#Fix-It Fic

[bebx]

AO3 writers when canon sucks:

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

There There

Hey, have 600 words of me dealing with (and fixing) it...

—-

It’s the door shaking, fists pounding against the barricade, fear overwhelming your heart.

It’s the concrete basement, cold and unyielding, as you huddle on a crate, holding Benjamin close, whispering against his curls that everything will be okay.

It’s the way Benjamin’s little fingers clutch your shirt, his body trembling against yours, his breath coming in short, terrified gasps that match yours.

It’s the quiet lull after hours of chaos, the silence might just be more terrifying than the screams that came before.

It’s the sound of bodies being dragged away from the door, and the customary 5 knocks that alert you and others that it’s now safe.

It’s how you cradle Benjamin in your arms, blocking his little face from the horrors across your town.

It’s Maria’s choked sob as she runs towards you, taking Benjamin from your arms.

It’s you, looking around for any sign of Joel or Dina, the sinking of your heart when Tommy, with blood crusting over his wound, says he’s heading out to find them.

It’s the guilt you feel that you’re not aiding in the cleanup as you whisper desperate prayers out into the freezing cold, clutching Joel’s tattered, brown coat on his porch.

It’s Joel’s neighbor, Caroline, coming over and flipping the porch’s space heater on, imploring you to go inside and warm up.

It’s Jackson, battered from the attack, the survivors moving with grim determination through the wreckage of your shared safe haven.

It’s the look the doctor gives you when you rush into the overwhelmed hospital, asking to see him, the slight shake of their head before they tell you he’s not stable enough.

It’s the dried blood on his pillow, his handsome face so swollen and discolored you can hardly look at him, but you do, because he’s still here.

It’s the week of the rickety wooden chair next to his hospital bed, sharing the space with Ellie and Tommy.

It’s Ellie, telling you in a low voice as you watch over Joel’s wrecked body, how Jesse dragged the six attackers’ lifeless bodies outside the chalet before he lit them on fire, letting them burn, no longer a threat.

It’s the GET WELL SOON UNCLE JOEL card Benjamin made, pinned to the wall across from his bed with crooked lettering and a stick figure drawing of him and Joel under a bright blue sky with a big, smiling yellow sun.

It’s a soft squeeze of your hand that alerts you, a slight grunt escaping from his cracked lips, and a quiver of brown eyes opening, focusing on you through a swollen, bleary haze.

It’s the relieved gasp, the man you love, surviving and enduring, as Ellie says.

It’s the smile you give him through a flood of tears, softly cooing “hi, baby, you’re okay” to him through hiccups and sobs.

It’s deep, brown eyes slowly closing, overwhelmed by exhaustion and pain, yet his thumb still gently brushes against your hand.

It’s his refusal to use a cane for his limp, until you implore him to, because he has to be careful, damnit, for your sake.

It’s the bed sitting in Joel’s living room now, because he can’t climb the stairs yet.

It’s the way he wakes up gasping for air in the middle of the night, his body relaxing when you hold him close, whispering that he’s okay and safe.

It’s the faded scars on his face two months later, the way they crease when he smiles at you as you bring him coffee on the porch.

It’s his hand reaching for yours, squeezing it tightly, his finger rubbing against the small, silver ring on your finger as you watch the sunset over Jackson’s walls, now refortified and built even stronger.

[penvisions]

his form fills the middle of the bed, face down and completely passed out. little snores fill the chilly morning air, the heat works of course, but the nip seeps in through the window and from underneath the doors. he's been searching and searching for sealants, for ways to fill the cracks and thin spaces- to protect his people from the cold.

it's such a small thing, just like the cautious words he spoke to you in the beginnings of your interactions and then actions he takes to prove it to you- that he cares. he cares so much, about everyone close to him.

he shows that care in the way he devotes his time to things like that, to making sure there's food in the cabinets, medicine if someone should get sick, someone patrolling the outside of the walls, the trails and paths that lead to the success of jackson.

he sleeps like he deserves it, even if you know he doesn't think it.

he sleeps and fills the bed with warmth, settled onto a frame he made with his bare hands in errant hours. you simply watch the even way his back rises and falls from his deep breaths.

he's here, he's safe. he's still breathing to live another day.

you shuffle further into the room, cup of coffee steaming as you set it on the bedside table. slipping off your house shoes, you settle your body close to his, laying your head over his shoulders and just feel.

he's safe, he's here. he made it. you and ellie saved him. the thoughts hurt, of what could have happened. but it didn't. even if the bruises about his face linger in splotches of green and yellow, still swollen but healing. the way he limps now, obvious and not because of his age, but from a damaged knee. it hurts, it aches, to think of it.

but you do and breath into his fluffy curls. feel the rise and fall of his shoulders, the warmth of him safe in the bed, wrapped in covers you've stitched and made yourself.

he's alive and you intend to show him that you care too. in the small ways, in the big ways, in every way possible. he deserves it. he snorts and a watery smile crinkles the skin around your clenched eyes, stretches your lips even as the bottom one trembles, you press them into the back of his neck. everything is okay, even if it hurts a little still.

[madlori]

Facebook Official

whoops my hand slipped and I banged out 1800 words of fix-it fic in like an hour. btw i think the Abby connection is dumb but I'm making it work.

Three years after reconciling with Buck, newly engaged to him, Tommy gets a phone call from a certain former dispatcher...who's just seen some interesting news via a Facebook Relationship Status post.

*****

(also on AO3)

To say that the phone call blindsided him would have been the understatement of the century.

He was just sitting at home watching the game, having a beer, minding his own business. Evan was on shift — must be a busy one, he’d only gotten two text messages all evening, one bitching about not having had time to eat dinner and the other about idiots who texted while driving.

His phone rang. Unknown number. Normally he wouldn’t have picked up, but with all the wedding preparations, a lot of vendors were calling. It was a little late to be making business calls, just after 8 pm, but he’d quickly learned that business norms meant little in the wedding planning business. “Hello?”

“Tommy?”

“Yes?” A woman’s voice. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Pause “You’re marrying Buck??” A slightly hysterical note of disbelief entered the woman’s voice as she said the name.

And all at once, he knew who it was. Shit fuck motherfucker why didn’t we get ahead of this one.

“Abby. Um…”

“Evan Buckley? My ex-fiancé and my ex-boyfriend are marrying each other?”

“Small world, huh?” he said, going for levity.

“Buck’s not even gay!”

“No, he’s not. He’s bisexual.”

“I’m…okay. I’m sorry, it’s just…this is a lot of information to get all at once.”

“How did you even find out? Don’t you live in Phoenix?”

“Buck posted one of those relationship status things on Facebook.”

“Oh. I barely use Facebook.”

“Me either, but Buck does, and I hadn’t been on there in awhile, but I logged on and that was like the third post I saw!”

Tommy remembered the day Buck had made the post. They hadn’t really put their relationship on social media much - Buck posted photos of them on Instagram sometimes - and he hadn’t done one of those stupid relationship status things for them until they got engaged. They’d trawled their phones for the right pic, eventually settling on one taken at a 118 barbecue of them together, smiling, arms slung around waists. He hadn’t said so, but he’d gotten a little emotional over what Evan wrote on the post:

Evan Buckley is engaged to Tommy Kinard.

“It’s been a long road, but we made it. Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with this man. He’s the best person I’ve ever known. I love you!”

“Well…I’m sorry that was an unpleasant surprise for you,” Tommy said, carefully.

She sighed. “I don’t know that it was…unpleasant. But a surprise, for sure. How do you even know Buck? How did you meet?”

“We’re both firefighters, it’s not that surprising that we could have met, is it?”

“No, I guess not.”

“And he was at my old firehouse. The one you refused to ever come to. But I guess you went when you were with him, didn’t you?”

“You never wanted me to meet your friends. I guess I found out why when you broke off our engagement.”

“I’m sorry, Abby. I know I said it then, but I’ll say it again now. I lied to myself, I lied to a lot of people. It took me almost trapping you in my lie, when you did not deserve that, to break me out of it.”

“I forgave you ages ago. We don’t have to go over all that again.”

“I met Evan…I guess it’s four years ago? We started dating not long after. I, um…was the first man he dated. I guess I made him realize some things about himself.”

“Just transforming lives everywhere you go, huh?” she said, a teasing note entering her voice. Tommy was happy to hear it.

“Yeah, well, I almost screwed it up. I broke up with him six months later. He was diving in headfirst, too fast, just all in and wanting to move in with me.”

“That sounds just like Buck.”

“I panicked and ended it before I could get in any deeper with him.”

“It was too late, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I was already in love with him.”

“He’s easy to love. Too easy,” she said, quietly. “But you got back together, obviously.”

“Took a little while. Almost a year. I dated a few guys, he dated a few people, but nothing stuck for either of us - I know now it’s because we were still hung up on each other. We have a friend in common and we’d hear about each other through him…but I didn’t really see him until we ended up on a major incident call together. I sustained a minor injury - just a scrape, really - and Hen from his house patched me up. I was sitting there on the ambulance deck, more or less left to myself, and he came waltzing up with that eyebrow raised like he knew all my secrets.” Abby chuckled, like she knew the exact expression he was describing. “He just said, are you done being fucking stupid yet?”

“And you were.”

“Yep. I was. He took me home that night and we’ve barely been apart since. Got engaged a year later.”

“You sound happy.”

“I am. I’m ecstatic. I can’t believe I got a second chance with him. I kicked myself for ending it like that, I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do. You thought you weren’t enough for him to want to keep you.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s dumb.”

“That’s what he says.”

They sat there not speaking for what felt like a long time.

“Well…” Abby said. “I feel like I just unloaded on you out of the blue.”

“You kinda did,” he said, smiling.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“I’m glad you did. You know…Evan and I didn’t realize we had you in common until our six month anniversary dinner. In fact, it was that revelation that sort of started us on the way to breaking up for awhile. But that’s been so long now and it hasn’t come up in a few years. I almost forgot about it.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, her grin audible. “I’m glad you’re both happy. I have a lot of regret over Buck, how I left things with him. I assume he’s told you.”

“He has. If it helps, he doesn’t have any bad feelings towards you.”

“It does help. Thank you for that.” She sighed. “I’ll let you go. I just saw that Facebook post and spiralled a little bit.”

“Understandable.”

“Please tell Buck I say hello. And I wish you both so much happiness, Tommy.”

“Thank you. And I will.”

She hung up. Tommy stared at the phone for a moment, then opened his text message thread with Evan.

You’re not gonna believe what just happened.

*****

When Evan got home at 7 am, they had their usual two hours to share breakfast and maybe a quick fuck before Tommy had to be on shift himself. They tried to sync their schedules so their off days coincided, but it didn’t always work.

“Holy shit, why didn’t we get ahead of that one?” Evan said as he burst in the door, not even bothering with “hello.” His shoes and duffel went flying and he bustled into the kitchen where Tommy was mixing the pancake batter.

“Yeah, I had the same thought,” he said, leaning over to kiss him hello.

Evan went to the coffee pot. “I didn’t even think about it, that she might see.”

“Neither did I.”

“How’d she sound?”

“Really surprised at first. Incredulous, even? Like in the what-are-the-odds way.”

“Kinda like when I found out we’d both dated her.”

“Yeah, but you’re my himbo now,” Tommy said, smirking. “No, she was just shocked. I gave her the quick rundown, and she ended up congratulating us.”

“Did you tell her it’s her fault we broke up for a year?” Evan said, popping a strawberry into his mouth.

“I think the proper person to bear the fault is me.”

“And also me. Who asks someone to move in after six months? Before even saying ‘I love you?’ And when you had a house!”

“I say we blame Josh. He got you all juiced up with that damn Glee speech.” After they’d reconciled, Evan had given him chapter and verse on his mind-boggling thought processes on that last fateful day.

“He got me feeling guilty, is what he did. That I judged you for lying to Abby. Overcorrecting is one of my special gifts.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, while I’m overcorrecting…why don’t we invite her?”

Tommy looked up. “To our wedding?”

“Sure, why not? She can flip a coin whose side she sits on,” Evan said, grinning like the mischievous imp that he was.

“Evan, darling, love of my life, we are not inviting our ex to our wedding.”

He scrunched up his face. “Ew. ‘Our’ ex? Makes it sound like we were in a throuple.”

“Ew, indeed.”

He cocked his head. “I dunno, though. The thought’s kinda sexy.”

“Not to me! No vaginas anywhere near my bedroom. Kinsey 6, remember?”

“Of course, my apologies.”

Tommy looked at his innocent wide-eyed face for a few beats. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“Can I help it if the thought of two people I have found intensely attractive doing sexy things is appealing?”

“Can I help it if the thought of Chris Hemsworth going down on you has gotten me through some lonely nights?”

“Okay, I get the point. Shutting up now.” 

Tommy put a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Your shift okay?”

“Fine. Busy. I’m a bit wired. Do we have time for me to bounce on your dick for a bit before you have to head out?”

“For that, I’ll make time.” He sat down at the table at Evan’s side with his own pancakes. Evan slid a hand over and squeezed his thigh.

“Missed you, though,” he said, chewing.

“I always miss you when you’re on shift,” Tommy said.

Evan looked up at that, meeting his eyes. “Tommy, sometimes I miss you when you get up to get a beer.”

The simplicity, the sincerity of it made his chest tighten a little. He leaned forward, put his fingers under Evan’s chin and pulled him into a soft kiss, just like the first time. “I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you, too.”

“And we are not inviting my ex-fiancee who is also your ex-girlfriend to our wedding.”

Evan grinned. “Deal.”

[goodthingscomeinthrees]

all lights turned off can be turned on

911 | bobby x athena, buck & bobby, chimney & bobby | 5.3k, t, complete

Whatever Bobby expected from the afterlife, it isn’t this. or; Bobby doesn’t die in in the lab. Necessary conversations follow.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Starts With a Spark, Then It's a Wildfire

[Buck/Tommy post break-up, 2,064 words; Angst]

It’s a bad time for the call.

Tommy's thumb has been hovering over Buck's name in his phone for a few days, yearning to ask for forgiveness, for understanding, for… anything, really. He hasn’t hit the button, not for a text, not for a call. It’s been a strange way to end a relationship, but he’s had worse, and he guesses Ev… Buck’s had them, too. He’s probably hurt now, confused, but he’ll get over it.

Or maybe he won’t, because it’s been nearly two weeks and he chooses the worst time to call Tommy. He considers not even picking up, just let this one go to voicemail. For some reason, he doesn’t.

„Buck,“ he says, trying to sound casual and busy at the same time, even if he’s only one of these things. „Not a good time, I’m on shift and there’s…“

There’s a sigh on the other end, a peculiar sound; like he’s waited, maybe for days, to muster the strength to finally call. It’s just… Tommy can’t deal with that right now, and it’s not because he doesn’t want to. So many mixed feelings stir up the tight knot in his stomach that’s sitting there since 11 days. 11 days and 14 hours, to be precise.

„There’s been an accident, I believe,“ he continues, quickening his pace, „something for AirOps. I need to go.“

Is he babbling? It sure sounds like it. He doesn’t owe the man any explanation. Does he?

„It’s me.“

His voice is but a breath, and there’s something in it that makes Tommy turn a corner. It’s the worst time, but he presses himself against a wall as if he’d something to hide. Well, not rushing to an emergency, that’s what he’s hiding right now, isn’t it?

„What?“ he asks, a little sharper than intended.

„It’s me. I’m the accident.“

Is… is he laughing? Is he drunk? Tommy’s fingers are itching to press the button, to stop this ridiculous call. He should’ve never picked up in the first place. Worst part is that he now feels sorry for himself, he’s disappointed without really knowing why.

„Buck,“ he says in the coldest tone possible, „don’t call me at work. I’m gonna go now.“

„Wait. I’m sorry.“

Another sigh, a peculiar wet sound. Like he’s been crying. Or…

„I’m t-the accident, Tommy. I’m 32-year old male stuck in a car dangling on unfinished bridge. That’s w-why they called AirOps, I guess.“

He’s starting to stutter. Right now, Tommy hates that he knows this, but it means he’s scared. Of all the things in the world Tommy doesn’t want his ex-boyfriend to be, it’s scared. Then the words hit home, and the knot in his stomach turns to ice. Tommy doesn’t even notice that he starts moving again. He almost runs into Moore, he’s always the last to enter the engine. The man’s still holding a sandwich, some sort of sauce dripping from his chin as he frantically stuffs the rests of it in his mouth.

„Where’s the accident?“ Tommy urges.

„Uh, on the 110, near the exit of Adams Boulevard. Guy must have missed some warning signs,“ Moore replies.

Tommy runs past him, up the stairs to the helipad, thinking he has missed a couple of those, right. Is that thought fair? It doesn’t matter now. He tells Buck to stay on the phone; in the helicopter, he mounts the device on a holder beneath the window pane with slightly trembling fingers. This way, he can connect it to the helicopter’s communication system and still hear Buck with his headphones on.

„Talk to me,“ he says, hopefully sounding like someone who has it all under control, while he starts the machine. „How did this happen?“

„H-how?“

There’s this small chuckle in his voice again. It’s inappropriate, totally out of place. He’s in shock, and so afraid, yet he’s still trying to be brave about it. Tommy’s heart aches at the thought.

„Don’t you mean why? Why d-did it happen. Why did you leave just like that?“

Tommys right hand grips the cyclic a little too hard. If he doesn’t focus, he’ll make a mistake; he can’t do that because a life depends on him. Depends on him being faster than the ground crew, because he knows that at this hour, with the usual traffic, the necessary tools and gear will never reach the bridge in time. And maybe it doesn’t matter how it happened, actually. How, on a perfectly normal day, Evan Buckley has somehow missed some road signs, took a wrong turn, or maybe, just maybe, deliberately steered his car onto an unfinished bridge. Either way, it’s a painful thought, because Tommy is to blame for it, isn’t he. 11 days, 14 hours, 35 minutes; the longest they’ve neither texted nor called each other since that fateful hospital wedding. The night in which Buck decided he wanted to be with him, full stop. Tommy is to blame he let the man inside his heart, and he’s to blame for apparently breaking it.

The city lights far, far beneath him blur, and he blinks. It's his own fault that he allowed such a vulnerable, sensitive, wonderful guy to become infatuated with him. His fault he felt the same. Feels, actually. Because there’s not just fear for Buck’s life, a deep dread turning the knuckles of his fingers around the cyclic white. There’s so much more. He needs to focus, he needs him to stay awake until help arrives. Until he arrives.

„That’s not the question right now,“ he says, his eyes searching the streets for striking landmarks. „I need to know where you’re hurt. Tell me what’s wrong, let’s focus on that.“

„Why?“ The question comes in a matter-of-fact tone. „You’re not a paramedic. You’re called because the situation is dire, Tommy, beyond my injuries. A-and I… I’m not even sure where exactly I’m hurt. But I know i-it’s bad.“

He pauses to suck in a breath; a painful, shaky sound. Tommy listens to the radio with half an ear, but not a single fire station is within a 10 minute reach, and his own department – just like the 118, he suspects –may violate a couple of road rules yet they will still not reach the bridge in time.

„My c-car,“ Buck continues slowly, „the rear end… well, it might just topple any minute now. I hardly dare to breathe, Tommy, a-and it hurts anyway. Maybe I’ll just stop breathing until somebody arrives.“

This time, his laughter is chopped and not at all cheerful.

„You won’t stop breathing.“

It’s not a statement, it’s an order. Tommy is almost surprised of himself – that’s his military voice, there hasn't been the need or the want to use that voice, to recall that part of him for a long time.

„I don’t know what else to do,“ says Buck, suddenly sounding so young. „I… I just wanted to hear your voice. In case… you know. But n-now that I hear it, I’m just s-sad. Because you d-didn’t… you didn’t explain.“

„That’s not true,“ Tommy softly replies.

He still can’t see the half-finished bridge, though GPS and the map in his mind tell him he’s getting closer; way closer than any EMT on the ground, he can tell that from the radio. Not much time has passed. Blinking at the slowly darkening horizon, Tommy inwardly pleads the universe for more time. His mind is not ready to fathom the idea of this being their last call. He’s missed this voice so much, it’s haunted his dreams. 11 days, 14 hours, 38 minutes, 12 seconds.

„Y-you told me… you said you’re afraid I’d break your heart,“ Buck says. „I’ve been dumped before, but never for that r-reason.“

There’s a moment of silence, and Tommy glances at his phone. He can hear him breathe; strained, choppy sniffs that don’t bode well.

„Pretty sure that’s not the only thing I said.“

Maybe that was too harsh. It’s just… has that man ever considered that Tommy’s hurting, too? He clings to that thought, trying to stir up some anger inside. If there must be any feelings when he meets him, let it be resentment.

„No, it’s not, you said something else that… t-that hurt me, Tommy.“

Oh, great. As if he doesn’t know this break-up out of the blue was hurtful. It was just easy to pretend they would get over it soon. Six months, that’s not such a long time, right?

„I’m sorry,“ he softly replies, and he is. Maybe it was inevitable to hurt him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not regretting it. God, he’s regretting so much.

„You said you’re not my last. Ah man, that hurts.“

Another sharply sucked-in breath makes this remark pretty multi-layered.

„I’m sorry,“ Tommy repeats, staring down at the city. Only 1 or 2 more minutes, he implores the sky. He can almost see the bridge.

„You better be, b-because you can’t know that, Tommy. You can’t just assume I’m gonna grow tired of you because the world is full of other people I haven’t… I haven’t tried. That’s insulting, you know? I was no virgin before you, and it’s not sex that has me… has me orbiting you like a s-satellite.“

„Maybe I’ve drawn the wrong conclusions,“ Tommy says, just to keep him talking. There’s the part of the highway they never finished, the bridge that cost the city a fortune but was never completed because of financial cuts. Ironic, isn’t it? They’d rather stop, even if reaching the other side seems so close. Cut the cord, dismiss everything you’ve already reached. There’s a pattern Tommy knows all too well.

„And now I’ve realized that’s the problem. I’ve been orbiting you. As if you’d been my awakening experience, larger than life.“

„I’m only human.“

„Right. I know that now. We should’ve spend more time talking. I should’ve listened to what you’ve experienced. You’ve been hurt, Tommy, I’ve figured that, and I… I never asked you about it. You wanna know what I think?“

There’s a car on the unfinished end of the bridge, just as expected; but knowing what will come never helps ease the pain. It’s dangling over the concrete, looks like one false move might topple it. It’s a miracle that hasn’t already happened. Tommy carefully lowers the helicopter. There’s sirens in the distance, and he realizes he needs help. He can’t do this alone, what was he even thinking? AirOps is the eye in the sky, a means for faster transportation, yes; but he can’t lift a car with his helicopter. You’re an idiot, he scolds himself. It’s just about being fast. Being first. How ironic.

„I’m here,“ he says. „I’ll try to land on that bridge, but I’ll need to do that far enough so the wind of my rotors doesn’t…“

„I think,“ Buck continues as if he’s not heard him, „you left me because you love me. That’s stupid, T-Tommy.“

He coughs, and now he sounds as if he’s almost choking. There’s a sharp and cold pain gripping Tommy’s guts, because he might still be too late.

„Keep talking to me,“ he urges, his eyes searching the ground for a proper landing spot.

„But is it true?“

He sounds tired now, tired and worn out, yet that’s not why Tommy decides it’s time for the truth.

„It is,“ he quietly replies, focusing on the controls. „It’s true. Sometimes, you need to shut your heart because loving hurts more than leaving.“

„That much is true,“ Buck says. His words are merely a whiff now. „Because I love you, and it hurts.“

The helicopter’s skids touch the ground, and Tommy is already tearing at the door. The air is now filled with the wailing of sirens, the red light already flashing in his eyes. He runs, but it seems to take like forever. Forever can be 30 seconds. Half a year. 11 days, 14 hours, 40 minutes, 10 seconds, 50 milliseconds.

If necessary, he will use all his weight to prevent the car from tipping over, he thinks. Still, he’s not prepared for what he sees when he finally reaches the driver’s door. The sight burns itself deep inside his memory: there’s blood everywhere, shards of glass, something sharp protruding, but most of all,

„Evan,“ he says.

Again. Finally. Forever.

[AO3] | All my BuckTommy on AO3

[lavenderleahy]

The discord thought that Buck's post-breakup baking would go viral on TikTok, so this silly little thing was born.

Not only does baking take Buck's mind off Tommy, but it also brings him a lot of joy and satisfaction. He finds that he really enjoys baking. Apparently, other people enjoy him baking as well. 

The comments on his most recent videos have been… a lot. They range from “It’s good to see a young man learning valuable skills!” to “I’d love you to eat me for dessert.” 

Comments like the latter have been getting out of hand, actually. After just a week of posting daily, they take up half of Buck’s comment section. Buck decides to address it in his next voiceover. 

“Bake apple strudel with me while I talk about my last relationship. Hey everyone, I’m so glad you all enjoy my videos. I appreciate the enthusiastic compliments, but some of them have been a little bit too enthusiastic for my taste. I just wanted to let you know that I just got out of a relationship. He and I dated for six months, and it ended pretty suddenly, so I’m not looking for anything new right now. Thank you so much for your support, and check out that golden flaky crust!”

(I'm scheduling this post, so apologies if you tagged me and I haven't seen it yet.)

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@sleepywinchesters @kinardbuckleys @reginamillls @livelaughbuck @taleofdaringdo

[hermitsdump]

Sukuna's milk: rewriting the shibuya incident

status: complete [also on ao3]

word count: 8,238

tags: reader is not a sorcerer, fix-it fic, Sukuna & you, pov 1st person (I tried to rewrite in 2nd but it just wasn't as funny that way, we need the idiot narration)

contains: cannibalism, drinking Sukuna's milk, crack taken seriously, maybe technically sfw(?).... violence, but nothing worse than canon, vomit, some character death but it's different than canon, no manga spoilers (I wrote this before reading it).

a/n: the chapters were so short i decided to make 1 post instead of 10. This is the funniest thing I've ever written, I read it several times a year. But not today, I would not have the courage to post it.

Chapter 1

Maybe at first, I forgot to eat. But as the deadline grew nearer, I became too anxious to consider food. And now, it's Halloween in shibuya. I wanted to go out. To do something fun and dress up. Or at least make it home, before the streets were crowded with drunk people. My coworkers have plans, costumes and now distance from this place... 

It's just until I'm not the newest hire. Hazing is only temporary. 

I blast nightcore music in my headphones, pushing away how creepy the Empty office is. Even during peak hours with sunlight, I swear the place is haunted. 

But then again, stress and sleep deprivation can convince anyone of hallucinations. And they'd never speak coherently, anyway. Just lurking, And no one else seemed to notice.

I stretch out of my chair. It's gotten late. And I am desperate to get out of here. I put my headphones away. And i stumble to the first floor. 

As fast as I can. The empty building echoes with. Some strange noise. Like it wants to collapse on me or something. Outside, the air is thick with sulphur and smoke. Are they doing fireworks now?

 No, that's not right. I collapse on the edge of  an alley. The streets are empty too. But there are two creatures very much alive. Attacking each other with flames, like some bizarre night demons. Are they flying? The shorter one keeps getting thrown into buildings. So maybe it is safer to be outside. At least whatever this is has scared the drunk people away and I won't have to worry about stepping in vomit. I'll get out of here soon. Stop being so lightheaded.

 The fight draws nearer. And I can see them closer. The one who is clearly winning this fight… Has four arms. Human? The other one has one large eye and a volcano on his head. I haven't really seen anyone like that before. But if I still have my job after this, I might see him lurking around the corridors or in my peripheral.

They're far enough away that I can't hear what they're saying to each other. But it seems that it's coming to an end. The taller, more humanoid figure stands across from what looks like a pile of ashes on fire. It has the same slumped shape, now only recognizable by silhouette. 

{Why was a curse spirit crying like that, anyway? Sukuna wonders, bored after killing Jogo.}

“Yo, that was sick. Nice,” i say from my spot against a wall, not expecting to be heard by anyone. 

“Yes, thank you. It's good to be acknowledged.” he steps nearer. “But why are you so weak? It's like you haven't eaten.”

“Yeah, maybe that's it.”  my voice is tired and careless, almost completely monotone.

“Well, why dont we cook up some of these arms? It would be a shame to let malevolent kitchen burn empty.”

I shoot him a weird look, uncertain how serious or funny he meant to be.

“Oh, come on. It could make you stronger! Or kill you," his voice sounds like it came from someone else on that last part, then returns to its usual growl. "And I can regenerate. Watch.”

He removes one of his 4 arms, somehow sliced smoothly without a weapon, then tosses it into a fire. “See? There.” it grows back as if he were putting on a sweatshirt and the sleeve had been rolled inside itself. I look down, feeling sicker.

 “Oh well, i tried.” he paces away, glancing up at what's left of the city.

I stare when he steps through flames, reaches for something, and comes out unmarked. He then eats his old arm like a giant turkey's leg at a renaissance fair. 

It actually smells pretty good... at least among the stench of burning rubble. its charred skin even looks edible, inanimate.

“Change your mind? Here,” he rips off a finger and throws it precisely into my hand. I am hungry and in need of food- that could be enough on its own to explain the nausea.  the finger is wrinkled, crispy, and ethically sourced. I try to eat it like a chicken wing. 

It isn't bad, the texture is pretty good and no spices were available. Maybe better if i close my eyes.

Maybe not. My teeth touch bone thicker than a chicken wing would have. I flinch and it slips away. When i catch it the long black fingernail presses against my hand. The feeling of that took it too far. 

my palms collide with the ground, vomit spills between them. When it's done I turn away from the mess, slump into the wall like an alcoholic, the tremors of sickness setting in. i feel so much weaker than before. That isn't good. No one human is here now. only those who are dangerous had the capacity to stay behind. And me. Why me? 

Tears begin to slide down my face. Pathetic. No easy death and no strength for me now. 

“Aww, feeling dehydrated now, are we?” the demon's voice still rough and playful. “Oh, whats this? It seems my chest is crying too. Well, that's odd.”

he picks his half-eaten finger off the blacktop and flicks it away. Then he lifts me up, and when my vision focuses,  I'm on top of a tall, mostly intact building. The orange glows from below outshine the stars tonight. Smoke obscures the distance, blowing least of all where we are.

“Come on now, help me with this.”

“What?”

He sighs and gestures to his chest.  “You'll have to drink this out of me.” he sounds slightly defeated. drops of milk are dripping down from his nipples. 

“That's weird,” i whisper through a painfully dry throat.

He sits with his legs crossed in and pulls me up to sit in that nest. Something about the scent, or pheromones, draws me in, something sweet and promising. Or maybe desperation for a drink. I begin to lick the drops away. 

“I'm guessing it had something to do with you crying. that makes mommy tiddies cry too, right? And maybe you're like my child now from eating that finger… hmm…”

I'm a little surprised that a cannibal’s breastmilk could taste the way it does. Not strong, but sweet and cozy, like some spiced holiday drink. It's good, so i latch on, beginning to suck desperately at his nipple. 

His arms seem to form a cradle, the way they support me. The heat from his body radiates onto my skin and filters down my throat.

“I guess i'll tell you how this works. So I was alive during the Heian era, just as I am now. Ryoumen Sukuna. When that life ended, i had a choice: to have my 20 fingers preserved and hope that some mortal would consume them, and then i could live on in their body. Which is i guess doable, but not ideal.

Option 2 was to become a curse womb, and essentially reincarnate when enough chaos and blood would have spilled in my name. Which, as you can see, is what happened here tonight.

Although I did just kill the curse that seemed to want me here the most.”

i let go of his nipple, and give it one last wide lick.

“Good, now get the other one dry too.” 

i wrap my arms around him and reach for the next nipple. He only has 2 of them, but 4 arms and 2 faces. my mind wanders… what if they were different flavors… but it tastes the same.

Chapter 2

“Well. How do you feel?” Sukuna looks down on me, one of his big hands still spread out, supporting my head.

“Do you think it's also poison?” i ask, remembering that his finger could have given me strength or death, but i threw it up.

He sighs. “Ah, well, who knows? I'm sort of a human-curse hybrid now, so it might not have the same effect as some old relics. But even then, I was the king of poisons as well as curses. So… Poison or immunity to poison? ah, who’s to say.”

“It was…spicy, sweet and warm. I don't seem to be allergic.”

 “I didn't ask for a review. Spicy, sweet and warm? What the hell is this,” his voice trails into a mutter. 

“Oh, uh, i feel better than before.”

“Well, that much is clear.” he stands up. my tremors had faded, but now the autumn night air replaces his body heat, and i fight a shiver.

“Oh! something interesting is happening. Let’s go.” two arms hold my body to his. a blur of black, grey, and orange passes by. It feels like we're flying and falling erratically, changing direction without slowing down. He drops me off next to some guy with spikes of bloody black hair, his head seems pinned to the dented metal door or wall behind him. 

“You stay there,” Sukuna orders, holding a glowing white aura to the unconscious dude, keeping his back to the wall as well. “Watch over him. And don't either of you move from that spot.” 

i sink down next to the guy who's crushed like a bug, afraid to look toward whatever sukuna was keeping in his sight. What could have thrown someone like this? Something worse than the volcano creature…  His clothes are also bloody. No sign of awareness. i reach out and rest my hand on the top of his shoe, then look toward the figures in my peripheral. 

Something like an ancient god, tall and broad, pale and naked with wings for eyes... its attention on someone small, dressed like a caveman with a high blond ponytail and an aura like the stench of dried blood. He tries to run away without grace. A car slams into the ground to block his path. 

“Coward! You've clearly brought this on yourself,” Sukuna scolds.

 i can't tell whether that guy is a curse or a human, the way he's so small and perfectly humanoid, but no less vile. The type that tortures for fun, but can't handle any pain himself. He crawls under the car. 

Sukunas pins the vehicle down with another, then takes the godly fight away from the area.

 i keep my eyes on the cars he threw. No pool of blood spilling beneath them. What if he comes back to kill me, or worse? If i start crying, sukuna might get the signal. Though he went through the effort to not have me ruin his fun with milk-leaking nipples. i feel stronger now, but without concept of what kind of strength, or how to channel it.

Noise from their battle reverberates through what is becoming a wasteland. He's clearly having fun, offering a display of great destruction and power….but also showing distance. 

And speed.

Sukuna returns with a forceful fall, undeniably ending the evil kid with a modern Giles Corey type of death.

 “Hehe,” he grins widely in a squat on the car that's been crushed like an aluminum can. No sign of his godly opponent. 

“What happened?” i ask, remaining in place like he told me to.

“I killed that shikigami. The guy next to you had summoned it. But no one ever subjugated Mahoraga, so…. I'll teach him someday.” Sukuna's explanation sounds vague to someone new to this language, but i get the idea.

My muscles begin to relax. I take two deep breaths.

That's all that Shibuya grants me.

Something percussive and rhythmic knocks against the ground, slow with impending doom, and definitely approaching.

Chapter 3

“Oh, my. What's this?” A slow sultry voice steps in. “Ryoumen Sukuna, king of curses?” Her hips sway obnoxiously in a black evening dress, propelling a single white braid to swing from the middle of her face to either side.  an identical braid down  the back of her head. 

Her heels continue that slow click, that fills me with dread. I try to stop feeling so frozen in place, looking for validation or dismissal from the sorcerer next to me. He offers neither, but looks peacefully asleep. I'm happy for him. Maybe even jealous.

“ If you know who I am, then say it with reverence,” Sukuna quickly responds, looking down on the tall woman, differently than the way he looked down at me. 

“Big sis recognized you! you should be grateful!” A young boy in suspenders follows the woman with a more composed walk, holding his head higher, posture rigidly vertical. Are they performing for each other? So gross.

“Wow, that gave me the ick,” sukuna sounds surprised by his own discomfort.

“Mei Mei,” the woman introduces herself, as if anyone asked. ”Let's say that you and I play a little game. If I win-”

“you'll live. And I win, I'll live.” Sukuna interrupts.

“Fine then,” she accepts, still carrying herself like a thirst trap. "I look forward to the bonus pay."

“Big sis! You don't have to accept someone else's…” The kid whines. They're definitely related. His hair no less white, his clothing oddly formal, like it was chosen for a piano recital.

“Ui Ui. You wait here. Are you ready and willing to die for me?” The boy nods, loudly mumbling “mm-hmm.”

 i feel violently ill. 

“Jesus, I'm going to throw up,” i put my face to the sky. It's hazy and doesn't offer much relief. 

“Well, I can't have my baby crying. Let's make this fast.” Sukuna's voice is still a bit rushed. He can't wait for this to end either. 

Please don't let them notice me. I look to him, but some unusual motion catches my eye instead. The woman collapses as a pile of cubes. Was Sukuna's weapon just a violent look? 

“Noo! Big sis! Come back!” 

“Hey, brat. You should be grateful. She was clearly using you.”

Ui Ui isn't grateful, but demands the same fate as Mei Mei, stomping his foot like a child who wants an expensive toy. 

“Fine, equally annoying brat. Join your sister.” Sukuna's speech slowed to its usual pace. more cubes fall on the pavement, blood pooling under the piles. “What a waste. Can't believe I hope that doesn't happen again.” 

he turns to me, still sat against the dented building. His gaze moves to the body next to mine, beginning to look awake. Sukuna's face lights up. I take my hand off of his brown leather shoe  and fidget with my own.

 “Finally! Show us what you've got!” is impatience contagious? Sukuna sounds excited. Awaiting something as interesting as mahoraga, I guess.

“What the hell is this?” The voice beside me comes out flat, like a telepathic exhale.

Sukuna looks rejected. “I healed you. you owe me that much.”

“Get lost.”  not a morning person.

Sukuna sighs, “i should have made a pact. But you were already half-dead, so it wasn't an option.”

“Oh, wait. it's coming back to me now.” He sits up on his own.  “You've already seen my trump card. So, what's the big deal then?”

“Well… it's kind of a waste of your talents. Don't you think?” 

Bruhhhhh, i throw my own head back into the wall. Why does he want to fight everyone? Dudes barely awake. Grow up. 

“okay. Let's move on.” He's talking to me now. “Shibuya is crawling with the strongest of curses and sorcerers- or, what's left of them, anyway. At this rate, to find a better fight than that volcano spirit, I'll have to heal them all first.” 

The soles on my shoes scrape loudly when i stand up, leaving the now-conscious one space to recover on his own. We didn't say a word to each other. Should I introduce myself? Would I even remember his name? 

It doesn't matter. I've never been or fought a sorcerer or a curse. I'm just a random office worker, just a milk baby. The only reason I'm even in this city... and alive.

 {Megumi goes to find shoko, who was nearby.}

Chapter 4

Walking through the city feels wrong. any of these buildings might collapse and crush me into the street like a fly. 

Sukuna flinches at nothing. no reaction to stepping over a body lying in the street. Blood poured from the side of his head around a sharpened rod. this feels like a suicide.

Maybe he was a normal person like me. It doesn't seem like anyone left alive in shibuya tonight would be caught dead in a stretched out white sweater. 

“Catch up already. We're going underground.” Sukuna says that as if I'm a child watching bugs in a field. His child. 

Our shoes slap against the clean white steps to the station. It's an eerie contrast to be engulfed in the bright light. That's funny. A few hours ago I would have thought nothing of it. Just another late night escaping the office.

And just a few hours ago, the way these walls are cut up, the floors so neatly cut out, would have been a shock. I'll just avoid those big open circles... And whatever made them. 

Someone is here, stumbling away from the wall. Their black hair is styled with thin bangs and spiky space buns. Chains rattle against their heavy black boots, his heavy breath fades, his eyes focus into a determined…almost kubrik stare. 

“I need help for my brother who is dying.” his voice is kind of deep. maybe it's the black line across his nose like a bandaid, but this guy is insanely cute.

Don't stare. I turn to sukuna for an answer. His pointed black nails move like hungry fangs. 

“Oh, really? What would you do for him? Would you risk your own life for a brother?”

“I would.” this dude’s stare could not be any more intense.

“Excellent. Show me what you've got, and maybe I'll heal him!”

“if that's what it takes. Fine then.” 

I grab one of Sukuna's arms, “do you REALLY think we have time for that?” But his squinted smile is so full of teeth that I doubt whether he can hear me. 

The other guy brings his palms together, arms outstretched at eye level. A laser cuts into the stairs above my head and follows Sukuna. 

No, that isn't a beam of light. It's blood. 

“Get back,” the blood manipulator breathes into my ear as he runs past. 

“Where?” I ask, stupidly glancing around. 

He rushes me to the corner he crawled out from, like a shallow closet built into the wall. 

“Wait!” I hold him back and stand in front. Like a mother hitting the brakes of a car. Accomplishing nothing but being annoying.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sukuna growls.

“it means grow the fuck up! You think someone owes you a fight for wasting time and letting their brother die? You make me sick, sometimes!”

He sighs. “Alright, take me to him.”

Chapter 5

I follow, no point in running to keep up with them. We turn by the hall to the elevator and restrooms.

“Who are you?” The blood master asks with no expression, more like a command.

Two teen girls are kneeling on the floor. They don't answer him, but bow to Sukuna instead. The one with light spiraling hair holds a dehydrated finger out like an offering.

“Please,” her voice shakes but not as much as their bodies, “take this finger. We didn't know you were alive already. We can get you one more, too, so please, don't kill us.”

“Get up. You're not worth my time.”

“Huh?” The girl hardly breathes.

“Killing you kids would be like stepping on ants. Save those old relics for someone who cares.” 

They manage to crawl to the wall and hold onto each other. I slide down between them and the others. 

“So that volcano spirit wasn't lying. I didn't emerge from this kid's body because I was already a curse womb… But I will, if someone manages to kill this body! 

Wonderful. But who would have saved my fingers…” Sukuna’s monologue is lost on these guys. 

“Yuuji Itadori. It's your big brother, Choso Kamo. I'm sorry for what happened.” 

“The residuals tell me you did this.” Sukuna reaches out with a white aura, ignoring Choso’s glare. 

Yuuji Itadori looks at least half dead. Covered in blood, head hanging. I turn away to face the girls.

“So… What were you doing here?”

“We were told that when he eats enough fingers, Sukuna would come out. But he never did.”

“Still, it was our only hope to save Geto. We had to try.” the girl with straight, dark hair continues.

“What do you mean, to save Geto?” Choso demands.

“The man in Geto’s body is not him. He lied to us.” 

“With stitches in his forehead?” 

“Yes.”

“He deceived me, as well. And he will pay for making me try to kill my little brother.”

“The stitches man. He's powerful?” sukuna’s priorities remain. 

“He took Geto's body for the technique. Curse manipulation.” 

“take me to him.” 

“let me attack him. Can we wait until my brother wakes up?” 

“I'm awake. Todo?” Yuuji mumbles, “when did you get here?”

“Not Todo, it's Choso. Our parent pit us against each other. And for that, I will kill him.”

“Hm… You're not really making sense. But I'm going after patchface.”

“Mahito? He's below us with a stock of transfigured humans.”

“I know…what i have to do,” yuuji's arm, limp at his side, draws into a fist.

“I'll stay here. you guys don't have to wait around.” I can see they're impatient and I'm over it. 

“please! Kill the man inside Geto, but bring him back.” the blonde girl calls after Choso and Sukuna. 

“So… Who are you?” Yuuji's words slur. 

I give him my name. Not sure what else to say. 

“That's weird, we haven't heard about you.”

“I'm only here by coincidence.” 

“I'm nanako, and this is mímiko. But I'm not sure if I believe you. Coincidentally walking by his side? That doesn't happen.”

“I don't get it, either. It's like some weird biological tie…” Please god let this turn into a gossip session, I cannot tell anyone that I've been drinking cursed tiddy milk after throwing up a cannibalized hand…. But I'd do it again. 

“So…what did those fingers taste like?” 

“Just like soap.” Yuji answers with no hesitation.

“Oh dude, I'm sorry. Soap is disgusting.”

“Why the hell are you guys eating soap?”

Mission accomplished. I can admit to eating soap as a child and finding that honey scented soap is somehow bitter. That's normal. 

But the chest milk… I hope I get to drink that again. It was like a baptism. Like it brought me back to life. 

Maybe that's what sukuna is - a walking baptism. He healed me without looking for a fight. Or maybe my fight was to survive his finger… And the rest was out of his hands. 

But it got he into his hands, and that... Was worth it.

Too bad for him though.

Chapter 6

To descend the stairs is to enter a deeper level of hell. But I can't put it off forever. 

Mimiko and Nanako asked for my help in seeing that Geto comes back. So I have to try. No one else has the balls or the luck to influence Sukuna's whims.

Yuuji leads us down. His confidence is convincing- the only traces of his brush with death are stains and holes in his school uniform. 

When the three of us are in the safest, most hidden spot with a view, I nod to Yuuji. He mirrors me with a serious expression. I almost pity the curse he's jumping the stairs to beat.

No one paid him attention - though I have a feeling that Choso noticed. He's facing away from us, pinning someone against the wall- a man with long hair in monk's robes. That must be Geto… I  can't see the stitches from here. 

Sukuna sits high on a pile of debris, looking down on them with his head resting on one arm. Amused and unbothered. 

A muffled choking reverberates around, with no movement to match it. 

“Where is that coming from?” I barely whisper.

Mimiko points at Geto's head. His body seems to be turning off.

Choso gathers blood into a small blade and cuts away the stitches. 

A brain jumps against the top of the skull, desperate to eject as soon as the gap is big enough to let it through. 

Geto's body slumps to the floor. Choso watches the grey blob run with homicide in his eyes. The brain has a foul mouth of long flat teeth, and limbs grown out of it. Arms or legs, they splash against the floor with dripping brain fluid. 

“That is so gross,” i mutter. 

Choso stalks it with hovering orbs of blood. I think they're going to catch up with Itadori.

Nanako and Mimiko run out, stopping a couple of meters away from Geto's body.

“What's happened to him?” Nanako asks, nervous to confront Sukuna, nervous about the green and purple spidery lines that splinter over Geto's head and spread down his neck.

I close the distance and they hover behind me. 

“I had him grow a brain. But it's disappointing.

Sorcerers in this era not building immunity to poison.”

“You poisoned him?” Nanako almost yells through her shaking voice.

“I don't recall you having a better idea to remove the parasite,” Sukuna counters quickly. “But I suppose we could try a remedy. Think you can find some ingredients?” 

The twins run outside. I find a stack of clean napkins and a paper cup of water, then stay with Geto, as if I know how to treat superhuman illness. He seems to be in some kind of fever dream. Breathing, rapid eye movement, that's good right? Though his skin is clammy and damp with sweat and brain fluid. I pour the water on some napkins and clean off his face. 

“So… Does he have a chance?” I ask, afraid that Sukuna just sent them out to be left alone. 

He sighs. Glances off like he's bored.

“Hey. Poison me the same way.”

“What, are you suicidal?”

“I just want to see if it works.”

“Hm… Fine.” 

Sukuna pulls my chin up, away from watching Geto's skin and trying to determine whether the effects are spreading or receding. He drags a nail down the side of my face. I feel a warm drop of blood slide down. Sukuna watches me intently, his grasp on my jaw won't let me turn away.

Maybe it's the stare of his extra eyes, but my blood runs cold. Skin like a pond frozen over in winter, alive underneath but wintering. The feeling sinks stranger and deeper, stranger and deeper, then disintegrates to memory. 

The blood in my veins is no longer hollow, but warm, normal - although the contrast makes me appreciate the sensation of normalcy.

My vision focuses before I realize it had been taken away. His eyes are still on me. He looks intrigued, satisfied, and finally he lets me go. 

“So that's it?”

“Yes. it seems I've granted you immunity to poisons.”

Suddenly it feels like I've asked for too much. It was lucky that for whatever reason, the heightened emotions or risk to my life, Sukuna's chest is ready for the harvest. 

He sits next to Geto with his legs like a nest, his four arms waiting to take me in. 

I really…I don't know how boobs work. I hold the cup close to his nipple and grab around it.  

My head twitches and eyes squeeze shut on their own. A few stray drops came out, but not in the right place. I wipe the milk out from my eyelashes and try again, spreading my hand over his tiddy and massaging toward the center. 

“This is going nowhere. Just use your mouth.” 

He's right. Even if we had a breastmilk pump, i wouldn't know how to use it.

So I reach out with my mouth, taking two euphoric swallows without remembering why I'm here. It takes a conscious effort to keep Sukuna's milk in my mouth, then drop it into the cup.  

I reach over to share it carefully with Geto. 

Sukuna takes it in his spare arm. We fall into a system where I suck on him, he brings the cup back, and I fill it. 

“Go meet those kids,” he puts the cup down. I keep the last mouthful for myself and get up. 

The twins race over, gasping for air. “Is this enough?” 

“Yeah, it's good,” i tell them. 

Sukuna begins to crush and flame herbs before dropping them into the cup or placing them across Geto's forehead. I think he's playing pretend with them.

“You spilled some on yourself,” mimiko blurts out and covers her mouth as fast as possible.

Sukuna and I make eye contact. His face tells me not to dare. 

I hold back a laugh, as if I would anyway. 

“Hey, I'll get you some drinks. What do you like?” 

“i like peach or mango,” Nanako answers first. 

“Um, watermelon or pear... But anything's fine.” mimiko’s face is a bit red.

“Hey. What about you?” I ask Sukuna.

“You decide,” he glares up at me. I'll look for a black tea then. It feels the safest.

I run off to the vending machines and totally forget who said what. So I come back with all 4 of their choices.

“Ryoumen Sukuna? Well, this is a surprise. Though I seem to have access to kenjaku's memories as well as my own, so more sense will be made with time.” a weak voice rambles.

“Geto!”

“You're okay!” The girls hug him. 

I set down their drinks. 

Sukuna looks relieved. I imagine he's ready to see what lurks below us. 

“Alright, what's next?” I hold out the tea and invite him away.

To give them privacy, to see that Yuuji and Choso are alive, or emboldened by the milk - I turn back and wave to the twins, but have no reservations about continuing to the next level of hell.

Chapter 7

The sorcerer from before glances into my eye as he runs past us up the stairs. He's with an electrified bird and a giant frog. They carry burn victims that I don't recognize. 

Sukuna lets out a single laugh with a slight, closed smile. We continue ahead, toward ashes and scorch marks. 

“Oh, how polite. They left me a snack.” Sukuna approaches the biggest charred form- it looks like nothing to me, an eroded statue after a volcanic eruption. I continue on without hesitating to leave him behind.

From a different angle it occurs to me that that was a man, with an arm severed before the fire. 

“Jogo! Thank you for the meal,” Sukuna growls as I pass by. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

Milk blood gets me stupid reckless. Maybe I should compensate for that. Take my time and be observant. 

The patter of grey matter, the slicing and splashing of blood. Only two audible entities on this floor. 

Choso has been taking his time with the brain. It's clearly a personal grudge, but…how is that thing a parent? Either I'm misunderstanding the whole thing, or Yuuji equally lost. He's not even here. Neither is a patchface. But some dreadful feeling seems to rise like smoke from below the floor. 

“Hey, you! What did I miss?” Sukuna jumps over the railing, his kimono flowing gracefully in the descent.

“Oh, what took you so long?” I ask as his feet land in perfect balance.

“No one tastes as good as me!”

I stare up into his four eyes blankly. What.

“I had to start another fire just to get the taste out. Old men are disgusting.” 

“yeah,” i agree, and turn back to Choso and Kenjaku. This time I won't get in his way. Not like I even have the chance to.

He has it cornered, pinned to the wall with a long pole of blood. Then over and over with more needles, like a dart board. Bloody grey bits gradually crumble to the floor. I pass by quietly, giving him space and time to sort that out.

It's funny how seeing Choso in that state, I'd still feel safe with him. Maybe it's a shallow attraction to the way he dresses. Or that he took a risk to protect me.

But I get a really bad feeling about floor B5. Anything feels safe compared to that.

Sukuna wraps two arms around my shoulders. “Aw, come on. You scared now?” he teases. But I take what I can get and pull him in by the waist. But we don't stop walking.

Chapter 8

Sukuna looks down with a grimace. My fingers are tightly intertwined in his. Fuck. How did that happen? I release him and back up into the wall. 

Yuuji and Mahito are insane. It sounds like a horror circus down here, faces stretched into giant clay blobs of green, blue, pink, yellow, teal, etc etc. I don't like it.

I consider retreating to infringe on Choso's emotional breakdown. 

The noise dies down, the patchface laughter cutting through, an identical copy of that sound drifting down the stairs. There are two of them, running toward each other. 

A girl with strong eyes and copper hair chases after the second patchface. She has to be crazy strong. fearless. 

“Kugisaki! Run!” Yuuji's voice strains in desperation. 

The curse Yuuji was fighting runs toward her. Both laugh maniacally.

I pull up a piece of clay off the ground by my feet. it's heavy like a person. I swing it around in a throw at the spirit. A voice seems to slip out of it, the mass slips from my grasp and doesn't reach as far as I meant to. But the humanoid does trip with its face skidding onto the floor, and Kugisaki uses this chance to run off. 

“YOU!!” Mahito growls, his face of madness piercing mine. I freeze and death glare at him, the only action I can will my body to take. 

“Resonance!” Kugisaki’s voice drives across B5, followed by the collision of hammer and nails. 

The curse in front of me spurts blood, fighting to stumble and take me down. It's enough to break the trance.

I run past a clay train with open faces. anywhere to put distance between us. But that instinct is trapping me on the lowest level.

Mahito's clone is riddled with nails. She goes at him with a wide smile that could rival Sukuna's.

“Kugisaki!” Yuuji calls, “keep doing that! No one else's technique works on him. We have to hurt the shape of his soul.”

“Yeah, I know! And don't let him touch you with his hands. Anything else?” metallic clashes over her words.

“Um, no! I don't think so.” Itadori takes a guardian stance.

I look behind us. The main body is rising with demonic contortion, and arms grow in its open mouth. Am I…seeing that right from here?

“Domain expansion… Self-embodiment of perfection!” Mahito strains to pour out his remaining strength into something that cannot be good. 

Darkness and grey giant hands swell around us. Don't touch the hands?? They're bigger than all of us! 

In the dim void, Sukuna's white kimono, eyes and teeth reflect light with no source. He's elated. he makes a simple hand sign.

“Domain expansion. Malevolent shrine.”

A red light filters over the grey. Fires light the hands like candles and melt them down to ash. The clone body twitches and stays lying down. 

Sukuna steps closer to the main body, savoring the moment, keeping his gaze steady.  unaffected by the way that Mahito is still coughing up blood. 

“Hey, Itadori… What did I miss?” Kugisaki's voice wavers for the first time. 

“Oh, Um… You know, I'm not really sure either.” He scratches his fluffy pink hair that took on a bright, slime-like glow from Sukuna's domain. How does this guy sound so casual? 

Sukuna looms over Mahito and tries to provoke him into a better fight. The curse whimpers and splits into snakes, slithering away from each other and toward us. 

“Hey, itadori… We're okay as long as he doesn't have hands, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. only his main body should be able to distort the shape of a soul.” the three of us keep our eyes on the approaching snakes, or maybe they're more like worms... Ugly, with stupid faces, no scales, fluffs of hair for whatever reason. It's enough to trigger my fear of puppets. 

Sukuna flicks his fingers and they slice down the middle, with effortless symmetry. Like an arcade game he's beat on every level, and is no longer fun except to show off. 

The ones that remain squirm away faster. 

I have a suspicion that he knows where the main body is, and is saving it for last. 

Several of them burst into flames. Two at a time, until one remains.

“God, you're so boring, Sukuna groans. “I'll let you touch me one time. So give it your best.”

The last puppet worm shifts and grows into Mahito's usual humanoid shape. “Idle transfiguration!” He reaches out to Sukuna, and freezes on contact. 

“no way! I can't…” he shifts into a sort of bird, stuttering and crying, thrashing ashes at Sukuna, who just watches and chuckles. Letting this drag on is some psychological torture.

“so, this means you aren't Sukuna's vessel, right?” Kugisaki asks.

“I guess not,” yuuji answers. 

“Good to know.”

“Um, sorry but, you could be.” I realize he wasn't alive enough to hear us earlier.

“Huh?”

“The fingers didn't activate because his curse womb was already functionally a body. But if he dies, then he'll become you, you know?” God I hope that makes sense. I don't know basic shit about sorcery.

“Oh! So they're just cursed energy power-ups.” Yuuji seems to understand more than me. 

“Yeah, when they're dormant.   but if his current form is destroyed, then we lose you, too. So best to keep him alive.” I get the impression that Kugisaki scolds him a lot.

“It's not like anyone could take him down, right? Except for Gojo.” yuuji turns to me. “How is Gojo?”

“I haven't heard anything.” 

“I guess he's still sealed, then.”

“Ugh. Annoying.” Sukuna waves his hand and Mahito's body splits into cubes. The domain recedes, and purple goo puddles around his grey remains on the station’s lowest floor.

Chapter 9

Kugisaki and Itadori want to free Gojo from the prison realm. I'm not sure what that means, and at this point I'm too afraid to ask.

If Geto had it last, then that's enough to work with.

Sukuna sulks over how pathetic the human / death cursed spirit was. I guess some part of him blames Nobara for taking him down so hard, blames himself for letting her wreck Mahito so badly. But if she's strong enough to defeat that thing, then she has to be on his list of sorcerers to battle. 

As we climb out of the station, Choso's words replay in my head. Mahito? He's below us with a stock of transfigured humans. That explains the awful wriggling feeling, the ghost voices, the tortured faces stretched around those figures that were never clay. If I'd realized that before, would Nobara have become like that? The thought scares me. 

Some leftovers from Sukuna's arm remain on the burnt floor. Its scent lingers with temptation. I could probably handle it now. But that's no way to make friends. I rush up the steps before it can pull me back.

On B3, there is no sign of Choso. A pile of brain dust in that corner, and some prints from his shoes trailing away from it. A pit sinks in my heart. What if I never see him again? Am I simping so pathetically…

B2. I feel relieved to see that none of the drinks remain. So they're fine, just… Somewhere else. 

B1 is empty. The floor hasn't crumbled beyond the clean cut circle. I wonder if Choso is an artist? Engravings, into anything…

“Yuuji. You've eliminated the patchface?” He stands above the entrance like a gargoyle guarding us from outside threats. Relief flows through me at the sight I should have expected. 

“Yeah. Well, no. I gave him some black flashes but it didn't affect his soul. Kugisaki and Sukuna finished him off." Yuuji's voice hangs limp in the night. “I need the prison realm. Have you seen Geto?”

“They went to look for a bakery with crepes. I'll help you find it.” 

Choso and Yuuji walk in front. I fall in line next to Nobara. Sukuna follows like my chaperone. He's been unusually quiet, reduced to quietly observing. Not the god of chaos I first saw him as.

The street is pretty lifeless. A fresh ghost town. The occasional transfigured human wanders aimlessly. Sukuna puts them out of their misery with the slightest finger twitch. He feels like a gentle protector.

“Over there,” Choso directs us to the only business with a glow of intentional light and the movement of human life inside. He opens the door and we follow through it.

 “Suguruu! Try it like this,” a tall man with chaotic white bedhead assembles some cavity-inducing dessert and offers it to Geto with pride. Actually, they're the same height. Geto's baggy clothes make him look short. And I hadn't seen him stand before.

“Gojo! You're okay!!” Yuuji throws his arms around his neck, and they laugh together.

I realize that Gojo isn't bandaged, but wearing a tight black blindfold. Not a single, slight injury on him.

“He's fine, but going for the world's biggest sugar crash,” Nanako comments, hardly looking up from her phone. Its bright green case with bunny ears sticks out. Mimiko curiously samples their creations. A plush doll hangs across her shoulders. 

Geto meets my gaze with soft dark eyes from behind the counter. “Thank you for looking after my daughters,” he says with an even softer voice. I wonder what Kenjaku sounded like from inside his body. “We're just warming up and assembling their leftovers. Can I make you something?”

“Um, whatever is good,” I accept, “just… Not as much sugar as that guy.” 

“Huh?” Gojo's mouth hangs open like a square.

Geto laughs lightly, “I understand,” and steps away. 

“Truly…I love pastries as much as the next bitch, but you take it too far,” Nobara remarks in her chest voice.

“I agree with her.” Someone adds from a dark corner. The guy from before, with the shikigami, at a booth alone with black coffee. 

“Fushiguro! I missed you!” Yuuji slides in next to him.

Sukuna was looking forward to meeting this guy again… Where is he? I look out the front door. He's nowhere.

“Sukuna's sitting on the roof, sniping curses,” Gojo tells me casually.

“Oh… You're psychic?” I guess.

“I can see better than you, even through this,” he pulls the blindfold away and lets it snap back to his face. 

I trade my name for a plate from Geto and sink into an empty booth. The air is warm and smells of sugar. Does he know that he drank milk that was in my mouth? It's like...a violation...but he was dying.

“Hey,” Choso slides in across the table. 

I look up and smile at him. 

“I think… My brother wants to be with his friends right now.” His brows close together as he looks down at the crepe before him.

Choso wants to get closer to yuuji, and I'm trying to chase Choso. I rub my forehead and look past his shoulder. 

“Satoru! Look what you've done,” Geto's voice drifts like a pastel sky, impossibly light and gentle. 

“Oh, my deepest apologies, your majesty,” Gojo jokes, bowing to clean Geto's fingers with his mouth, raising his head to make seductive eye contact with him. 

They're like chaotic high school besties and gentle lovers at the same time. It kind of melts my heart.

“I should go,” Choso states.

“No!” I grab his forearm before he can stand, then pull back. Don't be aggressive.

“Sorry, I spaced out there… It's been a weird night,” i make the stupidest excuse. Like tonight was normal for anyone. 

The door opens. A fluffy black dog leads more people inside. 

“Aww, who's a good boy?” Yuuji calls him over.

“Are you done yet?” Megumi asks flatly, but his dark eyes sparkle. 

Yuuji hugs and pets the dog until it melts down to a black shadow in the floor.

“Aw, come on. You know I don't like you just for them, right?” 

Strange plushies with tufts of hair and uncanny faces stagger through the aisle.

I turn back to Choso. “Um, do you want to sit in that corner?” I nod to the farthest seats. 

There, we sit on the table, my back to everyone else. “Sorry for being so distracted. How are you feeling?”

Chapter 10

“i feel… More alive than before. My parent is dead. I have a living brother. I think I'm connecting more to my human side than to my cursed.” His dark eyes stare into a distance. The darkened skin around them spreads like decades of tear stains.

“Hee-hee,” a childlike giggle jumps onto the bench, the toy's vacant face stares into mine. 

I flinch so hard, my heart practically ejects. The edges of my vision pulse white and aggressive.

I try to orient myself. Focus on breathing. A strong arm holds me back from falling off the table.

“You're okay,” Choso says softly. I'm not sure if it was intended to be a question or a comfort.

“Thank you,” I blush and avert my clearing gaze, “you're always protecting me.”

“Yaga! Contain your corpses!” Gojo yells, throwing that thing to the front of the café.

Then he leans on the table across from ours.

“Sorry about those. Creepy, right?” He asks, leaning his head down like he'd be peering over the fabric but it has no gaps. 

I nod. Choso's hand moves along my shoulder and I lean into him.

“Almost as creepy as this.” Gojo holds a cube up on his fingertips. I can tell my face is as blank as my mind here. He puts it away.

“So… What were you two doing in Shibuya?”

I am relieved to get by with the half-true narrative that I ate a finger. They can think I'm normal like Yuuji.

“Ah. that explains the unregulated cursed energy.” He leans forward. “how would you like a career change?”

“if it means I don't have to work in the same cramped, haunted office every day - yeah, please sign me up.”

“Okay! Good to hear.” He smiles and leans back into the table.

“Choso. I respect your decision, but are you willing to make a pact in order to get in? Our old ass higher-ups might require it.”

“I have no ties to the curses or my father except for my cursed technique and my brother. I would have saved my mother from myself if I could.”

“I see. You have a pure heart. It was pretty funny when Jogo yelled at you for not attacking anyone,” Gojo chuckles. I haven't seen his eyes, but I can feel the eye contact.

“Since you've already graduated, and you aren't even a registered human… We can forge some documents, if you'd like. Anyway, there's an abandoned dorm we’ll set up for you and anyone else in a similar situation. 

Also , I know it's a pain , but try to document anything relevant to tonight's events before it's forgotten. Frankly, I'm just covering my ass to say that. I can't wait for these stupid reports to be over.” I think Nanako’s prophecy is hitting. The sugar crash.

“The cars will be here soon to drive us to jujutsu high. Can I see your phones?”

“I don't have one.” I look up at Choso's face. He isn't upset about it, just stating a fact.

I feel my pockets. I don't have my bag either. Where is my stuff? Burned, cut to shreds, or cast aside in that dreadful groaning building when I clocked out?

“Don't worry! We can get them later,” Gojo says like it's nothing serious. The blood returns to my face.

“Um, what's a pact?” I whisper to Choso.

“It's like a promise with cursed energy, and consequences for breaking.”

“Oh. I'm…not sure how to use cursed energy,” i shift so my legs dangle off the edge.

“It's okay. I can help you.” Something warm in Choso's voice, in his steady hand that never left my arm. 

Headlights on black cars line up outside. A man with short dark hair and small dark glasses stands across from Sukuna, who stands out like a bride in his white kimono. They shake hands while people in black suits stand in front of their cars, recording the event on their phones.

“I believe the pact they agreed to,” Gojo comments behind us, "is that he can go wherever he wants to, but not harm for the sake of it.” 

One of his lower red eyes flicks over and smiles at me.

I wonder if it weren't Halloween night, and if the average population hadn't evacuated, what kind of life Sukuna could have here. Societies tend to group together and judge idiosyncrasies so harshly. He'd be outcast as a monster, no doubt. Unless it's pulled off as a performance art… 

No. He'll get bored anywhere else. 

“Okay, team! Gojo is ready for bed! Let's hit those cars.”

[dickytwister]

now i'm an exile seein' you out

rating: teens and up audiences || pairing: evan "buck" buckley/tommy kinard || word count: 2,974 || read on AO3

summary:

A life without Evan Buckley is an incredibly dull one, one that Tommy takes a while getting used to again. He pours himself into his work to take his mind off that night. Months later, he still finds himself looking at passing firetrucks, hoping to catch a glimpse of a blonde head of curls through one of the windows. His heart races when he hears a laugh that sounds too familiar, only to turn around and meet a stranger’s eyes.

But a life alone is a safe one. He’s only ever been disappointed, and he’s always had the strength to get back up. He’s not sure he’d have had the strength to go on if Buck had played with his heart.

(The way he did, he reminds himself. Buck’s eyes follow him everywhere. He can’t wash the betrayal from his skin.)

or: my attempt at a fix-it for the dumpster fire that was the last episode lmao

[kinardsevan]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard, Maddie Buckley/Howie "Chimney" Han, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Maddie Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Original Male Character(s), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Bobby Nash, Tommy Kinard & Bobby Nash, Maddie Buckley & Tommy Kinard Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Tommy Kinard, Maddie Buckley, Bobby Nash, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Stabbing, Kidnapping, Hostage Situations, Evan "Buck" Buckley Stands Up for Self, Hospitalization, Medical Inaccuracies, Tommy Kinard Loves Evan "Buck" Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley Loves Tommy Kinard, Post-Canon Fix-It, Fix-It Summary:

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Evan lies. He turns his head toward the window on the other side of the room so she can’t see his expression. He tries rubbing his wrists together, feeling the ache from their bindings on his arms.

“Evan,” she growls, her voice wet with the threat of tears.

He doesn’t look at her. He can’t look at her. He’s working on committing her to memory. Black jeans. White cardigan. Blue tank top underneath. Converse sneakers. A bruise on her chin. Black jeans. White cardigan. Blue tank top-

“I’m not leaving here without you,” she says, her tone growing angrier.

He doesn’t answer. At least not out loud.

But the words are strong inside his head.

Yes you are.

OR: Evan and Maddie get kidnapped, and he negotiates her release, only to face a dangerous situation in her absence.... Until a pilot arrives to save him. Things don't exactly go as planned.

[subway-boss-jericho]

Queuing posts for most of my AUs! Check out this Masterpost! (Disclaimer! - Please don't comment about their iconic knife bangs! I left them off this reference to keep their faces fully visible.)

Ingo and Ingo and Emmet Hop The Multiverse

-Premise- On a day that would have otherwise been entirely unremarkable, Ingo and Emmet- Long standing Unova Subway Bosses -stumble across a very strange missing link. It would seem that, somewhere in the history books, there is a man named Ingo who looks just like him, yet they have no Sinnohan family lineage or any other sort of family ties that would lead them to believe this isn't some impossibly insane coincidence. Unable to let this strange thread go, the two of them decide to take investigation into their own hands.

With the assistance of some higher powers as curious and whimsical as they are, if not more, they travel back into Hisuian history and find... Ingo. A man just like him- A man who seems to have been Emmet's brother... But it doesn't seem quite right! Their benefactors can confirm that they don't have any temporal disturbances lined up for them, which can only mean... He is not Emmet's twin. Or rather, not this Emmet's twin.

Determined to return him exactly where he belongs and reunite this brother who fell so far from home, the three of them set off across the multiverse- Helping every other set of alternate twins they encounter along the way!

-Noteworthy Points- This AU is open for crossovers! The wacky adventures of Emmet, his brother Ingo, and his other brother who is Also Ingo. They've adopted him. It's essentially an open ended fix-it fic for me (or us!) to invent silly, emotional, or extremely unlikely scenarios for multiverse shenanigans :D

The two Ingos differentiate from each other with their clothing, and they also go by different names. Warden Ingo goes simply by Warden, and I haven't decided what Subway Boss Ingo goes by, but I think it's likely he often just gets called "Brother" because that is what Emmet defaults to calling him when differentiating between the two.

Speaking of their clothing! Their outfits are custom made! (Elesa hooked them up, they returned home to make plans and get to know Warden better!) This is primarily so they can distinguish each other from alternate selves, but also so that they don't accidentally lose each other in the shuffle. Warden's coat is still his original coat, just now outfitted/dyed to match the other two. His arm band is completely untouched, though. (Arm band symbolism, as you can see, is my fucking BRAND)

The logos on the twins' hats and on Warden's pin/tunic are a design I made :D

Lastly! They have MANY gadgets and doodads! Their benefactor tech'd them out for their adventures with lots of safety equipment and other items needed for cross-dimensional travel, and presumably they also watch their antics closely and with great amusement. I haven't decided exactly who is helping them, but so far we're leaving it ambiguously open to one or more legendary pokemon. (Dialga and Palkia are high up there but I have yet to decide.)

They are going to cause so many hijinks.

-Links- Currently none! I will update this post with links to comics/art/writing if/when I post any!

[angelsandarsenic]

Angel’s Valentines Update Week!

basically I’m working on all my romance related fics for Valentines week!

❤️- It’s Not Love (I Swear) (Slimeriana divorce fix-it)

❤️- The Eyes of Ghosts (Deathduo Count of Monte Cristo AU

❤️-The Universe Conspired to Help Me Find You (TnT Duo Cupid AU)

❤️-Midknight Rendevouz—Starhalo royalty AU Oneshot

❤️-Something About a Pretty Pale Face, Dark Hair, and Lips Turning Blue at the Edges (horror romance where Deathduo are supernatural investigators)

This will be updated as each story is posted/updated!

[gummyyummyjam]

I'm home alone (you're God-knows-where)

In the shadow of Harry Potter’s endless departures and promises, Draco Malfoy learns the cost of loving someone who may never learn to stay.

The Slytherin common room was eerily quiet tonight. The greenish glow from the lake’s waters reflected through the windows, casting an otherworldly light on the plush furniture. It was a silence Draco Malfoy had grown accustomed to, though not one he particularly liked. His fingers toyed with the edges of a well-worn book on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over twenty minutes. His thoughts were elsewhere, circling back to a certain messy-haired Gryffindor who had, once again, disappeared without explanation.

Harry bloody Potter.

Draco’s lips twitched into a wry smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d never imagined himself in this position: pining for the Golden Boy, waiting for scraps of his attention like some lovesick fool. It was ironic, really. He’d spent years hating Potter, envying him, and now… well, now he’d give anything for Harry to stay.

But Harry never stayed. Not really.

“The games you played were never fun,” Draco muttered to himself, voice low and bitter. The memory of Harry’s last departure lingered in his mind. The half-hearted promises, the fleeting kiss goodbye, and then… nothing. Days would pass, sometimes weeks, before Harry resurfaced, acting as though everything was fine, as though Draco wasn’t left behind to pick up the pieces.

Draco’s knuckles tightened around the book. He was tired of it. Tired of giving Harry what he wanted, of trying to be what Harry said he needed, only to be left torn apart when the Gryffindor inevitably walked away. It wasn’t fair, was it? No, Draco thought bitterly, it wasn’t fair at all.

The first time they’d kissed had been in the aftermath of a duel. A heated exchange of spells in an abandoned classroom had spiraled into something else entirely. The room had smelled of burnt parchment and dust, the air still crackling with residual magic. Draco could still remember the way Harry had looked at him—eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, and then, suddenly, lips pressed against his in a kiss that was more fire than finesse. It had been exhilarating, intoxicating, and utterly confusing.

Draco had pushed Harry away at first, his heart hammering in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he’d demanded, though the answer was clear in Harry’s eyes. Those damn green eyes… they always seemed to hold the truth Draco wasn’t ready to face.

Harry had shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Does it matter?”

And at the time, it hadn’t. The heat of the moment, the thrill of breaking every unspoken rule… it had been enough. But now, months later, it mattered more than Draco cared to admit. He’d fallen into something he couldn’t control, and the weight of it was starting to crush him.

Draco sighed and set the book aside, leaning back against the couch. His gaze drifted to the window, where he could just make out the faint outline of the squid gliding past. The room felt too big, too empty. “I don’t want any settled scores,” he whispered to the empty room. “I just want you to set me free.”

But Harry never did. He kept coming back, weaving himself into Draco’s life with a charm that was impossible to resist. And every time, Draco let him. He let Harry in, knowing full well that he’d leave again. Knowing that every return carried a ticking clock, counting down to the moment Harry would slip away once more.

It wasn’t that Draco was afraid of being alone. He’d faced more than his fair share of solitude over the years. It had been his constant companion in the shadowed corners of Malfoy Manor, during sleepless nights spent dreading his father’s wrath, and in the quiet moments when the weight of the war threatened to break him. But with Harry, it was different. With Harry, he’d tasted something he hadn’t realized he craved: a connection, a bond that felt real, even if it was fleeting.

“What makes you so sure you’re all I need?” Draco asked the empty room, his voice cracking slightly. He hated how vulnerable he felt, hated the way Harry’s absence left him feeling hollow and restless. It was like trying to breathe with half his lungs missing.

Draco's breath hitched as he stared into the flickering flames of the Slytherin common room’s hearth, his hands trembling ever so slightly. The quiet crackle of the fire was the only sound, but in his mind, Harry’s voice was loud, echoing with words that should have been comforting but had cut him instead.

“You knew what this was,” Harry had said. His tone had been even, almost apologetic, but not enough to disguise the indifference beneath. “Don’t make it more than it is, Draco.”

The words replayed in a loop, each iteration stabbing deeper into the fragile walls Draco had tried to build around his heart. He’d given everything to Harry, more than he thought he was capable of. And yet, it was never enough.

When Harry finally returned, it was well past midnight. Draco heard the telltale creak of the common room door and the soft shuffle of footsteps. The sound was almost tentative, as though Harry knew he wasn’t welcome, he was sneaking inside the supposed-to-be-enemy’s territory for Merlin’s sake, but hoped he might be forgiven anyway. Draco didn’t bother to turn around. Let Harry come to him for once.

“Good. You’re still awake,” Harry said softly, his voice laced with guilt.

Draco let out a humorless laugh. “What gave it away? The fact that I’m sitting here, wide-eyed, in the middle of the night? Yeah, it’s good too that no one hexed me yet, I could still brood and all.”

Harry winced and moved closer, perching on the armrest of the couch. He looked tired, his hair messier than usual, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t been easy. But Draco didn’t care. Not tonight.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, reaching out to touch Draco’s shoulder. But Draco shrugged him off, his body stiff with tension.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Potter,” Draco snapped. His silver eyes burned with anger and something deeper, something more painful. “You can’t just… disappear and expect me to wait around like some loyal lapdog. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you.”

Harry’s face fell, and for a moment, Draco thought he’d finally gotten through to him. But then Harry’s expression hardened. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

“Don’t I?” Draco challenged, standing up and glaring at Harry. His hands trembled at his sides, but he clenched them into fists, willing himself to stay strong. “You’re teaching me to live without you, Potter. And guess what? I’m getting good at it.”

The words hung in the air like a curse, heavy and unforgiving. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Harry stood, his jaw clenched. “If that’s how you feel, maybe I should go.”

Draco’s heart clenched, but he refused to let it show. “Maybe you should.”

Harry left, slamming the door behind him, and Draco sank back onto the couch. He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? He was free. Free from the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. Free from Harry’s games.

So why did it feel like he’d just lost the only thing that had ever truly mattered?

The minutes stretched into hours, the silence growing heavier with each passing moment. Draco stared at the window, his reflection blurry in the glass. “I’m not afraid anymore,” he whispered, though the words felt hollow. “I’m not afraid.”

But as the night dragged on, and the first rays of dawn began to filter through the windows, Draco realized something he’d been avoiding for months.

He wasn’t afraid of being alone.

He was afraid of a life without Harry.

The days following Harry’s departure blurred together in a haze of monotony. Draco carried on, as one does, slipping into the carefully curated routines that masked his unraveling. Breakfast in the Great Hall, potions with Slughorn, study sessions in the library—each task performed with meticulous precision, each interaction scripted to perfection.

But the truth was glaring beneath the surface.

He was hollow.

The Slytherin common room, once a sanctuary of cold comfort, now felt suffocating. The greenish light of the lake had lost its hypnotic quality, replaced by a dull reminder of isolation. Even his dormitory, always a reprieve from the world, felt heavy with Harry’s absence. The spaces between Draco’s breaths were no longer filled with Harry’s reckless laughter, the way his presence seemed to electrify even the most mundane moments.

Draco had told himself he was teaching his heart to forget. But forgetting was harder than he’d anticipated.

A flashback, an unbidden memory, tugged at the corners of Draco's mind like a relentless tide. It was from the beginning, a long way before Harry had first kissed him, and their meetings—because of their so-called truce or friendship or whatever Harry was indicating— were still wrapped in the thrill of secrecy.  

It had been a rainy afternoon in the library, the sound of raindrops against the ancient windows a soothing backdrop. Harry had appeared out of nowhere, his tie loose, his hair damp, and that maddening smirk on his face.

“Can’t stay away, can you?” Harry had teased, leaning over Draco’s shoulder as if they were the closest of friends.

Draco had scowled, though the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. Some of us actually are here to study.”

But Harry had laughed, that low, infectious chuckle that made Draco’s stomach twist in ways he refused to acknowledge. He’d sat down across from Draco, close enough that their knees brushed under the table. It had been infuriating and intoxicating all at once. And so, he’d ignored Harry after that, burying himself in his work. But Harry’s presence was impossible to ignore. He lingered, leaning against the bookshelf, tossing casual remarks that disrupted Draco’s concentration.

“You’re so bloody predictable,” Harry had remarked again, his green eyes dancing. “Always pretending you’re above it all.”

Draco’s cheeks had burned, and his pride stung. He snapped his book shut, glaring, his voice rising despite the glares from Madam Pince. “And you’re insufferable. Why don’t you go bother someone else?”

Harry’s smile had faded, replaced by something unreadable. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because I don’t want someone else.”

The air had shifted, charged, and heavy. Draco had frozen, his quill poised mid-air. He’d wanted to retort, to cut Harry down with words, but his throat had tightened. By the time he’d found his voice, Harry had suddenly walked away, leaving Draco with a swirl of confusion and an ache he couldn’t name. And for that moment, Draco had allowed himself to believe and believe, that maybe, just maybe, Harry meant it. 

One night, three days after Harry had walked out, Draco found himself back in the Astronomy Tower. He hadn’t intended to come here, but his feet had carried him almost of their own accord. The cool night air bit at his skin, and the stars above seemed distant and indifferent, much like Draco himself often pretended to be.

And then another memory rose up, it wasn’t nearly as soft. It came with the sharp sting of betrayal. It had been during one of those clandestine meetings in the Astronomy Tower, where they’d carved out a fragile world of their own . 

Harry had arrived late, his hair damp from the rain, his robes askew. Draco had paced the length of the tower, his frustration boiling over as soon as Harry entered.

“Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you?” Draco had hissed, his voice sharp enough to cut.

Harry had run a hand through his hair, looking both guilty and defensive. “I’m sorry, okay? Things got… complicated.”

“They’re always complicated with you,” Draco shot back, his silver eyes blazing. “You say you want this—us—but then you disappear for days, weeks. Do you even care?”

Harry’s face had darkened, his jaw tightening. “Of course, I care! But it’s not that simple, Draco. It’s not always easy to get away. You know that! You don’t understand—”

“Do I? No, I don’t understand!” Draco had interrupted, his voice cracking. “Because you won’t let me. You keep me at arm’s length like I’m some dirty little secret you’re ashamed of. And yet, all I know is that I’m always here, waiting, while you—” He’d paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “While you treat me like an afterthought! Is that all I am to you?”

Harry had stepped closer, his expression softening. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is giving you everything,” Draco had whispered, his voice trembling, “and getting nothing in return.”

Harry’s silence had been damning. He’d reached out, his hand hovering near Draco’s shoulder, but Draco had stepped back, his heart splintering.

“Don’t,” Draco had whispered, his voice trembling. “Don’t touch me if you don’t mean it.”

Harry had dropped his hand, his expression a mixture of regret and frustration. 

“I never asked you to…” Harry had muttered, his voice barely audible.

The words had hit Draco harder than any curse. He’d turned away, unwilling to let Harry see the tears that threatened to spill. And then, he felt Harry turned away too, and left without another word, leaving Draco alone in the cold, the wind biting at his skin.

Draco closed his eyes, the memory cutting sharper than any blade. He’d hated how Harry had made him feel so out of control, yet he’d craved it too. That wild, unpredictable spark that Harry carried—it had been intoxicating.

Now, it was a phantom pain.

Over and over, he tried to pinpoint the exact moment everything had unraveled. It wasn’t that Draco wanted Harry to suffer; that wasn’t it at all. What he wanted—what he had always wanted—was for Harry to understand. To see the cracks beneath the surface, the scars Draco carried from years of trying and failing to be enough. Enough for his family, enough for his housemates, and now, enough for Harry. But how could he make Harry see when he himself didn’t have the words?

But not all their moments were filled with pain. There were flashes of happiness, fleeting but bright enough to sear into Draco’s memory, as whatever the thing between them kept happening.

One winter evening, they’d found themselves in the Room of Requirement, where the fire crackled warmly, and the snow fell softly outside the enchanted windows as if the fiendfyre and its aftermath didn’t happen at all. They’d been arguing—as they always did—but it had dissolved into laughter when Harry had tripped over a pile of cushions and landed in an undignified heap.

Draco had smirked, leaning against the armrest of the couch. “Graceful as ever, Potter.”

Harry had thrown a cushion at him, his laughter infectious. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

Before Draco could respond, Harry had tackled him, pinning him to the couch. Their faces had been inches apart, their breaths mingling in the warm air.

“You’re insufferable,” Draco had muttered, though his voice lacked venom.

Harry had grinned, his eyes alight with mischief. “I already know that. What else?”

Draco had rolled his eyes, but he hadn’t pushed Harry away and instead pulled him closer. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, their lips almost touching but not, and the tension between them had been soft and slow and filled with unspoken promises.

And another memory escaped, shifting the moments into something vile.

“Why do you always have to push me away?” Harry had asked, his voice raw.

Draco had laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Harry had looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, Draco had thought he saw something real, something vulnerable in those emerald eyes. Harry had stepped closer, his hands framing Draco’s face.

“I’m trying,” Harry had whispered, his forehead resting against Draco’s. “I just… I don’t know how to do this.”

Draco had wanted to believe him. Merlin, he’d wanted to. And for a little while, he guessed he had.

As he sat alone in that tower, Draco closed his eyes against the sting of the memories, but they came anyway, brighter and more vivid than the firelight in his mind like a cruel montage. The good, the bad, the in-between—all of it a reminder of what he’d lost and what he still yearned for. Harry had been a storm in his life, unpredictable and consuming. And he’d loved Harry with a desperation that scared him, a love that he’d worn like armor even as it left him vulnerable. He’d have caught a grenade for Harry and jumped in front of the Killing Curse if it meant saving him. But Harry…

Harry had never been willing to do the same.

And now, in his absence, Draco was left with the quiet aftermath, wondering if he’d ever feel whole again.

One evening, as the common room grew colder with the approaching winter, Draco sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring into the fireplace. The flames flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the room. The embers reminded him of Harry—of the fire in his eyes, the warmth he carried even in his most infuriating moments.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Pansy’s voice broke through the quiet, startling him. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression soft but tinged with frustration. She had always been perceptive, too much so for Draco’s comfort.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Pansy sighed and sat down beside him, her presence steady and grounding. “You’re miserable, Draco. And we both know why.”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The weight of her words settled over him, heavy and unyielding.

“He’s not worth this,” Pansy said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re tearing yourself apart for someone who doesn’t even see it.”

Draco flinched at her words, though he knew she wasn’t trying to hurt him. “It’s not that simple,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “He does see it. I think… I think that’s the problem.”

Pansy frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Draco stared into the fire, searching for the right words. “Harry… he’s afraid of what this means. What we mean. Every time he gets close, he panics. He pulls away, and I—” He broke off, his throat tightening. “I let him.”

“Why?” Pansy’s voice was sharp now, demanding an answer.

“Because,” Draco said, his voice trembling, “I’d rather have pieces of him than nothing at all.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Pansy’s expression softened, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Draco, you deserve more than that. You deserve someone who stays.”

Draco didn’t respond. Deep down, he knew she was right. But knowing and believing were two entirely different things. He felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. He’d given Harry his heart, his soul, every piece of himself he could offer. But Harry had only ever taken, leaving Draco to pick up the shattered remains.

“I would have died for you,” Draco whispered into the empty room, his voice breaking. “But you wouldn’t even stay for me.”

The fire crackled on, indifferent to his pain, as Draco’s tears finally fell, silent and unrelenting.

The seventh day brought a letter.

It was tucked beneath Draco’s Charms textbook, folded haphazardly, as though whoever had delivered it hadn’t cared whether it reached him at all. Draco stared at the unfamiliar parchment for a long time, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t need to see the messy handwriting to know it was from Harry.

His fingers trembled as he unfolded it.

Draco,

I don’t know how to start this. I never do. Words have never been my strong suit, not when it comes to this… to us. But I’ll try because you deserve that much.

Draco’s breath hitched.

I’ve always been rubbish at staying. I think you know that better than anyone. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that I care too much. And sometimes that scares me. Being with you… it makes me feel things I don’t know how to handle. Like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t see, and one wrong move will send me over.

Draco’s vision blurred, and he blinked furiously.

But walking away doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t stop me from missing you, from wanting you. I thought if I left, I’d be doing us both a favor. That maybe you’d be better off without me. But now… I’m not so sure.

I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. For making you feel like you’re not enough when the truth is, you’re more than I ever deserved.

I want to fix this. If you’ll let me.

-Harry

Draco sat there for what felt like hours, the letter clutched tightly in his hands. He read it over and over, dissecting every word, every pause, every sentiment. It was messy and flawed and painfully honest—just like Harry.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to storm into Gryffindor Tower and hex Harry for being so infuriating. But more than that, he wanted to believe again .

Believe that Harry meant it. Again .

That this time would be different. Again .

The knock on the Slytherin common room door came late that night. Draco knew it was Harry before he even opened it. He could feel his presence, like a storm brewing just beyond the threshold.

When Draco finally pulled the door open, Harry stood there, looking as disheveled as ever. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked like a man ready to beg for redemption.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Draco said quietly, his voice devoid of the sharp edges it usually carried.

Harry shrugged, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I had to try... and... I never really wanted to...  leave... you..."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Draco stepped aside, allowing Harry to enter.

They sat by the fire, the warmth casting flickering shadows across their faces. Draco didn’t say a word as Harry poured out his heart—his fears, his regrets, his desperate hope for another chance.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” Harry admitted, his voice hoarse. But in Draco’s mind, You hurt me constantly, in every subtle and deliberate way imaginable.

“And I can’t promise I won’t mess up again. But I want to try, Draco. I want to be better—for you, for us.”

Draco studied him, his silver eyes unreadable. He wanted to believe Harry, all over again. But trust wasn’t something that could be rebuilt overnight.

“You’ve left me so many times,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How do I know you won’t do it again?”

Harry’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “You don’t. All I can do is prove to you that I’m not going anywhere this time.”

“Why do you always leave, Harry?” Draco’s voice cracked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Harry hesitated, running a hand through his messy hair. “Because I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of what this means. Of what we could be.”

Draco’s chest tightened a mixture of anger and hope warring within him because he was right about Harry’s thoughts in the first place. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s scared?” he demanded. “Do you think I don’t feel the same way? But I’m here, Harry. I’m here, and you… you keep running.”

Harry moved closer, his expression filled with regret. “I know,” he said softly. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t lose you, Draco. I can’t.”

Draco laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You already have, Harry. Every time you walk away, you lose me a little more.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on them. Then Harry did something Draco hadn’t expected. He dropped to his knees in front of him, his hands trembling as he reached for Draco’s.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said, his voice firm despite the tears glistening in his eyes. “Not this time. I swear.”

Draco stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all he saw was sincerity, raw and unfiltered. Draco’s heart ached with the weight of it all. The love, the pain, the hope that had been buried beneath the rubble of their broken relationship. Even if it kills him—whether from the pain Harry causes or simply because he’s Harry Potter—Draco will always forgive and choose him, over and over again. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out, his hand brushing against Harry’s.

“You’d better not,” Draco said quietly, his voice steady but his heart racing. “Because if you do, Harry, I won’t be here when you come back.” If you do it again, Harry, well fuck that because I will still be here, waiting… 

Harry nodded, his grip on Draco’s hands tightening. “I won’t leave. Not again.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Draco said softly. Don’t make me choose you only to be hurt again in the end.

Harry’s fingers shifted, capturing Draco’s jaw with a trembling certainty, tilting his face upward until their eyes locked, the depth of emotion—a spark of something fragile and hopeful igniting between them.

“I won’t,” Harry promised.

Draco allowed himself to believe him, all over again . 

okayy, so this was a one-shot i posted in Ao3. I just wanna share it LOL. btw, FLASHBACKS are in Italics! and yep, this is somehow based on Billie Eilish's song BORED x Bruno Mars' GRENADE! honestly, idk what timeline in the book suit this plot, and so i thought maybe a post-war hogwarts timeline. but then, you could just imagine any timeline, which is which, cause honestly this is just a bit of draco's perspective when it comes to harry & their push and pull dynamics, and not about what's happening around them, whether they're in the same room or not.

[221b-bitch-st]

romance may day 7 - kiss 💕

Sweet Nothings

Merlin offers Arthur a kiss. Arthur makes a (very valid) misinterpretation of the offer. He blames the exhaustion for his mix-up, but it all ends well anyway.

my post for day seven of @ghostsfanficevents romance may prompt list!

okay i know its not may 7th but finals was a bitch so i had to focus on exams and neglect fanfic (someday i'll never have to do finals again and prompt events wont be interrupted, but that day is not today) anyway i'm posting out of order and catching up!

if you like this fic, feel free to browse my tag #august's romance may fills and enjoy!

[oonajaeadira]

A Welcome Home At Resolution Ranch

Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle / Jack "Whiskey" Daniels

Pairing: Jack Daniels x reader

Reader: Adult female. Former agent, now the manager at a guest ranch. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: T. Fluff.

Warnings: A little bit of angst, but on the edge of healing

Summary: When the news comes through that Jack met his end in Cambodia, you know better.

A/N: Well howdy, friends, and welcome to a good, soft, fix-it fic. What inspired this? @writeforfandoms did when she sent in an ask for a game....

"I wish you would write a fic where Jack is fine and nothing hurts and there are stars in the sky and there is plenty of banter and softness. Maybe horses."

Since her birfday is this week and writing Jack for each other is a love language, this is especially for her. <3

“You sure I’m ready to go on my own?”

Charity is a good girl. A little accident-prone at times, sure, but it’s mainly out of a lack of confidence. She’s got a real knack with the horses though, and you’ve learned to let her be on hand whenever the ranch has new guests check in; that million-watt smile of hers is worth a welcome mat covered in gold. She is Jack’s kin in every way, except he sucked up all the ego in the family and left little over for his niece.

Handing her the roster clipboard, you grant her an approving grin. “You grew up on these trails. You know them better than I ever will. You’re every ounce the guide any of us are. Now you’ve got eight guests riding with you this evening, two of them are about your age, and pretty handsome young gentlemen. You’re about to win the hearts of some suitors with that sweetness of yours…and if not, then for sure their grandparents. Have fun. Oh,” you remember, pointing to a name on the roster, “this lady here is a bit of a tick, but she has it bad for Morgans. Put her on Sasha and she’ll be shining so bright there’s nothing gonna dim her stars.”

“But Sasha’s your horse.”

“She won’t mind. Now get. And remember–”

Charity rolls her eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell me that they know horses better than I do, I know.”

“Good girl. Now you do a good job on your first solo run and I’ll have a big surprise waiting for you when you come back, hear?”

“I’m not a kid. I don’t need a reward.”

Turning the girl around by the shoulders and sending her off in the direction of the stables, you refrain from swatting her playfully, showing her the respect of a coworker. “And I’m not baking you cookies either. I’m not going with you tonight because I have something I gotta do. You’ll get the benefit of that thing whether you do a good job or not. I was trying to be encouraging.”

Her black braid swings down her back as she walks off to her task–both excited and scared, clutching the clipboard with both hands. 

“Oh, and Charry?” She stops to turn and listen. “Don’t put anyone on Whiplash. Leave her in the stable tonight.”

Once she’s given you a nod and marched out of sight, you wander back into the main lodge and relieve everyone for a few hours. You’re ready to take the front desk on your own. No worries, you explain, there’s only one guest booked to come in in the next hour and everyone else is out on the twilight ride. You’ll take it from here.

Once the lobby is quiet, you prop yourself out on the porch in a rocking chair with your boots up on the railing, tip your hat down low, and keep your eyes on the horizon--gradually more pink and gold by the minute--where any cars coming over the mile-long driveway can’t pass your notice.

It’s been six years now since you were secretly decommissioned from Statesman and your agent status revoked. Emotional trauma is a hell of a thing, and some agents take a beating. When head of the organization deems an agent unfit for duty with needs of long-term recovery and care, it’s their call to order it and–with the help of one other top officer–secretly install the probationed agent in a situation where they are anonymous and removed from any society that they could harm or could harm them. The organizational file would relate how the agent was killed in action, with the true story being kept by the two in charge. A total erasure of personage, total disappearance.

If and when the agent passed an evaluation and elected to return, they became extremely valuable as a secret operative, since everyone would assume they were deceased. 

If they decided not to return, the agency made sure they were provided for. For life.

Sometimes they came back; thrill of the hunt, what they know best and all that. But overall, the return rate was low. Something about a slow down calls after a life of deception.

In your case, Jack was chosen as Champ’s second and–having always been one of the only agents that damn cowboy liked working with–suggested you head up his family ranch for your rehab period. Tasked you with making it a nice working vacation ranch for families. Came out and visited you often enough to make sure you were getting on.

And, of course, to make sure you were getting off too. 

There was a lot of hay on property, and Jack was a damn nice rolling partner. Said that he liked that he never had to pretend with you. Not now, not ever.

And you always felt exactly the same.

But the timing was never perfect. And the world had always needed one or the other of you to save it.

Distractions.

After the requisite five year probation, Champ and Jack made the ceremonial trip out and asked if you’d like to be re-evaluated and “reborn”. As much as you’d been itching during the first couple of years to get back in the game, the quiet life had softened your body and won your heart. You’d gained the trust of the employees. Knew all the horses and their idiosyncracies by heart. It had become your home. Walking away to spend days without sleep, lying, taking lives without stopping to think twice….just didn’t appeal anymore.

With Champ’s understanding, you had respectfully retired, and with Jack’s blessing, you’d planted yourself permanently. The ranch was your calling. Your heart. Even with some of Jack’s relatives working and living here it could get lonely at times, but then you’d catch yourself watching the fireflies in the sunset or riding Sasha through a particularly pretty meadow and everything seemed right with the world.

And hells. If the lack of companionship was the only thing you had to complain about, well the universe must have heard. It’s rung the hospitality bell for you.

Taking the letter out of your pocket, you glance over it one more time. An announcement of an agent down. Cambodia. Drug conspiracy. Agents Galahad, Galahad, and Merlin of Kingmen, London. Agent Whiskey showing mental trauma and poor judgment. A violent engagement. A meat grinder. Signed by Head Agent Champagne.

So that’s the story they assigned him, huh. A meat grinder? Really? So stupid. But then, you got to assist in penning your own death, so it makes all the sense in the world that Jack got to have a say in his. Of course he was going to go out in the corniest way possible, of course he was.

Tsk. A meat grinder. Jesus.

Before long, the stars are starting to peek out and there’s a plume of dust on the horizon. Then a black car at the core of it, making its way along the drive. By the time it pulls up in front of the porch, you’ve hidden the letter back in your pocket, stood and made your way to the bottom of the steps. 

Two doors open. From the front a driver emerges, short and sturdy, young and hale, heading for the trunk to retrieve luggage. But when the back door opens, there’s the duo of a boot and a Stetson which emerge together then unfold into a tall, cool drink of Jack Daniels.

It’s a showdown at twilight, but you both keep your hearts in your holster for the time being and instead reach for your sass. “Driver? This here’s a working ranch, so you can just leave the luggage. Guests here are required to haul their own.”

They do as they’re told with a nod, dropping two suitcases and a duffel in the dust. The whole time Jack stands, unmoving, hands on hips, watching with a bemused incredulity as the driver then simply gets back behind the wheel and literally drives off into the sunset, leaving Jack's bags like carrion.

“Well shit. Is that any way to welcome a man home?”

“Maybe I just wanted you all to myself, cowboy. You ever think of that?”

There’s a delicious moment underscored by cricket strings that allows for both of your grins to stretch to full capacity.

But still, he’s a man whose wind has abandoned his sails and you both know why he’s here. It doesn’t mean he’s not still Jack Daniels though. And while he might not come at you with an oppressive swagger, he still comes to you, the cockiness giving way to a genuine fondness.

“Well. Hello, gorgeous.”

“Let me guess,” you tease, opening your arms to guide him to his landing, “You have a pack of cold ones and your roomie’s out so I can scream your name as loud as I want.”

His embrace is more than just happiness to see you. It’s heavy with relief, with longing. He needs it from you as much as you from him, and he hums low into your neck as he lifts you so that your toes just leave the ground before plopping you back down. This is the point where the usual hug might end, but he stays. He stays just a few more breaths and you can tell he’s taking a cure in the moment.

“Come on, cowboy,” you hum into his shoulder. “Let me help you with these bags. I prepared the best room in the house for you.”

Silently, you both heft a suitcase and he takes the extra duffel, and you make it up the stairs of the main house to the biggest bedroom and flip on the light.

“Isn’t this your bedroom, Brandy?”

Throwing a suitcase on the quilted bed you shake a finger at him. “Uh uh uh, that’s not my name anymore, Whiskey.”

He follows suit, unburdening himself. “And that’s not mine. Belongs to Ginger now.”

You can’t--and won't--hide your delight. “Well hot shit. Good for her. She’s always wanted to go out into the field.” But it’s also bittersweet. It's been six years. “How is my girl?” 

“Oh, she’s doing real fine. Took over as Champ’s right hand when I went out and Tequila hopped the pond to work for those Brits.”

“Damn. Well, I’m proud of her. I wish I could tell her. If I could have just had one more agent to keep in touch with….wait.” Something in Jack’s little smile gives you pause. “Waaaaait a minute. Did she–???”

He finishes the thought for you. “With the transfer of title, she also became Champ’s number two. So she’s got access your retirement file. I’m sure she’ll be booking a vacation here soon enough.”

Turning to the window and clamping a hand over your mouth, you hold your own reflection and do your best to keep the tears for later. It’s been six years and your old friend is in Kentucky right now, finding out any day now that you’re not dead after all, that you’re only a plane ride away. A long dreamed-for reunion is coming. Oh god. 

But Jack’s here now, and he’s going to need your support. And of course he’ll demand your attention–”You never answered my question. Where are you sleeping if I’m in here?”

Turning to him, you wink. “Who said I was moving out of this room?” His blush signals that you’ve just out-Jacked Jack Daniels. Stepping in closer, you take his hand. “Hey. I just wanted to give you a view of the stables. If you want me here, I’ll share the room with you. If not, the guest room is free and I’m comfortable sleeping there too. This is your home now, cowboy. I want you to see the sun in the morning. Give you a reason to get up every day.”

“Sunshine’s wherever you are, partner. It’d actually be real nice to have a reason to stay in bed.”

His words spread through you like a good bourbon. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” It’s a warm moment, new for both of you. Instead of the thrill of the promise of sharing a bed and the obvious adventure that awaits, you have something now that you both never had before–time. Time to hold. Time to breathe. Time to heal and take it soft and slow. “Come on, cowboy. I wanna show you something.”

Picking up his Stetson from the bed, you place it lovingly on his head, your fingertips lingering as they trail down his sideburns. He wears the hat well, and the facial hair. And the deep adoration. Before he gets lost in the moment, you lead him out of the main house and down toward the stables.

“So. A meat grinder.”

He grins as he watches his feet, big hands swinging at his side. “Can’t blame a man for people wanting to remember his demise. That one’ll be talked about.”

“Little over the top, isn’t it?”

“That’s the way I went in, apparently.”

“Stupidest death I’ve ever heard of.”

“But you’ll remember it, won’t you.”

Rolling your eyes, you lead him to one of the front stalls of the stable. “Yeah, but I’d never believe it. Jack Daniels? Taken down by an unarmed, unstable agent and his apprentice? This hulk of a man tossed around and yanked into a grinder as if there’s one big enough to take you?”

“You’re real hung up on the meat grinder part, aren’t you. You do know the target was actually processing people and making them into burgers, right? I don’t see why it’s so unbelievable–” But he stops like stone when you reach your target stall. “Is that…Well slap my chaps. That’s the prettiest mustang I’ve ever seen.”

“You like her?” Clicking your tongue, the lithe and beautiful bay immediately comes to you, tossing her mane, ready for the apple you’ve got on offer. And when you hide it behind your back, she knows to put her nose to yours, to nuzzle you gently. “This is Whiplash. Fast as a shooting star and twice as bright. Picked her out myself. Helped Charity to train her up, which is why she’s also sweet. That girl has the patience of a saint. Must get it from the other side of the family. But this mare was a passion project for both of us. Thought you might like to claim her,” you say, handing the apple over to him and, with it, Whiplash’s attentions. “Anytime you need to clear your head, she’ll run you to the moon and back.”

Jack holds out the apple reverently with one hand, running the other along the mare’s neck. “Always wanted a mustang. Thought I’d have to settle for the automotive variety. They’re not the kind of horse you keep at a pedestrian ranch for just anyone to ride.”

“I know. It was meant to be a surprise for your next visit. But now that you’re here to stay, she’s even more yours than she was before.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to hold those tears for later, his beautiful brown eyes gathering up all the rising moonlight. Swallowing hard, he gives you a nod, a thanks that he can’t put into words just yet. Instead, he deflects. “Where is my favorite niece?”

“Your only niece is out leading a twilight ride. It’s her first lead. I told her I’d have a reward waiting for her when she got back as long as all the guests are alive and kicking. She doesn’t know you’re coming yet.”

He nods. Goes back to petting Whiplash. The full day and the journey finally come to settle on him and all his thoughts seem to rise to the surface and float in his tired expression.

You reach out. Hook a finger in his belt loop and give it a coy tug. “Hey. Can I ask you...what happened, Jack?”

He has to take a breath. Two. Then he gives Whiplash a final pat and takes your hand, weaving it through the crook of his arm, and you wander out into the darkening pasture together.

The mission was nearly doomed from the start. With Tequila down and Harry still recovering and Eggsy still green, it was just a mess. It didn’t help that his heart wasn’t in it, that he kept thinking about his loss so many years ago, that maybe it was better if all the addicts were just taken down in one fell swoop so they could stop hurting themselves and everyone else. Running the New York branch and distribution on top of fucking saving the world every five minutes–the burnout was getting to him and just made him fixate more. 

Harry saw through him but misinterpreted his reluctance. Harry shot him to take him out of commission, knowing full well that Ginger could fix him. Jack went back into action too soon, too hot. Went straight to Cambodia. Joined in the fray. Ended up taking out his rage on Poppy and brutally jamming a needle in her neck, overdosing and killing her rather than neutralizing her and taking her in as he should have. Harry and Eggsy were kind. Stood up for him with Champ. Helped to corroborate a story so he could step down. Jack let the record show that they were the heroes so they could go back to the Kingsmen in triumph and he could heal in peace.

This is what surprises you the most.

That Jack let himself go down as the bad guy.

“You could have just said you were taken down by one of Poppy’s men and walked away a martyr.”

He simply watches the first fireflies come out in answer to the first stars, squeezes your hand a little tighter, shakes his head. “If I’d had my head in the game, a good agent wouldn’t have died. Merlin. His name was Agent Merlin. Damn fine man. And if Harry and Eggsy hadn’t been the excellent agents they are, my lapse of judgment could have killed a lot more folks. This is my way to atone.”

“And there’s no way in hell you’d let anyone think you got taken down by some nameless thug.”

“Shit. Got me there.”

All you can do is show agreement with a knowing nod. “You know, when I first came out here, I couldn’t wait to leave. But you knew, didn’t you. You knew that I needed this.”

“I did.”

“Cocky bastard,” you mumble in loving admonishment. “Did you understand that you were nearing the end too? That you were sending me out here to give me time to be ready to bring you home?”

“I wasn’t aware of it at the time, probably a little too confident to ever think I should stop.” He turns to you, a sweet little apology in the corner of his smile. “But maybe a little part of me knew.”

“Yeah, that little part of you has gotten me into trouble before.”

He huffs a little laugh, tilts your chin up with a knuckle. Still holding your hand and sliding it inside his jacket against his chest he whispers, “Ain’t the part I was talking about, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it’s a different Jack than the one you used to settle for on occasion. This Jack is ready to put down his revolvers and his whip, ready to concentrate on himself, on you, on a life far from trouble. His kiss holds in it the promise of summer sunsets and long trail rides, of barbecues and lemonade and lazy mornings sleeping in. And there will be stars that are brighter...and nights under them for just the two of you. It’s a kiss that leaves no doubt that there will be many more to follow, each one with its own brand of sweetness and a happy ending well-earned.

No more distractions.

Time enough.

_____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

[mayalaen]

Phantom Load A Stranger Things fic + art created for @eddiemunsonbigbang Steddie | Rating: Mature | HDM Fusion Fix-It Fic | 16kwords

Link to Fic by Mayalaen

Link to Art by @pezilla

Link to Art by @starthecozy

Eddie Munson is the freak of Hawkins. Some people whisper behind his back and look at him with pity in their eyes. Others torment and bully him mercilessly. All of them are scared of what he represents. He’s the freak born without a daemon and a reminder that daemons aren’t immortal. When Eddie Munson follows his new friends on an adventure into the Upside Down, he not only finds something he didn’t even remember having in the first place, but he also learns what really happened to his mom. It was never about the journey or the battles along the way. It was always about him.

I was lucky enough to have two amazing artists for this bang, and I can't tell you how much I love all the pieces! They all fit into the fic and can be viewed while you're reading the fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63847936/chapters/163732207