, but you were reluctant to disentangle yourself from his warm, steady form.

“You can’t make a new home in my truck, sunshine,” Ari teased, putting his vehicle in park and tipping your face toward his. He brushed a devastatingly sweet kiss to your lips. “But if you ask me nicely, maybe I’ll come inside for a bit.”

You could feel his smirk pressed against the corner of your mouth and it made you hungry for him all over again. Still, you couldn’t help but tease him back.

“Oh please, Ari, won’t you come inside? It’d make me oh so happy,” you gushed in an exaggeratedly simpering voice. You were rewarded for your performance with a deep chuckle rumbling in Ari’s chest. 

“Anything for my girl,” Ari rumbled, his voice deep and delicious. Then he kissed you harder, deeper, wringing a moan from the depths of your throat. 

“Mm,” you murmured dazedly, chasing his lips for another kiss when he tried to pull away. “And you’re my guy, right, Ari?” you asked, you voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m yours, sunshine,” he promised without hesitation, sealing it with a kiss that you couldn’t help but get lost in.

It was a long while before the two of you extricated yourselves from each other and got out of the truck. Ari carried your clothes and books, while you dug in your bag for your keys. 

The two of you had barely gotten into the house and put your stuff down before you were kissing again, tumbling onto the couch in your living room and shedding your clothes. Thankfully, Ari had grabbed the box of condoms from his truck, and you made good use of another. 

After, the two of you threw together a quick dinner in your kitchen, then curled up on the couch under one of your warm throw blankets. 

You wanted to start reading one of the books you’d gotten that day, and when you suggested the two of you could read your minotaur book together, Ari had shot you a wicked grin. He agreed—on the condition that you sat on his lap, keeping his cock warm while you took turns reading it out loud to each other.

Although you’d expected to get through at least one chapter before one of you gave in and threw the book onto the coffee table, you were barely a few pages in when Ari plucked it from your hands and set it aside. 

But you couldn’t complain, not when he was spreading your thighs wider across his lap and bouncing you on his cock while he sucked your tits.

For the rest of the evening, Ari Levinson showed you just how much better than the book he was, making you forget all about the filthy smut you read and giving you the best, most earth-shattering orgasms of your life while cradling you in his arms like you were the most precious thing in the world. 

When you finally curled up in bed together, you had a smile on your face, ready to spend the rest of your life with your best friend’s brother, who also happened to be the love of your life.

sweethearts game masterlist

[baronessvonglitter]

Behind Closed Doors

husband's best friend!Joel Miller x f!reader | WC: 2.1K

Summary: Your husband comes home early and walks in on you with his best friend - Joel Miller.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. Adultery. Cuckolding. Threat of murder/violence. Exhibitionism. Voyeurism. Breeding kink. If it's not your thing you don't have to read. Reader is married (see Adultery above) and able-bodied with female anatomy but no description otherwise. No y/n. If I've missed anything please let me know!

A/N: this is the follow up to hbf!Joel head canon which I promised but have been remiss in working on until today. It was practically finished already! 🙌🏼 I'm on a roll this week.. I'm just glad to be getting these ideas out and on paper your screen.

fun fact for today: I have never cheated on anyone. Does a kiss count as cheating? If so, then I change my answer and I did cheat once. Oops.

dividers by @strangergraphics 👑

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO HER??"

Your husband walks in to find you with his best friend Joel Miller. The guy he's been friends with since fourth grade, who played on the football team with him in junior high, who took the fall when he crashed his parents' car after a party one night, who was his wingman for years before he found you.

That same man is in his bedroom, fucking you, his lawful wife, while you're on all fours on the bed, taking his cock as if you've done so a dozen times before. He doesn't know that you actually have.

Joel falters slightly, his rhythm off a bit as he's taken by surprise by your husband's coming home early.

"Don't stop!" You squeeze your nails into Joel's thigh. He looks at your husband with an icy stare and gathers your hair in one hand to give it a little tug.

"I won't stop, darlin'.. he can watch me fuck ya." And you squeal as he snaps his hips against you, this time with a fury.

Your husband steps further into the room, his blood boiling as he yells at Joel with a voice that sounds like venom. "I SWEAR TO GOD, MILLER, GET OFF MY DAMN WIFE OR I'LL BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT!"

You groan in frustration. "Honey, get out!!"

Your husband is shocked to hear you yell at him like this, especially in the situation you're in.

"GET OFF MY WIFE RIGHT GOD DAMN NOW OR I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"You're a bit too late for that," Joel says, his voice surprisingly even, before he starts to move in you again. His voice is like silk when he speaks next. "Darlin' did you want me to stop?"

"Please don't stop," you whine, pushing your hips back against his to keep him moving. Your actions and the pleading in your voice make him moan softly and his body reacts on its own. He looks back at your husband, making direct eye contact with him as he starts to move again.

"You hear that? She doesn't want me to stop."

You whimper as he moves again. The squishy sounds you make fill the room along with your sighs.

"YOU'RE A SICK SON OF A-" your husband yells, stepping forward as if to put a stop to it, but Joel gives him a warning glare.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he growls. "You come one step closer and you're gonna find out just how sick I can be."

His words make your stomach flutter. "Joel.. he's not gonna do anything."

But Joel doesn't take his eyes off the man as you speak, and he pulls your hair tighter. "You don't know what he wants to do.. he wants to kill me for what I'm doing with you right now."

"He won't kill you," you gasp at his hair pulling. "He won't kill you. He's in shock."

Your husband can't believe what he's hearing coming from you. He's shocked and angry. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" he yells suddenly, but Joel doesn't like that at all, and he snaps his head back at your husband. "Don't talk to her like that," he says firmly.

"Joel," you whine again. "Just ignore him. I need you.."

Joel looks at you again, seeing how frustrated and annoyed you are, and he can't ignore you. Especially when you say you need him. He looks at your husband again, his grip on your hair loosening. "She said she needs me," he says, almost challengingly.

With a huff you get up, straddling Joel. "So rude to keep me waiting," you murmur, riding him.

He looks up at you, his hands coming to automatically rest on your hips before he looks over at your husband, his eyes still carrying that possessive look. "You heard her," he says without taking his eyes off your husband, "You interrupted us."

"Get out!" you say, frustrated.

Your husband's veins almost pop out of his skin from how angry he is, but he doesn't leave, only looking between the two of you. "You two are SICK," he says in a disgusted tone.

"You're sick for staying and watching," you pant, leaning down to kiss Joel.

Your husband looks like he's about to explode, but then you lean down to kiss Joel and his eyes darken at the sight.

You swear you've never heard a deeper tone than when Joel growls, "Get out" in a firm and menacing voice. "Your wife and I are gonna finish what we started."

"Listen, honey," you try to reason as you slow down, grinding on Joel. "Joel's under our roof -- oh god! -- and while he's under our roof he's our guest -- ooh! right there -- and while he's our guest this is gonna happen."

Your husband looks absolutely bewildered by your reasoning, his face almost turning purple with restrained rage. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" he yells at you, but Joel has heard enough. "Keep your voice down. You're interrupting," he says firmly, gripping your hips a bit tighter, trying to get you to keep going.

You focus back on Joel, riding him the way he likes. "You feel so damn good.."

He groans softly and looks at you, his hands gripping your hips tighter, trying to get you to keep the pace on him a bit faster. Your husband is sitll in the room but Joel almost forgets about him when you ride him like that. "God, baby, you feel so goddamn good," he says, breathless. "You like ridin' me like this?"

"Yes! Oh you're so deep!" You ride him faster.

The way you ride him is almost maddening, and Joel can't do anything but let you take control of him. He groans and grunts lowly, the feeling of you on him making him almost lose his mind., He looks up at you like he owns you but then he suddenly realizes that your husband is still in the room watching, He looks over at him again, his eyes dark and possessive. "She likes ridin' me, don't she?"

Your husband's face is even redder now and looks like he's about to scream at you, but Joel interrupts him before he gets a chance to open his mouth.

"Keep your mouth shut," he says, his voice firm and low. "I'm still not done with her."

Your cries grow louder. You scream his name until you come.

"Goddamn baby, you are so perfect," he pants, his hands digging into your hips a bit harder, as if he's holding onto you for dear life. Your husband looks beyond horrified, like he can't process what he's seeing and can barely keep it together when Joel looks over at him again. "Her man doesn't like it when I make her moan like that," he says with a smirk.

You're still squeezing him with your aftershocks, whimpering and sweating. Joel is so close behind you, almost completely lost in you and how you look and sound on top of him, trying to keep yourself up. He squeezes your hips as you ride out your aftershocks and he groans lowly as he feels you still squeezing around him. His eyes meet yours and he give you a possessive look, the need to claim you written all over his face.

He looks over at your husband, who's still watching you from the corner of the room, and speaks in a low, huskier tone. "You see her? I bet you've never seen her come like that. Have you ever even made her come?"

Your husband is speechless, looking like he wants to yell at the both of you, but he can't talk. Joel sees the look on his face and he smirks before looking back at you again. He suddenly grabs your hair as he thrusts up into you and makes you look at him, his voice low and deep, a challenge in his tone.

"Who do you belong to, baby?"

"You, Joel." you whimper. "I belong to you."

He growls lowly at your reply, the possessive need in him taking over him completely. He knows your husband is still watching but he doesn't care. He wants you to say those words, he wants you to look at him and tell him you're his.

He pulls your hair a bit harder and puts his other hand on your hip, pulling you down on him again. "That's right, baby, you're mine," he says in a low growl.

Another orgasm crashes through you as you're stuffed full of him. You coming again, squeezing him so perfectly, is almost enough to make him explode right then and there. He groans lowly again, his voice like gravel as he feels you squeezing down on him. He leans his head back, almost like he's fighting the orgasm, trying to prolong the moment and make it last.

"Fuck, baby, you're going to make me come," he groans and then looks at your husband, taunting him.

"Want you to come, Joel. Want you to fill my pussy," you whine.

Your words and how they come out in a needy, impatient whimper are like music to his ears. His head is clouded by the need to claim you and make you his. He looks at you again, his eyes almost feral, then he looks at your husband once more. "You hear that?" he says huskily. "She wants me to fill her up."

Your husband looks like he's about to combust, his veins visible in his neck from how angry he is. Joel just looks at him, his eyes dark and a smirk on his face, his breathing still heavy and his voice huskier than usual. "Does that make you upset?" he asks, his tone mocking.

Your husband is in shock and struggling to find words. but before he can speak Joel suddenly looks back at you, his eyes darkened even more. "You want me to fill you up, baby?" his hands digging harder into your hip. "You want me to come inside you?"

"Fill me up," you beg. "Put a baby in me," you say, knowing it can't happen anyway but you have to shock your husband.

The idea of knocking you up makes everything in Joel feel primal. He looks at you, his eyes almost feral, possessiveness radiating from him. "You want me to breed you, baby? You want me to fill you up and give you a baby?"

"Yes," you moan. "Want you to fill me full.. let my husband watch you get me pregnant."

When Joel glances at your husband he's almost surprised to find him with his cock out, pumping it, spitting on it to make it glide.

"Yeah, fuck your fist. That's all you're gonna get while I'm here," Joel grunts to your husband. Then he flips you over, his hips housed between your thighs as he slams into you, relishing the loud cries coming from your mouth.

"Ain't gonna fill ya until you come for me, baby," he says, nearly gasping for air. "Gotta earn my cum, baby. Gotta earn it so I can put a little Joel in your belly."

His thumb circles your clit, moving clockwise then counter-clockwise, gentle and insistent unlike the way he's moving inside you, hips pistoning as he works you into another frenzied orgasm, wrenching one from you as easily as he always has.

Tightening and pulsating, lightning runs through your veins as you let go with a loud curse, body arching up, taking in every blessed inch of him. "Good girl," Joel coos, slamming into you until he's at the edge, and then he turns to see your husband, still crying and pumping his useless cock with his fist. With a snarl, Joel maintains eye contact as he pumps you full of his cum, fucking you until the last drop is deposited deep inside you, and when he finally pulls out he uses his tip to softly push it back in when it starts to dribble.

"There, baby, so glad I finally got to cum inside you.." he places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, smiling as he sees your blissed-out expression. As an afterthought he glances at your husband, his fist full of come that spilled over as he watched you two.

"Not that I don't love usin' that pretty little mouth to swallow up all I've got," Joel adds fuel to the fire. "Or that tight little ass. I love fillin' up that tight lil' hole.."

With a smirk he rolls off you, gently caressing your belly, imagining it swollen, jiggling with baby kicks and your tits getting big with milk. "From now on I'm the only one who gets to come inside you, darlin'. Gotta make sure it sticks."

tagging those interested from the head canon: @itwasntimethatdidit40 @milla-frenchy @everybodylovedcontractors @probablyreadinsmut

@tateypots @eviispunk @thedilfdiaries @lanielooo21 @sunnytuliptime

@cxrsed-angel @joelalorian @myownwholewildworld @lilac-boo

@sawymredfox @aurorawritestoescape @604to647

@chewingbunny @sighofthetimez @coolranchdavidian

@tammythr @notgoingtomalta @amyispxnk @lokischocolatefountain

@megangovier @almostempty @tuquoquebrute @jinxispunk

@hotgirlbedtimescenarios @frannyzooey @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

@rabreu1414 @inept-the-magnificent @letsgobarbs @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu

and if I've forgotten any please forgive me 😅

[solarmorrigan]

disoriented + steddie pls!

Please accept my humble offering, O Anonymous

<3

11. Disoriented - Eddie/Steve

cw: panic attack, Steve has PTSD

-

It’s silly, really, what sets Steve off. Something small, something he wouldn’t have given a second thought to, normally.

It’s the ceiling.

The room is dark when Steve wakes, just barely lit by a flickering light that he can’t see the source of, and as he squints up at the ceiling, he realizes that it isn’t his ceiling. The texture is wrong, and it’s hard to tell for sure, but he thinks the color is off, too. It isn’t his ceiling, and he isn’t in his bedroom, and suddenly–

Suddenly Steve has no idea where he is.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and now he’s woken up somewhere strange, somewhere unfamiliar. His heart starts pounding as he turns his head, trying to figure out what’s going on. Everything is in shadow, looming and strange, blurry – Steve realizes that he isn’t wearing his contacts, that he doesn’t know where is glasses are, and what the hell is going on?

Where is he?

It looks like the only source of light is coming from a TV, the screen a smear of flashing colors that Steve can’t decipher, and it doesn’t help him in the slightest. Had he passed out at a party? Is he at someone else’s house?

But no, he doesn’t do that anymore. He hasn’t in a while.

He tries desperately to remember what he’d been doing before he fell asleep (passed out?), but his brain has spun out a hundred miles ahead of him, no longer accepting rational input, because the last time he’d woken somewhere unfamiliar he’d been at the mercy of his violent captors, and the time before that he’d been trapped in a car being driven by a thirteen-year-old, and his mind is trying desperately to jam a square peg into a round hole and make his surroundings make sense.

“Steve?” Someone speaks, and a hand lands on Steve’s shin.

Steve yells wordlessly, scrambling upright, away from the hand, panicked, feeling utterly stupid for not having even thought to check for other people, for someone who could hurt him, for whoever might have taken him here in the first place, except– except when Steve finally gets a look at whoever it is, the wild curls and wide eyes ping as familiar almost immediately.

Maybe he doesn’t know where he is, but he knows that face, even without his contacts, even in the dark, even in his panic.

“Eddie?” Steve manages, hoarse and breathless.

Eddie moves, reaching out behind himself, and suddenly the room explodes into light. Steve scrunches his eyes shut against the initial flare, but when he opens them again, everything has changed. He recognizes the dark fabric of the couch he and Eddie are sitting on. He recognizes the lamp on the end table behind Eddie. He recognizes the coffee table and the scatter of books and papers sitting on top of it. He recognizes the pale carpet and the TV stand and the blurry shape of the doorway he knows leads to the kitchen even though the light in there is still off.

He recognizes all of it because he’s seen it dozens of times before, because he is in the Munson’s goddamn living room.

Steve sags a little against the couch, heart still pounding, breath still wheezing in and out a little too quickly to be comfortable, and he shakes his head against the buildup of anxiety that now has nowhere to go.

“Hey,” Eddie calls softly, and Steve looks up at him. “What happened there? Are you okay?”

Eyes scrunched shut again, Steve runs a hand over his face, nodding his head, then shaking it, unable to decide.

“I got…” He looks back up at Eddie, suddenly feeling small and out of place, uncertain even though he knows exactly where he is now. “I got lost, for a minute.”

He can’t quite tell what expression takes Eddie’s face at that, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Eddie is sitting forward, reaching out again, not touching this time, but offering.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Eddie says, and Steve finds he doesn’t want to do anything but exactly that.

He moves across the couch and crashes into Eddie’s open arms, burying his face in his neck as his arms come around Steve’s back, stroking up and down as Steve rides out the shakes of adrenaline, and here – here, at least, Steve knows he will never feel lost.

[exhaustedpirate]

take me back to the world i know

for everyone who read my wip post, this is the completed post 8x15 timeloop fic with tommy's pov! it's got everything, angst, love declarations, not exactly fluff but there's a happy ending (well...more like a hopeful ending) uuhhhh, enjoy? i dedicate this and my heart to the brilliant @seen-the-stars!

rated T | 7,410 words also on AO3

Tommy watches as Evan crumbles on the floor of an empty hallway, unaware of the cameras, of his watchful eye. Tommy watches as silent agony takes over Evan. Tommy watches and holds himself and cries for his pain, his heartbreak — forgets to acknowledge his own. 

Bobby is dead.

He’s standing in a cold tent, half a dozen army officers milling around and he watches a monitor as Evan cries and screams and sobs and his arms wrap around himself and he can’t move.

He wants to fix it.

He watches as Evan shuffles out of the building, lets him fall into Tommy’s arms. 

He wants to make it better.

He holds him tighter against his chest as they carry the black body bag out.

He wants to fix it.

He stays at Evan’s, makes sure he’s fed, that he sleeps — alone in his bed, Tommy’s a weak man — that he has someone to share the load when it becomes too heavy to carry. 

He wants to make it better.

He watches as Evan takes hold of the cord, the face of composed grief. He can still hear him chastising himself for his grief, for the notion that he should be okay. Tommy reminds him of what he lost, it doesn’t help. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He wants to fix it. He wants to make it better.

Evan rings the bell. He feels the sound in his bones, echoing in his brain along with cries. With every blink, Evan crumples more and more and Tommy wants to move, to go.

He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

His ears ring and his vision is blurry but it engrains in his mind, in his bones. It’s pain, it’s grief.

His vision goes black.

---

He’s confused the first time it happens. 

He gets a call from his ex-boyfriend, again.

He flies the helicopter to the roof of the Martel-Harvey Pharmaceuticals building, again.

He gets chased around by the army and the FBI, again.

He gets arrested, again.

He sees Howie alive and well and he sees Bobby die, again.

He watches from the cold tent as Evan collapses in the corridor, again. 

It hurts all over again. It feels as if his chest is crumbling, breaking all over again. His arms wrap around himself, a subtle hug, an attempt to fill the empty space in his arms all over again.

Evan leaves the building first and Tommy is waiting, again. His ex-boyfriend’s head crashes almost painfully against his shoulder as he tries to hide away. Tommy’s arms aren’t empty, but it feels undeserved. It feels unearned. 

A black body bag carried by four people passes by them. His hand holds the back of Evan’s head again, hiding him from reality, again. He feels his quiet sobs against his skin, tearing him up, making him hold tighter, closer, as close as possible while still giving him an out.

Tommy spends the next week at Evan’s, again. He sleeps on the couch, again. Rejects Evan’s offer to share the bed — knows deep in his bones that it would be a bad idea, he’s a weak man — again. Does his best to help him get through the week, again.

He helps carry the casket, again. His eyes keep glancing towards Evan, keeping watch of his unreadable expression, again. He stands next to Gerrard during speeches and prayers, again. 

He’s still confused. 

Evan stands in front of the bell. 

There’s a sharp sound in his ears as the bell rings. He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

There are tears on Evan’s face all over again. There are sobs from the first row all over again. Tommy’s ears ring and his vision is blurry but it’s ingrained in his mind, in his ears. It’s pain, it’s grief, all over again.

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand. 

It’s a picture of Evan during a group picnic, Jee and Mara running up to him in the background as he sits with his hands behind him, enjoying the sunshine. It’s the calm before the giggling storm. About five seconds later, Evan had water running down his hair and face before he rushed up to chase them. He can still taste his own laughter as he watched Evan catch up to Jee, holding her in his arms and nuzzling his wet face on her neck. He can still hear her giggles.

Tommy chose it as his contact picture. 

Evan is calling him.

Again.

He answers. He’ll always answer. 

“I think I’m having deja vu,” Tommy says through the mic in his helmet. His frown is making his head hurt. “I feel like I’ve done this before.”

It’s a second before Evan laughs. He missed his laughter. “You did steal a helicopter for Bobby and Athena. It’s how we met!”

Tommy doesn’t share in the laughter. “Evan, I think something is going on with Bob-”

“LAFD, Copter 1671,” The voice on the radio interrupts him and he swears under his breath. “This is Colonel Hartman of the United States Army.”

There’s a helicopter chase, again. 

He tries to tell Evan but there are too many people listening in. He’ll put Bobby at risk.

There isn’t time. Even though he thinks that might be a lie.

Bobby stays behind, again.

Tommy watches from the screen as Athena goes inside, again. Watches as Evan stumbles out through the lab door, again. Can’t watch as Evan breaks down, again. Holds him, takes care of him, carries the heavy casket, stands in the audience, again.

Evan rings the bell. Each sharp sound feels like a sharp pain to his body, to his muscles, to his head. His ears ring, he feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand.

He doesn’t let himself appreciate Evan’s face on his phone, almost breaks the screen trying to answer it. He doesn’t waste a minute, jogging towards the helicopter he’d just finished maintenance on.

“I’m on my way.”

He hangs up the phone on Evan’s confused spluttering. Maybe if he’s faster he’ll be able to change something. Maybe all he needs is time.

Athena is on the phone when he lands. She is walking to the other side of the roof, behind the entrance.

“I-I don’t know how you knew but than-”

“Where’s Athena going?” He interrupts, he’ll feel bad later. Later when he manages to change something. “I need to talk to her.”

Evan frowns. “We’re the distraction,” He explains. “She has a cure. We really need to go.” He urges the redhead into the back of the helicopter.

“No-” Tommy stops himself, watches Evan’s face. There’s concern and adrenaline, there’s excitement at having a plan and believing in it. He has seen far too many tears on his face. “I need to talk to Athena.”

“There’s no time,” His voice gets panicked as he glances at the door. “We need to go before they find us.”

“You don’t understand, Evan, it’s B-” He can’t. He shuts off the motors and Evan’s panic increases. “I need-”

The door bursts open. 

“No, no!” Evan is panic. He’s fighting against the hold of the army. There’s a glare thrown his way and he feels it down to his toes.

He failed, again.

They get arrested, Athena following close by, sparkly tumbler in her hand. 

“We need to give this to one of the firefighters in there.” Athena’s voice is strong and she saves her glare for the Colonel but Tommy still feels it in his atoms, that guilt in his bones.

“You want to waste the world’s only cure on a dying man?” Colonel Hartman’s raised eyebrow would have been impressive if he wasn’t using it against Athena Grant-Nash.

“The way I see it, Colonel,” And even Tommy shivers at the tone in her voice. “We have the scientist who created the antiviral right here in federal custody,” Moira waves one of her handcuffed hands at the Colonel. “We have the chance to save someone’s life.”

It works. It’s a miracle. Or maybe just a way to make Tommy’s inefficiency even worse.

They didn’t need him. Howie makes his way out, followed by Hen and Ravi, Evan rushing in to help with the extraction.

He watches as Bobby locks Evan out of the room, takes off his mask and talks to him. He watches as Athena goes in, as Evan is sent out so that the married couple can talk.

He watches it all, again. 

He watches and knows he made this happen.

He watches as Bobby collapses mid-speech, as Athena cries and shatters against the lab door, as Evan curls up in the empty and cold corridor. He watches it all, again.

Tommy stays behind. He watches from afar as they bring out Bobby’s body, as Evan shuffles out of the lab, as Athena walks out, only a slight drag to her feet as she tries to appear strong.

He made this happen. Again.

He doesn’t go inside Howie’s tent. Or Hen’s tent. He doesn’t join Ravi and Karen in the parking lot. He stands outside of the containment perimeter — the relief at not being in custody the furthest thing on his mind. He failed, again.

“What the hell, Tommy?!”

He startles at the sharp voice behind him, turning to face the music. Evan is angry, his face red from the tears but a spark in his eyes that can only be identified as fury. 

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Evan, I-” 

“I called you for help,” Evan’s voice cracks but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop until it feels like he is looming over Tommy, his anger, his grief making him bigger than himself. “If you wanted to punish me, go ahead and do it but Chimney was in danger, Tommy, he could have died!”

“I-I’m sorry, Ev-”

“No!” He jumps at the shout, is almost glad that he chose to step away from everyone else. “You don’t get to be sorry, B-Bobby died,” He stutters but he doesn’t break, anger fueling him. “Bobby is dead and you-you’re sorry?!” He feels the push against his chest, staggers a few steps back. “All you had to do was fly that fucking helicopter! That’s all I asked you to do!”

His vision is blurry and he blinks it away. He doesn’t deserve to cry. He feels desperate, he feels defeated. “Evan, you don’t understand, I-”

“I don’t have time for this,” Evan cuts him off, hands coming up in a slashing motion, his eyes back on him are ice and fire all at once. Tommy feels his gaze like a stab to his gut. “I have to go to the hospital and help my family through this,” The emphasis is another gut punch, another stab. “Goodbye, Tommy.”

He doesn’t call his name, doesn’t try to chase him. He waits until he can’t see Evan’s back anymore to stumble towards a wall, lets the brick hold his weight, slides down to the floor. 

He lets himself feel the guilt, the grief, the pain, keeps it to himself — hopes that if he does, it won’t reach Evan anymore. He doesn’t deserve it. He never did.

Tommy doesn’t go to work for the next week. He pretends he’s sick. It’s only half a lie.

Lucy calls him to check in. Melton as well.

He gets nothing from the 118. He didn’t expect to.

He doesn’t go to the funeral. Doesn’t march in the procession, doesn’t carry the casket. Doesn’t watch as Evan pretends to be okay, doesn’t watch the rest of the 118 mourn their fallen Captain, their family. 

It’s almost peaceful. He could keep the world away, keep that pain, the grief away.

His ears start ringing. He feels the ringing of the bell in his bones. He doesn’t want to go through this again. He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

He doesn’t have a choice, it seems.

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand.

The air rushes out of his lungs as he looks at the picture on his phone screen. As he sees that happy, peaceful Evan turn into the angry, grieving one he saw last. He can’t.

His head is swimming, his ears are ringing, his vision is blurry. 

He can’t.

He doesn’t answer this time.

It feels like his heart is pressing against his ribs because he knows that, no matter what he does, Bobby is still going to die. His presence doesn’t make a difference, he can’t stop it.

He is grounded for the rest of the day. He sits in front of the station’s TV, his body humming with unspent energy, dread. 

There’s a breaking news segment on TV. Tommy feels the world fall beneath his feet.

Two firefighters dead after virus exposure.

He barely manages to reach the toilet before he is puking out whatever food he had for lunch that day. He closes his eyes against the pain and all he can see are the pictures of Bobby and Howie on the large TV screen. He feels that wave of nausea once more.

It’s guilt, it’s grief, it’s anger. 

Tommy is well-acquainted. 

He uses up his PTO, locks himself inside his house and tries to forget the outside world. He disconnects his phone and sits on his couch. 

He waits.

He ignores the knocking on his door, the familiar and vaguely familiar voices on the other side.

He waits.

He keeps track of the minutes, the hours, the days. 

Makes himself count them. Count the minutes, the hours and the days that Maddie spent without her husband, that Jee cried for her father, that Athena mourned her husband, that Evan suffered without his brother-in-law, without his father.

He waits.

It’s his fault. 

There’s a sharp sound in his ears as the bell rings, all over again. He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong, all over again. 

He deserves it. 

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand. 

It’s the picture of Evan. 

For a moment, Tommy lets himself feel relief. Howie is alive. Bobby is alive. 

“Tommy.” Evan says it with a sigh, a different kind of relief.

Evan hasn’t been furious at him, yet. Evan hasn’t lived in a world without his brother-in-law, without his father. Not yet anyway.

Tommy flies the helicopter, again. 

His tongue is heavy in his mouth, his hands aren’t as steady as usual. He needs to tell him.

“Th-Thank you, for doing this for me.”

He feels dizzy.

The light in his eyes, the hope still in them. Such a sharp contrast to what he’d looked like. Tommy feels his heart pounding against his chest, feels it in his throat. He blinks and he sees the fury, the grief in Evan’s face again, hears his sobs, his yells, his cries.

He feels nauseous.

“E-Evan-”

“LAFD Copter 1671,” The voice on the radio startles him. He forgot. His ears are ringing. “This is Colonel Hartman of the United States Army.”

The sound of a nearby helicopter has him clenching his hands. Evan’s hand finds his forearm.

He sees anger, he feels the pain. He sees grief, he hears the wails. 

“Tommy?”

He sees Athena in her quiet grief. Hiding her anguish from the world. Remembers how Bobby brought out the best in her, how he uncovered everything she hid and embraced it. She doesn’t have it anymore.

“Tommy?”

Evan is going to lose Bobby too. He’s going to lose the father he never had. He’s going to lose the proud and strong embrace he craves. He’s going to lose him. Again.

His skin is itching, his body feels wrong. 

His hands are shaking. He knows what will happen before it does. It’s almost like a quiet settles around him as he feels the wind shift, the gears moving into place.

The army helicopter moves into their trajectory. Tommy is supposed to move. His hands shake.

His ears ring from the screams of the redhead in the backseat. His ears ring from Evan calling his name in terror. His ears ring at a sharp sound that sounds like a bell.

It’s pain. It’s not grief yet.

His vision goes black.

---

He gasps as he opens his eyes, forcing oxygen into his lungs, life inside his body. They died. 

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand. He almost drops it in his rush to answer.

“Evan?” He hopes the desperation isn’t so clear in his voice.

“T-Tommy?”

He takes a deep breath, lets the sound of his name fill him with that peace that it usually did. Lets himself remember the way Evan would say his name in the morning, his voice still hoarse and quiet from sleep. The way Evan would say his name from one room to the other, in the middle of one of his adorable rants. The way Evan would say his name in the warmth of sheets, of their bodies, in a sigh, in a moan. 

He has another chance.

“What’s up?”

He flies the helicopter, again.

Tommy forces himself to pay attention. To listen, to see.

Forces himself not to think of the way flames took over the cockpit. Not to think of the anger he saw in Evan’s face. Of his silence. Of his pain. It doesn’t quite work.

He forces himself to pay attention in the next loop. Asks the redhead how long it would take to make another dose. Weeks, she says. Colonel Hartman interrupts Evan’s question.

He forces himself to pay attention in the next loop. 

It doesn’t quite work. He keeps trying. 

It’s Evan calling his name, again and again. Grief, pain, anger. 

He tries again. And again. He figures out there’s no time to do anything. 

His body slumps in defeat, in despair, in premature grief. He answers the call.

Watching Evan collapse on the corridor hurts just as much as it did the first time, the second, every time after it. His heart urges him to move, to go. He does. 

He catches Evan on his way out of the laboratory, lets him crash against his arms. His cries echo in his ears in a maddening loop. He holds him tight, tighter still. Stays by his side at the hospital, takes his hand while he calls Eddie. Takes him home, cooks for him, puts him to bed.

“Tommy,” And it’s a whisper, a firm hand on his wrist. “Stay, please.”

“I’ll be on the couch, Evan,” Tommy whispers back, his heart pounding in his chest. “Not far.”

“No, Tommy,” And it echoes in its temptation. “Stay with me.” 

He knows deep in his bones that it’s a bad idea. 

“Evan-”

“Please.”

He’s a weak man.

It’s no longer a mattress on the floor. No longer a lone sheet over their bodies, pillowcases hastily thrown on the pillows. It’s no longer an uncomfortable bare mattress underneath him.

It’s a proper bed. Proper bedding. Evan unpacked, he’s moved in. Into Eddie’s house.

Evan has a death grip on his hand, the only part of their bodies touching. It’s no longer his head pillowed on his chest, no longer his body curled over Tommy’s. It’s desperate.

It’s desperate.

He feels his warm body looming before he feels the hand over his chest.

“Tommy?” It’s a whisper. Desperate.

He’s a weak man.

“Tommy,” It’s quieter, his hand over his cheek. His eyes blink open, looking up at the shadow of his ex-boyfriend in the dark. “Please.”

He’s a weak man. 

Evan doesn’t ask again, doesn’t beg. His lips are a whisper over his and there’s a control Tommy is quickly losing grip on. It’s Evan’s cries, his whispers, his grief, his pain, his terror, his anger. He doesn’t want it anymore. He wants to purge them from his brain.

“Please, Tommy,” It’s a siren song. “Make me forget.”

He always did everything for Evan. It’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. 

Evan’s lips claim his in a rough kiss, desperate, salty. Tommy feels the string snap.

He’s a weak man.

He does as he’s told. He claims, he takes, he replaces all the grief and pain with pleasure, with moans, with screams, with sighs. He feels his body shatter and get put back together over and over. He feels dizzy. He feels wrong.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sunrise and an empty bed. 

Tommy presses the heels of his palms over his eyes, curses his weakness. Finds Evan in the living room, his voice quiet and warm as he murmurs to someone on the phone. 

“Thanks, Eddie,” Evan nods, a deep sigh escaping him. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

Tommy turns to the kitchen, makes them breakfast. Makes himself useful, all over again. If he’s useful he might be able to stay. He listens as Evan talks about his plan to see his family, to check in on them. Doesn’t ask if he wants to join him. Tommy doesn’t offer.

Eddie is staying at Evan’s house. 

There is no bed in what was Chris’ room. Evan turned it into a home gym. 

The couch is the only place someone could sleep in. That or Evan’s bed.

He doesn’t think about it. 

Doesn’t think about the messy couch. Doesn’t think of the barefoot man leaning against the doorway as Tommy walks in with coffee. Doesn’t think of the redness of both of their eyes.

It’s that selfish monster in his chest. The one who wants to be there for Evan, who wants to hold him and care for him. It’s Eddie’s hand on Evan’s shoulder. It’s the way Evan seems to relax into it. It’s claws at his chest.

It’s standing on the outside. It’s watching as Howie’s hospital room is full of people who spare him a glance, a nod, a quick faint smile. It’s Evan standing next to Eddie, to Maddie, to Athena, to Hen. It’s everyone having each other’s back. 

It’s the memory of the way Evan grabbed hold of him in his bed and it’s the reality of not belonging. He is not needed anymore. He fulfilled his purpose. 

He is a call for distraction. He is a warm body in his ex-boyfriend’s bed. He is a nod, a glance, a quick faint smile to the others. He is a surprise appearance at a bar, a lucky escape for a disgruntled friend. 

He is not a part of the family.

He is not a part of anything.

He carries the casket, watches as Eddie’s hand finds Evan’s back with every other step, keeps him going. He stands in the row behind the others, stands next to Gerrard like he had all the other times before. Ignores him. Focuses on Evan, on the way his shoulder is pressed to Eddie’s. On the way every shoulder in that row is brushing each other.

He is not a part of them.

Evan is the one to ring the bell, again.

There’s a sharp sound in his ears as it rings. He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

He’s getting used to it.

There are tears on Evan’s face all over again. Eddie takes a half a step forward. There are sobs from the first row all over again. Tommy’s ears ring and his vision is blurry but it’s ingrained in his mind, in his ears. It’s pain, it’s grief, all over again.

He’s getting used to it.

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand.

He takes a deep breath. He answers, again.

He’s learned his lesson. 

He flies the helicopter, again.

He’s learned his lesson. He doesn’t want to live in a reality where Howie is dead too.

“Th-Thank you, for doing this for me.” He’s bright, sunshine, hope. 

He can’t. 

“I’m doing this for Chimney.”

And Evan dims. Sunshine behind dark clouds and Tommy wants to shove them away, wants to uncover the smile, the light. 

He can’t.

He still feels the grip, the warmth of Evan’s hands on his arms, his back, his body. His lips, his teeth on his shoulders. His legs around his waist, digging, clinging.

He still feels the cold of standing on the outside. Of watching that happy family from afar. Of watching his parents glare at each other while another kid laughs from the height of their father’s shoulders, from the warm grip of their mother’s hand. 

He feels cold. 

“LAFD Copter 1671,” The voice on the radio reminds him of what comes next. “This is Colonel Hartman of the United States Army.”

It’s instinct, it’s practice at this point. 

He can do this. 

He can fly the helicopter, evading the army, the FBI. He can distract them long enough for Athena to deliver the cure to Howie. He can help, he can be useful.

And he watches as Howie waves at them through the monitor. There is relief, there is always relief because he’s watching his oldest friend, the man who saved his life, alive and well.

And he watches as Evan joins the extraction team. Watches Bobby stay behind.

He can’t watch anymore.

He can’t do this anymore.

He turns his back. “Am I under arrest?”

He isn’t. For whatever reason, he is allowed to leave.

He can’t do this anymore.

He doesn’t wait for Evan to collapse in the hallway. He doesn’t wait for the announcement of Bobby’s death. He doesn’t wait for the black body bag to be carried out. He doesn’t wait for Athena and Evan to stumble out of the laboratory doors. 

He doesn’t wait.

He walks away. He walks away from the impending grief. He walks away from the dangling offer of family, of love. He walks away from disappointment, from heartbreak, from his uselessness.

He walks away.

Chimney messages him. Thanks him for his help. Invites him over. Asks if he will be a part of the funeral. If he will carry the casket with them. It’s an olive branch.

Tommy doesn’t take it. Can’t watch the grief, again. Can’t watch them grieve together, again. He accepts the gratitude. Doesn’t give anything else away.

He can’t do this anymore.

He can’t keep failing. He can’t keep watching Evan fall, can’t keep feeling helpless.

He hides. He stays home, ignores the messages, the calls - doesn’t check who calls him, who messages him. He hides.

He looks at himself in the mirror in his dress blues. It’s habit, it’s the repetition. He contemplates going to the funeral, honor the man who changed him, who showed him that he could be kind. 

He looks at himself and wonders what Bobby would think of him now. 

He isn’t going.

His phone rings.

He is going to ignore it when the picture catches his eye. An unamused Eddie with a twirled mustache glaring at the camera stares back at him. 

There’s an ache in his chest, there’s his racing heart.

For months, Eddie had ignored him. For months, after the breakup, he had realised that he hadn’t just lost a boyfriend, but he’d lost his friendship with Eddie, he’d lost the others.

Months. His heart pounds.

“Eddie?” His voice is hoarse, he hasn’t talked to anyone in a week. He hasn’t talked at all.

“H-Hey,” And there’s a crack to Eddie’s voice, a waver, tears, anguish. He can’t hear anything besides his pounding heart, besides the uneven breath on the other side of the phone. “It’s, uh, it’s Buck.”

And he’s glad for his bed behind him, wouldn’t have cared if he had only the floor to catch him.

“He-He’s gone.”

And Tommy isn’t stupid enough to ask what he means. Isn’t stupid enough to ask for details. Isn’t stupid. He knows. 

He disconnects the call. 

There’s a rush in his ears, there’s a pain in his chest, stronger than it ever has. The words from a few months ago laugh back at him. When he had confessed to the fear of Evan breaking his heart, it was by some late realization of his feelings for his best friend, by some realization that Tommy wasn’t enough to keep. Not like this.

Not by disappearing from the world. Not by getting so swallowed in his grief that he drowns.

His throat hurts and his ears ring. He curls up against himself, wills himself to drown in this pain. Feels his own heart cry from desperation, from pain, from grief.

He had gotten used to it.

He had.

And yet, this feels like no other pain ever has. 

He wants to claw his heart out of his chest, to put it away, to hide it away. He wants to yell at himself for falling in love, for caring. He knew. He knew it from the start and he ignored it. 

And now he feels like his skin is too small for him. Like he can’t breathe.

It’s seconds, minutes, hours of pain, torture, agony. There’s a sharp sound in his ears as it rings.

He feels dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

It’s almost unnoticeable.

He is grieving. He is in pain. His bones ache, his brain aches, he aches.

He dreads it.

His vision goes black.

---

He feels his phone vibrate in his hand.

He’s shaking. He sees his name, his picture, the blessedly at ease look in Evan’s face. His heart is pounding. He wants to throw his phone away, into the trash, down a well. He wants to ignore, to avoid, to push it all away.

He answers. 

“T-Tommy?”

He holds himself up on the side of the helicopter he just finished maintenance on. He holds himself up as Evan’s voice echoes in his brain. 

He lost him.

He lost him so many times.

“Yeah?” He is proud of the steady tone of his voice, of how normal he sounds.

He flies the helicopter, again. 

“And for you.” It’s sunshine, it’s hope, and his heart pounds in his chest. 

He loves him.

“What are we going to do?”

“Something incredibly stupid.” 

He is chased around by the army and the FBI, again.

Evan looks at him with panicked awe and he wants to smile, wants to grab hold of him, to kiss him. He focuses on flying them around LA before finally landing in the Coliseum.

He finally flew a chopper to the Coliseum and he did with Evan by his side, this time.

He loves him.

He gets arrested, again.

He watches as Howie waves at the cameras, alive and well, again.

Tommy can’t take his eyes off Evan as he almost skips outside of the tent to help with the extraction. 

He loves him.

Tommy can’t take his eyes off Evan as he stumbles outside of the laboratory. As he removes his helmet and mask. As he crumbles down onto the floor. As he cries, sobs, screams.

Tommy cries for him, holds himself together for him.

He loves him. 

Tommy strides out of the tent and lets Evan fall into his arms again, holding him close, holding him tight, lets him quietly cry into his neck. He watches the black body bag exit the building, watches Athena walk out, grieving but strong. 

Tommy watches as Evan straightens his shoulders, walks towards Athena and carefully pulls her into a hug, watches as she clings to his clothes, as he hugs him back. 

He loves him.

Tommy stays by his side as he checks in on Hen, on Howie, on Ravi, on Athena again. He watches as Evan’s shoulders never drop from the steady, strong shape he forced them into. He watches as Evan pretends to be okay, as he is there for everyone else.

He wants to hate Bobby for accidentally making him hide his grief. He wants to hate the others for ignoring his pain, for falling into the trick that is Evan’s strong face. He wants to yell, scream, rage at all of them.

He can’t.

He still remembers the way Evan had held onto him at night, had confessed what Bobby had told him, had said that he was happy to be of use, to be there for his family. 

His strength. His care. His love.

He loves him.

Tommy cooks for him, undresses him, helps him shower, covers his body with warm clothes, helps him into bed. Wraps him up in comfort, softness, good.

He sits on the empty side, over the covers, a negotiation he won — he couldn’t sleep by his side again, he is a weak man. He watches as Evan’s expression softens, as his lips part, as his breathing deepens, his body relaxes. He keeps caressing Evan’s face, cheek, hair, keeps watch of him for a few minutes longer. He can’t help the kiss he lays to Evan’s forehead, to his birthmark.

He loves him.

He shuffles his way to the couch, grabs the large blanket from the back of it and sits down on the comfortable cushions. He feels hot. He feels cold. He feels like he’s too big, too small. Too much, not enough. His body slumps onto the back of the couch, the blanket over his lap.

He needs to sleep. 

Tomorrow, he’ll have to make breakfast for Evan before waking him up, drive him to Athena’s along with the exaggerated amount of food he’ll cook for her, watch as they both pretend to be okay. He’ll drive him to the hospital, visit Hen and Chimney, watch as he spends time with his sister, with his niece, with his brother-in-law.

He needs to rest.

Tomorrow, he’ll stand by Evan’s side as Eddie arrives in town; as they hug tight, as they mourn, as they grieve, as they are there for one another. He’ll prepare the mattress in what was Christopher’s room so Eddie can sleep there. He’ll make them dinner as they reminisce, he’ll eat with them. 

He needs to sleep.

The week stretches out in front of him. 

He knows that Eddie will arrive after lunch. He knows that Evan is going to hold his hand while he talks to Bobby’s brother on the phone. He knows that Evan will panic, will grab his wrists and force him to stop while he ties his tie for the funeral. 

He knows every beat of the next few days. 

He needs to rest. 

He knows them. He doesn’t want to go through it again. He doesn’t want to try and change it, doesn’t want the consequences of those changes. He doesn’t want Howie to die. He doesn’t want Evan to die. He doesn’t want Bobby to be dead.

Bobby is dead.

He needs it to stop.

Bobby is dead.

His lungs hurt, his eyes burn, his throat aches.

“Tommy?”

Evan’s quiet voice brings with it an awareness. There are tears running down his face, he can hear the sobs he always tried to silence. He turns away, he hides. 

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Why are you crying?

“Go back to bed, Evan,” He whispers, doesn’t trust his voice to not crack. “You need sleep.”

Silence. Tommy can hear the way his breathing is still shaking, the way his tears are still falling. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Tommy.”

And he hears it again and again. An echo of the hundred other times Evan said his name. It’s happiness, joy, pleasure, satisfaction, pain, terror, grief, heartbreak. 

It’s too much. 

He needs it to stop.

Evan’s hand curls around the back of his neck. He feels it again and again. His touch on his skin, over his clothes, on his face. His fingers tracing the way his skin crinkles when he smiles. Smiles that are all for Evan. He’s always been happiest with Evan.

He’s always wanted to make Evan happy.

He can’t control his sobs anymore. 

His head is buried in Evan’s neck, the smell of his body wash, of his shampoo; familiar, comforting, reassuring. The hand on the back of his head is insistent, keeping him close, holding him tight. His hands cling to Evan’s waist, nails digging into his clothes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, doesn’t think he can speak louder.

“Why are you sorry?” Evan asks back in a whisper.

“I’ve been trying to fix it, to make it better,” He confesses from the safety of his hideout. “I failed, Evan. Over and over again. I failed.”

Evan’s hand runs down the side of his face, thumb wiping the side of his eye, his cheek. 

Bobby is dead and Evan is comforting him.

He is a failure on top of being weak.

“What are you talking about?”

He is so tired. 

“I have been living this week over and over again,” He says, knowing he should pull away from Evan’s embrace but unable to. “I have watched Bobby die over and over again, I have tried to save him, I have. I didn’t answer your call once, Bobby and Chimney died that time. I crashed the helicopter another time. I fucked it all up. I couldn’t find a way to save him.”

Evan is tense underneath him and Tommy is in agony. Maybe it’s okay that he’ll go back in time again, he’ll only have to go through a few days of Evan thinking he’s crazy.

Might as well face the music.

“T-Tommy, I don’t-”

He pulls back before Evan finishes stumbling through his confusion. 

“You died last time,” He watches as Evan’s eyes widen, maybe at the pain in his expression, at the memory of his pain. “Eddie called me and told me you had ki-that you were gone.”

“Tommy-”

“I’m tired, Evan,” He rubs his face as he sits back against the couch, wraps his other arm around his torso, holding himself, trying to bring back the warmth he felt in Evan’s arms. “I’m tired of losing you, of losing Chimney, of losing everyone.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

Tommy laughs. His eyes are blurry from the oncoming tears and he laughs. 

“Me either. I don’t understand. One minute I-I was watching you ring the bell and the next, you were calling me. My phone, my phone was in my hand and you were calling me.” He holds out his hand as if he’s holding his phone again. “I would watch you hold it together as you rang that bell over and over again and then you were calling me, I was looking at that-that picture we took during the picnic?” He glances at Evan, sees his frown. “I love that picture. I kinda hate it now.”

Evan takes his held out hand in his. “Tommy,” He forces eye contact and Tommy wants to scream, cry. “A-are you okay?”

He holds tight onto his hand, craves the comfort of his skin, the warmth. “I tried to stop it from happening,” He feels hysterical, crazy. “I had to stand there and watch you crumble, put on a mask for everyone else and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t keep Bobby alive. I couldn’t, I failed you.”

Evan’s eyes shine in the moonlight. A tear falls down his cheek and Tommy adds that to his list of failures. He made him cry.

“Tommy, I-I’m okay, I-”

“No, you’re not,” He interrupts, takes Evan’s other hand in his, looks into his eyes. “I know Bobby told you that you’d be okay but you’re not,” Evan’s eyes widen at the information that he shouldn’t be privy to. “I watched you in that hallway, watched you a hundred times as you cried, you’re not okay.”

Evan shakes his head. “I’m not okay,” He agrees with a quiet voice, squeezing Tommy’s hands back. “Tommy,” His hand finds his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

It takes him aback. An apology was not what he was expecting.

“Wha-”

“I didn’t ask how you were,” Evan confesses, an ashamed tone to his voice. “I’ve been so focused on my own grief, on the other’s, that I forgot about y-”

“No, Evan, I-”

“Tommy,” He interrupts, his thumb pressing lightly against his bottom lip. “You lost him too. If what you’re saying is true, and you make a very convincing case, you have been going through this alone and I forgot to ask how you were.”

“Evan, I’m the one who’s supposed to be here for you,” His tone is firm even as he feels his chest tighten. “You lost a father, I-”

“I didn’t ask,” Evan shakes his head and Tommy chastises himself for ever forgetting how unpredictable he could be. “I didn’t ask because I knew I was going to need you to be strong so I could be weak with you. I didn’t need you to fix it, to fix me. I needed you to hold me,” His hand runs down his arm, both their hands holding each other. “I needed your arms to fall into when I couldn’t hold myself up anymore.”

Tommy nods. “I want to be here for that, for you.” 

He sees the tears in his eyes reflected in Evan’s. Sees the soft smile in his lips.

“You’re the only reason I am able to be there for the others, Tommy. I don’t need you to fix anything, I need you here, by my side.” 

“I can do that,” Tommy nods, he feels desperate. “I want to do that.”

He loves him.

“I want to do that for you too,” Evan pulls Tommy’s arms around his waist and he is more than willing. He cups his neck with his now free hands. “Maybe we can be here for each other.”

Tommy nods again, absolution at his fingertips. “I want that.”

He loves him.

“Good,” Evan smiles, a small smile that doesn’t take away from the solemn nature of this moment, but lights up his face. “Because I need you in my life.” 

He loves him.

Tommy stutters out a breath, feels his shoulders deflate from the tension he had been carrying, from the weight. He pulls Evan into a hug, holds him tight, is held just as tightly. 

He loves him.

“I love you,” Tommy whispers, face buried in Evan’s neck once more. He feels Evan startle in his arms and runs a hand up and down his back. “Don’t say it back, it’s not the time for that. I just-I’ve been running for so long, I needed to tell you now.”

Silence. Evan nods. “Okay.”

Tomorrow, he’ll make Evan breakfast, drive him to Athena’s to hand over the food he made for her, drive him to the hospital. They’ll visit Hen and Chimney, spend time with Maddie and Jee. 

Tomorrow, he’ll stand by Evan’s side to welcome Eddie, watch them hug and mourn. He’ll prepare the mattress in what was Christopher’s room for Eddie to sleep in. He’ll make them dinner, he’ll eat with them.

The week will stretch out in front of him.

He knows that Eddie will arrive after lunch. He knows that Evan is going to hold his hand while he talks to Bobby’s brother on the phone. He knows that Evan will panic, will grab his wrists and force him to stop while he ties his tie for the funeral. 

He knows every beat of the next few days.

Bobby is dead.

He can’t change that.

But he can hold Evan as they sleep. He can hold Evan as he mourns. He can hold Evan as he cares for his family. He can hold Evan in his arms.

He can get his friendship with Eddie back, can hug him as they share their condolences. He can accept Howie’s gratitude for his part of the mission, can hold him as he spirals in guilt. He can be there for the others, can share Evan’s load in taking care of them. He can be of use.

And when the bell rings, he’ll exhale in relief that he gets to stay this time. That he gets to finally mourn for his former Captain, the man that he was scared to consider important. That he gets to stay by his friends’ side as they grieve. That he gets to stay with Evan.

And when the night falls and he returns to Evan’s house with him, they’ll hold each other in his bed. He’ll be kissed, so softly, so chastely, so perfectly, by the love of his life. 

And weeks from now, he’ll get to hear those three beautiful words from Evan’s lips. He’ll get to kiss him, to hold him, to stay by his side.

But now, he’ll hold Evan in his arms as they sleep. 

Tomorrow, there’ll be a lot to do. 

But now, they’ll hold each other through this. They’ll grieve, they’ll live.

Nothing left to fix. 

[coldbronzemoon]

And Now We're Back to Get Some More

A fic for @aroace-get-out-of-my-face 's fic "A Good Day to Die (Again)".

I just want these sadsacks to have a good time on their mini-road trip. This can be found on Ao3 too.

There was a lull in conversation in the car. It was not the first, and probably won’t be the last. Ford was grateful to have Stanley here in the car with him—so, so grateful, if whatever being that caused the time loop, should they exist, ever revealed itself to him he’d do whatever it demanded with no questions—but filling silence for multiple hours straight was still a tall task.

Both their voices were a bit raspy five hours in. Stan was still driving; Ford tried to persuade his brother to let him take the wheel on account of the bad bruise on Stan’s arm from being tackled to the ground during their reunion, but Stan stalwartly refused.

So Ford was in the passenger’s seat with the map, watching the cusps of trees on the side of the highway grow into woods and forests the further north they traveled. It was a pretty sight, most of the drive. He didn’t have the chance to admire it while he was driving down south dozens of times.

His heart jolted in his chest, thinking of the last week. The many last weeks. He looked at Stanley, for a second utterly convinced that the loop would reset and Ford would wake up and scream himself hoarse for a minute because dammit, he did it, he did it, don’t fucking take this from him and steal a car and drive and drive and drive and make it to the casino just to see Stan get shot through the head—

But Stanley was there, one hand on the wheel and the other arm braced on the rolled-down window like a trucker. There wasn’t any blood or bone fragments or brain splatter. He was just sitting there, squinting out at the road. He probably shouldn't be squinting, they weren’t facing the sun at the moment. 

He opened his mouth, intending to ask about that. But he happened to look out the window at the sky, and it was the time of the year that the moon was visible in the sky in the day, and his brain leapt from the moon, to the stars, to the smoggy, dark canopy of sky over Glass Shard Beach, to them as children giving up on the real sky and looking at star charts instead.

“Tell me about Castor and Pollux,” he said.

It had been an old… not game, exactly, but an old pastime. The two of them had both liked Greek mythology when they were younger—for Stan it had mostly been an interest in the wars and magical powers and warriors with swords, but he suffered Ford’s interest in other parts of the mythology too. Ford would tell him all about a god, and Stanley would remember it. 

Then he’d tell the tales he learned back to Ford. He was much better at making them proper stories than Ford, who always talked about things like a series of facts. Stanley made them fun.

When had their last round of myths been told? Ford thought it might’ve been around thirteen. Stan had braces then, and Ford hadn’t gotten his yet. He thought that his last recollection of Stanley telling Greek myths involved the lisp he gained for that period of time.

Pollux had been Polluc’shhh. Because it had been Castor and Pollux then, too. That had been their favorite constellation myth.

Twins, boxers, sailors. It was like they were cast in the image of those two gods. Back then, they would jokingly plot to change their names to Castor and Pollux after they sailed away, because anything was better than Stan and Stan, and get into scuffles over who had to be Castor and who got to be Pollux.

After all, Pollux was the immortal one. Ford would insist on Stan being Pollux if they were to fight over it again. Maybe Stan was already Pollux, in a way. What was a time loop if not a form of immortality?

Stanley blinked out of his harsh squint and glanced at him for a moment. Only a moment; Ford had already given him hell for keeping his eyes off the road because he was not dying in a car crash after everything.

“When the hell did you turn into resin, you sap,” Stan said.

“Are you going to tell me about them or not?” Ford said, ignoring the question entirely. The answer would be the moment I realized you could really die, and for now they were ignoring the amount of death that had happened for their collective sanity.

Stan sighed, a grand production, and said, “Alright, lessee if I remember anything...”

“Keep your eyes on the road while you remember,” Ford said.

He unfolded the map in his lap even though they had miles before any exits as Stan sighed and hummed and clicked his tongue just to be annoying. Ford was annoyed, which was annoying in of itself, but fondness overtook everything else.

“Right, stop me if I get it wrong, but Castor and Pollux, they were these twin brothers. Real hotshots, handsome as hell, as all twins are—”

Ford laughed. He had forgotten that Stan always started the myth like that. He wouldn’t have remembered it without Stan doing it again, and the thought unsettled him for a second.

But it was alright that Ford had forgotten. It was alright, because Stan was here, and telling the story again, and he’d always be here to do everything Ford had forgotten he did because nothing like what happened in that casino parking lot was ever allowed to happen again.

He settled into the seat of the El Diablo and let Stanley’s guff voice wash over him. 

-----------------------------

At some point into Stan’s recollection of the lives of Castor and Pollux, which had slid into a recollection of a group of bikers Stan had run with in his early twenties, Stan abruptly stopped talking and pointed out a billboard.

Ford blinked awake from what wasn’t exactly a nap—he was still listening to Stanley—but nearly counted as one. He almost missed the billboard, and for a second was sure he misread it as it passed by.

The billboard declared that on an upcoming exit there was a “TRAIN OF TAXIDERMY”, featuring a picture of a rundown-looking set of boxcars that presumably held the taxidermy.

“That looks shitty as hell,” Stan said gleefully. “We should go see it.”

“They’re going to charge us twenty dollars each to look at stuffed rabbits,” Ford said.

“Sure are. We should go anyway. I’ve always seen signs for these stupid things and never gone.”

Ford considered Stanley from the corner of his eye. His brother could pay for his own fee with his casino winnings, so that wasn’t a problem… Ford remembered Stanley always having a fascination with this sort of thing. He’d happily point out any dead animals they saw in the area and listen on as Ford poked them with sticks and tried to determine the cause of death.

It wasn’t like Ford hadn’t also enjoyed himself. Hell, maybe the place would have some genuinely decent taxidermy, which would be interesting to look at. Maybe it’d even have something cursed!

“Why not?” he said. “Let’s go see it. It’ll add, what, an hour getting back?”

Stanley whooped with delight as Ford bent over the map and marked the exit for the Train of Taxidermy with a red marker Stan kept in the glove compartment. 

The tourist trap was easy to find on account of the multiple signs pointing out where to go and clarifying how many miles more to get to it. The sight of the wooden pointing arms and faded white letters claiming to “shock” and “amaze” filled Ford with a rush of nostalgia for the boardwalk carnival of their childhood.

Coming up on the train itself—a bold claim, really, it was three boxcars set on an abandoned track, all of them painted lurid colors—was a slightly disappointing sight after all the fanfare. Stan and Ford got out of the car and made their way to the wooden stall near the parking lot for the site anyway. The pair were still riding the wave of getting out of an endless prison of death and were determined to enjoy themselves.

They engaged with the tourist trap’s cashier with a level of enthusiasm and ecstasy that had the bored teenage employee scrutinizing them with narrowed eyes, probably looking for signs of a different kind of ecstasy.

Still, they were directed to enter any boxcar they chose despite the wary look. Ford had no doubt that it had less to do with the girl being sure they were drug-free and more to do with the fact she wasn’t paid enough to care either way.

The hot pink boxcar was the closest one, and boasted “HUGE RACKS AND IMPRESSIVE BODIES”. Stan marched ahead to that one without Ford’s input, and Ford was forced to follow after.

He supposed he could’ve chosen to take one of the cars not emblazoned with a suggestive slogan, but that would require letting Stanley out of his sight. And that simply wasn’t going to happen.

It turned out that the car was mostly filled with deer, and dear Moses, they were awful. Stan was already cackling at the utterly hideous buck’s head that was mounted on the far wall, whose expression in death could only be described as ‘perturbed’. There were multiple doe in the car as well, posed in what was probably supposed to be frolicing motions, but looked more like seizures. The fur and skin were obviously stitched together from several deer, and yet it seemed far too tight over the false bone and muscle inside.

“I could do better,” Stan said, prodding at the buck’s antlers. There was no one around to stop him from doing it. “These things were obviously glued on—if you’re gonna do that, go big! Give it twenty antlers! Put up a plaque saying it grew a new set every year, ‘cept the last set never fell off.”

“Deer live ten years at best,” Ford pointed out, studying the buck as well. The glass eyes had an almost hypnotic quality despite being set into the eye sockets like the maker had just thrown them haphazardly and hoped they’d stick.

Stan shrugged, grinning. “So it was a half-immortal deer on top of the antler thing. Double the fun.”

Ford laughed in spite of himself.

The other two cars were similarly terrible. The second one, painted a suspect green, was filled with birds upon birds upon birds. Half of them were obviously pigeons painted to be other birds, the rest a collection of haggard birds of exotic nationalities that were surely the result of illegal animal smuggling. One of them was a charbroiled chicken carcass in a glass case that claimed to be the remains of a phoenix, a notion Ford spent a good long while ranting about as Stan came up with increasingly absurd ways for it to be a real phoenix corpse despite the fake nature of everything else.

The yellow-coated third car was the best in that it fully descended into the realm of absurdity. Animals had been butchered into pieces and sown back together into complete mishmashes of chimeras that strained the imagination and one’s sense of good taste. There was a wolf with hawk wings, a squirrel with a scorpion’s tail, a snake with what looked disturbingly like human teeth.

“I can’t believe this place hasn’t been shut down,” Ford said, wishing he could study those teeth in more detail. Were they human?

Unfortunately, even he had enough awareness to know you couldn’t go asking to please have the taxidermy snake in an exhibit to test its teeth. That might invite questions like, ‘how are you going to test if they’re human?’ 

“Shit, I can,” Stan said, examining a set of mice with insect wings stapled to their backs on a small table. “Pigs suck at their jobs, what do they care about some weirdo making monsters in the woods?”

“I suppose.”

It took them another twenty minutes of making fun of the stitching and poor attempts at musculature before they wandered back out, having thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They passed the teenage employee as they went, who made no attempt to hide the joint she was smoking. Ford suspected Stan was right on the money; no local authorities of any kind cared about this place.

Back in the car, Stan paused a moment in starting the car, pulling something out of his coat pockets. Ford let out a shout of surprise as Stan dumped a handful of the taxidermy fairy mice into his lap.

“Be quiet or she’s gonna get on our asses,” Stan said. “Anyway, here’s some mementos. Don’t thank me too hard, now.”

The grin on his face could only be described as shit-eating. 

Ford burst into peals of laughter, trying not to let the mice fall into the foot-space of the passenger seat without actually touching them with his bare hands. “Stanley, I can’t believe you. These things are going to give me rabies.”

Stan snorted. “Y’can’t get rabies like that.” Doubt flickered on his face. “Can you?”

“No,” Ford admitted, unwilling to be wrong even for the bit. “But if anything could manage it, it’d be these awful things.”

The mice peered up at him with glassy, beady eyes. They seemed to beg for death despite being dead.

“You love ‘em. They’re exactly your type’a shit,” Stan said.

“They are not!”

Stanley started the car and peeled out of the parking lot before Ford could even think of returning the horrible mice to their resting place. He laughed at all of Ford’s furious spluttering, not in the least bit afraid or concerned about Ford’s ire.

And maybe there was a reason Ford relented so easily. He already knew where to put the awful things in his cabin.

-----------------------------

Adjusting to being in Ford’s house was… odd.

Part of it was that when Stan ever managed to picture where Ford was living, it was usually off in the city, doing important science stuff in important science places. Somewhere big and blocky and white, science-y and all. He had known that Ford was here from calls from his mom, but the reality never really settled in his mind as the truth.

The big cabin in woods a drive out from a small lumber town was not that. It didn’t fit the eager seventeen year old Stan remembered, so ready to be part of something huge and bustling. Something more than the slow, boring crawl of a tiny beach town.

But then, he couldn’t have imagined that twiggy version of his brother getting the shoulders and arms to successfully tackle him to the ground or the speed to sprint after him without getting winded. Couldn’t have imagined that Ford gleefully stealing a car.

He couldn’t have imagined that version of Ford looking so crushed at the thought of him being dead, either, so maybe it was a good thing he found Ford had changed from what he was. Besides, he was still completely Ford in all the ways that mattered, in the madcap enthusiasm and the grammarian ways and the rambling and the tapping of his fingers, which eased the sting of finding his twin had changed in his absence. 

Actually being in the house also helped. It looked like a movie prop department for every mad scientist thriller ever made had exploded in the place, aka exactly what Stan would’ve imagined for Ford. After chasing the gnomes—the gnomes, what the fuck —out of the cabin and falling asleep on the floor for the first night, Ford had vaguely apologized for not cleaning up and then immediately got distracted trying to arrange jars filled with something on some shelving.

Stan wasn’t allowed to help on account of Ford having a specific organizational method in mind, which Stan had never been able to parse even after seventeen years of living with the guy. Mostly he ended up prodding at the anatomical skeleton Ford had in the house for some reason. Weren’t these things real bones? 

It was here in this house that both was and wasn’t everything Stan imagined for Ford that a lot of things Stan had tried to avoid thinking about swam to the forefront.

“How many times did we repeat the week?” Stan found himself asking.

Ford stopped in place, staring off into the distance. It was the sort of concentrated look that Stan vaguely remembered, one that meant Ford was doing a lot of math in his head. Or that he felt nauseous and was trying not to upchuck onto his own shoes. It was a toss-up when they were kids; Ford’s stomach had been pretty weak.

“I believe it was at least several months worth,” he said. “Maybe even close to half a year.”

“No,” Stan said, on principle. It couldn’t have been half a year.

“There are only fifty-two weeks in a year. You found a lot of ways to kill yourself.”

There was a momentary silence. Stan regretted bringing it up; they’d been doing pretty damn good at leaving the fact that Stan had wanted to kill himself pretty badly to the one conversation in the Stanleymobile. He guessed that was on him for thinking he could get away with never talking about it again.

Abruptly, Ford said, “Ma was the one to tell me.”

“Oh, shit,” Stan said. “I thought you were lying about Ma calling you about me.”

Ford frowned. “Well, I was—she never called me to warn me you were suicidal, she called to tell me you were dead.”

“Shit,” Stan said again, with great feeling.

The look Ford gave him was half-way between confused and incredulous, and he supposed he deserved it. Ford had mentioned that before, hadn't he? That Stan's deaths kept getting to him in the end.

It wouldn’t be right to say Stan hadn’t thought his family would learn about his death; he had, especially in the beginning. He’d gone for a drifter’s death out where no one could find him until identification would be a waste.

At some point, though, that aspect had just… faded away. The impact of what he was doing didn’t feel real. It didn’t matter that he was dying, that others were learn that he had died. Hell, a couple times he’d gone for deaths that would make a scene, would maybe end up on the news if the news cycle had ever been allowed to get past Friday. Those would’ve certainly made it back to the rest of the Pines.

Stan had forgotten the fact that by leaving a body to be identified, his mom would learn that he had died. How he had died. That she’d have to ring up Ford and probably Shermie too to break the news.

He wanted to ask what their mom had sounded like relaying his death. He didn’t actually want to know.

Too bad, Ford was already speaking again. “It was her every time. Well, every time there was a phone call to receive; sometimes I’d go the whole week without one and I always wondered… oh, and our dad called once.”

“Pa?” Stan repeated. “Pa called?”

If what his mom had sounded like was something Stan didn’t want to imagine, what his dad had sounded like was something he couldn’t imagine. The concept of his father taking the time to call Ford and give the news just didn’t make sense.

Ford’s jaw tightened and he rearranged a few jars with unnecessary force. “Yes. It was when you—when you were murdered.”

“By old Gas Bag?”

His twin let out a sharp laugh, looking quite surprised at having done so. “Gas Bag?”

“He had a stupid last name!” Stanley said, gesturing defensively. “And he was a gas bag. Full of hot air.”

The fledgling smile on Ford’s face faded as he continued to survey his shelves. “Yes, the first time with him, I believe. Pa called, as he had been the one to confirm who you were. He usually was.”

Stanley didn’t know how to feel about that little tidbit. Wincingly, his mind flipped through some of his deaths like a receptionist flipping through her rolodex of phone numbers. Shot himself in the head, in the mouth, jumped, poisoned himself with cleaning supplies, lit himself on fire…

Very few of them ever left his body looking very…palatable. And while Stan’s relationship and opinion of his dad could be described as ‘complicated’ on the best of days, he wasn’t sure he wanted the old man to have to see him like that. 

He stared at the anatomical skeleton some more. At least it ke[t Ma from seeing what was left of him. That was something.

Ford broke him out of his morbid reverie. “I’m going to punch him the next time I see him.”

“Who, Gas Bag?” Stan said, baffled. He was pretty sure they’d never meet again.

“No, Pa,” Ford said. “When he called, he—he had the gall to blame you for it, you know. That you were dead, that you were living the kind of life where someone might murder you. I remembered thinking for a second that he might regret it, you know, that he’d understand what he’d done, by the way he was acting—but it was your fault. Of course. It had to be your fault, not his. Not even your dead body could shake him of that.”

Ford’s voice was filled with a cold venom Stan had never heard before. 

He tried to muster up much of a reaction to what Ford actually said, but he found himself oddly distant to it. Of course Pa made it all his fault again. That was an old pattern Stan had taken way too long to notice.

Maybe his dad did regret it. Maybe he didn’t. That version of his dad was as dead as Stan tried to make himself. He never really existed.

“Sounds like Pa,” Stan muttered, flicking the arm of the skeleton and watching it swing in response. 

Ford’s expression contorted. He marched away, and left Stan wondering what was happening. His brother returned with several things: the mice Stan had purloined for him in a plastic bag they had mustered up at some point, a stack of post-it notes, and a marker. Ford wrote “CURSE PA NEXT OPPORTUNITY” and stuck it right on the doorframe to the storage room. Then he set about aggressively arranging the fairy-mice in the space on his shelves.

Stan did not find the post-it note weirdly heart-warming. He didn’t.

-----------------------------

Stan woke up with a start. For a long second, he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him, and his heart seized in his chest—where was the water-damage pattern of the motel room he spent months getting used to? 

The fact that it was dark wood above him threw him even more. Most places he ended up in while sleeping didn’t involve homey cabin interiors. More bare concrete and plaster and maybe some dried blood or vomit no one bothered to clean up.

His gaze swung around the room. Then he really almost had a heart-attack, because Moses, there was someone standing in the frame of the doorway, the light shining behind them blocking out all detail until they were a shadowy silhouette. 

Stanley nearly got his hands on the lamp on the bedside table before his brain caught up to everything and his eyes adjusted to the light to make out the other person’s face. The motel, yes, the loops and the many deaths of Stanley Pines, and then, suddenly and miraculously, his last death and Ford dragging him back to his house in Backwater, Oregon.

It was just Ford. Just Ford, standing in his— his! That was novel—bedroom’s doorway in the perfect way to look like he was about to murder the hell out of Stan. Classic Sixer. His knack for menacing would be applaudable if he could actually do it on purpose.

As Ford stood there in the dark like a creep, he looked steadily at Stan and said: “Stanley, I want you to know that if you ever change your mind and actually manage to kill yourself, I’m going to kill myself right after. Just so you’re aware.”

A hysterical bark of laughter burst out of Stan before he could help it. Whatever he’d expected Ford to say, it wasn’t that. The laughter was swiftly followed by a, “Stanford, holy shit.”

“I’m being completely sincere,” Ford clarified. “Ideally, I’d just resurrect you somehow, but if that doesn’t work I’m coming after you.”

The worst thing was that Stan believed him without a doubt. Man, they were fucked up.

“Fuck’s sake, Pollux,” he infused the nickname with as much sarcasm as he could manage, “I’m not killing myself. Not today, not tomorrow, not in the next eighty years. Please get out of my room.”

Ford sighed like Stan was being the weird one here. But he did leave, departing with an unnecessary flourish of the bathrobe he was wearing for some reason. 

“I would do it!” Ford called one more time as he shut the door.

Stan sighed and looked up at the dark wood of the ceiling, the house creaking slightly with Ford’s movements back to his own room.. 

He was the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

[saiintvalentiine]

the amber house

Summary: There is a house in the woods and Kenadian can't keep running.

Notes: this is. something. i have some other ideas in this realm that i want to work on, but idk when ill get to them. this is completely unedited, so pls feel free to point out any SPAG errors :} enjoy! divider

Word count: 2,160

Ken hates snow. He hates it in the way an animal might; it chills his clothes and sneaks into his ears and ruins his balance as he runs. It weakens him. He can’t hear the train tracks anymore, can’t feel the rumbling of dozens of cars rushing across thousands of miles of metal railing, but he can’t stop running and falling and scraping and standing and running. He’s been running for what feels like no time at all, what feels like forever, what feels like his last moments alive.

There were warehouses and wasteland where he began, but now there’s nothing but forest, thin and wispy and lashing his cheeks and blending with the sleet and—

And light. Sweet, orange-tinged light. He wants to crash into it, sink into it, feel if it’s as warm as it looks. He’s exhausted. He tumbles into the light, landing at the foot of a raised porch, all dark wood and hellebore petals.

He’s a wanted man. He can’t stay here. He doesn’t know where he can stay, his legs hurt, he’s—

“You look like you’ve been dunked in a bucket.”

A shadow cuts through the light. Ken struggles to get up, get off the ground, get back to running, but all he manages is to sprawl on the porch steps.

“Well. That’s not ideal, I’ll admit. Come on, come here, we’ll get you warm and dry.”

The shadow disappears and the light returns and Ken drags himself onto the porch and shakes his sopping wet hair out.

“Do you— you just leave your front door open?” Ken croaks as he stands up.

“You can enter if you want but don't critique a stranger’s life so flippantly.”

Ken staggers towards the doorway, pausing just before the threshold. The walls are pale and the floor is covered in jewel colored rugs and the smell of hot, spiced food slams into him like a bullet to the brain. He hesitates for only a moment before stepping inside.

“Welcome.”

Ken follows the scent into the kitchen, the heat of the house melting away the snow clinging to his clothes and dripping onto the floor of an overstuffed kitchen.

“I'm making rabbit stew, but it'll take a while longer.”

“That sounds. . .” Ken stomach clenches.

“Good. I'm Wifies by the way.”

Ken blinks through the rivulets of water melting into his eyes.

“Augh, stop dripping on the floor,” Wifies is suddenly in Ken’s space, manhandling him away from the kitchen. Ken hisses as he's shoved into a bathroom. “Shower. There's clothes and towels in the closet. Don't come out until you're dry.”

A light is flicked on, the door is slammed shut behind Ken, and then there's silence. The food smell doesn't reach under the door.

The bathroom is just as overstuffed as the rest of the house, the linen closet nearly spilling out with fabric and the countertop covered in lotions and soap bottles. Ken feels dizzy looking at it, but there's a shower, and when he tests the water, it's blessedly hot. He drops his soaked clothes on the floor and stands under the hot water and picks through what feels like fifty bottles of hair products and eighteen different soaps. He even conditions his tail for good measure. Best to use up all the goodwill he can before this guy realizes who he is.

He feels less like an icicle when he steps out. There's an eclectic collection of clothes stuffed into bins in the linen closet. He finds some sweatpants and a shirt that fits alright enough, and digs through his pants pockets. He pulls out his key necklace from the depths, but also his escape room keys and . Then, he bundles up his towel and possibly ruined clothes to take out. He's not even really sure what he's doing until he's back at the kitchen, watching the practiced dance of a familiar kitchen.

“Oh, you're done. Good, I'll just toss that stuff to wash, leave it on the bathroom floor.”

“Do you know who I am?” Ken blurts out.

“What, have you forgotten?” Wifies turns to look at Ken, and now without the sting of freezing air in his eyes, he gets a good look. Black hair streaked with white, pale skin, a smattering of moles, and most strikingly, violet eyes that narrow like the tips of pins. “No, you definitely know who you are.”

“I do!”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Are you kidding me— I'm dangerous, don't you know?!”

“Dangerous?” Wifies snorts and turns back to the pot of stew. “You're like a bug to me. Annoying, but not dangerous.”

Ken prickles at that. He's dangerous, it's true, it's why he's here in the first place, why he was snow-slicked and half dead already.

“Kenadian, leave that wet pile in the bathroom before you drip anymore on my floor,” Wifies says. 

Ken sputters, saying, “So you do know who I am!”

“I never said I didn't.”

“You—”

Ken groans and does as he's told for once.

“Would you like to eat?” Wifies asks when he comes back to the kitchen, finally able to sit at the curiously empty dining table.

“. . . Yes.”

“Wonderful. I've made rabbit stew.”

Ken is served a steaming hot plate of stew, spoon place directly into his hand, and he wastes no time in digging in. He knows he needs to be more critical about what's happening right now, he's still on the run, he's still a killer.

Even killers need to eat.

Wifies sits across from Ken, eating his own bowl of stew at a much slower pace. It's much smaller than Ken's, which he'd find funny if he wasn't too busy stuffing himself.

“Once your clothes are dry, you can head out,” Wifies says, stirring his spoon through his stew slowly. “You can sleep in the meantime if you'd like.”

Ken chokes and struggles to swallow down a chunk of carrot.

“Wait, are you kicking me out?”

“You have places to be,” Wifies says, waving his free hand around. “And you wouldn't want to stay here anyway.”

Ken isn't restless. Not yet at least.

“Not my house,” Ken mumbles, looking back down at his bowl.

Wifies makes a noise, like a huff, but Ken just focuses on eating until he feels sick with it.

“Your earrings,” Wifies says suddenly. When Ken looks up, Wifies’s head is tilted as he stares at Ken's orange ear. “They're made of metal?”

“Yeah,” Ken can't help but touch them, a pink enamel flower and a gold and amethyst stud stacked on the outer side of his ear.

“You'll get frostbite on them if you keep them on,” Wifies says. He's not wearing any jewelry. “When you leave, you should take them off until you can get somewhere warm.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem. I'll set the couch up.”

Wifies stands and puts his bowl in the sink, walking around Ken and further into the house. Hunger sated, clean and warm, Ken thinks. He finishes his stew and puts the emptied bowl into the sink and stands at the threshold of the kitchen and looks around. The entrance is like a small mudroom, most of the front of the house overtaken by the kitchen itself. Cold air breezes in from the wide open door, but no snow lays on the porch or wanders in, and the cold only brushes up against Ken when he stands right in front of it. He stares out into the wispy darkness, the snapping tree branches, the sizzling white of the world, and takes a step back.

There may be something strange here, but there's no train, no breaking of his memory, no mask. He touches his cheek. No mask.

“Ken?”

Ken turns around to see Wifies ducking out of a doorless doorway down the hall.

“Don't steal my clothes,” Wifies fusses, frown so deep that he looks comical.

“I won't! Jeez, I was just looking.”

“Well, I pulled the couch out and made it. You can lay down whenever you want. I'll get your clothes washed.”

Wifies enters the bathroom, taking Ken's clothes before disappearing into another doorway. Ken drags his feet until he reaches the first doorway, where a worn green sofa bed with overstuffed pillows and a patchwork quilt awaits him in a dimly lit room. Suddenly, he realizes how much he hurts, the strain in his thighs and stinging in his chest not quite gone. He finds himself crawling under the quilt and curling up.

Ken's going to die in this house isn't he? He's laying down to sleep in a house in the middle of the woods he found while running away from his trial.

He falls asleep anyway.

A tinny radio is what wakes him up. It's distant, and Ken's eyes still feel sticky, but he pushes himself upright. It sounds like— it's indistinct honestly, but there are no voices, just music. He rolls off of the mattress and follows the music back to the kitchen where Wifies is pricking his fingers sewing a hole shut on Ken's hoodie.

“Ah, Ken,” Wifies says, not looking up from his work. The door is still open, snow still floating down through the night. “Your clothes are all clean. I'm just mending this bit here.”

He snips the black thread and hands it to Ken, along with his neatly folded pants. Ken takes them. He sniffles, nose still stuffy from sleep. He turns. He shuffles his way back down the hall towards the bathroom.

“Don't forget to take your earrings off!” Wifies calls out. “Frostbite, remember?”

Ken grunts. He does, as he's getting dressed, take his earrings out and pocket them, though he has to take his escape room keys out to make sure they don't land on top of them and fall out. He puts them on the counter top and hunts for a nice smelling lotion.

Use up all the goodwill, remember?

Once he smells nice, he returns to the kitchen. Wifies’s plain blue sewing kit sits on the kitchen table, a dark, marbled wood slab that looks like it weighs a hundred pounds. He's put a kettle on the stove, bright orange and covered in poorly painted lemons, and there's a robin's egg blue mug next to it.

“The decor in this house is a mess,” Ken comments.

“You're insufferable, by the way,” Wifies says drily. “Get out of here will you?”

Wifies's tone is almost charmed, but the words themselves—

“Do you really know who I am?” Ken asks. His clothes are warm and clean and his stomach is full and he's got that itch under his skin that tells him he's been in one spot for too long. He just wants to know. “Like, really?

“You're Kenadian,” Wifies says. “I know what that means. Do you?”

Ugh. Philosophical shit.

“Obviously.”

Wifies groans and rounds up on Ken, pushing him towards the door. Cold laps at his feet.

“Yeah, alright, enough of that, get lost,” Wifies shoos him away with both hands. “You've got nothing left to do here.”

And the thing is, Wifies is right. Ken could try to sweet talk him into letting him stay for longer, but he doesn't want to. He wants to go— fuck, he's not sure, but he wants to go. He got out of the train, got away from his imprisonment, escaped his fate for another day, and he doesn't want to stay here. It's a nice house, but Ken doesn't want a home. He wants to go.

“Don't push me,” Ken grumbles, stepping onto the porch. He turns around to look at Wifies. “And, uh, thanks for letting me stay. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Wifies echoes with a snort. “Don't get caught.”

“I won't.”

Ken basks in the light for only a moment longer before hopping off the porch and running. He doesn't look back.

Wifies sighs as the kettle wails. He ignores it in favor of heading to the bathroom. Sitting on the counter is a carabiner with a handful of colorful keys on it. He picks it up and heads back to the kitchen, turning the heat off on the stove and twirling the carabiner around his finger over and over.

The radio on the windowsill over the sink, small and silver and still functional after all this time, sputters and spits.

Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run, it sings, Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.

“Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun,” Wifies sings along, pocketing the keys for now as he pours the water for his tea. The scenery outside the window changes in streaks of static and light. “Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.”

The snow is gone when Wifies looks up. Instead, it's endless rolling hills of grass and nothing else, moon bright and high and lonely in the sky.

He takes his tea and makes his way to his bedroom. He leaves the front door open, as always, just in case.

[roseandxanderfics]

Pattern Recognition – Roy Kent x Autistic!Reader

Summary: Roy Kent crashes into your routine but doesn’t disrupt it—he adapts. He notices, he listens, and in his own gruff way, he makes the world a little easier. Maybe love isn’t about change—it’s about understanding.

---------

Routine is safety. It’s knowing what to expect, knowing how to navigate the world without sudden disruptions that make your brain short-circuit.

Your mornings start the same way every day. Same coffee shop, same seat by the window, same barista who knows your order without asking. The same playlist hums in your headphones as you watch the world outside, tracing the patterns of people’s movements, the rhythm of cars stopping and starting at the crosswalk. It’s a sequence you’ve memorized, one that makes sense.

Work is a structure you’ve perfected. Breaks taken at the precise minute they always are. Evenings are planned, right down to the way you unwind—TV shows you’ve rewatched a dozen times because they don’t surprise you, the same book you flip through even though you know every word.

You don’t like change. Change is unpredictable. Change hurts.

And then Roy Kent crashes into your life.

Loud. Blunt. Unapologetic.

You expect him to throw everything off balance. Expect him to be the kind of person who doesn’t get it, who calls you rigid or inflexible or tries to drag you into his chaotic orbit.

Instead, Roy does something you never saw coming.

He adapts.

⸻

The First Time He Notices

It’s meant to be a fun night out. A pub with Keeley and the team, a few drinks, some laughs. You’d agreed because, in theory, it seemed manageable. You knew the layout of the pub, had picked out a seat in the corner where you could keep your back to the wall, where the noise wouldn’t be too overwhelming.

At first, it’s fine. You sip your drink, listen to the conversations swirling around you, find comfort in the familiar cadence of banter between the Richmond boys. Even Roy’s signature grumbles are part of the background hum, grounding in their own way.

But as the hours pass, the space fills. Voices overlap, bodies press too close together. Someone cranks up the music, and suddenly, the bass isn’t just a sound—it’s a vibration in your bones, rattling under your skin. The pub lights flicker in that too-fast way that makes your head pound, and the laughter at the next table is just a little too shrill, cutting through the haze of noise like a siren.

You shift in your seat, hands tightening around the hem of your sleeve. Your breathing is too shallow, your chest feels too tight, and the words in your brain start to blur. You need to leave. You need—

A gentle nudge against your knee.

You blink, focusing. Roy. He’s watching you, eyebrows furrowed, gaze sharp but not demanding.

“Want to get some air?” he asks, voice quieter than usual. Like he’s choosing to be soft with you. Like he knows you need it.

You nod, grateful, and Roy stands first, moving easily through the crowd without touching you, without reaching back to pull you along like others have done before. He just walks ahead, clearing the way until you’re both outside, until the cool night air settles around you like a balm.

He leans against the wall, pulls out his phone, pretends to be occupied while you focus on breathing.

Eventually, when your shoulders start to relax, he mutters, “You good?”

You nod, words still tangled in your throat.

“Alright,” he says. That’s it. No fuss, no prying. Just understanding.

And you don’t know how to say it, but in that moment, you think—maybe Roy Kent gets it.

⸻

He Learns Without Being Told

Roy is observant in a way most people aren’t. He picks up on the details that others miss.

He notices that you order the same coffee every morning—not just because you like it, but because choosing something new is exhausting. So, when he starts meeting you at the coffee shop, he always arrives early enough to order it for you, sliding it across the table without a word.

He never forces eye contact, never pushes for conversation when you don’t have the energy for it. And when you do talk, when you get lost in the details of something you love—the way you analyze the movement of the players on the pitch like it’s choreography, or how you can spend half an hour talking about the feeling of certain fabrics—he doesn’t interrupt. He listens.

He never makes fun of the way you stim. If you rock slightly in your seat or tap your fingers against your leg in a rhythm, he doesn’t call attention to it.

And the first time you get overwhelmed at a grocery store—because they rearranged the shelves, because the lights are too bright, because the sounds are too much—he doesn’t ask questions. He just takes the basket out of your hands and starts collecting the things he knows you need, one by one.

By the time you reach checkout, your shoulders have relaxed.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Roy shrugs. “Yeah, well. S’not that hard.”

But the way he keeps his voice low, the way he stands between you and the person behind you in line so you’re not boxed in—that tells you it’s more than that.

⸻

The Night It Clicks

There’s a night when you’re sitting with Roy on the couch, the television playing in the background, and your brain feels like static. It’s been a long day. A day full of unexpected changes, of words getting stuck, of everything feeling too much.

You should say something, but you can’t. The words are tangled.

Roy shifts beside you. You don’t know what he sees in your expression, but after a beat, he reaches over—slow, deliberate—and rests a hand over yours.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t try to pull you into anything more. Just rests his hand there, solid and warm and steady.

“You don’t have to say it,” he mutters. Then, softer than usual, “Yeah, well. You matter. That’s all.”

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands, at the way his thumb brushes over your skin—grounding, not overwhelming.

You turn your hand palm-up, linking your fingers with his.

Roy doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes once, firm but careful.

And somehow, in that moment, that’s everything you need.

⸻

The Kit Mishap

It’s a match day, and you’re watching from the stands, your usual seat in the exact row and position you always sit in. But today, something is wrong. The Richmond kits are slightly different—the sponsor logo is larger, the shade of blue a touch brighter. Most people wouldn’t notice. But you do. And it itches in your brain, a tiny crack in your sense of order.

You’re fidgeting, tapping your fingers rapidly against your thigh, trying to focus on the game instead of the wrongness of it all.

At halftime, your phone buzzes. A text from Roy.

ROY: What’s up?

You hesitate, unsure how to explain it in a way that makes sense. But then, another message.

ROY: You’re doing the finger-tapping thing.

Your chest tightens—not in anxiety, but in relief. Because he notices. Because he cares.

YOU: The kits are different. The color’s too bright. It’s messing with my head.

Roy doesn’t reply immediately. But when the players come back out for the second half, you notice something. His socks. They’re inside out. A tiny, subtle act of solidarity.

You huff a laugh, feeling some of the tension ease.

Later, when you see him after the game, you poke at his arm. “You wore your socks inside out.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “If your brain’s gonna be all fed up, figured I’d make mine a little fed up too.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just bump your shoulder against his. He bumps back.

⸻

2. The Restaurant Compromise

Keeley insists on dragging you and Roy to a fancy restaurant, something “classy” for a double date. The problem is, restaurants are unpredictable—the noise level, the menu, the social expectations.

Roy notices the second you walk in that something is off. You’re gripping the strap of your bag too tightly, your shoulders tense.

Before you can say anything, Roy steps up to the hostess. “We need a table in the quietest f***ing corner you’ve got.”

The hostess blinks. “Uh—”

“I’m serious. Away from the speakers. And no wobbly tables.”

Keeley raises an eyebrow, but when you shoot Roy a grateful look, she just grins knowingly.

When you sit down, Roy casually points to the menu and says, “I already looked up their s*** online. They’ve got that pasta thing you like.”

Your heart clenches. Because he thought ahead. Because he gets it.

You squeeze his hand under the table. He squeezes back.

⸻

3. The Unexpected Touch

You and Roy don’t do a lot of casual touch. You like pressure, like the way he grips your hand firmly when you need grounding, but light brushes or sudden hugs aren’t your thing. He never complains. Never pushes.

But one night, when you’re sitting on the couch, exhausted from a long day, Roy shifts beside you and says, “Can I try something?”

You frown. “Try what?”

Instead of answering, he lifts his hand and rests it on your shoulder. Just solid, grounding weight. No movement, no suddenness. Just there.

You sit with it. Feel the pressure. Let it anchor you.

Then you nod. “This is good.”

Roy just grunts, keeps his hand there for as long as you need.

⸻

4. The Overstimulation Recovery Day

Some days are just too much. Too many sounds, too many people, too much of everything. You cancel plans with Roy last-minute, knowing you don’t have the energy to deal with anything outside of your weighted blanket and noise-canceling headphones.

You expect him to be annoyed.

Instead, your phone buzzes.

ROY: What do you need?

You stare at the message. Then, after a moment:

YOU: Just quiet.

A few hours later, there’s a knock at your door. When you open it, Roy is there—hood up, holding a bag. He doesn’t say anything, just steps inside and sets the bag down. Inside: your favorite snacks, a new pair of soft socks, and one of his old sweatshirts.

He flops onto your couch, pulls his own hoodie over his face, and mutters, “M’not talking. Just here.”

And somehow, that’s exactly what you needed.

[jumpingjoltiks]

Happy New Year I hope you had a great day and I have a request, you can refuse it if you want, I couldn't help but think what would happen if the reader had an accident or was attacked by someone obsessed with sugar daddy!submas or another situation, one day reader show up with some bandages all over their body?

Have nice day!

A very late happy new year and a happy early valentines day to you too! <3

TWs for sugar relationships, medical settings and practices, car crashes, and an attempted assault.

You’ve had an accident.

You wake up a little dizzy and weirdly numb. Wherever you are isn’t a very comfortable place to be laying down. The lights above you are a little much to be looking into, and you have to blink a few times before you adjust to it. The smell of bleach and other chemical cleaning products stings your nose. Your back can feel the frame of the bed through the thin mattress. A heavy cast is over one of your legs, which is elevated and hanging from a sling above you. Everything is a sterile white.

You look around and try to get your bearings. A hospital room. How did you end up there?

The last thing you remember was dodging out of the way of a bicycle as it came around the corner toward you.

You’d stumbled into the street.

A loud, blaring honk.

You’re lucky to be alive, you think.

The fabric of the bed is soft against your fingers as you stretch them, trying to determine how much range of motion you have. You lift your arm and reach for a remote that has a single button on it labeled “nurse”. Your chest hurts like hell when you do, but you manage to grab it and press down.

A very worried-looking woman rushes into the room almost immediately, her pink hair spilling over her shoulders – a Nurse Joy. She fusses over you for a moment before settling down again.

She explains that you were rushed to the hospital after being hit by a car. You looked a lot worse than you were, but you had a complex fracture in one of your legs, two broken ribs, and a mild concussion.

You’d been delirious with pain when the paramedics wheeled you in, and they’d had to administer sedatives in order to set the bones and start repairing the damage. You’ve been asleep all night.

She assures you you’ll make a full recovery, but that they’ll be keeping you for a day or two more to keep an eye on you.

You don’t have any emergency contacts formally listed, but someone among the staff has recognized you as the Subway Bosses’ partner. Nurse Joy asks if you’d like them to be contacted. You give assent, and consider putting them down as your contacts, but thinking too much makes your brain feel fuzzy – like the conclusions you want to draw are just out of reach.

Ingo and Emmet are there within fifteen minutes.

While you’ve been getting patched up by the doctors, they’ve been beside themselves with worry.

You were scheduled to have a call with them the evening before. You never let the phone ring more than once or twice, so when you didn’t pick up after several attempted calls and a half dozen texts, they decided to swing by your apartment… just to make sure you were okay. Of course, you weren’t there.

They spent the night wandering town, looking for you in every spot they could imagine. They contacted everyone they could think of to see if anyone had seen or heard from you.

So now Ingo and Emmet perch, relieved, at your bed-side, thankful that they didn’t have to file any reports with the police. Each holds one of your hands as they go over everything that’s happened with you.

Emmet assures you that they’ll take care of everything – the bills, the paperwork, whatever you need. All you have to do is rest and get better.

Ingo’s thumb gently brushes over the back of your hand. He’s unusually quiet, but as he looks at you with misty, silver eyes, you understand. There is so much he wants to say, but he can’t. At least, not right now.

They leave late that evening, and only when insistently ushered out by a very bossy chansey, with many promises to visit you again tomorrow.

A pair of large bouquets are brought in first thing in the morning, one black and one white, and are placed on the two bedside tables at either side of your head.

They’re delivered with a new cell phone (you notice appreciatively that it's the newest model), as yours was shattered in the accident. Ingo and Emmet’s numbers are already put in. They’ve each sent you a handful of texts, assuring you that they’d be visiting in the evening and updating you on the early morning events in Gear Station. Emmet has sent you a selfie of himself, Ingo, archeops, and haxorus that you immediately set as your background.

You rest easy the remainder of the day, knowing that Ingo and Emmet will be back again to see you when work ends, and that they’ll be escorting you home. Everything will be okay.

Somewhere, in another universe…

It’s a big night for you and the twins – you’ve been invited a charity gala.

You slip on the sparkling black outfit that Ingo bought for you the last time you went out together. You admire yourself in the mirror; turning this way and that, smiling as the shimmering garment catches the light like a thousand stars.

When you exit the room, both of the twins’s gazes fall to your figure.

Ingo is locked in place, staring, his mouth slightly open. What a vision you are.

Emmet smiles, but narrows his eyes. Next time you go clothes shopping, he’ll make sure you’re on his arm instead of Ingo’s. As nice as you look, you’d look even nicer in white.

---

The paparazzi are taking photos of you when it happens.

You haven’t even entered yet. You’re standing between Ingo and Emmet – each of them with an arm around you. You smile warmly to the crowd, waving as you pass.

Time slows to a crawl. A figure shoves their way to the front.

Someone jumps from the crowd and rushes toward you. Gasps and shouts ring out as they lunge toward you, a huge hand reaching directly for your neck.

A pair of security guards are on them immediately. The attacker is on the ground and pinned before they ever reach you.

Emmet has pulled you behind him, putting himself between you and the attacker, with Ingo covering your back. Both of them have a hand on the pokeballs at their waist. You’re shaken nonetheless, and who wouldn’t be? You’re all ushered quickly inside.

The incident was only a few seconds long, but it felt so much longer. Your heart pounds in your throat as you cling to Emmet’s sleeve and Ingo wraps his arm steadily around your waist. They’re silent as you three walk into the foyer, two stone pillars keeping you together.

You’re quickly directed to a private side room. Ingo holds you while Emmet has some very firm words with the organizer at the door.

After a bit, you pull yourself together. You assure them you’re okay, but that you’d like to go home. Ingo and Emmet nod in agreement. The night is completely ruined for all three of you.

The organizer has already prepared a small handful of security guards to escort you to the back entrance. You’re back in your limo within a half hour of arriving, never having even seen the inside of the gala. You sit comfortably snuggled between Ingo and Emmet; their arms are wrapped around you, trying to bring some sense of comfort and safety back to the world.

You spend the night at their place – none of you want to be apart from each other right now. Ingo puts a movie on and Emmet pulls out a huge, fluffy blanket that he wraps around all three of you as you settle onto the couch.

It’s the middle of the night when you feel yourself coming out of a doze. Your head is on Ingo’s shoulder. Someone’s hand is soothingly rubbing your back. The brothers are speaking softly to each other, as though trying not to wake you. Something about hiring personal security guards…

Whatever it is, you can’t find it in you to worry right now.

With someone you care for on each side of you, you feel safer than you ever have.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

today I've been reminded of detective comics annual 8, which is my favorite of ed's comic appearances, so I thought I'd ask you what's your favorite riddle guy comic and why?

god DC annual #8 makes me INSANE that's like. pure distilled Riddler sauce right there. absolute platonic ideal of the Riddler. he is perfect to me. somebody surgically wire that into Tom King's brain before they ever let him write the Riddler again I swear to god.

I'm still working on my New Earth read through so I'm finding new faves all the time, but as of this exact minute some faves:

I fucking hate to hand it to Chuck Dixon but Detective Comics #705-707 (Dixon, Graham Nolan, and David Roach, 1997) is so so good. like he's literally just trying to do a stupid baseball heist and blow up Cluemaster while he's at it. THAT is a Riddler story, babey. Echo and Query are even there!!!

Impulse #48 (Bill Messner-Loebs and Craig Rousseau, 1999) is just a spectacular one off Riddler appearance, namely because you get the strong impression that if left alone with Bart for like. two hours. Eddie would probably willingly kill himself. very fun watching his schtick absolutely crumble in the face of a speedster.

Batman Adventures Vol. 2 (worked on by like half a dozen different writers, 2003). honestly the BTAS version of the Riddler was never anything spectacular to me - he's fun, not a standout - but goddd he rules so hard in the sequel comics. he's (once again) retired and made legitimate money, so now he's so desperately bored he's harassing Batman with stupid non-crimes until Batman snaps and just starts using him as a private detective so he'll have something to do. mwah.

Batman Confidential #26-28 (Nunzio DeFilippis, Christina Weir, Kevin Nowlan, and José Luis García-López, 2009), which is collected as Batman: King Tut's Tomb. another banger story, it has everything I like. namely, the Riddler being so annoying that Batman lets him work a case with him and bitchy buddy comedy shenanigans ensue. and King Tut is there!

Dinner for Two (Ram V and Phil Hester) in Strange Love Adventures (2022) #1 is so... like they just went for it. they said fuck it the Riddler bisexual and spending his Valentine's Day making Batman hang out with him to complain about how he's lonely. make of that whatever you want.

Catwoman: Lonely City (Cliff Chiang, 2022). an older, widowed Riddleguy who's kicked his riddle habit (in addition to, apparently, a pretty brutal coke problem) and is settled in to running slightly more normal grifts with his adorable daughter Edelia. look at them. I have to show you this because I just like Chiang's art so so much, look at themmm

also obligatory shoutout to the Riddler appearance of all time, whichever issue of Bruce Wayne: Murderer?/Fugitive is the one where he's crashing at Stephanie Brown's house being a fucking menace and Black Canary kicks him out on his ass in five seconds flat while he's wearing a fluffy yellow bathrobe. and also kicks Cluemaster out of his own house for good measure.

[kurithedweeb]

@cinnamontoastcroonch brought up the guard quarters being like dorms last night and it led to Garrance brain rot.

They talk quietly through the wall late at night when neither of them can sleep, and some days they'll sleep in shifts in the same room so they can guard each other from nightmares.

They'll sit in the common room in silence as they each fill out reports. Eventually, one of them will always get up and make tea when he notices the other getting frustrated or tired. They plan strategies and contingencies by lantern light over cups of tea.

Garroth finds comfort in the Shadow Knight eye gleam because he associates it with Laurance waking him up from nightmares and comforting him late at night.

Laurance wakes up scratching at his eyes sometimes, yelling about how they're not his eyes, and Garroth is the only one who can hold him down and talk him through it.

Since they operate as equals, they split the paperwork of both head guard and second in command between them, so when Laurance is having a bad vision day he will dictate what he needs to put in his work while Garroth transcribes, and when Garroth can't make himself sit down and focus on writing he'll pace around and talk over half a dozen things while Laurance jots down notes for him to look over later.

Garroth regularly checks in on Laurance during the cold months to make sure he's not falling into a coma or something since Shadow Knights are more or less cold-blooded and will get super drowsy when they get cold, sometimes sleeping for days at a time if they get cold enough to conserve what heat and energy they have.

Laurance drapes himself over Garroth's shoulders and acts all dramatic when he notices Garroth getting too into his own head, or he'll give him a simple task like braiding and talking about nothing of importance until he comes back to himself.

@xerith-42 said they'd do wrist exercises together, since they put a lot of strain on their wrists from holding shields and swords all day and then having to also do a bunch of paperwork. I said to this, they still talk about work while doing these exercises, and when they get really absorbed by whatever issue they're discussing they completely forget that they're basically holding hands. Laurance will absentmindedly trace patterns around Garroth's callouses and Garroth will run his thumb over the lines of Laurance's palm, and there's a moment after they realize that they're just holding the other's hand where they let the contact linger, and then they pull away and get back to business without saying a word about it.

The way I write their relationship is all about both of them knowing going into it that they both love someone else too, above each other, and their duty to the village and their Lady will always come first. But, there is still something there between them that they both understand on a level deeper than anything else while at the same time not being able to recognize the feeling in its entirety. There's also this special third ingredient of knowing no time is the right time and they never should have allowed themselves to fall into whatever this thing between them is but they are drawn together time and again as though caught in each other's orbit. They will eventually crash, and maybe they have been circling that end for a while already and haven't noticed it until now. Maybe the conclusion will be as beautiful as the story leading up to it, like a dying star's final breath.

[astarionbraiinrot]

Last Call

Chapter 1: Astarion

Sequel to One for the Road

Next Chapter

Read on AO3

It’s a few hours after dawn, and Astarion sits in the rocking chair near the bedroom window, just out of reach of the morning sun, contemplating the child in his arms. A tiny thing. Pudgy cheeks turned rosy after a successful first feed, courtesy of its mother. Pointed ears just slightly too big for its head. A mop of curly white hair in wild disarray. Pale green eyes squinting back at him with the slightly-disgruntled turnip-esque look inherent to newborns. A perfectly healthy baby boy, weighing in at just over seven pounds, and born at roughly 7-ish that morning, the first cries of this brand-new life coinciding with the dawning sun’s feeble attempts at projecting warmth into the midwinter chill of the frosty Nightal morning.

Looking back, the number seven had played a not-insignificant role in many of the major events of Astarion’s life. According to the records he and Tav had managed to dig up, he had been born near the end of Flamerule, the seventh month of the year, and he had died in that same month just a tenday shy of his fortieth birthday. He had been one of seven spawn, then one of seven thousand and seven. When he’d been kidnapped and tadpoled by Mindflayers, he’d quickly found himself part of a group of seven strangers traveling together to find a cure for the ticking timebombs in their brains. Then, almost as quickly, that group of strangers had become a party of seven friends-turned-adventurers on a quest to save the world. He’d stabbed Cazador fourteen times the night he'd taken back his life and regained his freedom, seven to kill him and seven more just because he deserved it. Their journey to defeat the Netherbrain and the Dead Three’s Chosen, from nautiloid to giant brain sinking into the Chionthar, took seven harrowing months. And he’d found out he was going to be a father for the first time just seven days before helping to crash that giant brain into the river. Now here he sat, making some rather embarrassing cooing noises he’d never admit to and gently rocking his seventh child.

Gods, his seventh child. He’d had months to wrap his head around the concept, and still, here he was, absolutely baffled as to how they’d gotten here. Even he could admit, privately, in his own mind, that seven was maybe a slightly unreasonable number of children to have. Especially for two Elves. Hells, most Elven couples barely managed two or three children over as many centuries, yet somehow, he and Tav had exceeded half a dozen in less than two decades. And while Elven children were uncommon, Dhampir were rarer still, with all sources firmly insisting that only True Vampires could sire them and that spawn were entirely sterile.

Shows what they know.

Even now, seven(!) children and almost twenty years later, they still truly had no idea why they were the exception to either rule. With their eldest, they had assumed it was a fluke of the tadpole (once he’d stopped hyperventilating long enough to have a conversation anyway). That, along with allowing him to walk in the sun, touch running water, and enter homes uninvited, it had temporarily knocked some part of his biology back close enough to “living” and whoops now they’re going to be parents. A once-in-an-unlifetime opportunity that had subsequently disappeared again along with all the tadpole’s other gifts.

It was a very sound theory too, if he did say so himself. Or at least it had been, right up until the moment Tav had informed him they’d managed the supposedly-impossible a second time. Or, more accurately, a second and third time, because clearly they were incapable of doing anything by halves. That time had coincided with some magical experimentation he’d undergone courtesy of Gale which, while not fully having the desired results, had given him an entire glorious month of being near-mortal enough to eat real food and walk in the sun. And so, once again, they’d made the (very reasonable in his opinion) decision to attribute this one to magic and unusual circumstances affecting biology in strange ways, blamed Gale this time, and got on with their lives as a happy family of five, confident in the knowledge that there was no chance of this happening again.

Of course, just over a year later when it did in fact very much happen again, they were forced to consider alternative causes to what was rapidly looking like the beginnings of a small army of children. Their friends’ theories had ranged from “killing Cazador could have made Astarion a True Vampire on a technicality,” to “the large number of lives lost in the Mindflayer invasion might have created a surplus of Elven souls waiting to reincarnate,” to the much more pragmatic “you are incapable of keeping your hands off one another and this is the expected result of such lack of willpower,” which to Lae’zel’s credit, was at the very least a contributing factor.

When the fifth one had happened a couple years later, followed rather quickly by the sixth not long after, he and Tav had decided that maybe it was time they sought out help with preventative measures. They’d paid Shadowheart a visit as soon as Tav was well enough to travel, hoping that her Clerical training and knowledge of medicine and potions would be up to the task. It was, and that had worked quite well for the next ten years, which turned out to be just long enough for them to get complacent, and now here they were again.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t wanted children, per se, moreso that they just hadn’t considered it could be an option since it wasn’t supposed to be possible, so they’d never really thought about whether they wanted to be preventing it or not until they’d already had four toddlers running around. But, unplanned as they were (and he never was good at plans anyway), he’d been relieved to find that loving them was not the arduous task he’d feared it might be. Quite the opposite, actually. He had not been prepared for just how much he could love them, these amazing little creatures that were somehow, miraculously, part him. But he did, with all the deepest parts of the heart he’d been sure he didn’t possess. Each one was a gift he’d never expected to receive, or even known he’d wanted, but gods was he so glad that they were here.

Even now, when he finds himself more and more wondering where the time has gone, one child just barely grown and most of the rest nearly there, all navigating life with grace and confidence and a drive for independence he knows they are ready for but he isn’t, happiness is the emotion he encounters the most these days. And, oh, wasn’t that just a kick to the chest? No one had told him that all the parts you prepare for, the crying, sleepless nights, toilet training, homework, sibling rivalries, puberty, broken hearts, dating, sleepless nights again, all the parts you expect to be hard, that those were actually the easy parts. No one had warned him that the hard part was having to put down the reins, letting them grow and navigate the world, seeing them try and fail and try again, fall and shake off the bruises and get back up. Spending the first half of their childhood hyper focused on keeping them safe, only for them to spend the second half excitedly forging a path out of that safety and into adventure as quickly as they can. He hadn’t known that watching his children experience life would feel like breaking his soul into pieces and setting them loose to run around outside his body discovering who they’ll be. Hadn’t prepared for an existence spent with his heart in his throat as he can only watch from the sidelines while they begin the journey of creating their own lives separate from him.

He absolutely does not get misty-eyed at that thought, and he’s only wiping his eyes because they itch, actually, and probably he’s suddenly developed a dust allergy just now because he definitely hasn’t shed even one tear over the idea of how quiet the house will be once they’re all grown and gone and he’s no longer spending his evenings pretending he can't hear the whispered giggles and gossip from their bedrooms as they utterly fail to hide the fact that they’re awake far too late for people who have school in the morning.

Gods, it must be terribly dusty in here.

Sitting here, holding his son and thinking about this family he’s built, it feels… strangely peaceful. A peace he knows will be shattered the moment the child in his arms turns his attention from scowling at his father to demanding another meal, but peaceful nonetheless. There wasn’t anything else that needed his attention at the moment. The midwife had attended to the cleanup before departing, making sure that the soiled bed linens were disposed of and replaced while he’d helped Tav to the bath and set about preparing her some breakfast. He’d sent a message to the neighbors asking them to inform the girls that their mother and new sibling were doing well and they could meet the baby when they got home from school and yes you still have to go to school today, yes really, yes I know I’m awful and mean and cruel and entirely unreasonable I love you anyway now go to school. Then he’d used their Sending Stone to ask Gale to please inform his eldest of the news and that he’d be sending funds for a teleportation circle to bring her home in a few days once her classes at Blackstaff were over for winter break, after which they’d had a brief discussion to adjust their holiday plans so that Gale’s family would now be coming to them for this year’s Winter Solstice Simril festival instead.

And so, with his to-do list cleared, he’d turned his mind to the task he’d been given by his darling wife, who was currently taking a well-earned rest in the bed nearby.

After both Tav and the baby had received a thorough bathing and a hearty meal, she’d placed their swaddled son in Astarion’s arms with instructions that their child needed a name, and since he was the one who’d insisted that they did not need to prepare a boy’s name, that meant he could do the work of coming up with one now while she would be taking a nap. And, if she awoke to find their son still nameless, she’d make the executive decision to name him after Gale. A very motivating threat, considering the man had already managed to lure away one of Astarion’s children into academia and wizardry of all things, a fact that he was not at all still minorly irritated over thank you very much, and he’d be damned if he’d let the wizard’s ego get any bigger by giving him a namesake on top of it. Absolutely not.

Thus, he’d spent the better part of the last hour considering this tiny new life and what moniker might fit him. A daunting task, really. Despite neither he nor Tav really being ones for tradition or holding to any particular religion, they knew that, for Elves, the choosing of a name was not something to be taken lightly, especially a child’s name. When they’d discovered they were expecting their eldest, finding out that they’d somehow accidentally done the supposedly-impossible and made an entire person at quite frankly the worst possible time had left them understandably quite anxious and a little terrified, so they had turned to Halsin for advice. In an effort to soothe their nerves, the druid had told them that, in Elven communities, a child’s birth was a momentous occasion, often drawing the entire neighborhood to gather and wait with eager anticipation for word of the new arrival. Once born, the child would be brought out by the new parents and presented to an elder relative, who would officially welcome them to the community by announcing the name chosen for them to those gathered. The name would usually reflect something unique about the child, or maybe convey what their presence meant to their parents, or might simply be a heartfelt wish for the child’s future. With rare exception, Elves would retain faint memories of these moments throughout their lives, even as other memories of childhood faded.

While hearing that had actually helped Tav to calm a little, it had done the exact opposite for Astarion, mostly just adding a layer of sadness to the fear coloring his already racing thoughts. The feeling that, by mere virtue of having no known family, they’d be denying their child what was apparently a core memory and treasured experience for their people, had broken some tiny little thing inside him, like a sliver off the edge of a pane of glass that leaves a weak point capable of shattering the rest. The whole thing just sounded so… nice. The thought of so many people eagerly awaiting your arrival, purely because your mere existence was a gift. The idea of being so wanted, so loved, before any of those gathered had even met you yet. He had wondered, briefly, if anyone had done that for him? Gathering around and celebrating simply because he was him and he was here. He had no memories of his mortal life, no family history to pass down or stories from his own youth that he could share with this child. Hells, he still had his childhood name, had died before he’d had the chance to even begin putting any thought into what name he might choose for himself when he came of age, what would represent who he had wanted to be.

Jaheira had told him at some point that his name meant “little star.” He’d had no idea. Had had no cause or opportunity to know it, and no one to ask even if he had. Was that how his parents had thought of him, a shining point of light, all bright and dazzling? He’d wanted to believe that there had been thought put into it. That someone had cared enough about his existence that they’d taken the time to find just the right name, one that would convey what they’d felt, hoped, dreamed for him. Though, whatever the intentions behind his name were, he was confident that he hadn’t lived up to them. He certainly hoped that none of what had occurred in the last two hundred years of his life and been on their wish list, anyway.

But, he’d thought, if he couldn’t provide this child with the ancestral welcome they deserved, then maybe the weird little family they’d somehow built out of a disparate group of traumatized worm-filled strangers could be enough. Maybe he could do for his own child what he’d decided to believe had been done for him and give them a name that was built on something good, something warm and positive, even if he was scared shitless at this whole situation.

And so, with that in mind, each of their children’s names had been chosen with the utmost care and reverence for the little life they’d made, with the hope that they would grow up feeling a connection and sense of belonging that neither he nor Tav had known, something to provide a root in the soil of the extended family they’d defied gods to build. A desperate wish that their children would always feel, no matter what, that they were loved, wholly and unconditionally, and know that home was always waiting for them.

The baby lets out a soft grunt and shifts in his blanket, at some point having chosen sleep over continuing to stare at his father while he’d been lost in thought. As Astarion takes in this tiny brand-new being, not even a half-day old, a surprise but welcome epilogue to a story they’d thought finished years ago, he tries to focus his tired mind on this important task laid at his feet. But it’s been over a day since he last tranced. The adrenaline of this whole event had kept him going for a while, but that had worn off hours ago, and while he’d pushed through the exhaustion to make sure that Tav and the baby were taken care of, he can feel himself losing the battle now that things have settled down. His eyes close without his permission. He leans back in the chair, cradling his son securely to his chest as muscle memory from the countless times he’s done this before slides over him like a well-worn glove. He inhales deeply, taking in that new baby smell he loves so much, and promises to himself that he’ll just rest his eyes for ten minutes.

Fifteen at most.

Definitely no more than twenty.

As he slips into Reverie, his mind drifts back to every time he’d been in this position over the years, and all the events that had led up to those moments, searching for inspiration. The initial fear that had reared its head less and less each time. The cautious excitement every time he first heard the faint double-time beat of a tiny heart. The wonder of feeling first kicks from a little creature so eager to make its presence known. The anxiety and thrill when there had been two. The pain and grief and terror when it had once gone so wrong. The adrenaline and panic and relief when it had once gone too right. The bone-deep exhaustion and elation and happy tears and pure joy that always came at the end when hearing that first cry. Each time, a small bundle gently placed in his arms. For each one, renewed awe that he could ever get to have something this unequivocally good. Always, a whispered introduction.

Hello, darling. It’s so nice to finally meet you.

Next Chapter

[softpascalito]

Worth crossing a blizzard for - Pedro Pascal x Reader

Summary: During shooting for The Last of Us, a snowstorm hits Canada, essentially forcing Pedro to take the day off. Turns out its not as bad as he thinks.

Relationships: Pedro Pascal x Reader WC: 1600 Tags/Warnings: MDNI, RPF, Real-Person-Fiction, Non-Explicit Sex, showering together, Gender-neutral Reader, Snow, blizzard, Crew Reader, The Last of Us Shooting, Canada, Kissing, Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Soft Pedro Pascal, Healthy Relationships, Secret Relationship Read on AO3 full advent calendar (updated daily)

notes: i haven't written pedro in sooo long, i miss him. needless to say, this is the lil version i created of him in my head and not necesarily an accurate representation of his actual personality <3 also, this is another lil entry for stephs winter writing challenge with the trope warmth, i highly recommend checking the entire list if youre interested :) (@toomanystoriessolittletime)

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

It starts with a light snowfall, little white particles floating through the air, rushing past the car as he drives back from set and a small sigh escapes his lips. It's been snowing on and off for weeks, usually meaning an earlier calltime for everyone, to make sure the locations can be cleared from the thin layer of snow if needed.

The wind has picked up by the time Pedro reaches the apartment that has been his home for the last few weeks and when he steps out of the shower half an hour later, the light snowfall has developed into a full-on blizzard, complete with cars honking in the streets below and his phone vibrating angrily, demanding attention. A rushed glance as he gets dressed confirms his suspicions. There's several warnings of severe weather, most of them due to hit tonight.

A gentle knock on the front door lets the man whip around and a small frown builds on his forehead as he crosses the hallway, taking a quick glance through the peephole. He practically yanks the door open.

You have your coat wrapped tightly around yourself, a knitted hat drawn down to your ears and a scarf wrapped around your neck. The two latter are practically soaked, decorated with little white crystals all over that are beginning to melt in the slightly warmer air of the hallway and dripping down onto the door mat.

Pedro stays still for a moment, taking in your form in front of him, before his brain registers what's going on. He reaches out, pulling you into the apartment, “What the hell were you thinking?”

The door closes behind you and the frown that decorated Pedros face a moment ago is now appearing on yours, “I- What?” For a split second you wonder if he's mad. He rarely gets a day off and even when he does, he usually spends it doing something, unable to just sit and relax, even for a little while. Maybe he's made plans for tonight and you've just crashed them.

“You can't be walking around in a blizzard like this, look at yourself,” he tuts, helping you take your wet coat off along with the hat and scarf and maneuvering them into the bathroom to hang them up to dry. You take your boots off carefully, gaze never leaving the man in front of you, “It's barely a twenty minute walk.”

“You're telling me you didn't even get a taxi?” He asks as he returns to the hallway and watches you put your shoes onto a small shoe tray.

“Does it look like I got a taxi?” You shoot back, getting a little irritated with how concerned he is. Immediately, Pedros gaze softens a bit and a small grumble escapes his throat as he takes a step forward, bringing his fingers up to your hair to carefully pick a snowflake out of it.

It melts between his fingers.

“No, you don't,” he muses, smiling a little sheepishly. “You could've called me. I would've picked you up.” You can't help but chuckle a little at that, “I did call you. You didn't pick up. The phone, I mean.” He stares at you for a moment, then back at his phone that has at least a dozen unread messages, then back to you, “Fuck, I- I was taking a shower, guess I didn’t hear-”

“It's fine,” you promise gently, standing on your tiptoes to place a small kiss on his cheek. Pedro sighs a little, taking in the way you’re looking at him and eventually nodding as he leads you further into the small apartment. It's spacious for one person but cozy for two, production of course not having calculated that you would be here too. You tried to stick to only sleeping over on weekends for a while, arguing that Pedro needed his rest and a quiet environment to go over his lines. He argued back that he slept a lot better with you beside him.

“You want a coffee?” He offers and you nod yes, following him to the open kitchen and hopping onto the counter as he grabs a mug for you.

“So you haven't read it yet?” You ask, rubbing your hands together in an effort to warm them up. “Read what?” His back is to you, the sound of the coffee machine starting almost drowning out his words. 

“Shoot is canceled for tomorrow. Probably until next week.”

Something about your tone makes him turn around to face you. He's in front of you a second later, hands resting on your waist as he studies your face, “And you're not happy about that?”

“Why would I? It sets us back at least two days and were already behind, at this rate reshoots-”

Pedro hums a little and squeezes your waist, causing you to fall quiet.

“I don't like it either but-”

You cut him off before you can stop yourself, shaking your head as you speak and lowering your gaze towards the floor, “It's just really bad timing and I have so much to do already and-”

“Hey, look at me.”

He squeezes again, a little harder this time, and one hand comes up to nudge your chin until you're looking right at him. You find soft brown eyes, the little patch in his beard you like so much and hair that's still a little damp from showering.

“It's snow. You can't do anything about snow.”

You let your head fall forward again, letting out a small sigh, “Yeah, I know.” Pedro gently brings his arms around you, holding you close for a moment. The coffee machine beeps, signaling that it's done. But he doesn't let go yet, rubbing your back a little instead.

“The way I see it,” he starts. “We may as well enjoy our night in. Even if it wasn't exactly planned. Plus, there's no way in hell I'll let you go back out there anyway.”

He does have a point. And a night off, especially a night off for both of you, doesn't sound too bad, even if it's constricted to the small apartment you're sitting in.

As soon as your coffee is empty and a few urgent messages are replied to, Pedro insists on a shower to warm you up. You're halfway to the bathroom before you turn around with a small smile on your face, “You're gonna let me shower alone?”

“I just showered,” Pedro replies almost automatically, putting your mug away. Then, he catches the small twinkle in your eye.

“You just showered,” you repeat, the smile still decorating your face and Pedro nods a few times before getting into motion.

“I guess I could do with another one.”

For once, there's no rush. You take your time, with the shower and everything that it includes. You spend what feels like a solid five minutes kissing afterwards, already scrubbed clean and so, so content. The air is steamy when you step out of the shower and Pedro really does treat you to the full experience, insisting on applying your lotion for you.

You hum contently as he gently massages it into your back, your muscles tingling with relief. He chuckles softly behind you, “Feeling a little warmed up already?”

“More than a little. Don't know how you do it.”

You lightly slap his ass on the way to the bedroom.

After securing your favorite sweater of his and some sweatpants, you find yourself in the kitchen again, rummaging through the cupboards to figure out what to cook up with the scarce ingredients available. You both usually eat on location or get some takeout on the way home, not to speak of the lack of cooking skill you both possess.

It ends up being pasta with some leftover greens and tomatoes and for once, you could swear it tastes ten times better than whatever takeout you could've gotten. You're cuddled up on the couch, staring out into the dark, gusts of snow still blowing past the window. The traffic jams have calmed down, the people returned to their houses to find shelter from the cold. Only a few lost ones are still wandering around, no doubt with a goal that justifies a walk through the conditions. You understand them.

Pedro watches a man disappear around the corner and swallows his mouthful of pasta, “Are you sure you didn't catch a cold?”

You smile weakly, “ Even if I did, it would be worth it. I'd trade a cold for a night off with you. You know that.” He chuckles a little, tilting his head slightly, “Just saying, it may be a little on the nose for both of us to get sick at the same time.”

You raise a brow as you finish your plate and gently put it down before cuddling into Pedro’s side, drawing your legs up onto the couch, “There's a blizzard. It's not that on the nose.”

The snowflakes landing on the window stay there for a few moments, glistening in the dim light from inside the apartment before the warmth seems to reach through the glass. One by one, they turn into small drops of water.

He considers your words for a moment before nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right.” His arm wraps around you, pulling you in a little more as you rest your head against his shoulder. He leans down to plant a small kiss on your head and you hum contently, smiling to yourself.

The snowflakes melt on the window pane. You melt in Pedros arms.

Your voice is only a mumble.

“Besides- you can't do anything about snow.”

notes: hey babes! im considering a second part to this so let me know if that's something you'd like <3

[oopsallgoalies]

Snitches Get Stitches: Chapter 4

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Jake Seresin, golden boy of the NHL and Captain of the Dallas Stars makes headlines when he unexpectedly signs with newly-formed San Diego Dogfighters. When your future seems at the verge of crashing down, you receive the opportunity of a lifetime to become the team physician for the Dogfighters. You never expected to be working directly with your favorite hockey player. Jake has a secret and you have a job to do. Will he be able to trust you enough to help and will you be able to trust him with your heart?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, violence, sports violence, medical stuff, blood probably, angst, fluff, (eventual) smut, forbidden romance, sexual harassment, suggestive language, medical inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: This is a repost of my completed series, Snitches Get Stitches. It was originally posted in October-November 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

The next morning you get to work early. You’re getting set up in the exam room for Jake’s physical, having spoken to both Mav and the player already scheduled for the first slot to rearrange the schedule. You glance at the door every few minutes, it’s still early but a small party of you is scared that yesterday’s agreement was made in the heat of the moment, lulled into comfort by the shared pizza and conversation, and that Jake wouldn’t show. You aren’t sure what you’re going to do if he doesn't show up. You’re running out of options. The puck is very much in his rink, and while you’d promised him two weeks, with the rate everyone else was getting through their physicals, it won’t be too long before Cyclone is up your ass asking what was taking Jake so long. You put down the chart you’ve rearranged on the counter a dozen times over the last five minutes, deciding to use your time elsewhere. You reach for the filing rack to scan over the charts for the other players scheduled for today, anything to take your mind and eyes off the closed door. The ticking of the analog clock on the wall above it feels like a bomb, and you can’t help the way your breath catches in response to every move of the minute hand. At 8:59, your hands are trembling as your nerves finally make their way to your extremities, your toes clenching and opening to ground yourself with the stinging pain. Your back is leaning against the counter, your hands clasped in front of you to hide their shaking while keeping them visible, a sign of trust. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep yourself from going out and hunting down Jake yourself when the door opens just as the minute hand clicks into place over the 12. His blonde hair, usually perfectly styled first thing in the morning, is already sticking up waywardly as if he’s been running his large hands through them repeatedly. When you meet his green eyes, you see a scared animal, caught between fight and flight as his knuckles are bordering on white where they grip the door handle, an anchor to the hallway, a way out if he decides to bolt. His perfect lips, usually spread in that infectious grin you adore so much are pinched in a tight line. Your mind starts racing. The game begins for real now. He’s in your home court and it’s up to you to convince him to stay. The problem with putting two nervous individuals with their respective careers on the line in the same room is that their brains are too busy setting themselves on fire to properly function like human beings. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“Alright Lola, up on the table and we can get started.” Your hands clap to try and break the tension that you’re sure you’d need an electric knife if not a high-grade laser to dissolve.

It seems like the completely out-of-left-field address does at least some of the trick, however, and Jake’s face twists from nervous to confused. “Lola?” His grip on the door loosens and it swings shut behind him, forgotten.

“Lola.” You wave a hand, dismissively. “Like Lola Bunny? I mean you’re the one who called me Bugs. It makes perfect sense: you’re blonde, you’re an athlete, and you’ve got great tits.” Your eyes widen as your brain finally takes a break from arson to catch up with what your mouth has been up to. You slap a hand over it, but you can’t take back what you’ve just said. Speaking of things currently resembling an on-fire garbage can? Your professionalism can be added to that list. You’re yanked out of your mental spiral by Jake’s booming laughter. It turns out you didn’t need an electric knife or a space laser to cut the tension in the room, that sound was more than enough. Behind your hand, your lips curve into an involuntary smile at the infectious smile. He’s doubled over now, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. His hands are on his knees, one gripping in humor while the other simply rests, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Oh Bugs,” he manages to get out between wheezing aftershocks, “you’re a lot funnier than I expected.” You feel your cheeks heating involuntarily. He looks up from his doubled-over position to fix you with the full force of his dazzling grin. You honestly can’t blame every girl in America for falling for it, you’ve never been particularly attracted to Jake yourself, but it’s got your knees weak, seeing it up close and personal.

“Sorry.” The words are murmured just under your breath, embarrassment muffling them.

“Don’t apologize, Bugs, I’m a big fan.” You feel yourself shrink at the sweet words as he straightens, his previous nerves nowhere to be seen as he closes the distance to the exam table in a few strides, sitting down and you notice the way his feet actually touch the ground. “I like it. Bugs and Lola. We make a good team.” You can hear a thousand warning bells going off in your head. The common sense fire department has arrived to put out the fire in your brain. The sirens are loud but you block them out because the doctor side of your brain is jumping up and down at the strides you’re making with Jake. The doctor side. Definitely, the doctor side.

“Well then Lola,” you emphasize the name because you can’t help it, “let’s get started, shall we? We can do this one of two ways. First, we could just treat this like a regular physical and assume I know nothing about your injury, and proceed as normal until I inevitably discover it and then you start talking or second, we could just address the elephant in the room, you can explain what’s going on from the get-go and then we’ll work from there. I’d personally prefer option two so I can amend the physical procedure so you don’t have to put any unnecessary strain on your leg. Still, it’s up to you, whatever you’re most comfortable with.” The mood in the room shifts as you’re both brought back to the present. Jake is quiet, considering your question before he looks up from where he’s been studying his clasped hands.

“Let’s go with option 2 then, Bugs.” You nod, giving him a gentle smile, pulling the stool out from under the counter and taking a seat, giving the floor to Jake but not before you let him know.

“Thank you, Jake. I'm really proud of you.” You hadn’t intended to tell him the second part but something about the visible nervous tension in his broad shoulders makes you think maybe he needs to hear it. He nods, silently.

“Like you said,” he starts. “It happened during Game Four of the Anaheim series during the playoffs. That defenseman, Jones I think his name was, had been on me all night, and he was getting more and more pushy. I could barely move on the ice without him being in my way and it was starting to piss me off. I went to shove him off but he was too close, and our legs got tangled as we went down. I landed on my knee. Honestly, I think I blacked out momentarily from the initial pain. I knew something was seriously wrong but I also knew we were down two points and if we lost that game it could be the deciding moment of the series.” He shakes his head. “So I lied to the physician. I told him I was fine, just a little shaken up from the fall. I didn’t hit my head, I wasn’t concussed, so they let me play. We lost anyway. Then I finally told the physician what was going on, and,” he falters and you fight the urge to close the distance between the two of you and take his hand. “We did all the scans, the tests, and it came back that I had torn my MCL.” You can’t help the sound of shock that passes your lips. It wasn’t an uncommon injury, complete recovery was possible, common even. Complications were rare. Yet the idea of Jake spending the last three months walking around with it untreated, covering that up, even going so far as to play hockey with the torn ligament made your heart lurch. He had to be in unimaginable pain every single day. His eyes raise at the sound from where they’ve been focused on his hands in his lap.

“What grade?” You don’t recognize the gravelly sound of your voice.

“Three…” You can’t breathe.

“And that son of a bitch didn’t DO anything?” Your voice is dripping with the rage that swirls around your heart. It was simple. It was so simple. Six weeks to heal minimum, but they were at the end of the season. Surgery would have been entirely possible with a three to four-month recovery period during the off-season. He could have been almost back to normal right now and your stomach turned at the complete and total disregard for his care. Jake is silent, his eyes darting between his hands and your seething face. “What the fuck did he do?” Your voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “What the fuck did he do instead of his fucking JOB?” You shake your head, a delirious chuckle escaping your lips as you do so. “What did he do instead of holding to his duty of fucking CARE?” You can’t see Jake’s expression past your blind rage.

“He told me full recovery would take over a year. He said that I would have to sit out the next season if I ever wanted to play again.” Jake shakes his head. “Then my coach was so adamant, so sure we could make it to the final. He was so convinced. He said we could get another cup, if I just stayed in for the rest of playoffs, if I just pushed through it. He said it would make the year off seem earned instead of,” Jake cuts off, barking a laugh, like even he can’t believe it now that he’s saying the words out loud. He’s quiet for a minute before he continues. “And he had my physician in his back pocket, so he told him to make sure I could play when I definitely shouldn’t have been. And you know how that ended. We played the next three games but ultimately lost the series with Anaheim. I started getting more in-depth scans and preliminary treatment done but suddenly Coach wasn’t so sure I was going to be worth the wait. He said if I took the year off, he couldn’t promise me I’d get my first-line spot back. And not in the way that you say when you’re trying to be realistic. No, he said it the way you say when it’s a promise, a threat. Like he just casually forgot my contract was up.” He chuckles and this time it’s unlike every other time you’ve heard the sound. It’s cold, cruel. “He expected me to re-sign, just like everyone else, because when you’re the face of a team, you can’t just leave. So I did just that.”

His green eyes are icy. “By the time I decided to leave, and figured out everything with my legal team, I knew there weren’t any teams still looking for players. It’s the NHL, who doesn’t want their shot? The rosters were full. Then I thought about the Dogfighters. They’re new, looking for their big break, their secret weapon.” He shrugs. “So I gave them an offer they couldn't refuse, served myself up on a big silver platter. I’d been taking the summer easy, staying off my leg the best I could. I thought it would be enough, that I could play. And sure it was probably the delusion, and I knew I would get caught out eventually because I didn’t think any of this through but I sure wasn’t expecting you to call me out on my first fucking day, Bugs.” He chuckles again and this time it’s the one you know so well. “You threw me off my axis, and now we’re here.” His eyes come back to your face and his expression changes to one of immediate concern. “Hey Bunny, hey what’s wrong?”

“What?” Your voice comes out as a croak and that’s when you realize you’re crying. You don’t know when the tears started leaking from your eyes, but now they run silently down your cheeks, dripping onto your clasped in your lap. “Oh, oh my god, Jake I’m so sorry. This is so unprofessional.” You flounder as you reach for the tissue box on the countertop behind you. You swipe at your cheeks roughly, trying to clean up the salty tracks as quickly as possible. “Sorry, I just- That’s not fair, what both of them did to you. They made you play, threatened your job, lied to you about your leg-” You can’t help the sob that chokes your words as you feel yourself getting more emotional as your heart breaks for the man sitting before you. He reaches for you, letting his good leg snag on your stool, rolling it over so you’re sitting between his spread knees. His hands come to take yours and you’re struck by the cruel irony of him comforting you when it should be you doing so for him.

“Slow down, Bunny. What do you mean they lied about my knee?” His green eyes search yours for a lie.

You shake your head. “A grade three MCL tear can heal in as little as six weeks with proper care. With surgery, it could take a little longer, but even then complications are rare. You could’ve been back on the ice as good as new by the time the new season started.” The tears are still running down your cheeks as you watch his face change as he processes your words, his hands clenching on your own as rage contorts his features and you pray you’re never on the receiving end of it because it steals the breath out of your lungs. You have to remind yourself that it’s not you that he’s angry with because your body is fighting the urge to pull away from him until you see tears mirroring your own on his cheeks. Frustration and grief wrack his body with sobs as you stand, pulling him into your arms against your better judgment. “I’m sorry, Jake.” You whisper as you rub circles into his back and just hold him as he falls apart. “I’m so sorry.”

***

You’re not sure how long the two of you stay like that. Eventually, you separate and discuss your next steps. You want new scans and tests run which you need to schedule. In the meantime, you go through with the rest of the physical to the best of Jake’s abilities and when he finally stands to leave with your help, the two of you exchange tired smiles and promise to see each other tomorrow. In the meantime, Jake needs to talk to his team and you need to talk to his manager and coach. You shoot Mav and Cyclone a text that you need to meet with them ASAP.

That’s how you find yourself sitting in that dreaded chair across from Cyclone’s desk later that day. You’re not sure how long you’ve been there. Time started slowing to a slow bleed ages ago. What started as a perfectly reasonable conversation about the health of one of your patients stopped being that while Cyclone’s face was still human-colored. “What the FUCK kind of behavior is this, Bugs?” Normally you’d fight the urge to flinch at the rage in his voice, but you’ve mentally checked out of the tirade. “I have an injured player, a fucking STARTER at that, and I’m only finding out about this now? And not just injured, but potentially unable to fucking do his fucking job when the season starts in less than two months?” He’s standing, waving a finger in your face like it’s a gun. You don’t really notice, the same way you didn’t notice Maverick typing furiously at his phone a few minutes ago from his seat slightly behind you, closer to the door, out of Cyclone’s direct eyeline at the moment. Mav tried defending you himself, at the beginning, only for Cyclone to yell at him to “sit down and shut up as if you haven’t caused enough trouble by practically begging me to hire her” which was news to you. Maybe you would’ve been touched if you weren’t so numb. You don’t hear the door behind you slam open, cutting off Cyclone as he’s in the middle of degrading your character into the ground.

“HEY!” Jake’s voice cuts through some of the fog around you and your body relaxes slightly instinctively from the tense position it’s been since you entered the room. As if your body knows you’re safe now that Jake’s here. He crosses the room in seconds, standing in front of you as if he can somehow shield you from Cyclone’s wrath. “This isn’t her fault, so don’t you go accusing her as if it is.” His voice is pure fury and if you were in control of your body, maybe you’d shudder at the rage that laces every single word. Even through the haze, your eyes clock the way he puts more weight on his left leg.

“That’s not up to you, son. She’s fired, effective immediately. This is gross negligence, she’s lucky we don’t sue.” Maybe you would have giggled at the words, at the inevitability of them, but your face is still glazed over.

“No, she’s not.” Jake’s tone leaves no room for discussion. “The only way I’m getting treated is if she’s the one to do it.” He glares at Cyclone. “I know I’ve cost you all a pretty penny that you currently don’t have so not only can you not afford to fire me, but you need me to play, and the only way that’s going to happen is if my leg heals, and I’m telling you right now that that’s not happening unless Bugs is my physician. If you want to blame someone? I’m feeling pretty good about my chances of suing my last physician and coach for a lot more than gross negligence. But Bugs and I are a package deal. If I stay, she stays, and I’m staying.”

With that, he turns to you, the rage gone and replaced with concern as he reaches for your hands so, so gently, taking them in his and easing you to your feet. “Come on, Bunny. “ He whispers so only you can hear, placing a hand on the small of your back, the other laced with yours as he guides you out of Cyclone’s office.

Once you’re far enough from the door, he stops, turning to you, a hand coming to cup your jaw as he strokes his thumb across your cheek, green eyes full of worry as they search your empty ones. “Bunny? Hey Bunny, come back to me, baby. I know you’re in there, Bunny, come on.” The gentle repetitive gesture on your cheek and the soothing sound of Jake’s voice slowly draw you out of the place you’ve barricaded yourself in your mind and Jake watches with relief as the haze in your eyes clears. “There you are, Bunny. You okay, baby?” The feeling rushes back into your body and your knees buckle with exhaustion from being on defensive shutdown for so long. You can’t bring yourself to speak so you nod as Jake slides an arm around your waist, holding you up as you slump against the wall. You’re too overwhelmed to catch the term of endearment he’d added into his sentences.

“Jake?” Your voice is a hoarse croak from disuse.

“Yeah, baby? I’m right here, Bunny.” His thumb continues its trail across your pallid cheek.

“What were you- How’d you- Why’d you do that?” Your brain is still fuzzy as you trip over your words.

He shakes his head gently, quiet affection in his gaze as he looks down into your bleary eyes. “It’s like I said this morning, Bunny. We make a good team. You really think I’d let you get away when we’re just getting started?” His eyes dance with something else you can’t place but before you can respond, the door down the hall opens again and you force yourself to stand and step out of Jake’s arms as Maverick comes towards the two of you. If he saw anything, he doesn’t say, instead giving Jake a gentle clap on the shoulder.

“Good save, kid. Quick on your feet, I like that.” He turns to you then. “Bugs, I’m so sorry about all of that. You didn’t deserve any of it, I wish I could have done more to stop it.”

You wave him off. “No need for both of us to lose our jobs, right? And you did help, Maverick. Even if I almost just lost it, you’re the reason I got this job, in more than one way apparently.” You give him a knowing look and his cheeks pinken with embarrassment that makes his fatherly face look boyish. “Thank you for that, I really mean it.” You know Maverick has no idea why Cyclone was so trigger-happy to fire you, Cyclone made that clear at your interview, and as much as you feel the sudden urge to tell him, you hold back because this is your new start and you definitely don’t need Jake to know.

“You don’t need to thank me, just keep taking good care of my boys.” You nod, hoping your gratitude shows in your eyes. “On that note, the three of us obviously need to talk about the next steps and honestly I’m really not in the mood to do that here, so why don’t you two join me and Penny for dinner?” He slings an arm around each of your shoulders, guiding the two of you down the hall, away from Cyclone’s office.

“Penny, sir?” Jake questions.

Maverick beams. “She’s the team nutritionist, and by some miracle, my girlfriend.” You fight the urge to giggle at the sixty-year-old man referring to Penny as his girlfriend instead of his partner.

“I don’t know,” Jake says ruefully. “Pudding’s been home alone all day and I can’t really leave her alone any longer in good conscience.” Mav waves him off.

“Bring her, there’s plenty of room at my house. I’ll text you both the address and take the rest of the afternoon off. We’ll work out where to go next at dinner and let the team know first thing tomorrow. Bugs, you too, you don’t look too great, the physicals can wait until tomorrow.” You nod gratefully as Mav leaves the two of you at the door to the parking garage.

Jake turns to you as Mav walks away. “Do you need to grab your stuff? We can meet back here in a five and I’ll walk you to your car?” You shake your head.

“No, you go ahead and head home. I’m definitely putting my afternoon physicals on hold but I want to make a comprehensive list of scans and treatment options to discuss with Mav at dinner so I’m gonna be another hour or two. I need to make a couple of calls.” That is if your so-called colleagues will even deign to answer the phone. “And no waiting for me this time.” You poke at his chest with your finger. “You get home to your girl and stay off that leg as best as you can.” Your eyes drift down to the new knee brace barely visible under Jake’s sweats. “Give her some extra cuddles because I have a feeling things around here are about to pick up, and drive safe with the brace, you hear me?” You frown at Jake’s leg. “You probably shouldn’t be driving period. Maybe I should give you a ride home.” He waves you off.

“I’m all good Bugs, you focus on finishing up your work, and I’ll see you at Mav’s for dinner.” You shake your head again, more forceful this time.

“No, I’m picking you up. This is the last time you’re driving with that leg. Here,” you pull your phone from your pocket, “put in your number and text yourself that way you have mine. Then you’re gonna text me your address when you get home so I know you made it in one piece.”

“Not all of us are prone to vehicular manslaughter, Bunny.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that HE drove in front of ME?” You snap, irritantly and he grins playfully.

“I don’t know, I think I’ll have to hear the other side of the story at dinner.” He says with a wink before he pushes open the door to the garage. You scowl after him. “See you, Bunny.”

“See you, Lola.” You enunciate as you turn on your heel, marching back to your office with purpose, ready to finally be able to do your job.

[haveyouthoughtaboutcomicstoday]

Sometimes grief hits the hardest when things are going well.

Arisia pauses mid sentence while playfully arguing with Iolande about which of them was at fault for messing up their last mission—causing it to extend an extra 4 days and making them miss John’s birthday party.

The other lantern lays a gentle hand on her wrist when the silence extends too long, head tilted to the side in concern, “is something wrong?”

Arisia blinks awkwardly at her. It’s hard to explain why her chest has gone tight and her eyes feel hot. Why she’s suddenly forgotten how to measure her breaths. She forces a smile but knows based off Iolande’s expression that it doesn’t come across as comforting as she had hoped.

Pulling her hand away, she makes an excuse of needing a refill, lifting her mostly empty glass from the table as evidence. Nearly running directly into another lantern who was sitting nearby, she cringed uncomfortably before making her way through the thrum of people populating Warriors. It’s the dinner rush and, as is always the case when everyone isn’t busy being stretched across the galaxy, it’s a packed house.

The heat of tightly pressed bodies, the overwhelming sound of dozens of larger-than-life personalities holding court over a relatively small space, a poker game in the corner that erupts into a wall of sound every once in a while. It was too much.

She feels her skin prickle as Vath’s arm brushes hers while walking in the opposite direction on his way back to Isamot. He might have stopped to say something but all she can hear is her blood rushing in her ears, the erratic thump of her heart trapped in the too small space of her chest. Finally making it to the bar, she follows it, ducking and diving around chairs and bodies until she makes it to the door leading out back. Throwing it open, she takes a deep breath of the slightly cool air of Oa that greets her. She steps through and lets the door fall close with a heavy thud.

She waits a beat in the new found silence before crumpling where she stands on the small steps. Her forehead presses to the knobby bones of her knees, shoulders hunched forward to enclose herself against the world. Arms wrap tightly around her legs.

Everyone was alive.

A single door stands between her and their laughter.

It’s been years since she’d gotten her ring back, since she was given a chance to hug Kilowog again, and Salaak fell back into bossing everyone around in the neurotic, overbearing, mothering way of his. It wasn’t even the anniversary of anything, so why did she feel a yawning pit open itself inside of her? She hates how helpless and small she feels in that moment. Especially over something so insignificant in the grand scheme of it all.

There was nothing left to grieve. Breathe. Get up. Go back inside. She knows she needs to apologize to Iolande and Soranik (who’d also been sitting at the table with them, now that Arisia was thinking about it), and enjoy the time off like a normal, well adjusted adult. She counts down from three to help spur herself into action, yet finds herself immobilized.

Her eyes drift to the soft green hum of her ring and there is a flash of anger, hot and vitriolic before it dissipates just as quickly, leaving her feeling exhausted. What use is willpower if you can’t force your brain and body to cooperate with you?

The door opens behind her. There is a yell about beer, a crash of laughter. She thinks she might be able to pick out Kyle’s voice. His meeting with the guardians ended on time for once then. That’s good.

The door shuts.

“Hey, Kid.”

Her eyes squeeze shut to force tears away. “I just need a minute, Guy. Did you need anything?” Her voice sounds mostly steady, she thinks. She might pass as stable so long as he doesn’t look at her face, which was surely blotchy and flushed, or her hands, which were trembling. She imagines, briefly, forming a large, green sign overhead announcing “nothing to see here.” Will that get him to go back inside? Will anything? Did she want him to?

“Nope,” Guy said as he lumbered forward. She can hear his left knee creak and pop as he settles himself down next to her. Normally she’d take the time to bully him for getting so old. She lets the silence sit instead.

There were a few inches between them, which Arisia knew he did consciously because Guy did not have much of an understanding of personal space otherwise. Even still, she could feel the heat radiating off of his body, but it didn’t prickle at her overstimulated senses the way everyone else’s did just a few minutes before.

Slowly, she unfurls herself, allows her elbows to rest on her knees, lifts her head to settle her chin more comfortably on one hand. She brings her gaze to the left where Guy has situated himself, and finds him already looking back at her. His eyes are soft and sad, his mouth turned ever so slightly downward.

She knows that he is the only person capable of understanding exactly how she feels in this moment. He had held Kilowog’s skull in his hands, had built a shrine to everyone in a different Warriors bar once upon a time. She wonders, suddenly, if it’s ever the image of her body, ensconced in a casket, that haunts him. She hasn’t been dead in actuality but he didn’t know that at the time.

She knows about her funeral. Had gotten filled in by Zinda when she finally brought herself back to Earth for a visit. Had seen a picture of the sign, written in Guy’s blocky writing, “Closed Due to Death in Family.”

She typically tries not to think about it at all. The feeling of large hands around her throat. The panic. How she insitinctively reached out for a ring that was not there. Struggling against the hands of a man who didn’t even know who she was, on a planet she wasn’t even from. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong life.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says.

“Me too.”

Arisia remembers a different night, in a different bar. Everyone else had gone to bed and Guy was ceremoniously presenting her a single chocolate cupcake with a candle shoved into the top. He was trying to make a joke of it, the way he does when he feels emotional and unsure of himself.

He was fighting with an uncooperative lighter. The flame flicking in and out of existence faster than he could get it to the wick. It had taken both of them, laughing and clumsy, to get the candle to light at all. The flame itself was so small and pitiful she had to blow it out quickly for fear it would extinguish itself first.

She remembers in that moment thinking of her friends and her home and the freedom of not being tied to one place like she had been for long at that point. Aching tremendously from the loss of it all. They both pretended she didn’t cry into the cupcake while eating it in little pieces. Her rolling stomach wouldn’t allow for more than that even if the cupcake had been good. Guy was a decent baker when he bothered to be.

In the now, she closes the space between them. Draws Guy into a hug and feels him return it instantly. She thinks she ought to thank him for taking her in the way he did, or for being here with her now.

She knows she doesn’t have to.

She allows herself the moment to grieve the things she’d lost, even if they had been found again.

“Hey do you remember that time you were turned into a girl?”

“Oh shut the fuck up.”