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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 2 days ago

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CHAPTER I

Modern AU.

- Pairing: detective!Arthur x barista!Reader

- Summary: It's early autumn in Bozeman, Montana. The curtain rises on the daily lives of Arthur Morgan, a police lieutenant, and you, a barista in the café across the street. Impromptu returns of friends in your lives and a strange mystery could lead you to meet at last...

- Warnings/tags: (for this chapter) death, corpse, angst as grief and loneliness are mentioned.

- Words:6k

series info, warnings and disclaimer here. AO3 link here.

Arthur Morgan looks at his face in the mirror. Bags under his eyes. Scruffy stubble that grew in just one night, only God knows how. His short hair, with this golden brown color he never could describe himself, matches the caramel leaves of the trees outside his window. He grabs his razor, a vintage one, just a resealable blade. His shaving brush, his cream. He smears his face, blue pupils staring at his cheeks, and then his throat in the glass. That familiar, everyday smell fills his nostrils. The blade feels weird every time it passes on his chin, his scars oddly sensitive there. Damn he looks aweful. His nose, broken from a fight years ago. A cut, way lighter and fresher than his other wounds, provokes him on his cheek. The two big wrinkles digging into his cheeks on either side of his lips, that never cease to grow year after year. The sunspots staining his skin, marks that would never leave, no matter how hard he would wash his face.

At least he's always had the physique to impress: severe features, broad shoulders, a body strengthened by years of training and physical work. At least his ugliness served him well for his work, which was something to be taken for granted. He sighs for a few seconds.

Today is going to be a long, hard day.

His face roughly shaven and clean, he dresses without paying attention, slipping on a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and his eternal leather jacket; pockets filled with crushed cigarettes and empty packs of them. He adds his badge to his big belt, like a soldier adds his banner before going into battle. Like a condemned man holds the axe over his own head. But maybe, on some days, also like the crown of a man's pride.

His service weapon is waiting for him on the kitchen table, almost as loyal as Copper. The good boy is up and excited, thinking he's going on a walk with him, like every morning. And like every morning, Arthur takes a few minutes of his time to pat him and coo at him, the old German shepherd collapsing heavily on the ground with a blissful happiness, showing his belly for him to flatter. "That's my good boah." Both of his hands scratch him vigorously. "You're almost as old as me now, ain'tcha? Two old basterds we are."

A few last licks from his companion on his calloused hands and Arthur gets up, grunting, more from frustration than actual effort. He closes his door, taking his gun and leaving Copper behind.

The cool autumn air swallows him up as soon as he leaves his apartment building. The streets, still almost deserted at this early hour, are quiet, as if on standby, the dead leaves on the trees gently falling in silent, forgotten dances. He heads for the police station, only a ten-minute walk from his place. He likes this little bit of peace and quiet before arriving at work. Before facing reality, and its demons.

He walks up his street, St Tracy Avenue, a heterogeneous mix of new family homes and apartments in Bozeman's typical red-brick buildings. He passes the little local church, St James, still asleep. The tall trees framing the road overlook dozens of cars and pick-ups lining the sidewalks. At the crossroads, he turns right onto Main Street. The rising sun illuminates the shiny windows of the post office, the US flag proudly raised, welcoming the workers, the only ones he usually meets on his way. Beyond the post office, dozens of stores, cafés, restaurants, and banks. The main street is flooded with them. Sometimes he wonders if they were there when the town was founded, when the first red bricks were laid on the ground. He makes a quick stop at number 117, The Treeline, mainly because it's one of the only ones already open at this hour, but also because he knows that the old manager will make him his espresso without making unnecessary conversation. Simple, efficient, silent. What he needs, especially in the morning.

Finally, right after the Comedy Club, he reaches the last crossroads. There, another café stands on the corner, much more welcoming than the Treeline. The window display, featuring a jovial otter drinking a cup of tea, reads “The Green Otter's Café” in round, amusing letters. He turns his head. He doesn't know why, but always does, every morning. Maybe it's the irresistible smell of baking pastries, butter croissants, cinnamon rolls, and loaves of all kinds. Maybe it's the one of coffee beans being roasted, or the energetic music he can faintly hear from inside. But mostly, and surely, it's because it's just about that time you are cleaning the counter. Your hair in a messy bun, your green and orange apron, the colors of your establishment, tight around your waist. Today, you're wearing a beige shirt underneath. He knows so little about you, like what your name is or where you're from; only that you're always there, at 6 a.m., and you always look up, showering him with your death-defying smile.

He smiles back. Tries not to think about his ugly teeth as he does, and grants you a two-finger salute before continuing his walk. You return his greeting, your cheeks so round and reddened by your smile, your eyes crinkled into two crescent moons. You're so beautiful. And you look so sweet, that by repeating this little ritual every morning, this esoteric habit between the two of you, he's ended up nicknaming you Peach —just like that, just in his head.

He knows this is the last peaceful moment before work, and he loves it. He turns left around the café, finally arriving on Rouse Avenue. The police station is only a few steps away, almost directly opposite the Green Otter's building. It was maybe, with the Hospital, one of the only buildings that never ever slept. The impressive brand-new building, large but flat with only two storeys, spans a long stretch of the street. He enters the beast's lair, clocking in his entrance out of sheer mechanical habit, and approaches the reception desk.

"Hello Miss Jackson. How're ya today?"

"Not bad, Arthur. Like a Monday, that is."

"Is Dutch here already?"

"Mmmh, I don't recall him checking in. Mr. Williamson's here, though."

"Fine. Thanks, Miss."

He walks past the civilian zone, leaving Tilly behind, and goes to the Crime and Investigation Unit department. Bozeman isn't a big city; therefore the place isn't as grandiloquent as the beautiful wooden offices there are in thriller films and series. The big room is shared by four of his colleagues, his own workspace in the back separated by a glass wall. The bare functional minimum, lack of budget. Reality. He passes between Micah and Javier's desks, the first one unkept and covered in layers of trash and soda cans, the second, clearly neater and tidier, with just a few discreet guitar picks still lying around. He stops between the other pair of desks, those of Hamish and Bill. The veteran's, always the neatest of all, probably some remnant of military rigidity, have recently had an annex added to accommodate the team's rookie, Lenny Summers. The poor kid had only been there a few months and had already seen more horrors than adults twice his age. At least it taught him a thing or two. He nods in Bill's direction, greeting him nonchalantly.

"Williamson. Remember our 8 a.m. appointment."

"I do, boss."

"Don't call me that." The blue-eyed officer sighs and enters his office.

At least he had the incomparably royal luxury of windows. He sits back in his chair, looking for a pen that works, and goddman how could this fucking place not have a single pen that does, rummaging through the dozens of files he hasn't yet sorted. His own desk is just a bit bigger, and a strange mix you could call an "organized mess". An ashtray that he hides in one of his drawers when a superior shows up. Several coffee cups, of which he throws away the cardboard ones. Files, files, more files, all colors, all sizes. Somewhere on top, the leather-covered journal in which he draws and writes all his thoughts, and never leaves him, especially when he's on a case. There's also a pencil for it, under all those papers, he's sure of it. There are a few elements of decoration too, mainly typical cowboy and rancher things. A horseshoe, some feathers, a wooden buck figurine Charles had offered him. On the wall behind him, a huge painting of Mount Helena. And next to his computer, whose slowness was like a snail in glue, a few framed photos.

The oldest shows him at eighteen with his high school diploma, not a single hair on his face, his features slimmer, more youthful. His lips are stretched in a smile as big and proud and ferocious as a tiger. Damn, he really didn't think he would actually get it, at the time. How he fucking hated maths. A spotty, pissed-off John stands next to him, and around both of them, a younger Dutch and Hosea look on, smiling.

Another one, three years later. His 21-year-old self is showing his police diploma, uniform on. He was so proud of it, too, that day. Yet, his smile is more reserved. It looks like he has aged much more, already. This time, there's just Dutch, only wearing a mustache, holding him around his back, a hand on his shoulder.

And of course, a portrait of him and Mary. The picture frame is pink, kitsch and frilly, with glitter and red hearts, but she chose it for him. So he kept it. And even after all this time, the photo still sits there. It was just a year after the last one, if he recalls right. Mary had bored him into visiting her parents, who couldn't stand him, in San Francisco. At least he'd been able to see the bridge, he who rarely left the Middle West. The photo showed them standing right in front of it, Mary beaming so sweetly as she was wont to do, holding the camera. He, laughing because she had just pinched him to make him smile for the photo. She had managed to capture that rare moment. And for that alone, the picture and its hideous frame would never leave the desk.

He signs some papers, reads others, tries to go and check his mails, but the goddman computer is once again too slow. A few hours pass, call after call. He painfully writes a report from a previous case he had just finished a few days ago, saluting Javier through the glass when he arrives at his post. How he hated writing that kind of formal stuff. Eevery sentence and word had to be thought through. Sometimes, holding back from writing what came from his heart as he did with his diary made his fingers burn and his computer mouse clench. His chore finally done, he searches for his lighter and a cigarette in his pockets, and quickly smokes one. He lets the fume burn all the way from his mouth to the back of his throat, then his nose, almost tickling his eyes. He tries to imbibe this sensation, this familiar and relaxing burning feeling, to remember it later. He knows he will have to dig deep into his roots.

"Bill. Let's go." He throws at his subordinate, closing his office door.

"A shame the kid isn't here yet, could learn a lot this mornin'."

"Yeah. Or maybe get that final warning that this job really is a shitty one."

Just a few meters away from there, a stove is burning. And not in the metaphorical way of describing that it was functioning. No no. A wreath of flames is shooting out all around the door, like a literal window to Hell, plumes of black, charred-smelling smoke filling the entire space.

"Beau! Quick, hand me the fire extinguisher!"

"Here!"

"Alright, alright, it's fine." You ease him, and yourself, and maybe try to ease the fire too thanks to the Holy Spirit. You quickly turn the stove off completely, before splashing the creamy substance a first time all around the door, and a second time inside it.

The stove turns silent, beaten, having burned as brightly as it could, and now exhausted, out of action, as if it'd given the best performance of its short life on stage. You sigh heavily, pearls of sweat on your forehead from the warmth inside the little kitchen. You turn to your employee, an only eighteen-year-old boy, brown locks falling on his face as he looks bashfully at the ground.

"What were you doing, Beau?!"

"Well, you see, there's this girl, Penelope, and she really likes to write letters, and t-to receive some, not texting or stuff, so I started-"

"Stop, stop." You cut him, a hand on your hip, the other hanging in the air towards him. "Were you watching the muffins? Yes or no? I want a simple answer."

"… N-no."

"Alright. You understand we've got a problem, here?" You try to modulate your voice.

"I understand, I… I won't do that again, I promise."

"Go and take care of the tables for a few minutes, will you?"

He complies without another word, leaving the kitchen, the door squeaking. You look at the state of the infernal device in front of you. The whole thing had turned entirely black, and you're sure the smoky scent will stick to your pastries for at least a month. This isn't ideal. At all. As you grab a few towels and cleaning products to try and save what is left of it, your thoughts are focused on your little café's bank account.

A stove, especially an industrial one, is way too pricey for you to buy right now. And yet, how you wish you could. Just like the dishwasher that threatened to explode with each new use, or the fridges that were starting to date and for which you prayed every morning that they wouldn't let you down. Or the croaky kitchen door, those scratches on the worktops...

Yes, the Green Otter's Café really needed a little refreshment. And yet he had been standing, since its very creation the day your grandpa had decided to quit everything and open his own place. Initially a restaurant and a bar, it had quickly become a renowned city venue with a loyal following and an excellent reputation. Now that it was yours, even though its face and appearance had changed, the beers replaced by your coffee or tea creations, the French fries dinner trays by delicious and appetizing pastries, the clientele was as loyal as ever. And you had been able to keep the spirit and heart of this place so dear to you, but also to all the inhabitants of the neighborhood; through your own will, the values of sharing, conviviality and joy wanted by your grandfather were persisting. Almost like a lighthouse that would guide people through time instead of the waves.

As you scrub the burnt from the stove, muffins turned into charcoals shoved in the trash, you silently brood over your frustration. This place deserved all the love and money in the world. Unfortunately, the debts were starting to pile up. The cost of living was getting high for everyone. Raw materials were harder and harder to find, and prices were rising. As for the poor inhabitants, wages didn't always keep pace. It was the beginning of a difficult period, and you hoped more than anything that your small local business could withstand it; how could you, when you wanted to guarantee products that were always as good for the same price, while competing with big chains that produced quintuple your work much more quickly and for much less…? It's like fighting a full-armed knight with a toothpick.

"Miss, there's someone here for you!" You hear Beau call from the big room, pulling you out of your worrying thoughts.

You leave your cleaning there, some foam mixed with dirt on your gloves and forearms. In this job, you can't be fussy about the state of your clothes.

The sun had finally risen outside. It was one of those very crisp fall mornings, blinding sun but fresh wind balancing the temperature. At the door, a figure from your past is waiting, dark hair in a braid, ultramarine eyes shining in this golden-brown atmosphere, simple but elegant dress highlighting her slim figure.

"Abigail!" You scream in both joy and surprise, walking to hear to hold her in your arms.

The young woman reciprocates the hug, and chuckles a bit a she notices you've let your hands hang in the air not to dirty her clothes.

"It's been a while! You're in town for a few days?" You ask out of curiosity, but her face isn't one of someone who's there on holiday for tourism.

"It's, uh… It's more complicated than that." She looks happy to see you, but her tired gaze holds so many silent things. You feel like there's something more serious stopping her smile from being genuine. Without thinking about it, you do as you would have with any of your friends in need: A hand on her shoulder, you look right at her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She nods, you smile gently, happy she's letting you help. "Still into teas? I just received a wonderful blend of spices for a Chai Latte…"

She nods once more, grateful. As you quickly prepare her comforting beverage, you order Beau to finish the cleaning of the consequences of his lack of attention and to bake another batch of blueberry muffins. He doesn't complain even once.

Both sitting at one of the wooden tables, you give her the Chai and listen, careful, empathetic. She's curled up in her chair, looking like she's about to boil over. Abigail had always been strong; a vase into which too much water had kept being poured. Still, she'd managed to grow the most beautiful and precious sprout in it. Today she was going to let the water spill out. And you listen. You listen when she talks about life, about Billings, the big city where everything was supposed to change. About John, and Jack. About how the so-called father of her child was unable to take any responsibility for her and him. To build a normal and stable life for them. About the utter bastard he had been, how her hopes of him becoming a better man now that they had a child had soon vanished. The apartment they couldn't afford. The wasted savings. The tears on Jack's face when she said they weren't coming back to their beautiful place. How she ended up kicking John out, trying once and for all to make him understand. An ultimatum. You catch the little sparkles gathering on her eyelashes, and grab a few towels from the counter. She loves him still, it's obvious. Maybe it's what makes her that angry, most of all.

"Did you find a place here?" You ask, more and more worried for her and the boy.

"Yeah, don't worry, a nice small apartment." She wipes her eyes and some of her beautiful dark makeup smudges on her cheeks, a witness of her lonely tears in her rage. She continues with difficulty, her words sometimes interrupted by little hiccups and sniffles. "But I need to find a j-job if I want to keep it and provide for Jack on my own." Her eyes look up from her half-empty cup to look at yours. Her pained but still gorgeous face now looks embarrassed. "That's also why I'm here -I wanted to ask if you... Maybe had something for me, here?"

You don't answer right away, but still grab her hands in yours. Thoughts rush and collide in your brain. You're hesitant. Not because you think she isn't good enough. All the contrary, you had already worked with Abigail when you were younger, and what a great worker she was. No, the problem was once again the money. Would you be able to pay her a decent wage? Was it really the better option in your current situation? You think for a few more seconds and remember the stove. The burned batch. Beau is an adorable boy, and you don't have the heart to fire him even if he has his head in the clouds most of the time. One more actually experienced worker wouldn't go amiss. You could even change the opening hours and guarantee more rest time for everyone.

It's decided.

Abigail's face lights up and her whole body melts in a wave of relief when you present her a green apron, embroidered with a familiar tea-sipping otter. The delicious, wonderful smell of perfectly baked blueberry muffins emanates from the oven.

Arthur and Bill are standing beside a corpse.

A corpse that used to be a teenage boy.

For now, hidden under a sheet, its waiting for its moment of glory.

The weird white lights from the neon lights glow surrealistically, illuminating its curves, shaping the human form with shadows and brightness. Why on earth do mortuaries always have to be sordid places? The white and grey tiles on the floor, the horrible smell of naphtalene, the coldness, the lockers stretching across the walls, neatly lined up on top of each other, standing at attention like soldiers... On the other hand, would making the place more welcoming really help? He could hardly see himself right now in a room decorated with balloons and bright colors, McDonald's children's birthday party mode. The Death's call is both immaterial and material. The rhythmic gait of Dr. Strauss's little legs snapped him out of his reflexion. He's accompanied by a second person, heels clicking on the floor, breaking the macabre silence of the gloomy room.

The mother.

Strauss, wearing his white coat and usual small round glasses, walks a few more steps and stands behind the body lying on the long table reserved for it. The three men remain silent, facing the woman. In her forties, her hair flowing around her shoulders, a gray suit holds her in place, maintaining her in an expectation that was as burdensome for her as it was for the other three.

Arthur greets her silently, nodding solemnly. It's not the first time he's witnessed this kind of thing. Not the first time he'd heard the cries of a mother torn apart by the one thing a parent cannot endure. Nor the last time, surely.

Arthur knows all this.

And yet.

His heart tears apart as Strauss lifts the sheet, still in the most terrible silence. The few seconds of shock, the poor woman's face twisting in slow motion like in a bad action movie. His bones boil, he doesn't really know from what, rage, sadness, frustration, at this unbearable spectacle. Yet his face remains impassive. He has learned to stay that way. He has learned to keep this bubbling inside him, this fire that consumes and burns and makes his guts writhe. He thought he'd put it out; he thought he'd hardened himself. In most areas, he remained coldhearted. But God forbid, when it came to a kid… He couldn't help but feel it rekindling.

There is, in the screams of this woman facing him, this mother who had just recognized her 14-year-old son on a hospital table in a seedy morgue, an inevitable resonance that reverberates in every cell of his being. Arthur knows exactly how she feels right now.

He closes his eyes for just a few short seconds, invoking for help the sensation of the cigarette burning his lungs from earlier. He focuses on the smoke dulling his senses, his chest, then his throat, his mouth and nose and eyes. The feelings are hidden behind, the bubbling fire masked by this smoke that blended with his own in a perfect decoy. He's ready.

"Mrs Anderson. Do you recognize today, October 1, this body as that of your son, Joshua Anderson?"

He hates doing this so much. It's obvious she does. Or else she wouldn't be crying the premature loss of her own flesh. Another goddamn formality. Arthur slowly takes a step closer to her. He pulls out a few tissues from his leather jacket and hands them to her.

"You can simply nod, Ma'am."

She does.

Arthur's shoulders fall down. He wants to say something else, something comforting, but she suddenly snaps her head to him, eyes accusing, murderous.

"How did he die?"

"He's been shot in the chest, we think by-"

"We all know who did this. And it's all your fault!" She accuses, finger pointing successively Arthur, then Bill. "You, and the joke you call a colleague! You are all supposed to protect us, you knew this gang was prowling around in our neighborhood, we've warned you a hundred times!!"

The blue-eyed detective doesn't say any other words. Dry-mouthed, he takes it in. He'd rather take it than watch her contort helplessly from pain before him. If at least taking the brunt of it would help her in some way, so be it.

He was used to taking it.

"You're all going to rot in hell for this!! You bastards!" She goes on, her curses turning into cries and groans of despair mixed with anger. With injustice. She's the flag-bearer for all these broken families. All the ones they could never save. Through her, Arthur, Bill and even Strauss, usually detached, feel the full wrath of the human race.

"Fuck you!" She screams again and suddenly words aren't enough, and her hand flies directly to Arthur's cheek, wanting to slap him with all her might.

He stops her in mid-swing with a firm but benevolent grip, the two others hissing in surprise and shock. He hasn't moved an inch, barely disturbed. Face stoic, he must be the rock on which she can lean, even if it's to destroy him, even if she hates him with every fiber of her being right now. His tired, sad eyes stare intently at her, deep blue reflections shining like the waves of the Styx. Bearer of Death he was.

"I'm sorry Ma'am... I really am."

His only words to her, before saying Bill's last name, ordering him to take care of her. He takes her away, trying to stay gentle but he's not the best at treating people carefully. He grabs Mrs. Anderson by the shoulders to pull her out of the morgue. Strauss sighs loudly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and handing one to Arthur. The lieutenant looks at the poor woman and his colleague one last time as they walk along the glassed corridor.

"Are you going to p-

"Of course I ain't going to press any charges, Strauss." Arthur anticipates his question, rubbing his temples with his right hand, cigarette still in it. The coroner lights his own and holds his lighter for Arthur to light his. "Ya know am a lieutenant now, doc'. We're not supposed to smoke like that in a morgue."

"You're not supposed to let a woman take it out on you with impunity either." The red ashes reflect in Strauss's glasses, his long mouth stretched out like a frog's in a grimace of disapproval, devoid of all compassion. Mortuaries attract strange morticians.

"I know."

The two men smoke in silence for a few more moments, the intensity of what just happened still hanging in the air. The dark atmosphere is only pierced by the burning of their cigarettes and the medical glow of the neon lights. Strauss pulls the sheet back on Joshua Anderson's body.

At lunchtime, Arthur munches on a club sandwich with a chemical taste. In the "machine room", as he likes to call it, these good old steel companions deliver life-saving coffees and industrial foodstuffs to all and sundry, just like they feed cattle in those big intensive livestock farms. The smell of old carpet and sweaty cops is omnipresent. He's up at a stand-up table, insipid espresso already graciously purchased by Sadie, standing next to him. On Mondays, she pays. He listens to her talk about her morning in the patrol division, something about an altercation in the Valley West neighborhood. Her uniform, slightly different from the ones of the crime investigation department, with short sleeves instead of long, but still a very dark blue, contrasts nicely with her blond hair hung in a ponytail. Arthur has always liked Sadie. Since the first day they met at the police academy. He can still remember her beating the shit out of most of the guys there, and smiles when he sees their terrified faces. She was simple and direct, unadorned, like him. He had the impression that fewer and fewer people were nowadays.

Right now, Sadie is tired of hearing him crunch the dry crumbs of what he has the audacity to call his meal, her nose scrunching between her freckled cheeks. She cuts her speech, "Hey, why don'ya go to the Green's like everyone?"

"The Green Otter's Café?" Peach's coffee shop, he thinks to himself. "I don' know, why don' you?" He asks back almost defensively with a nod of his chin in her direction.

"Because you're always there eating this shit and I wanna spent my goddamn breaks with you, dummy."

Arthur snorts as he folds the plastic wrapper of his sandwich without thinking about it. He then takes the tiny little cardboard cup from the machine and brings it to his lips, the taste as disappointing as ever.

"Well, y'know what? We could eat there tomorrow. There, ya happy?"

"Very much, thank you kind sir."

Arthur grumbles as all final words before noticing the rest of his team eating together at the other side of the little restroom. Javier, Lenny, Hamish, Bill and Micah, all in uniform. What catches his eye is the way Bill behaves, silent and withdrawn, while his voice usually carries around the room.

"Wait a sec." He asks Sadie. He approaches them, greeting those he hadn't seen already. A good old handshake for Hamish, a pat on the back for Lenny. Nothing but a cold stare for Micah.

"Bell, I want you in my office in twenty minutes. Williamson, come here a bit." He commands, the tallest of all men walking to him. Arthur brings him to the less crowded part of the room.

Arthur's gaze settles on him, not wavering for a bit. "Are ya alright?"

There are a few seconds before his answer. "It's uh… It's Mrs Anderson, y'know. Made me feel real bad and shit this mornin'."

"Did ya bring her back to the reception?"

"Yes, boss."

"Did ya explain the procedure and advise her to see our psychologist?"

"Y-yes, boss."

"Ya did treat her kindly, right?"

He nods slowly, visibly nervous.

"Then you have nothing to blame yourself for, Bill. We have bad days, but we have good days too, right? Remember when ya saved that little girl from the fire last year, with that Irish MacGuire boy from the fire department?"

The tall bearded officer nods once more, as a child listening in silence to a parent comforting him. He was one of the few people Arthur had to look up to catch his gaze, which he always did with everyone. Some say his eye contact is what made him so good at interrogation, sometimes making the worst criminals break under a punishing silence and the weight of that gaze.

"You saved a child that day. Y'see, that's the thing; we do bad things, sometimes. We screw up. But most of the time, we do what's right, Bill. We do what most wouldn't, to protect people." Arthur reaches for his subordinate's shoulder, palm settling on it. He delivers his words slowly, eyes deep into his."That poor woman's pain isn't yours to carry."

"You… You're right, boss." Bills sighs, shifting from one foot to another, shaking his nervousness out of him. "I guess I… I just forget it sometimes, y'know?"

"I know, I know. I do too." Arthur concedes, patting Bill's shoulder a few times. He then walks away, going back to Sadie, adding an annoyed, "And stop calling me boss for Christ's sake," as he does.

"Sorry boss -Shit!- I mean Morgan!"

Arthur walks up the stairs to his apartment. It's already late. For a normal person, at least. Goddamn Micah. He's still reeling from the discussion he had with him, locked in his office. This incompetent, filthy snake. If it were only up to him, he would have fired this scumbag a long time ago. He screws up an investigation, doesn't do what's necessary to protect a family that should have been placed under protection. Hell, he didn't even know about the whole thing until Strauss called him at the morgue the day before. What is he even paid to do, for God's sake, other than degrade the profession and pollute the air Arthur breathes?

He has just turned the key in the door, and already hears the only one who can bring him a little comfort on a day like this. Ecstatic barks already ringing through the walls. A furry, drooling form jumps out at him instantly.

Copper is so delighted that his old bones don't even seem to hurt anymore. Arthur cuddles him, caresses him all over, on his head, on his sides, his belly. Every time it's like he's been gone for ages. Dogs don't care if you're good or bad as long as you're theirs. Words whispered just for him fill his happy ears. "That's my good boy." A few more scratches. "Must have been bored t'death all day, huh? Sure did."

Hungry, he walks to his open-plan kitchen and looks inside his fridge. He doesn't know why. The damn thing couldn't have magically filled up on its own while he was out. He didn't really like cooking, even less for himself. The solitary pickle jar sadly returns his gaze, desperately surviving between a few slices of cheese and abandoned bears."You wanna go for a walk, buddy?" The dog's ears perk up at the word. He closes his fridge, swaps the satchel he uses for work for a smaller leather one. He slides his journal and a pencil inside. He looks up around his apartment, chest tight. There's only one pull-out chair, only one cushion hollowed out on his sofa. Only one plate, on the rare occasions when he eats here. Only one toothbrush in the bathroom cup, only a used spot in his bed. Only a sad man in it.

When Mary left him, the night before their wedding day, Arthur was hit twice; once in the heart and once by the weight of his failures.

It's been eight years now.

It's so odd; this feeling. Those days seem so long ago, and yet so vivid. It feels like a juvenile lifetime. A very long yesterday. He could still remember the color of her favorite lipstick. But not the one of their sheets, in their old house. The caress of her lips on his forehead. But not how it felt to have her fingertips on his palm. It's all like a paradox; an everlasting, immaterial presence. A painful absence.

He hasn't stayed ten minutes inside his flat, and he's already walking down the stairs, Copper happily running next to him.

In this quiet piece of forest at the edge of town, Arthur is sitting on a bench. A plastic plate of greasy French fries on his side, he pecks at a few from time to time between drawings and writing. Journal on his thigh, the dog chasing after some moths or an unknown bug, he draws what he can remember of Mrs Anderson. The dawning night forces his eyes to adapt to the darkness, so that he can make out the exact contours of the lines he draws. He remembers her perfect suit had ended up disheveled at the end of their encounter. Her eyes, crinkled and thin, then so red and gaping, filled with such terror...

Arthur's buzzing phone in his jacket makes him look away from the drawing. He pulls it out, checks the name.

John

That was unexpected. John had stopped giving him news some time ago, when he had left with Abigail and Jack, his child he didn't want to take on, his bullshit piling up endlessly.

He picks up.

"Hey."

"Arthur," The raspy voice of her brother at heart tickles his ears from the phone's speaker. "How you doin'?"

"I'm fine Johnny-boy, as always." He answers, his own tone a bit annoyed, holding back a sight he knows is coming really soon. He plays with his pencil in his other hand. "What d'you want?"

"What, you think I can't jus' call my old friend to… Check up on him?"

"No."

"Shit you're right." John's words come out more directly now, free from politeness and manners. Arthur can hear him fidgeting on the other end of the line. "Listen, Arthur, I need ya help."

"For God's sake John, what have you done again?" Arthur lets out the sigh he had been holding back since the start of the conversation, his hand tightening on his pencil he stopped twirling in his hand. That phrase. That phrase he'd heard a hundred times after John's bullshit. Arthur, I need you to hide my weed. Arthur, I need you to lend me $500. Arthur, I need your help to take down these guys. Arthur, I need you to cover for me so I can take a chance on Abigail.

"I… I screwed up things with Abigail and the… the boy. She kicked me out and moved back to Bozeman."

"Really? This woman definitely has more balls than you've ever had." His unhurried voice lingers on the words in that pungent tone he so often has towards his little brother.

"Shu'up, would ya?" John hustles; he's clearly doing something while calling. "So, can I stay at your place for a while? Not for long. Just long enough for me to win back Abigail's heart."

"Yeah, so basically an eternity then."

"Shut up!"

There's another silence, and the older brother spins and twirls his pencil between his fingers again.

"So? Arthur"

"Yes." His eyes close slowly as he speaks those words. "Yes, of course ya can."

"Great. Cause I'm on the way already."

"Jesu- Don't fucking tell me you're driving right now."

"Naw, never."

"Hang up that phone or I'll hang you up, John."

"Copy that, sir." He sarcastically answers, as if Arthur were his mother telling him to stop climbing up the girls' balconies.

Alone again in the newborn night, Arthur let his mind get used to this new reality and to all the habits that John's presence would destroy. That boy had always been more chaotic than a raccoon.

"Well, at least old boy," Arthur tells Copper, "We won't be as much alone at home anymore."

In the trees, somewhere.

Not far from a lived place.

There is a moving shadow.

It's discreet at first. Just a few rustles in the thicket.

A crack of a branch.

It is a now moonless night. The kind where, in the old times, children would have been warned not to go out and men not to come home too late. A night when even the cattle get nervous, when the dogs bark and howl with the coyotes, like a horn blown before a hunt. When all the light vanishes, and all the silhouettes of objects, animals, humans, and nature become so black and shapeless that they appear to blend into an impenetrable ebony fog.

It waits.

Its presence is odd. The sheep can feel it. It shouldn't be there. What is it, exactly? They can't recognize its smell. They can't really distinguish its form. They don't hear a single sound coming from it. All that they can understand is that it isn't normal. How could it be so big and be as silent as a graveyard? And why is it… hiding?

One of the sheep moves away from the edge of the forest, on instinct, perhaps? It doesn't take much for all the others to follow. But there are, as always, stragglers.

A few more naive individuals. Or inattentive.

It's getting closer. Slowly, silently. The dark form is now bigger than the bushes. Way bigger. Like a massive cloud would blind the sun, its abyssal mass spreads throughout the forest's edge.

It chooses.

The prey is casually grazing. Unaware. Until the very last second.

Large claws shine as they're drawn…

And it jumps from the bushes. Blood falls on the grass. A screeching cry of pain and death, then suddenly cut out in the night, making every other animal go silent.

Too silent.

The shadow leaves just as silently as a cold breeze.

a/n: yeaaaah so a lot going on in this first chapter. I wanted to introduce a lot of stuff, and I'm really sorry if it's too much info. I hope I'll get you all as interested into this story that I'm excited to write it!

(as alwasy I'm relying on @/papaue00 for this gorgeous Arthur's pic)

tag list: @sadieadlersnecktie @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @redwritr, @stottlemorgan, @arthurmorganist (please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!)

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan smut #red dead fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #pinefic #well here it is I guess!!#after months of teasing #OCB #one coffee black #chapter 1 #so so nervous actually #Arthur Morgan x gn!reader #arthur morgan x f!reader

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brokenbough · 15 hours ago

Note

Absolutely incredible job on the first thing you posted on here! That sounds like I think I’m qualified to appraise the quality of writing and I’m not, sorry if it came off weird. I just loved it, I guess is more accurate to say.

Grumpy Simon is the very best, and you nailed him. He wants her to cuddle into him so bad he’s such an idiot. This concept was so wonderful and again you executed it beautifully :)

Not a request, just a musing, but I think this would be the PERFECT situation for jealousy playing a role in forcing Simon to admit his blossoming feelings for reader. He thinks he hates it when she lays on him, even though he’s starting to realize he craves it, he still resents her for it because he hates feeling feelings and she’s making him do that he just doesn’t realize that’s his problem with the situation.

But imagine how incredibly bothered and angry and jealous he’d be if reader curled into Johnny or Gaz or god forbid his CAPTAIN or even Graves or Los Vaqueros oh god instead of him. I think regardless or whether it happens on accident (maybe she settles with the rest of the group because Simon is on watch and when she gets sleepy she slumps onto whichever comfy shoulder is nearest) or on purpose (maybe he was being an asshole or had pushed her away so she tried her best to find a new pillow that wouldn’t upset her Lieutenant) I think he’d be so jealous and his feelings would come to the forefront and he’d have to confront them.

I also think it could be a cute idea for Simon to like prohibit her from sleeping on his shoulder and so on the mission she literally can’t sleep at all. She struggles and tries, just lays quietly while they sleep so as not to bother them, but she can’t get comfortable, needs the warmth and something softer than the ground to curl up into and lay her head on. This unexpected consequence takes a toll on Simon, as he sees how exhausted and frustrated she is - he’s pissed off that he cares about this beyond the possible impact on the mission. He’s also impressed but also saddened by how she’s trying to push through the mission even though she’s so much less experienced and is getting less rest than any of them.

Maybe these could be combined and that’s why she ended up falling asleep on someone else? Like she’s so tired her body draws her to the nearest willing shoulder.

Anyway just some fun ideas! I hope you’re well 🩷

One, so sad you don't write yourself. You 100% should, I love your brain. I hope you're well too

Two, I hope this is up to yalls standards. Sorry its so long. I watched two movies making this, i got distracted 😋😋 :>>>

Not proofread 🤕

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

After two years of being with the team, it almost became ritual for presents for either you or Ghost to be a collection of the two of you together, one sleep or both.

You thought it was a cute tradition. It was something you almost looked forward to, more than clothes or jewelry or trinkets. It was your favorite gift and you wouldn't trade not one photo for anything else.

But cute was not something Ghost was akin to. It was kind of the... opposite of Ghost. He was a hardened, seasoned soldier, not some fluffy pillow you could kick back on.

Yes, maybe he let you lay on his lap sometimes, and maybe you've gone to him for comfort on more than one occasion, hugging him tightly, blubbering sorrys and other apologies.

He never cooed at you, reassured you, or even hugged you back... but he let you mush your tiny face into his chest whenever life got too much for you.

Maybe it was after a mission, maybe days after and the memories came back. He'd been through it himself, he knew the feeling. Only he didn't have anyone to lean on, so maybe you leaning on him gave him some sort of closure. He doesn't know, he doesn't really think about it. He can't, not with his life on the line almost everyday and yours. It was a distraction, wasted time he simply didn't have.

So, like any sane person with having good literally put in front of them, he pushed you away. He kept his distance, kept you off his shoulder, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was growing... fond of you. Not attached. Merely... tolerant of you-- your behavior-- and that in of itself was dangerous. Fondness, trust, softness, got you killed in the field.

You didn't even notice at first, too caught up with each grueling mission. You were sputtering, running on the last fumes of your gas. Sleep didn't come easy when you were being shot at, yelled at, and pulled onto yet another plane.

But here... it's cold. And cold makes you unnaturally sleepy. It was something you've known about yourself since childhood. When it got cold, you got sleepy. That's just how it's always been. And now, in the Candian cold, in the less than warm safe house, you were getting tired.

You had last watch with Johnny, Kyle and Price first, Ghost and Price after.

Lounging on the cushy couch the safe house provided, curled up in one of the few blankets, you leaned to the side, Ghost's shoulder the comfortable pillow you remember. You yawn, nuzzling a little closer before your eyes open again.

His finger on the side of your head, pushed you away, moving you closer to Johnny before removing himself from the couch entirely.

He didn't even bother looking at you.

You frowned, watching him walk further and further away. He walked until he was completely out of your eyesight, making your frown droop even more.

You were pulled out of the sad fog by Soap. He shook you slightly, wrapping his arm around your smaller body.

"'S okay bonnie. He's usually a prick." Johnny assures with a small smile, pulling you closer as you surrendered to the fate that was Soap's shoulder.

It was warm, soft, nice. But not Ghost warm, soft, nice. Simon wasn't just warm, he was a fucking furnace, constantly burning, a crackling fire that lulled you to sleep. And he wasn't soft, he was fluff you melt into, like that one pillow you got and can only find cheap replacements for because others are too firm. And godforbid someone call his shoulder just nice. His presence, scent, the way his breath was its own type of calming was just... perfect. Soap was just... just mediocre. But it would have to do because it didn't seem like Ghost was gonna return anytime soon and you needed sleep.

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

When Ghost had left he wasn't prepared for the anger, the fury that bubbled in his chest seeing you asleep on someone else, let alone cuddled up to fucking Johnny on the small couch. Laying on top of him like he was the softest bed you've made contact with.

He squinted his eyes at the sight, his balled up fists itching for a throwing knife. He couldn't see your bunched up face, contorted in agony because Soap, as big as he was, just wasn't thick enough to sink into. It was more uncomfortable than you would've liked to admit. Bless Soap's poor, sad face if he ever found out he wasn't comfortable enough for his favorite lass.

Ghost stormed out again, standing in the cold silently as his entire body heated up with annoyance, and anger, and every other synonym of the two.

He was on watch now, even though his mind was clouded with images of you and someone else.

You, you, you.

You and someone else.

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

A soft shake jolted you awake, a knife in your hand before you registered the soft, amused smile and eyes of your captain.

"Easy there." He said, helping you up, watching as you stretched and groaned, cracking your neck, Johnny still out cold.

"Sorry. Force of habit." You say with a sheepish smile, looking around the ever quiet room. You caught Ghost's eyes before quickly looking away, the look in his eyes nothing short of barely controlled rage.

You didn't know how you'd made him mad, but he looked angry. Angrier than when he chewed you out for sleeping on him your very first mission.

"No need to apologize." He continues before shaking Johnny awake too.

When Johnny finally sat up-- having to be promptly smacked awake-- Price informed the two of you that you were now on watch.

You went to the window, looking out at the quiet snow that fell in unique snowflakes, catching up with its brothers and sisters, quietly laying next to its family before watching another fall.

The house was quiet, aside from Price's unbridled snores and Gaz soft muses in his sleep. You don't know where Ghost went off too, probably the very back room to lie down.

You couldn't take the silence anymore as you finally looked at Soap, beckoning him over to talk.

Your whispers surely too quiet to wake anyone else in the house. It was only the drop of something heavy that finally pulled your head up from snickering with Soap, shattering the bubble of silence that seemed to envelope the house.

You turned, watching Ghost angrily arrange fire in the small hearth. He didn't look at you again, glaring at an oblivious Soap as the both of you made your way over, watching the lieutenant work.

"What're ya doin' Lt.?" Soap asks, looking into the fireplace.

You looked too, focusing more on the hands that worked than the actual work.

"Fuck does it look like Johnny?" Ghost said, snappier than usual.

"Why're you fillin' up the fireplace?" You ask, looking to an offended Soap and back to the pile of neatly arranged logs.

"Can't have you fallin' asleep on watch." He answers gruffly, throwing a match into the fire. His 'you' sounding like sin. Reprimand.

Soap was too enamored with the fire to question Ghost's words. Not cryptic, but unusual.

"I wouldn't fall asleep on watch-" you say in an offended tone before he cuts in.

"But you fall asleep in the cold." He says, clipped and clearly aggravated. Accusatory, like he shouldn't know that.

You stare up a him blankly, watching his eyes. Watching him watch you with the same blank look.

"How-" you start to question before he checks your shoulder, knocking you into Johnny, pulling the Scottish man back to reality. Soap pulls a rattled you back to the window, looking out at the soft, untouched snow, mindlessly continuing the conversation from before.

But him-- his words rattled around in your brain as the other man talked, his words going in one ear and out the other as Ghost's words floated around the empty space between your ears. Just him, his words, the fire that crackled behind him.

Him, him, him.

Him and his words.

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

You were finally relieved from duty as the sun started to come up, making the snow sparkle. The sun itself tinting the sky pink and orange and red, painting the sky picturesque.

You looked away from its beauty solemnly as everyone else started to wake. You turned away, stretching again before watching the others work, looking like little ants. The thought made you smile, giggling to yourself and putting you in good spirits, something unusual from the usual bite you had in the mornings. They weren't your thing.

The rest of the task force looks at you before you just wave them off, helping with breakfast.

Price talks as the rest eat.

"Evac comes at noon, be packed up and ready by then. We have new leads to follow, so wake up." He says, a pointed look at the ever groggy Johnny. You'd say he slept as much as you, if not more on leave.

You snicker, elbowing softly. The deathly glare he gives you makes you laugh more.

Gaz starts to laugh too, seemingly more amused by how tickled you looked with Johnny than Johnny himself.

Ghost is quiet, not bothering to join in with the happy that seemed to surround you indefinitely. The sunlight crept in through the windows, shining on you softly as you literally glowed in his eyes. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes sit before opening them again. But there you sat, smile on your mouth, cheeks tinted red from laughing, your eyes crinkled in amusement, and you-- glowing.

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

The ride back was boisterous. Well, for four out of the six people aboard it. Price and Gaz laughing, Soap-- in a better mood-- making even the pilot laugh.

But you sat alone on the other side, right in front of Ghost. You tried to sit next to him, catch up on some sleep before being deployed again, but he had sat his pack in the chair next to him, not even sparing you a glance. His jaw was clenched shut, eyes burning a hole in the side of plane.

You said nothing, walking past him and past the rest before settling on the other side. Right in front of Ghost. The silence around you deafening, the tension in between tense enough to be cut with your nails.

No one said anything, no one even looked at you two, too caught up in their own jokes and theatrics.

Luckily for you, it was a short ride back to Washington.

You'd been up on more missions than usual, which meant you'd been up for longer than usual. The sleep you got with Soap had been the most you'd gotten over a week. You'd only slept 4 hours.

The promise of a proper bed and food that wasn't MREs was the only thing fueling your near empty tank. Probably everyone else's too.

When you finally landed at base, debriefed, and ate, you were finally permitted to sleep. You couldn't even make it to your room before you crashed on the couch in the secluded area that was reserved for the 141. Soap and Gaz were already there, playing a card game.

A head peaked over one of the couches. Ghost. You took the seat next to Price, watching him read a little before scooting closer and laying on his shoulder.

You settle next to him, getting a small smile in return.

"Tired?" Price asks, looking you over before turning the page.

"Mhm." You mumble, noncommittal.

You look around for a moment, taking in the happy that enveloped the two men before switching over to Ghost who looked at you. Finally, you think.

You aren't sure why you wanted him to look at you, but he had been avoiding you since.. well yesterday. You were too tired to notice it, but now that you think about it, he hasn't talked to you in mayb a week, besides barking orders and that time by the fire.

You huff softly, shifting closer to the captain. He leaned back, wrapping an arm around you. He smelled like cigar smoke and... well, warm. Maybe Old Spice.

You drifted off to sleep, the last thing you saw being Ghost's skull balaclava. It was seared into the back of your eyelids as you closed them, trying to find solace in your dreams.

It never came.

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

You awoke by yourself, passed out on the couch. You rubbed your eyes, lifting up and rubbing at the crick in your neck.

You found a mass of black in front of you. You were startled to say the least, pinching yourself to make sure it wasn't a dream.

It wasn't.

You looked up, catching Ghost again.

Looking away, you yawned, fighting the tiredness again. You couldn't get proper sleep anywhere.

A voice cut through your thoughts. Gruff, demanding, definite.

"Enjoying yourself?" It asked.

You looked back to Ghost, watching his mask move slightly.

"What?" You say, still a bit dazed from the short nap. You took a glance around the room. Cards discarded on a table some way off, Price's book discarded on the table in-between the two sofas.

"Sleeping around, I mean." He says, voice deeper than usual. He was ticked off.

Why?

"Sleeping-- what?" You ask again, offended, angry, annoyed. What the fuck was this man's game? Why was he bothering playing games with you in the fist place?

"First Soap, then Price. Who's next? Gaz?" He asks, glaring at you.

"What are you talking about?" You demand now, sitting up properly.

"I'm talking about you sleeping with everyone."

Your brain takes a moment to catch up before glaring at him.

"You mean on them? Because I'm tired? Because I've been up for 84 fucking hours, I think I deserve sleep." You spit out.

"On them, with them, same difference." He comments nonchalantly.

"Uhm, no. Not the same thing." You argue, eyeing him like he's grown a third head.

"They are to me."

".... Are- Ghost, are you jealous?" You ask, not expecting an answer.

He scoffs like it's the most ridiculous thing in the world, but his eyes tell-- scream a different story to you.

"You are." You laugh.

"I'm not. You're.. you're ridiculous." He says, scoffing again.

"No. I'm right. You are jealous."

"Uhm, no. I'm not." He reiterates.

"Yeah, you are." You say, full on smiling now.

He doesn't answer you a third time, opting to just look at you blankly, hoping his jealousy couldn't be seen through his mask.

It wasn't, but it was easily spotted through his eyes.

He huffed again, leaning back into the couch, crossing his arms.

"Fine. I'll only... sleep with you, if you apologize." You finally say after a moment of too long silence.

"Apologize?" He says, clearly annoyed at the prospect. "For what?"

"Do you really want me to go down the list?"

F"Go on." He taunts.

"One, for ignoring me for no reason. Two, for being jealous for no reason and making me lose out on sleep. Three, making me lose out on sleep when I could've used it. Four--"

"Okay. I get it. Jesus." He huffs again, his arms crossing tighter.

"Apologize." You say again.

He gives you a look, eyeing you like you've just spoken blasphemy.

You give him a look like you're not playing.

"...." He tsks audibly, opening his legs slightly for comfortability.

You raise an eyebrow, narrowing your eyes at him.

He clears his throat, his leg bouncing for a second. "And.. me..." He clears his throat again. "You only sleep with me. Okay?" He says, his authoritive voice back on.

"Mhm. I'll only sleep with you. Simon." You taunt.

"Me, and my shoulder." He continues, eyeing you seriously.

"Mhm."

"Good." He huffs out one last time before leaving.

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

"He said that? Him and his shoulder?"

"Mhm. Cause he knows what's good for him." You nod, eating a bit more.

"Okay girl. Okay." Gaz concedes, picking off your plate before recoiling when you smack his hand.

"What're you two on?" Ghost asks, eyeing Gaz.

"She's all yours man." Gaz says, raising his hands in surrender.

Ghost's eyes narrow, eyeing you after.

You only shrug, leaning on his shoulder. Pre-deployment nap after eating? Hell yeah.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #cod fluff #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #hope you enjoy

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toxicrelief · 2 days ago

Text

Crawling Back to You

Chapter twenty

Synopsis: You, Rex and Bulletproof are expected to share a room together for the night.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Chapter: 20/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: W*rk is kicking my ass, thank you all for being so patient! Happy 100k!!

“No way in hell am I sleeping on one of those couches.” Zandale pulls his bag over to the bed.

“I mean they look nice at least, right?” You say it more to comfort yourself than the other two standing in the very over-the-top guest room with you.

“Sure, it looks nice, it doesn’t look comfortable.” He sits down at its edge, giving a few gentle pets to test out the firmness of the mattress. “For having so much money, I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why would she be worried about the guest beds? She probably sleeps on a giant brick of gold or something.” You took the chance to sit down on the couch you were standing in front of. It wasn’t bad, but you could tell it was not going to be anywhere near restful.

Rex remained almost eerily silent, the only proof of his presence was the sound of the wood creaking lightly as he laid back on the other couch, testing it out himself.

Bulletproof was slipping off his suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly behind him on the bed. Lying back, he pulled out his phone, responding to whoever the guy had to respond to. Now that you thought about it, what does he do outside of being a Guardian? Maybe nothing?

It was interesting to you how much being a Guardian seemed to fully encapsulate some of the other members’ identities. After begging for an hour, Donald had let you look over the files of the old Guardians, you had claimed to want to learn, and that was partially true. But you were also just really curious. For your whole childhood, they had been the team. Everyone knew their names, everyone had a favorite, and everyone trusted that they would be there.

From their files, a lot of the old team seemed to have full lives outside of their work. War Woman was a high-up executive in a company she had helped build from the ground up. Green Ghost had been a photographer, even Aquarus had been the literal king of Atlantis. Most of them had spouses, or people they were dating, they had whole lives. With the brutal killing of all the former members, it was hard to remember it had been different before.

Even when trying to make small talk with the patients at the hospital, you noticed it. Hardly anyone on the outside seemed interested in familiarizing themselves with the new team. A few people had said things to the tune of “Oh yeah, wasn’t that guy on the original team?” or “I thought he died?”. To the world, the Guardians were no longer a phenomenon. They weren’t indestructible or untouchable, they definitely weren’t invincible. They were dead. A new group to replace them didn’t overshadow the shock that followed the initial announcement of the massacre.

Robot’s or Immortal’s, whoever’s team, didn’t come across as united, and from the inside it didn’t feel that way either. The team was capable, sure. But you still wondered how fulfilled the other members were truly feeling.

After a few more minutes of comments on the room you began to eye the guest bathroom residing in the corner of the room, to the left of the bed. Unless you are content with sleeping in your dress you should probably get changed, maybe even shower. It had been a long night. Lifting the small suitcase, you unzipped it open, trailing a hand over the nightwear you had brought. It was…fine. Mismatched, cozy, reliable. But you had originally been under the impression you would have your own room. If you had known differently, would you have brought something else? Eh, probably not. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you remember something that had proved to be a hindrance earlier. You’ll need help unzipping your dress.

There were few things you could think of off the top of your head that you’d rather do less at this exact moment than ask Rex to help again. So, onto the next best choice. After standing, and purposely avoiding looking at the other couch, you loitered near Zandale, who was practically ripping through his duffle bag. Surprisingly well-packed for a two-day mission.

“Can you help me really quick?”

He threw a shirt down at the bag, frustration clearly rising. “Stupid mission, with a stupid dance, stupid beds-”

You leaned back on your heels, trying to wait patiently, but the longer you stood watching him pull out somehow yet another graphic tee, the less easy it was to be patient. “Hello-?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

“I forgot it.” He sighed.

“It? What it? You have like fifty thousand shirts in there, man.” You leaned forward to look into the contents of the bag, but he was already zipping it up. He let out a groan, resting his elbows on his knees while staring past you.

What on earth is he going on about-?

No.

Nope.

He’s not about to do this.

“Who were you texting, Zandale?” You squint, watching a small smile ghost over his expression that disappears just as soon as it arrives.

He clears his throat, standing up. “I forgot my shirt.”

There’s a pause as you look down at his now-closed duffle bag that contained at least five different shirts.

“Really?” You respond dryly.

“Yeah, there’s a specific one I sleep in, well, you know how it is.”

“No, I don’t know how it is, Zandale. Just wear one of those.” You gesture down to the bag with a tense hand.

He hums, looking down at it before glancing back up. “Those are too cottony-”

“What?” You watch as he bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling.

“And the bed feels like shit. So, I was sitting here, quietly lamenting how awful my night would be, in a cotton shirt on an uncomfortable bed, and it hit me. I can leave.” No. “I can actually be home, and in my own bed, before you’re even ready for bed.” No fucking way.

“Why do you even need to wear a shirt to go to bed, Zandale?” You shake your head, pressing two fingers to your temple, then lowering your voice, hopefully to a tone Rex couldn’t overhear. “Was it Rae? You were texting Rae, weren’t you?”

He ignores you and continues. “It has been absolutely lovely spending a whole evening with you two, but I’m actually good-”

“Zandale-”

“I’ll be sure to be back on time in the morning-”

“Zandale, no-”

“I could technically take one of you with me, but that would add travel time, and I’m absolutely beat-”

‘Please don’t.’ You mouth it at Zandale, narrowing your eyes at him, with the subtlest shake of the head. As frustrated as you were right now with him and Rae, who most likely was putting him up to it, you were somewhat more frustrated that Rex was saying absolutely nothing.

Bulletproof gives you a pout and slowly walks up to you, putting up an act like he’s really considering. He stands directly before you, puts his hand out on your shoulder, and- “Yeah no, every man for themselves.”

“Dick.”

“Thank me later.” Dick!

You had almost expected him to grab his things, open a window, and fly away. Instead, he picked his bags up, put them neatly in a corner, and rather anticlimactically left out the main door. Leaving you alone with Rex who was positioned away from you. One of his arms folded neatly underneath his head, the one on his injured side resting on his lower stomach. It was probably the only way he could lie without pulling at whatever stitches he now had.

A pang of guilt washed over you. Guilt that he got hurt, that he came along on this mission. Guilt that you hadn’t healed him. Which was quickly replaced by the annoyance that he didn’t allow you to heal him. And that annoyance was even quicker replaced by more annoyance that Zandale had really just bailed. And he had done so without even helping you with what you had originally gone to ask him for help with.

Rex finally looked over at you, meeting your gaze. You threw your hands up in exasperation, a silent, ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

“What?”

“Oh my god.” You groaned, grabbing your bag and heading to the bathroom.

You tried a few times to reach your zipper on your own, even considering pulling it over your head. After a few failed attempts, and the sound of threads buckling, you finally decided to call it quits. Leaning against the bathroom counter, you pressed on the first contact in your phone, selecting to call. Simply messaging her would take longer than you wanted.

“Hello?”

“You did this, didn’t you?” You hissed it out, your voice low as you turned on the sink to drown out your words.

“Don’t worry about thanking me or whatever, drinks are on you next time I’m over.”

“I’m not thanking you, Rae! This is extremely inconvenient!”

“It’s inconvenient to be alone in a room for the night with a guy you’ve been drooling over?” The sarcasm drips in her tone, even through the distortion of the call itself.

“How did you even know we were all going to be in a room together? I didn’t even know that!”

“Zandale owes me money because you two apparently danced tonight-”

“God, not a semblance of discretion on this whole fucking team-” You sighed, clicking your nails against the marble countertop.

“Anyways,” She cut in loudly, “He told me about the room situation, and I told him he wouldn’t owe me if he left the room. He was complaining about being stuck between you two eye-fucking each other anyways so-”

“Rae!” You put a hand over your face, you knew that Bulletproof had been someone clued into your feelings, but to know he had been observing made it much worse. “Rae, I love you, you’re wonderful, amazing, beautiful, everything, you just royally fucked me on this.”

“Hopefully I’m not the only one getting to fuck you-”

“Rae, oh my god, can you just listen?”

She snickered but didn’t speak over you.

How exactly do you explain that you are quite angry with Rex right now without going into way too much detail? “He’s…well, he’s an asshole.”

“You already knew this, babe. Have fun!”

“Wait, Rae, seriously-” And… she’s gone.

After staring at your reflection for a few moments, and having a mental crash-out, you prepared for bed to the best of your ability while still wearing the dress.

“Have fun talking on the phone?” Rex sounded as you left the restroom, he was facing towards the door, now sitting up on the couch. His tie was loosened, and the top of his dress shirt was unbuttoned.

You gave him an unimpressed look, but you could still feel your face heating up. “Yes, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t have listened in.”

“Yeah, sure.” You roll your eyes with a sigh, dropping your stuff next to the bed. Maybe you should offer it to him, he was shot after all. You turn to him again, opening your mouth to offer it, and-

“Are you going to bed wearing that?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “And what about it, Rex?”

His eyes ran over you, a semi-confused expression dusting his features. “Why-” He paused. “Do you need help?”

“Your help?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one here aren’t I?”

“Then no.”

“Are you fucking serious, Joy?”

“Yes, thank you.” You were already pulling back the duvet and sliding under the comforter. It was almost immediately uncomfortable. But at this point, you weren’t about to give in and ask him. As good as he looked sitting on the couch, with his arms slotted over his knees, and his tie hanging loose, you were still angry with him.

It’s quiet for a minute or two, the lights are all still on, so all you can do is lay with your eyes closed, hoping morning will come quick. Eventually, you hear the shuffling of Rex grabbing his things to go to the restroom, the door closes, and you hear the shower turn on.

With stitches that fresh he most definitely should not be taking a shower, but you weren’t exactly raring to go barge in and stop him. Rolling on your back you started up at the intricately decorated ceiling.

It was separated into sections, golden leaf etchings mapping out the edges of each box. The walls were painted deep red, with dark mahogany load-bearing beams jutting across the room. Overall, the room was bordering on maximalist, a variety of different wall decorations littering every open available area, all overlapping and intertwining in an artful way. It was a stark contrast with the subtle greens and browns of your furnished apartment.

Your apartment that Rex had haphazardly clamored into, soaking wet.

You ran a hand over your face at the memory. Usually, you pushed it away when it surfaced. The guilt that you didn’t go with him felt suffocating at times, but this time you didn’t.

The shower was still running; Rex would be gone for a bit longer. What was the harm in reanalyzing it? Not the confusion, or the anger, or the frustration, but the feeling of his eyes on you. His hand pressed flesh against the wood of the front door, your breaths intermingling. His eyes on you in the elevator. It made your stomach twist.

He had asked you to dance. Talked your ear off for hours about islands versus bar-styled countertops, and the different ways to properly utilize skylights. Which, you didn’t think there was even a way to utilize it, right? It was just there to let in natural lighting and look pretty. Rex had sighed heavily when you said this and launched into a whole lecture about it. You don’t know exactly when it happened, but you started to enjoy the sound of his voice. Steady, constant. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the most elegantly spoken person ever, you couldn’t come up with anyone who cursed half as much as he did. But it was comfortable, you couldn’t say the same for trying to sleep in this dress.

Ugh. You felt like a proper sap. Even now, as angry with him as you were, you almost missed him. He wasn’t even a room away and you missed him. Thank god Rae can’t read your thoughts, or you’d really never hear the end of it. This is borderline pathetic.

The sound of the shower turning off lurching you from your thoughts. You quickly turned on your side, away from the bathroom, although you’re not sure why. A few minutes pass and the door creaks open, the fan inside the bathroom whirling away the silence of the bedroom. You wait to hear footsteps, but they don’t come. He’s standing there at the door, you can feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to look back.

“Are you sleeping or just still ignoring me?” His voice is quiet, unsure. The statement itself is ridiculous though, you haven’t been ignoring him any more than he’s been ignoring you. You were so consistently aware of him that it almost seemed impossible to truly ignore him.

“I’m not ignoring you, Rex, we just talked a few minutes ago.” Your response came out short and sharp, more so than you intended.

“That wasn’t talking.”

You breathed out a sigh, turning finally to face him, propping yourself up on your elbows. The short length of his hair dried quickly, which somewhat disappointed you after the trip down memory lane to how he’d looked at your apartment. Wet strands clinging to his face, droplets clinging to every lock. He was out of the dress shirt and was now wearing a generic white t-shirt, over dark grey boxers. “What would you like to talk about?” Your tone dry, closed off.

You wanted to talk to him, wanted him to talk to you. But the residual irritation was still clinging to you like a burr entrenched in an old dog’s fur. You couldn’t shake it.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “That guy…whatever his name was. He had you in a really rough spot.”

“I survived.”

“I know that, but are you okay?”

There was a longer silence. You tilted your head an inch, looking at him, really looking at him. “I’ve had a gun pointed at me before. Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.” Soft, hardly audible.

“Rex, I know you think I struggle to hold my own but-”

He groans, “Would you stop that?”

You bite back your response, pushing yourself up more so that you are fully sitting up. The gesture pulls your dress, causing the top to dig mildly into your shoulders. Pulling at it absentmindedly, you try to formulate a response.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and let me help you?” He’s taken a few steps towards you. You can smell the shampoo, it was fancy, something already set in the bathroom. Distinctly not him.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and let me help you?” You shoot back with a glare, your eyes settling on his side you know is injured.

“Is that seriously what it’ll fucking take?” Irritation laces his voice. It could make you sigh once again, you didn’t want to be fighting with him, but a small voice in your head reminded you that he had refused your help. Doubted your abilities.

“Maybe it is.” You shift, the silk of your dress exaggerating the movement with how little friction you have against the sheets. “You’re not supposed to take a shower that soon after getting stitches anyways, you’re gonna get an infection.”

“Christ! Are we really doing this again?”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

“No, I’m not, I offered to help you with your dress!”

“You can help me with the dress after I’ve healed you!”

“Unbelievable.” Rex let out a huff, crossing his arms, which proved to be ill-thought-through, as he immediately returned his arms to his sides, fighting a wince.

You scooted out of bed, crossing the short distance to him. “Deal?”

Rex’s expression furrowed, but he surprisingly didn’t seem to want to argue further. He held his hand out for you, and you quickly took it. The last thing you wanted was for him to change his mind at the last second. Shutting your eyes tightly you willed your way through it. Mending the wound in his side, and a few other bruises you could sense were waiting to announce themselves in a few hours just below the skin. With your thumb pressed firmly against his pulse point, you could almost swear you felt his heartbeat stutter.

“Okay, happy?” His voice was low still, his eyes practically drilling into you.

“More than I was.” You concede, letting go of his hand.

“Will you let me help you now?”

“I suppose.” You murmur, and before you can turn for him, his hands are on your shoulders, guiding you to face away. The pads of his fingers rough against your skin, sending a lightning-fast spark down your spine. With every passing moment, you only became more and more aware of the fact that the two of you were alone in a room and that he was helping you free yourself from the confines of your dress.

His touch left your shoulder to meet with the back of your dress, easily unzipping it for you. The interaction lasted no more than a few seconds, but that’s all it took. It felt intimate, too much.

As soon as his grasp on the zipper disappeared you were practically jumping away, grabbing your bag again, and locking yourself in the bathroom. Really, really smooth.

Switching to your nightwear took no time at all, but you still spent a good few minutes standing against the door, regulating your breathing. Willing yourself to get a fucking grip.

When you returned, Rex was settled back on his couch, both arms now settled under his head with his side injury taken care of.

“You can have the bed if you want-”

“No.” It cuts through the end of your sentence. A breath passed between you, without him looking over. “Thank you for offering, I guess.”

Okay…

You shrugged to yourself; you weren’t going to fight him on it. The bed was much more comfortable, and the exhaustion of the evening was catching up with you. After you had closed the bathroom door, there was a surprising amount of light still filtering under the bedroom door and over the curtains. Did they ever turn the lights off in the hallway? The sheets felt much better now that you weren’t in the confines of your dress, you were ready to pass out, and after a few turns, you did.

You couldn’t have been asleep for long. It felt like you’d blinked from when you must have fallen asleep to right now. You were sure you heard something but you were too groggy to know for sure what it had been. So, you waited, straining to hear something, anything-

It’s soft. Not what had woken you up, but definitely distinguishable. You can hear Rex’s breathing, it’s quick, distressed. A few moments after zeroing in on the sound of it, a soft groan breaks through the silence. It’s sharp, clear indicator of pain. Before you can fully register anything, you’re swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The floor feels cool against your bare feet, and the warmth of the blankets beckons you to lay back down, but you push through. You pad as quietly as you can over to the couch, slamming your foot into your bag at one point, which draws a stifled breath from you.

“Rex?” He didn’t immediately stir. The only thing now illuminating the room was the ghost of light peeking through the curtains. It shined on part of the wall behind the couch, a corner of it hardly lighting his face. His eyebrows were tight, an obvious sign of discomfort. “Rex.” You said again, lowering yourself down closer to the ground so he didn’t wake up to you standing over him.

After a brief moment of hesitation, you put your hand on his arm, preparing to say his name again. But upon contact his hand quickly grasped yours, his eyes now open. You give him a speedy once over, his chest was rising and falling in a hectic fashion. His eyes quickly scanned your face, mouth slightly parted. After a few blinks and a deep shaky breath, his grip loosened on your wrist, obviously needing a moment to fully recognize you and the environment around him.

“Rex?” You whispered, not trying to take your hand back. His thumb was lightly grazing over the back of it, making goosebumps rise up your arm. He had relaxed mildly, rolling slightly to face towards the ceiling, trying to regulate his breathing. For a moment you felt a little hot, watching his chest rise and fall so desperately. You closed your eyes mentally shaking the thought. He was obviously reliving something bad, and you were thinking about how good he looked? Get a grip.

“Come to the bed.”

“What?” His voice was scratchy from sleep, but you didn’t miss the quickness with which he snapped to look at you.

“I don’t want you sleeping over here alone, and you have just as much of a right to the bed.” Rex hesitated for a moment and then went to speak. His body language screamed that he was going to refuse. “I can’t sleep with you over here being as loud as you’re being.” You tease lightly, hoping that will be enough, but just in case you add, “We can put pillows down the middle if you’re so worried. But this is ridiculous.”

Rex closed his mouth and gave a light sigh, his tired gaze staring into you.

“Was I really being loud?”

“Yes.” You say without hesitation, standing up again. “Come on.” Your hand leaves him, and you take notice of how his hand follows you a few inches before dropping back down. You still couldn’t understand why he didn’t kiss you earlier during the dance. Every sign you were picking up on screamed that he was interested, he did everything but outright say it. “Get up loser.” You grabbed his blanket, tossed it over the other side of the couch, and offered him a hand. He didn’t take it of course, but it wasn’t in the same way as other times. There was no malice behind the act, but rather hesitation.

You go back to the bed, settling back on your side, pulling the blanket down on his. You pushed one of the decorative pillows vertically in the middle to separate his side from yours. After making a show of demonstrating it he finally moved to the other side of the bed. After a brief pause, he was in bed with you, pulling the covers up over him.

You weren’t sure what to do now. Or even if this would actually help. Chances were he could still have troublesome dreams here, but now you’d hear it even more. You pulled the duvet up a little more, the coarse material grazing your cheek. You were facing each other, something you thought would be awkward.

But it wasn’t. You both just stared, a heavy, weighted silence drifting over you. His bright verdant eyes traveled over your face. You could feel your eyes drooping slightly from the exhaustion you were still feeling.

“Do I really repulse you that badly?” The whispered question caught you off guard, causing your eyes to snap open again.

“What?” You’re met with silence, unnerving, sterile. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just…” He started, his fingers picking at the embroidering on the pillow between you. “Earlier, I helped you with your dress, and you left as fast as you could, and now, with the pillow-”

In this moment you were increasingly grateful that there was very little lighting, because your face was feeling so warm you were sure there was no way he would have been able to miss it.

“You don’t repulse me, Rex.” You blinked a few times. He was completely misreading you.

“Yeah, sure, no need to say it just to try making me feel better, you know.”

“When have I ever said something solely for the purpose of making you feel better, hm?” You smiled, your own hand mirroring his in tracing the embroidery.

“Maybe I keep hoping you’ll learn to try.” His voice regains a bit of its life, less the small whisper, more Rex.

“Tough luck, Sloane.” His last name ghosted over your lips, something you’d been waiting to bring up since you heard it.

He groaned, turning his head to he was stifled by his pillow. “Oh, brother.”

“Rex Sloane, hm?” You roll on your back, staring up at the ceiling. “Not horrible as far as last names go. Very official though, I think you were meant to be a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” It’s muffled still.

“Mhm. Sloane and Co. Your business partners wouldn’t get a choice in the name because you wouldn’t be able to get anyone to stick around with you for long. You know, with your dazzling personality.”

“Ouch.”

“Now that I think about it, all lawyers are dicks, so you’d fit in well.”

“Well, that’s a reassurance.” He sighs, rolling back onto his back as well.

You hum in response. “Sloane…Sloane-“ You test out his last name a few times in different tones, snickering to yourself as he lets out a disgruntled noise a few times.

“Stop saying it.”

“Why? Worried I’ll wear it out?”

“Something like that.” He said lowly, his head turned to look at you.

“Limited edition?”

“Would you quit it?”

There’s another pause, only clouded by the sounds of your shared, disjointed breathing. You shift back again, the bed creaking softly, so you’re on your side facing him. The center pillow only made it harder to make out his face, so you push it down further, wedging it between your chest and his upper arm.

“Have you been having a lot of nightmares lately?” It’s a whisper, your voice crackling through the empty air.

“A few.” He mumbled back, his gaze lowering down your face, or at least you think it does, it’s too dark to tell.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is a little.” You respond quietly. He had asked you to come back with him. That night all those weeks ago. You could still feel the rain dripping down your face. You could still feel his gaze on you as the car you had called for him traveled down the road in front of your apartment.

“You wouldn’t have known.” His features are soft, he means it.

“It was immature, I shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

“It’s not like Rudy and I gave you any choice.” He chuckled softly, a familiar bitterness, not directed at you, but at the memory.

“I should have been the bigger person, stood my ground.”

“You shouldn’t have even been put in that position in the first place.”

Your gaze searched his eyes, and for a moment you wanted to cry. One shot to the head and he was no longer clinging to his belief that you didn’t belong. But what if he was right? He and Rudy had not figured out the whole picture when confronting you, but they weren’t wrong. You were hiding something. You were still hiding something. Everything inside screamed at you to tell him, admit that a part of him was right. Apologize. Yell at him for being nice to you now. Something.

“I’m sorry Rex.” Was all you could manage to murmur for now.

His brows twitched closer together, and his mouth curled slightly downward in an expression you couldn’t quite read. Was he angry? Upset that you were trying to apologize now instead of a few weeks ago when he first woke up in the hospital? It made your stomach lurch.

“God…Joy-” He paused before uttering your actual name like he was having to correct himself. “Would you just-” He tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling again as if fighting himself on something before he turned back to you. His eyes are on you again, but for a split second. it feels different. Like he can hardly contain himself, before he says, “Fuck it.” in a low tone.

His left hand is quickly on the side of your neck, it’s a gentle touch, but there was a firmness to it, unwavering. In the movement he had pushed the duvet slightly off your shoulder. His thumb brushes right behind your ear sending a jolt of shock down your spine. Not even a second later his mouth is on yours. Hungry. Desperate. The suddenness of the action steals the breath from your lungs. Your brain is hardly functioning fast enough to process what is happening.

As quickly as it happened, he’s pulling away. His hand lifting to hover over your neck rather than laying directly against it. So much for the barrier pillow.

“Fuck-” A shaky tone laced around his words. “I’m sorry-”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish what he is saying. And frankly, you did not care to know what it was going to be. You had surged forward to meet him again, his shock present in the way he tensed. Only a second was needed before his hand was back on the side of your neck. He groaned lightly into the kiss; it made you feel lightheaded. His lips parted slightly, inviting you in. As you deepened the kiss his fingers pushed further, meeting with your hair. They curled slightly, grasping a few locks.

Your hands came forward to grab fistfuls of his shirt, your knuckles brushing his collarbone at the motion. He reacted to this by putting his free hand on the other side of your face. It was a little awkward, both of you on your sides facing each other. Trying to utilize both arms while you both were simultaneously lying on one of them. It was hard to think, to form a single coherent thought, this was actually happening.

You broke the kiss to laugh quietly, both at the awkwardness of the position and the fact this was really happening, but he was not about to let you leave yet. His hand that was in your hair tightened and pulled your head closer again. He was greedy with your mouth, exploring it like he would never be able to again. You could feel his heartbeat under your clenched fists, it was completely erratic.

When he finally broke the kiss himself, it was only because he was in dire need of air. Lightheaded, his mouth parted as he panted, quickly trying to regain oxygen. You shared in his need, your eyes un-focusing slightly from the strain of your mutual exercise.

“Woah.” You wanted to slap yourself. That was all you could think to say? You weren’t sure where to start, what to say, what to admit to. What did this mean?

Rex didn’t respond, immediately shifting forward slightly to return to you, but you pushed him back lightly, your hands splayed across his chest, you still hadn’t caught your breath. He immediately nods.

“You’re right, we should stop.”

You respond to his words with an incredulous smile, going to sit up. His head tilted upwards to follow you at the motion, and his fingers trailed over your shoulder down your arm. “And why is that, Rex?”

He sits up too, his back fleshed with the headboard. “Because I really want to kiss you.”

You wanted to tease him, pretend that this wasn’t a huge deal, play it cool. But honestly, your heart was racing. “What is so wrong with that?” You tried to return to your usual banter to the best of your abilities, but you were already leaning slightly towards him.

He lets out a small sigh, his eyes were only on your lips, in the scarce light you could see a dusting of pink coloring over his cheekbones. He honestly doesn’t look capable of forming a cohesive thought, which made you feel a bit better about how cloudy your own head was. He ran a shaky hand up over the back of his neck. “Because I really want to kiss you…” He repeats, “ And I don’t think I want it to stop there.” He admitted softly.

Oh.

You blinked a few times, a subtle pricking rising from the back of your spine. Excitement.

He looked like he was actually at war with himself, the most pathetic look you had ever seen on his face, his eyes staring off in another direction. And just like that you were scooting closer, your knees brushing against his thigh. His gaze darts to you as you internally debate what to say. Maybe it would be simpler to stop here. Go sleep on the couch, leave him alone on the bed. But that was never going to be a real option at this point. Not after the dancing, fighting, longing.

You rise up slightly, lifting your leg that’s closest to him and placing it between his thighs so you can be closer. His eyes quietly watch you, and once you have situated yourself your gaze returns to him. “I want you to kiss me.” You say definitively, biting the inside of your lip. “If that’s okay with you.” You add, wincing slightly.

“Yeah?” For a moment you see his familiar cocky side, a small grin appearing on his face. But you know, especially now, how much of a show it is. You’re convinced if you put your hand to his chest, you’d be able to feel just how anxious he is. You just couldn’t figure out why. He was not one to be shy, Rae had told you plenty about his past excursions with Duplikate and he dated Eve for years. Why was this different?

“Yeah.” You say, leaning in towards him, but his lips don’t meet yours. Instead, his hand is traveling up your back to the nape of your neck, gently tilting your head to the side. A soft gasp leaves you as you feel him kiss your neck, trailing them up towards your jaw. His other hand is grabbing your hip, pulling you closer to him. The friction of his leg between yours drew out a breath from you. You can feel him smiling against your neck, his hand is moving up to the hem of your shirt, his fingers ghosting against your bare skin underneath it. “Fuck-” you breathe, his fingertips sending chills up your side.

This seems to have some kind of effect on him because now he is tilting your head down and forcing his way into your mouth. He’s sloppy like he cannot decide what he wants to do. No move feels precalculated.

Your hand comes up to the side of his neck, mirroring the move he had been doing when he first kissed you. Instantly his hand that was on your hip is clasped over yours on his neck. He pulls away for a painful second just to mutter “Don’t.”

“Why?” You pant as he shifts back to kissing your neck, making his way to the tendon where it connects to your shoulder.

“You’re making me lose focus.” He says against your skin. You let out a soft noise as you feel his teeth lightly graze you. His hand is still wrapped around yours, his thumb trailing over your knuckles. The hand that was around the nape of your neck traversed down your spine to the small of your back, pushing firmly against you.

A ringing sound fills the room. Your phone. Immediately you groan, turning your gaze to the table on your side of the bed. You shift to see if it’s important, but Rex is not making it easy for you, immediately his hands are both on your hips trying to hold you in place, still lying open mouth kisses on you, now he’s hovering over your collarbone.

“At least let me turn it off.” You laugh, your hand coming up to lightly pull him off of you. He grumbles against your skin but loosens his grip, letting you quickly crawl over to turn it off.

One Missed Call: Cecil Stedman

Shit. You ran a hand through your hair; this was more than likely important. And you could not think of many people you wanted to talk to less at this exact moment.

A light flashed across the screen as you powered it off. Something you could live to regret later. You turned and shuffled across the bed back to Rex, who was watching you with a love-drunk gaze. You put your hand to the side of his face and leaned in giving him a chased kiss before settling in back on top of him again. His hands were immediately at the bottom of your shirt, you could feel he was moments away from ridding you of it.

“Dammit!” You said with frustration as your phone started to ring again. How did Cecil do that?

“It’s Cecil, isn’t it?” Rex sighed, his head making a soft clunking nose as he rested it against the headboard behind him.

You looked over at the phone and then back at Rex. He looked so perfectly disheveled. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, kiss swollen, and a tantalizing heat radiating off him. But you both knew if you ignored Cecil much longer, he was going to just teleport into the room.

“Yes.” You admitted, running a hand over his chest.

“Typical.” Rex snorts, obviously feeling as frustrated as you are.

You don’t know what to do. Cecil was only calling your phone, which meant you had to leave Rex here. No idea when or if you’d be back before morning. You go to get off Rex and he grabs you, his eyes quietly pleading with you.

“Please.” It’s such a simple word, but it sounds so pretty when he says it. He was making this as hard for you as possible, and you had a feeling he knew it.

“I don’t think you want Cecil to show up in the room any more than I do.” You whisper, leaning forward and pressing what was meant to be a quick chaste kiss to his lips. But it quickly devolves into much more. Resulting in you having to break away and practically hopping off the bed.

“You don’t need to use Cecil as an excuse to turn me down you know.” He gives you a smirk, he would seem unbothered if his body language didn’t completely betray every level of uncertainty he was feeling. Rex Splode was nervous. It made you smile. If you thought you would be able to escape another kiss you would have given him another one now. But after having to pry his hands off of you from the last one you figured it would be safer to stay off the bed.

“I’m not turning you down, Rex.” You reaffirm, if you had more time, you’d spill about how badly you’d wanted this, and for how long. Tell him about how your mind was reeling, and part of you wondered if this was a dream. And then you’d explain why you had to be sure after the last dream you had about him. You grab your phone and pull on your spare pair of shoes. “Who knows, this might be nothing…” You knew the chances of that were so minuscule there was no point even hoping. Cecil was too no-nonsense of a guy to just call to chat.

“Next time I see you,” Rex starts, uncertainty lacing his voice, “We’ll talk?”

You hesitated; your hand already grasped around the doorknob. There was nothing in this instant that you wanted more and less. It was starting to dawn on you that this was a turning point, your weeks of visiting him in the hospital felt so long ago now. This felt complicated and messy. You just made out with someone who’s basically a glorified coworker. Well, that’s an unfair way to put it, he was a friend at least now, right? Maybe soon to be more- you’re getting way ahead of yourself.

“We will, Sloane.” You smile at him and leave the room before your able to change your mind.

“You’ve got to answer your phone when I call.” Cecil’s voice cuts through the dark of the hallway, making you jolt.

“God, you could at least announce yourself or something.”

“I just did.” Without another beat passing he starts debriefing. “We just caught something on the satellites, moving fast.”

“Okay? Why are you telling me? You’ve got all of the other Guardians who could deal with that-”

“We’ve only seen that kind of trajectory and flight pattern twice before.”

You stand in silence, folding your arms across your chest. “The suspense is killing me.” It’s dry, subtle sarcasm displaying completely your distaste at being bothered.

“Once with Invincible, and the other time with Omni-man.” You cocked your head slightly.

“It’s a Viltrumite?”

“All answers point to...”

“Shit.” You murmured.

“Shit, is right.”

Author's note:

Rex: If I kiss you, we’ll end up kissing on the couch, and if we end up kissing on the couch chances are we’ll kiss in the bedroom and if we kiss in the bedroom then you know, that’s the part I always rush into. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to rush into spending the night together.

Reader: I want to spend the night together

Rex: I have no problem with that.

Also this image I made to haunt my friend after I let her read a draft of this chapter

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul @lapisbwub @velovicy @liquideyes @insirecrate @isnotraven @mightymeick @k1nky-fool request to be tagged for new parts!

chapter twenty-one

#rex splode x reader #enemies to lovers #slow burn #crawling back to you rexfic #rex splode #invincible season 3 #invincible rex splode #rex sloan #rex sloan x reader #no beta we die like rex splode apparently #invincible #100k #over 100k #invincible fic #rex x you #rex x reader #one bed trope

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shellsstardew · 1 day ago

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you made me ship shelliot so hard it's not even funny 😭 like normally im not super into rarepairs bc it seems ppl ship them just to ship them but i legit see where you're coming from, especially in the same context as your comic where their story begins after elliot moves in. i actually love your comic i cannot wait for the next part (not trying to pressure you obv). ive never gotten too many hearts with either of them but your characterization just feels so accurate like i feel like I could see your story with their dialogue happening in the game and it wouldn't feel out of place at all. and also finally (oops ive been rambling), your art style isn't overly detailed but the facial expressions/body language/like perspective i guess of the characters, especially shane and elliot on the dock is so well done, the small changes in positioning work so well to communicate the change in their body language and its just really impressive.

sorry i yapped or if it was weird or something i promise i was not trying to come off weird 😭😭😭 i just really admire good fanworks such as yours and it's important to tell authors/creators that they're doing well and yeah

also if you (or anyone else) has any shelliot fic recommendations i would loveee to hear them :>

No but seriously it's so funny that your like "I hope I'm not being weird" meanwhile I reread over and over your super thoughtful message to keep me going 😭

YOU GUYS DON'T REALIZE I NEED THOSE HYPER DETAILED COMPLIMENT or my stupid brain will go like "Okay time to think you're worthless and that what you're doing doesn't matter"

No I can point at the screen and say "See? 👉📱 SEE?! 👉👉📱?" and it's putting another coin in the machine hehe

Anyway, thank you so much 😭

AND YES I HAVE FICS TO RECOMMEND! ONCE AGAIN, @cutethulu you know the drill hehe

Camellia Station, by Awdrey (Explicit - but it's only one short smut scene in the last chapter for now)

Now it's still in progress (updating once a month) and they still didn't smooch yet, but that's what you get when you fall into the Shelliott rabbit hole, hehe, you can't be picky

It's really well written and the author and I have a lot of similarities in our interpretations of Shane and Elliott :) Go give it some love!

Also some one shots by @mongoosingisme that I really love :

Untitled Shelliott Ranch Project

Herding cats (Explicit - Shane/Elliott/fem!farmer)

And UHHH maybe you've seen it already but I wrote one about Shells, it's an alternate ending to part 34 (it's my first one and I'm really proud of it teehee)

Shells, alternate ending, by shells_stardew (Explicit)

Also @visionofthebees wrote this one for me on the same concept :

One Shell of a Night, by Visionofthebees (Explicit)

Be warned it's EXTREMELLY SILLY and she didn't even reread it before posting, but I love it with all my heart it's so so funny hahaha

I love her so imma also recommend her Clint x Elliott fic too (yes yes you read that right, she's 10 degrees further than me on the crack ship scene) :

Falling Ore You (Explicit) (46 chapters, completed)

LISTEN SHE MAKES IT WORK OKAY! SHE REALLY DOES!

And also, check my bookmarks! They are some non-Shelliott stuff that I absolutely love in there! (BUT always ALWAYS check the tags before reading, there is also some dark stuff haha)

Here you go, hope I didn't recommend all the ones you already knew about, as we all know this is not an extremely popular ship so this is what we get, quality over quantity hahahaa 😭

#fic rec #shelliott #shane stardew valley #stardew bachelors #elliott stardew valley #stardew #sdv shane #elliott sdv

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clash-of-moonbeams · 3 days ago

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Ngl, I think the reason the Horde (putting aside the Whispering Woods) couldn’t touch Brightmoon prior to the end of S1 is because of the connection and knowledge Angella had of the Moonstone. In the S1 finale, even though Etheria was thrown out of wack and the connections to the runestones weakened, Angella and the Moonstone still were pretty impressive all things considered. Angella and the Moonstone were the only things keeping the darkness at bay, Angella was able to send out a wave of energy that (temporarily) knocked back the Horde’s forces. She was also able to erect force fields, and once again this was all during a time where it took everything to even keep her connection to the Moonstone.

My guess is that under better circumstances, Angella would have probably been able to use the Moonstone to greater effect. It would have been nice if we got an episode in S4 where Glimmer learns to use the Moonstone itself to its greatest potential (like Angella probably knew how to) and not just learning magic and getting used to the boost of her personal powers. It actually could have been nice if the other elemental princesses came in to talk about the connections they had to their own runestones, and how they learnt of the fabulous secrets they held to draw out their potential.

As for Scorpia being able to just sneak in? Honestly, it would have looked better if the Brightmoon guards had interrupted the meeting and revealed that they had apprehended Scorpia. Or maybe make it a bit of world-building where at the height of the depth of their connection to it, Angella and Glimmer’s connection to the Moonstone allows them to know when someone outside of Brightmoon is coming in. What’s more, if they really focus, they can tell generally where everyone is in Brightmoon. We could then just use Glimmer not being as deeply connected as Angella was yet, still really kind of bonding with her runestone.

But that’s just going into theory territory and spending more time on the world-building than the writers probably did🤣😋

the fact that SCORPIA of all people was able to just waltz into the castle and join the princesses while they were talking and it STILL took them like 10 minutes to notice that she was there.

...

what the fuck is this worldbuilding? i'm genuinely surprised that brightmoon wasn't completely burned to the ground as soon as the war began.

#spop #spop critical #really wish we had an episode going over this kind of thing with glimmer #like #we got the episode where she accepted the full weight of the moonstone #but outside of her powers getting a boost we don’t really know what fully shouldering that connection entails #I can only assume angella and the other princesses had deeper understandings with their runestones #it just seems that outside of charging #prior to s4 glimmer didn’t put much stock into forming a deeper understanding of the moonstone #or maybe she did and we just didn’t see it

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corner-collects-rocks · 3 days ago

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im curious if renee actually thought jean was the right person, wrong time or if she said it to try and give jean a chance to move on.

(this is probably gonna get rambly and stop making sense but im tired and thinking so enjoy what my head organ has chosen to provide)

i head canon renee as aroace so that plays a factor into this but; i think renee was trying to help jean move forward whilst still leaving herself open to talk to. the reason renee and jean start talking is because neil asks her to reach out. i do think they had a genuine friendship and maybe they both had feelings for each other but i dont think renee did.

personally i think renee seeks companionship over partnership. i think thats also why her dynamic with andrew works so well. i dont think either of them were interested in each other romantically but they could find value in seeking out each others company. i think she was striving for a similar dynamic with jean, and jean (bless his poor bisexual soul) was attracted to renee in part because she was beautiful but also because they don’t really have rainbows in the nest. renee was one bright thing when dealing with the torture he endured in the nest. (think of it like a one sided trauma bond, or like a “the waiter was nice to me i think they might be in love with me” type of deal)

i havent read all the EC but im pretty sure we dont get to know much of what jean and renee discuss. in general (iirc) it seems a lot of what we see from renee is her offering jean kindness and some safety in a place where all of his had been striped away.

also after jean moves out to california renee isnt something he really dwells on (fair enough moving is rough on its own, let alone leaving a cult) i understand that renee is also something jean chooses to keep private even from us the readers(shout out the literal end of the golden raven filling us in that they text REGULARLY) but from what i’ve seen people tend to think about their situationships a lot even after they move on since they tend to leave more of an impression since the human brain loves to dwell on “what could’ve been”

anyway i’ve lost my train of thought with this, if i find it i may reblog w/ more thoughts. in conclusion, jeanee (whatever their shipname is idk) works better as a platonic dynamic and renee walker is aroace and i love her!!! also petition for renee to be jeans best man at the wedding, or have cat and renee co-best man.

Sincerely, Corner

P. S. nora please please please let renee and jean hang out in the broken cage. as a treat!! like even if its only for a little bit after a game or something (trojans play at foxes stadium and they go out after or whatever) i think they deserve a debrief! and renee i think would like to hear how jeans list has grown (because oh boy has it) and my girl deserves to see some good come to her after all the shits shes seen!! renee walker ily and ur awesome and holy shit u deserve so much. i want to know so much more abt u diva. so much. please nora i am begging you.

#aftg #all for the game #renee walker #jean moreau #tsc #tgr #the golden raven #the sunshine court #me when i ramble #okay but like hear me out tho-#i was cooking but then Tired™️ hit me #i also didnt proof read that so i hope it makes sense #but someone has to get it #may update with more btw #ily renee walker

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akari-of-moonlight · 3 days ago

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[Matchbox, Yearbook, Pen.]

Hasemura Week Day 5: [Tribute]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Tetro Danganronpa Pink

Relationships: Kamimura Kazutoshi/Hasegawa Ken

Characters: Hasegawa Ken, Kamimura Kazutoshi

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Angst, Symbolism, Freeform-ish?, who knows it reads like a fever dream, there's some mild blood and stuff but if you're into tetro I don't think it should matter, I still don't know how to tag fics help

Hi guys I still don't know how to format these fics. uh I wrote this whole thing in one day and then spent three weeks editing it and not posting it because I got scared but HERE IT IS!!! Be warned it's very long I got a little carried away.

Thank you to @thewhimsicalenderdragon for betaing I love you

Kazutoshi sits at the desk next to Ken in an empty classroom.

He’s just… there, arms crossed gently in his lap, like this is normal. As if the two of them were simply going through another day of school.

Which is strange, because they never went to school together.

He is looking out the wall of windows, to something Ken can’t see. The sky outside is blindingly white. Looking at it, the impression of clouds sears into Ken’s mind, although there are no discernible outlines. And it burns as if it is the sun itself.

A simple arrangement of objects is laid out across Kazutoshi’s desk. A small matchbox and a yearbook, with a single black pen laying over them.

Kazutoshi doesn’t touch any of the objects on his desk. He simply looks out the window. Out into the light. Maybe it doesn’t burn his eyes.

He is beautiful. Fleeting and perfect, drawn in sharp lines and rimmed by that white light.

His fingers tap light rhythms on the desk in a subconscious habit. He always did that when he was thinking. The small motion is so achingly familiar that Ken’s breath catches again.

Ken’s eyes fix upon those same small, angular, agile fingers that had traced over his hands and shoulders nervously or casually, like a light breeze, leaving burning prints behind in its wake.

Kazutoshi’s hands look like paper in the light, pale and beautiful against the warm brown wood of the desk. A blue tinge afflicts them like a layer of time and decay, and Ken can’t focus on them for too long, he just can’t.

The light from the windows burns at Kazutoshi’s figure, yet he remains undesecrate, like the pillars of stone and cement left behind after flood or famine, burning disaster, bloody wars. Relics of before times. Untouchable.

Even though Ken can’t see his face, his very silhouette is beautiful. His posture looks relaxed, casual, his small frame curving perfectly in the light like the arching porcelain centerpiece that stood in the fountain outside of Ken’s favorite restaurant.

Ken hadn’t thought about that restaurant in weeks.

He wants to reach for Kazutoshi. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he doesn’t deserve to be here, next to the brilliant cobalt singularity that had believed that Ken would never taint his hands with the blood of another. He knows this isn’t real, can’t be real. He knows he is dead.

Terminal Agitation: the tendency of one to experience disorientation or hallucinations before death. Not to be confused with one’s life flashing before their eyes.

As a child, Ken often used to worry that nothing was real. That maybe “he” was just a single flash of consciousness in the burning, ruinous slop that was some sort of a plane of existence. That maybe he was imagining everything, a fabricated universe built around the only consciousness the void would ever know.

Maybe he was only ever experiencing this moment, and nothing else had ever been real.

Maybe he hadn’t even really started that sentence.

There wasn’t a way to know, and there would never be a way to know. He hated that. God, he hated that.

Back then, the brush of his mother’s hair would bring him back. Her touch, her soft voice, her words of reassurance.

Now, the pain brings him back.

If he really is only living in a delusion of this one moment, then it’s a stupid fucking moment to gain consiousness for.

Ken finds himself crying.

His body is crying, at least. Tears stream down his face as his limbs shake more than they should be able to, and his chest heaves in tempo with the ticking of the clock behind him.

Why is the clock so fast?

Ken doesn’t cry in public. He could never understand people who could just let themselves go under the watchful eyes of others like that. Only three people in the world had ever seen him cry before.

Well, that isn’t true anymore, he supposes.

The tears don’t stop his thoughts. They never have.

There is blood on his hands. There is death in his lungs.

He’s spent a lot of time around dead bodies lately. At a certain point you get used to it.

Ken knows he is guilty, but he doesn’t feel guilt. He should, probably. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. He closes his eyes, and he sees it again.

Stilted rules that destroyed everything he had planned for.

Five rotting corpses, faces in familiar fixtures of horror.

Blue eyes that had asked a question he couldn’t answer, and the tears that refracted their light that had felt somehow soul crushingly familiar and incomprehensibly foreign.

He had nothing to say to them.

A hand grabs his wrist, jolting him back to reality.

Kazutoshi had turned around, red eyes piercing as the day they had been extinguished.

“Ken.”

Kazutoshi’s grip is tight, almost fierce. Ken wants to look at him, but the light enveloping him makes it hard. He can only focus his eye on Kazutoshi’s hand, which pulls at his skin, nails digging into him like little pinpricks.

Ken is silent. He doesn’t try to pull his wrist back, or pry Kazutoshi off. Kazutoshi stares him dead in the eye as he whispers four words.

“What have you done?”

Ken closes his eyes. He deserves it, the scorn, the hate, the blame. Kazutoshi was innocent. Ken was guilty. It was as simple as that.

Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist sharply, bringing it next to his head. Close, too close, to that luminescent celeste hair. Kazutoshi’s hand is tensed, still clutching, digging into Ken’s limp wrist. Ken is pulled forward, catching himself with his legs as he starts to lose feeling in his hand. Strange that he had feeling in his hand in the first place. Strange that he could catch himself with his legs.

Kazutoshi is so close to him now, but Ken still can’t see his face. He can only make out his small frame, his cerulean silhouette. His wrist hurts from Kazutoshi’s grip.

“Say something, Ken,” Kazutoshi says, and it’s desperate and angry and hollow all at once.

Ken knows he should apologize. He knows he should fall apart in front of the boy who saved him, broke him. He knows he should beg for forgiveness or stumble to explain himself. He knows he should want to lean forward and embrace Kazutoshi. He knows he should want to hold him while he still could.

Instead, Ken stays silent. He stares past Kazutoshi, into the burning sky. He realizes that his right eye is still covered by bandages.

The blazing light from outside tinges his vision red, his bandage only becoming an amplifier to the horribly beautiful, almost sentient light that comes from Kazutoshi and from beyond him at the same time.

“What… happened to you?” Kazutoshi asks. His voice is raw and broken, and Ken feels dizzy.

Dizziness is a common side effect of blood loss, due to a lack of proper oxygen in the brain. A human can usually lose about 30% of their total blood volume without a high chance of death. Vitals will likely be heavily affected.

Her body probably didn’t even have time to replenish the blood she’d lost.

“Say something,” Kazutoshi repeats. He sounds like he’s on the verge of falling apart. Ken’s head is throbbing in time with the clock, but he forces his eye to lock with Kazutoshi’s anyway.

“Please, Ken,” Kazutoshi begs. “I need to hear you. I– I don’t care if it’s an apology or some stupid fucking fact. I need–”

His breath hitches, and Ken should reach forward to comfort him. He should say something.

But he is tired. He is so, so tired.

He was ready to go. He was ready for his consciousness to fade away. He was ready to not think anymore. He wanted to die.

He didn’t want Kazutoshi back now. He wanted to never have lost him. He wanted to never have known how much he lost.

Why isn’t he allowed to die?

Matchbox, yearbook, pen.

Hand around his wrist.

Sped up clock.

“I need to know you still care.”

Ken doesn’t know how to reply to Kazutoshi’s plea. He doesn’t know how to be what Kazutoshi deserves. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than tired.

Kazutoshi waits. The clock doesn’t. It drones on, a cacophony in a single sound, and Ken wants to break it. He wants the broken glass to bite into his hand and tear into his body. He wants it to just shut up already.

“Do you care?” Kazutoshi asks.

Ken doesn’t have an answer for him.

Apathy syndrome: categorized by indifference and emotional detachment. Sources from traumatic experiences. General apathy may also be a symptom of other neurological conditions.

Ironically, he doesn’t remember as much about this topic as he used to.

Kazutoshi stands up, still holding Ken’s wrist next to his head. Every part of his body is tense, drawn taught and shaking with pressure. His silhouette almost blocks the light from behind him.

Ken lets himself slump to the side as Kazutoshi pulls his arm up instead of forward, standing over Ken and casting a shadow over his face.

Ken can make out Kazutoshi’s features now. His eyes, which before Ken could only make out the burning red of, are narrowed and marred with exhaustion. Blood drips from a few stab wounds on his face, but the rest of the damage Ken knows should be there is covered by his sweater. Tracks of dried tears trace down his face.

Kazutoshi slowly lowers his hand, never loosening his grip. Ken’s elbow folds immediately, his limp arm giving Kazutoshi no resistance. Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist into his shadow. Ken can see that his jagged nails have broken skin, and Ken is softly bleeding too.

Kazutoshi watches him, quietly. It is a different kind of quiet than what they know.

The clock is almost louder now.

In his free hand, Kazutoshi grabs the pen. He lifts it, discarding the cap with a flick of his fingers. He places it on the desk momentarily, using his left hand to wrap gently around Ken’s wrist, right below where his other hand is. Slowly, he releases his tight grip, shifting Ken’s hand to rest much more lightly in his left hand. His gentle touch hurts so much more than his cutting grasp.

With Ken’s hand in his grip, Kazutoshi reaches for the uncapped pen, bringing it to Ken’s wrist.

He presses down, hard enough that droplets of blood grow atop the cuts from his nails. Slowly, strokes form under the pen, as Kazutoshi drags it across Ken’s wrist.

When he is finished, he examines his work. He shakes his head disapprovingly, as if unsatisfied, and uses his other hand to wipe at Ken’s wrist.

Ken’s blood mixes with cheap pen ink, smearing across his wrist and onto Kazutoshi’s hand. Whatever Kazutoshi wrote is ruined by blood and ink.

Ken’s eyes lay listlessly on his bleeding, ink stained hand. Kazutoshi still holds it softly in his left, gazing at it with an unreadable expression. Then he lets it fall onto the desk.

Ken is jolted by the sudden impact. He meets Kazutoshi’s eyes.

They both look tired.

A single word falls out of his mouth.

“Kazutoshi.”

Kazutoshi’s eyes widen, then he shakes his head, a small smile not reaching anywhere near his eyes slipping through his face.

“Ken,” he whispers back. It is not a question, but Ken answers anyway, reaching for Kazutoshi. He expects to be stopped before he can make contact, but his hand meets Kazutoshi’s face. He hesitates, still waiting to be slapped away. His hand brushes lightly over Kazutoshi’s cheek.

Kazutoshi stares at him unflinchingly. The Kazutoshi he knew would never have let him do this. The Kazutoshi he knew wouldn’t be doing any of this.

Ken reaches for the trail of dried tears. Instead, he makes contact with warm blood. Kazutoshi’s blood.

A small trail of it has dripped down from the small wound under Kazutoshi’s right eye. It is achingly familiar to the touch.

Kazutoshi brings his hand up to meet Ken’s, guiding it to smear the blood away, and then letting go, still staring at Ken with something unreadable.

Ken drops his hand, staring at Kazutoshi, in his blood stained, sunlit, opalescent glory.

“Ken,” Kazutoshi says again, a little bolder. A little more commanding.

He takes a breath, pushing his chair back and stepping between their perfectly aligned desks. He gazes around the room, looking at the rows of perfectly aligned desks. With a simple eye roll, he pushes his own desk out of place, destroying the perfect lines of the room. Ken stares at the broken pattern, eyes tracing lines that don’t make sense anymore.

It feels freeing, untameable. It feels broken and wrong.

The yearbook falls to the ground, opening to a white page. At the top, bold text labels it as a page for signatures.

Small scrawling handwriting drowns in the white of the page.

I’ll see you later.

No name. No signature. No goodbye.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi picks up the matchbox from his desk, eyes tracing over it.

He lights a match, letting it burn in the air for a second, before throwing it away, casting it off to the side.

As soon as the match hits the ground, it lights up the floor, racing up the walls and forming a perimeter around him and Ken. He smiles another strange, sad smile at Ken, backlit by the searing light of the windows and the angry, hungry, all consuming heat of the fire.

Fire needs three things, fuel, oxygen, and a source of ignition. Heat. Classroom floors made of linoleum don’t provide enough fuel for the fire on their own to keep it going. It would have to use gasoline to burn like that.

Why is it burning like that?

Ken stands up, suddenly able to move again.

Kazutoshi looks up at him. Ken almost forgot how small he was.

“Kazutoshi,” he whispers.

“So you feel the fire, at least,” Kazutoshi notes, voice softer than Ken had ever heard it before. There was something almost provoking to it, in a way unlike the familiar teasing that Kazutoshi usually took up.

Ken knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Kazutoshi wouldn’t do this. That this couldn’t be him. Even if aching familiarity was imbued in his every movement. Even if Ken could swear the burning warmth of him was exactly as he remembered.

“I… Kazutoshi,” Ken’s voice cracks like glass under the heat of Kazutoshi’s gaze. The clock ticks, and no way is it going at the right tempo. The fire traces up the walls and envelops them.

Ken notices now that the room doesn’t have a door.

Strange.

Kazutoshi lets the matchbox fall to the ground, and the matches spill out across the floor. He kicks a few out of his way, then reluctantly gazes up at Ken.

“A– Are you… What is this?” Ken chokes out the question, Kazutoshi’s piercing eyes drawing out the barbed words that should come easily to him.

Kazutoshi smirks. “That’s a change. The quiz guy himself, looking to me for answers, I mean.”

Ken’s breath catches in the familiarity of Kazutoshi’s easy tone. He doesn’t find it so strange. He was always looking to Kazutoshi, after all. Even if Kazutoshi didn’t see it.

Kazutoshi shrugs. “Maybe you just need a button,” he muses.

Ken has had enough of buttons lately. He doesn’t think he could bear to stand at a podium again.

“I– I don’t have the answers. Not anymore.” The words slip out before Ken realizes. “There’s… god, Kazutoshi, there’s so much.”

Kazutoshi nods like he knows what Ken means. He sighs, hands slipping into his pockets. Ken wants to memorize this moment. The soft curve of Kazutoshi’s shoulders, the brilliance of his colors in the light, the light, thin strands of blue hair that frame his face. He really is beautiful.

“You were so close,” Kazutoshi says softly.

Ken nods. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Kazutoshi shakes his head. “I guess I did mean something, then.”

“Everything,” Ken chokes out. “Y– You meant… everything.”

Kazutoshi is silent for a few seconds.

He glances past Ken, at the fire ravaging the classroom.

“Funny,” he notes. “I never took fire to be much of our thing.”

His eyes trace the room’s slowly burning form. Posters with unreadable text blacken and crumble to ash. The fire spread across the floor and two of the walls. Only the windows and the giant chalkboard at the front of the classroom remain untouched. That, and the middle of the classroom, where the two of them stood.

“It really is clean, huh,” Kazutoshi muses. “I mean, I never had to work on a fire scene before. It kind of just… takes everything. If there’s anything left behind, it’s not exactly something that can be cleaned or salvaged.”

He locks eyes with Ken again.

“You know something about that, yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts.

Ken doesn’t respond. Kazutoshi shrugs and continues.

“I mean, you’re a facts guy. You know a lot. Maybe too much. There’s got to be some facts about fire in there.”

Kazutoshi leans in a little closer, gazing at Ken.

“I… I can’t…” Ken tries to choke out something, anything, as his vision blurs. “I don’t know.”

The heat of the fire claws at his skin, and the cuts on his wrist have started to throb.

“Right,” Kazutoshi says, almost disappointed. He moves back, and Ken chokes. It’s like he can’t breathe without Kazutoshi. Or maybe it’s just smoke inhalation.

Kazutoshi picks up the pen from the desk again. He brings it up to Ken’s face, and a part of Ken expects Kazutoshi to drive it through his flesh, making Ken a mirror image of him, bloodied and marred. A part of him wants that.

Instead, Kazutoshi slips it through one layer of Ken’s bandages. He places his other hand against Ken’s chest, bracing him, then pulls at the bandage with the pen.

Ken doesn’t stop him, but something in his face must cue Kazutoshi to his lack of understanding.

“I want to see your eyes,” Kazutoshi whispers.

He slowly pulls at the bandage, tightening the other loops around Ken’s head. Something about the pressure makes Ken lightheaded. Kazutoshi pulls a little harder, and the bandage unravels, falling away.

Ken wonders if maybe the strips of gauze were the only things holding him together.

Kazutoshi pulls the pen back. Ken’s bandages drape over it, and looking at it, Ken realizes that the outer lining has cracked from the pressure. A single fissure traces down the side of the pen, and ink flows out, staining Ken’s bandage a dark, not-quite-black tone. Dark ink spills onto Kazutoshi’s left hand as he looks up at Ken.

Somehow, Ken can see out of his right eye. His vision is blurry for a second, before it focuses.

He stares at Kazutoshi. Sea glass and coquelicot make up heaven itself in front of him. He breathes a little easier, just for a second.

Kazutoshi stares into Ken’s eyes in return, then unwraps the now more black than white bandages until he’s holding a long strip of stained gauze in his hand. He motions for Ken to lift his hand, and he does.

Kazutoshi gently wraps his wrist with the bandage, pressing hard enough to close the cuts and allow them to clot. The gauze eats up the excess blood on Ken’s wrist, ink and blood mixing in every place and consuming the white material.

Every language has different words for every color. Black and white are almost always the first two colors given a name to in every culture, with red shortly after, making black, white, and red the three most basic color terms. This is theorized to be because these colors make up the most contrast in color as humans perceive it, making it not only a cultural phenomenon but a biological one, although full research on this topic is mainly theory.

The fire is burning closer and closer. It fills the air, hammering into Ken’s skull like the ticking of the clock. The yearbook sits dangerously close to the flames.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi seems to track Ken’s line of sight. He leans over to the book, picking it up and moving to sit on the edge of Ken’s desk, like they’re just classmates who stayed late to chat after class. Like the room isn’t burning around them.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking unimpressed. Ken leans over to look.

“We’re not in here, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Kazutoshi says. Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that.

The yearbook is full of pictures. Terribly familiar faces greet Ken on the pages.

Isono. Sasaki. Chiba. Harada.

Tsuno.

Okazaki.

Ken wants to throw the yearbook into the fire, but he isn’t the one holding it.

Okazaki’s face fills a page, in vibrant colors and bright hues. Ken can’t look too long before his vision turns red. He coughs, and wonders how long it will take to die from smoke inhalation.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking bored.

Hama and Watari. Hiroaki, Ojima, Tamba, Wada.

Yanagi. Hayashi.

Kazutoshi pauses on another page of photos with some over-the-top, flaunting caption at the top that Ken can’t get himself to read. Kazutoshi points to a small picture in the left corner. Blue hair catches Ken’s eye, and he sees the two of them, blurred and out of focus, in the background of a photo.

“I mean, it’s better than nothing,” Kazutoshi mutters.

Ken stares at it. His eyes burn, maybe from the smoke.

In all the pictures, is all proof they existed a blurred memory of someone else?

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi finishes flipping through the yearbook, setting it back down on his desk. Ken hopes it burns.

“I guess we didn’t mean that much, in the end,” Kazutoshi says.

Ken stares at the fire. They didn’t, did they?

Even when the others shared memories of their dead peers, Kazutoshi’s name lingered like a taboo. Even to Ken.

And now the two of them are here.

Choking on smoke, and burning to death in an empty classroom.

Background features.

“You meant something,” Ken hears himself say.

“Oh yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts, almost detached.

“Kazutoshi, you–” Ken chokes out. He cuts off.

He doesn’t know how to tell Kazutoshi that he was so much more than something. That he was the air in Ken’s lungs, the blood in his veins. That in his absence, Ken became a negative. He no longer was. He became an amalgamation of everything he wasn’t.

“You were everything,” Ken repeats, unable to say anything more.

“But I wasn’t. Not while I was alive,” Kazutoshi says, crossing his arms.

Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that. He truly doesn’t know if there was a time where Kazutoshi wasn’t his only tie to life. He knows there must have been, but…

“What do you think I am? What did you turn me into, when I died?”

Ken can’t say anything to that.

Kazutoshi’s red eyes cut into him.

“When did I become everything, Ken?”

When I became nothing.

The fire burns. The clock ticks. Ken breathes in smoke.

“I don’t want to be everything,” Kazutoshi says.

“I– I know,” Ken stammers. “I’m sorry.”

Kazutoshi’s hands reach up, and he pulls his hoodie a little tighter around his neck.

“I… I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t your entire world.”

“I know,” Ken repeats.

Kazutoshi looks to Ken with something like a plea in his eyes.

“I… That scares me, Ken.”

“...It scares me too.”

Kazutoshi’s left hand is still covered in black ink. The wounds on his face have started to bleed again. The largest one leaves a trail of red down his face. It almost looks like a tear.

Ken reaches for him, wanting to wipe away the blood again, but he pauses. He doesn’t want to touch Kazutoshi. Kazutoshi wouldn’t want Ken to touch him. Even if this isn’t actually Kazutoshi.

“It’s okay,” Kazutoshi whispers, noticing Ken’s hand hovering like a hummingbird over his face.

Ken pauses, still unsure.

Kazutoshi’s ink stained hand rests on Ken’s wrist, and he can’t tell if the ink of his bandage soaks into Kazutoshi’s hand, or the other way around. Ken closes the distance, hand gently smearing the trail of blood off Kazutoshi’s face.

Kazutoshi’s hand traces up Ken’s arm, drawing a trail of black ink along Ken’s white shirt. He pauses, then brings his hand to rest on Ken’s shoulder. Ken takes a step closer.

Kazutoshi stares into his eyes, and Ken feels like he can breathe again, despite the claustrophobic fire ravaging the very air around them. Ken’s hand lingers next to Kazutoshi’s face.

“God… what happened to us?” Kazutoshi asks, letting out a dry laugh. Ken closes his eyes, content to burn with Kazutoshi, even for just a second.

Ken doesn’t know if he leans forward, or if Kazutoshi pulls him down, but in a moment, their lips collide.

The burning classroom disappears, and all that is left is them.

Kazutoshi’s lips move softly, but with warm urgency. Ken follows his motions, letting go of everything. He doesn’t think about what any of it means. He is only in the now, in the here, in Kazutoshi, as he finally breathes into what he should’ve done when they still had time. Kazutoshi feels warm, feels alive, and Ken lets his hand wrap around Kazutoshi’s head, gently intertwining his fingers with Kazutoshi’s cobalt hair. Ken feels his knees buckle under him, but he doesn’t dare pull away.

The two of them kiss, slowly sinking to the ground in each other’s arms.

Kazutoshi pulls away for air, not far enough to create any more distance between them. Ken only realizes then that both of them had slipped to their knees. The dropped matches lay scattered around and under them. Kazutoshi laughs into the gap between their faces, before kissing Ken again, pulling him even closer. Ken’s white shirt is stained with black and scarlet, and Kazutoshi’s beautiful face is marred with tears and blood from both of them like paint across his features.

Ken pulls away from the kiss this time.

“I’m so sorry, Kazutoshi,” he whispers.

Kazutoshi finds Ken’s left hand without turning away. His thin fingers pull Ken’s closer. Kazutoshi’s other hand shifts to wrap around Ken’s neck, soft but steady.

“It’s over now,” Kazutoshi replies, and it feels something like forgiveness.

Ken doesn’t know if he’s the one crying, or if maybe both of them are, but it doesn’t matter. The two of them fold into each other on the classroom floor. Ken can feel the fire burning closer and closer, and soon it is upon them.

Kazutoshi grabs for Ken’s stained shirt, and Ken pulls Kazutoshi into him, their bodies meeting flush, as fire and ink and blood and tears converge on the only thing that matters anymore. Even if it isn’t real.

As Ken’s vision goes black, his thoughts slow, for the first time that he can remember. He lets himself go as he holds Kazutoshi.

It’s over now.

#aaaaaaaaaaaaa posting writing is so scary #thank god for the late madness of a hollow shell off vocal for getting me into the right headspace to edit this #just a disclaimer I know kazutoshi is a bit ooc it's intentional #he would Not do this shit bro #anyway. symbolism go brr.#tetro danganronpa pink #tetro danganronpa #akari.txt #akari writings #kamimura kazutoshi #hasegawa ken #hasemura #hasemuraweek2025 #tetro danganronpa fanfic #folder: akari

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