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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 8 months

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i’ll go see you again tomorrow (spring is coming to an end) ; sashisu

[ part i - spring ; satoru gojo ]

synopsis; a snippet of the spring you share with a certain satoru gojo, who seems intent on making your high school life as difficult as possible.

word count; 5.9k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, enemies to friends but the ’enemy’ part is kinda one-sided, wholesome n sweet overall, no curses au, gojo doesn’t know how to make friends and thinks lighthearted bullying constitutes as a bonding activity, reader doesn’t like gojo at first but dw they see the light eventually

a/n; the shoujo manga vibes are v heavy w/ this part i think. high school gojo was born to shoujo but forced to shounen </3

satoru gojo is annoying.

blunt as it may seem, it’s a conclusion you reach fairly quickly. when you first met him, you weren’t sure what to think, what to feel — a deliberate choice, on his part. looking back on it now, that’s the conclusion you come to.

he wanted to appear unreadable. purposefully hiding his personality and mannerisms, to gain the upper hand. observing all of you, dissecting you inside his mind, while revealing nothing about himself apart from his name. it’s a kind of power, a safety measure.

not like it lasted very long, though.

evidently, holding back isn’t exactly gojo’s forte. after only a day or two, he began to show his true colours, having gotten more accustomed to the new environment and classmates — and with the revelation of his genuine personality, your unease around him festered even more.

where do you even begin to describe him? he’s childish, for one. and cocky. loud, arrogant. selfish and flamboyant. just generally an asshole. you could go on and on; none of the traits are particularly flattering, and you know he couldn’t care less.

gojo is annoying, plain and simple. almost constantly trying to pick a fight with someone, uninterested in manners or even common courtesy. he says what he feels, regardless of how other people take it.

to put it simply, he has no regard for the people around him. his self-interest is limitless.

gojo does have a certain presence, though. a kind of charisma, or what you think could become charisma, if he’d just get off that high horse already. he won’t, though — you know he won’t. he revels in it, in looking down on everything and everyone, annoyingly boisterous and irritatingly tall.

most frustrating of all, however, is that his unbridled confidence isn’t exactly unwarranted.

as much as it pains you to say it, gojo is maybe just a little bit incredible. a natural-born genius, even. he’s intelligent, and observant, and awfully pretty, with those blue eyes and that snowy hair.

and he has no issue in getting what he wants. none whatsoever.

there’s something admirable about it, in a twisted way — it’s almost like he doesn’t even need to try. he’s good at anything, if he just gives it a single chance. evidently, he’s never once given a chance to the prospect of being a decent guy, then.

effortlessly perfect, in the most imperfect of ways. that’s probably how you’d describe him.

annoying is still the most fitting word, though, undoubtedly. or maybe obnoxious. he’s got this spoiled rich kid vibe that irks you, gets under your skin. you doubt he’s ever had to empathize with anyone else in his entire life.

really, you don’t understand how geto can put up with him.

gojo said something to him, during your first week of school. what, you aren’t sure — probably some rude, untoward comment, something taunting. shoko told you about it, but you don’t know the details.

what you do know is that they fought about it, physically. and that ever since then, they’ve been on a first-name basis, attached at the hip. it’s not often you see one of the two without the other. evidently, the fight brought them closer. you think they must be at least a little bit insane, but maybe that’s to be expected of kids who’d choose some weird boarding school in the middle of nowhere over a more orthodox choice.

(not like you’re one to talk, though.)

geto is a little better than his best friend, at least. he’s polite, and relaxed, and easy to talk to, only ever annoying when gojo’s around. you don’t know how he manages to put up with him so well, but you get the sense that he’s the only one who really understands gojo. the only one who even tries to.

you haven’t even attempted to do so, yourself. fondness wasn’t something you held for him, from the very beginning, but every interaction between the two of you only serves to make him more and more insufferable in your eyes.

gojo is annoying to basically everyone, always teasing and taunting, looking down from that high horse of his. and you’re certainly no exception — if anything, he’s even worse with you.

you know he looks down on you, from behind those tacky sunglasses. you’re not as self-assured as your classmates, and you think he must have sensed it, the moment he laid eyes on you. that you’re a little meek, a bit of a doormat, easy to push around and get a rise out of. maybe he also noticed your apprehension towards him, your apparent unease.

you’re easy prey, to put it simply.

so as soon as introductions were over, gojo immediately began to push at your buttons. grinning in that cocky fashion, not bothering to hide what he thought of you in the slightest. the first words that came out of his mouth when he spoke to you were rude ones, but you can’t quite recall them, muddled together with every other unneeded comment that he’s thrown your way since.

his behavior hasn’t gotten better, even in the slightest. gojo is always teasing you, annoying you, trying to figure out what makes you tick. almost like he’s solving an equation — the equation being you, the limit of your patience.

evidently, he’s developed a fondness for getting under your skin; it’s your own fault, really, for giving him what he wants. a scoff, a roll of your eyes, an earnest fuck right off. if you were more like shoko or geto, then maybe he’d leave you alone — if you could just brush him off, ignore him, not give him the time of day. deny him one of those reactions he loves so much.

but you’re not shoko. and you’re not geto, either. you’re you, and you’ve always been particularly bad at hiding what you feel.

it’s not like you hate him, or anything. you really have tried to get along with him. but it’s impossible, at the end of the day. gojo is just too good at being annoying.

and, more than anything, he’s far too out of reach. you can state his negative traits without a hitch, as well as his begrudgingly positive ones, but all of them are surface level when you get down to it. in truth, you don’t understand satoru gojo at all.

and that suits you just fine.

you’re just gonna have to live with it. live with him, his presence in your life, disrupting what should have been your peaceful high school years. your new start.

it sucks, but you’ve already resigned yourself to it. having to deal with him every day is annoying, yes, but what can you do? at least you get along well enough with shoko and geto. at this point, you’ve decided to treat gojo like an annoying little toddler, or an irritating pest. someone to put up with, not take seriously.

for a pest, he’s awfully good at making you angry, though. you can never seem to maintain your composure, when he’s around. it’s not always a bad thing — the banter can be funny, sometimes. just a tiny bit. doesn’t make it any less infuriating, though.

and in the state you’re currently in, you doubt you could handle it without popping a blood vessel or two.

a heavy sigh flows from your parted lips, as you examine your blurry reflection in the mirror. fatigue clings to your skin like a layer of sweat, and your mind is muddled, stuffed with anxious thoughts you’d rather not be having.

you feel thoroughly exhausted, completely spent. and the day’s barely begun. you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, unable to slip into sleep’s embrace without being awoken by an abrupt nightmare.

and it’s painfully evident. in your face, your posture. in the paleness of your skin, only making your vague eyebags more noticeable, and in the way you can’t help but drag your legs slightly as you walk. in your disheveled hair, in every sigh and grumble you let slip as you try to blink the exhaustion away. you just feel so tired, both physically and mentally.

it could be worse, though. you don’t have any classes today, at the very least. it would’ve been an actual nightmare, in the state you’re currently in; having to stay up, take notes and listen to yaga drone on and on. you like your teacher, you really do, but sometimes his lectures can be just a little bit tedious.

the only reason you even bother to leave your dorm at all, in such a restless state, is so you can grab some breakfast. if you’re lucky, maybe it’ll make you feel a little less like a walking train wreck.

with that thought in mind, you make your way to the dormitory’s shared kitchen, enjoying the sight of the cherry blossoms through the windows you pass.

you’ll manage, somehow. your morning couldn’t possibly get any worse, after all.

when you enter the space, you’re relieved to find it completely devoid of people. no shoko, no geto, or even gojo. running into the first two wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it still wouldn’t be ideal. you don’t really want anyone seeing you like this — tired, meek, somewhat vulnerable.

least of all gojo. you shiver at the bare thought.

with laboured, groggy movements, you move around the kitchen, getting cups and plates and turning on the coffee machine. the sizzling of the pan creates a soothing melody, pleasant to your ears, as you quickly make a lazy breakfast to wolf down.

when it’s finished, you waste no time in taking a seat by one of the tables; eager to enjoy the peace and quiet, at last.

but, as always, the world seems to have it out for you specifically.

”oh? well, look who it is. and here i thought you had left, too.”

you stiffen. ever so slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough that you physically feel the dread envelop every single cell of your body. the voice that echoes across the open space is a chipper one. one you recognize. one you were desperately hoping not to hear today.

inwardly wincing, all you can do is continue to idly sip from your cup of coffee, silently going through all five stages of grief before accepting your unfortunate predicament.

that’s just your luck, isn’t it?

resigned to the sight you know you’ll see when you raise your head, you do just that — and, lo and behold, there he is.

gojo looks the same as always. grinning brightly, wearing those ugly sunglasses, making his way across the room like he owns it. a trait you can’t help but admire, envy, as he plops down next to you like it’s nothing. unconcerned about you or your concept of personal space.

”whatcha up to?” he chirps, in a sugar sweet tone, layered over with a boyish kind of excitement. there’s that teasing tilt of his, too, the one that always accompanies his voice when he’s speaking to you.

usually, hearing him speak in such an irritating fashion would’ve put you off. maybe you would’ve given him an apprehensive look, or tried to sound unbothered when answering his inquiry — that usually only makes him more intent on annoying you, but you just never seem to learn.

in your current state, though, you can’t muster up anything of the sort. you’re too tired, too anxious. you just want to sleep.

and yet, despite your best wishes, here he is; satoru gojo, in all his glory, ruining your hopes of what could have been a peaceful breakfast. you can’t even bring yourself to get mad. today, you just don’t have the energy to deal with him at all.

when you glance his way, your eyes meet, for a second — not like you can actually see them, from behind his sunglasses, but you know they’re there. menacing and uncanny. bright and excited.

you allow your gaze to linger at him for a brief moment, before trailing back to your plate. ”morning,” is all you manage to mutter, before taking a tentative bite of your sandwich.

gojo blinks.

he immediately notes that your voice sounds meek. even more so than usual. and it’s a little confusing — he expected you to give him a scoff, or even just a timid huff. but no such luck. you’re just sitting there, quiet, curling into yourself.

so, after a moment’s consideration, gojo opts to look at you. to really look at you, studying your face, the way your fingers move to curl around the ceramic handle of your cup. he’s always been observant, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re tired.

you look out of it, plain and simple. eyes unfocused as you stare into space. gojo is silent for no more than a mere moment, contemplating his next course of action. he’s never seen you like this, before.

did something happen?

— well, it doesn’t matter. not his problem.

”you look like a zombie,” he grins, teasingly, showing off the white of his teeth.

despite the oddity of your behavior, he can’t hold it back — despite his own intuition, telling him to let you be. he can’t help it. you’re just too fun to tease.

suguru or shoko just raise their eyebrows at him, or stare him down like a misbehaving dog — but you always have a good reaction to give. something to entertain him when he’s bored, or something to distract him when his mind is too full of noise.

so he can’t help but tease you, a little. hoping it’ll soothe the restlessness in his chest.

— but for once, what gojo expects isn’t what he gets.

he expects you to glare at him, or tell him to leave you alone, or even just sigh in exasperation. either one would be fine. it’s just mindless enjoyment, to him, a little fun to lighten up his day.

especially now, when suguru is away on some day trip he wasn’t privy to. traitor, is all he can think. and shoko is nowhere to be seen, either. probably off smoking in some random alleyway, listening to one of her weird indie bands.

the whole dorm is so eerily quiet.

(gojo would never admit it, not in a thousand years, but maybe it’d be just a little bit lonely without any of you around.)

for a while, he assumed he’d have to spend the whole day alone. but then he entered the kitchen, and lo and behold; there you were, his saving grace. his dear old irritable little classmate.

a great relief overtook him, when he set his sights on you. oh, thank god — he thought he was going to die of boredom. but with you at school, too, his day is saved. now he can push your buttons to his heart’s content, bask in your playful banter until suguru gets back.

— only this time, you don’t react at all.

you don’t give him what he expects, don’t indulge his little antics, in the way he’s grown so accustomed to. all you do is continue to eat your breakfast, and drink your coffee, in silence. intent on gulping it all down quickly, so you can leave.

gojo’s words aren’t even irritating to you, right now. barely even a hassle. you honestly can’t be bothered with him at all; he can say what he wants, you don’t care. even mustering up the energy to get annoyed feels like too much for your sleep-deprived brain.

gojo waits, for just a couple moments more. hoping for a delayed reaction, a witty counter, a snarky comment. anything.

but it never comes.

finally, he starts to sulk. ever so slightly, slumping against the leather seat behind him, quieting down with a low huff. furrowing his brows as his lips curl down into a soft pout.

god — just what is your problem? what is with you, today? it’s no fun if you don’t play along.

gojo can’t help but grumble a little, under his breath. you’re usually so responsive, so easy to rile up. so what’s wrong? why are you just sitting there?

whatever. he doesn’t care. not even a little bit. so what if you’re not talking to him? like he cares enough to be bothered by it. gojo has better things to do, bigger fish to fry. he wasn’t even that excited, when he saw you. the thought of bantering with you didn’t lift his spirits, even in the slightest. not one bit.

(he hadn’t realized he’d begun to look forward to your interactions so much.)

but, really — come on. would it take so much effort to just say something? to just respond to his friendly little quip? you can’t possibly be that tired.

or what, did you get insecure, or something? because he called you a zombie? no way. you’re not that sensitive. right? or is that it? what a hassle.

you know he’s just messing with you. so why are you acting so….

(sad, gojo wants to think, but he buries the thought before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex. he doesn’t want to empathize with you. that’d just be too troublesome.)

nonetheless, a strange frustration bubbles up in his chest. at your lack of reaction, the weak glint in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand why — and that frustrates him even more.

why can’t you just bite back, like always?

it’s fun when you do.

the silence lingers on, stretching out as you gulp down your food while gojo keeps on sulking. he’s still just sitting beside you, waiting for something to happen. he briefly considers getting up and leaving, or saying something annoying to hopefully spur you on —

but you stand up before he can convince himself to go through with either option.

having finished your breakfast, your legs carry you to the sink. finally, you can head back to your room. gojo’s being weirdly quiet, you can’t help but notice; it’s kind of hard not to, with how loud he usually is.

but you pay no mind to it, methodically washing your dishes in silence. deciding not to dwell on it. it’s a rare opportunity, after all, one you’d be foolish not to enjoy it while it lasts. you don’t bother saying goodbye to him, either, as he sits there. still deep in thought and grumbling curses under his breath.

he watches you as you leave, gaze trailing after your form until you’re completely out of sight.

then he lays down, flat on his back, with a frustrated huff. trying desperately to brush away the memory of your dim eyes, the slight frown on your lips. the dark circles under your eyes, that he tried not to notice because they made him feel so weirdly uncomfortable. the meek look you gave him.

gojo sighs.

(he feels just a tiny, tiny bit bad.)

when you wake up from your slumber, you immediately note that your body feels lighter.

no nightmares came to haunt you, this time. you practically collapsed once your head hit the pillow, finally giving you some peace of mind, and some well needed rest. maybe having breakfast really did help.

with a groan, you lazily stretch out your limbs, gaze falling on the clock on your wall. you’ve only been asleep for about two hours, or so, but it’s more than you got last night.

what to do, what to do. you still have the whole day ahead of you. another nap wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t want to waste your precious free time by just rotting in bed. maybe you can take a walk around the schoolyard? the cherry blossoms have started to unfurl, and it’s a beautiful sight — perfect to enjoy on a day like this, framed by the blue of the sky.

it’s a pleasing mental image. enough to have you changing into some light and comfortable clothes, intent on seeing the idea through, before you reach a hand out to push the door open.

as you do so, something is knocked over.

a soft little thud, accompanied by the sensation of collision between the door and something else. that’s all you hear, all you feel.

with a low curiosity simmering in your eyes, you exit the room, eagerly peeking around for a look at the mysterious something.

as you do so, your gaze falls on something pink.

it’s tiny, awfully out of place as it lays on the floor. crouching down to examine it further, you recognize it immediately; a small carton of strawberry milk, with a plastic straw plastered on its side. one of the items sold in the schoolyard’s vending machines.

you drink it fairly often, every time you need a small pick-me-up. the sweet taste always succeeds in soothing your spirits.

and it was sitting right outside your door.

you stare at it in contemplation, holding it in your hand as the gears turn silently in your head. that’s weird. did someone drop it? no, that’s dumb — who’d drop it right outside your door and then not pick it up?

did someone leave it for you, then? because they know you like it? that could be it, maybe, but who would —

….

your mind stills.

the idea is odd, to say the very least. so odd that a part of you doesn’t even want to entertain it. but despite your inherent denial, it’s the most reasonable conclusion to arrive at. after all, neither shoko nor geto are there — and that just leaves one possible culprit.

why would he do something like that, though? he doesn’t like you, you know that. so there’s no way — right?

… then again, you have seen him drink it. both of you seem to like it, contrary to your classmates; shoko doesn’t like sweet things in general, and geto doesn’t go for strawberry milk if he can choose something else. honestly, it might be the only thing you and gojo have in common, the one thing that binds you two together. a single carton of strawberry milk. it’s almost comical.

(you wonder why he did it, if it’s really true. you wonder if he noticed that you were feeling under the weather, and figured it’d make you happy.

you wonder if it’d be foolish of you to believe that it’s true, if only because you like the idea.)

your feet move on their own, before your mind has a chance to question the decision. where could he be, you wonder? in the kitchen? in his dorm?

just as the question enters your subconscious, a flash of white crosses your vision. as you absently glance out the window, you see it; white, soft hair, like a fluffy cloud in the midst of all the pink petals fluttering about.

you stop, and then begin walking once more. with more decision.

gojo is sitting right outside the dormitory, on a wooden bench, legs swinging as he gazes up at the sky. his hair sways slightly with the breeze, soft strands moving and caressing his skin.

the air is filled with pink petals, gracefully descending down to the ground, together with a trail of bubbles. gojo is blowing them, haphazardly, following their movement with his keen eyes. they glimmer in the sunlight, reflecting all shades of the rainbow.

the sight is just a little bit breathtaking.

the ground crunches beneath your feet, when you take a step forward — and gojo turns towards you. you stiffen like a deer in headlights. it was almost on impulse that you walked over to him, but now that you’re face to face, it’s a little nerve-racking.

still, it’s far too late to back out now. there’s not much to do except join him. so that’s exactly what you eventually do, albeit a little hesitantly.

attempting to ignore his continuous stare, burning into the side of your head, you plop down beside him. an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air around you both, as he waits for you to say something.

mustering up the courage to do so is tough, though. the decisiveness you felt when you decided to go see him has faded, now only the ghost of a sensation — you’re somewhat nervous to verbalize what was on your mind when you made the decision.

but eventually, you force yourself to speak. hoping you won’t come to regret it.

”… hey, gojo?” you start, softly, not looking at him. gaze glued on the cherry trees. but you know his eyes are still on you; you can feel them, and their weight.

the carton of strawberry milk is in your right hand, and you raise it up, faintly. to get his attention. then you look over at him, not quite managing to give him a smile, but you try your best to look somewhat appreciative.

”thanks.”

a confused blink. gojo looks down the strawberry milk, and then back at you. eyelashes fluttering.

a moment passes. then he turns his head away, swiftly. his hair is tousled by the movement, a couple pink petals stuck between the soft strands. you can’t see his face anymore.

”i don’t know what you mean,” he huffs, with a voice you’ve never heard from him. he sounds almost embarrassed.

upon closer inspection, you think the tips of his ears may be just slightly red. a smile finds its way onto your lips, unbeknownst to you — like this, he’s actually kind of cute. denying your implication, when it’s so obvious.

some part of you was still a little unsure, but gojo’s embarrassment basically confirms it.

(maybe he’s not as bad as you thought.)

cherry blossoms flutter in the wind, dancing joyously, without a care in the world. a spring breeze ruffles gojo’s hair, as he sits beside you, having begun to blow bubbles again. not saying a word, and looking straight ahead. but can’t help but stare at him, a little.

you find yourself thinking that he looks right at home, among the petals. they’re fleeting, hard to get a grasp on. pretty, and so out of reach, despite being so close.

you could reach over and touch him right now, if you wanted to. you could reach for his sunglasses, lift them off his face, and finally see those eyes he’s so intent on hiding. you could see him, see straight into his soul, and find out who he really is.

you won’t, though. some boundaries aren’t meant to be so callously crossed.

instead, you puncture the pink carton in your hand with the plastic straw, and take a tentative sip. the sweet taste soothes you almost immediately; you can’t help but sigh, softly, relaxing a little further. it’s absolutely perfect, for this kind of weather. the sight before you, cherry petals and shining bubbles. a boy you don’t like, but definitely don’t hate, either.

you both look up, following the bubbles with your eyes as they float up into the sky. as they get smaller and smaller, farther and farther out of reach. neither of you say a word, but the silence is comforting. light.

gojo is the first one to break it, surprisingly, in a voice so small you barely hear it.

”you don’t look like a zombie.”

a second passes. the statement catches you off guard, and you’re left blinking in confusion, trying to decipher it.

unable to resist the temptation, you decide to look over at him. with his eyes conveniently hidden behind his sunglasses, you can’t get a good read on his expression; he’s regained his composure, then.

it takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in — but once they do, all pieces seem to fall into place.

is that why he got you the drink?

you just can’t help it. you laugh, lightly, and this time it’s gojo who’s left confused.

”did —” you wheeze, softly, voice thoroughly amused. almost fond. you try to bite back the laughter, but it’s tough. ”did you think i was bothered by that, or something?”

gojo looks at you, for a brief moment. a little stunned. the sight only makes your smile grow even further, as you meet his gaze, eyes crinkled. you really aren’t trying to tease him — it’s just so funny to you. so endearing.

from the angle you’re viewing him through, as you lean back against the bench, you catch a glimmer of his eyes at last. they’re awfully pretty. blue and bright, full of life. when you look closer, you can see tiny, white splotches of colour in them.

they look like the blue sky.

you called them menacing, before, uncanny, but now you don’t think that’s quite true. they’re awfully soft, in the sunlight. especially when viewed like this, right after catching him slightly off guard. it’s a rare moment, terribly precious.

gojo doesn’t let it linger, though — the moment only lasts for a second or two.

then he scoffs, abruptly, turning away yet again. you swear that he’s pouting, a little, even if he’s trying to sound annoyed and nothing more.

”obviously not,” he huffs, sounding irritated as he rests his jaw on the heel of his palm. ”but with how sensitive you are, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

usually, a comment like that would irk you, and you’d bite back. but now it just makes you giggle, lightheartedly. the tips of his ears turn red, again, at the sound.

yeah. he’s really not so bad, after all.

for a while, you don’t say anything else, afraid of ruining the tender atmosphere. you feel closer to gojo than you ever have before, and you wonder if maybe this is the gojo that geto sees; childish, but well meaning. arrogant and cocky, but oddly innocent. selfish — but not really. you may have been slightly off, with that one.

the strawberry milk on your tongue tastes sweet, sweeter than usual.

”hey,” you break the silence, surprising even yourself. the words fall from your lips like soft little breaths, rolling off your tongue like marbles pouring out of a glass bottle. ”i don’t dislike you, you know?”

it’s an impulsive admission. saying it out loud doesn’t feel wrong, though. maybe a little humiliating, sure, but not wrong. they’re honest words, after all.

you suspect gojo may be looking at you, out of the corner of his eye, but you’re not sure. after all, you’re not looking at him, either — that’d feel a little too embarrassing.

he doesn’t quite know how to respond. you’re being strangely unpredictable, today, and it makes him feel a little unsure of himself. your tone is so soft. almost friendly. he only ever hears it when you’re talking to shoko, or geto.

not learning his lesson, gojo opts to tease you, as always. he can’t let the silence linger for too long. it’s a halfhearted attempt, though — more of a vaguely amused huff than anything.

”what, got a crush on me or somethin’?”

this time, you don’t scoff, or roll your eyes, or give him an earnest fuck right off. you just chuckle, in a way that almost borders on fond. you’re not one to tease, contrary to the boy on your left, but your words are teasing even still. ”i have better taste than that.”

gojo should be irked, should grumble and shoot something back, but you don’t give him the chance to.

”i just… you know,” you mumble, tasting the words on your tongue. ”i still think you’re annoying. and childish.” gojo huffs, and your lips curl up. ”but i really don’t dislike you.”

you take a sip of the strawberry milk, before continuing, hoping it’ll make the words easier to say. ”and it’s not like i know you, anyway. so i’m sorry for making a bunch of assumptions.”

a pause. for a split second, you quiet down, a little embarrassed. ”… that’s all i wanted to say,” you exhale, gaze glued to your lap.

as always, you can’t tell what gojo’s thinking. out of the corner of your eye, you try to catch a glimpse of his face, but you have a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. his eyes are hidden by those sunglasses, after all, acting as a wall between him and the rest of the world. so you don’t know if the words reach him, if they mean anything at all.

but you hope they do. even as you brush cherry petals and non-existent dust from your lap, and get up to leave.

gojo just sits there, for a second, deep in contemplation.

he tries to bury a certain thought, before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex, before he has to accept that it exists — only this time, he doesn’t succeed.

the words die before they reach his tongue, but he hears them, in his head. and begrudgingly has to accept their existence, after all.

(i don’t really dislike you, either.)

what actually ends up leaving the confines of his throat is merely a scoff, so faint he doubts you even hear it. ”whatever,” he mutters, hoping it’ll come across as cool and unbothered.

the gruff sound strikes you as just slightly flustered. one last smile reaches your face, before you head back inside. gojo stays behind, on the bench, lost in thought.

you toss the now-empty carton into a trash can, dismissing the stray thought of keeping it as a memento of the interaction. that’d just be creepy. you are happy, though. you feel as if you’ve reached something, the start of an eventual conclusion. something worth cherishing.

you still don’t understand satoru gojo. you get the impression that you just grew a little bit closer to him, though.

there are layers to him, more than what meets the eye. hidden behind those sunglasses of his. you can only imagine what the world might look like, from his perspective. what you look like, reflected in his eyes.

you feel a little ashamed, for thinking you had him all figured out. a spoiled, self-centered rich kid, with no functional empathic abilities — it might be partially true, but you’ll have to reevaluate the statement, to see how well it holds up.

the lacking empathic abilities, especially. you still don’t think his emotional intelligence is anything to gawk at, but you may have been underestimating it, a little bit. it’s there, despite everything. in those eyes, in that carton of strawberry milk.

you think there’s a certain maturity, there, in spite of his childishness. or perhaps the latter is no more than a product of the former, a way for damaged children to dress their wounds. the way he carries himself and the way he speaks both seem a bit forced. like he’s used to performing, used to moving in a way that demands attention.

all eyes on him, at all times. you think that sounds just a tad exhausting.

as you return to the safety of your room, you still can’t help but ponder. there’s so much you don’t know. despite the moment you shared, and the connection you think may be growing between you, he’s still so out of reach.

(almost lonely, in a way.)

you wonder what he’s like when he’s alone, when there’s no one around to perform for. what is an actor without their audience?

you don’t understand satoru gojo, not really. not at all, not in the slightest.

but you think you’d maybe like to.

part 0

#i wrote this part a pretty long time ago so tbh i dont think my writing is. v good. but hopefully itll get better by the end LMAO #i love hs gojo soo much hes so cute. so shoujo manga ml. n hes so fun to write in a no curses au #i just feel like gojo is such a gift giver. physically cant apologize but throws ur fave bag of chips at ur head n acts like it wasnt him #hes so silly <33 #next part will b geto’s!!! but itll prob take a while bc my geto bias needs it to be Flawless #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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imayfeel · 4 months

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I'm in love with a dying man.

;; Morally Grey, Mortician, Yand! Husband. Tender, Prone to physical harm, Househusband/wife! Reader. Opposites dynamic. Mentions of bodily harm [Both variables], not intentional wounds [Reader]. Unethical thought process. Hinted insomniac reader. NSFW. Unprotected sex. Genitalia [Of Reader] unmentioned. Hinted dacriphilia. Hinted breeding kink.

He is a reasonable man, he thinks. Right and wrong, good and bad, pious and sinful; all are considered mere words of the English language to him— adjectives with no purpose but to describe actions. They hold little to no true significance towards what actions should be done, he thinks. He holds little consideration towards what the general population would consider something to be done, and in turn what is not to be done.

He is not so immersed in narcissist beliefs, in the thought process of 'what I say must be correct, for no one besides me holds any worth', he was not so much of a vain man to think so. In contrast, he did not like such people either. He merely did, and if what he did evoked reactions, pleasant or unpleasant (or perhaps none at all?), it simply weighed no burden on him. The clock will still tick, day will still submerge into night, night will bleed into day, and the seasons will go on.

Some may consider him to be a nihilist. Whilst the thought of it may be logical, he could not find himself agreeing; for one detail. He could not care of his actions, nor the consequences they may evoke (unless they were to affect him or present to him tiring obstacles), if it was not for his spouse. His spouse, who laid heavy in the backs of his minds— who's image he could not cast away whenever he were to do even the smallest thing.

It is something he finds could drive a man insane. The constant nagging thought that reverberates inside the depths of his mind, what would they do in this situation?—

But he is not a fool. Anyone in the town could call him many things, but a fool is not one of them. His spouse has the opposite nature of him, much different, much less brutal. With each daily experience, he may think of what they would have done in his place, and he imagines it easy. It flows into his mind especially well, the image of their all-too-eager tendency to jump to help anyone who seems to be in need. He is also aware that, with them being unlike him, he is also consequently unlike them. Despite what he feels— knows— what they would do, it is not in his nature to help.

He continues walking calmly along the stone pavement, thick cigar hanging from his lips, the rain pouring down harder— he stays within the confinements of his mind, paying no attention to the intruding splatters of cold rain seeping through his long black coat, down to his work suit. The droplets harshly fall off of his thick black hair, crashing almost dutifully against the ground. It is not until he passes by the small flower shop that he is brought to the real world, that he becomes conscious of his surroundings. It is late at night, though not late enough for the roads to be completely silent just yet, but even still it would be around the closing times for most stores. He lifts the cigar away from his mouth, blowing out the smoke into in the cold night air.

He thinks to his spouse, likely waiting for his return in their home, but he also looks back to the shop. He lets out a sigh, putting out the cigar as his hand grips the handle of the door and steps in, his dark eyes narrowing as they adjust to the blinding (and in his perspective, annoying,) white light of the store. The worker, an assumed part-timer, seemed to have been in the midst of preparing to shut the store soon, her head snapping up almost immediately upon the sound of the bell ringing. The sweeping of the broom stops, and she smiles, far too bright for him to stomach (a shocking revelation for him, considering the field of work he partakes in). She prepares to speak, her lips parting—

"Closed?" He asks, though his tone seems to have been more of an observation, but loud enough for her to have taken initiative of replying to. His voice is heavy and almost overbearing, with a gravelly brutality to it, but a man who rarely speaks (a man who has little words to speak) has no use for a soft voice or pleasing tone.

Caught off guard, but still smiling happily, she responds, "Not quite yet, fortunately enough. What are you looking for?" She has the typical politeness of a worker, but something about her evokes an unpleasant feeling within him. Her voice is too high pitched and bouncy. Her smile is much too harsh and wide, for what a smile should be.

His spouse is not like that, no. It would be even insulting to say so, to assume they had anything in common. His spouse had a quiet voice, the type to lull a person to sleep, the voice that was only ever soft and pleasant to hear. They could say anything with that voice of theirs, and he would, in a trance, nod along. Their smile was the same, never quite gone and always comforting, whether it be a full smile or the slightest upturn of their lips.

But, simply from looking at her, he can get a read on her character, even from this small interaction. He could almost laugh. It is interesting how a mortician can read a person despite working with the dead. She looks to be the sort of person who talks your ear off, he thinks. The type to tell you of the past 15 years of her life on the very first conversation. Why is she smiling? What is she so happy about? He could never understand, why do people find themselves happy when surrounded by weeds and greeneries? Stop smiling.

People say that when a person smiles, that is them at their loveliest. Only his spouse looks lovely when they smile. And it only made sense for his spouse to be happy around flowers and plants and trees, because only his spouse grew the prettiest and most pleasant ones.

Upon hearing her question, he pauses. What is he looking for? He.. wasn't sure. He saw flowers. He walked in. He thinks, and after a beat, he answers. ".. Anything. Flowers. A plant. Something you can keep growing in a garden." His words are short and kept that way, forever straight to the point.

The worker nods understandingly, "Not a bouquet or something to put in water, I take?" She tries to confirm, to which he gives a nod of his head. The nod sends a few more droplets of water to fall onto the tiles of the ground, she notices this, laughing a little, "My, you're soaked. Such harsh rain is not to be taken so lightly." She speaks, with a friendly and joking tone, one which he has no patience for. He merely nods once more, ".. Indeed."

She takes him through the store, pointing out a variety of things, to which he merely nods or gives a word of understanding. He is barely listening to her, merely following behind her a few steps away, his eyes wandering from item to item. His eyes settle on multiple clear boxes in the wall, each with a different mix of what he can only understand are herbs or flower petals. He stops, and the woman hears the steps stop too, prompting her to turn around. As she turns and notices where he's looking, she smiles, "Types of herbal tea. They have different uses, it's amazing how many uses plants and flowers can actually have! You just boil some water, put some of the mix in, stir, and .."

He drowns out her voice, lost in thought as he analyses the clear boxes and their contents. Different uses? He wonders. As the woman keeps on rambling, he cuts her off, "What uses do they have?" He asks. She flinches a little as he speaks up and stops her speaking, looking apologetic and flushing a little from embarrassment as she realises she had spoken a bit much, ".. Many. Some are for cholesterol, some for reducing stress, treating nausea, helping you to sleep, have antioxidants.. " She lists with a little shrug.

His ears catch on when she mentions them being able to improve sleep, "The one meant for sleep." He states, his eyes flicker to her. She perks up at realising that he was interested in buying. "Then, I'll get you a pack," she says, "we keep the packaged versions behind the counter."

She turns back around and walks across the store to return to the counter, prompting him to follow and stand in front of the counter as he waits. As she rummages around, he lifts his wrist slightly to check his watch, carefully keeping track of his time. They should be getting ready for bed now, he thinks. He would like to see them before they did, though, he did not like to worry his spouse. As he stares at the ticking hands on the watch, he's brought back to reality as the woman places the small bag of herbs on the counter and notices, "You have very rough and scarred hands," she notes, before realising what she had said, "ah— um, pardon me, not that it is a bad thing. I tend to speak without thinking." She explains, in an attempt of apologising.

Nothing like his spouse, he thinks. Though, he wonders, although after a long moment of silence, ".. Do you think my hands are injured?" He asks, his voice flat. She blinks. "Well.. I suppose, yes." She says, a little timid.

He smiles, "You should see my spouse."

The smile is gone as fast as it came, not that it was much of a smile to begin with. Not comforting or kind, as a smile commonly is, nor did it bring any warmth to his features. If you had blinked the moment his lips turned upwards, when you had opened your eyes, it would be as if he did not smile in the first place.

It was not that she was wrong. His hands were large, with thin scars littered across both the palm and top of his hands. Some lighter than others, some darker, some deeper, some mere surface level scratches. The skin of his palms were rough, strangely so.

She blinks again. Then again. Then again. But by the time she gathers her thoughts, he had already moved on from that, asking for the price. In return, she had also quickly, subconsciously, switched topics along with him. "This is the medium sized bag, so it would only be XX, though we have been trying to enforce a small sale on certain things, so it would reduce to.. XX?" She offers, to which he merely reaches into his pocket to retrieve his black, leather wallet. This reminds of something, "Ah, did you not want something that could be planted as well? If you're still interested, there are a few sprouts that could easily be placed in new soil within a pot or garden to be grown much, much larger!"

Her offer makes him pause. It seems ideal. He speaks, ".. Get me it." To which she nods and soon has both of the items packed in a small and brown paper bag. Ignoring her call as he walks out of the store to return sometime and have a good day, he's out once more. The rain has not stopped its downpour, only continuing in their dispense. He barely takes any notice of it. He needs to get home, he thinks. It is late, a little later than he would prefer. Later than he would like to be home.

The paper bag is practically soaked through, too, as he finally reaches closer to his destination. The town was a quiet and dreary place, often dark and dull, with wuthering winds and all too often storms. But they brought him in more work, so perhaps he should have been more grateful towards the disastrous weathers. Him and his spouse had moved here during a time which felt like many decades ago, but truly was only a few years, when they were new to marriage.

The corners he turns are becoming more and more familiar as he grows closer. He nears with each step. He then eventually is stood outside of the door, clicking the key into the socket of the small home as he creaks the door open, silent and swift. He stares inside, stepping in after a beat.

His spouse is there. With their back turned towards him, their focus on the oven in front of them, as they appear to be baking something. The atmosphere is warm and pleasantly quiet, a stark contrast to the outside world, with its pouring rain and dull, grey sky. There is a soft lamp lit, along with a couple of candles, illuminating the space with a comforting warm look. His spouse hums to themselves as they continue on, not noticing his presence just yet. He does not rush to let himself be known. He waits, taking his time to watch from afar.

He watches, even as his spouse lightly hums to themselves as they continue on, the plain white apron they were wearing curving around their figure softly, tightening even more so from every little action. He watches, leaning against the doorway, as his spouse seems to have accidentally made contact with the searing hot metal within the oven with their bare hand. He watches as they flinch and let out a soft gasp, dropping the utensil they were holding. He watches, as they turn and bend over to pick it back up, before flinching once more when they notice him out of their peripheral view. He watches, and his throat goes dry, as their surprised expression softens into a gentle smile.

They speak his name in greeting, quiet and polite, but never has his name ever held so much weight before. His dark eyes flicker down towards his spouse's hands, going over each small scratch and bruise and minor cut, all adorned with bandages and plasters of their fitting. The burn was a new one, pink and tender and likely painful, but even so, his spouse smiles at their husband. He sees their eyes soften as they look over his soaked appearance, taking small light steps towards him before taking the coat off of him and hanging it up. They turn back to him, with a small and gentle, but he could tell worried, smile.

His spouse smiles so much, so, to most, it may seem like the same smile being used over and over again, repeated throughout their life. But he knows much better. He knows that their smile links to the look in their eyes, the slight tremble of their eyebrows, the smallest twitch of their fingers, he easily reads their emotions despite their attempts of a mere comforting smile.

They turn back towards him, one of their hands reaching upwards towards a lock of his curly and black (also, dripping) hair. "You're soaked. Did you not take an umbrella? You could have caught a cold." They speak. If it was someone else to have said this, they may have come off as nagging. If it was someone else who was to try touch him, he may have abruptly pulled away in disgust from being in contact with another living creature. He hated mankind, hated its ugliness, hated how bothersome it was. To live in solitude is a life lived correctly, away from the two-faced and haughty civilians.

But he had never, not once, included his spouse within that large group of people (as in everyone else). Not even when they were younger, before they had gotten married, he had never once had the thought of them being a nuisance. It was a strange revelation to find himself enjoying the company of another instead of finding them to be a liability. He had never been the social type, never been the type to attract people— more-so the type to chase them away. But he had never, despite his lack of expression, his lack of sympathy or basic human emotion, they had never taken any of it as reason to leave. Though, if they did, he would have little to no reason to blame them for it.

As their hand had reached up, their fingers curling around a lock of his dark and wet hair, his hand reaches up also. His thick fingers trail across the top of their much smoother hand, the tips of them barely touching the skin and running over the edge of another plaster as he hooks his thumb in the crevice of their palm. He uses the light grip to bring their hand further towards him, letting him press a little kiss on the small burn. He merely replies, "Warm me, then."

They laugh at that. A quiet and humble thing, not at all like the squeaky and ear-bleed inducing laughter from the insignificant woman earlier. He merely watches, his fingers still around their hand. Their eyes drift towards the brown paper bag, now close to ripping due to the intense rain. He notices their shift of attention, lifting it towards them and pressing it lightly against their chest and their hands lift upwards to take hold of it by its sides. He does not speak, merely beginning to step forward, his hand still lightly around theirs— to avoid pressing down on any injuries or the burn— as he leads them along towards the sink.

They let him lead them, curiously peaking into the bag with one hand. Their eyes catch onto the "Helps with: relaxation, fatigue, restful sleep! 100% tested and proven!" tag, written in small, bold letters in the corner of the packaging. They don't speak of it or mention it, merely smiling quietly at the thought of the action. They notice the small plant as well, eyes shining. They notice the cold water spilling onto their fingers from the tap, their husband holding up their burn to the water. He's quiet, having realised that they had looked at the items, and it embarrassed him in a way.

Their smile grows as they notice his stiff shoulders, his back towards them and his eyes forward. The two of them stand still for a long and quiet moment, only the sound of the water running is heard in the silence. After a minute, they lean forward and press a small kiss to his jaw before leaning back again, their head now leaning against his broad shoulder. He does not react, his eyes focused on the water.

The water hits the tips of his fingers whilst he holds their hand up to it. He remembers the feeling of water on the day that he had proposed to them, too— though, it was less of a proposal, and more of a statement. They had still been practically children when they had wed; with him at 19, and his spouse at 18.

It had been a strange scene. In the woods, far away from either of their homes. Although, he, an orphan, did not consider himself to have a home. He remembers them, his memory exact, to have been sitting up against the thick brown oak of a tree, knees up for the flowers to lean against them. He remembers their fingers gently, yet skillfully, twisting the stems of them together into little knots and conjoining them ever so carefully.

He remembers standing in the midst of the small and cold stream, the water up to his calves and his shoes held together in one hand, hanging from his side. He stared for a long amount of time, the noise around them so silent, the noise in his mind so silent. There was little to nothing going on within his brain, feeling almost dereslized and apart from the real world inside this moment. He was not a man to speak without thinking, and neither was his spouse, but his mind failed him. The words had left his lips before he had the chance to process—

"Let's get married."

Even after he had spoken the words, his mind was still in turmoil. He had not the chance to react before his, soon-to-be (at the time), spouse had turned their head towards him with their soft smile and given him a tiny nod of agreement.

He had been dumbfounded. Not once before in his life had he ever felt so lost in his thoughts and emotion, as it typically was the case of the lack thereof, but this time, it was the opposite. The emotion was much too strong and complex. He had not spoken a word after that, and neither did they. He had laid awake in bed that night, his mind full of different thoughts, yet at the same time, nothing at all— I am going to marry them.

It was a small marriage, but not unexpected of two children either. He had no family nor friends to invite, and, despite being well loved within the town, neither did his spouse. The marriage had been the talk of the town for weeks, and probably had continued to have gone on even after the two of them had moved to this town. Someone who had little to no involvement, who was avoided and barely even known, marrying someone who was every elderly person's favourite, who did not complain or grow annoyed no matter how many tasks the locals bashfully asked for them to complete?— "What a shame for such a bright child! A miracle if it were to last above a year!"

It was not like they were wrong, either. He was aware of how golden they were, of how the children rushed to play with them, of how people greeted them with "Good morning!" or "Good afternoon!" at each turn. Though, what use did it have, when at the end of the day, when both of them had snuck out to meet one another, it was him who's shoulder they had put their head on and quietly spoke of how lonely things were, even in the loud town.

The town was small, but a place which involved themself into the business of all others. A place which he disliked since childhood, and neither of them had much to miss there. He was glad they had moved, this town was much more quiet, much less chatty and arrogant. Though, even here, his spouse was loved dearly by the neighbourhood children, would politely converse with their neighbours, would be seen as a regular at the small bookstores and gardening shops. It was amusing, even, seeing townsfolk try to hide their stares as they ask themselves, "That man is their husband?", seeing the local children ask his spouse if they really were married, and who to, then shrinking away at meeting his eyes.

Still, here, they lived quietly, in a small home where he was sure they were free to enjoy whatever pass times and hobbies they enjoyed. Where he did not have to worry too much for them, knowing that they would be there when he returned home each day.

He's brought back to reality as he notices the raw pink flush of the tender skin gradually going down, switching off the tap and opening a cabinet to reach for bandages. He places one hand on their hips, bringing them in front of him so that their back is pressed against his front. He wraps the bandage around the burn before cutting it off with scissors. His eyes flicker down towards the flesh that connects their neck and shoulders, unable to hide the constant underlying emotion of desire that he represses within him whenever he merely glanced or thought of them.

He leans his head down and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then another. And then he is pressing multiple kisses to their neck.

He was not a man who necessarily had much need for hedonistic activities such as sex. But it changed dramatically whenever it came to his spouse. Especially as he hears the soft sigh drawn from their lips at the sensations, as they melt into him and he feels more of their weight leaning back on him. It isn't long before his tongue starts tracing over the flesh, his teeth digging in ever so slightly, his hands travelling. And by the way they were reacting, their long lashes fluttering slightly, eyes shut as their head leant back, he took it as yes.

It was not long before he had his large arms hooked beneath their knees, hands resting on the pillow on either side of their head, his cock buried deep inside of them. Their knees are folded towards their chest in a mating press, their nails dug deep into his broad back, scratching almost violently as he fucks them brutally—

They married a brutal man, after all.

Perfect like this, he thinks. The only time he can see them unravel, the only time he thinks they could bring themselves to every physically harm someone, as he feels the burning of the scratches on his back. It was amusing, even, to see them fret the night after over the almost animalistic marks.

As if they did not notice their own body was covered in bites and marks. He drags his lips over their neck, his teeth sinking in as he leaves a love bite, making them flinch. "Nnh.. W— Wait—" They protest, although in vain. His tongue runs down and over their collarbone, down to their chest. His tongue flicks one of their nipples before grazing it with his teeth, making them shiver and let out a whine. All the while, his hips meet theirs repeatedly, his thick cock pounding into their warm and soft insides.

It's maddening, just how soft and warm it all is in this moment. Their bare flesh pressed against him, their tears of ecstacy, their nails dug into his flesh. He presses his lips to their cheek, kissing the tears as his tongue swipes against their hot and wet cheeks. They look so perfect, he thinks, crying for him. The only way he prefers them crying, with their mind foggy from pleasure.

And soon, he can feel his own climax rising too. He mutters, "Seem to be getting along with those neighbourhood kids so well, makes me want to give you one of your own." He can't even tell how much of it is teasing and how much of it is him speaking from what he subconsciously wants. With one last thrust, his thick and hot cum had filled them up, before he had pulled out to watch the scene before him.

Perfect, he thinks again. Their legs shaky, their half-lidded eyes glossy with tears, their chest and neck littered with all sorts of bloody bites and hickeys, his cum dripping from their pretty hole. The sight was enough to tempt him into a second round, and a third, and a fourth. He had all the libido in the world when it came to his spouse to fuck; all night if they had merely said the word, and once they did, he would be unable to stop. A brutal man he is, but also one which when left unrestrained, would not be restrained.

He was a tall man, at 6 foot 3, paired with a strong and broad physique and long lasting stamina. His back, torso, arms, all littered in scars, just like his hands as he had been previously reminded of. He was, by both nature and appearance, brooding and stoic, whilst his spouse was softer hearted. Though, despite the possibility of being able to continue on, he takes notice of the drowsy and tired out look of his beloved. His spouse was much less used to physical excursion as he was, but even so, he could not help but thrust two of his thick fingers inside of them, shoving the dripping cum back inside.

His lips whisper gruffly, his hot breath fanning over the shell of their ear, "If you can get so sleepy from me fucking you, would this not be more ideal to do every night rather than using tea or medication?"

Even so, they can't help but let out a soft sleepy protest, mind all fluffy and drifting off. He holds them close, tucking an arm beneath their back and placing another on their waist to turn them onto their side in order to hold them to his chest. He lets out a sigh as he feels them drift to sleep, and he enjoys this. He enjoys the nights they spend together, albeit that being every night. Each night, despite what had gone on during the day, they had found themselves entangled together in bed either way.

He had not felt complex emotion in many years.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #gender neutral reader #obsession #x female reader #x male reader #yandere boy #mortician #yandere mortician #oc x reader #Spotify

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s0ckh3adstudios · 5 months

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I have been trying to figure out some timeline stuff and how old Bullfrog is for too long because it's actually driving me insane

Like. Ok we know that Rayman obviously does not age like a human. He's looked and sounded the same for decades. He has been in this dimension since BEFORE America fell.

But then we get these details later where Rayman decides to sound like a grandpa and say "when I was your age" talking to Bullfrog. In the same meeting, Bullfrog also says he remembers watching Rayman on TV as a TADPOLE. Which you know really makes you wonder about some things

But like. How old IS Bullfrog. And no if you try to tell me he's like 20 I won't believe you LMAO

To put it into perspective, we need to look at other characters- We know that Sarah Fisher was a kid when Rayman was on TV and she seemed to be a young adult (?) by the time the Wasteland War ended. If you look at the website for the show, it'll mention how Jade's parents died during the war and Pey'j was left to raise her. It says he's known her since she was a baby, but the way they phrase it makes it unclear as to whether that's when Pey'j started taking care of her or not. It seems more likely to me that she'd be a baby OR a young child when this happens, so that's how old she is at that time.

BUT also on the website, it tells us that Bullfrog actually participated in the Wasteland War. So he had to have been an adult around that time, he must have been. So when you compare that to Jade, Bullfrog is definitely older than she is. I'm pretty sure it's been many years since the Wasteland War, I mean especially if Jade was younger at that time and she's all grown now.

Unless there's actually a specified amount of years since the Wasteland War? Maybe I'm missing that key info and I'm going off about incorrect things HEHEHFHGF feel free to lmk

Obviously Bullfrog isn't EXTREMELY old or anything but I don't think he's a young guy.

Trying to figure out the timeline hurts my brain

#bullfrog are you in your 40's be honest #/hj #that feels like a bit of a stretch LOL #but i do think I'm just missing something here #do we know how long ago the war was? i can't remember #sock talk #captain laserhawk #captain laserhawk bullfrog

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edenesth · 9 months

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Undying Bonds (Part 10)

Pairing: Hongjoong x fem!reader, Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: zombie apocalypse au

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: What could be worse than being separated from the love of your life in a zombie apocalypse? Hongjoong was forced to leave you behind with his friend, Seonghwa, as he ventures out alone to search for the rest of his missing group members. Will Hongjoong be successful in his solo mission to find his members? Will he be able to return to you unscathed? And what happens when you're stuck with his caring best friend, who is hopelessly in love with you, for too long?

Part 9 | Masterlist | Part 11

District 9.

That was the name that only insiders were aware of, only people with the opportunity of stepping foot into SKZ HQ would know.

Though not many people have survived after learning of the name, since they were mostly prisoners taken in either for information, for Seungmin to conduct his many zombie science experiments on, or worse, both.

If you're lucky- or unlucky enough to find yourself in District 9 for whatever reason, chances are it most likely won't be easy to live and tell the tale later on. 'Consider it a small price to pay for having the pleasure to witness such luxury again', was the famous final sentence that Minho never fails to bestow upon his victims before sending them off to meet their cruel ends.

Under different circumstances, perhaps Hongjoong would have been impressed by what he was seeing when they finally made their way into the legendary Stray Kids Headquarters.

Unlike his younger friends, he couldn't find it in himself to feel even the least bit excited about any of this, especially not when he was fully aware of how many innocent lives it must have cost for this insane amount of extravagance to come to fruition.

Hongjoong and his boys were eventually led to the furniture store where the rest of their friends were currently resting at.

The captain's anxieties were slightly eased when he spots Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho safe and sound. He watched as Yunho, Yeosang and Wooyoung wasted no time in running towards their friends but he stopped in his tracks when the realisation hits, you were absolutely nowhere to be seen.

"Where's my girlfriend?"

That was all it took for Minho to understand who he was referring to. There was only one female amongst all the people here now after all.

The boys stared after their captain who was busy speaking to Stray Kids' second-in-command before he eventually holds a hand up to let them know that he'll be back soon, rushing off in the direction they'd last seen you disappear off to with Bang Chan.

Seonghwa's heart calmed slightly, knowing that Hongjoong would be there to protect you now. He wasn't sure how to feel; on one hand, he was happy for his best friend to be back, but on another hand, there goes his chances of confessing to you. He eventually decides all that really mattered to him was your safety and happiness, whether or not that included himself in the picture.

He snaps out of his thoughts when Mingi and Jongho inquire about the one missing group member, the news that they were about to receive would send the three of them collapsing in an instant.

Meanwhile, the high levels of adrenaline that were running through Hongjoong's veins simply at the thought of seeing you again was enough to send his heart racing. With the rough directions provided by Minho, he makes his way hurriedly to your specific whereabouts in the annoyingly enormous building. Blinded by his eagerness to reunite with you, Hongjoong failed to take notice of the sly glint in the gang member's eyes.

Minho intentionally left out one vital detail, the captain does not know that his girlfriend was alone with Bang Chan.

And the motive behind the right-hand man's actions? It was simply to wreak havoc; Minho could honestly care less about whatever affiliations you had with his leader and would quite frankly rather Chan put an end to this nonsense because he looked pathetic ever since you made your appearance.

So, if sending Hongjoong your way unannounced was what it would take to stir up some trouble, he's all for it.

Hongjoong slowed down in his tracks when he could faintly hear what sounded like your voice speaking and he strained to try listening carefully to what you were talking about.

He stilled when he heard the name Chris coming from you as you tiredly instructed said person to let go of you, that immediately made him pick up his pace again but it wasn't until the following words spoken by the unfamiliar male voice from across the hall that made his blood boil.

"No please, it's still me! I'm still yours, I swear! Just... at least let me explain myself, yeah? All I ask is for you to hear me out this once, you must know how much it pained me to believe you were gone... You were my everything- you still are!"

Oh no, you don't. That's my girl.

The captain saw red when his eyes finally landed on the two figures by the large window, he dared say it almost looked romantic had it not been his own girlfriend forcefully held in the arms of another man.

Still caught up in your conversation, neither you nor Bang Chan had realised a third person stalking his way up to the both of you.

In one strong but gentle pull, Hongjoong had you back safely in his arms at long last. He almost cried in relief at the familiar feeling of having you so close to him again, he felt like he was finally home.

"I won't tell you twice, stay away from her."

The tight squeeze that he gave you when noticing how tense you were managed to help you relax as you sink deeper into his embrace, the small action was enough for him to feel like he could breathe again.

Enraged by the sudden interruption, Chan proceeds to tell Hongjoong off rudely, "And who the hell are you? Know your place, this is between me and her!"

"I'm her boyfriend," He answered proudly, almost laughing out loud at the gang leader's audacity because who was he to raise his voice? The flabbergasted expression on Chan's face made the captain further grin in victory, "B-boyfriend..?"

Hongjoong's heart swelled with pride when you nodded to confirm and pressed closer to him to prove to Chan that he truly was your other half.

Giving your childhood friend a once over almost in distaste, your boyfriend smirks in amusement, "I think this is exactly where I should be, right by her side. Can't say the same for you though, Christopher."

Of course, Hongjoong knows all about Christopher.

There was not a single thing that either of you bothered to hide from one other. You knew each other like the back of your own hands.

And you'd told him all about your past in Australia; about Christopher, about the accident that nearly took your life, about how Christopher had abandoned you after the accident, about your brutal journey in emerging from that darkness all alone.

The heartache that Hongjoong felt when he learned of what you had gone through was something he'd never let himself forget.

He vowed to stay with you always and swore he'd never forgive this Christopher person for what he did or more like, what he didn't do. And here this jerk was, standing right in front of him, having the cheek to beg for your forgiveness after what he's put you through.

Chan laughs bitterly at you, choosing instead to completely disregard your boyfriend's presence, "Is he that special? So much that you actually got into a relationship with him?" Anyone could tell from his tone that he was clearly disheartened by the new information.

You sighed in exasperation, screwing your eyes shut to gather your thoughts for the most effective way to end the conversation.

"Yes, yes, he is. And he has a name, it's Hongjoong. I can tell you how much of an amazing person he is and I know you wouldn't care at all but he means everything to me. He was there for me when you weren't, so please show him some respect… It's the least you could do for me now."

Your former childhood friend's face fell and you looked away from him, the last thing you needed to feel was guilt for him.

"Listen, Chris, can we let whatever happened in the past to stay in the past? I really do not wish to relive any of that, I'd appreciate it if you could just drop this once and for all. There's literally a whole damn zombie apocalypse going on and this is honestly the last thing I want to talk about right now."

At your words, Hongjoong ran his hands up and down your arms in a consoling manner to remind you that he was there with you. Smiling gratefully up at him, you took the moment to look over his features that you missed so dearly before continuing, "And I haven't seen my boyfriend in a while now, can we please be left alone for some privacy?"

Your question was not really a question, the finality in your tone signalled the end of your conversation with Chan.

The gang leader's shoulders slumped in defeat and he did as you asked, not wanting to further upset you. But that didn't mean he's giving up though, he won't be letting you out of his sight so easily now that he's found you again.

For now, just for now, he'd let you spend some time with that little boyfriend of yours.

I'll be back for you, I swear.

Flashing one last glare at Hongjoong as if to challenge him, Chan stormed off with fists clenched tightly to his sides in reluctance. You rolled your eyes at the ridiculous exchange when seeing your boyfriend's eyes also remaining glued to the gang leader's back, clearly displeased.

Once Chan was completely out of sight, you didn't waste another second to throw your arms around your lover's shoulders, instinctively burying your face in the crook of his neck.

Your bodies pressed close as if trying to bridge the time and distance that had separated you. The embrace was tight, as if you were afraid that letting go would mean losing each other all over again.

Tears welled up in your eyes and his, glistening like dewdrops as you held onto one another. The weight of the separation, the longing and the uncertainty melted away in that single embrace. Your fingers found solace in each other's hair, on the small of your backs, as if mapping out the contours of a familiar and treasured landscape.

As you pulled back slightly, you met his eyes and you shared a gaze that was both intense and tender. Every unspoken word, every emotion that had been bottled up during your time apart, seemed to pass between you in that moment. Your eyes spoke of missed moments, of countless thoughts that had been dedicated to the memory of the other and of a love that had only grown stronger in the face of separation.

"You're back," You whispered, tears rolling steadily down your cheeks as he moved to wipe them away, his touch as soft as a feather, "I'm back, my love, and I'm never leaving you again." The look in his eyes was all it took for you to believe him completely.

With a quivering smile, a mixture of laughter and tears, Hongjoong closed the remaining gap between you.

Your lips met in a kiss that was both fervent and gentle, a sweet testament to the depth of your connection. He pressed his lips against your softer ones over and over again, savouring the feeling he feared he'd never be able to experience again.

The world around you seemed to fade into insignificance, leaving only the sensation of your lips touching and your breaths mingling.

"God, I missed you like crazy," He whispered in between, the words sending the familiar warm feeling throughout your body, "Missed you too." You muttered, your words were quickly muffled by his lips.

As the kiss deepened, it was a fusion of emotions—a mixture of relief, joy and an aching awareness of the time you had lost. Hongjoong pulled you closer when his mind drifted back to the moment Soyeon had held him at gunpoint, the time he thought he'd never get to see you or be with you again.

His hands roamed, tracing the lines of your face, cupping your cheeks while yours rested firmly on his shoulders. It was a tactile affirmation of the other's presence, a way of assuring yourselves that this moment was real.

The taste of salt on your lips was from the tears that continued to fall. The kiss was a cascade of emotions, a testament to the journey you had been on individually and the reunion that had brought you back together. It was a declaration of love that needed no words.

Eventually, you pulled away slightly, your foreheads touching as you shared a quiet, intimate moment.

Your breaths were unsteady, your hearts still racing from the intensity of the embrace and the kiss. At that moment, as you held each other close, you knew that no amount of time or distance could ever truly keep you both apart again.

"I love you so much," He whispered, the words immediately bringing a smile onto your face, "I love you too, Joong."

Dread fills your being when you and the captain return to the furniture store to join the rest of the group only for you to sense the sombre atmosphere and upon double confirmation, you realise that one person was indeed missing.

"W-where's Sannie?" You stammered, your heart picking up its speed when the guys avoided your eyes. You hated your mind for immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusions.

Maybe he went to the washroom? Don't scare yourself just yet.

Looking to Seonghwa for answers, you find him biting down harshly on his bottom lip as he painfully held his cries back.

Maybe somewhere deep down, you could have guessed what had probably happened whenever your sixth sense tingled as if to let you know that something's gone terribly wrong but you refused to believe what your gut was telling you until you hear the truth with your own ears.

You could already feel the lump forming in your throat when your boyfriend sits you down on a nearby couch to prepare you for what he was about to tell you.

Your heart wrenched when you catch sight of Mingi and Jongho sobbing pitifully into their hands while Yunho and Yeosang held them close, Wooyoung was staring scarily blankly ahead of him with his hand placed firmly over Seonghwa's trembling ones.

Hongjoong got on his knees in front of you, his grip on your hand tightening and you hated how sad he looked, his eyes glistened with tears, "Sannie… H-he's uhh…" Blinking rapidly and clearing his throat, he took a deep breath before willing himself to just spit it out.

"He's gone… forever."

The captain immediately moved to settle beside you, wordlessly gathering you in his arms when you visibly froze.

Time seems to stop, the words hitting you like a heavy blow to the chest. Your heart skips a beat and a cold numbness spread through your body, making it difficult to breathe. It's as if the air itself has thickened and the world around you fades into a hazy backdrop.

Shock was the first emotion that courses through you, a disbelief that this reality could actually be true. Your mind struggles to process the information, grappling with the enormity of what you've just heard. You want to reject the news, to declare it a terrible mistake, but deep down, you know it's real.

The initial shock is swiftly followed by an intense wave of pain that crashes over you like a relentless storm. It feels as if your heart is being squeezed, an ache that's both physical and emotional.

Your eyes well up with tears and the first sob escapes your lips, raw and unfiltered. It's a guttural sound that echoes the anguish within, breaking Hongjoong's heart as he holds you closer.

Every detail of San flashes before your mind's eye—his bright and adorable smile, his infectious laughter, the way he moved and spoke. You find yourself replaying memories in a desperate attempt to keep him alive in your thoughts. Each recollection is like a lifeline, a way to connect with San who's no longer physically present.

Why… why did it have to be poor Sannie of all people in this world?

Anguish grips you as you grapple with the reality of his absence. It's a heavy feeling, an ache that settles in your chest and refuses to let go. The world suddenly feels like a different place, one that's been robbed of its vibrancy and warmth.

As the shock and pain ebb and flow, you find yourself caught in a cycle of disbelief. You half-expect him to walk through the door, to call for you, to remind you all that he's still here. It's a desperate hope that clashes with the harsh reality and it only serves to deepen the ache in your heart.

"How..?" Your boyfriend pulls away slightly to meet your now red and swollen eyes, "How d-did he… what happened?"

Pressing his lips against your temple for a moment to ground himself, he squeezed his eyes shut as he begins to fill you in on everything that's happened from the beginning of his journey until this moment.

There were no exact right words that could be used to describe the intense ache bubbling in your chest as you listened to Hongjoong painfully recount how San was already bitten when you were all separated to how he tried to keep Yunho away from him as he slowly turned, and lastly, how he ultimately pleaded for your boyfriend, his brother, to put an end to his life.

Mingi and Jongho could hardly believe or digest the words coming out of their group leader's mouth. It was as if a huge chunk of their souls were mercilessly ripped away from them with the gaping void left by San's absence, their one and only sunshine.

The amount of guilt you felt for not knowing or being there with him when he was going through all of that alone was almost suffocating.

He must have been so scared. God, and we didn't even know while he was suffering all by himself...

You, Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho didn't even get the chance to say goodbye to him. All the regrets going through your mind torturing you endlessly; you should have been more attentive, you should have protected him better, you should have been the one bitten instead. San was the last person on earth to deserve such a cruel fate.

The violent sobs racking your body did nothing to ease the agony within you, your knuckles slowly turning white from clutching so tightly onto Hongjoong's shirt.

He pushed your head firmly into the crook of his neck and somehow, the specific action reminded you of Seonghwa almost instantly. Seonghwa, who has done this countless times as his way to console you. Seonghwa, who was always there for you no matter what.

Pushing yourself slightly off of your boyfriend's chest, you glanced worriedly over at Seonghwa.

He was obviously not taking the news any better than you. Wooyoung did his best to stay strong for his hyung at the moment but there was only so much he could do, when he himself was going through the exact same pain of losing his best friend.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Seonghwa stares tearfully back at you, the shared look between you holding some sort of unspoken message that only the two of you could understand. Your heart hurt at the sight of his tears, he was always so strong for you and seeing him like this now affected you more than you had expected.

A part of you wanted to go to Seonghwa and to be his comfort too but Hongjoong's touch on your face immediately snaps you out of it.

Your attention was once again taken over by your boyfriend, who was apologising for not being a good enough leader. His words only made everyone in the room protest loudly against the statement, all assuring him that none of this was his fault and that he's done the best that he could, given the circumstances.

"You mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

Minho snarled, he was pissed at Chan for the display of weakness. For a moment back there, Chan looked nothing like the intimidating gang leader that he was known for being and instead, he resembled some weak loser overwhelmed by stupid emotions.

All this just because of some girl, Minho didn't take his boss to be some sappy hopeless romantic. The leader's behaviour from earlier was enough embarrassment to last for a lifetime.

If he didn't know any better, he'd almost say Chan was in love.

Disgusting.

The elder of the two lets out a deep sigh as he stared out at the view of the ruined city from the futuristic electronic gadget store that is now being used as his office. He turns around in his chair and glances up to find a very disgruntled-looking Minho.

"She's my- Look, she's an… an old friend from Australia, okay? I was just… surprised to see her again, I guess. Listen, I know you wish to discuss work but not right now, Minho. I've got to sort things out with her first… or else, I-I can't…"

To Minho's chagrin, the leader appeared somewhat abashed as he struggled to form a proper sentence, it was as if the simple thought of that woman alone was enough to fluster him this much.

Was this really Bang Chan?

The great leader of Stray Kids, stuttering like an elementary school kid over some girl? This was utterly ridiculous and there is no way in hell the second-in-command would stand for it.

Infuriated, Minho scoffed loudly before slamming his palms against the desk separating them as he glared down at his boss.

"You're joking, right? I don't care who that lady was and what she was to you but you need to pull yourself together. I never thought the day would come when I'd have to say this but you're being embarrassing, Chan. As if acting like some lovesick fool wasn't enough, you had to do it in front of our new recruits too? Way to set a good example!"

Hearing this from another person's point of view really did make Chan feel slightly ashamed of his behaviour, the new members must take him for a fool now.

"Thanks to Jisung, one operation's already down. I mean sure, we managed to take everything from the convenience store but with that, came seven extra mouths to feed. By right, we should be getting to work immediately. And now, you're saying you want to do what..?" Minho was fuming at this point.

Chan's nostrils flared at his younger counterpart's boldness before growling lowly in his alpha tone that he'd usually used to intimidate his members when needed.

"Have I been too lenient lately? Don't you dare speak to me like that, Lee Minho. You don't even know half the story. And remember your goddamn place, that's hyung to you by the way." His snarky attitude finally made the younger's lips tug upwards slightly in approval.

Now that's more like it.

"You're right, hyung, I don't. And I'm not interested in learning about any of it, need I remind you of who exactly you are right now? Like you said, she's from the past so don't you think it'd do you good to leave things where they were before?"

This was important to Minho, he needed to know he could trust his leader to still do a good job because Chan was the first and only person to have earned his respect, it'd be a shame to lose any of that over something this silly. After all, he only stayed loyal to Chan because they shared the same vision.

If the gang leader were to stray from their initial plans, Minho would be left with no choice but to take necessary actions. Though he hopes it'll never have to come to that, he'd hate to have to bite the hand that feeds him but there's only so much he's willing to tolerate.

Chan runs a hand frustratingly through his hair, how he wished his friend could just understand the way he was feeling.

He was only human after all, he has emotions too but he supposed that might have been too much to expect from Minho. He's never met anyone quite as cold-hearted and ruthless as Minho, he used to admire the younger for that quality but it was proving to be a bit of a pain in the ass as of this moment.

"You don't get it, it's not that simple! For the longest time, I thought she was dead, Minho, dead! Her 'death' was what made me into the person that I am today, it was because of her that you even got this version of me!"

The younger of the two raises a brow daringly, as if to challenge his boss, "So, are you saying that just because she's alive now, you'll go back to being your weak and pathetic old self?"

"No- God no, Minho, that's not at all what I meant. It's far too late for that anyway… but she's important to me, alright? I must… She went through a lot because of me, I have to make it up to her somehow…"

Minho couldn't believe his ears, "Wow, I hope you realise just how ridiculous you sound. Well, she might as well continue to be dead to you because she's already belonged to someone else anyway. I know that the leader of Jongho's group is her boyfriend."

The annoyed look on Chan's face proceeds to bring Minho satisfaction, "Besides, weren't you the one who taught all of us that 'in this selfish world, only the selfish succeed'? Will you please stop all this useless whining over spilt milk? We have work to do, hyung."

The mere reminder of you having a boyfriend now was enough to set Chan on fire again, making him shoot up from his seat.

"What did you just say?"

Had it been another member, they most likely would have peed their pants just from his tone but Minho was a special case, he wasn't one to back down, "I said, we have work to do," Chan's eye twitched in irritation, "No, before that."

Minho smirked, making it his mission to continue provoking the leader, "Oh, you loved that part, didn't you? I said, she already belongs to someone else. I'm sorry, was that a hard pill to swallow?"

He pouted tauntingly, the hateful grin on his face doing nothing to ease the rage burning within Chan, "Just forget her, hyung. That road's a dead end and we all know it, no point wasting your time." Rubbing more salt in the wound, his goal was to make the leader give up on all thoughts of making up with you.

"I guess you're right. She may be taken now, but not for long though. I'll make sure of that."

That was not at all what Minho had expected him to say, he was hoping to discourage his boss from further involving himself with you. Instead, he realises now that what he said was only fuelling Chan to fight harder for you.

"You just can't let this go now, can you? I swear to god, if taking her out is what it means for you to get a grip on yourself then I will do it."

That did it.

Minho never should have underestimated the depth of Chan's feelings for you. In a flash, the elder male wrapped his fingers around the younger's neck in a grip so tight that it had Minho scratching desperately at the leader's hands for air.

"Lay one finger on her and I swear, you'll be shown no mercy."

As fearless as he is, Minho values his life enough to know Chan was not at all kidding, "I'm your boss, Minho, just remember that and do as I say. We will get back to work soon, don't you worry. I just need some time to… debrief our new friends, is all."

The leader releases his grip eventually, "Now get the hell out of my sight, I need to think."

With a hand on the skin of his throat that was sure to start bruising soon, Minho clenches his jaw tightly at the humiliation he just suffered. Chan has never laid a hand on him thus far, and for him to do this over a mere woman from his past. It's something Minho finds completely unforgivable.

Was Chan even still in his right mind? Was he really putting work aside to waste his time on such silly emotions instead? Well, Chan is sorely mistaken if he thinks Minho will stand by and watch idly as he fools around.

Not wanting to piss his boss off any further at the moment, the right-hand man smiles sarcastically at his superior, "As you wish."

He curtsies dramatically before stalking out.

Oh, I'll remember that, Bang Chan.

We're nearing the climax soon, I estimate the story to end around Part 15. I might do some bonus parts later on if I'm feeling up for it or if there are requests for any. But for now, thank you for reading and as always, don't be shy to let me know your thoughts on this part!

Tag list: @aurasblue @tmtxtf @park-simphwa @sunnyhokyu @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #zombie apocalypse au #hongjoong x you #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x you #seonghwa x reader #ateez fic #undying bonds

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hereforthefunnyguys · 12 days

Note

Can you tell me what your favorite rare pair is as well as a few head canons for them? I'm starving for rare pair content of any kind.

On it boss

I did Irateshipping Fragileshipping and a pinch of Klepto/Boardshipping :>

Irateshipping (because its me):

-In a domestic situation they are that one couple that can never agree on what to have for a meal. Joey loves meat, Marik hates meat. Joey hates super spicy stuff, Marik likes it (the masochistic Yami Marik instinct pulled through lmao). Joey loves fatty foods like red meat and heavy cream, Marik can't stomach them due to being raised with a Delicate Constitution (tm). You could not pay Joey to eat most vegetables and Marik will literally just eat raw spinach out of the bag like some kind of gazelle creature. They literally can't even agree over how to make eggs. Horrible couple to ever visit for dinner btw

-That said I don't think Marik could survive in a domestic situation for very long because he'd go Insane. Like those exotic macaws people keep in cages meant for like parakeets that start biting fingers off. Even with the power of Twue Wuv marik simply couldn't survive without a massive amount of stimulation which either means A) hes going to be starting another gang or B) he is going to be bothering joey 24/7

-They have a pitbull named Brutus :)

-Joey is constantly undergoing the Walter White "Noooo I refuse to take your Pity Money ill pay back all my debts on my own like a Real Man!" and marik is just paying everyone off behind the scenes to keep joey from getting kicked out of their apartment

-Marik cannot be casual about Joey in any situation he will rant about him for the rest of existence and all time to anyone who will listen or someone he has forced to listen and whether thats a good or bad rant depends on the state of their relationship at the time

Fragileshipping:

-Most sickly sweet couple you have ever met in all of your life in private. In public? You would be lucky to even know they're dating. They hold hands and thats like It

-Yugi kept on setting them up on dates meetings when Atem was still in the puzzle and it didn't work so great because Atem has negative rizz and sits on the couch like hes fucking paralyzed. Luckily Ryou can be easily entertained if you are willing to listen to him infodump about some shoestring-budget horror film thats been banned in Bolivia for grossly indecent content.

-Ryou is Atems beautiful darling boyfriend who is the light of his life and Atem is Ryou's pet little card game nerd

-Atem has an insane obligation to make sure Ryou is taken care of whenever anything bad happens to him ever because in the back of his mind hes always worried about him turning into modern-day TKB

Kleptoshipping/Boundshipping:

-Fundamentally the basis of this relationship should technically be Yugi engaging in his baser "I could fix him" instinct but also he does kind of think YB/TKB is really funny as just his usual evil bastard self. hes permanently trying not to go Wow he's kind of hot when he's evil while Bakura frantically details doomsday plan #23 to the gang

-Bakura looking at Yugi: this thing is so stupid and obsessed with friendship and its friends with the Pharoah (ew!) and its sickeningly adorable and yeah im in love with it now. fuck

-Everyone in the world must die EXCEPT for my darling boyfriend :)

-They can mutually devour a hamburger in a matter of seconds. Absolute meat destroyers (NOT double entendre (they have put multiple shops out of business via resource consumption esp because TKB will often dine and ditch especially at chains))

-Bakura is eternally frustrated because Yugi keeps on ruining his plans for world domination but hes so cute while doing it :(

-Yugi has the same fundamental beliefs as TKB but is a lot quieter about it which both makes TKB really mad and on the other hand it is very very satisfying to hear someone say "no no i get where you're coming from" after 3000 years of eternal torment

-They are Thee scary cool goth couple

-Bakura owns snakes and they like to nest in Yugi's hair because he generates Warmth. They are currently competing with their owner for who gets maximum yugi time and unfortunately bakura is kind of losing

#irateshipping #fragileshipping #kleptoshipping #boardshipping #ygo #asks #boundshipping

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bleach-your-panties · 6 months

Text

🕑part of mine and @suyacho 's nnn. also part of #kinktobercandyshop'23🍭

❤️banner made by me in pic collage

🕑divider: chibiville via glitter-graphics

❤️warnings: 18+, mdni. mentions of funeral proceedings (not detailed), ROUGH sex, degradation, mean!dom matsukawa, forced cum-eating, sex in a hearse, mattsun makes a blasphemous statement

🕑3.3k words

❤️first time writing matsukawa!

▶️what's your fantasy - ludacris ft. shawna

▶️slut me out - nle choppa

Day Before Halloween…

If there was any week that Matsukawa hated to work the most, he would have to say that it would be the week of Halloween.

Some people must just have a sick sense of humor or just not care at all to decide specifically to have their loved one's homegoing on Halloween.

In a way, he could kind of see the novelty behind it. That didn't change the fact that he was pissed the fuck off at all this extra work he'd been given, though.

The family wanted all stops pulled out for this Halloween funeral. Blood-red, white, and black flower arrangements with skull and miniature white pumpkin add-ins, then orange and black flower arrangements with added gourds of varying colors.

"This shit is going to look tacky as fuck." Issei complained under his breath as his co-worker helped him move said flower arrangements to a more suitable position at the family's request.

"Might as well hang some fake fucking bats from the ceiling while we're at it."

Today was the visitation and, of course, Issei's boss had put him in charge of greeting the visitors and ensuring that the guest book was out for them to sign, and not to mention the flowers that needed to be placed exactly in the correct areas.

He could hardly keep up with all the tasks he'd been given to do and to do alone or with very minimal assistance.

Like the saying goes…when you're good at your job, you get to do your job and the other guy's job.

Once the flowers were set up, he swiped black ring-covered knuckles across his forehead to catch a trickle of sweat from running down between his eyes.

If it's autumn, why is it so fucking hot? It also doesn't help that he's required to dress in black from head to toe.

At this point, Matsukawa just wanted to get home, peel off these sweaty clothes, and take a long, hot shower. Maybe if he was lucky, you'd be off work by the time he was finished.

—-

His drive home was uneventful and even more drab than usual, but that changed when you decided to Facetime him as you were leaving the office. Olive-colored, upward-slanted eyes roamed over your figure as he watched you get into your car.

You were dressed in a pair of dark, high-waisted slacks with wide legs and a deep maroon, silk blouse with flowing sleeves. Hair and makeup done to perfection and jewelry matched to your ensemble so well that one would think you had a personal stylist.

Issei could feel his cock hardening through his pants. He could practically smell the perfume you always wore as his mouth began to salivate.

No doubt he was insanely attracted to you, but today something felt different.

With his constant workload, he'd been feeling so uptight and pent up, and since he'd quit smoking (at your request once the two of you had started dating exclusively), he currently didn't have any outlet to release all of that tension.

Your work schedule kept you very busy as well, so when you and Issei wanted to see one another, you both had to plan accordingly.

Because of that, you both haven't even had time to have a date night, let alone have sex.

"Hi, baby. You look tired. Still working hard on that Halloween-themed funeral for tomorrow?"

Your sweet voice filtered into Issei's ears, making his cock strain even harder against his now too-tight-feeling dress pants.

When he didn't answer for a long time and just kept staring, you had to check your phone to make sure that the app hadn't frozen.

"Issei, baby? Are you alright? Issei!"

The dark-haired man was still looking, lost in his own world. He'd even pulled his car over to the side of the road so he wouldn't get into a wreck.

He wants to ruin you.

He wants to fuck you so good and hard that your tears stream down your face like waterfalls and ruin your perfect makeup.

He wants to fuck you so hard that your perfect hairstyle falls out of place as he grips the beautiful strands between his thick fingers and pulls as hard as he can.

He wants to rip your blouse open, rip your bra clean in two and throw the discarded material over his head. Rip the buttons of your pants off, then yank them down and off of your perfect legs with the soft, cotton panties you always wear being his next target as he destroys those as well. Just to get to that wet cunt that always takes his huge cock so well.

He wants to ravage you.

Finally, he snapped out of his reverie when a semi-truck passed by on the highway, the wind from it making his car rock as he sat marked on the shoulder of the road.

"My bad, sweetheart. I just got distracted by how beautiful you look. My day was shit as usual, but that's no longer an issue now that I have your sexy ass in front me." He grinned that big grin that you absolutely love on him.

Your face immediately went hot and you coughed slightly to clear your throat.

"Always the charmer, you are." That angelic laugh of yours filtered through the phone speaker, making Issei's eyes almost roll into the back of his head.

"We should make plans to get together soon. It's been far too long."

Yes, it has. Far too long.

"Can do, sweetheart. My schedule should free up after the service is over tomorrow; then, you can have me all to yourself." He teased with a bite to that plump, juicy lower lip.

If it wasn't for workplace standards, he'd have gotten it pierced like you'd suggested the first time you two ever kissed.

With a very prominent blush on your face now, you giggled and nodded.

"Okay, I'll be sure to free up my schedule as well and make sure that we'll have no distractions." You sensually flirted.

'Oh, there'll be no damn distractions. I'll make sure of that.' Issei thought to himself.

—-

Next Day. Halloween.

"Yes, thank you for coming."

"So sorry for your loss."

"The funeral professional lineup will start at the driveway of the church, thank you."

Matsukawa had been back and forth all day long finishing up last minute details before the service had officially started at 3:00 pm.

He had been doing his usual duties that were required of him, mostly just ensuring that everything was prepared for the funeral attendees such as the guest book and even helping with setting up for the repast, which would be at the local community center.

While the funeral was in progress, he was making sure that any loose ends were tied up and that everything was just how the family wanted it.

"Whew, shit. What a day, right Matsukawa? I could really go for a drink and a cig right now. What about you?" His co-worker asked as they both sat down for a well-deserved break after the service completed.

"Mmm, yeah I could go for a drink, but I'll pass on the cig."

He waved a hand dismissively. The co-worker was about to protest and try to convince him when the sound of heels clicking on the floor made them both snap their heads around.

There you were, clad in a simple, black cocktail dress but you looked anything but simple.

Matsukawa's mossy green eyes stretched open to fully take in your attire: the dress had two thick straps holding it up, and, people always say that black makes you look slimmer, but that dress was fucking suffocating every curve on your body.

The slit up your left thigh was the last nail in the coffin. Issei knew that he had to get you out of here right now, before he ended up bending you over right in front of his unsuspecting co-worker.

"Baby…I was going to pick you up for dinner. It's only," he glanced at his wristwatch, "6:00pm."

You smiled big, making your cute little dimple pop out and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

"I know! I was getting ready, and…I was just so excited to see you that I rushed right over here, hoping you might be off of work already."

Oh God, you're so damn cute.

With your little hair done up in a cute updo, a few strands framing your face.

Your jewelry was simple, silver, and shining brighter than the stars in the quickly darkening sky.

Matsukawa had stars in his own eyes as he glorified your presence in front of him. Truly an angel standing right in his face.

And the demon inside of him couldn't wait to destroy every bit of the pure innocence that exuded from your being.

Without another word, he bit down on the middle of his lower lip, sucking the plump flesh between his teeth as he grabbed you by your toned bicep and began dragging you towards the back of the funeral home.

"Issei-? What's wrong, honey, are you-"

"Quiet." He grit between his teeth.

You immediately shut up - you knew what that tone meant.

With a small smirk, you let him roughly pull you along. Your stiletto heels clicked loudly across the linoleum floors in the empty hallway.

—-

yeah yeah yeah yeah

give it to me now, give it to me now

—-

The foundation of the funeral home was just about ancient.

It used to be a house belonging to a wealthy family that lived in the area a long time before either you or Issei were born.

The family that owned it decided to renovate it after their elder passed away and thus created your boyfriend's workplace.

It couldn't be denied that it looked a bit spooky, and supposedly the family's elder had passed away in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

But nevermind the lore, because the scariest thing that you would have to deal with right now would be Issei's impatience.

The tugging on your upper arm ceased once you both reached the back of the building.

Issei unlocked the back door with one of his keys and pushed it open.

The cool evening air rushed in and made the hem of your dress fly up a bit.

You were grabbed again by the arms and whisked through the doorway, a surprised yelp leaving your red-glossed lips as you were slammed up against smooth, painted wood.

"Can't believe it took this long for me to get my hands on you."

He murmured low in your ear, licking the lobe before trailing his tongue down your neck and leaving a slimy trail in its wake.

"Issei, oh…"

"Hmm, saying my name already, pretty girl? I've barely gotten started."

He pulled his mouth off of your neck with a wet suckle and reached to unbuckle his black belt.

Your little manicured fingers reached out and brushed against his.

"Let me, baby…I want to-"

"No. Hands off of me. On your knees."

He slipped the belt out of the loops and wrapped it around his hand before striking it against your chest.

Once you were on your knees in front of him, the heel of his shiny dress shoe pressed down on your lower back, making it arch.

You hissed as your knees scraped the gravel below you. Issei grabbed a handful of your hair to lift your head up.

His dick twitched in those tight dress pants when he saw your bright eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears.

"Are you okay with this? Still remember the safeword?" He asked gently, stroking the belt's cold leather underneath your chin.

"Mhm, please Issei-"

"Issei?"

"Daddy!" You corrected hastily, "Please Daddy, been needing you for so so long…"

How could he deny his sweet baby girl?

With his hand cradling your chin, he took the belt and looped it around your neck, tugging hard to get you up on your feet.

A strangled gasp gurled from your lips, only making Issei smirk as he began leading you away from the lighted back porch of the building into the open garage where the hearses were parked.

All he had to do was pull open the door to one of them. Who would willingly crawl into one of these? Besides, all of the keys went home with the manager and employees at the end of the workday.

Issei shoved you inside and pinned you down. The hand holding your makeshift leash forced your head against the frosty window.

The distinct sound of rustling fabric made your brain rattle and cunt leak into your satin panties.

"Fuck, stupid fucking zipper!" He griped. No way he was being cockblocked by his own fucking pants right now.

"Aw, you know what. Fuck. It."

—-

i wanna get you in the back seat, windows up

that's the way you like to fuck

clogged up, fog alert

rip the pants and rip the shirt

—-

A sharp ripping sounded throughout the enclosed space of the car.

You promptly turned your head, which was a huge blunder on your part.

"Keep your eyes forward, whore. Who said you were allowed to look at me?"

Issei grabbed a hold of your hair, along with your belt-leash, and smushed your face back up against the window.

In turn, he palmed his heavy cock in his free hand. He'd ripped the entire zipper from its seam on the front of those ¥215,412 Prada slacks, but he wasn't worried about that right now.

His entire focus was on your wet cunt steadily soaking those teeny little panties, if you could even really call them that.

A rough hand groped the squishy flesh of your ass before smacking it hard enough to leave an angry red mark.

"Hmm, I don’t think I should be the only one to have my clothes ripped, huh Y/N? You can answer.” Issei remarked before spitting on his dick just to give it that extra lube so you could take him.

“Y-yes, Daddy…rip it up.” You whined pathetically, making him smirk.

In the next minute, you heard another ripping sound; Issei ripped your dress from the hem following all the way up the slit on your thigh, the panties soon following. They fell to the carpeted floor in two thin shreds of black fabric.

He jacked his dick with urgency, smearing pre-cum all over his hand before pulling you from the window to shove you into the corner between it and the seat.

"Fuck, you’re so wet. You like my big dick bullying its way inside that tight little cunt, unh?" Issei huffed next to your ear, encasing you with his larger body and rutting his dick right inside your pulsating heat.

Your arousal dripped around the length of his dick, lubing him up even more. Your combined juices created a lewd sloshing sound as he ground his hips into your backside, trapping you in the corner of the backseat with nowhere to run.

“Mmphh, mhmm..”

"Yeah?” He replied like he could understand your mumbling (he probably could).

His eyes narrowed farther into tiny slits as he lost his shit, your pussy gripping him like a vice.

“Shit, you're fucking creaming all over me. You wanted this just as much as I did, huh baby?"

He moved his lips from your ear to cover your mouth, slipping his tongue inside to stroke and suckle yours.

Saliva dribbled down both your chins. The entire neckline of your dress was soaked at this point.

Issei moved his lips then from your mouth and licked across your cheek until he got to your earlobe.

Up, up, up until the tip of his tongue was inside your ear and swirling around.

“O-oh…I-issei…hmmm..” You slipped up again.

SMACK!

“Wrong. What's my name?”

“Daddy…”

You didn't dare move to nurse your stinging cheek.

“Good girl…now stay right there while I take my pussy.”

Getting bored of the belt around your neck, Issei halted his rough thrusting long enough to free your neck.

“Don't get excited, slut. I'm not finished with you.”

He tugged your arms behind your back and looped the belt through them.

“Arch.”

So sweet and obedient for him, Issei could hardly believe how well he had trained you.

He planted one knee in the seat while he stood up in your pussy. He used the belt as leverage while pummeling your pussy, making the entire car rock.

The sounds of his dick getting stuck inside your tight, wet hole were no less than pornographic - even more so when he pulled his hips back to free himself from you before diving right back in like an Olympic swimmer.

“Oh God! Issei, please!”

“God? Why are you calling God?”

He didn't slow down his wild thrusting even though his own undoing was upon him. One arm slipped free from your confines, and you used it to push back against his abdomen.

You could tell he was close by how sloppy his thrusts were getting, but he wasn't about to stop. His dick kept slipping out of you, nudging your asshole and bumping against your clit.

“Might as well just keep on calling my name because I'm your God tonight, bitch. Move your motherfucking hand, haaah.”

“Mmm, I-Issei, I know you're close…cum in me, please Daddy…”

“I-OH FUCK!”

Whoever last used this car didn't close the door all the way, because the two of you went tumbling out into the cold, wet dirt below.

Luckily, a large flower garden was planted right on the side of the house next to the garage.

You unceremoniously face-planted into a fresh patch of begonias, the dirt still soft and rich.

Issei choked back a laugh and instead moaned - somehow the two of you managed to stay connected and the fall only drove his dick right up against your cervix.

—-

rough sex, make it hurt

in the garden all in the dirt

roll around, georgia brown

that's the way that i like it twerked

legs jerk, overworked

underpaid, but don't be afraid

—-

“Shit, shit, fuck! I'm cumming!” Issei groaned, his entire body beginning to shake with the force of his orgasm.

You thrust back against him, trying to hurry your own along while you coughed out dirt and red flower petals.

With a strained groan, you heard Issei finally come undone, but you felt a sudden…emptiness.

“W-what?”

A devious smirk covered said man’s face and instead of cumming in your pussy he had cum into his free hand.

“Still want my cum? Here you go, whore.”

He took his large hand and covered your face from your nose down, making you inhale and splutter through the warm, sticky mess.

His thumb, index, and middle finger stretched your jaw open before he leaned over your head to add his final touches - his saliva - to your soiled face.

Once again, he slapped your cheek and then rubbed it before carefully bringing the two of you up and turning you around to face him.

“First time you didn't end up using the safe word. Under that prim and proper facade you're an insatiable bitch.” He smirked and nuzzled the top of your sweaty head.

“What…what the hell was that for?! Why couldn't you just cum inside?!” You griped, using the back of your hand to begin wiping away his mess.

“Because, sweetheart, you kept breaking character, and it's Halloween. I'm on demon time.”

----

*ʳᵉᵇˡᵒᵍˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃᵖᵖʳᵉᶜⁱᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ 🫶🏽

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streets-in-paradise · 1 year

Text

Where Are All the Gods? - Thor x (Fem) Quill!Reader/ Loki x (Fem) Quill!Reader

Word Count 1.7 K

Warnings: MCU styled standard pop culture references ( the reader is Star-Lord’s twin so...)

Summary: Loki has an excentric neigbor in the dungeons of the asgardian palace that quickly catches the attention of Thor during one of his visits. She seems to have a past that resonates with their own experiences and the god of mischief keeps himself skeptical about the veracity of her saids, but his adoptive brother is willing to listen her.

Notes: For the sake of this, let’s pretend Thor visited Loki at least once before the prision break that happened during the invasion of the dark elves.

Tags: @nocturnest @spngingerbread21

The prince of Asgard was in the dungeons for an informal visit to his brother. Nothing obliged him to do it, he told himself many times that he was going to give up on him. However, actually putting that idea to practice wasn’t easy because he still cared for Loki despite stumbling with his hate over and over again. Thor only wanted to make him company for a while fearing that the extreme isolation would make him even more deranged and there weren’t many others willing to make the visits. No one else, only him and the queen had some amount of attachment to him.

It didn’t take long for him to regret coming, as soon as the sarcastical verbal aggressions started. The situation progressively escalated into one more of their classical fights.

“ You are pathetic, as much of a simplistic sentimentalist as the species you adore so much.” Loki was rambling his hate away. “ Can’t you see that you need of me more than I have ever needed you? You are here for yourself, Thor.”

The god of thunder wasn’t listening anymore. Not only was the reproach old, but a noise in the background was catching his attention. One that Loki got used to after many days hoping to learn how to ignore it. A mindless environmental inconvenience that didn’t justify the use of magic, but was enough to annoy him pretty frequently.

You were singing in the cell right in front of his, acting like you would have been ignoring the argument when in fact you have been pendant of every word because you were bored. Extremely bored, and Loki wasn’t a very chatty neighbor. Singing to yourself for hours was a coping mechanism to keep your sanity, but also an easy way to get attention whenever possible. Even if it would start with him yelling at you to shut up, he would have to talk with you. Annoying the two asgardians into paying attention to you seemed more fun than being passively exposed to their family drama.

“ That the walls were shaking, the Earth was quaking “ You sang as if you would be back fooling around with Peter. “ My mind was aching and we were making it … “

Thor turned back following the direction of the sound and Loki was even more infuriated than usual when he realized you created a successful distraction midway into his venting.

“ Mind to give us a minute? I have been FORCED TO HEAR YOU for the ENTIRE DAY!!”

“ Your song… “ His adoptive brother inquired with unstoppable curiosity. “ I think I have heard it before.”

“ No way! The son of Odin is into AC/DC? Things are getting crazy!” You answered with excitement. “ … And you shook me all night long …”

You sang a little bit more into the short chorus and brought to him the needed realization.

“ STARK! That’s a song he likes,” He cheered the awakening of his musical memory.” it was hard to decipher without the music. This is outstanding, Loki! I think your companion of imprisonment must be from Midgard.”

“ Curious detail, it must be part of the punishment. Her constant singing will drive me insane.”

It was your opportunity to properly engage in their conversation and you didn’t waste it.

“ Hey, god of thunder and rock and roll! I heard you protect people from Earth. Would your code of honor make you be my lawyer? Spending quality time with your maniac brother has been fun, but I really need a way out of this.”

“ Excuse me, but even as a prince of Asgard I can’t interfere with a verdict given by the Allfather.” Thor calmly informed you. “ I fail to understand how a human found such an unlucky fate.”

Loki bursted into laughter.

“ Wait until you hear it, she has broken all human measurements for stupidity. It’s humiliating to serve sentence close to someone like her.”

“ You underestimate everyone the same way you overestimate yourself.” The son of Odin recalled. “ Which was your crime, midgardian lady?”

“ Theft.” You simply explained. “ I tried to take a valuable piece from the asgardian treasure.”

Loki’s demeanor was intimating you to give a complete confession.

“ Tell him which of the many artifacts in the palace was the target of your greed.”

You hesitated, then replied.

“ Odin’s Gungnir, the only thing this place holds that’s almost as valuable as your untouchable Mjolnir. Nothing personal, I just wanted it for its worth. I’m not planning to use it to destroy a planet like this one did with an Infinity Stone.”

It wasn’t precisely what Thor expected to hear and it raised even more questions.

“ The objects you mention are beyond the reach of any mortal, it makes no sense. Not even hearing the name of my hammer angers me because I am aware you would have never accomplished such an impossible heist.”

“ Did you sincerely think you were going to steal the most heavily guarded weapon in Asgard and walk out harmless?” Loki followed, the airs of superiority in his tone quickly increasing. “ You were imprisoned by your own moronic recklessness. Why did you want it, in the first place? The palace is brimming with treasures that are easier to obtain, heading for the spear of Odin is like screaming to the guards to lock you in a cell for the rest of your life.”

“ The client I got only pays for unique shit, Loki! He is not interested in a golden statue from your banquet hall.”

Thor witnessed the altercation with amusement. Insulting people to entertain himself in endless arguments was the closest Loki was to making friends.

“ If you ask me, that feels to me more like desperation than foolishness. “ He added in your defense. “ Not so long ago I thought myself capable of successfully invading Jotunheim all on my own because desperation to prove myself made me commit a reckless mistake.”

You showed him a half smile that Loki noticed with annoyance.

“ Nobody asked you, Thor. You shouldn’t even be here. “

The blond ignored him and gave a few steps closer to your cell.

“ From one desperate fool to another.. May I ask for the motivation behind yours? ”

Thor was soft spoken and sweet, so you found no problem in opening up just a bit to him.

“ My brother, I did it for him. For both of us, we want to start over away from the asshole who raised us.”

“ You have be kidding me!” Loki interrupted with frustration. “ Are you going to believe her? She is clearly trying to manipulate you using what she has learned by listening to us against you.”

“ I’m not, I swear. This is all a great irony. “ You defended yourself right away. “ Your pity is useless, you can’t get me out, so why would I lie to you? I do have a brother I love, Peter is all I have. It’s always the two of us against the universe, no one else cares for us... Well, Kraglin does, but the point is that we don’t fit in where we are. I wanted to make that sale so we would have enough to make it alone without having to worry. The man who raised us made us thiefs, it’s the only life we know since he stole us from our home as children.”

“ Is that the addition you make meant to move my emotions?” Loki mocked you with cold skepticism. “ Now is when I’m supposed to empathize with the tragedy of those who suffered from my fate. Let me be the first one telling you that you fail as a liar as you have failed as a criminal, your tale is unrealistic. The stealing of midgardian children serves no useful purpose. “

“ Sneaky advantages ideal for stealing.” You corrected him. “ We were smaller than most alien kids and if you would have read The Hobbit, you would know that little people make excellent burglars. Instead of a company of thirteen dwarves at our doorstep asking us to join for an adventure, my brother and I got kidnapped by the forty thieves of Ali Baba.”

Neither of them understood what you were trying to exemplify, but their confusion was fun to see.

“ Fate mocking us because Pete and I have the kind of bond you two never had is out of my control. “ Was your honest conclusion. “ How about having a few counseling sessions to pass time? Thor can come once a week and I can help you solve your problems. I failed as a criminal, but I’m good at being a sister for my bro.”

It was a subtle invalidating point for Loki’s insults that you delivered flawlessly

“ I refuse, I don’t need advice from an inferior creature. “

“ Then why are you here? If humans are so inferior, why aren’t you ruling us? We are cellblock mates because you failed as a dictator, you are a loser doomed to hear me. “

Thor stifled a chuckle to avoid making things worse.

“ You are not the worst company that can be found in this prison. Loki doesn't appreciate it, but he should.”

You exaggerated a lovely expression receiving the neutral compliment.

“ Thank you, Thor! He doesn’t value me in the slightest. Would you keep coming to visit me? I can tell you many awesome things about Earth if you want.”

Loki rolled his eyes, avoiding looking at you.

“ Don’t waste your time, he already has a midgardian and she isn’t a constant source of annoyance like you are.”

To his brother’s disgust,Thor felt comfortable with you. Your ways reminded him a bit of Darcy, quite funny and nice to be around. He was also curious about your story, which you began to tell but didn’t finish.

“ It would be my pleasure.” He answered directly to you, ignoring the insidious side commentary. “ The eloquent and heartfelt way in which you speak of your brother is a comfort for my troubled mind and I would like to learn more about midgardian traditions to surprise my friends.”

The agreement was sealed sharing polite smiles, then Thor turned back to face Loki.

“ See you soon, try to be a nicer companion.”

As he was heading out he could still hear the usual bickering between prisoners restarting.

“ Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?” You were singing once more.“ Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the raisin odds?”

“ SHUT UP!!”

“ Don’t you like it? Too bad, it's from Peter’s favorite movie. Do you know how many times he made me watch it? I know it by heart so get ready.”

#mcu imagines #thor odinson #loki laufeyson #thor odinson x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #thor x reader #loki x reader

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uhbasicallyjustmilex · 17 days

Note

Sorry I tried leaving this as comments on your reply to my ask but there was just too much waffle and it was all jumbled so I’m putting it here😂😂

Sorry it took me a MARATHON of time to reply to, I can’t explain how pleased it makes me that this comment made your day bc honestly every time you update it always seems to be during a v tough week and it’s just this ultimate stress relief and enjoyment that I so so love🥹

Just to quickly waffle about what you said, I’m so appreciative of how you fret over the characters sounding real bc it pays off SO MUCH and though I’m still of the mind that you’ve been given this unique ability to read their minds, I can recognise it must take so much studying of their characters and the words you choose and to have such a phenomenal skill <3333

And honestly I LOVE watching him have all these realisations through Suzy bc it’s so real and so satisfying and I’m so excited (but also terrified bc poor woman how do you compete with soul mates) to see how everything unfolds between them all.

And the LITTLE DETAILS that you should honestly trademark bc you do them so well 😭 but I literally have this growing list in my mind that I need to write down cause they make my heart flutter they’re so intimate and careful :’) I could literally waffle about them all day.

You’re so right, they have SUCH a special dynamic, and often I find it frustrating with real life ships bc it’s not like with films where though characters can be deep they have a specific kind of basis to them which fits a role. Real people are so complex and so it’s not 24/7 that someone gets them so right that you feel like you’re watching a segment of their lives (milex writers in general do tend to have an uncanny ability to write them brilliantly) but with you it feels like everything you write can just be added on to their actual interactions and it’s perfection.

I’m so so pleased that my ramblings had an impact on getting your confidence back to heights it should be at because I rlly can’t explain how brilliant you and your writing are so thank you thank you for all the work you put into it. I’m SO EXCITED for the next chapter 🥰🥰🥰🥰 and one day I’m gonna go into the absolute insane perfection that is the sex scene in chapter 8 bc the realism, build up, and EMOTIONS as well as pure sexyism (almost put sexism there which wasn’t quite right 😂) is just one of the best and sauciest things I’ve ever read.

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

Also trying to add a cute lil milex hug gif to this is impossible bc they’re all far too sexually charged or emotionally unstable 😂

hiii lovely!! 💝 oh my goddddddd i swear your asks just leave me a blushing, giddy mess every single time 😭😭

i'm so glad to hear that my updates always seem to manage to coincide with a time where they're able to provide you with a little bit of comfort and escapism 🥺

honestly i've always just found other people fascinating, and have found myself imagining what the world might be like through their eyes for as long as i can remember! it's been so much fun to get to really delve deep into that in this fic, so i really love that you notice and appreciate that side of it 🥰🥰 aghhhhhh. it truly just means so much to hear that you feel i capture something real about alex and miles and their dynamic in this fic, thank you 🥺

also STOP your flailing about the smut scene is too sweet 😭 i am SO glad you felt all the build up and emotions worked, and honestly any time you feel like going into it, please don't hold back - i am more than happy to hear your thoughts! it was hands down one of my favourite bits of the whole fic to write, actually 🥰

once again your utterly lovely words have lifted my spirits so much, thank you for your kindness and generosity in taking the time to share your experience of reading four walls with me 💖 you're an absolute gem and i cannot WAIT for your to read chapter nine! (which will be posted tomorrow... 😉)

(god you were not wrong about the milex hug gifs, were you?! aghhh they're both so ridiculous 😭😭 anyway here, have them being their silly, playful selves having the best time together! sending you all the best vibes for your weekend 💜🌟)

#asks #four walls #so sorry it took me a little while to reply to this!#life has been a bit manic #also i promise i haven't forgotten your other ask either #in fact i'm very much looking forward to posting my answer 😂

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ask-the-critters-survival-au · 21 days

Note

Static crawls out from the monitor... and reaches out not just to the three who carry it... but a certain pink child as well.

“I… normally make it a rule to wait to send another message until my last one was received… but I do not have patience to wait that long sadly. It is… Children, while this message is intended for all of you, this is to address Picky’s claim that and I quote here, “They. Were never. My friends. Not DogDay. Not Hoppy. Not Bobby, not Crafty, NONE OF THEM. They made that clear when they all left me behind.”... I apologize for recording your voice without permission, child, it was the only way I could think of to get around the others not being able to hear you. As for your statement itself… Well let’s break it down shall we?”

“Dogday- I have already covered where he is. Being tortured without his lower half being hanged off of a wall while surrounded by little critters that have proven themselves to be quite capable of crawling inside of Dogday and puppering his still breathing body around while nibbling at his insides. I didn’t wish to share that final detail, but you're starting to force my hand. He is currently WORSE OFF then if he would have been running away and abandoning you all. With how you talk about him… shouldn’t you be happy Catnap is doing such a thing to him?”

“Hoppy… well of course not now you're trying to eat her. But never your friend? Never? You could have said no longer my friend but instead something as strong as never? Child… that kind of line comes from someone who values that friendship greatly and from a perceived betrayal hard commits the other way. I do not know why Hoppy chose to leave you other than the very valid- and you must agree this is a valid reason, “Catnap is a Psychopath”. And then there's another question… once you took Hoppy’s foot you didn’t chase her. You let her go instead of even trying to stop her… You only started hunting her when you had the bond forged by my deals… but why didn’t you try beforehand? Your care for her twisted into a reason of “Food for later” or “I’m already eating”... instead of chasing the bigger meal?”

“Bobby… again I don’t wish to speak for her when she’s listening to this but… I can put two and two together Picky. Do you know about Crafty’s hands child? Recently through another random memory share (Yes that is happening and I have no idea why children I am sorry for that), the memory of Crafty bothering Catnap aggressively for more red paint to draw with before Catnap pins her, which was honestly valid, and then rips off her hands, which was just really fucked up. Can you not tell me that Bobby would not take Crafty away from Catnap who disabled her? To keep her safe from that?”

“As much as you claim that the others left you behind, does this not paint a different picture? Does this not say something else child? Then let’s go further with those who do stay by you.”

“Bubba is insane and needs very real help he cannot get because the prototype does not allow you all to leave. Depending on how far he’s degraded… does he really have a rational choice to leave you? If he left it wouldn't be because he truly wanted to but some insane whim.”

“Kickin is… a can of worms we haven’t even begun to get at. We haven’t seen him enough to make any guesses as to why he stays. Could be fear… or his care being stronger than fear. I will point out that I do find it incredibly strange he isn’t dead. You said earlier that the only reason Catnap didn’t fully kill Kickin, only horribly mutilated him for going into the playhouse, was because he was still useful… How? Objectively how does Kickin have value- how does Bubba have value and use? Both of them are from what we have seen potentially more problems than their worth and two more mouths to feed.”

“Why do you keep them alive, and why does Catnap keep them alive? Catnap is… complicated. He joined in on the hour… which was justified if not too overboard with killing the innocents and especially killing the kids, either by actually harming them or dooming them to die of starvation down here. Failed to kill Leith Pierre and probably a few of the people behind the experiments, that sucks. Then helped the prototype keep you all trapped down here! Helped keep you all starving! Helped keep you all in torment even while he for some reason doesn’t have the heart to kill anyone!”

“It’s not black and white Picky. The situation is complicated. The emotions are complicated. And that and the following goes to the other three listening to this as well. It’s okay if your feelings are confused. It’s okay to both love and hate someone at the same time. It’s okay to feel betrayed even after all of that was explained. It’s okay to be paranoid about being hurt again, especially in this situation… but please don’t ignore this. Don’t just hide that with rage and lies.”

“Picky… I hate to say this with the others listening but… if you're really going to commit to this, commit to murdering them… do it for the real emotions you have. Don’t lie and make excuses. Be real with yourself at least okay? Even if you hate feeling that way… even if you’re scared to feel that way… those emotions are valid, and hating feeling those emotions are valid.”

“Make the choice you want to make with no regrets, child. Disregard food, because I can make that no issue. Disregard Catnap, for he deserves nothing from you. Disregard the current hunt and petty reasons that don't truly matter.”

“Do you want this child? To permanently lose those three bonds that maybe someday could be mended anew… by your own hands?”

“Until next time children… please all of you, be safe.”

(Breaking one of my rules for this but that last answer made me have FEELINGS I needed to share. Hope your having a great day Mod! Remember the hydrate!)

SHUT UP! shut up shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP!

Um…Are you going through something?

I don’t get it. We never left her behind. We told her she could come but she said no. I mean…that’s what Hoppy told us.

Haha…yeah.

[Mod note: Thank you for reminding me! I tend to forget drinking water is a thing I need to do to survive 😅]

#ask blog #poppy playtime #poppy playtime chapter 3 #ask the critters #smiling critters #poppy playtime au #ask the smiling critters #hoppy hopscotch #hoppy hopscotch poppy playtime #bobby bearhug #bobby bearhug poppy playtime #picky piggy poppy playtime #picky piggy #craftycorn poppy playtime #craftycorn #kickinchicken #kickin chicken #kickinchicken poppy playtime

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sparguscityangel · 7 months

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The Dark Eco Incident

I held a mini contest by accident and @segaphantom won and requested a fic about his Spicy Jelly AU where TPL!Jak accidentally eats dark eco and transforms into Dark Jak. It was so fun to write that I wanted to share it. Congrats Sega! Enjoy!

This was easily the stupidest thing Jak had ever done.

Well, maybe top five. And maybe not the stupidest thing, but definitely up there for the stupidest thing.

Let’s rewind a little bit.

The origins of Jak’s seemingly indestructible stomach are vastly unknown. An expert gastroenterologist could explain in great detail the functions of the stomach along with its genetic makeup. They could ramble on and on about gastric acid and stomach lining and ulcers and all kinds of things that would make someone else lose their stomach contents at the truth of how truly disgusting the human body can be. A professional’s opinion would still be very appreciated, but seeing how the very field of gastroenterology wouldn’t be invented for several hundred years, the query must be passed on to psychology which also wouldn’t be invented for another several hundred years. But if they did exist back when Jak was a young teenager running around barefoot on a beach that has never known the horrors of pollution or plastic, they would probably point his predilection to putting anything and everything in his mouth on a suspected food insecurity brought on by trauma usually seen in children who grew up with scarce resources — usually during a war.

Of course, if one tried to tell Jak this, it would absolutely sound insane. As insane as time travel, in fact.

So, what could the village elders say other than Jak just had the appetite of a very hungry goat? He’d grow out of it eventually. He was young, after all, and growing boys needed to eat enough to power a small army. Especially when that growing boy is their small army, but they digress. The point is that as long as the villagers remember to keep any and all precious valuables out of reach of the kid, they’ll be fine.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the villagers were elderly and, well, remembering wasn’t exactly their strong suit. Because of all the villages that speckled the coast where Samos the Sage could’ve easily picked to train the heir of the most powerful Haus — both literally and figuratively — in known history, he just had to pick the one with the most old people. It was like he followed the scent of arthritic cream and prunes until he came upon Sandover and pitched their tent there and if that wasn’t bad enough, if that wasn’t bad enough, he also forgot that he himself wasn’t a spring chicken. Sure, he adopted a young girl and in his dementia riddled brain must’ve believed that having a teenage daughter also made him young in spirit, but he was old and forgetful and he should’ve been more careful. Just as he always drilled into the heads of Jak and his annoying orange friend who Samos had prayed would’ve been left out of this time loop — all actions have consequences.

This was the consequences of his actions.

Not that he was aware of it occurring at the time.

At the time, Jak had simply been hungry. Ravenously so. Training had been becoming more intense lately, and alongside his sore muscles, his insides felt like they were about to turn to liquid from channeling so much eco in rapid succession. Samos insisted that there was still so much to do, so much to learn, but Jak was growing restless. Every time his uncle came home and told him about his travels, about the things he’s seen and the people he’s met, it made his stomach twist in knots with anticipation. Their family, his uncle told him, weren’t the sitting around type. They were explorers. Adventures. Innovators and lustful for danger. They came from a long, long line of ancestors who defy the odds and do spectacular things with their sharp minds and skills. After a lifetime of listening to these promises, it was only natural that Jak would long to be a part of those stories. The first thing he’d conquer once he was allowed to leave the village would be Misty Island — that, he was sure of.

But to conquer Misty Island meant to first complete his training. Which was supposed to begin nearly an hour ago, but hadn’t, and now he was starving.

The diet Samos approved for him of roots and fish was starting to turn bitter on his tongue. He missed the sweetness of mangos and the honeyed taste of caramelized bananas. Sometimes, he’d even get a craving to eat the prickly plant that grew high up on the cliffs, instincts telling him to skin the plant and grill it to make a meal that he has never eaten before in his life but would accurately tell anyone the taste of.

He was so, so hungry.

Well, if Samos wasn’t going to show up any time soon, then Jak was going to take matters into his own hands and find something to eat in the hut.

The roots that Samos kept in jars lined the wall of his other doohickies that he sternly told him and Daxter to not touch under any circumstances. They were filled with dirt, wriggling worms, mushrooms, crawling lacewings, and more dirt that smelled suspiciously like the yakkow pen on the edge of the village. Jak turned away from them once he spotted the jars containing liquified eco, his insides already beginning to twinge at the idea of having to channel them later when his training called for it. So, he turned his attention to the last place that he’d expect to find eco: The pantry.

A part of him warned him against straying from the carefully laid out diet. It told him that he should wait, and if he couldn’t wait, then he should at least look for something that followed the guidelines. Something healthy, for example. Carrots, bell peppers, sprouts, things of that nature that will give him energy.

The other part of him instantly spotted the jar of dark marmalade and went, “Yeah, that’ll do.”

Grabbing it off the shelf, Jak inspected it with eagerness. It was a violet color with some streaks of magenta, possibly run-off of some other fruit. A two-fruit marmalade. Though he couldn’t fathom what the majority of it was, he knew in his gut that the magenta was no doubt strawberries. Keira had been telling him and Daxter that the strawberry plant she had been nursing for the better part of a year had finally begun to yield fruit and she was extremely excited about all the possible desserts, jams, and fruit salads they could make with them. She must’ve started making things with them, and though Jak was a little hurt she didn’t give him any to try, he was excited regardless.

He found the toast easy enough. It was in a bread box nestled somewhere on Samos’ desk, no doubt often a snack for the sage while he worked on his mastery of green eco. The knife was salvaged from the junk drawer. Saliva began to pool in Jak’s mouth as he twisted the jar open, sniffing the contents. It wasn’t … the best smelling marmalade. Hell, looking at it now, it wasn’t even marmalade. The consistency was gelatinous and thinner than marmalade, and Jak was confident it was more of a jelly than anything else. The smell of bitter almonds and sickly sweetness assaulted his senses almost immediately, making him gag momentarily. He even almost considered not eating it after all, but then he remembered that fish often aren't the best smelling when they are gutted, so maybe it was the same for the jelly.

Jak plunged the knife in, moving it around and watched it come apart easily. It was like scooping up honey and the young man perked up when he saw the dark jelly drip off the knife and back into the jar. Already he could picture the taste of it, the sweetness that will hit his tongue and pair amazingly with the crunch of the toast. He wasted no time spreading it, evening it out across the entire square and then scooping a bit more until he couldn’t see the toast underneath it. It looked perfect.

The first bite, however, wasn’t what he expected.

He had prepared for a sweet taste, but instead was met with pinching on his tongue. His whole mouth, in fact. It stung and fizzed across his taste buds, setting them on fire in a way that both felt and tasted good. Keira must’ve added in a bit of spice or peppers, really giving it a good kick that Jak was all too happy about. Even though he thought it could use a bit more of it, he was satisfied with it nonetheless and craved more of the jelly.

He grabbed the jar and looked inside, noticing that there wasn’t much left. Surely Samos wouldn’t mind if he just went ahead and finished the jar, right? It’s not like jelly ever really hurt anyone.

______________

“Hey! Old Greenie!”

Samos sighed, grumbling as he shuffled to turn around and face the grating young boy coming toward him. The lanky boy leaned over the railing of the house of his uncle, kicking his feet in annoyance as if he had been patiently waiting for someone for far too long and his patience had run dry. He and Jak must’ve been in the middle of hide and seek, and by the looks of it, either Jak had grown tired of seeking or was just incredibly bad at it. That wouldn’t do. Samos would have to add observation training to the long list of skills that he would need to know before the time came. With every passing week, he was growing to resemble the angry young man in Haven more and more, and the thought of it scared him more than he’d like to admit. They were running out of time, and Samos needed to prepare the boy the best he could before his fate would be ripped out of his controlled hands.

One problem at a time, Samos.

“What is it, Daxter?”

“Are you guys done yet?”

Samos raised an eyebrow at him. “What the blue blazes are you talking about, boy?”

Daxter huffed, pushing away from the railing and hopping down the porch. His knobby knees barely made the landing, and he stood up with a wobble that he tried to hide by leaning against a post, crossing his arms.

“Training or whatever it is that you and Jak get up to up there. Are you done? It’s been hours,”

Training.

Oh, for Precursors’ sake, he forgot about training! Jak must’ve been waiting for him up in his hut this whole time and here Samos was, holding a basket of mushrooms and sprouts from the beach. The appointment had completely slipped his mind.

Without replying, Samos turned his heel and hurried toward his hut and the undoubtedly bored teenager. Who knows what he had gotten up to? His hut was full of delicate and precious artifacts and plants. It took years for him to build up a collection as extensive as his, especially when it came to hunting down the exact Precursor remnants that he needed to educate Jak on the way it all worked when activated by eco — and him. His bloodline, the divinity hidden within him that Samos has yet figured out how to bring up the subject to him. Unfortunately, the issue was that Jak was still fifteen and unbearably so. The blissful ignorance of youth hasn’t skipped him, and heir or not, he was still his father’s son and insanely impulsive when it came to recklessness.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Samos ignored Daxter, lumbering up the wooden bridge as the teen trailed after him. He had to get back into th—

Something that sounded like glass broke. Oh, for Mar’s sake!

Entering the hut was like entering the scene of a crime. Dark eco stained and scorched the wooden planks of the flooring, scattered everywhere like someone went around the room and plopped heaps of it wherever they pleased. The small spark of hope that the Sage had was that the rest of the artifacts and plant life was relatively untouched, everything back in its place just as he left it except for the thing hunched over the biggest stain of dark eco.

The floor creaked under him and it aroused the attention of the creature, its head whipping up to stare at him with eyes as black as voids, large and eerie against the sickly gray pallor that colored what used to be light russet skin. It fed on the dark eco, scooping handfuls of it and licking it off his fingers and elongated talons. This was a creature that Samos had only seen once before, more than a decade ago when he was still not yet a wise sage but rather an arrogant Freedom Fighter that had committed almost as many atrocities as the tyrannical government he swore he was nothing like. He had hoped and prayed to never see it again, not for the remainder of this lifetime at least, and the internal clock inside him that counted down the minutes until the time loop was kickstarted against immediately started to flash zeros. The creature used its foot to scratch behind his ear, flicking it like a yakkow before continuing to devour the remains of the dark eco jar that Samos had sworn he had hidden away.

Behind him, both Keira and Daxter gasped and screamed, clinging to one another as they urgently tried to get out questions faster than their brain could phrase it. It snapped him out of his shock, springing him to action.

“Sweet Precursors, Jak! What did you do?!” he hollered, moving toward the creature with enough faux confidence that he hoped would intimidate him enough to be apprehended. He didn’t need to look at Daxter and Keira to know they were both staring at him with wide eyes and pinched brows, mouths hanging open in shock.

“Why are you calling that thing Jak?” Daxter screeched, then louder exclaimed, “Keira, why is he calling it Jak!?”

Samos rolled his eyes. He really should’ve done a better job educating them all. Precursors know what they will do when they see the angry and bigger version in the near future. “Because it’s Jak! The idiot must’ve gotten into my stash of dark eco and turned himself into this!” he whacked his staff on the head of the creature, earning him a hiss of pain, “This is why I told you to not touch anything in here!” Then he turned back to the gobsmacked teens standing in the doorway, “Well, don’t just stand there! Hold him down so I can turn him back!”

Daxter snapped his eyes away from Jak and stared down the old man, going from shock to disbelief in a matter of seconds. “You expect us to touch him?! Do you not see the fangs?!”

“Oh, come off it. He’s no more dangerous than a Lurkerpuppy!”

“Have you ever been around a Lurkerpuppy? Those things bite!”

“He won’t bite you! Just … keep your fingers away from his mouth,”

Daxter opened his mouth to complain again, but he was cut off by Keira scoffing, pushing away from him and moving toward the creature currently trying suck out the dark eco from the grain of the wood. She cleared her throat, trying to get his attention, but it fell on deaf ears as he continued to lick and suckle the eco. Bracing herself with taunt muscles, the young girl squeezed her eyes shut and shot out her hand, her fingertips finding their way to the underside of his chin. For all that was good and— there was no way she was actually trying to pet the creature. Samos had seen the many methods both the Krimzon Guards and Underground had tested out to tame the killing machines and he doubted that a litt—

Except, it worked. Like a charm, it fucking worked.

The second her palm made contact with his chin, Jak’s eyes went wide and he stilled. For a few tense moments, all three of them held their breaths as they waited for a reaction or bite to come out of the creature. Something inside his throat rumbled, and he carefully wrapped his fingers around her wrist, tugging her closer to lay his jaw in her palm. He purred again, rubbing his face against her hand before she got the picture of what he wanted her to do. “Oh,” she hummed, testing her theory out by digging her nails in and scratching the spot just behind his ear.

“Mrrp!” he chimed, both hands coming up to hold her wrist in place as she pet and scratched the ferocious beast that used to be her best friend. Or was it her best friend that used to be a beast? None of them were really sure, and they didn’t have the energy to understand it, frankly. Samos had to act quick. If this went untreated for too long, who knows what the ramifications of ingesting dark eco would be. For all he knew, it could burn through him completely and leave them with a puddle of goggles and hair gel.

Samos gave them a wide berth, inching slowly toward the cabinet in the corner of the room where he had a plethora of medical-grade green eco. Balms, creams, gels, and medications all lined the shelves in neat rows, a proverbial candy store of care that should be able to cure just about any physical ailment. In his studies, Samos found that green eco could cure just about any damage caused by the dark eco, but he’d need to be careful. The only reason Jak wasn’t dead yet was because he, like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, was a channeler. He’d need to deliver the green eco in a way that would make it harder for Jak’s body to channel it and use it for energy rather than for its healing properties. It’d have to be administered with the syringes.

Samos was going to hate this.

Behind him, Jak had completely melted into Keira’s hands as she smiled and pet the creature like an oversized puppy. She scratched behind his ears, under his chin, cupped his jaw — wherever she touched him, it seemed that Jak was elated. His eyes squinted and he grinned with sharp fangs, breathing past the adorable noises he was making the more she pet him. This was so going to be blackmail when he transformed back.

“Hey, Dax! Look at this face! Oh, aren’t you just the cutest thing?” she giggled, pinching Jak’s cheeks with her thumbs. The creature cooed, almost as if he was agreeing with her.

Daxter didn’t seem convinced. “Yeah, I’m not going near that. Best friend or not, I like having all ten fingers right where they belong,”

“Oh, you big baby!” she huffed, bringing Jak’s cheek to press against her own, “He’s harmless!”

“Yeah, well, let’s see if you think he’s harmless after he bites off your face and sucks all your blood,”

“For the last time, Dax, there are no such thing as vampires and that was just a dream,”

“I know what I saw and if it was a dream, why did it feel so real!?”

“So the little green men are real too?”

“You’re going to look so stupid when I catch one,”

Keira shook her head at him, turning her attention back on Jak. The hands wrapped around her wrist started to slacken, now only loosely holding her in place as she continued to ravish him with soothing scratches. How could anyone be terrified of him? It’s like being afraid of a cabbit or muse. She lifted his ears up, hitching it up higher so it resembled the elongated ears of a cabbit and let out a squeal.

“Aw, come on, Dax! He’s too cute!”

When the boy sighed, Keira knew she won. She held Jak’s head cupped between her hands, facing him toward the teen to pet. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt. It’s Jak after all. He’s known him since they were practically in diapers, and he was confident that even while looking like this, Jak would still remember and cherish their friendship, right? That’s the kind of stuff friends do? Their bond persisting after hardships and all that other yakkow crap? Besides, Keira was right. He did look an awful lot like a cute, fuzzy animal. One pet wouldn’t hurt …

Daxter reached out like Keira had, though this time he kept his eyes trained on the sweet scrunched up face of his best friend. Why was he so afraid of him to begin with? He was nothing but a huge—

“YOUCH!”

“Daxter, get your hand out of his mouth! I need to give him the oral medication too!”

The boy just screamed, trying to wretch his hand free of the fangs currently trying their hardest to pierce his skin. It would’ve been nice to have had a heads up before Samos plunged the syringe into Jak, catching the teen off guard and setting off his fight or flight instincts at the drop of a hat. Keira was trying to ease Jak’s jaw free, cooing and humming into his ear while caressing his cheek, using her other hand to push down on his jaw so he could release Daxter. If he hadn't known any better, Daxter would think that Keira was more concerned with Jak’s feelings than Daxter’s once beautiful, perfect hand.

“Get him off!” he cried out, wriggling on the floor to alleviate the pain shooting up his arm.

“That’s it, Jak. Spit it out. You don’t know where that hand has been,” Keira whispered, digging her fingertips into the divet of his cheeks until they propped open enough to let Daxter’s hand go free, “Good boy! You got it!”

Daxter scrambled backwards, kicking his feet on the ground to wedge himself firmly in the doorway in case Jak tried to go for seconds. He held his hand against his chest — unharmed other than a small scratch and tiny indents of his friend’s teeth — and pointed an accusatory finger at Jak. “He tried to eat me! No good boy! Bad! Bad mutated monster of my best friend … boy,”

“Are you … crying?”

“Of course, I’m crying! He bit my hand!”

Samos loudly shushed them, his voice low and rumbling as he silenced all three of them. His head was starting to hurt from the situation and all the noise and he still needed to give Jak the medicine that should hopefully dry up any remains of the dark eco in his mouth and stomach. It was easier said than done though. Jak’s trust in him has gone from a little to zero now that he knows it was him that pricked him with the syringe. He didn’t need a twin bite mark to know this, watching the teen curl up closer to Keira and trying to hide behind his daughter while she petted his hair flat. If he wasn’t going to take it willingly, he’d have to go with plan B.

He waited. Eyeing the two with all the concentration he had inside him, Samos waited until Jak had completely calmed down from his attempt on Daxter’s hand’s life. Any signs of him relaxing enough to where he wouldn’t suspect the older man trying to hurt him again. There was no reasoning with Jak in this state, and he wasn’t about to waste time trying. Keira’s arm just wrapped around his shoulders, pressing his head to her shoulder while making soothing noises, Jak’s eyes going small and watery. It seems that Daxter’s outburst might’ve … hurt his feelings? He didn’t know, nor did he really care. He had one shot at this, and now was the moment to take it.

Yanking Jak away from Keira by the horn, Samos shoved the medicine in his mouth when the creature opened his mouth to cry out. He might’ve used more force than necessary when he held his head down and his lower jaw upwards, making sure that the creature couldn’t spit it out while Keira hollered at him to let him go. The sage grit his teeth, applying as much pressure as possible and losing the battle with Jak. Though this version of the supposed Dark Warrior was smaller, unrefined, and weaker, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t as powerful as his older self was. Samos still remembered the carnage he happened upon during the last leg of the invasion, shock and horror all dawning on him as he watched the monster leap between metalheads to keep them far away from the group as they made their way through the sector.

Samos also still remembered his daughter, standing elbow to elbow with the blonde Underground spy who wouldn’t be born for millenia, both helping out by shooting any metalhead that the Dark Warrior missed. Daxter standing bravely on Jak’s shoulder, yanking him by the hair to avoid close calls to the head or shoving him to the side to avoid an oncoming assault.

He couldn’t think about that now. It brought up too much heartache to think about what pain laid ahead for all three of them.

Something wet touched his wrist, and when Samos looked down, he wanted to curse the young man with all the profanities and more he could think of. The creature was foaming at the mouth, froth covering his lips and chin as he growled and barked at the Sage in an effort to get him to let go. He threw his head from side to side, trying to dislodge him, and catching Samos in the face in the process.

“Precursors!” he hissed, hands coming up to cup his nose with a groan. The simple act cost them their advantage, releasing Jak enough for him to crawl out of the window and scale upward toward the observator on the roof. Keira ran after him, stopping short of leaning out the window to call his name as the sounds of scuttling echoed from the ceiling. Straw rained down on her head, entering the hut as she snapped her head to face the two injured men.

“We have to do something! What if he slips and falls down?!”

“You’re worried about him?!” Daxter whined, holding out his uninjured hand, “He practically mauled me!”

“Grow a pair!”

“Keira,” Samos snapped, standing up with great effort by leaning heavily on his staff. He felt his nose, wincing at how tender it was, but ultimately concluding that it wasn’t broken. He’s going to have one hell of a bruise, but it wasn’t broken. “He’ll be fine. He’ll turn back to normal in an hour or so when he burns through the eco,”

“But Daddy—”

He waved her off. “Believe me, sweetie. I’ve seen men channel more eco than he did and turn back to normal within minutes. Just let him get it out of his system,” he sighed, looking over the mess. It was all cosmetic, and shouldn’t take more than an hour to clean up if some elbow grease was put into it. He was just grateful that Jak hadn’t disturbed Chomper, otherwise they would’ve been in real trouble. “Daxter! Get this place cleaned up! I want this floor to be spotless!”

The red-head groaned, grumbling as he stood up and automatically grabbed a broom, which was interesting. Usually Daxter had to get through exactly eleven minutes of complaining before he even considered grabbing a mop, but today there was nothing coming from the peanut gallery. Good. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to Daxter. He needed to make more syringes to replenish the ones he used on Jak. Samos pulled out his mortar and pestle, the aloe leaf, and a jar of raw green eco and got to work mixing the ingredients together. Keira still lingered by the window, torn between giving Daxter a hand or climbing out to get Jak down from the roof. Bless her heart. Her capacity for love and affection went far beyond what was ever necessary and he loved her for that, though he could sometimes do without the stubbornness that accompanied it. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that raising a teenage girl would be easy, but Precursors, someone could’ve at least made a manual or something to help other clueless fathers navigate it.

It’s why he didn’t stop her from busying herself with making him a snackbox, mentioning under her breath that the dark eco and toast didn’t count as lunch and he still needed to eat — creature or not.

Jak will tire himself out eventually. In the morning, this will all be a funny story they will reminisce on for years and years to come. It’s not like the eco will last forever, right? The dark eco will deplete and burn out like wax, Jak will revert back, get cold, and come back down to the hut where Samos will attempt to make the occurrence seem completely normal. He’ll spin some yarn about some great dark sage long ago who had made the same mistake and how it left him permanently altered after he gorged himself on too much of it. If he’s successful, it’ll steer Jak in the opposite direction of dark eco, keep him as far from it as he can be before the inevitable time comes where he won’t be able to escape it for two years. Come spring, and Jak’s world will be flipped completely upside down. The least Samos could do was offer him that bit of mercy before them.

It’s what he tells himself later that night, when the moon is full and big hanging in the night sky, and Jak’s howling can be heard from far and near. He’ll tire himself out eventually, even if he’s been at it for six hours now with no signs of stopping.

Fuck the Haus of Mar

#jak and daxter #jnd #angel's fic #dark jak

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cdyssey · 1 year

Text

Trust Me, Pt. 2/2

Summary: Melissa had to put someone down as her emergency contact.

A/N: Part two, @straperine, my friend!!! 8K+ words of the most unhinged angst imaginable, but then I wrote a little fluff—as a treat.

CW: Car Accidents, Medical Procedures, Hospitalization, Alcohol

Part 1 | AO3 Link

In the hospital waiting room, Barbara paces the harshly-lit tiles back-and forth and then back again, likely driving the other two bleary-eyed occupants of the space insane.

She is beyond caring about other people at this point, though, as selfish as it is, as uncharitable, and as unkind.

Melissa Ann Schemmenti might as well be the only person left in the world.

The wonderful surgeon, a maternal woman who insisted upon being called Njoki instead of Dr. Anyango, had already come out around an hour ago, sat next to Barbara in one of those dreadful hard-backed chairs, and explained it all very carefully to her. When the truck had hit Melissa’s comparatively tiny Civic, her seatbelt had thankfully done its duty and kept her in its seat when she careened into a shallow ditch… however, the external pressure exerted by the safeguard alone probably would have been enough to bruise a kidney. It was not an uncommon injury in a car wreck—a trade off even for not flying through the windshield. But then, on top of that, Melissa’s airbag didn’t deploy, and it appeared that she slammed forward into her steering wheel, which did quick work of lacerating what had likely already been a tender kidney.

Her only remaining one.

This was news to Barbara, who had assumed that she knew most everything there was to know about Melissa: her favorite color (lime green), the names of her fists (John and McClane), the significance behind the saints nigh perpetually suspended around her neck (a gift from her late nana, divine and holy protection). She even knew things that her friend hadn’t explicitly told her, such as the fact that she always had to face the door, hypervigilant against potential threats.

But she hadn’t known this.

“What do you mean she only has one kidney?” She had all but yelped, gathering the collar of her shirt in her clenched fist, rumpling it even further than it had been already. She’d barely given a thought to what clothes she had thrown on, half-pulling on garments at random. She wasn’t wearing a blessed stitch of makeup.

Njoki seemed surprised at Barbara’s surprise, raising a grayed brow, but she didn’t remark upon it.

“Her other kidney must have been surgically removed because there’s some old scar tissue there,” she said in a didactic voice, not dissimilar to the one that Barbara used when she was introducing shapes to her five-year olds for the first time. “But I didn’t see the operation on her medical records, so it may have been done a long time ago.”

Barbara hadn’t known what to do with this overwhelming information except to be distantly hurt that she had never been told about it. Granted, she supposed that there weren’t too many occasions when Melissa could have brought up the detail that she was missing a kidney in casual conversation… but just maybe, it could have been folded into the same discussion that they should have had about her apparently being Melissa’s emergency contact.

Because that was news to her too.

Not as surprising, she grudgingly reasoned.

Melissa probably had to put someone down after the divorce, and she didn’t trust any of her family as far as she could throw them.

But still.

Barbara would have liked to have known.

She would have liked to cherish the knowledge that Melissa trusted her so deeply… even though the very fact that it had remained a secret almost ran counterintuitive to that epiphany.

Melissa had spent the entirety of their friendship taking care of her in so many ways, from making her feel at home in Philly at the very start to doing her damnedest to ensure that her house didn’t become an empty haunt in all the lonely months after the divorce.

But, in twenty-something years, she rarely—if ever—let Barbara extend those same sorts of extraordinary measures to her.

Not even when she had been married to Joseph, who was an overgrown manchild at best and a drunk buffoon at worst.

Not even when she had finally divorced his stupid ass and seemingly forgotten how to smile for years upon aching years, the gesture never entirely reaching her dark eyes.

Not even when her nana passed away a few years after that, and she’d ended up falling out with her younger sister because of it too.

So much pain, year-in and year-out, and Barbara had tried to be present for her—bringing casseroles over to her house, embracing her in the teacher’s lounge, taking her out for lunches, telling corny jokes that never exactly succeeded in making her laugh, threading their hands together in unnoticed places, sometimes taking far too long to let go—but it never felt like enough. These gestures were all nice and good, and Melissa was audibly appreciative of each and every one of them, but Barbara, ever a model Christian, wanted to thoroughly save her friend.

Melissa once said she’d kill for Barbara—Barbara was family—but the inverse was precisely true for her.

She’d do anything to drag her friend back from the consumptive darkness, even if it killed her.

“I’m sorry… this is just a lot to process,” she had admitted to Njoki, by then delicately massaging her pounding temples with her fingertips. “Melissa can be”—(so damn stubborn, headstrong, prideful, cagey, self-deprecating, and maybe even self-loathing, quite possibly unconvinced that she deserves to be loved)—“protective about the particulars of her life sometimes.”

“Understandable,” Njoki smiled graciously and let the sticky moment pass.

“But her other kidney...” The only one she had. God, it sickened Barbara. How could she not have known? “Were you able to fix it?”

She dreaded the answer, already fearing the worst outcome, unable to prevent herself from catastrophizing when every nerve in her body was alive with adrenaline and panic and hurt.

She would be brave enough for Melissa not to look away from it—the answer, the future, whatever else this hellish event had in store.

She owed Melissa her bravery at the very least.

“Mhm… I was able to fix it with an emergency partial nephrectomy,” Njoki returned patiently, “which simply means that I removed the damaged tissue from the kidney and did other repairs to successfully restore it to full functionality…”

The surgeon bit her dark lower lip then, hesitating slightly for the first time since the conversation had begun, and the gesture wasn’t lost on Barbara.

“There’s a but in there, though,” she intuited, her mouth abominably dry. She stared at palms, which were slightly red from the way she had been worrying them together for three hours.

Because Melissa had been in surgery for that long of a time—if not longer given the fact that an hour had passed since the accident and when Dr. McGill actually called.

Three godforsaken hours.

And Barbara had endured every second like her own personal hell. They drove through her hands—those seconds, those minutes, those hours upon unfathomable hours. They wounded her tender skin—scourged it even—but she could not stop herself from participating in her own bitter annihilation.

She could not stop herself from fearing a world where Melissa Schemmenti could suddenly stop existing.

“Yes,” Njoki agreed softly, lightly curling her hand around Barbara’s wrist. Her fingers were cool, and that felt good to her feverish skin, soothing even. “She only has one kidney, so recovery is going to be on the longer side. We’re giving her a hemofiltration treatment while she’s in the ICU to ease the stress on the organ as it starts to heal. But I’m also not necessarily happy with her oxygen output yet, so I’m going to wait to take her off the ventilator for another couple of hours until she’s stabilized.”

“She’s on a vent?” Barbara had inhaled sharply, incapable from keeping the terror and unholy fear from climbing up the rungs of her throat. What she knew of medical terminology wasn’t much. What she knew of ventilators was absolutely terrifying. “She can’t breathe on her own?”

Njoki’s grip on her wrist tightened.

Reassuring but firm.

And kind.

So kind.

“It’s less that she can’t, Mrs. Howard, and more that the ventilator is giving her some help at the moment, so her body doesn’t have to work so hard to do so for her,” she clarified. “We’ll have her off of it in no time—don’t you worry, hon.”

Barbara winced at the use of her surname—the very one she had consciously decided not to change—still attached to the history behind it, wanting to continue to share a name with her daughters, and not wanting to endure the legal hassle of reverting to her maiden name besides… but, at the same time, Howard was inherently a reminder of Gerald. And there was something about the invocation of her ex-husband when she was in the waiting room of a hospital nearly about to lose her mind over her dearest not-just-friend that knifed her between the ribs.

They’d been divorced for nearly an entire year, and she still felt the need to apologize to him.

For what exactly?

She could not say—in the very same way that she’d been unable to tell him the real reason why she couldn’t leave Philadelphia.

There had only been one reason, really.

One name.

One inexcusable sin.

“I’m going to allow her another hour to rest,” Njoki continued, giving her one last squeeze before finally standing up from the rickety chair, “and then I’ll send someone to come and get you. Does that sound alright?”

“Yes, of course,” she had replied somewhat untruthfully. Every atom in her itched to be wherever Melissa was now, to lay eyes on her for herself, to embrace her, to empirically confirm that she was still breathing, but she forced the facade of Barbara Howard to arise and perform her due diligence.

She smiled at the doctor with all her pearly white teeth.

But when she was finally gone, when it was simply Barbara and the two faceless individuals in the waiting room who were studiously looking away—rightfully lost in their own torments and fears—the kindergarten teacher bowed her head and cried.

She cried because she had apparently almost lost Melissa Schemmenti, and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing she could have done about it. And she cried precisely because she didn’t lose her best friend. She was still on this Earth—alive, tangible so miraculously here—and the guttural relief cascaded through her broken body like a deluge, like a Biblical, almighty flood. She cried because she was so utterly exhausted. She had spent the last three hours in a state of hypervigilance, every microscopic detail that she perceived razor sharp and stinging in the clarity of trauma. She cried because everything hurt—it all did—down to the way that when she glanced at her phone—and it was Melissa’s twinkling eyes that greeted her!—she had to hold back a sob.

She cried because had this been the end—had Melissa gone and left her, had she died—then there would have forever remained an unspoken thing, a wordless specter that perpetually haunted the few inches that unfailingly remained between them.

In Melissa’s music-filled kitchen when they accidentally brushed hips, standing side-by-side in front of the stove.

On Barbara’s soft couch when their shoulders just touched as they coincidentally laughed at all the same parts of a stupid movie.

In the teacher’s lounge at the round table that they both loved, their ankles occasionally glancing beneath their chairs.

Barbara cried about all of these things, having never verbally articulated the importance of even just one of them, a hand carefully splayed over her mouth to keep the carnage from coming out.

It was a quiet affair, of course, because she was conscious of the others—(she was always conscious of the others and their perpetual surveillance)—but the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and down the weathered planes of her face anyway, collecting calmly on the vertex of her chin.

She allowed herself those five minutes of nearly unadulterated grief.

She indulged the child inside of her who had no recourse except to fall apart, who could only physically manifest these big emotions in the total reckoning of her own body.

And then, just as quickly, with expert precision, she capably mothered herself.

She wiped her streaming eyes on the sleeve of her soft shirt, the mask settling back into its proper place again, and she became Barbara Howard once more, unable to sit with herself and all of her unwanted baggage for very long.

Quite literally.

Which is why she’s been pacing for almost the entire hour, only taking a few sitting breaks before inevitably getting up again, continuing to pace, and impatiently waiting for the moment when the double doors open and someone tells her that she can see Melissa.

When that finally happens—sometime around three—when a nurse appears in front of her and tells her that her wife is starting to wake up, she never fully registers that there is something inherently wrong with such a sentence in the first place.

She just nods—speechless, so grateful—and follows eagerly, every step forward illuminated by the harsh fluorescence above.

—

The ICU is a terrifying place, dimly lit, shadowy, claustrophobic, and frankly alive with ghastly noise. Curtained beds line each side of the unit like stalls from which the intense whirring of machines rises upwards into the air and crashes indelicately upon her ears, but even that electric undercurrent isn’t enough to disguise the moans that frequently surface through the hum like a keen sort of lowing.

Her stomach clenches, the column of her throat, as she catches a glimpse of a patient on a ventilator—not Melissa, thank God—but she knows that her friend must look similar, spidered with so many crawling appendages.

The nurse, a young lady named Cecily, silently gestures for Barbara to follow her down the corridor of beds on the right.

Before they reach the very last unit there, which is also initially eclipsed by a floor length curtain, Cecily gently whispers prepare yourself as though this is something achievable when one’s best friend—(and partner, confidant, companion, family, sole reason for staying in Philadelphia, guilty pleasure, greatest what if)—is behind that curtain, vulnerable and so broken, picked over and picked apart. But she only nods, distantly aware that it’s just something that the nurse has to say to be polite.

And so, Barbara Howard takes a deep breath and rounds the corner.

And she nearly falls to pieces where she stands.

Because there is Melissa Ann Schemmenti—a woman who always insists on looking so damn alive —thoroughly diminished in a hospital bed, washed out in a paisley-studded hospital gown. She is crisscrossed and scissored and swallowed up by so many colorful wires and tubes. Lines ribbon her arms, snaking around them and plunging inwards, connected to at least four different IVs that are swinging gallows-like from a singular pole. A row of stitches, neatly taped, rakes her colorless cheek, and the bottom of an empty catheter bag just pokes out beneath the blankets on the left hand side of the bed.

All of this Barbara Howard might have been able to live with, rationalize, and capably endure as part of the minutiae of what it means to be in an intensive care unit, were it not for the big and ugly tube erupting from the side of Melissa’s mouth, leading to a dreadfully bulky machine.

The ventilator.

Every rise and fall of the second-grade teacher’s chest is too perfect, too controlled, too precise.

Mechanical.

“Melissa.” Her name, the lilting three syllables of it, comes out shattered on her tongue. Barbara is desperate, unhinged at all of her carefully articulated seams. She’s scrambling to her side, unkeeled, unraveled, and so utterly unmoored. “Oh, sweetheart."

She stops just short of reaching out and touching her, though, suddenly afraid to do so—unable to stomach the thought of hurting her even one iota more—but then Njoki, who has just arrived, moves to the opposite side of the bed and gently shakes her head, her hands primly tucked into the pockets of her lab coat.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Howard,” she says. (It takes everything in her not to visibly recoil at the innocuous usage of her full name again.) “You can go ahead. See? She’s looking at you…”

And so she is.

Melissa’s olive eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion and likely a slew of painkillers too, purple half-moons edging them like elongated shadows, but even still, she’s clearly staring at Barbara, something of distress in those dark depths, something of unmistakable fear.

The younger teacher has always hated doctors—distrusts them, suspects that some (if not most) of them are quacks, won’t even go to her yearly check-ups unless Barbara nags at her to do so. Remembering all of this with a pang, she reaches out and runs her fingers through the familiar mane of red hair splayed all around Melissa's face in dull and lifeless tangles, tucking a stray strand behind her ear... behind the ventilation tubing...

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she murmurs as a single tear lances down the side of her face, falling somewhere onto the whiteness of Melissa’s sheets. With her free hand, she grabs the other woman’s closest hand—so careful not to disturb the IV port—and squeezes lightly.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

Melissa, with what little strength she seems to possess, squeezes back. There is dried blood still crusted around her painted nails, and the sight disturbs Barbara. They’d gone to get mani-pedis together just last week, and Barbara had never laughed as hard as she did when the technician had scrubbed Melissa’s feet with a pumice stone, and she’d erupted into unreserved giggles, surprisingly ticklish.

Endearingly so.

“Ms. Schemmenti and I—” Njoki starts, but Barbara quickly interrupts.

“—Melissa,” she says gently, glancing back at her friend, who hasn’t pried her glazed eyes away from her yet. “She prefers to be called Melissa… and it’s perfectly fine if you call me Barbara...”

Mrs. Howard—though she has long served Barbara well—does not have a place in this hospital, not here, not in this fragile moment, not by Melissa Schemmenti's sickbed.

Njoki nods once, her eyes warm and commiserating.

“Melissa and I, then, have come up with a system for communication while she’s still intubated,” the doctor continues with a slight smile. “I don’t want her moving her head too much, so we’ll go by blinks in response to questions until we can get her off the vent. One blink for yes and two blinks for no—right, Melissa?"

For the first time, Melissa’s gaze darts over to Njoki, and she blinks once and rather slowly to indicate that she’s understood.

Easy enough.

Maybe, when all of this is behind them, years and years and innumerable years down the road, they will both be able to laugh about how this is the least Melissa has ever talked in all her sixty-years.

(Maybe, though, that wound will always be too tender to ever jokingly prod, and Barbara will treat any reminder of it like a cardinal offense. This is the day, the hour, the night, when she almost lost her. That will never not hollow her out to her bones.)

“Are you hurting, sweetheart?” Barbara asks, slowly lowering herself into the chair next to Melissa’s bed. It’s as uncomfortable as the ones in the waiting room, so she leans forward a little and presses her elbows into the mattress of the hospital bed for support, still holding on to her friend’s hand, though, refusing to let go.

Not now.

Never again.

Melissa blinks once and then twice, but the agonized way that her brow is furrowed over her eyes easily tips Barbara off to an alternative and very distinct possibility.

“Are you lying to me, Melissa Ann Schemmenti?” She asks in her most serious teacher voice, the one she only uses when she catches her kindergarteners trying to stay awake during naptime. And when she receives a thorough eye roll and then an accompanying blink in response, she can’t help but hoarsely chuckle in such a way that it's clear that she’s rather close to crying.

“As inappropriate as ever, I see.”

Another blink, and the corner of Melissa's bloodless mouth nearly twitches, but there is a tube in the way.

There is a ventilator.

The smile slips away from Barbara’s own lips at the unpleasant reminder, and before she can stop it, another tear falls from her eye. She hastily swipes at it—doesn’t think it’s her right to be so damn emotional when she’s not the one lying in the hospital bed with one barely working kidney and a machine dispassionately breathing for her.

“I apologize,” she says thickly, and she leans down to impulsively press a kiss against the other woman’s bruised knuckles. “Silly me. I shouldn’t be so upset in front of you…”

Melissa blinks once.

And then twice.

And then three times, staring at her expectantly, but Barbara glances up at Njoki instead, her dark brow pinching somewhere in the middle.

“Three blinks?” She muses aloud. “What would that be…?”

Njoki seems confused herself, pulling a hand through her long braids as she thinks on it.

“Mmmm, could be analogous for maybe?” The surgeon suggests, at which point Melissa squeezes her hand again, this time a little more insistently than before.

Barbara looks back down again to see that she’s blinking thrice once more, the expression in her eyes impatient, frustrated at not being understood. She frowns sympathetically; it has to be an utterly alienating experience to be entombed in one's own body.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she murmurs, now rubbing soothing circles into the other woman’s clammy hand with her thumb. “I’m not sure what you mean. You’ll have to tell me later...”

She receives a look that quite plainly says, What aren’t you getting?

But nonetheless, slumping her shoulders resignedly, Melissa blinks once anyway, which she assumes is most closely translatable to an affectionate, Fine, dummy.

“So how long will she have to be on the vent again?” Barbara asks, now addressing the question to Njoki, who is adjusting a dial on the main IV pump. Whatever she does seems to produce an immediate and tangible effect on Melissa because she moans with audible relief.

“Just increased the dosage of morphine you’re receiving,” the doctor explains, briefly placing her hand on Melissa’s other arm. “Should help with any pain you’re feeling, hon… as for the ventilator”—she looks at Barbara again—“the team who does early morning rounds can reassess in a few hours while I’m in another surgery. If they’re satisfied that her vitals are stable, I’ll give them the go ahead to extubate her.”

Melissa tightly closes her bruised eyes at this, her nails suddenly digging into Barbara’s palm, sharp and terrified.

“I know,” Barbara interprets readily. “You don’t like that answer…”

It scares you to be so thoroughly dependent upon another.

Upon an unthinking, brutalist machine.

You’ve never known of a fight that you cannot handle with nothing but your own two fists.

You always think you have to survive the worst alone, Melissa.

Why is that?

Who taught you such a terrible way of existing in this world?

Barbara knows that even if Melissa wasn’t on a ventilator, she wouldn’t have been able to answer either of these questions aloud. They’re far too vulnerable, demanding the second grade teacher’s total honesty, and Barbara knows that it would be hypocritical to ask that of her when she can’t even fully offer it herself.

“But I’m not leaving you, you hear?” She goes on, her voice suddenly constricted, a hundred emotions thick. “I promise.”

Even though the effort looks a little painful, Melissa opens her eyes again to deliver one blink.

Two.

And then three… that same elusive response, and Barbara frowns, feeling guilty and lost. She knows Melissa so intimately, and yet, whatever she is attempting to convey with these microgestures is as baffling to her as some arcane language.

“Mhm,” she placates lamely. “Yes, of course. I see...”

But she still doesn’t get it, and Melissa isn’t stupid.

She blinks twice in blatant admonition, and Barbara can almost hear what she would have said.

No, goddammit, she would have laughed. You definitely don't.

—

The critical care team extubates Melissa around six that morning after a weaning test is successful; her oxygen saturation has risen, and she’s been heavily struggling against the vent for a while, trying to breathe on her own. Barbara holds her hand through the entire process, whispering soothing words into her ear as she tries not to cry at the sight of Melissa coughing and coughing, her throat inflamed from the intrusive tubing. The resident in charge immediately replaces the life support apparatus with an oxygenated mask, and it’s a sign of the younger woman’s utter exhaustion that she doesn’t buck against yet another restrictive measure.

She just stares at Barbara from the depths of glassy eyes for what feels like an eternity before finally closing them, less falling asleep than succumbing to it. The kindergarten teacher kisses the side of her hand again and continues to temple it with her own, rocking back-and-forth in her deeply uncomfortable chair. She prays to God for at least another half-hour after that, asking Him for His mercy and His healing, for His continued hand of protection on Melissa; she pleads and pleads and so desperately pleads, hoping that the voice in her head scrapes against the infinite (and sometimes depressingly remote) heavens.

When she has done all the prostrating herself before her Lord that her overtaxed mind can handle, she simply sits still and vainly fights against the fatigue that is threatening to overwhelm her own body, focusing on the rhythmic beeping of the intravenous fusion pump that is decorated with a nauseating number of IV bags—all playing a part to sustain her best friend’s life.

Beep.

Surely it’ll be okay if she closes her eyes for just a minute… she won’t fall asleep… she just needs a moment to collect herself, to recenter her shaken core…

Beep.

Nothing bad will happen if she allows herself a brief respite; thinking otherwise is just a byproduct of the remaining adrenaline that is slowly working its way out of her system.

Melissa is stable.

Melissa is (likely) going to make a full recovery.

Melissa is the strongest person she knows.

Beep.

Despite her best efforts, though, Barbara feels herself starting to drift off, and she is unable to drag herself back from the depths, her consciousness floating out to that vast and welcoming sea of darkness. The last productive thought she feels her brain entertaining has to do with her friend’s three blinks, which no one had been able to satisfactorily decipher. She doesn’t think it’s Morse code or some other professional equivalent, nor does she think it’s maybe like Njoki had suggested. Melissa has always hated the tepidness of that word, preferring a straightforward yes or no…

Blink.

I and love and you.

The epiphany—agonizingly simple though it is—suddenly breaks over Barbara's head like a cresting wave, nearly pulling her back to the waking world with a fierce and overwhelming joy. She smiles in her twilight state, eyes still closed…

“I love you too,” she murmurs sleepily, only dimly aware that Melissa can’t currently hear her.

Perhaps they’re constantly saying those three words to each other, her and Melissa...

... just always doing it when the other isn’t able to fully understand.

—

She wakes up to the sensation of someone gently pulling a thumb across her jaw—over and over again, tracing the outline of that sharp bone with a practiced touch. The action disorients her—reminds her so powerfully of her late mother who had once soothed her when she was sick in the exact same way, but then the clinical smell of the hospital hits her: sharp, astringent, acidic.

And it all comes rushing back to her in jagged fragments.

Oh, God.

Melissa.

The wreck.

Those untenable hours in the waiting room.

The ICU.

She bolts upright, limbs half-flailing, and is suddenly confronted with a sight that reconfigures her insides: Melissa, looking like death warmed over, but even still and all the same, smiling that damned crooked smile—the one that Barbara loves so well. While she was sleeping, they apparently replaced the oxygenated mask with cannulas that have been threaded into her nostrils and around her ears. But she’s still covered with as many lines and tubes as ever, and the presence of them unnerves her.

Barbara blinks a couple of times as her eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

“Melissa,” she simply says, relishing every phoneme of that holy name.

She’s so powerfully relieved that she will have every opportunity to continue saying it.

Melissa, Melissa, Melissa.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” the younger woman rasps, her voice hoarse from the ventilator, barely audible, but it’s still the sweetest sound Barbara has ever heard. She will never forget the sight of her on that machine for as long as she lives; it will stain her vision like an anemic afterimage every time she so much as closes her eyes at night; she will nightmare the staccato beats of Melissa’s heart being measured out by a rhythmic monitor.

And she will thank God every day that He spared her.

That He let her have this one good thing.

This miracle.

Melissa, Melissa, Melissa.

“Hello yourself,” Barbara chokes out, sudden emotion throttling the stem of her throat. “You gave me quite a scare there, you know.”

“Gotta liven things up a little every now and then,” Melissa tries to chuckle—as is one of her favorite defenses against any sort of uncomfortable sentiment—but the familiar gesture immediately costs her. She begins to cough, her pale face suddenly splotched with small patches of red, and the beeping on the heart monitor starts to pick up. Barbara, her own heart plummeting into her stomach, reacts swiftly, splaying a sturdy hand on the younger woman’s chest.

“Breathe,” she instructs in an almost calm voice, but the word breaks at the end, her facade slipping, her poise. She cannot stomach seeing Melissa Schemmenti so helpless; it is an untenable contradiction, an oxymoron that she cannot capably resolve. “Mhm… that’s it, sweetheart. Inhale. Exhale. In and out.”

And beneath the weight of her palm, she feels Melissa’s breathing begin to slowly even out, the rise and fall of her chest regulating itself again. Relief cascades through her, comorbid though it is with the heartache, and the interplay of these two polarized emotions settles inside her like a stomachache. When the beeping on the cardiac monitor finally returns to normal, she briefly dips her head against the railing on Melissa’s bed, grounding herself against its coolness and steadiness, closing her eyes against the rising nausea.

“Sorry,” Melissa apologizes, her voice indistinct. The exertion of the coughing spell has thoroughly depleted her; there is nothing left of rosiness in her cheeks; gone is that inappropriate twinkle in her eyes.

All that is left is apology and pain.

Barbara doesn’t know why the younger woman has always felt the need to apologize for something she didn’t do. She can conjecture, of course—can guess that it’s a side-effect of having been told that it was her fault all of her life. Joseph was especially bad in this regard, foisting the most egregious of his indiscretions onto his ex-wife’s overburdened shoulders.

He has supposedly matured since then—has assumed total responsibility for what he so recklessly broke in the first place—and Melissa, being a good Christian, has generously forgiven him. She even calls him just to chat from time to time...

But Barbara hasn’t.

Forgiven Joseph, that is.

God forgive her for it.

“Nothing to apologize about,” she forces herself to lift her head from the railing and smile a wane smile; it feels stiff on her lips, tense and unnatural; it stretches her mask of a face into a new and unsustainable configuration. “You’ve had a long night.”

“So have you,” comes an immediate rebuttal, so tender and concerned. Indeed, the intensity of the other’s penetrating gaze makes Barbara suddenly realizes that her hand is still on Melissa’s chest, and blushing slightly, she withdraws it—idly smoothing her blankets instead.

Of course, the second-grade teacher quickly follows this charged moment with yet another quip: “You look like shit, Barb.”

“Me?” She snorts incredulously despite herself, despite knowing what Melissa is trying to do. “You’re the one who’s lying in a hospital bed looking like, like...“ But she stops short, faltering, stumbling on her next words.

The expression she had nearly been about to use was like you’re knocking on death’s door, but she finds, at the threshold of this teasing irreverence, she cannot follow through. She cannot be like Melissa and turn the severity of what happened tonight into just another throwaway joke.

“Like what?” Melissa prods quietly, sensitive to the change in the conversation.

Or, maybe more accurately still, sensitive to any changes in Barbara herself.

“Like… you nearly died,” she shudders, her voice folding in on itself, seismically collapsing. And there are unbidden tears in her eyes yet again.

There is the raw and visceral grief of having almost lost Melissa Schemmenti.

She withdraws both of her hands, using one to grip the fabric next to her stomach, using the other to swipe her forearm across her eyes, as though that will help, as though that will do anything but prolong the inevitable.

Which, granted, might be what the both of them do all of the time in their separate and intertwined personal lives.

Prolong the inevitable.

Familial heartbreaks.

Broken marriages.

This unspoken thing between them.

“You nearly died, Melissa,” she goes on, still shielding her leaking eyes away from the other woman, “and I don’t know what I would have done in light of that fact.”

The proclamation lands heavily in front of them both.

It is an ugly, pitiful thing.

And it whimpers.

It wails.

“It… would have been... hard,” Melissa swallows, her voice uncertain, as though she's just now realizing how close she had been to the end herself. Between being on the operating table, waking up on a ventilator, and trying to recover from the ordeal of both of these traumas, there probably hasn't been space enough for her to fully process the night's events—excluding the times she’s been consciously trying to repress them all with a laugh, of course. In the back of her mind, Barbara wonders if there’s some implicit faux pas she’s making by discussing the hypothetical of Melissa's death even when she's right in front of her, clearly and miraculously and so thankfully alive.

“Yes,” she replies anyway because they’ve gone all of their damn lives without ever once saying exactly what they mean.

And she can’t take it anymore—Melissa almost died and all of her nerves are so brutally exposed.

Melissa almost died, and things still haven't changed between them; there is still something dividing them, unbearable inches.

“But y’would have gone on, Barb," she valiantly replies. "Life would have gone on, even if—“

“No,” Barbara cuts across her ferociously, finally lowering her arm to see that Melissa is staring at her from wide and watery eyes too, her face still leached of all its exquisite color. She looks less like a person than she does a corpse, less like a corpse than she does a ghost: insubstantial and wispy, one exorcism away from total dissolution. “Don’t even suggest that, Melissa. I would have never been able to move on from you. I would have been so... so lost.”

And there would have been no coming back from that.

She knows herself entirely too well.

She would have wasted away in the absence of Melissa Schemmenti. She would have let it all, the sixty-seven years that she has spent meticulously constructing the mythology of Barbara Howard—mother, wife, woman of God, devoted teacher—crumble to dust and ashes, returned to mire and clay.

“And what does that matter, huh?” Melissa croaks, and the stubborn woman tries to prop herself up on her arm, but she’s stopped short by all the wires and tubes, and perhaps (hopefully), the withering glare that Barbara levels at her. “I’m still here, aren’t I? And according to the doc, I'm not leavin' anytime soon. You don’t have to imagine a world where I’m not in it.”

The other teacher attempts a smile that almost instantly falls flat on her chapped lips, but she extends her nearest hand all the same, palm facing upwards—an open invitation of platonic communion, yet another reification of their well-established status quo of just being friends—but Barbara wants more than that.

She wants more than the stolen glances and the almost touches and the secret words that languish on the tips of their guarded tongues.

She's nearly seventy-years old and she has only recently wondered what it means to be selfish in a glorious, unabashed, and unrepentant kind of way; she wants a whole lifetime.

Barbara slowly stands up then, ignoring the dull ache in her arthritic knees, and simply stares at Melissa, the light wash from a nearby machine staining her face a sad and desolate blue—the same color as a mottled bruise.

"Barb, what are you—" Green eyes widen, the pupils in them entirely blown.

And as the tears that have been threatening to obscure her vision finally spill over her long and dark lashes, she leans down, with exquisite tenderness, and kisses Melissa Schemmenti's forehead. Eternity stretches between them, infinity wrapped in the moment that her lips meet the other's feverish skin, and she is the sole witness to the exact moment when Melissa's eyes glaze over too.

"I don't want to imagine a home without you in it anymore," Barbara whispers, drawing back. "I realized as much tonight."

Perhaps even well before she received that damned call.

Perhaps sometime or another over these last twenty-something years.

She just could not say the words aloud; they were impossible to think, much less articulate.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry"—and she bows her head, ashamed, verklempt, overwhelmed, and undone—"for having not said it sooner..."

She's been a coward, hiding behind the veneer of her wedding ring up until very recently, ultimately hurting herself and Gerald both.

(She's been a good, Christian woman.)

Melissa reaches upwards then, disturbing the nest of varicolored wires that spiral around her milk-white arm, and palms Barbara's cheek, her thumb gingerly resting against the side of her jaw.

"Always slow on the uptake," she chuckles as tears trickle down her scraped and battered face like a soft, April rain. Barbara tries to wipe some of them away, but they continue to fall anyway, as though the spillage is endless, a long drought finally ended.

Rejuvenation can only follow.

Spring.

"Forgive me, sweetheart," Barbara implores again, sniffing noisily, as Melissa lightly cradles her face.

"You keep acting like that's something only you've gotta apologize for."

"Isn't it?" She doesn't dare to be hopeful—doesn't dare to believe that Melissa feels the precise same way that she does about all of the missed opportunities and untaken roads and lost years—but even still, the relief prematurely leaks into her voice anyway.

"Nah," Melissa grins, the crooked gesture somehow both beautiful and tortured all at once, "we're both complicit here."

"Oh."

And then, whether Melissa is drawing her downwards, or Barbara is taking initiative and leaning in, regardless, they're suddenly brushing lips like everything about this moment is fragile and delicate, like the time they have been afforded is precious, like they are making up for all the times they have never kissed before, like they plan on kissing every day from now on—as long as they both shall live. It is slow and lovely, pained and more than a little sad; they're both hyperaware of Melissa's current physical limitations, careful not to exceed them. The rhythmic whirring of machinery, the hiss of the oxygen filtering into Melissa's nose, the lines that entangle their hands like so many dozens of snares, serve as perpetual reminders of where they are, and what it almost cost them to arrive to this bliss in the first place.

Barbara tastes the salt of their intermingled tears and suddenly dreams about how one day, when the younger woman has sufficiently recovered, she would like to take Melissa with her to the sea, where they can wade into the warm waters, chest deep beneath the moon, and bask in its silvery glow. She will drag her fingers through that damp, red hair and tell her that she is so lovely.

She is beloved.

But at least for now, they're confined to this oppressive hospital and to the fact that Melissa could have very well died last night; indeed, the weight of that particular knowledge presses upon them both like a shared and bloodied wound.

Oh, how they anoint each other's lips with their own, though, in jubilant defiance of this unspeakable grief, and in doing so, begin to heal.

—

Later that same day, when Njoki and the rest of Melissa’s care team are satisfied that she’s fairly stable and that her kidney function has mostly returned to normal, they move her from the ICU into a regular room on the second floor, where she'll stay for a couple of days for close monitoring. And upon Barbara’s polite, if a little embarrassed, request, kind orderlies obligingly shove two hospital beds together with the rail lowered between them.

And for the first time in both of their lives, Barbara and Melissa lie together in the same (kinda-sorta) bed.

But it will not be the last time—they're both damn sure of that.

And once Melissa is finally out of the hospital, the next time will be under far better circumstances.

For naturally, Barbara Howard plans on taking her home.

Until that eagerly anticipated moment, though, she just holds her, laying an arm across that soft, warm belly, careful not to disturb any of the many lines that are still attached to her companion, conscientious of every wire and every trickling tube.

And for her part, Melissa is astonishingly good at finally letting herself be held, perhaps too tired to fight the sensation, or perhaps realizing that it isn’t such a bad thing after all to be cared for so intimately by another. At one point, when Barbara is idly skimming her fingernails up and down the length of her arm, Melissa even admits that this is nice.

And so it is.

And so it shall always be.

The setting sun leans against the square window with a relieved sigh, amber and honeyed gold.

They talk a little about everything and nothing as they patiently wait for seven o’clock when they can finally watch Jeopardy! together on the boxy TV mounted in the corner of the room. Melissa recounts what she remembers of the accident; she’d thankfully reacted quickly enough to avoid swerving into a tree, but the alternative had been careening into the ditch—that was when she’d slammed into the steering wheel as the car violently tilted downwards.

“Damn piece of shit,” she pouts mutinously. “I outta sue Honda’s ass for that airbag not deploying.”

“Amen,” Barbara vehemently agrees, her chin nestled against the younger woman’s shoulder. “They owe you big time."

When Barbara tentatively asks how she’d lost her first kidney—(after spending at least ten minutes ranting and raving about having never been told that crucial fact in the first place)—Melissa only chuckles, which makes Barbara immediately suspect that this is yet another thoroughly traumatic event in Melissa Schemmenti’s sordid life that is about to be tragically underplayed.

Much to her chagrin, she is absolutely correct.

“Lost it in a game of cards.”

“A game of what?!” Barbara nearly cries, briefly forgetting the intimate geometry of their bodies.

“Dammit, Barb. My eardrum!”

“Sorry"—she lowers her voice—"but, girlfriend, what?"

“Listen,” Melissa shrugs casually as Barbara massages the skin beneath the other's ear in silent apology, “it was no big deal. Needed some money to pay off some student loans, and I was, uh, young and dumb, and that was a very high paying game. Fuckin’ Tony Artino, though, a stronzo if I've ever seen one, cheated when he was dealin’ the cards.

If Barbara could do so without disturbing the other woman, she'd be emphatically shaking her head in disapproval right about now.

Mm.

“Every time I hear a new detail of your younger years, I’m very much alarmed,” she says, thinking about how this is somehow even worse than the story of a twelve-year old Melissa having had to take all five of her younger siblings out to the woods one night because her paranoid father had thought the mob had come to call.

It had not, in fact, been the mob.

It turned out to be a very lost pizza delivery guy.

“Yeah, well, that’s why I don’t say most of this stuff aloud,” Melissa teases, glancing over her gowned shoulder at Barbara. “Don’t wanna upset your delicate constitution, hon.”

“Well, quit that,” Barbara immediately retorts, as studiously solemn as Melissa is facetious. “I don’t want to find out any more dark secrets from some doctor in a waiting room at three in the blessed morning, Melissa. I want to just know your truths—all of them.”

“Even the ones that involve me gettin’ into illicit organ gambling poker games?” Melissa arches a not entirely serious brow, though her tone has slightly shifted, raising itself into the form of an implicit, tentative question.

Do you really want all of me?

Even the ugly parts?

Even the parts that most people run away from?

And Barbara’s definite, resounding answer is,“Yes, even those. I want you in your entirety, Melissa Schemmenti.”

Ugly parts and all—anything and everything that makes you human.

That makes you my Melissa.

My lovely Mel.

"That makes you a masochist, I think," comes yet another quick witticism—(she should really start calling them Schemmenti-isms at this point)—but she can tell that Melissa is genuinely moved by the sentiment, the strange gravity in her voice betraying her, the tightness with which she squeezes Barbara's hand.

"No," Barbara murmurs, so softly, against the shell of Melissa's delicately formed ear. "I think that just means I plan on taking my role as your emergency contact very seriously. You've made it my business—nay!—my moral duty to worry about you... to care for you with everything in me, Melissa. Let me do that then. I want to do that."

She gently cards her fingers through that rich and vibrant hair as Melissa seems to formulate her response to this against the background noise of the steadily beeping heart monitor and the pneumatic hissing of the oxygen that is still being supplied to her. Barbara is supremely comfortable with the silence—quite patient with it now that she figures that she and Melissa have all the time in the world to finally get things right.

"Trust doesn't come easily to me," she finally says, and there's a hint of warning in her voice, as though she's alerting Barbara to this long-ingrained trait of hers for the first time, as though nearly three decades of friendships hasn't made her well-aware of the fact that the younger woman approaches the world like everyone she meets is doing a good job of hiding their knives.

Barbara gets it.

Sometimes, she absolutely feels the same.

"Me neither," she admits quietly, still playing with Melissa's hair, now twining a curl around one of her fingers, now just as idly letting it go. "I've always been terrified that my honesty to others would be used against me... or else, my candor would eventually backfire in some other karmic hand of fate."

"Yeah." It's just a monosyllabic reply, but even still, Barbara hears the weight of it.

Melissa knows precisely what she's talking about.

The lived experience of being vulnerable before another and agonizingly paying for it.

"But we'll just have to learn how to fully trust each other together," she insists, trying on the role of the idealist for once. She wonders after all these years of resisting the very idea, if Janine hasn't been rubbing off on her anyway. "We already have an excellent foundation already; now we're just building up the walls, brick-by-carefully-placed-brick."

"Hah. You always know how to make it sound so damn achievable," Melissa chuckles tiredly, even as she leans further into Barbara's embrace, apparently growing comfortable within it.

Secure.

"Perhaps it is this time," she smiles softly against the crown of that scarlet head. "When the two of us put our mind to something, there is little that can be done to stop us, you know."

"Oh, I know," Melissa only says—still skeptical, perhaps—but nonetheless gentle and entirely fond.

Jeopardy! comes and Jeopardy! goes, and between them joking about how Ken Jennings reminds them a little of Jacob and competing over who gets the most correct answers, Barbara has probably never had so much fun in a hospital in her life. Melissa wins—just barely—but that’s because Barbara is rubbish at anything to do with pop culture categories.

(Who in God's almighty name is Christine Baranski, for instance, and what exactly does she have to do with ABBA?)

When the show is over, though, both of them start to feel the weight of their exhaustions dragging at their aching bones—Melissa especially. After the night nurse comes in to administer some more pain medicine to her, she settles in Barbara’s arms, her breathing becoming heavier, her eyes starting to droop to a close despite her best efforts to stay up and also watch Wheel. When a long time passes without the younger woman saying something, Barbara assumes that she's asleep and decides to settle down herself, flicking the TV off, and tracing vague patterns into the back of Melissa's thin gown.

Even though she won't want to, she'll likely go home for a little while tomorrow... shower... make a soup for herself and Melissa... pack a proper night bag... and then come back to stay again. She'll also need to spend at least a few hours on the phone to placate each of her daughters, as well as so many other people besides. When she'd called Taylor earlier to tell her about why she had to cancel dinner plans, her eldest had immediately freaked out over the prospect of her Aunt Mel being hurt. And then Taylor had told Gina, and Gina had told her grandmother on her father's side, and Gerald's mother Hannah—Barbara's kind but notoriously interfering former mother-in-law—had seen fit to put it in on Facebook that Melissa needed prayers, tagging Barbara in the post, and now everyone at Abbott knows that Melissa is down and out for the count too. Janine has texted her at least five times that she's seen since she last picked up her phone.

So, yes, she'll have a busy day tomorrow trying to make sure no one barges in on an unsuspecting Melissa.

Or, well, the both of them together.

They'll tell their friends and family in their own time assuredly.

Soon even.

But she has a strong feeling that both of them would like to remain in their infinitesimal pocket of forever—just the two of them—for a little while longer.

It's nice here—safe.

Melissa has always felt like home.

As she turns these plans over in her tired mind, s he's incredibly surprised when not even ten minutes later, Melissa unexpectedly breaks the silence again.

“Barb?” She asks, her voice comically thick with drowsiness.

“Yes, honey?”

“Did ya ever flippin' figure out what three blinks meant?”

Barbara can't help but laugh, pleasantly caught off guard by the question; she had passively wondered if Mel had been too zoned out and drugged up to remember those failed exchanges in the ICU but apparently not.

“It took me awhile," she confesses.

Hours.

Months.

Years upon lonely years.

Decades even.

Almost all the time that the two women have known each other and pretended that friendship was the only mutual language that they spoke.

“But I made it there in the end,” she finishes, pressing a light kiss against the side of the other woman’s head.

Three blinks.

Three words.

"I love you," she utters it so easily, like she's been saying it for quite sometime now.

I love you and I love you and I love you.

Maybe, if she's lucky, she'll echo this refrain throughout eternity.

#work wives #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #abbott elementary #s: abbott elementary #reginianwrites #it took me so long to edit this section #because i genuinely kept ADDING to it #but then i just realized i finally had to let it go sdhfiohoi

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