#also for those wondering this is one of the splash texts

[1randomperson15]

I thought tumblr would like this one

[shhhsecretsideblog]

I was your lamaze instructor at a local gym. Both of us hit it off and we became good friends, and bonded over how we both got pregnant around the same time.

You asked if I could give a private lesson as you were a bit scared of birthing and wanted to know everything on how to reduce the pain by trying birth positions so I gladly say yes.

As I was setting up on the third floor with no one around us, and I was breathing deeply as the elevator broke and had to walk all those stairs. I turn around and see you waddling widely, breaking a sweat.

"Sorry, I meant to text but my phone just died." I said. You told me it was alright and we headed towards the yoga mats and balls.

"Now, let's get on our hands and knees. I want you to breathe in and out like this." You copy my movements and breathe slowly as I coached. I suddenly hear you moan out of the blue and look at you, worried.

"Just the baby kicking. Carry on." I nod my head as we progressed on different positions. We both started fidgeting uncontrollably from the pressure from our hips.

"Now- why don't we sit on the balls and spread our legs, and just sway side to- oof- side" I said, wincing from the pain on my back.

You rub your belly and closed your eyes, releasing a sigh.

"That's it, just relieve all the tension you have." I said, moving my hips widely as the pressure wasn't going away.

"I think those stairs really did a number on meeeeee-" You gasped at the end, feeling a pop sensation in your one piece yoga suit as we both saw your water break.

I look back at you as we realized that we've been in labor all morning.

"Oh no."

Sitting on the yoga ball and circling my hips was doing wonders for the pain that had been plaguing me all morning. Everything had hurt; my back, my hips, my cervix, my boobs. As well as preparing me for labour I was also using this class as a way to relieve some of the nagging tension and pressure that I’d not been able to get rid of.

As we both bounced lightly on our yoga balls, my belly and breasts squished tight into my jersey one-piece with thigh-length shorts, the pressure wasn’t going away and just kept building and building. I widened my legs and circled my hips and suddenly the pressure released along with the splashing sound of liquid hitting the plastic yoga ball.

“Ohhhhhh oh my god I think my water just b-broke…” I groaned, staying oddly still atop the ball as I look down at the damp fabric between my legs.

When you didn’t respond I looked up to see you rocking rather frantically on your ball, your face pink and flushed, and you were panting heavily.

“Are you in labour?!?!” I cry out, just as another cramp pulls my insides down.

You’re my friend as well as my instructor and I feel a need to go to help you. I slide off the ball and land on my knees and crawl across the floor to where you were grunting and moaning and rocking on the ball.

“I-I think I need to p-push…” you growled, your eyes wide with panic.

“No! You can’t be r-ready to push… already.” I panted, ignoring the weight and pressure between my legs that only got worse when the word “push” was uttered.

But you were lost to your own bodily instincts and were holding your breath and bearing down, your hands clasped at your wide knees as you pushed. The sound of your pushing triggered my own pregnant body to respond, as if your birthing noises matched my own labour. Stuck on all fours at your side my head dropped and my hips sunk backwards as my uterus clenched and pushed the massive baby down down down.

I could already feel the baby behind my lips, just inside of me and desperate to be born. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything other than submit to the uncontrollable.

With my clothing still on and my body stuck on all fours, the baby began to part my folds and crown slowly into my underwear. The elasticated fabric was like a second skin all over my torso and upper legs, following every inch and curve, and I was certain the shape of the baby’s head was surely visible as I bore down with everything I had.

[in the mood to write more little inconvenient birth drabbles like this, send me more prompts please!]

[mariacallous]

“There are only so many books on Ukraine we can review each month,” an editor from a major British newspaper tells me at one of the country’s largest literary festivals. He looks a bit uncomfortable, almost apologetic. He wants me to understand that if it were up to him, he’d review a book on Ukraine every day, but that’s just not how the industry works.

Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion, I’ve had a glimpse into how several industries work: Publishing, journalism, and the broader world of culture, including galleries and museums. Even before the big war, I knew more than I wanted to about how academia works (or rather doesn’t) when it comes to Ukraine. A common thread among all these fields is the limited attention they allocate to countries that do not occupy a place among the traditional big players of imperial politics.

Cultural imperialism lives on, even if its carriers often proclaim anti-colonial slogans. It thrives in gate-keeping, with editors and academics mistrusting voices that don’t sound like those higher up the ladder, while platforming those who have habitually been accepted as authoritative. “We’ve done Ukraine already” is a frequent response whenever you pitch an idea, text, or public event centering the country.

The editor who can’t keep publishing reviews of Ukraine-related books walks away, and I pick up a copy of one of the UK’s most prominent literary magazines to see their book recommendations. Out of a handful of reviews, three are on recent books about Russia. It seems like the space afforded to Russia remains unlimited. I close the publication to keep my blood pressure down.

Keeping my blood pressure down, however, is challenging. When my social media feeds aren’t advertising another production of Uncle Vanya, they’re urging me to splash out on opera tickets for Eugene Onegin. What happened to the dreaded “cancelling” of Russian culture? The Russia section in most bookshops I visit in the UK is growing daily with everything from yet another translation of Dostoevsky to accounts of opposition figures killed or imprisoned by the Kremlin.

The international media focus on the August 2024 release of Russian political prisoners was yet another example of how the more things change, the more they stay the same. While these released prisoners were provided with a global media platform to call for an end to “unfair” sanctions on “ordinary Russians,” there was no mention of the thousands of Ukrainian civilians who continue to languish in Russian jails.

The ongoing international emphasis on all things Russian goes hand in hand with a reluctance to transform growing interest in Ukraine into meaningful structural changes in how the country is perceived, reported on, and understood. Although there has been some improvement in knowledge about Ukraine since 2022, the move is essentially from having no understanding to having a superficial grasp.

Each time I read a piece on Ukraine by someone not well-versed in the country’s history and politics, my heart sinks. The chances are it will recycle historical cliches, repeat Kremlin propaganda about Russophone Ukrainians, or generalize about regional differences. And to add insult to injury, such articles also often misspell at least one family or place name, using outdated Russian transliterations. A quick Google search or a message to an actual Ukrainian could prevent these errors and save the author from looking foolish. Yet aiding this kind of colonial complacency seems to bother neither the authors nor the editors involved.

I often wonder what would happen if I wrote a piece on British or US politics and misspelt the names of historical figures, towns, and cities. How likely would I be to get it published? And yet the same standards do not apply when it comes to writing about countries that have not been granted priority status in our mental hierarchies of the world. We can misspell them all we like; no one will notice anyway. Apart from the people from those countries, of course. And when an exasperated Ukrainian writes to complain, I can almost see the editors rolling their eyes and thinking, “What does this perpetually frustrated nation want now? We’ve done Ukraine. Why are they never satisfied?”

It is not enough to simply “do Ukraine” by reviewing one book on the war, especially if it’s by a Western journalist rather than a Ukraine-based author. It’s not enough to host one exhibition, particularly if it is by an artist or photographer who only spent a few weeks in the country. Quickly putting together a panel on Russia’s war in response to a major development at the front and adding a sole Ukrainian voice at the last minute doesn’t cut it either. This box-ticking approach is unhelpful and insulting.

It is important to acknowledge that some Western media outlets have significantly enhanced their coverage of Ukraine over the past two and a half years. They have typically done so by dedicating time and resources to having in-house experts who have either reported from Ukraine for many years, or who are committed to deepening their knowledge enough to produce high-quality analysis. However, many of these outlets still seem compelled to provide platforms for individuals entirely unqualified to analyse the region. Surely this isn’t what balance means?

Since February 2022, more than 100 Ukrainian cultural figures have been killed in the war. According to the Ukrainian Ministry of Culture, by May 2024, over 2,000 cultural institutions had been damaged or destroyed. This includes 711 libraries, 116 museums and galleries, and 37 theatres, cinemas, and concert halls. In May 2024, Russia bombed Factor Druk, the country’s biggest printing house.

When I attended this year’s Kyiv Book Arsenal, Ukraine’s largest literary festival, each panel began with a minute of silence to honor the memory of colleagues killed in the war. All this is in addition to mounting military losses, many of whom are yesterday’s civilians, including journalists and creatives who have either volunteered or been drafted into the army. This is the current state of the Ukrainian creative industry.

To save time for Western editors, publishers, and curators, let me clarify what all of us perpetually frustrated Ukrainians want. We would appreciate it if they turned to actual Ukraine specialists when working on Ukraine-related themes. Not those who suddenly pivoted from specializing in Russia, or who feel entitled to speak authoritatively because they discovered a distant Ukrainian ancestor, or those who have only recently shown interest in Ukraine due to business opportunities in the country’s reconstruction. We would be grateful if they took the time to seek out experts who have been studying Ukraine long before it became fashionable, who understand the country in all its complexity, and who care enough to offer Ukrainians the basic dignity of having their names spelt correctly.

I like to fantasise about a time when editors of top Western periodicals will choose to review books on Ukraine not simply because the country is at war and they feel obliged to cover it now and again, but because these books offer vital insights into democracy, the fight for freedom, or the importance of maintaining unity and a sense of humor in times of crisis. I hope for a day when galleries will host exhibitions of Ukrainian art, not just because it was rescued from a war zone, but because the artists involved provide fresh perspectives on the world.

I also dream that we, the perpetually frustrated Ukraine specialists, will eventually be able to focus on our own scholarship and creativity rather than correcting the mistakes and misleading takes of others. This will happen when cultural institutions, publishing houses, universities, and newspapers acquire in-house experts whose knowledge of Ukraine and the wider region extends beyond Russia.

Dr Olesya Khromeychuk is a historian and writer. She is the author of The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister (2022). Khromeychuk has written for The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Guardian, Der Spiegel, Prospect, and The New Statesman, and has delivered a TED talk on What the World Can Learn From Ukraine’s Fight for Democracy. She has taught the history of East-Central Europe at several British universities and is currently the Director of the Ukrainian Institute London.

[tragedy-of-commons]

killjoy

childe x gn!reader | wc: ~1.6k

You catch your boyfriend setting up the cake.

tags/warnings: bday fun, modern & college au, based off of the American College Experience�� sorry, tooth-rotting fluff, teucer is a national treasure, comedy, possibly ooc, reader has hair

notes: for @staarri's 100 followers & bday event <3 trying to write childe was a nightmare but the wheel of doom has spoken. chosen prompt "cruel summer" :)

It has been one hell of a day.

Pop quizzes in two of your classes (that you are now tanking), getting heckled by that same group of protesters, slamming head-first into a glass panel like a pigeon, and then getting splashed by a puddle via a speeding car. 

To give credit where credit is due, you’ve suffered through every incident with class and poise. Despite how you drip with murky street water, the saving grace that is the promise of your warm bed keeps you from inventing new profanities and falling to your knees in the student parking lot.

It’s almost over with, it’s almost over with—

The splintered door of your dorm unit has never looked more welcoming. When your keycard is approved with a click, you heave the barrier between you and uninterrupted sleep wide open. However, what you don’t expect is the little spectacle unfolding in your kitchenette.

Who you belatedly realize is your lovely boyfriend is sticking candles into something - it being quickly shielded from your view as he reacts to your arrival.

“You just had to be early,” he grins, revealing those pearly whites, “Maybe I’ll start calling you ‘Killjoy’.”

“Ajax?” He’s here? Today? But he said— He must notice your sorry state, but he’s wise enough not to mention it. “You really think I’d miss celebrating your birthday in person? Seriously, what kind of partner would I be, just sending you a text? Babe, you gotta start setting some higher standards.”

“Rotten liar,” you mumble, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. 

A small flash of copper peeks around the bedroom-adjoining hallway, hyper. Teucer rushes up in front of his brother, the latter ruffling his hair. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You snort, wondering if anyone else is planning to jump out of the shadows. “My sincerest apologies. I could always leave—”

“No need,” Ajax dismisses the notion with a cavalier wave. “I think we’re all ready, huh Teuce?”

He huffs in agreement, beaming up at you like you hung the moon. “One second!”

Teucer scampers off faster than you can blink, making you bellow a laugh. His energy knows no bounds, necessitating many hours of entertaining his whims. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Happy birthday,” Ajax says softly; wistfully.

You stalk over to him, embracing your boyfriend like he might disappear into thin air without a moment’s notice. “If you broke in, I will be calling campus security.” “You’d never turn me in! Also, we just so happen to still be on the guest card from last week.” You part from his warmth so you can kiss him. He tastes of sugar, the bastard.

“Buttercream?” you place, peering over his shoulder. The sight of a round cake on the counter confirms your suspicions, and your heart swells. He would’ve had to bake and decorate it somewhere else, given that ovens are a luxury you do not possess in college hell. You picture him in his too-nice apartment, piping frosting in the familiar loops of your name. “Yes!” Teucer rushes back in (you note that he’s hiding his hands behind his back), while Ajax pokes your nose. “Big brother spent soooo long on it!”

You snicker deviously. “Really?”

“No reason to lie,” your boyfriend pouts, “Though I’m a bit hurt that you’re both trying to embarrass me, after I went to all this trouble..”

Teucer sticks his tongue out in disgust whenever you console Ajax with another kiss, likely wanting you both to hurry up your gross couple stuff so he can show you his gift. It’s presented to you ceremoniously, and you honor the splendor by pretending not to know that it’s definitely one of his toys. 

Your acting is award-winning, perfectly ignoring the obvious ridges and appendages of a Transformer. After tearing open the paper, you’re told that his name is Mr. Cyclops and you have to take good care of him - your sworn oath.

(Of course, Mr. Cyclops will mysteriously end up back in Teucer’s bedroom if you can count on your partner in crime to help you out. You and Ajax share a Look that hints at conspiracy.)

Speaking of your boyfriend, you don’t think he is governed by even one modicum of shame. During the Happy Birthday song, he performs with his whole chest, much to your chagrin. You think that Ajax lives the most for other people; even if it shines brightest whenever he teases and flusters. His camaraderie is most genuine when he’s this comfortable - when he knows that the present moment is all he needs to focus on. 

When did he start letting his guard down? You find yourself unable to recall among past memories of trudging to the local diner at ungodly hours, cramming for finals at the library, and responsibly talking him down from any antics that would surely get him in trouble.

(Maybe it was when you first held an ice pack over his eye, swollen shut from a punch he shouldn’t have taken just for the thrill of it. Your admonishment must have been jarring, because without any teasing remarks whatsoever, he promised that he’d dial it down. You remember lacing your fingers with his - and promptly threatening to “embalm him with jet fuel” if he ever got hurt again.)

Now your relationship has progressed to the point where spending your first birthday together feels natural. It feels so natural that shitty paper plates stacked high with slices of cake is enough to make you forget that you look like that one damp owl picture. Ajax, as per his boyfriend duties, has to remind you, of course.

“Bad day, huh?” 

You rest your chin on your fist, elbow supported by the armrest of your (comically small) couch. In retrospect, the fleeting illusion of a living room probably wasn’t worth it. Squished into a corner by a dozing Teucer and an awake Ajax, you yawn. “The worst, actually.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” he tips your chin up to meet azure hues, “Maybe my gift will make you feel better.”

You blink. “Gift? You don’t have to, you know. The little guy’s was plenty enough for me.” 

Ajax spares a fond glance at his little brother, whose head is resting in his lap, legs thrown over the opposite armrest. “Nonsense! If you’re worried about me having bought out a whole store—”

“Don’t tell me you—”

“—Then you have nothing to fret over, Killjoy,” he laughs. “It’s pretty small.”

You don’t suppress the smile that breaks out on your face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Hopefully not too hard.” He’s so annoying. You want to kiss him stupid.

From what you assume is from his back pocket, he removes a black silk pouch before dropping it into your awaiting hand. He was right about it being small, that’s for sure. Toying with the material of it for a moment, you pull open the bag delicately. Ajax tenses. “So.. whaddya think?”

Inside is a brass key that fits into your palm nicely. Of course you’ll love anything he gives you, but you’re unsure of what this could mean. Is it symbolic? Literal? You thumb over the grooves, unsure of what they could possibly unlock. Your head swims with a fuzzy feeling that you don’t entirely hate.

“What’s it to?”

“Our place.”

It’s perfect. You turn the object this way and that way, swallowing. “Giving me my own copy? You realize that you’re gonna be stuck with me crashing at yours way more often, right?”

Your boyfriend wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulder. “It’s not there for you to crash, it’s there for you to stay. I want you to move in with me.”

The following awed silence from you is clearly taken as something else, because Ajax backpedals in that flippant way that belies the panic he’s actually feeling. You need to tell him that it’s okay; that it’s more than okay.

“Of course you can say no, but the rest of your birthday plans kinda hinge on the possibility that you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and say yes,” he amends.

You pay no heed to his theatrics, because all you really need is him. Gross. “Duh, idiot. As much as it kills me to say this, I’d want nothing more.” Ajax glows. “Because you’re head over heels in love with me?”

“No, because I won’t have to drag my ass to the laundromat anymore.”

The offended sound he lets out is muffled with your mouth against his once more, and the tears that roll down your cheeks are obviously not because you’re ecstatic to be so involved in his life. What a preposterous idea.

His hands cradle your face, a little awkward because of the position, but he’s so warm. 

“Killjoy, I have something to confess,” he breathes, pulling back enough so you can see the faint constellation of freckles dotting his features. “You need to start packing immediately, or else the flowers will wilt before you’re able to see them.”

You sigh, happy-sniffling. “Flowers? Is a bouquet perhaps part of these ‘birthday plans’?”

Ajax dries one of his hands stained with your tears off onto his shirt before raking it through Teucer’s curls affectionately. He stirs but does not wake. “Try thirty!”

“Ajax..” The horror in your tone barely disguises the admiration.

“I love you too, Killjoy.”

That night, when you’re both alone in his apartment, tangled in each other’s arms, your overnight bag on the floor - you tell him the same. The few tears he sheds into your hair are also definitely not because you’re finally comfortable enough to say it back. Ridiculous.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

[oxymorayuri]

𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝟷𝟕

𝑁𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑠 »

𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝐷. 𝑊𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟

𝐿𝑎𝑤 ✘ ♀ 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓: Khaituu

Story: The princess of Tanata

[Long Fic]

➽ Click on this link to see all chapters.

Spoiler: Clues and facts about Doflamingo, the Marines etc.

Warnings: nope

slowburn with plot

Wordcount: 3019

Text in italics emphasizes the reader’s thoughts

Bold and italic text emphasizes Law's thoughts *~*

Tagging: @slytherinambitious - @norasincubi - @cottoncandyloverrrr - @hopelesslover06 - @one-piece-frvr7 - @sassyyassi

The refreshing cold of the water lets you breathe deeply while you let your feet dip into the water. In this overgrown forest there are several mysterious places just waiting to be discovered and one of these places is the bathing spot where you are now.

An enchanting lake with a waterfall, surrounded by trees and beautiful plants... and after dark, it takes on a magical appearance in the moonlight.

On one side, there are stones of different sizes from the ground up to the waterfall, forming a natural staircase.

A little further down, you have settled on the stones by the water. With a relaxed expression on your face, you let your feet dangle in the water while Law sits next to you with his legs crossed.

Sitting in silence, you enjoy the peaceful atmosphere and the soothing sound of the waterfall. Although it is quite dangerous to be in the forest at night, this place makes you feel relaxed.

“Say, Law. I don't know why, but you seemed to know those pirates…” You ask casually, while you playfully splash your feet in the water.

You're not sure, but you could swear that something changed in his eyes when he saw the ship. Something angry appeared in them.

Law's gaze was fixed on your side profile while your gaze was directed towards the water. His eyes shimmering somewhat indefinable, as if he carefully formed every word in his head before speaking it.

“I know many pirates.” you turn your face to him, your head automatically follows his deep voice.

“And I know these pirates too.” He finishes his sentence with more intensity

Law's gaze is cold and he seems to be mulling over a decision, crossing his arms. The black haired man closes his eyes and you can clearly see that he is deep in thought.

For a moment, Law is confused by the fact, that he is weighing up what to tell you, and it makes no sense to him either.

She'll never know anyway.

Law doesn't think you'll ever leave this holy land. Why would he tell you about him? About his past and his plans… That's not necessary.

When he got his thoughts back together, he opened his eyes and you waited tensely, your ears on full alert as he moved his lips.

"They call themselves the Donquixote Pirates and their leader is a dreadful man. Perhaps the devil."

“Do you know him?” Maybe he could have useful information, you think. You notice the barely visible, thoughtful look on Law's face again, and what followed was a lot of information about the one called Don Quixote de Flamingo.

Law told you many things about his crew, their strengths and, last but not least, about their leader Doflamingo, who also happens to rule a whole country.

Law's story makes it clear that Doflamingo is an evil man, and looking back, you can confirm this yourself.

One small detail, however, immediately comes to mind. Law seems obsessed with the subject of Don Quixote de Flamingo. Not in a passionate or aggressive way.

It's quite subtle, but Law seems very well informed about this devil and his followers. The way he talks about his activities and his evil regime in the country called Dress Rosa reveals, that he has a special interest in it.

You would like to ask him. You wonder if there is something behind your thoughts, but you hesitate and in the end no question comes over your lips. You'd rather leave it at that.

“He really sounds like a devil.” - “And the worst thing is that he has a kind of immunity thanks to the Marines and the World Government.” You frown in confusion.

“The Marines? But isn't he a pirate?” Of course you don't know much about the world outside, but your father and his friends never mentioned anything like that.

“The Marines are the protectors of the law, aren't they?” You are puzzled. What business do the Marines have with pirates?

The corners of Law's mouth turn up into an amused grin. You know nothing about the world and even if that makes you a little naive in his eyes, he knows that it's not your fault. Maybe he envies you, for not knowing the true, ugly face of the world out there.

You live in a prosperous, beautiful and loving city where you lack for nothing. Law himself has only a few happy moments to remember. He can understand that you are so desperate to explore the world out there, but he wouldn't recommend it.

“You've got the marine and the way they do justice terribly wrong, Princess-ya.” His serious tone makes you tense.

He explains the dark side of the Marines, which surprises you deeply. He speaks of events which are changing the image of the Marines. For example, there are a few pirates who are allies of the Marines.

In return for being mobilized by the Marine in case of emergency to serve the world government, they are allowed to get away with several corrupt things.

"They are called Shichibukai, the Seven Warlords of the Sea." - “That's not right!” You are outraged and confused by Law's indifferent look. What Law tells you about the Marines does not sound like justice.

"That's intentional abuse of power!" That's not right. That's the greed for control. You are shocked by your new knowledge, and the need to break the system arises.

“Something has to change!” Law looks at you with emptiness in his eyes as your eyebrows twitch with anger.

He sure likes the determination in your eyes and if he's honest, he had already thought about how some of your skills could be useful for his own plans, but would you like his methods?

You only know him as Law, the doctor who is a pirate, but what you don't know is, that he is a man with blood on his hands whose methods are also considered to be quite cruel.

In contrast, your entire being is like an oasis of peace that reaches for something greater. His eyes drift down slightly as he gazes at your face.

Would you despise me if you knew me, or would you understand?

However, Law himself doesn't think you would ever join him, so he quickly dismisses his question.

“The world is changing all the time. There are a lot of good people and others who are fighting against those in the shadows. For example, there is the Revolutionary Army, which is fighting against the world government and the Marines." He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. His gaze is directed upwards, towards the dense leaves of the surrounding trees and the night sky that peeks through.

"However, their mission is a complicated process and takes time.” You listen to him attentively like a little girl listening to a bedtime story. Not a good bedtime story, obviously, but that's beside the point.

You can't help but smile as you lean back and support yourself on your hands.

“You know a lot.” His level of knowledge is impressive, but on the other hand, you are a little embarrassed. What if it's all basic knowledge?

“Knowledge is power.” A proud smile adorns his face. Law's posture is so confident that you blush slightly.

"You're right." it leaves your lips as if hypnotized by the dazzling sight of him.

You shake your head briefly, it's not your intention to stare at him like that. The heat in your face is a bit unbearable and you sheepishly avoid eye contact.

You keep concentrating on the pleasant feeling in the water and wiggle your feet. The water is crystal clear and a little cool, but not too chilly that you wouldn't like going in. Since it is a tropical climate here in the forest, this water is nice and refreshing.

Going for a swim to think about things would be the perfect distraction right now...

Finding out that the pirates are back and are even worse people than you thought is pretty overwhelming… Swimming on your back and looking at the starry sky would be just the perfect thing for you right now.

You don't seem to care that Law is with you. It's not that you've forgotten about him, but you don't think it might be strange. Surely he's seen a woman in a bikini before, right?

Law's gaze rests on you as you rise. You smile at him over your shoulder as you drop your fancy cloak on the floor and Law looks at you, a little confused.

He doesn't say a word as you take off your dress, silently eyeing your beautifully chiseled body. Except for your underwear, you have undressed completely and with slow steps you walk into the pleasant cold of the water.

Law is clearly captivated by your flawless skin and well shaped figure. The clothes you're wearing already reveal your female beauty, but he couldn't have imagined how magnificent your curves are.

When your bottom disappears into the water, he wakes up from his little erotic fantasy and sits up again with a sudden jolt.

Slowly you turn around, your cheeks a little flushed and a small smile, which seems innocent in contrast to your luscious body, shines down on Law.

Law's confusion causes you to look questioningly at him, he looks unable to understand the picture in front of him.

Is it because I have undressed?

Maybe Law has some split feelings about you exposing yourself to him as a princess, but is it that much different from a bikini?

Somewhat ashamed, you cross your arms in front of your chest and lower your upper body under the water. Normally you're not ashamed of your body, but being looked at like this by Law makes you feel a bit weird.

“Don't you feel weak at all?” Law eyes you skeptically. Your eyebrows go up, you don't quite know what he means. Apart from the shame, you feel great.

“No why?”

Law straightens up and examines the water. He thinks for a moment before looking up at you again.

“Devil fruit users can't swim and…” As he tells you this, it comes straight to you.

“Ahhh yes that!” A little excited, you walk over to him, this will surely blow his mind and he looks down at you expectantly.

“Would you like to swim again?” you ask him, as if you would fulfill his every wish in exchange for his soul.

“You can do that?!” His eyes widen dramatically.

With a cheerful smile, you nod silently at him.

"How?" He's been surprised by you over and over again since day one, and now you come up again and tell him you could neutralize the greatest weakness of devilfruit users?

"With time." Your smile holds something mysterious and Law is sure he is completely unaware of the extent, how your power can be used.

“I can't fix it forever and I can't use it for long but I can make sure you swim in the water with me for a few minutes.” You look a little furtively at the stunned Law. Hopefully that wasn't too forward, but you inwardly pray to the gods that they will let you see Law's naked torso.

Without saying anything, Law hastily takes off his clothes. He can't refuse the offer. At the sight of his body, you dive further into the water so that only your eyes are above the surface and no one can see your red cheeks, but you can't miss the sight of him and literally stare at him.

Your eyes wander up his body to his face while he stands in front of you in just his boxer shorts. Ready for what comes next, he spreads his arms wide in anticipation.

"I'm ready to go." He says a little excitedly. It's been ages since he's been swimming, so he wants to feel that floating sensation in the water again, as soon as possible..

You realize that you need to get a little closer to him, so you walk in his direction. You leave the water, the droplets roll down your skin and the fine fabrics of your underwear stick nicely to your body.

Law's gaze unintentionally goes to your breasts, he can see your nipples through the wet fabric but his eyes quickly look to the side.

You've finally regained your confidence and giggle a little into your hand. His look was very obvious.

“When did you eat the devil fruit?” - “That was a long time ago. Back when I was a child." You swallow a little, the further you have to go into the past, the harder it gets and, more importantly, the more physical contact you need...

You take a deep breath and get out of the water to stand in front of him.

Law's body tenses the closer you get to him. Your skin glistens in the soft moonlight and as you wrap your arms around him, he flinches slightly. He is a little surprised and doesn't move.

The fact that you hug him out of nowhere, dressed only in your underwear, is a little uncomfortable, but his heart beats a little faster. You feel the same way but it's the next best thing, another option would be a kiss on the lips and the thought alone could make your head explode.

You notice how stiff his posture is, his arms hang motionless at his sides as you give him a gentle hug.

You bury your head lightly in his neck to prevent him from seeing your red face.

“Hey, it's a bit weird when you don't return the hug…” you whisper sheepishly.

Law swallows a little at your words and wakes up from his paralysis. Carefully, he brings his hands to your body, slowly, as if one wrong move would shatter your bones.

His hand on your cool, wet skin leaves you feeling a sense of exhilaration. With your chest close to his torso, he pulls you a little closer so that you can feel his warmth even more. The blush on your cheeks should have already moved to your ears, since Law has found the perfect spot to hold you with his hands.

Without saying another word, you stand in a tight and rather intimate embrace, both feeling a little awkward.

You would like to enjoy the embrace, but firstly you are too excited and secondly you need to concentrate on something else…

Slowly and evenly, you let your strength flow from your whole body into Law's. Thousands of images flicker before your eyes at extreme speed. You can barely make out a single detail, as the images are gone faster than they appear to be there.

You instinctively search for the day Law ate the devil fruit. You are getting warmer by every second, your underwear is drying and some steam is enveloping you as you run hot like a machine but you don't even feel it. Law is the one who notices and observes every little change in you. So far, nothing seems to change for him except the crazy feeling in his chest as your soft skin sticks to his skin...

Your skin on his is unexpectedly pleasant, even if he doesn't like want to admit but because you're standing half naked in front of him, he's forced to feel your feminine charms....

Damn you and your arousing body! he curses to himself as he banishes a few lewd images from his mind.

When you finally reach the moment, you go a little further before he eats the devil fruit and stop the time.

"Okay Law, I'm done." Your voice is a soft whisper to his ears and your bodies separate.

You lead the way and walk slowly into the water, watching him over your shoulder. You have to suppress a giggle as Law stands rather unsure of himself in the shallow water. He slowly continues and follows you.

He pays close attention to the familiar symptoms when he enters the water, but they do not occur.

The water is already up to his chest and bewilderment is written all over his face, while you float around him on your back. He dives down and allows the water to embrace him completely. There is no trace of the oppressive, dragging down feeling he usually has. A miracle.

“How do you do that?” he asks you, slightly stunned. He can't quite understand how you manipulate time in him like that, without him getting any younger?

"I always thought that this would only work if I turned back into a child." - “You have to understand it like this; your entire body, every cell, every vein and muscle stores this moment. It's also a memory for your body, you know?” He follows your words attentively as he floats carefree in the water.

"It's already enough if I take this particular memory from your blood…" His eyes look at you in disbelief.

“So that means that the blood of my childhood self is flowing inside me? When I hadn't eaten the devil fruit yet?!” - “Correct.”

Overwhelmed, Law looks up at the stars and mumbles something about it being unbelievable. You giggle a little, as he looks like he's been blown away.

You carefully watch him as he floats on his back with his eyes closed. He enjoys the weightlessness and the refreshing water. You can well understand him, after all, you also ate the fruit as a small child and as a child you were literally considered a little mermaid!

Being able to swim is actually not a known technique, you discovered it purely by chance as a child when you wished you hadn't eaten the devil fruit and just jumped into the water.

It was a happy accident, you could say.

“How are you doing, Princess-ya? Are your powers waning?” He asks you. You're flattered that he's worried about you, but you try extra hard to make sure this moment doesn't pass so quickly...

Hey babes, I hope you liked it :3

With love, your yuri

➽ Next chapter (Not available yet)

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Fluttering of wings, splashing of waves

Oh look, I finished my entry for @thefreakandthehair's spring challenge! My topic was bird watching and Steddie, enjoy!

Also on Ao3

It doesn't take long for both of them to notice.

The thing is - both Eddie and Steve are fairly observant guys, Steve with his constant concern for everyone's well-being but his own and Eddie's survival being dependent on recognizing when quiet contempt and judging is about to transcend into physical violence or lynching, the good ol' American small town tradition that Hawkins always seemed on verge of.

So yes, observing other people isn't exactly new for them, but now that they were discharged from the hospital ("They made me eat vegetables, Wayne!" "They also kept you alive so that's a win in my book, boy!"), they soon notice that while their bodies were patched up and healed as well as possible, the same can't be said for their minds.

They have been spending a lot of time together, with Nancy and Robin now gone for college. Steve sometimes wonders why it is that all of his best friendships, bonds for life, come from the worst thing that has ever happened to him, but maybe he shouldn't complain so much - the universe decided to drag him through blood, pain, tears and lots of concussions, but then remembered maybe he should get something good too, so it tossed Dustin, Robin and Eddie at him, his little brother, his soulmate and...

And Eddie. Someone he used to scoff at, maybe feel some disdain for or even jealousy, but now...

Steve has always been predictable. He throws himself into danger, takes all the responsibility he can because that's what grounds him. It's easy to keep it together when everyone else is freaking out - you simply need to, there's no other choice. Now that Robin and Nancy are gone and the kids are way more preoccupied with high school and their own healing, Steve doesn't have anyone to keep it together for. Anyone but Eddie.

But that's not really all, is it? Because Eddie makes him laugh, makes him feel at ease and Steve kind of hates himself for it, for not being alert enough in his presence because he's supposed to keep Eddie safe, but he just makes him relax so much, he jokes around but doesn't cross his boundaries and Steve just doesn't know anymore-

So yes, they notice things about each other fairly quickly, but talking about it? That's a whole separate can of worms. "And I have a warehouse full of these worm cans, Steve, take your pick."

When they finally bring it up, it's April of 1987, close to the end of academic school year. Eddie has finally graduated and started working odd jobs, not paying well but at least legal, Steve still rewinding tapes in Family Video and going through potential career options, dragging Eddie into the endless pile of leaflets, articles and even some study programs. "We won't be stuck here forever," he tells Eddie and there is a glint in Eddie's eye, something that clutches at Steve's chest and whispers you will get him out of here. You will make him happy, in any way he allows.

Eddie hands Steve a leaflet about part-time sports coach position. "Come on, Harrington, you know you want to," snickers Eddie and leans back in his chair. "And about every woman in Hawkins wants you to as well, those shorts were sinful, I tell you. But seriously...you'd be great at it. You have a way with kids and you were pretty good in high school, no?"

Steve chuckles with him, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Not when he sees that one of the requirements is leading swimming lessons. "I...I don't think that's a good fit," he admits quietly, almost ashamed. "It's not like you're wrong, those shorts did look good on me," he admits and elicits another snicker from Eddie, "but...I don't think I could do all they want me to do."

Eddie frowns, not at Steve but in contemplation, and takes the leaflet back, his eyes impatiently scanning the text. "...oh," he breathes out and gives Steve an apologetic smile. "The pool thing?"

Steve nods and presses his lips together, hoping the words will stay in, but that's just Eddie's strange spell. Steve wants him to know, wants him to know everything, not just the pretty parts of himself. "The pool thing. It's fucking stupid, you know. I thought that I survived all of it, but...I guess some parts of me died too. Which sounds way too dramatic, but I haven't been able to just...live. It's like my life is a minefield now and I've been trying to avoid where they're buried..."

He glances at Eddie and swallows, his throat tight. "Sorry. That sounds so melodramatic, especially saying it to a guy who actually nearly died. I don't know where that came from, please just...just ignore I said anything. But yeah, I don't think I could do the coach thing."

Eddie is quiet for a moment and Steve thinks that maybe he messed things up. Maybe he showed too much of himself, like he always does, maybe he's finally managed to chase Eddie away but then those long, calloused fingers are on his shoulder, squeezing him, grounding him.

"I won't ignore that, Steve," says Eddie and Steve hates how sad he looks, wonders if it would be awkward to hug him, to offer comfort that he himself doesn't know.

"I won't ignore that because I get it," continues Eddie and Steve doesn't think, he covers Eddie's hand with his own. "Why do you think I mostly do night shifts or work in warehouses, restocking or whatever? Why I stay inside most of the time?"

Shame and insecurity now gone, Steve strokes his fingers along Eddie's knuckles. "I've noticed and...I have my theory. But I didn't want to bring it up. Didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

Tilting his head back, Eddie laughs and Steve's heart beats faster at the sound. "You could never. But maybe it's good to...to say it out loud. I think we're kind of dancing around it, trying to ignore the stuff that we're dealing with, but maybe it would help. Maybe admitting it will help us figure out how to handle it? Because to be completely honest with you, Steve - I hate it. I hate pretending that everything is over when it fucking isn't."

As if Steve could ever say no to those dark, trusting eyes. "Okay, let's try."

At first, the words don't come and when they do, they are aborted and unclear, but gradually, they start flowing and when they do, they don't stop. They spend the whole evening talking about it, finding the right expressions to explain what the Upside Down took from them.

Steve shudders and grows rigid whenever he hears running or splashing water. From the movie nights and unspoken sleepovers they have, Eddie knows Steve only takes showers now, short and almost scorching, and never runs a bath for himself, no matter how stiff and painful his muscles are. The floating sensation of water used to bring him comfort, but now it is replaced by the memory of being grabbed and dragged under the surface, air leaving his lungs, his head ringing with pressure...

Eddie's breathing quickens and panic sets in whenever he hears flapping of wings. He knows that demobats are no longer in Hawkins, he knows that they're gone along with their master, but he can't help it, he never feels safe outside, can't raise his head to the sky to persuade himself that it's okay.

Steve wants to throw up whenever something touches his neck. Eddie can relate.

Eddie feels the need to cover his wrists all the time. After being held down by demobats, he feels like he needs to protect them. Weirdly it's not his maimed chest, not his scarred sides, but the wrists. That explains the thick leather bracelets.

Steve can't stand the feeling of not being fully there, with marihuana and alcohol. "It's the truth serum," he tells Eddie and admits, finally admits how guilty he felt for giving Dustin's full name to the Russians, wonders how much damage he could do if he ever let himself go. The Russians are gone, but the guilt stays.

And Eddie feels uneasy under the open sky. Maybe it's because it was nearly the last thing he would see in his life. Maybe it has something to do with the bird thing. But it is so difficult to just walk on the street, be in the open. Be vulnerable.

"The funny thing is," says Steve and shifts closer to Eddie on the couch, Eddie with his beer and Steve with soda, "when things were still...you know, shit, I didn't feel this way. I was able to go wherever I wanted, do what I wanted, because the danger was actually there, you know? We did what we had to do and I felt like...like I didn't need to think about it, I just did things. But now...I guess I just don't trust it. Things being fine. Hell, I can't even trust myself," he laughs and it's bitter, pained. "The fuck is this? When did I go from actually fighting monsters to shaking like a stupid chihuahua from hearing someone washing their hands?"

Eddie takes a swig of his beer and closes his eyes, nodding. His hair is messier than usual from lying around and nervous tugging of his fingers, but Steve still thinks it looks great. Or maybe not just great, he wouldn't like it on just anyone, but...maybe it's just that it's Eddie. The thought doesn't scare him as much as it used to.

It takes a moment for Eddie to speak, but when he does, he stares at the ceiling, his eyes large and glassy. "Yeah, I get that. I thought I graduated from being a coward, but-"

"Not a coward, man." Steve hates interrupting people, he was lectured on it way too many times, but this is the single time he feels like it's justified. "Don't call yourself a coward. Because you're not."

Eddie shoots him a small smile. "Well, let me rephrase it. I thought I'd stop freezing when I got scared, but look at me now. Wayne noticed it too, you know? He...he actually helped." He shifted even closer, now sitting so close to Steve their legs were touching. "He told me that he went through something similar when he came back from Vietnam. Just...small flashes. Random things reminding him of what he saw there. It fucked him up pretty badly, he said, uh..." Biting his lip, he took a deep breath. "He said that's why he never got married or had kids. That he didn't feel...healthy enough. Whole enough. But then of course I got dropped on his doorstep and he had to deal with the shit."

Steve is staring now, he's distantly aware that it's not very polite, but damn, that sounds like a miracle. Maybe Wayne is a much stronger man then they are, but he just has to ask. "How...how did he do it? I mean...it feels so unreal. That you can just...deal with it."

"He said it wasn't easy," Eddie mutters, fiddling with his rings. "But he...uh. Shit, this is embarrassing but also kinda amazing? He said I was his biggest motivation to get better, so he...he dealt with those things by kind of overwriting the memories with new ones with me? Like...he got really, really freaked out by bushes and dense woods, you know. Found it difficult to go anywhere where he couldn't see everything around him. But he...he started taking me out to the woods. Bit by bit, I mean, it wasn't immediate, but he started teaching me about nature. Showing me some edible things, animals if we got to see them. I didn't know it back then, but he was freaking out all the time. But eventually, he stopped associating the woods with...that. And started thinking about what he'd teach me next, what our next trip would be."

"Wow." Steve has always liked Wayne, but now? He thinks the man is incredible. "Your uncle is amazing," he whispers. "Just...just amazing. He came up with that and it worked? He did that for you? I...wow."

Eddie laughs, nodding and downing the rest of his beer. "Right? And he talks about it like it's no big deal. He just did it. I wish I had the guts too, you know, because I really want to do some of the stuff with him that we used to do. He's not pushing, but...I really want to spend time with him. Do the same thing he did for me." After a brief pause, he continues. "You know, we have this really silly thing that we used to do that I want to experience again. So fucking much. We call it bird watching, but it actually is more of a bird spotting. We'd just sit together on the porch, smoke and try to spot birds. Like, you'd point at a crow or a pigeon or whatever and the other would say "yep, sure is a bird". It sounds silly, but...I just hate that I can't do it anymore, you know."

Steve stares into the distance for a moment, lost in thought. And just as Eddie is about to nudge him, to ask what he's thinking about, he snaps out of it, looking at Eddie. "You can and you will," he proclaims resolutely.

"Um." He's laughing again, but this time it's a bit awkward, uncertain. "Not sure which part of "I panic when I'm under the open sky or when I hear wings" you didn't hear, Steve."

But his friend just shakes his head, gets that determined look that never ends well for their enemies. "I heard all of it. And I thought we'd all be fucked up forever, but your uncle could do it, man. And he did it alone. We're together in this and I don't know about you, but I'm sick of letting that disgusting place control my every move. So let me ask you - do you want to rewrite memories together?"

And see, this was is thing with Steve Harrington. Once he makes up his mind, he will follow through - and even though Eddie is still scared shitless, the idea of Steve facing his fears alone somehow feels even worse. Cracking open another beer, he takes a mighty gulp before nodding, offering his hand to seal the deal. "Name the time and place, big boy."

--

They aren't stupid about it, not more stupid than usual. Steve insists on making some rules and plans in case things go to shit. And while Eddie isn't exactly a fan of planning things, this actually does sound like a good idea. So they write it all down, figure out time and place, a calm Sunday when they don't have a shift, around 2 PM so there's enough light and warmth for them to attempt to relax - which is pretty fucking impossible because their destination is none other than Lover's Lake. No use wasting water sitting by a running tap or watch bird puppets, as Steve eloquently puts it.

Steve also insists on choosing just one of the fears to tackle for him and Eddie, making a very good point that it's supposed to be baby steps, not giant stomps, whatever that is supposed to mean. It's actually more like two for Eddie because birds and open sky go together like goat cheese and weird taste or something, but it would be really difficult to separate the two.

And finally, after some research, they come up with a back up plan - if either of them gets too much in their head, the other one needs to distract them. "Doesn't matter what it is, apparently," says Eddie while he is munching on another handful of dry cereal, "it just has to be unexpected. Basically to shock the panic out of your brain. Which sounds...very healthy. Yep. So when I'm freaking out about bird stuff, just...tell me you're getting married to Tammy Thompson or something."

Steve snickers and packs some drinks and snacks as well as a blanket, the forever babysitter. "For you, Munson? I'll describe our whole Muppet wedding and ask you to be my best man."

--

The walk is...fine. Well, that's a lie. The walk is fucking horrendous but the trees help, giving Eddie at least some semblance of a shelter. His heart is beating like crazy, sure, but he's trying to be normal, he really is, because Steve is keeping it together and distracting him as well as he can. After they spook a bunch of birds and their flapping of wings almost has Eddie hyperventilating, Steve grabs his hand, squeezing it and demanding Eddie tells him about his favorite Lord of the Rings character and why it is Aragorn - that elicits a half-snort, half-whimper from Eddie, but it's enough to keep him on track.

They find a suitable spot, not fully in the open, but covered by tall grass and in the shadow of a large tree. The lake is a few steps away and when they sit down on the blanket, they can't really see it, but the sound is there - calming for Eddie but Steve...yeah, he doesn't look so good. That's when Eddie grasps his shoulder and asks him to explain why basketball is so good and how does one even understand what's going on. "Eyes up here, Steve, tell me everything. How many people on each team. Are there different functions, roles or something like that? And why are the shorts so short?"

It goes like that for a while. Whenever one of them gets too stressed, too quiet, the other one shoots a question that makes them think, about something they really, really like. So far, so good.

Except then it happens. As if there was some twisted re-enactment of their Upside Down misfortunes, a bunch of birds loudly take off and circle above the two, flapping their wings and even though they seem to be leaving, Eddie suddenly can't breathe, he's back on the ground, being held by his throat and his wrists, choking on blood-

"Eddie, hey Eddie, stay with me." Steve's voice is panicked too, he's doing what he can but the questions aren't working, Eddie is paralyzed, rigid on the ground.

Licking his dry lips, he wheezes out, "I think it's good time to surprise me, Steve. Like now. Please."

"Okay, yeah, okay."

Eddie prays for a quick shock. Maybe learning about Harrington's porn preferences. About dirty secrets from high school. Maybe some of Robin's romantic misadventures. Something, anything to get him out of his head.

He gets his wish when Steve leans over him and presses his lips against Eddie's.

Eddie's heart skips a beat. Maybe two, three. But he isn't dead, so it has to keep beating, he thinks, but he can't really tell - not when all of the feeling in his body goes to his lips, to the gentle press that Eddie has been craving for months.

It takes him a moment to realize that it's suddenly quiet, the birds are gone and Steve is still above him, looking at Eddie with concern. "Did it work?" he asks and Eddie wants to punch him, murder him, kiss him senseless.

"Sure did," he croaks and tries to play it cool, failing miserably. Maybe if he turns it into a joke, Steve won't notice that he actually enjoyed this, that this isn't just a distraction tactic to him. "Gotta be careful there, Steve," he laughs weakly, "you might give a guy false hope that this is actually something you wanted."

He expects a disgusted scrunch of Steve's nose, a shock maybe, but instead he just leans down and tucks Eddie's hair behind his ear. "False hope?" he whispers and holds his gaze, braver than any and all of them. "For this concrete guy, it's pretty much an open invitation. Although I should have asked, sorry, it's been on my mind since forever and when I saw you like that, I just panicked. So, uh...sorry. If that's not what you want. I mean-"

"Steve," he sighs, exasperated. "I just had a taste of what that mouth can do and I'm pretty sure you're just wasting its potential." His hand sneaks into Steve's hair and pulls him closer, kissing the tip of his nose. "And I can promise you this isn't a trauma response or something. I've been going crazy about you for months now. Just ask Wayne. Or better, don't. He's been making fun of me for it. Mercilessly."

They dissolve into a fit of giggles and maybe a bit of hysteria, too, but the world is quiet now, the sounds of wings and waves distant and the warmth of their bodies is grounding, safe. "He can start a mocking club with Robin, then. She's been calling me her cute bisexual disaster, if you can believe that," says Steve.

"Oh, I absolutely can." The grin is almost painful, but he can't help it, wonders if he'll associate flapping of wings with Steve's lips now, instead of all the pain and horror. Maybe not immediately but there's no need for giant stomps. "Well, big boy...what do you say we give them something to mock us for?"

Steve leans down and smiles against his lips, his breath tickling Eddie's face. "I thought you'd never ask."

--

It's several days later that Eddie catches in uncle home, smoking in his chair and staring at the darkening trees. He quietly takes a stool outside and plops next to him, stealing a lighter to light his cigarette.

He tries to act casual, but the disbelieving smile and pride in Wayne's eyes makes him blush, his face being the biggest traitor of all.

He motions towards the trees where something moved, the sound of its wings muffled and distant. "Looks like a bird, right?" he says.

Wayne reaches over and ruffles his hair, takes another drag from his own cigarette. "Sure does."

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

even in those quiet moments, i hear your voice

elriel month prompt six: words unspoken

NSFW.

Another Secret Dating Modern AU installment. Read other fics in the series here

It was the laziest of Sundays, but it had been a while since Azriel had spent the entire morning in bed. He probably hadn’t done so since his teen years, when he’d sneak out of the house with Cass and Rhys and binge drink the cheap beer they’d bought with a fake ID in the local park all night, coming home just before the sun rose and sleeping the entire following day away. But honestly, if all his mornings included Elain Archeron tangled in his sheets, her jasmine scented hair splashed across his pillows and soft skin pressed up against his, he would do it more often. 

Azriel had never thought he’d be the type of guy to be down so bad for a girl, but the more layers of Elain he got to uncover, the more he realised he was made for someone like her. The broody guy who loitered in shadows, falling for the sunshine flower girl. He snorted at the absolute irony of it.

He’d promptly ignored the incessant texts from Cassian at seven am, his brother hounding him to meet at the gym for a session. It wasn’t going to happen. Not today. Today he was going to do nothing but lounge around with his girl. She’d been busy all week with work and assignments, and he’d barely gotten a chance to see her. 

If it was just their schedules that kept them apart, he may have been more compliant in her absence, but they had the unfortunate burden of also having to sneak around their nosy siblings. He loved that Elain was so close with her sisters, and he with his brothers. After all, they were all each other had.

Their little group had only grown closer since Rhys and Feyre had introduced them all, and he loved the bonds he shared with each, but sometimes they were all just so damn clingy.

He chuckled, wondering what their group must look like to outsiders. Probably something like the Cullen’s… Azriel grimaced, it was Elain’s fault he even knew that reference.

Elain had come over late last night after a dinner shift at the restaurant. Tired and cranky, she had dumped her bags in the doorway and made a beeline straight for his shower, complaining she smelled of fried calamari and beer. Azriel had laughed, thinking she was being melodramatic. She always smelt fucking amazing. 

She had emerged from his tiny ensuite twenty minutes later, wrapped in an oversized towel with her hair thrown up in a messy bun and steam wafting out of the door behind her like tendrils of smoke. It had taken all his willpower not to stalk over to her, whip that towel off her body and throw her onto the bed. Fuck, she was gorgeous.

She had further sealed his fate, driving home the final nail in the I Love Elain Archeron coffin, when she’d gone rummaging through one of his drawers. She’d turned around with a proud grin on her face when she’d found what she was looking for; an old band tee he’d had since college. Throwing on the faded tee she loved to sleep in so much, she’d curled up in bed beside him, giving him a soft peck on the cheek before settling in. 

Azriel’s eyes had almost rolled into the back of his head. She smelled like his shower gel, and that, paired with the oversized t-shirt she wore, had him internally peacocking in some fucked up, masculine alpha-male type of way. Whatever. He loved seeing Elain in his clothes, even if that did make him some sort of primitive, territorial bastard. She tucked herself into his side and Azriel had all but beamed in male pride.

He’d thrown on a Netflix movie for them to watch, but it had barely been ten minutes in before she had fallen asleep, her face pressed into his chest as her breath fanned across his skin. He’d simply smiled down at her and pulled her closer, rubbing a hand down her back, bringing his palm to rest at her waist. He’d let her sleep, his own eyes growing heavy as the warmth from her tiny form drifted over him and lulled him into a peaceful slumber not long after.

The following morning, he'd awoken early but remained in bed, not wanting to disentangle himself from the limbs she had wrapped around him in their sleep. Elain dozed peacefully as he looked over at her, and not being able to resist her thrall any longer, he gingerly rolled over onto his side. Gently pushing aside the hair that had slid over her face, scarred fingertips fluttering over her serene expression, he pressed the softest of kisses to her nose.

She didn’t stir.

He leant forward again, peppering her face with feather-light kisses, brushing his lips lightly over her cheeks, her eyes, her temples, her jaw. 

With a deep exhale and a stretch of her legs, Elain’s eyes finally fluttered open, blinking as she adjusted to the light. The soft morning sunlight filtered through his window and gilded her hair in streaks of brilliant gold and honey brown. He couldn’t help but gape in awe at her, she’d never looked more beautiful.

“Morning,” she croaked, her voice still thick from sleep, face half buried in the pillow. 

His lips twitched into the ghost of a soft smile. Elain had breezed into his life just a few months ago, but in that short amount of time, she’d managed to awaken something deep within him that had long been slumbering. Something he had not even been sure he would ever possess, that vulnerable ability to open oneself up to another person entirely and just… trust. Yet here she was, making him fall head over heels for her in close to no time at all.

Beneath the rumpled sheets, she hitched a leg to rest over his hip and his skin prickled in response, delighted at her proximity.

He smirked, running a hand down her smooth thigh. “Morning, tater-tot.” 

She chuckled at the ridiculous nickname, and Azriel catalogued that laugh to memory. He couldn’t recall how it had started but every day since they’d been together, he’d think up of a new— albeit random— nickname to call her. She laughed every time, often remarking about the increasing ridiculousness of the names he gave her. He liked to keep her on her toes that way, and tater-tots were cute. Only psychopaths didn’t love potatoes.

Snaking an arm around her waist as his other hand gripped the thigh she had hitched on his hip, he tugged Elain across the sheets and into his embrace. Plunging his hand into her thick hair, he angled her face and kissed her, lazy and slow.

Her soft body melted into him as she sighed into it, kissing him back decadently as her hand came up from beneath the sheets to cup his cheek. He shuffled even closer to her, sidling up beside her, pressing their chests together. Elain in turn shifted, hitching her leg higher on his waist, sinking deeper into his sheets, all but mewling at his unhurried attention.

Azriel felt her delicate fingers creep up to card in the hair at the nape of his neck, her tongue laving at the seam of his lips. He opened for her, allowing his tongue to lazily caress hers as he kissed her, nice and slow, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth gently. 

A small whimper escaped her throat, her hips canting softly into his, and that was all it took to spur him into action. Gripping her thigh in his palm, Azriel rolled them over, settling himself on top of her, his hips cradled in the soft space she created for him between her split thighs. 

He tore his lips from hers, a true testament to his will. Or perhaps it was just proof of his hedonistic desire to simply stare at the way Elain was sprawled out beneath him, that debauched urge all but demanding he visually engross himself in how tantalizing she looked whilst spread out in his bed. 

She always looked beautiful, but there was something about this moment; the way her doe eyes would soften, the way her hair would lay tousled around her, the adorable pink flush colouring her cheeks… he would never tire of it. If he had any talent with a paintbrush or skill behind a lens, he would capture it to keep forever, but instead it was another thing he promised to commit to memory.

Holding himself above her, a muscled forearm resting on the pillow beside her head, Elain merely gazed up at him, a small, secret smile blooming across her lovely face. They never needed words, and yet they could always discern what the other conveyed. In the short time they’d been together, they’d become so proficient at quietly observing each other, they could often converse simply with a pointed look across the room or a subtle twitch of an expression. He loved that. He loved feeling seen by Elain, and in turn documenting her every little quirk, interpreting the meaning of each one of her silent cues. He intended to be proficient in the unspoken language of Elain Archeron and nothing could sway his determination.

He was so fucking done for.

Elain drew her arms up, slinging them about his shoulders, hands hanging limply behind him as her fingertips brushed his shoulder blades. Goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he couldn’t help but sink into her warm embrace, her body so supple and welcoming beneath him. 

The old t-shirt she wore had ridden up around her hips, and as he drew himself closer to kiss her, he pressed his hips firmly into the warm centre of her.

Something akin to a squeak escaped her lips, causing her in turn to wrap her long legs around his waist. He marvelled at her warmth, relished in doing nothing but exist in Elain’s hold. Kissing her deeply, keeping his machinations unhurried and languid, he couldn’t help but think he would happily live and die in this very spot. 

Shifting beneath him, Elain’s hands trailed up his body and dove into his hair, deepening the kiss as her thighs split imperceptibly wider, allowing his rapidly hardening cock to nestle snuggly against her. She loved it. She let loose a little breath, her back arching at the increased pressure on her sensitive folds. She bit his lip gently, unable to control the pleasure slowly building, and rolled her hips, seeking more friction where she needed it the most.

Azriel chuckled, pulling back once more to look down at her. Her pupils were blown wide, all traces of sleepiness gone. In its place was a sultry, sexual profligacy, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she gazed back up at him.

“Az, I need… uh!” she trailed off at a particularly delicious roll of his hips.

Azriel tenderly brushed the golden strands of hair that had fallen into her face. “I know, baby,” he cooed, placating her with another languorous thrust of his hips, benevolently rolling into her, burying her deeper into his sheets with the motion.

Elain’s mouth popped open, her eyes heavy lidded, the brown of her irises sparkling with desire behind them. He lived to see her pleasure splashed across her face.

Running a hand down his chiselled abdomen, Elain pried open the waistband of his underwear and eased one slight hand beneath the cotton. Her fingers were exploratory, fondling him lightly before finally wrapping them around his shaft. His head flopped heavily between his shoulders at her touch, his mouth falling open with an exhale. 

Her touch immediately sent sparks of pleasure ricocheting through his veins, her fingers well practiced in his preferences. The pressure she applied was just how he liked it. Fuck.

Gathering his wits, he gripped the hem of the tee she wore and slowly pulled it up her torso, exposing her iridescent skin one slow inch at a time. Her grip around him tightened, unhurriedly stroking the hard length of him. 

Pulling the shirt up to her collarbones and exposing her breasts, his mouth watered at the sight of her curves, her peaked nipples ready and waiting for him to steal a taste. Lowering his face to her chest, he puckered his lips around the hardened bud of one, his tongue laving hungrily at her skin. A soft cry escaped her as she flung her head back into her pillow, her back arching beautifully.

The movement allowed him to twine a hand beneath her, pressing his palm firmly against her back to push her breasts into his face, effectively smothering himself in the swell of her curves.

Releasing her nipple from his mouth with a soft pop, Azriel licked his way across the valley of her breasts to the other side, lavishing the second with the same attention. He traced a broad hand around her waist and up to cup her breast, sinful fingers replacing where his mouth had just been, his tongue continuing to lick and suck at her chest with a reverence he reserved solely for Elain. He moaned at the taste, the scent and feel of her skin engulfing his senses completely.

He sucked and pulled and licked at her skin, teeth nipping the sensitive swells of her breasts until he’d left several blooming violet marks splashed lovingly across her chest. He knew she loved the little reminders of his passion, that the thought of wearing his love bites hidden beneath her clothes excited her. And he loved giving them to her. He could never get enough.

A short yelp escaped her at a particularly enthusiastic pass of his teeth against her hard nipple.

Seemingly decided she was done with being teased into oblivion, Elain had grown increasingly needy and pointedly pulled his cock free from his boxer briefs, stroking him with increased fervour.

She gripped him hard and twisted her hand around his shaft, just how he fucking liked it. Azriel shivered at her touch, hazily admiring the way she was able to work him up just as effectively as he had her. His blood pounded in his ears as he grew almost painfully hard, his cock leaking and standing at attention.

Elain continued to expertly stroke him, whilst the fingers of her other hand twined in his hair. Administering a sharp pull, the tug caused him to reluctantly tear his mouth away from her plush breasts.

He crooked a brow at her insistence, injecting a low timbre in his voice he knew drove Elain wild. “Yes?”

Her only answer was another soft whine as he pointedly rolled into her dripping folds again, her own hand still wrapped around his cock adding to the friction.

He gazed down at her, a smug grin blooming across his lips at the desperation he saw leaching from her. Her chocolate brown eyes smouldered and she all but trembled with want, his hips pinning her resolutely beneath him.

He watched the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly, the way her nipples had turned a bright pink from his ministrations, how her kiss-swollen lips parted as her breath panted out before her. She gazed at him how a hungry beast may observe its prey, and he knew that same desire was reflected in his own eyes. Stooping down for one last peck to the little dip between her collarbones, he settled onto his forearms, pressing his chest flush against hers.

Sensing her small hands fumble to line up his cock at her needy entrance, Elain exhaled contentedly, eyes beautifully fluttering into the back of her skull as he began to sink slowly into her. 

So soft. She was always so fucking soft, and tight and warm for him. And wet. She was so fucking wet.

He shuddered above her, pausing halfway, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion before he continued. Biting her lip, she slung her arms over his shoulders once more and urged him onwards with a small tilt of her hips, imploring him to go deeper. Silently begging him for more.

Rolling his hips into hers, she cried out as he finally pushed all the way in, her slickened walls enveloping him deliciously as she trembled beneath him. She looked up at him with that burning desire they both felt so acutely written across her face, her teeth sensually sinking into her plush bottom lip. She all but begged him to move, her eyes expressing everything she needn’t voice.

Pressing a kiss to her jaw, her neck, behind her ear, he nuzzled his face into her silken hair as he started to move. 

Rocking in and out of her slowly, he lengthened his strokes, feeling her clench deliciously around him with each pass. Her arms came to wrap around his middle and her nails scraped down his shoulder blades, a sure sign that Elain was holding herself back from tumbling over that edge too soon. He knew she wanted him to come with her. Knew she loved it when they found their pleasure simultaneously in a puddle of heaving chests and garbled pleas. He’d let her have it, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

Edging their way ever closer to their pleasure, he continued to plunge impossibly deeper into her, over and over, the feeling of her delicate muscles beginning to flutter around him. Their chests had grown slick with sweat causing them to slide against each other with each stroke, only adding to the debauched eroticism. Knowing she loved the stimulation to her nipples, loved his weight atop her, he pressed her more firmly into the mattress beneath them as he continued fucking into her. 

“God— Az!” 

It was a desperate, reverent plea, her fingernails scraping down the skin of his back leaving red marks in their wake.

Elain attempted to clasp her knees together, her taught thighs pressing into his sides as he continued to drive into her wet heat. Pulling his face from its resting place nuzzled against her neck, he lay his forehead against hers. 

Their hot breathes mingled in the space between them, gasps and moans falling from their lips as Azriel drove into her over and over, as deep as he could possibly go. Nudging that elusive knot of nerves he knew would have Elain seeing stars with every drive of his pelvis, a small cry bubbled from between her lips, her fingertips digging into his muscled back as he pounded into her. 

Feeling his own orgasm looming, he swiped his tongue into her mouth, catching the whimpers and cries she let loose like they sustained his very lifeblood.

Trying and failing to hold his composure, his movements grew sloppy and frantic as they both hurtled toward their climax, their bodies slamming together and edging ever closer to that summit. His head emptied of all other thoughts but Elain, Elain, Elain; and with one final, heavy thrust, she cried out, her face twisting into a pageant of pleasure. 

Her hands clutched frantically at his biceps as she came around his cock, her breath catching in her throat as her plump lips opened into a pretty O. The sounds of her orgasm reached their crescendo, and only moments passed before Azriel was following closely behind.

With a stuttered grunt and an echo of her name he spilled into her, her folds fluttering around his shaft, her tight inner muscles heightening his pleasure.

His mind short-circuited in his bliss, but he focused on the feel of her flushed breasts pressed beneath him, their mingled releases dribbling around him, her breath fanning across his sweaty face. Elain. He could never fucking get enough.

They remained tangled around one another and panting. Brown and hazel eyes screwed shut, but parted lips softly grazing the others’ as he sloppily rocked them through the final throes of their pleasure. 

Azriel’s arms gave way as he slumped heavily into Elain’s embrace, her tense muscles now softening and turning pliant once more. She glistened with sweat, the golden-brown hair at her temples curling against her glowing skin.

His mind had gone blank. Utterly quiet in the wake of his climax. All except for one thought that emerged from the heady fog: this. 

This. This. This.

This is how he wanted to spend all his days. With her. Irretrievably intertwined in each other. Warm, safe, peaceful. In their own little haven of quiet understanding and unbridled desire. The way she understood him, saw him, without the need of any unnecessary words. 

Yes, this was fucking it. He’d never be able to go back to life without her.

As the haze of passion cleared, he became conscious of his entire bulky frame completely smothering his tiny girlfriend beneath him. Fuck, he was probably crushing her lungs.

Pressing a chaste kiss to the hollow of her throat he attempted to pull their sweat-slicked bodies apart, but she only mumbled something that sounded like not yet and pulled him soundly back on top of her, wrapping her legs securely around his waist to hold him in place. 

Ok then, he wasn’t going to argue.

Instead, Azriel just smiled into her neck, gently brushing the hair away from her face as he murmured into her skin, “Love you, too.”

She only hugged him tighter.

*******

A special thanks to @tswaney17 for helping me pull this out of the trash💚

EM tag list:

@waternymphia

@shedoessoshedoes

@nightcourtseer

@tealeaves-and-rosepetals

@jasmineandshadows

@zdenkah

@dottielovegood

@casuallivi

@azrielslight

@ultadverb

@tswaney17

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@thoughtsaboutshows

@mardereads19

@a-frog-with-a-laptop

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@happy-go-lucky-fangirl

@nivem565

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@edanmaia

@booksnightowl

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@swankii-art-teacher

@elriel-month

[thewolvesof1998]

✨ 2023 writing round-up ✨

Edit: must have accidentally copied someone else’s intro without realising 😂

I’ve posted 57,184 words to ao3 this year (I also started in June) I have almost the same number of words in my wips 😭 This year has been crazy and this fandom has provided me so much joy, not just writing but getting to know all my wonderful mutuals <3 The 911 brainrot is strong and I can’t wait to see what 2024 brings!

I posted the more words to Ao3 this year than I have in any other previous year, which is wild since I only really started writing again in June. It's wild the choke hold that Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley have on me. Here's my writing round-up for 2023 :)

June

I posted my first fic on June 20 and in nine days I had posted 6 fics 😂

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown 

Teen | 826w

Rage, like a broken window to an oxygen-deprived room that’s already in flames, explodes within him and almost takes him out. He resists the urge to slam the phone’s receiver into the wall until it's just fragments of plastic that dig into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He breathes through his nose and then out of his mouth and repeats that until he gets himself under control. or Eddie's in Jail and he almost calls Buck.

You with the dark curls, you with the watercolour eyes

Mature | 1.6k

Blue eyes meet his, washed out in the morning light, he's like the watercolour paintings they had seen in the museum with Chris last week, soft and fuzzy around the edges, with just a hint of bright colours. Blue like the sky, splashes of pink at his eyebrow and lips. Those lips, that still looked bruised from last night. Or The morning after Buck and Eddie finally get together.

asking all these questions, just to be polite, while dying inside

Teen | 1.2K

But Eddie looks good, like really good, like how is anyone allowed to look that good in jeans and a green henley? His hair is all fluffy which means he hasn't put any product in it, he wonders if it still smells like the green apple conditioner that Eddie and Chris liked to use. There's a new wrinkle at the corners of his eyes like he's been smiling a lot these last few years and it shouldn't hurt this much to know that Eddie's been happy without him but it does. or Buck dreams of what it would be like to lose Eddie as a friend and run into him five years down the line and having to ask all of these stupid questions just to be polite while dying inside.

Tapping Morse Code into your heart 

Explicit | 2.8k

Buck can’t keep still. It was a known fact that some part of Buck’s body will be in constant motion, and when it wasn’t? You should be concerned. A bouncing knee, an elastic band wound around his fingers, head bopping, fingers tapping Morse code he had learned on a whim after Eddie told him that he knew it. So Buck can’t stay still even if his life depended on it. Or in this case an orgasm. And Eddie-well Eddie is annoyed. or Buck and Eddie use Morse Code to communicate when words can't be said.

I want you to be selfish with me 

Mature | 4.6k

When Eddie gets the call is 12.24 am. He’s lying awake in bed, trying to avoid spiralling but failing when his phone lights up, vibrating and blaring out the stupid song Buck had changed his ringtone to. “So you know it's me calling.” Eddie didn’t say that he always knew it was Buck calling even without the ringtone. Buck’s the only one that calls him this late at night, it's also the only time Buck calls since he prefers to text during the normal hours of the day. Eddie sighs, dragging a hand over his face, looks like trying and failing to fall asleep is going to have to wait. His other hand reaches for his phone, answering. “Buck,” He says, he can hear a lot of background noise, voices and music, so it’s not an ‘I woke up from a nightmare and I needed to make sure you're still alive’ call. “Eddie,” Buck slurs, drunk, “Eds, Eds, did I wake you?” or Buck called Eddie while drunk and Eddie ends up using some of his military training to save him.

You bring me comfort

Teen | 4.1k

Frank asks him “When was the last time you were hugged?” He’d hugged Chris that morning. “No, I mean the last time you were held” He didn’t really understand the difference, he regularly hugs Christopher, Tia Pepa, Abuela, and even a few quick hugs with Buck which never seem like enough. “Not you holding someone else, comforting someone else, just purely someone holding you because you need it” Eddie thinks back to the hospital, thinks back to seeing Shannon’s body on the gurney, the way Bobby’s arms had gone around him and held him up. “When Shannon died, Bobby, my Captain, he-he hugged me” It had been so long ago, years and before that? He couldn’t remember. Frank doesn’t exactly give him homework called “get hugged” but he suggests that Eddie should ask for want he wants next time he needs comfort instead of putting on the sweater. or Eddie is touched starved and just needs a hug instead, instead he has his sweater.

July

I Can See You 

Teen | 3.1k

Eddie gets out of his truck and watches as Buck sings along to whatever song is playing in his car. It’s captivating but Eddie thinks many things about Buck are. He’s unashamed as he belts, singing into his phone like it’s a microphone. Buck looks up and makes eye contact with Eddie, who can feel his lips stretched in a smile. Buck smiles back, continuing his impromptu show, now singing to Eddie even though he can’t hear it from across the parking lot. Eddie watches for a minute or so before walking over to Buck’s jeep, drawn to him like he has his own gravitational pull, stronger than the earth's as if Buck is the only reason Eddie hasn’t gone floating off into space yet. As he gets closer he can hear the muffled music, he can see the blue of Buck’s eyes as they gleam from joy. Eddie can barely make out the words: I see you, I see you, baby, Oh, baby OR Buck’s a Swiftie and he makes Eddie listen to Speak Now (TV) and accidentally confesses his love because of the song I Can See You

Alright, Cowboy, Go Get 'Em 

Explicit | 17k | 2/3

“What can I get you?” The bartender asks as Eddie slides up to the bar. “Whiskey, neat, thanks” “Make that two” A voice says from beside him, Eddie turns and takes in a black leather protection vest that’s undone over a bright blue button-down shirt. He drags his eyes up, over pale skin, an adam apple and stubble to blue eyes a shade or two lighter than his shirt. His white cowboy hat is back on, it makes the pink mark on his eyebrow stand out. There's a small smirk on his lips that Eddie does not linger on. “Evan Buckley,” He says, holding out his hand. Eddie clears his throat, “Eddie Diaz” He says shaking the offered hand, noticing the callous and firm grip before pulling back. OR What if Eddie had never left El Paso? What if Buck became a bull rider after being a ranch hand? After Eddie gets back from Afghanistan and Shannon divorces him some of his high school buddies decided to drag him to the rodeo to cheer him up. I don’t think they had in mind Eddie getting blown by a rodeo star behind the stable but it sure did improve his mood. Now Eddie can’t get Buck out of his mind and he might just become a rodeo regular.

Under the Guise of Violence

Explicit | 3k

Buck was kneeling. Not in the way Eddie had too frequently fantasised about, though from the lascivious smile on his face, maybe in a way Buck had fantasised about. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, it’s a reflection of his pink birthmark, his nose is broken and blood-half dried-is trailing down to those plump pink lips. Eddie has to force himself to drag his eyes away. His hand tightens on the pummel of his sword, careful of its sharp edge that rests against the fragile skin of Buck’s neck. He doesn’t know how they got here. OR Eddie can't touch Buck unless it's to hurt him, after a sparring match Buck confronts him and it leads them back to Eddie's bedroom.

August, September and October I didn't post any fic- I was moving country and could not finish a fic to save my life 😂

November

nicknames, supernova similes and the family we make 

Teen | 800w

“Bobby, I’d like you to meet, Robin Buckley-Diaz,” Buck looks at the small bundle in his arms, bright blues staring right back up at him, “This is your Grandpops.” Bobby clears his throat, “Grandpops?” Buck looks up at the man who’s been more of a dad to him than his own blood, who had been by his bedside at every hospital visit and helped him grow up into the man he is today, “If that’s okay with you?” OR Bobby and Athena meet Buck and Eddie's new baby girl.

let me cradle your body (be a safe place to rest)

General | 1.9k

“Seat theif,” Buck pouts, “Where am I supposed to sit?” He asks and look, if he purposely makes his eyes all big and puts a little whine in his voice in a deadly combination that usually has Eddie folding to his whims that it’s between him and the universe okay? “Here,” Eddie says, patting his thigh and it shortcircuits Buck’s brain for longer than it probably should’ve. Eddie doesn’t actually mean that, he’s just messing with Buck right? Because as much as they’ve been accused of practically sitting on each other, they’ve never actually sat in each other’s laps. Buck opens and closes his mouth a few times before deciding that if Eddie is pulling his chain then he’s going to regret it and if it’s being earnest then it probably is comfier than the floor and better than being squeezed into a too-tight spot. “Okay,” Buck says, Eddie offers him a smile and his hand, as if daring him to do it. Buck takes the offered hand and Eddie pulls Buck onto his lap. OR What starts out as a normal 118 gathering ends with Buck sitting on Eddie's lap.

December

even when the heat breaks I’m still yours

Explicit | 6.1k

Eddie has many regrets in his life, lying on the floor of the cabin in the middle of a heat wave with his six foot two best friend pressing into his side while they were both trying to stay cool under the pitiful breeze of the ancient ceiling fan had the possibility to be high on that list. He turns his head to be confronted with a tattooed and freckle-covered shoulder, he can’t remember when they decided to strip down to their boxers -he might have suggested it after Buck’s third shirt had been soaked with sweat and had been clinging to his muscles in a dangerously distracting way- but at the time it had seemed like a good idea, he wasn’t sure about that now considering this was the third time in the last hour that he’s found himself turning to stare at the miles of bare skin. OR Buck and Eddie get stuck in a cabin during a heatwave, they finally take the next step and fuck nasty on the floor.

We might end up real close

Explicit | 2.2k

“Said you wanted us to bond. We might end up real close.” When Buck said those words to Bobby just merely few hours ago, it had been a joke about how if the bomb went off they would be reduced to blood, shards of bone and flesh, mixed so together that you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart without DNA testing. He hadn’t meant it in the way that it was now true with Eddie balls deep in him as he fucks Buck against the tile wall of the firehouse showers, both of them still fully dressed, uniform pants undone and pulled only down to mid-thigh in their haste. Though he thinks maybe Bobby wouldn’t be too surprised by this development given Buck’s recent past. OR the 2x01 Rewrite where Buck and Eddie fuck after removing the bomb.

They don’t know (your name is already mine) 

General | 7.6k | 3/4

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Buck opens his mouth, his tongue feels like lead, “E-ed-” “Ed? Is your name Ed?” Buck shakes his head and winces when he sends a spike of pain through his head. Hands pull at his shirt and he feels the cold metal of scissors as they cut his brand new shirt. He’s supposed to be wearing that to tomorrow's Christmas Eve dinner. Eddie had said the colour makes his eyes pop. “He’s wearing dog tags…Eddie Diaz,” Buck moans, blackness at the edges of his vision seeps in, he tries to blink it away, no, they need to call Eddie, “It’s okay Eddie, we’ve got you,” is the last thing he hears before the darkness takes over. OR Buck gets in a car accident on Christmas Eve Eve and the only ID he has on him is Eddie's dog tags. A case of mistaken Identity, a trip to the hospital and a Christmas Surprise.

tagged by: @exhuastedpigeon @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @buddierights @callmenewbie @try-set-me-on-fire @hoodie-buck @carrierofthepaperclips

tagging (no pressure): @wildlife4life ​ @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @malewifediaz @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @mangacat201 @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @jeeyuns @thosetwofirefighters @monsterrae1 @princehattric @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @singlethread @your-catfish-friend @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @blurredbuddie @aquamarineglitter @devirnis

[petrichor-idyllic]

Hi! i'm sorry this is my first time requesting something so this might be all over the place but i was wondering if u could do a minho x reader based on The weekends song 'Die for you' " Even though we're going through it and it makes you feel alone i would die for you" Like reader and Minho got into a fight before they enter the maze (this could be before or after thomas arrives) and a griever attacks Reader but minho saves them in time, and he makes sure reader is okay. i'm so sorry this was so cringy

I have never done a song based fic before so this could be fun. I also do not know what I'm doing, but I've pulled up the lyrics so I might just sprinkle them through out as Minho's thoughts.

Also, this isn't cringy. This is a good idea which gives me a lot to work with :))

Also you didn't specify gender/pronouns so default they/them.

DIE FOR YOU

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Gender-neutral! Runner! Reader x Minho. Takes place before the arrival of Thomas. Bold/Italian text like this, is Minho's thoughts/lyrics to spice things up.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, the parents are fighting, near death experience. Yanno, the usual.

You're a Runner.

And you worked damn hard to get there.

It isn't easy, especially when you have a boss like Minho breathing down your neck when you're literally doing anything.

"You're not running fast enough."

"Those lines on your map aren't straight."

"You need to train harder."

"Pay more attention."

You're one seething comment away from fucking throwing him. You don't understand why Minho is so much harder on you then he is the other Runners.

At first, you actually kind of liked him.

You seriously admired him and wanted to be like him- out in the Maze and fighting for your friends. He's the bravest person you've ever met. He was a big inspiration to you and the second a spot was open, you trailed as a Runner.

Which is why it sucks that he's kind of a dick.

But you don't know why.

I'm findin' ways to articulate the feelin' I'm goin' through.

Which it probably why it sucks that you're stuck with him.

You had an incident on your route. You're more than capable of running on your own, but you got distracted, and then slightly lost. You made it back in time- but you did have to squeeze through the Doors and collapsed on the grass afterwards.

Minho refused to let you into the Maze after that.

For a solid week, you were begging your boss to let you do your own job. You didn't want to get fired and go back to working under Gally- who is somehow considerably worse.

Minho reluctantly agreed, as long as he could accompany you on your first run.

You're going to kill yourself. Not only does it mean you have to be on your best behaviour, but it means running a route you're not familiar with.

"I can run on my own," you tell him as you wait for thr Doors to open, Ben and the other Runners standing a fair few feet away to stay out of the splash zone.

"I've already told you," he sighs, "we're redoing basic training. I can't lose one of my Runners becausing they're failing on the basics."

"It was just one time- you wouldn't do this to Ben if he were in my shoes!"

"You only die once, (Y/N). And getting stuck out in the Maze is a sure-fire way to go about that."

"That's not fair, okay?" You groan. "You don't treat anyone else like complete shucking shit!"

Minho stands there, stunned. Okay, so, things over the past few months have finally bubbled over. You wanted to be a Runner so bad, and now it sucks and you're being held on a tight leash.

So, you've finally snapped.

And Minho doesn't really know what to do.

It's hard for me to communicate the thoughts that I hold.

The Doors open with the loud sound of stone grinding against the floor. You pull your gaze away from Minho, not giving him the option to say anything as you start running.

Minho stands there for another second, which gives Ben the chance to say something.

"You gotta tell them, man- you're acting like a complete shuckface."

"Slim it, Ben." Minho takes off after you.

Unbeknownst to you, somehow, along the way of your training, Minho developed a crush on you. He doesn't know when it happened or how, but his feelings for you have made him become overly protective.

Which to you is him treating you like you're incapable and like a child.

Minho is the incapable one here, however. Since he can't open his damn mouth and tell you how he's feeling. It is becoming a dangerous distraction.

I don't want this feelin', I can't afford love

"We're not going this way- this is the wrong route," Minho says as he jogs to catch up with you.

"I'm running my route," you grumble back.

"I already have someone covering your route- we're running my route today."

"How am I meant to train properly on your route? Wouldn't it be better for me to do my own?"

He suddenly grabs your wrist, pulling you to a halt and forcing you to face him. You feel very small under Minho's gaze. He is easily one of the most intimidating people in the Glade- strong, attractive and stubborn.

It's moments like these that he makes dealing with Gally look like child's play.

"You're a Runner, okay? And I'm your Keeper. You might not like it but I definitely didn't train you to act like a tit-suckin' baby. You wanna be one of us? One of the best? Then quit actin' like this and do what I tell you. I ain't got time to babysit, so gey your shuckin' act together- we're running my route, got it?"

I try to find a reason to pull us apart.

"Fine," you spit out. Minho gives you a stuff nod, taking the lead and starting to run off.

You stand there for another second, fists balled and rage seeping through you. If his goal was to piss you off, he's sure doing a good job.

You start following him, the rest of your run remaining in silent. You want to scream insults at Minho and demand respect, but you also prefer running over being a Builder.

When Minho isn't personally up your ass, it's like an escape. Of course, it's an escape that could possibly kill you, but sometimes it's hard to find peace of mind in the Glade. You're constantly surrounded by boys who very clearly don't know personal space.

But that illusion of peace is shattered as you watch your boss run metres a head of you.

You pass a corridor junction, open corridors to tour left and right. You start slowing when you hear faint clicking and buzzing from around the bend.

Okay, so in your defence, you've never heard or seen a Griever before. You'd briefly heard stories of encounters, but no one had ever told you about the noises they made. So, you think it's something in the Maze, maybe a clue.

You've actually been paying little attention to Minho, who has been paying a lot of attention to you.

So, when he hears your footsteps slow and looks over his shoulder to see you've slowed down, he turns fully to face you.

It ain't workin', 'cause you're perfect, and I know that you're worth it.

I can't walk away.

Your heart jumps into your throat when a gross, fleshy mound of slime and metal appears around a corner. It immediately notices you, darting towards you.

Even though we're goin' through it.

You freeze, fear taking over and your body can't seem to move.

And it makes you feel alone.

That's until Minho comes flying into you, colliding into your side and sending you both toppling over as the Griever practically dives over the pair of you.

Just know that I would die for you.

There's like a split second where he lands on top of you.

Pushing himself up, your eyes lock.

Maybe for the first time ever, you realise how stunning Minho actually is. During casual drunk Glader confessions, you'd be surprised how many of the boys talk about how attractive Minho is. There's normally a couple of "no homos" thrown in but you suspect that isn't true.

But suddenly you get it. The boy effortlessly looks flawless, and he's on top of you.

Minho is also having the same internal conflict.

But you don't have time for this.

Minho scrambles off of you, immediately grabbing you and yanking you onto your feet.

"We gotta move! C'mon!" He shouts whilst you try to get your feet under you. He keeps a grip on your wrist, making sure you're close as he drags you around the Maze.

Eventually, you find your footing, picking up pace and keeping up with Minho. "I can run on my own!" You snap.

"You're not doing a great job of proving that," though, he does let go of you.

Both of you keeping running, the sounds of the Griever starting to get quieter as the beast seems to get bored of chasing you.

Slowing down, you keel over, resting your hands on your knees to catch your breath. Minho still stands strong, his stamina easily shadowing yours.

"I think we lost it," he mumbles, mainly to himself. He looks at you. "You good?"

"Yeah," you say between breaths, clearing your throat, "I'm good."

"That was close," he groans, "why'd you just stand there?"

"Well, you didn't exactly train us for how to deal with Grievers. You just tell us run and don't look back. I just saw it and froze, I've never seen one of those things before."

Minho sighs. "Shit," you mutter, "don't fire me. Please, dude, I know I was buggin' out back there but I'm a good Runner, I swear-"

"You are a good Runner." You're taken a back. Did Minho just... compliment you?

I'm not blamin' you, just don't blame me, too, yeah.

"I just... I don't want anything bad," he throws his hand up, vaguely gesturing behind you, "like that, to happen to you. Or any of my men, okay?"

"But you're so harsh on me compared to them. I don't get it."

Minho looks at you, opening his mouth but immediately goes into panic mode when he hears the Griever again.

"Let's move. We'll go back to the Glade; my route clearly isn't safe today."

"I told you we should've taken my-"

"Don't." You immediately shut your mouth, walking my his side as he starts to pick up into a jog.

The run back to the Glade is uneventful and you are, for once, happy to let Minho take the lead.

It's a weird feeling as you watch him. He literally saved your life today. He might act like a prick towards you, but you'd be dead if it weren't for him.

You start to approach the Glade, the open Doors and the serene setting sending a new wave of relief through you.

"Uh, Minho," you pick up pace to catch up to him. He's clearly already gained Alby's attention for being back this early. "Thank you."

He stops, turning to face you as you stand awkwardly, glancing down at the grass to hide your sudden anxiousness. "For saving me."

He scoffs lightly. "Don't worry about it." You look back up at him. "You're important to me, (Y/N), even if I'm klunky at showing it."

You furrow your brows, trying to make out whatever cryptic message he's trying to put out. "I- Uh, forget it," he scoffs, stuttering over his words slightly.

"Minho!" The Runner visibly cringes as Alby's voice sends shock waves through the Glade. "The shuck are you shanks doin' back here?"

"I should deal with that," he grumbles.

"Yeah, course- good luck," he scoffs at you before turning and making his way over to Alby.

You take a second to yourself, letting out a deep sigh and throwing your head back.

What the hell was that? Why are you feeling this way? This is new and weird and thoughts of Minho fill your head. It's like a flood gate has opened and you can't stop the river of thoughts bursting through.

"Yo, (Y/N)," you look over to see Minho casually walking backwards, facing you as Alby storms over in the background. Though nothing could've prepared you for the words he says next.

"Yanno, I'd die for you."

Another one done. I'm getting a lot of interesting requests in atm and I'm looking forward to them, though it'll take me embarrassingly long so sorry, lads.

I hope you enjoyed :)

[violetmina]

Chokehold - Ch. 9

Chokehold Masterlist

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Pairing: Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,787

Warning: Swearing, adult themes, mentions of assault, drugs, blood, and good ol’ Butcher himself.

A/N: A slightly shorter chapter for once. But hoping it's still a good one. Enjoy!

For the first time in weeks, you don't dream of Butcher. You don't dream at all, solely because you can't sleep. You're wired, a captive in your bed, bound restlessly by unresolved lust, feelings you don't dare yet name, curiosity, and one that suspiciously resembles the most dangerous of them all - hope.

You blame Butcher's kiss for that one. If it had been a heated thing, a biting, bruising contact that you would expect from someone as rough and ragged as him, then you'd probably feel a bit different. You just hadn't expected him to be soft. You weren't prepared for the tenderness, for the contrast of the scruff of his whiskers to the plush of his lips, like a warm ghost resting at your mouth.

With the possibility of hope comes a more familiar feeling. Fear. Just a little, coiled beneath your sternum with potential to grow. It's familiarity is not comforting and you twist in your sheets as you try not to taste it, or seek any trace of Butcher left on your lips.

You may not dream in slumber but you still daydream. Another reason you can't sleep. Because you keep wondering all the ways he meant when he had said those three little words; we ain't done. You keep wondering, half-hoping that he'll call, letting you know all that had been found at the hospital. Or even for him to show up at your door immediately after, that brusque knock to sound at any moment. You wonder, despite trying not to, just how deep his well of tenderness could go.

A press of your fingers and you check the time on your phone. One AM. You sigh against the pillow. Also against your better judgment, you keep wondering just how different your night would be right now if Frenchie hadn't forgotten his damn key. Which afterwards you realized wouldn't have mattered much anyway since MM still had called only moments after he and Kimiko had left. And that annoying little voice had been right; you wanted more than just a short string of one night stands with Butcher. Nonetheless, lust warms between your hips like warm coals again at the possibilities.

If they hadn't shown up, if you had given in, do you think he would have ignored that call?, it whispers. Or do you think he'd shush you while he kept you writhing on-?

"Christ, calm down!," you hiss into the dark. With an irritated huff, you throw back your covers and sit up in bed. You then pad to your bathroom, wrenching on the faucet to splash cool water on your face. After patting your face dry with a towel, you sigh in defeat and head out to your kitchen.

Sleep is too evasive tonight, so you fill your kettle to lure it with some tea. As the water begins to heat, you glance over your texts. MM's about the gala that you'd shown Hughie nags at you, reminding you that you should get in contact with Annie somehow. And still nothing from Butcher.

Rather than torturing yourself further, you put your personal phone aside and dig out your burner. You thumb through the pictures of the Persuasion files, skimming for anything you might have missed. Some little clue that would shift all this in your favor.

The devil is in the details, you remind yourself. So let's exorcize it. What are our details? 

The kettle begins to softly squeal its displeasure and you pause long enough to prepare your tea. The little domestic task does nothing to distract you from the growing unease you feel along your spine, and after a quick scalding sip you start digging again. All the information is still there; the tests, the notes, the ambiguity of the subjects left both nameless and faceless. A single line of text nibbles at your interest; alternative demographics in market.

The unease seeps into tension across your shoulders and the back of your neck. What could that mean? What demographic or market did Vought not already have their greedy, controlling fingers in? And how is Walsh involved?

Then another thought, suddenly, What if it's not about Vought? What if it's now for somebody else?

You lean back against the kitchen counter. What if it was for Vought and isn't anymore? What if the company was right, that it was stolen…they just didn't realize Walsh was the thief? You tap your fingers against your mug as the ideas continue on. It still left the riddle. Vought had all the means of making Persuasion into something, it was for their supes. So…

"What do you gain, James," you whispered into your tea, "by crossing Vought and staying on their payroll? Why do you avoid their resources?"

The symptoms for both supes and non-supes of the study stare back at you from the screen, giving you no answers. All that uncertainty, the pain they suffered, and the scientific callousness only pushes your unease further. You finally jam the burner back in its hiding place, defeated again. You can't hardly think with all the hairs standing on the back of your neck-!

You swallow a mouthful of tea, slowly looking about your shadowed apartment. It's very much like hours ago, back at the office, and a pesky little spark of excitement rises up. With cautious steps you begin surveying your home, peering around corners.

"Butcher?," you softly inquire the silence. After a pause, moving in the direction of your living room, you try again. "Billy?"

You knew he had a reputation for sneaking - or rather breaking - in and out of wherever he pleased. You wouldn't put it past him to attempt another jump on you. But as you step into the living room, the hairs on your arms also raise, the spark sputters out. This feels different. This feels wrong. You swear you feel eyes on you, intense enough that you make a rapid mental sweep of any and all weapons in your home.

You hold your breath for a moment, ears straining for any sound out of place. There is nothing. With ginger fingers you creep up to your window, turning so your back is to the wall and not the room, and just barely part the curtains to peep. Your eyes scan the scenery, craning to the street, glaring into windows for a chance of someone glaring back. Still nothing out of place. But the feeling of being watched persists.

Just as your eyes rise up to the rooftops across from your apartment, there's a disturbance high in the atmosphere. You suck in a breath as you step back from the curtains, not daring to look up into the sky. Then shake your head, stumbling back to the kitchen to pound the rest of the tea.

You crawl back into bed, unnerved even though the feeling of being watched has receded. Closing your eyes, you try to encourage sleep to take over again.

You didn't see anything, you try to soothe yourself. It was probably just cop lights reflecting off the building. And a plane overhead. He doesn't know you even exist. He wasn't there.

But when you eventually drift off, the briefest blur of red, white, and blue on the roof, just that fraction of a second, still plays on a relentless loop in your mind.

^^^

Are you okay?

It's one of the few things you recognize in Kimiko's sign language, and it's one of the first things said to you when you walk through the door the next morning. She cocks her head to the side as she looks you over, an air of concern in her frame. As you slough off your coat at your desk with a sigh you nod, hoping your smile is reassuring.

"You look like you need an espresso IV," MM calls as he lines up a stack of papers on his desk just so. "Did you not sleep last night?"

"A little," you shrug, slipping into your chair as Frenchie props his boots up on his own desk. "Just so excited to be working with you guys," you half-joke.

"What? No frisky rendezvous for you last night? What with you and all your 'plans'?," Frenchie grins with a waggle of his brows.

You can't help the scalding look you throw at him. No thanks to you!, you think. But you instantly remind yourself that it's not really his fault and it was probably for the best anyway. Instead, after Kimiko generously hands you a cup of coffee and a small serving of donuts, you thank her and reply to him, "Not in the cards for me right now. I'm sorry I didn't really get to those files. I know it wasn't exactly professional just throwing my bag in the door last night. Was in a rush."

"All good. We moved it last night, we were here for just a moment," Frenchie says. "Besides, we have some things for you before we deal with your new cases."

"Such as?"

"Butcher and I followed up on a lead last night," MM cuts in. "A young woman was dumped at the ER over at Bellevue. She checked off the symptoms."

"What did you find?"

MM pulls over a chair to sit on the other side of your desk. He shakes his head as he settles into the seat. "Not anything good. She was out of it. Eyes more glazed than these goddamn donuts. She seemed one of the lucky ones that didn't have a bad trip coming down."

"Did she tell you what happened to her?, " Frenchie asks.

"Not much. From what we could make out, she went to a party with her friends. Having a good time. From what she can remember, they were approached by a few guys, offering to buy them drinks. And then she woke up in the hospital."

"Assault?," you ask quietly.

"It looks like there was an attempt. She had defensive markings. Thankfully, the medical staff who examined her says that there were no signs of sexual assault. Working theory right now is whoever gave her the drug tried to get her to a second location, and with a fight she was able to get away."

"Who dropped her off then?," Frenchie asks with a shrug. "If we know where the party was, perhaps we can find out who slipped her this shit in her drink."

"That's where it gets weird," MM replies with a wave. "She didn't drink. All her tests came back clean of everything, even alcohol. Just Persuasion. She said she's usually the mom friend, so she was staying sober to keep an eye on them."

"So they didn't administer it orally. Sounds like she needed a mom friend this time," you muttered. You glance about the office, wiping glaze crumbs from your mouth before asking, "Speaking of friends, where's Butcher? It's not like him to dodge new cases."

"Butcher left right after the ER to track down the party venue, see if we could get eyes on security footage."

You blink as a little anxiety stirs at his words. "He's not back yet?"

"Haven't seen him this morning," Frenchie answers with a mouthful. When you turn to Kimiko she only shakes her head.

"Has anybody called to see where he's at?," you ask, trying to keep the edge from creeping into your voice. "Check to see if he's found anything?"

"Relax. Butcher's a grown ass man. He can handle himself and whatever bullshit finds him just fine," MM answers. His eyes narrow as he peers into your face. "What's got you on edge?"

"I'm not on edge," you counter. "I'm more concerned about his ability to find bullshit where there wasn't any to begin with."

Frenchie snorts as he swings his feet off the desk with a thud. "You can say that again."

MM gives a slow nod. "Mmhm…" He shifts, leaning towards you. If anybody had better interrogation skills than Butcher, your money would be on the imposing man before you. You feel like you're under a microscope. After a beat he continues, "That reminds me of the other thing we needed to talk about before we go any further."

"Oh?"

"Don't get me wrong. I'm kinda glad to see you getting back with all of us in the gang. Hell, we all are. Except maybe the kid, of course."

"But…?," you press with a wave of your hand.

"But we all got fairly common ground on this. Either Vought took someone from us, or some precious part of our lives we can't get back. We got skin in the game. And as far as we know, you don't." He taps the desk for emphasis. "So before we catapult you back into the trenches with us, we gotta know - Why? Why you wanna be in all this so bad?"

All eyes on you, MM's in particular, you shift in your chair. You take a long sip of coffee as you gather your thoughts as coherently as possible. Finally, you answer, "I was just helping an old friend at first. But not long after that first favor, Butcher said something that I couldn't get out of my head. It made me want to try to fix things."

"And what, pray tell, did that sly bastard say?" A touch of disdain colors MM's tone.

"He said…that Ryan had asked Mallory if he could still have piano lessons."

There's a long beat. You could hear a pin drop as all their faces go blank at the unexpected response. Kimiko makes a sign that you're not certain of, but you suspect is equivalent to “The fuck?”.

"I, uh, I don't -" Frenchie shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"Ryan was taking piano lessons," you say firmly. "He and Becca were in that compound. And he had piano lessons. Somebody was in there giving him lessons."

After a second of letting it sink in you press forward. "They had neighbors. They had a garbage truck that came by everyday for almost eight years. Someone drove that truck. Somebody cut his hair. And Becca's hair. I don't know if there was a faux grocery store. But somebody made sure there were groceries for all of them."

You take another sip of coffee, watching the slow realization fill the room. "Vought built an entire compound and filled it with people, like some petting zoo. All for that kid. But they don't see him as a kid, do they? They see a reboot of Homelander. Growing him up like a cash crop. And maybe all those people were just part of the company. But I can't help but wonder…what if they weren't? What if they were all thrown in there to keep other secrets under the rug, like poor Becca?"

You look at each of them with a frown. "Do we know? After Becca and Ryan escaped, do we know what happened to them? I mean especially since Homelander found out! Did Vought just let them go, abandoned that hellsite? Or did Homelander massacre them all for playing along, for hiding his son?" 

You turn to MM with a shrug. "Has anybody even bothered to ask? Or do we only care about the casualties when we know them personally?"

Each of them sit up straight, as if you had jabbed them. Before they can say anything you say quietly, "I'm not judging. I know we can't save everybody. What I'm trying to say is…Vought shouldn't have that much power. They shouldn't be able to fuck with so many lives on that kind of scale. It's wrong. And we…I need to do something. I mean I can't drive a tank, or dodge bullets, or sway crooked politicians. But what you guys are doing, as crazy and suicidal as it is, feels like a pretty good place to start."

After a beat, and their eyes on you making you feel self-conscious, you snort, "Besides, somebody's gotta keep Hughie outta trouble!"

A soft smile appears on Frenchie's face as he stands to approach. "Really? You think you can keep petite Hughie out of trouble? With Monsieur Charcuterie around?" He gives you a playful pat on the shoulder. "Now that's some bullshit."

"Grade-A bullshit," MM snickers. He gives you a smile as well before it morphs back to a hint of curiosity, "Wait…Butcher talks to you about Ryan?"

"Umm…Occasionally?"

He only gives another slow nod in response. Then proceeds to wipe his hands clean before standing, the chair creaking in relief. "Alright. That's enough of the interview. You should get out while you can. But that's on you. Now…how about we start prepping for that damn party?"

^^^

You ride a slow seesaw of relief and nervousness when you finally step out of the flatiron to head home that night. It felt good to be back in the loop with the crew, a plan fleshing out for the upcoming mission. You'd poured over the schematics of the gala venue, a more modern setting with a maze of backrooms, elevators, stairways and hallways tangled around the main ballroom area. Part of you was glad that you would be up front instead of navigating that mess, aside from an exit strategy that is.

The gala would be on the top floor, fifteen stories above the street, in the biggest open floor plan the building had to offer. MM and Frenchie had made it a point to have you locate and memorize every possible exit, as well as the general areas they would be infiltrating with Kimiko. It was still being decided who would take which floors, however, the idea was simple; the three of them would start at the top floor and work down to the basement and loading areas under the building in search of Walsh's operations.

As already assigned, you'd work the ballroom and its adjoining balcony. Essentially, you'd be a watchdog for Walsh's activity and any of his potential associates and clients. If you picked up on any clues, you'd pass them on to the trio. Hughie and Butcher would be surveillance in the van at street level, within the general vicinity of the gala, ready to relay whatever you couldn't see on the floors below you.

The exact equipment was still to be determined, but you'd be wired with audio and video feed for Butcher and Hughie. Which meant you needed to get your evening attire sorted out straight away, an endeavor that Hughie seemed to have sensed not long after you and the trio had finally delved into Neuman's newest casework. You reread the coded text he had sent that afternoon as you continued home.

Annie is up for that girl’s night out the evening after next! She's pretty slammed with her job after that, so make it count. Come by my apartment at 4pm to get the pregame going.

Troubleshooting the dress code for self-defense was still not something you were looking forward to. Hopefully Hughie was right in that Annie would know how to pick a dress you could wear while performing murder yoga on potential assailants. Despite Butcher's insistent mistrust of her, you didn't mind the opportunity to spend time with her.

Here the emotional seesaw tilted away from relief. Still minding your steps and your surroundings as you entered your building, you backed out of Hughie's message and scrolled to find your conversations with Butcher. The message you had sent him safely out of MM's line of sight that afternoon had remained the same - unanswered. Not even left on read.

You let out a sigh between pursed lips as you ride the elevator to your floor. As the numbers light up in ascension, you do your best to ease your unsettled nerves. You know MM is right. Butcher had gone radio silent for days on a few occasions in the time you've known him, this was nothing new. In due time, he would swagger through the door with little to no event. And he was one of the most capable among you, the most to adapt and overcome in shitty situations. But you weren't wholly deflecting when you had mentioned his ability to find trouble.

The doors to the elevator open and you approach your apartment door thumbing through your keys. In moments you're home safe and sound. Door shut and secured behind you, you shuffle in, heel-toeing out of your shoes as you still try to ease your nerves.

He's probably just following that lead still. Hitting the pavement, doing what he does. He's fine.

Are you more worried about what mess he'll dive head first into?, the little voice chitters. Or are you more worried that he may have changed his mind? That he just might be avoiding you?

That makes you sluggish in hanging up your coat. You hadn't wanted to admit it aal day, even to yourself. But it was true. Yes, you were worried if Butcher was OK. But you couldn't help but wonder in the back of your mind if he was avoiding you again, wonder if he would rescind that moment of tenderness he'd given. And you'd go tumbling back into the awful, awkward sphere of wondering where you stood in Butcher's complicated world. Or where he stood in yours for that matter.

I hope it's standing next to him. And him with me.

You can't help a bitter chuckle at the thought, breezing into your bedroom. "You sap," you mutter to yourself under your breath. Pausing at the foot of your bed with a stretch, you contemplate how to spend the rest of the night before sleep. As tired as you are, practice drills sound nothing but exhausting. The idea of takeout and a hot shower before succumbing to the siren call of your mattress sounds pure genius at this point.

In a matter of moments, you place an order for pizza on your phone, the lure of hot water on aching muscles too tempting to hold off beforehand. A confirmation text pings on your screen as you slip open your bathroom door. Satisfied you look up-

And choke back a scream with an airy curse. Your phone clatters on the floor as you stare wide-eyed at Butcher leaning over your sink. His head snaps up at your sound of shock. He blinks at you, a furrow in his brow forming as he seems to take a slow second to register that it's you in the doorway.

"Evening, love. You…weren't s'pose be home yet." 

Perhaps the low drawl wrapped around his words would have been charming on any other night. But not tonight. Not now. Not with blood dripping thick along one side of his face, down one arm. Painting the porcelain basin red.

[sunoorintarou]

Catharsis: Night light

Phos!reader x (platonic) Megumi Fushiguro

Warnings: Once again, angst, talks of memory loss, death, gore, reader still going through the most, insomnia, depression, also I forgot to mention that this doesn't follow the canon timeline so between S1 and Shibuya, in this fic S1's events happen roughly in a year

Notes: I totally fell in love with the Catharsis idea, so now I plan to write little snippets of the reader's life bc pain yk. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy🫶

It was late, closer to the early morning than the evening. You couldn't remember the last time you had slept. Dark bags under your eyes as you sat next to the windowsill, watching the skyline longingly.

You were in a classroom. Your room deemed too stuffy for you to simply exist in. You could see the training grounds, the trees, vague memories running through you.

You couldn't help but wonder if you should tell someone. Tell Gojo - Sensei, tell Shoko - Sensei, telk Nanami - Sensei, tell Nobara, tell Megumi, tell Yuji, anyone, that every time you lost a part of your body, you lost a part of your memories.

It had started with your legs. After replacing them, you found yourself getting lost more frequently, chalking it up your naturally forgetful nature. However, it worsened when you lost your arms.

You found yourself forgetting people, places, and things you saw every day. You could never admit that the time Nobara thought you were mad at her for eating your pudding was actually you keeping your distance as you had forgotten the girl completely.

Familiar things grew unfamiliar. People giving you your favourite foods and items brought fake excitement because you couldn't remember any of those things.

Yet, out of everything, you remember Yukio dying vividly. You remember the taste of the gold ocean as it swallowed you whole, seeping into your mouth and nostrils making you choke as you cried. You remembered how loud the clanging of Yukio's sword, the sword you carried with you to this very day, against the gold was. And worst of all, you remembered how warm his blood was as it sprayed across your face. You remember how heavy his body felt in your grasp, and you remembered his soft voice, his hand squeezing yours ever so slightly as he spoke.

"Don't be lonely. Take care of yourself."

Yukio was never affectionate until the very end.

Yet, you felt as if you were disappointing him because although you were surrounded by people, you had never felt more alone.

"Y/n."

You perked up at the voice, wiping the golden tears off your cheeks.

"Megumi?" You asked, almost uncertain as you turned to look at the boy.

"Kugisaki messaged the group that you weren't in your room. She's worried." He said. His face was blank, but his tone was shaky, breathing uneven.

"Ah, I left my phone in my room. Tell her I'm OK." You turned back to look out the window.

Megumi texted the group but didn't leave. He instead leaned on the desk in front of where you were sitting, mirroring your posture as he looked out the window. It was silent for a while, and although he hadn't said anything, you knew Megumi was trying to comfort you.

"Do you believe in fate?" You asked suddenly, pulling Megumi out of his thoughts. He looked at you tentively before sighing.

"Not really."

"I knew you wouldn't." You smiled, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. You hadn't smiled in months, Megumi almost thought he was seeing things.

"I want to say fate brought me here. If all of those bad things hadn't happened, I wouldn't be here where I am now. Meeting you all, was fate."

You wanted to say it, how much they meant to you, how grateful you were for them. Say it all in fear you'd one day forget. Yet you couldn't. This was the best you could do.

"I don't believe in fate... but, I do believe all of our actions until now brought us here. I wouldn't call it fate, but I do think we were brought together for a reason." Megumi frowned, the light pink splashed against his cheeks almost unnoticeable.

"Aww, look at you getting all soft, Megumi, although you deny, you know you care about us." You smiled, lip trembling as you tried to stay calm.

"It's getting late, get some rest." You got up, patting Megumi on the shoulder as you left.

You heard him say something in reply, but couldn't quite make it out. Tears fell down your cheeks as you walked.

You couldn't help but wonder if leaving everyone behind, was fate too.

[juicycoutureheaux]

Fixer Upper

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Hey y'all. Here's Chapter 2 of my Sheriff!Leon Kennedy AU. Just a couple of notes, this chapter does have some TW. Domestic violence and Alcohol are mentioned in this chapter. If those are active triggers for you and still want to read, PM me and I'll be glad to summarize for you. Seriously! Also I gave Patrick a last name because he literally DOES NOT HAVE ONE. LOL Anyway this is kind of slowburn-y and this may be more than three chapter but not too many. I might extend to four. Anyways this fic was inspired by @angelscoda and I strongly recommend that if you haven't discovered her page, check her works out! Also, I churned out this Chapter and it hasn't been edited very well, but I did not wanna keep yall waiting. Also if you or anyone you know is affected by domestic violence call 800-799-7233 or text 'START' to 88788. You are not alone, your family and friends love you no matter what situation you may be in or what your abuser says. Love is patient and Love is kind.

You went to bed with a strange feeling. Instead of thinking of your sweetheart, Patrick, you were enamored with the thought of your new boss, Sheriff Kennedy. 

He was so kind and unpretentious, it seemed so easy to be around him. You wondered if he read books or looked at the stars and wondered what was behind them like you did. 

Y/N shook herself out of her thoughts and drifted off to sleep. 

She dreamt of finding new life on other planets, her parents taking her seriously, and most importantly, she dreamt of Leon. 

You woke with a start, to the sky at the precipice of sunrise. The oranges and purples danced together as the moon made its grand exit into the horizon.

You swiveled around to the side of your twin bed and let the bottoms of your feet touch the smooth hardwood floor. 

You turned off the old fan on your bedside table. The fan had seen better days, however, y/n had taught herself how to make repairs to keep it in working condition. 

Her tinkering had been born out of necessity; however, over time she grew to love being able to make old things efficient again. She wondered if Patrick ever had to repair a fan or anything really. 

She imagined he had enough money to get a new anything, anytime it broke.

You started the morning by combing your hair and brushing your teeth. You splashed cold water on your face to make it seem less irritated. You didn’t want to admit it, but you wanted to look good for Leon, even if he didn’t notice.

You picked out your favorite dress and ironed out all the wrinkles. You looked at yourself in the mirror admiring your reflection. You felt confident enough to head down the stairs to the kitchen table. 

Mary-Anne and Mama were busy fixing breakfast. Mama was fussing over Mary-Anne telling her to sit down and whatnot.

“Mama L/N, I promise I’m fine and your grandchild is just fine!” 

“All that moving, he’s gonna come early!” You heard your mama say.

“You and the rest of the family are so sure Hank & Mary-Anne’s baby is going to be a boy.” You said announcing your presence. 

“Good! Someone else is here, Mary-Anne! Please sit!” Mama said, exasperated.

Mary-Anne, not wanting to put up a fight any longer, sat down.

“Y/N, why don’t you look pretty today? I remember when I could wear dresses like that!” Mary-Anne said, rubbing her belly.

“You mean like six months ago?” You said sarcastically. 

Mary-Anne smiled and your mother rolled her eyes. 

You grabbed an apron not wanting to ruin your dress, and began kneading the dough for the biscuits. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay too long, mama. I gotta make sure I'm on time to meet my new boss!” You said a little too enthusiastically because your mother whipped her head around to look at you. 

“You know, if you marry Patrick, you won’t have to work anymore, you’ll be busy planning parties and get-togethers for all the married ladies.”

“Mama…” you groaned. 

“I’m just saying Y/N, you would love it, imagine, my daughter, the belle of the social season in Collier!” Her mother sighed. “So don’t ruin it by chasing after some cop!”

“Mama!” You said insulted.

Mary Anne decided to get in between the duo. 

“I think Y/N just wanted to make sure he felt welcome; after all, it is her job.”  She made sure to emphasize the last word. 

Mama’s body relaxed and so did yours. 

With that, you kissed your mama goodbye on the cheek and mouthed a “thank you!” to Mary-Anne. 

You walked out the door shocked, to see your new boss waiting outside leaning up against the side of the patrol car. 

“Hey! Y/N!” He said, smiling with all of his teeth.

You thought your legs were going to turn to jello, he was so handsome.

“W-what are you doing here?” 

“I thought I’d save you the trouble of driving that old truck and risk not having a secretary for the day.” He opened the passenger door. “Wouldn’t want to make me late for my first day would you?”

You smiled a genuine smile. 

You hopped in the car and you made your way down the road. 

The radio was playing Elvis's “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“You like this kind of Music Deputy Kennedy?” You asked genuinely curious. He didn’t strike you as the Elvis type.

“You can call me Leon when it’s just us,” he said, eyes not straying from the road. 

He made you blush, and you sank down in the seat unconsciously.

“But to answer your question,” he looked at you with those sharp baby blues. “I love the King.”

You laughed together like it was the funniest joke ever. 

You were a little disappointed when you arrived at the station. You could have spent the whole day in the car with Leon.

You two entered the building and you went quickly to the break room to start the coffee for the day. 

Leon entered his new office and opened the blinds. Two years ago he would have never imagined a career in law enforcement, let alone a town like Collier’s Sheriff.

Leon was brought out of his thoughts when you walked into the room carrying a fresh cup of coffee.

“Should I get used to this or are you just being nice because its my first day?” 

You looked at him confused.

“I’m not used to someone else doing things like this for me.”

“Well get used to it,” you said happily. “The old boss made me bring him his coffee like clockwork and I had to make it juuuussst riiiiigggghhhttt.” You emphasized.

Leon just nodded.

“So Deputy Kennedy, how do you like your coffee?”

“I can make it myself Y/N, don’t worry about it.”

“I insist! You’re going to be pretty busy, pretty soon.” You said looking into the mug. “I don’t want you to worry about the easiest part of your day.”

Leon smiled and patted you on the shoulder. “I take it black, with just a little bit of sugar, Y/N. Thank you.”

You smiled and felt your cheeks get a bit rosy. You fixed his coffee and set it on his desk.

“Well if you need me, I’ll be outside the door. Just ring me if you need me.” 

He grabbed your hand gently. “Do you mind staying in here just a little bit longer, I’m not ready to start working quite yet.” He smiled a toothy, but nervous smile. 

You held on to his hand and squeezed it in a friendly, assuring manner.

“Of course, Leon.”

He smiled in response.

You looked around the office. It was empty, there were no pictures of his family or any personal effects to the room, save for a framed police academy diploma. 

“They didn’t give you time to set up here?”

“What do you mean Y/N?” 

“The last guy here had tons of pictures and hunting trophies and…” you realized your mistake a little too late. Maybe, Deputy Kennedy didn’t have those things and you had just reminded him of the fact.

Leon smiled a sad smile, “Well maybe while I’m here, I’ll be able to fill this room with all those things.”

“Leon, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to…” 

“It’s okay, you’re honest. I like that about you.”

You smiled and heat spread across your cheeks.

“I don’t have any living family members, I grew up in a group home.”

You felt so embarrassed. How could you just interrogate him like that?

The blowing of the A/C unit emphasized the silence. It felt like your body was on autopilot when you went up to him to pat him on the shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, Leon, I hope you can find your chosen family here.” 

“That's really nice of you, Y/N. I hope I do too.”

You quickly took your arm off of his bicep, realizing you were touching your boss in a more than intimate way. You didn’t want to be known as “that” type of girl.

You quickly mumbled “Gotta get back to work,” or something along those lines, and scuttled away.

Leon just kicked his boots and sat down behind his desk. He couldn’t quite figure it out, was she flirting with him or was she genuinely kind? He hated to admit it, but he was used to women throwing themselves at him. They’d be good for a night or two, but they never seemed to care to learn more about him than what he could do for them.

Y/N was sweet, but she was young. She probably had never had a real relationship before, her kindness was just surface-deep; it was nothing more.

He decided to go ahead and look over the schedule for the week that Y/N had already prepared for him. 

He could get used to this.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You were heading to Leigh’s diner to grab lunch for the office. It was actually one of your favorite tasks. You were able to get out of the office and walk around town for a bit. It also helped that you walked past “Gannem’s Appliances” where they always had the news on in the window. 

You would take a moment to look at the goings on in the world, to see what was happening outside of your small fishbowl of a town. 

The announcer was reading hastily from a fresh news bulletin. 

“After 40 years of groundbreaking research, NACA has officially decided to change its name to NASA. The official decision was made late last week, after changing their focus from just flight to space travel of humans and robots.”

You could have fallen right where you stood. Robots? Spaceflight? You were in heaven, you had only daydreamed about working in a high-tech lab with robots; now it was really happening.

You quickly looked at your wristwatch and scuttled to the diner to pick up the order before the men at the office got too hungry and wondered where she was at.

You walked into the bustling diner, thank goodness her order wasn’t quite ready yet. You decided to stay out of the way of the other patrons and sat at an odd chair near the window. You felt almost invisible, but, you were used to it and didn’t mind.

You were stuck in your thoughts until the sound of women gossiping brought you out of your stupor.

“Did you see the new Sheriff? He’s a cutie!” one girl with perfectly coiffed blonde hair asked. 

“Do you think he has a secretary? They almost always marry the secretary!” Another girl with auburn hair giggled.

Y/N recognized the girls. They were girls from her graduating class, they had gone to the same school since kindergarten and they either didn’t seem to recognize her or were ignoring her. You couldn’t decide what was worse.

“Oh he has a secretary all right, it's Y/N. Do you remember her from school?”

The girl with auburn hair just raised her eyebrows in slight confusion.

“Great.” you thought. “They don’t remember.” That stung.

“Well, she wasn’t much of anyone, she’s lucky her daddy “the farmer” got her the job,” she emphasized the farmer part as she lit her cigarette. 

“Ohhh, I remember said the auburn-haired girl. “Isn’t OUR Patrick supposed to be courting her? I heard his mother set him up, guess they’re trying to fix his image. I hear he made a fool out of himself at the University of Georgia last year. His daddy had to call in a LOT of favors from his buddies from the law school.”

“That’s just Patrick, he’ll grow out of it. I feel bad for him, one bad mistake and he has to get married off to the first prude that would take him. I bet Y/N’s mother is just beside herself, all the new social connections and money.”

“My mama told me her mama was a social climber. Always trying to get invited to social events;  well she’ll never belong just like her daughter.”

The girls broke into laughter.

Your face was red from anger and embarrassment.

Of course, your order was ready and the waitress called out your name which made the girls' heads snap and turn around to look at you. You did your best not to make eye contact, as you grabbed the food, but tears were already falling from your eyes.

As you left you could hear them burst out in more malicious laughter. 

You were humiliated, and you just wanted to get back to work.

You were two doors down from the office when you heard a car next to the sidewalk slow to a roll.  You instinctively glanced over and there was Patrick in his fancy car. He was definitely the last person you wanted to see right now. 

“Hey, baby. I missed you.” He slurred as he stumbled out of the car.

You took a minute to look at his car, there were beer bottles littering the back seat. 

“Let’s go for a ride, I’m bored and I want some alone time with my girl.” He grabbed her roughly. 

“Have you been drinking? Why did you drive here? You know it's dangerous! You whispered harshly at him. People were beginning to stare.

“Baby, I just wanted to see you, I’m lonely. You should keep me happy you know, if you’re gonna be my wife,” he was looking at you like a piece of meat. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

“I have to get this back to the office, then I’ll come with you.” You were trying to stall, you didn’t want to make him angry, but you surely didn’t want to get in the car with him.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t like your answer. Patrick was shockingly strong and when he yanked you into him, you both fell over and you yelped. 

People were now watching and whispering. 

You wanted to disappear into dust and wondered if you should have just got in the car, maybe nothing would have happened, and the two of you wouldn’t be out on the sidewalk in the middle of town embarrassing yourselves. 

Patrick yanked you up and raised his hand to hit you, you braced for impact when someone broke you two up.

It was Leon and his face was calm, but she could feel the anger radiating from him.

“Y/N! Do you know this man?” He said calmly but firmly. 

Before you could answer, Patrick yelled at Leon. “I had it handled man, she’s my fiance. We don’t need your services anymore.” He made a move to grab your arm again. Leon moved in between you two.

“Sir, not only are you in violation of a city ordinance of being intoxicated in public, but you are also assaulting your fiance in public, which is a felony charge.” 

Patrick just scoffed. “And what? You’re gonna arrest me? Do you even know who I am?”

Leon stepped closer to Patrick, they were about the same height, but something about Leon’s body language made him seem taller. 

“Yes, Sir you’re under arrest for the assault of my secretary Miss Y/L/N. You have the right to remain silent…” he began cuffing Patrick in broad daylight. 

“Wait a minute! Y/N just tell him we were just fooling around baby.” Patrick pleaded with you.

“Deputy Kennedy please, we’ll handle this in private. Patrick just made a bad mistake that's all.”

You pleaded to Leon, you hoped he would take your side.

“Handle in private? Are we supposed to wait until he kills you Y/N?” He said loudly.

You couldn’t move. This was really happening and everyone was going to blame you for Patrick going to jail. 

Leon picked Patrick up and brought him into the station and locked him up in their little holding cell.

Everyone in the office was dead silent when they saw who Deputy Kennedy was bringing in on the first day. You followed in quickly behind them and everyone glared at you. You ignored the glares and got on the phone to call Senator Armstrong, Patrick’s father. 

Deputy Kennedy refused to let you see your Fiance, stating that she was the victim and a witness to his crime. 

You just sat in your small little cubicle and cried. You cried over how embarrassed you were and how those girls were right, Patrick didn’t really love you. How could he? Who would do that to someone they loved?

The sounds of a man shouting broke the silence of the police department.

“How could you lock this man up? It was a simple lovers' quarrel, they’re both kids!” You heard Senator Armstrong’s baritone voice fill the small station. 

“You either ignore your son’s behavior or are too ignorant to see it.” Leon quipped back.

“Excuse me?” Armstrong sneered. “You better watch it boy or I’ll…”

“Or what Armstrong? I’ll go missing? Don’t go incriminating yourself in the police department now.” Leon said smugly. 

You walked out of your cubicle to see the scene unfolding in front of you. You thought Senator Armstrong was going to have an aneurysm with how red his face was. 

He quickly looked over at you and saw your tear-stained face. “My poor future daughter! Look what you’ve done! You’ve upset her by jailing her fiance right in front of her!”

He wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders. “ I paid the bail and I'm taking my family home.”

Leon just gestured for the door and said nothing. Senator Armstrong ushered you out, but not before you took one final look back at Leon with fresh tears in your eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You were sitting in the Armstrongs’ tinted limousine Patrick’s head on your lap. You couldn’t help but stroke his soft hair. He buried his face in the fabric of your dress and groaned.

“I can’t believe that asshole through me into the cell with all those actual criminals. It was miserable, sobering up in that shithole.”

You rolled your eyes instinctively, Leon’s words ringing in your ears still. “What if he did lose his temper and couldn’t stop hitting me?” You shrugged it off. It was just one bad moment, he’ll change.

Your future father in Law just glared daggers into his son. 

When you arrived at your home, you still patted Patrick’s head gently. “I’ll see you later honey.” 

He quickly leaned up and kissed you on the mouth for the first time. It was sloppy and full of want. It wasn’t sweet at all and you felt sick.

You quickly got out of the car and ran into the house. 

When you arrived in the foyer, Hank was waiting for you.

“Is that bastard out there?” He asked angrily.

You looked down at your feet, you thought you’d at least be able to sleep and take a bath before being interrogated about the incident earlier. 

You heard your mom shout from the kitchen. “Is my baby home? Hank you leave your sister alone! She needs to rest.” Your mother hurried in to welcome you.

“Oh sweetie, there’s no need to cry.” She wiped your tears with a cloth she had in her apron. “Daddy and I get into arguments all the time.” 

Hank got even angrier. “You know damn well that was no argument they had, Thomas Wells said that son of a bitch shook her like a ragdoll before Deputy Kennedy got to them.”

Your Mama just rolled her eyes. “Thomas Wells is a known exaggerator, people love talking about people who they’re jealous of. Speaking of Y/N, you’re not going back to that job. It doesn’t look respectable to have the future Mrs. Armstrong working at that office.”

Your mother grabbed your arm gently and took you into the dining room and fixed your dinner. She hadn’t done this since you were a child, she was definitely trying to get on your good side. 

You felt that familiar pit of disappointment and anguish in your stomach. You had realized Mama really did want to be a part of the social class as the Armstrongs. She wanted it so bad she was willing to cover up what Patrick was willing to do to you.

You nibbled on supper and went upstairs to cry, you were exhausted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You couldn’t sleep that night. All you could do was replay the day’s events over and over in your mind. 

You also felt extremely violated by Patrick’s lack of respect for you.

When daybreak came, you took a light catnap for an hour or two. You were awoken by your mother shaking you awake. 

“Y/N, sweetie, time to wake up.”

You squinted at her through your dark eyelashes, confused.

“Don’t give that look, Y/N, Suzanne Armstrong called and wanted to take you shopping.”

You lurched up from your bed. “Miss Suzanne...why?” 

“She wants to make sure you look polished for the engagement party of course. The local and state newspapers will be covering it of course.” Your mother said excitedly. “Hopefully she’ll remember your mama too, I could get one of those tweed suits just like the first lady! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

You smiled a sad smile. You wanted to see your mama happy, but was she willing to do the same for you?

You got up and began your morning ritual, you made sure your dress was crisply ironed and you even added a ribbon in your hair to make yourself look a little more stylish.

You waited patiently in the sitting room before seeing the car roll up. Your mother ushered you out the door and into the awaiting town car, driven by a chauffeur of course. He opened the door for you. Inside awaiting looking prim as ever, was Miss Suzanne in a pastel-colored suit. 

“Well look at this little doll,”  she said and kissed your cheeks. “I just can not wait for you to marry my son. You two are just going to give me and your mama the cutest little grandbabies.”

You smiled uncomfortably. 

The town car started to pull away into town and Miss Suzanne wasted no time discussing future plans with you.

“So, I’ve already contacted all the news outlets. The Atlanta Sentinel is sending reporters to this party and even LIFE Magazine!” She squealed excitedly. 

“They love the Cinderella feel of this story, my dear. Everyone loves a great love story.” She composed herself again. “and it is my job as fairy godmother, to make sure you ARE the belle of the ball. There are going to be a lot of eyes and I want to make sure you look perfect.”

She looked you up and down. “We’ll have to do away with this wardrobe,” she motioned with her pointer finger to your homemade dress.

The car was heading out of town, you made a comment about going to the local department store in town. 

Miss Suzanne let out a full-bodied laugh. “My dear, we’re going to Atlanta to shop. You can’t be photographed in some outfit from Belford’s.” 

You just fell silent and looked out the window as Miss Suzanne rambled on about how excited she was, planning a wedding, and how much great press it would be for her husband and Patrick. 

When they finally arrived at the fancy boutique in midtown Atlanta, they were greeted by staff in crisp uniforms waiting outside for their arrival. 

The head designer, or who you assumed was the head designer came blowing through the doors and came to greet your future mother-in-law. 

“My dear, thank you for coming, let me grab your coat.” He grabbed Suzanne’s expensive tweed jacket and hat. He handed it to a dour-looking assistant.

He then acknowledged you. 

“My, my who is this diamond in the rough?”

Suzanne answered for you. “A diamond in the rough indeed. This is my future daughter in Law, Y/N.” 

You didn’t know whether to curtsy or not. You gently bent your knees and answered with a quiet “hello.”

“My goodness, she is just precious! We certainly have our work cut out for us.” The man snickered.

Being brought up in the south, you knew being called precious wasn’t a compliment. 

You sighed as you followed the man and Suzanne into the boutique knowing it was going to be a long day. 

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I know you’re a royalist and I enjoy your insightful and thoughtful posts on the institution rather than the gossip. However I was wondering if you will be reading Prince Harry’s memoir ’Spare’? What do you make of his public interviews and his Netflix series if you have seen them?

I shall not be reading Prince Harry’s memories ’Spare’ because what’s the point?

Everything we really needed to know has already spilled out across premature leaks of the book and gleeful splashes across the tabloid press. Thankfully I don’t have to read these rags where I live.

But you can’t escape. There seems to be a media blitz by the Duke and Duchess of Sussex in recent weeks. Even out in Verbier where I was enjoying a ski vacation with my family, since my return from Dubai, one couldn’t escape the Sussexes.

I can only blame myself for watching the 6 hour snooze fest that was the Netflix documentary series by Harry and Meghan. Those are 6 hours I can never get back. Now I’ve got chatty aunts who are blowing up my WhatsApp with infuriated texts at Harry and his interview and now the book publication. I’m just glad I’m on this side of the Channel in Paris and able to focus on more important things in life.

I’m actually quite sad rather than mad at Prince Harry and his folly. He’s hurting, he’s hurting badly since the death of his mother. If you comb through my blog you’ll know that I didn’t take a particularly negative stance towards Harry and Meghan because they were constitutionally irrelevant - and these are the things I’m really interested in rather than the daily tittle tattle. I’m more interested in Bagehot than royal bonking.

I also had another reason and that was loyalty to a brother officer. We served in the same Army Air Corps out in Afghanistan but our tours didn’t overlap at all as I was a few years behind him and so what I knew of his service was secondhand. But I’ve met him on a few occasions at regimental gatherings and social settings since our circle of friends have some overlap. I hastened to add that I don’t particularly know him but I liked him a lot. He had a disdain for the typical ‘Rupert’ (male officers of a privileged class) but he was quite down to earth and funny with the rank and file soldiers. He was easy going with me and maybe that’s because I was a female officer and I didn’t quite fit into that dominant male Rupert culture. I don’t know for sure. 

Still, perhaps it’s the way I’ve been raised but I couldn’t bring myself to comment on his personal life choices, even if one had reservations as to the consequences of them.

But I have to say out of all the revelations that irked me the most it was his revelation of how many Taliban ‘terrorists’ he killed out in Afghanistan. He said he killed around 25 Taliban fighters as a gunner on an Apache helicopter.

There is no reason not to believe him. These things can be easily verified to some extent when after a mission you look over the recorded footage. That’s not what irks me. What bothers me is why he chose to say all this.

There is a code amongst soldiers that you don’t talk about this shit. It’s so unprofessional and unseemly. Even amongst soldiers we don’t talk about it. We know about it but we still don’t talk about it. War is mostly tedious, boring, and waiting around for the shit to hit the fan. But when it does you move your arse into gear and get your job done. And when it’s done, come home, crack open a beer with comrades out of shared relief, be thankful you made it out alive, and then shut the fuck up.

I think Harry really has let himself down and his fellow army brothers and sisters. Forget for a moment the security risk because of his disclosure, amongst British veterans I chat with on private social media, they feel a sense of personal betrayal. I don’t feel that but I do feel Harry hasn’t done himself any favours in regaining the genuine respect every soldier had for him for getting his hands dirty in the trenches and not expecting any special favours because he was a royal.

It’s hard not to feel some sympathy for Harry. It can’t be easy being the spare, the younger brother whose role in the royal “firm” started in a position of subordination and has become steadily more subordinate as more direct heirs arrive to dilute his lineage. There are plenty of younger siblings who have suffered in this way although none of us can imagine the particular hardship of being the “spare” to a throne. Add to that the unimaginable repressed pain and grief of losing his mother and to do so in public is something none of us can fathom. No wonder he was happy in the army where he could be himself and achieve things on personal merit, and more importantly, be away from the fierce and unforgiving public glare.

But that was then. That was the Harry before he met Meghan Markle. A very different Harry has emerged. He sounded less British and more American with all this woke gobble gook. I mean this as no slight to my American friends but Harry should really trade in his British passport and become a permanent resident of California.

What I saw made me pity him. I saw a man so seething with resentment, so unaware of his own privilege, that he is eaten up with petty grievances. He complains about his stepmother turning his old bedroom at Clarence House into a dressing room – when he was 28 years old and in possession of an entire house of his own. We see a man so dim he sees no contradiction between expressing hope for a reconciliation with his family, at the very same time as bitching about them on the world stage. A man so lacking in self-awareness he sees no hypocrisy in complaining about the press intruding on his privacy, in the exact same breath as he tells tittle tattle tales about his brother and sister-in-law. A man so self-absorbed he has no notion of duty, service or respect – either to brotherly bonds, the royal family or the ‘code of silence’ among soldiers.

Why would anyone expose themselves to the world in this way?

A common explanation is that Harry is doing this for the money - that in order to fund his Montecito lifestyle he must sell his soul to Netflix and Penguin books. I’m not sure I buy that argument fully. Certainly through the the many interviews and hours of Netflix footage show no sign of a man held hostage, with personal details being cajoled out of him against his will. Another common explanation that Meghan puts him up to it but as popular as that prevailing view is in the UK, I really don’t think he had Meghan Markle by his side to be so insufferable and whiney. Ms. Markle may have given him the ammunition of language (‘unconscious bias’, ‘white privilege’, ‘lived experience’, ‘my truth’ etc) but the thoughts are all his. This is all on him and his repressed resentments towards his own family.

Watching Harry unload is as fascinating as watching a car crash in slow motion. To me Harry is a cautionary tale of what happens when we abandon all boundaries between the public and private spheres of our lives. Harry seems to have lost any sense of a border between his interior world of thoughts and feelings, and the outside world of speech; between the private realm of family and home and the public realm of work, responsibility and social convention.

Call me a stiff arsed Brit but I am not the only one. I feel I reflect the private horror of most British people that someone could be so confessional in such a shamelessly public way. It’s like the staple ending of all romcom Hollywood movies where the guy has to confess his error before the crowd to win back the girl.

We Brits take another approach. Families argue all the time. Siblings fight. We get angry and upset. And in the heat of the moment, we say things we might later regret. Crucially, this takes place behind closed doors, in private. The privacy of the home allows us to behave badly, but also to forgive each other and move on. Making details of private squabbles public imbues them with a permanence that they were never meant to have.

If the late Queen Elizabeth II represented an old set of values, Harry and Meghan best embody the new era. The two generations of royals could not be more different. Out goes the stiff upper lip, in comes public emoting. ‘Never complain, never explain’ has been replaced by a six-hour Netflix ‘pity party’. Service to others has been redefined as sharing mental-health struggles. Where the late Queen spoke of nationhood, the Sussexes speak of victimhood. The late Queen kept her cancer diagnosis secret until her death. We read about Meghan’s miscarriage in her column for the New York Times.

The late Queen’s commitment to serve represented more than just an individual pledge. It captured a generational ethos. Harry and Meghan embody the elite assumptions of their age.

There’s the identitarianism, masquerading as anti-racism. By presenting herself as a victim of racism – on, it must be said, rather spurious grounds of ‘unconscious bias’ a term so beloved of HR corporate departments – Meghan Markle has gained status and authority. And in marrying Meghan Markle, Harry is no longer the soldier who introduced us to his ‘little Paki friend’, but a warrior against racism. He is born again. Hallelujah!

Meghan’s gender supposedly makes her a victim, too. She takes every opportunity to remind us that, as a child, she wrote a letter complaining about a sexist advert for washing-up liquid.

Then there’s the Sussexes’ insistence on proclaiming ‘their truth’. Harry and Meghan claim that the truth is whatever they happen to feel at any point in time. If you feel that you were raised without siblings (Meghan) or that you were ‘literally’ brought up in Africa (Harry), then everyone else better just accept it. Although, as the queen so succinctly put it, ‘recollections may vary’.

Woke advocates like Harry and Meghan insist that truth is subordinate to the political narrative. You don’t need to bring any evidence when you’re railing against a supposedly racist media and a Brexit Britain still not over losing the empire.

This is not just about Harry and Meghan. The values this privileged couple embody and the ideas they articulate are continually affirmed by the cultural elite. Netflix, Spotify and book publishers stump up millions for their output. Just this month, the Sussexes were recognised for their ‘philanthropic work fighting against racism and oppression around the world’ by the Robert F Kennedy Human Rights organisation. Academics and journalists lend credibility to their remarks on the Commonwealth and their criticisms of the media. An army of tweeters and commentators are permanently ready to leap to the couple’s defence.

The late Queen’s death also seems to mean that taking pot-shots at the monarchy has become completely acceptable. In their Netflix series, Harry and Meghan criticise ‘the palace’ frequently. They moan about William’s shouting and Charles’s indifference. They mock rituals like curtseying, and visibly struggle with the notion of hierarchy.

Harry seems to resent his place on the hierarchy within the royal family. His resentment is no different in character from any sibling rivalry or our place in society’s hierarchal social and class structures.

Ideas of resentment and jealousy of course echo through time - all the way back to the Garden of Eden with Lucifer resenting God’s creation of Adam and Eve. They have also played a prominent part in the 19th Century, when philosophers sought to create new theories of morality without God. Friedrich Nietzsche, one of my favourite philosophers, borrowed a French word, ressentiment, to anchor the origins of his moral philosophy. By his estimation, Western moral thinking had its roots in the master-slave relationship.

The weak and marginalised members of society (such as persecuted Christians) resented those who oppressed them (the masters) and inverted the prevailing morality, turning humility, equality and compassion into the highest virtues. Nietzsche, one of my favourite philosophers, put it best, “While the noble man lives in trust and openness with himself … the man of ressentiment is neither upright nor naive nor honest and straightforward with himself. His soul squints; his spirit loves hiding places, secret paths and back doors, everything covert entices him as his world, his security, his refreshment.”

The dominant creed of the resentful for most of the 20th Century was Socialism. As George Orwell pointed out, socialists don’t generally love the poor, they hate the rich. When Marxist materialism became discredited with the realisation of the economic failures of the Soviet Union and the rising death counts of Communists and Socialist regimes around the world, the bearers of ‘ressentiment’ turned to other domains into which to inject their venom. Key targets were the spheres of culture, family life, sex, and race.

And so was born critical theory, the bastard child of Post-Modernism and Frankfurt School post-Marxism. To this conception we owe the hierarchy of victimhood, the one to which we must now all defer; it also spawned the language of the social justice warriors - words such as “my truth”, “lived experience”, “white privilege” (or any other kind of privilege for that matter) “intersectionality” and so on.

The virus of critical theory was smuggled into the American culture via academia (two members of the Frankfurt School - Marcuse and Adorno - actually emigrated from Germany to US universities before the war). And from academia, critical theory (popularly understood as wokery) has infected the media, publishing, newsrooms, Hollywood, sports commentators, public administration, HR departments, and even Big Tech. Perhaps the last place you would expect it to appear is the British Royal family. But here comes along Harry, a Prince in the House of Windsor.

I think deep down Harry’s resentment gives credence to his self-belief that he himself is a victim and therefore a loser in life’s lottery, even if he does come from the most privileged of the privileged. Harry has no doubt been deeply frustrated by his status within the family and the nature of his “spare”ness. There is resentment and there is jealousy. Of course the woke creed appeals. And no wonder Harry adopts its language. Which leaves us, ironically, with a hereditary Prince lecturing us about ‘privilege’.

Moreover, Harry’s conduct says a lot about the prevailing norms of our culture about confessing our ‘sins’, and therefore our souls. Harry has been taught to reveal every last intimate detail of his life. More likely, he has been taught by therapists and mentors that this is the right thing to do.

The popular assumption today is that keeping things private or ‘bottled up’ is bad. Complete openness is the best - indeed, the only - way to safeguard your mental health. Harry has imbibed the message that ‘speaking your truth’ is the route to authenticity. We live in an age when being authentic to our ‘true selves’ is considered the pinnacle of achievement. Where centring our own emotional needs above our work, community and even family members is considered not selfish, but imperative.

Fear-mongering about the dark side of privacy has been a popular pastime of psychologists since the time of Sigmund Freud. Over many decades, such beliefs have moved off the therapist’s couch to take root in our broader culture.

Today, the words ‘private’, ‘secret’ and ‘behind closed doors’ arouse suspicion. Rather than conjuring images of home, or the family, a haven in a heartless world, the private sphere has come to be seen as a site of abuse. Reserve, a stiff-upper lip and stoicism are all now considered negative personality traits denoting a lack of warmth and openness. The compulsion to share, to break down the barriers between public and private, is embedded in every aspect of our culture from primary school circle-time to social media, from the advice dished out in magazines to the platitudes spouted by celebrities.

Well, I say screw that.

The irony, of course, is that our sense of ourselves does not become stronger the more it is revealed – it becomes weaker. It leaves us to depend on others to validate our feelings and desires. This is what seems to lie behind Harry’s emotional incontinence. He is not a man exercising agency, in control, seeking only a fat pay cheque. He’s become a pathetic, fragile creature, incapable of seeing beyond his own immediate feelings, unable to exist without constant public validation.  

Look, there are of course other dimensions to Harry’s story. There is the tragic shadow of his mother and the diva attention seeking influence of his Hollywood D-list wife. But to the extent that he is a victim, he is the victim not only of his family circumstances but also of poisonous philosophers and the prevailing dominance of American cultural colonialism of wokery (in this the French intellectuals and commentators are 100% correct, as both left and right see it as a specific American wokery, but fail to see that they originally gave birth to this bastard of an incoherent and nihilistic ideology). Perhaps his example can be a cautionary tale to the rest of us. Harry shows us the importance of keeping some things private....because not everything is about you or me.

So, Harry, for the love of God or even for your much beloved granny, just shut the fuck up!

Thanks for your question.

[tsukimino]

Kenzan Substory: The Yamato-e Painter

Below the cut is a translation of Kenzan substory #45, “The Yamato-e Painter.”

Please be warned that this story contains an incident of sexual harassment that’s played for laughs in a homophobic manner. This writing is very much in line with the kinds of storytelling choices that RGG Studio has made in the past and has since disavowed through disclaimers or even outright cuts in their remastered games and remakes. 

Yamato-e is a genre of painting that (as the name – literally “Japanese painting” – suggests) takes specifically Japanese people, places, and themes as its subject matter. The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s page on yamato-e provides a helpful summary of the genre’s history. Most relevantly, by the early 14th century, artists working in this genre had begun to produce realistic portraits of subjects such as poets, courtiers, military heroes… and perhaps, in Kenzan, a certain wandering swordsman. 

[Kiryu is wandering about in Kawara when he runs into a man dressed in a white kimono with a pink-ish overcoat. The man – identified in the text box as “Ranzan” – waves him down.]

Ranzan: Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment? Where on earth did you train that magnificent body of yours? You’re not like all those other meatheads…

Kiryu: …

Ranzan: Ah, my name is Ranzan. I’m a traditional Japanese painter. Surely you’ve heard of me? 

Kiryu: …

Ranzan: My specialty is warrior portraits. If I may impose, would you be willing to let me paint you? If I were to depict that figure of yours, I’m certain that it would be a most wonderful piece: a work to be handed down through the ages! This is a once-in-a-lifetime encounter – I can’t just let this opportunity pass me by! Please, I’m begging you! I’m prepared to offer you a most handsome reward… 

[Kiryu is presented with a choice to accept or refuse Ranzan’s request; we choose to accept.] 

Kiryu: Uh, yeah… I’ll think about it. 

Ranzan: Yes, I would be most grateful if you would! This must be fate! 

[Ranzan wipes his forehead, then points off into the distance.]

Ranzan: Well then, let’s go to my studio right away. Please follow me. 

[The screen fades to black. When we return, Kiryu is standing in front of Ranzan in the middle of his studio. Various paintings are on display, and there's one in progress on the table to Ranzan’s left. The painter faces Kiryu and mops his brow again.]

Ranzan: Ah! How wonderful! A magnificent physique, like a rock that’s stood since time immemorial! Eyes like a tiger’s that peer into the very depths of one’s heart! Hmm… Hmm, hmm… Yes, that’s it! 

[Ranzan leans in and nods at Kiryu.]

Ranzan: Pardon me, but would you mind removing your clothes, please? Just your upper body is fine! I, Ranzan, am prepared to give this painting everything I’ve got…! 

[Once again, Kiryu is presented with a choice to agree to his request or refuse. Naturally, he agrees.]

Kiryu: Okay, got it. 

Ranzan: Yes, oh yes!  

[The scene fades to black. When we return, Kiryu has stripped down to his fundoshi.]

Ranzan: Ah! How beautiful…. Those burgeoning muscles – they bring to mind a cascade of cool snowmelt… The more I look at them, the more breathtaking they become… 

[The camera pans slowly down to Kiryu’s junk.]

Ranzan: Hmm… Hmm… Hmm, yes, I have it! Just one more thing, if you please: would you be so kind as to remove your underwear? 

Kiryu: …No way! 

Ranzan: Really, now… We’ve come this far and now you’re hesitating!? I’ll get that thing off even if I have to do it by force!

[Still in his fundoshi, Kiryu gives Ranzan – identified as an “Excited Guy” in the splash screen – a thrashing. Note that this title is probably a pun: the verb that the writers use to describe Ranzan – “tatsu” (たつ) – can also refer to getting an erection. After the fight, Ranzan falls to his knees at Kiryu’s feet.]

Ranzan: Ohh… The pen is weaker than the sword. 

Kiryu: What the hell do you think you’re doing?! 

Ranzan: From the moment I saw you, I was smitten! And what’s more, it was no mere fluttering of the heart… Yes, this is what they call love…!  

Kiryu: …

Ranzan: I’m so terribly sorry! Please don’t think ill of me… I want to make amends somehow… But at the moment, I have nothing of value. The only things here that are worth anything are these paintings – but I still need to eat. You can take whichever one you like, but please be merciful and just take the one.  

[A text box pops up and asks which one you’ll take (and adds: please show mercy and choose only one). The options are a painting of a warrior, a painting of an actor, or a painting of a famous place. The outcome of the story isn’t affected by the painting that you choose here, but the warrior and actor paintings sell for 10,000 mon, whereas the scenery sells for one single mon. In any case, once Kiryu picks a painting, the scene fades to black again, and we return to the street where Kiryu first encountered Ranzan.]

Ranzan: It pains me to part ways… I look forward to the day we meet again. Farewell…

[The screen fades to black, and with that, Ranzan is gone. A box pops up informing us that Kiryu has received 1000 EXP.]

[vellhighbandi]

Compromised

Chapter Three

POV: Anamika

She rose, stumbling and tripping, to find her phone. Hands shaking, she tried tapping the phone on. 

“Goddamnit! For once work like you're supposed to.”

What she had meant as an internal scream came out as a loud wail of incoherent guttural noise. 

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck…” 

She rushed off into her room looking for the charger, no not hers. 

If he wasn't hers how could anything else be? 

It wasn't plugged where it was supposed to be. She looked in the drawers, it wasn't there either. She needed that fucking charger.

Nothing was going right- It was all karma and she knew it. It was all coming back to bite her ass. 

As it should.

“Here.” 

She was offered a power bank. At the moment Anamika couldn't even remember if her name was Neha or Sneha. All she saw was the cord and plugged it in. 

A choking, “Thank you,” coughed out from her parched throat. 

She didn't even look her in the eyes for long, she shouldn't. 

She had no right. 

She had left him caught up in a crime scene, unaware and in shock. If something happened to him it'll be her fault. Hers hers hers…

He wasn't hers. But the fault, if anything- anything happened to him, would be hers. And she didn't know if she could handle it anymore. Another mark on her soul. 

She could not take that.

The tune of her phone switching on brought her mind back from the chasm it had headed to. Her lock screen glared at her, blaming her for the loss of her best friend who was dreamingly looking at her smile in his arms. 

His name flashed in the banner before being flooded out by the other texts from numbers she didn't even have saved. Missed calls from people she knew, and from friends- no, not friends, she wasn’t worth having friends, they were acquaintances and strangers. 

She searched back for his name in a sea of concerned texts and calls. Why were they even concerned she was a nobody, a lurker, a side character, the comedic relief-

The blood of the man flashed in her mind and she was reminded that she was also a villain… no wonder they keep her close… keep your enemies closer…

Seeing his goofy smiling icon did not give her butterflies this time, instead, her stomach sank. 

Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering calls or acknowledging texts? 

She almost asked those questions but then who was she to ask those questions? What right did she have?

None. 

Questions that had trickled into the words before her mind caught up with what she was doing. How could she continue without acknowledging what happened? She was sitting, staring at the screen, eyes locked on the green little dot right next to his icon. And it disappeared in the next moment as if it was never there. 

Like her trust in him.

POV: June

On the other side, June was staring at his screen, when a little green dot pinged next to her icon. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding onto like he was holding onto her and his sanity. 

And words left him.

Like his breath did when she leaned in. He really hoped she’d kiss him. Trust him.

His lock screen stared back at him, Anamika in his arms looking right back at him, smiling while his eyes were locked on that smile, him in the picture, and the one holding the phone. 

He kept the phone screen down next to him and fell back on the bed, arms flying to his side like they did before she jumped on him. 

She wasn’t going to fall into his arms now.

He brought his arms back covering his face and let out a silent scream, before letting another lose. And a third. And a fourth. A fifth... till those screams turned louder and louder and eventually into sobs.

What was he doing?

When he woke up next, the moon was high in the sky, probably a little after midnight. Picking himself up he went into the bathroom and realised how absolutely horrid he looked.

The mud wiped on his face, his hair slightly singed. Washing off the sweat, he rubbed at the caked mud, scrubbing with his nails, His eyes were red, he splashed some water on his eyes, and realised he should have washed his hands first. Blindly running his hands under the water he reached for the soap and knocked over something that fell on his foot, cursing he washed his hands and threw water at his eyes again, this time they burned. He probably didn’t wash the soap off. Swearing at anything and everything he turned on the shower and let the water wash his eyes. 

While he stood under the water, he remembered how Anamika liked to sit under the shower pretending to be a monk under a waterfall, she looked so beautiful then, pure, ethereal, so vulnerable- 

No, he loved her. He loved her.

He liked her blood in her body. He loved the warmth of that blood from beneath her skin.

Why? Why why why- turning the water off he stripped, leaving the clothes on the wet bathroom floor. 

Why did she leave him there? 

Did she know what he was capable of? Did she know what he had already done? Did she have faith in his ability to not be caught? 

Or did she leave him there to be caught? What was she thinking? What was she planning?

Before today, all he had to ask was what he would do and he knew she would do the exact opposite. But now- now he wasn't sure. He had to know… Picking his phone back up he plugged the charger and opened the chat with her. 

Why did do yo-

No. he couldn't ask that by text. He had disposed of the body. He couldn't let there be any evidence, even circumstantial... They would take her away if anyone knew. 

They would take her away… no he can’t let that happen.

He didn't know what alibi she had planted, no they needed to talk but before that, he needed to know if she knew.  

‘Good night.’ 

And before he knew it he had shot off a second, ‘Take care and I love you.’

And as the tick turned blue he couldn’t help but doubt his love.

That night he spent awake, laying his bed, lights on, muttering while his mind conjured increasingly terrifying and bloodied versions of her, smiling as she was stabbed, feasting in the blood of the man she just murdered, with him. And him proudly watching her bath in the blood she spilt. 

Him.

Standing.

Proud.

Bloodied. 

POV: Anamika

It had been 36 hours since she had left him in that abandoned warehouse. Other than the GIFs saying good morning and good night, there had only been that text saying he loved her and to take care. But did he? They needed to talk however she couldn't ambush him. She couldn't. But she had to have that conversation. 

To explain, to make sure he knew. 

And she would. 

For him. 

A breath and she locked the door to her apartment, no takesies backsies, as he used to say. Sliding into her car, she drove off. 

To his house.

To him. 

To her utter destruction. 

She found his door locked like she was locked out of his heart.

POV: June

He saw her standing on his doorstep. Looking glum as if she had just walked to the gates of hell and found herself locked out of there too. Wasn’t his house hell for her? Wasn’t he the devil in her life? 

He cut himself off right there. He was being absurd. He could not be the devil. His hands hadn't been bloodied again. He wasn't the one driving the blade this time. He wasn’t. Was he?

He needed to reign his thoughts back; they were getting ridiculous every second. First, fearing her, as if she was the monster, but didn't she murder and walk it off; wasn't he a monster in himself, before she even knew of his existence? 

She turned around, and he saw the same bloodied Anamika from his fantasies. No, they were nightmares. 

POV: Anamika

When she turned around, she saw June walking toward her, a smile almost plastered itself before his eyes widened, his face pale and sweat beading down his temple. 

She was a monster. 

He knew it. 

He was scared of her. 

He was scared. 

Of her. 

POV: June

He averted his eyes and didn't see her face almost breaking. Didn't look into her eyes to see her soul shattering. He invited her in but didn't see her pulling up the mask she had long abandoned in front of him. 

POV: Anamika

She was broken. 

But he wasn't going to know. 

He would never know. 

POV: June

She left within an hour, their calls hadn't ended before three hours for years now, and today she left at 47 minutes. He knew because he checked the watch like 30 times while she was there. And what probably killed him more than her leaving was that he was relieved. 

Relieved at her leaving.

She left.

And he didn't even try to stop her. 

POV: Anamika

She left.

And he didn't even try to stop her. 

Had that one night ripped them apart? He kept checking his watch the whole time she was there. He didn't sit next to her on the rug like they did. They sat on opposite sides of the coffee table. He sat opposite her and looked behind her the whole time they sat in silence. Another novelty, they never had this awkward silence between them before. He was talking, telling stories that she knew he made up because she was right there with him when the stories were apparently happening. 

It wasn't the same anymore.

They weren't the same.

And it was her fault

All her fault.

Hers.

POV: June

He met her again, every time he did he saw her bloodied face. He saw her getting wilder in his dreams. Bloodthirsty, cannibalistic. And he was scared. And yet the excitement in his heart rose each time. But he loved her. Didn't he? 

She loved him. She did. 

He had to leave. 

POV: Anamika

She loved him. But he didn't. He was scared, terrified of her. Things weren't okay but she was too much of a coward, too attached, too pathetic to say anything. 

Too scared to be confronted. 

POV: June

He knew things weren't all good. He still had fan- visions of her. Now they had progressed into her coming for him next. And instead of kissing his nose, biting his throat apart, before he cut her open. Let that crimson treasure of hers bathe him... And he couldn't let it go on. 

He couldn't look at her without thinking about how pretty she would look coloured in blood, just like that night, but this time it'd be hers. And he would be the one carving it out of her smooth soft skin. Ripping every hair off, like she wanted. He'd take away the body hair she hated. And kiss those oozing cuts. Letting the blood adorn his lips- 

It took him a few days, to be sure of his decision. To choose to stay or stray. His wildest fantasy and true acceptance, or the normalness that he knew wasn't a part of him. He had to make sure what he chose was something he could live with while knowing damn well he couldn't live without the normalcy she brought. It wasn't that he yearned for normalcy, he longed for her. She brought with her an easy sense of home and belonging, which he couldn't find anywhere else. That was what drew him to her in the first place the easygoing conversations, the jokes that never needed explaining, the outrageous flirting, that comfort...

Now when he saw her, instead of the serenity on her face, he saw a hurt expression. A betrayed look in her eyes that he knew he put there. She deserved better. 

And she will have better once he's gone. 

But the niggling voice in his head was almost insistent that she was the one for him. She wasn’t. She deserved better. But the side of her that he saw that night. That unflinching face, those eyes that knew what they were doing. He knew what kind of monster he was. Knowing she could match him, step for step, blow for blow; it excited him. How he could be as heavy-handed as he wanted, being secure in his knowledge that she wouldn’t just take what he dealt. Knowing she would strike back turned him on. 

Knowing she would acknowledge when he wanted to wrap her up like a princess and bow down to her. And empathize with his need to be wild and return the energy, unafraid- no, she wasn't his. It was wrong wrong wrong wrong of him to hold such expectations of her when she wasn’t even his.

POV: Anamika

Anamika shouldn't have been surprised she knew it was coming, she knew since that day she saw him outside his house. She knew when he didn't meet her eyes for weeks, she knew. And yet, it hit her like a lorry right then. He flinched. He flinched seeing her. She was heinous in his eyes. A murderer. A monster. 

“I can't do this anymore Anamika.”

Six words shattered her. 

She didn't ask. What could he not do? The relationship was forgone conclusion, but their friendship? 

Could she at least have that? 

No, she would not impose on him like that. He needed space. He needed her tainted shadow to be far far far from him. He needed peace, and she wasn’t that for him. 

“Yeah,” her throat felt so sore as if she hadn't spoken for days, she hadn't but who was she even going to talk to? The only one to listen to her thought of her as a monster now. 

She continued, “It’s about time,” she gulped, “about time we went our separate ways.” 

There she said it, no need for him to cut her off completely when she did it for him all on her own. Separate ways, as if their paths had not been intertwined ages ago. As if they hadn't promised to be by each other's side in health and harmony; in hardship and destitution; in despair and destruction. 

He was still looking beyond her. She needed to say something, something, anything, “I really loved you June.” One last time she could say it aloud without being judged, without being condemned. 

“Take care,” she needed more words. Needed him to know, she needed him to. 

“I'm sorry it ended this way.” 

That is what she ended up saying. It wasn't nearly enough.

Not enough. Never enough.

POV: June

He watched her walk away. Knowing somewhere deep down this was probably the last time he could watch her as his. Separate paths they had to travel. Now, it was going to be just him and his demons unleashed.

POV: Anamika

That night truly alone after a long while of camaraderie and support, Anamika sat under the tap. She couldn’t just sit under the shower. Not under the soft kisses from the ocean. Not under what he had romanticised for her forever. No, that comfort of the shower was now gone. All it did was remind her of him. She sat under the tap. Water ran through her tresses. Reminding her of-

No, they were strangers now. 

“I had my reasons..” his name felt wrong on her lips as if she tainted the beautiful name just by thinking of it. And yet, “..June. I had my reasons to do all that I did.”

He wasn't here to hear her. And yet, tears mixed with the water burning her eyes… searing her into pieces. 

He was a stranger now.

But the thing is... Anamika has had lots of secrets… secrets that she held near, secrets she revealed to the world. But now, she and a stranger shared one. 

She knew it’ll never be fine. 

She’ll never be fine without him. 

But there will be this one last thing. One last string tying them together.

One last skeleton in their shared closet.

One Last Secret

A Mutual Murder 

A Shared Sin

A Lost Love

They were pieces of each other’s puzzles. But their assumptions about themselves (and the author's a sadistic angsty teenager in essence) pushed them on separate paths that they'll never find solace in… will they meet again? Find the end to a story that hasn't seen its end yet. What will happen? [authors will go insane(real) as if we weren't already]

Madam co-author : Lilac

Tagging people for validation : @disproportionatelysculpting @damnn-dorothea, @octoberpdf, @morally-gayy, @daughterofruins, @pheonix-thefirebird, @bulbourethralhand, @cheesekulfi

[samobservessonic]

Probably fitting when we have Amy on the cover, it’s Amy and Johnny to the rescue. I guess they’re just allowed to fly the plane as well. This also would’ve worked well with Tails’s absence, had we not seen Tails in the background of the previous issue. But that’s nitpicking, I know

Even so, Sonic manages to escape the cage without their help. Remember kids, if you’re not strong enough to break through steel, you can always unscrew whatever’s holding it together and make your escape

Johnny and Amy fly in to grab Sonic, but if those mines don’t go off, then the whole mission has been a waste, so Sonic says that he’s going back in

We get a sequence of Sonic fighting the Troopers that I’ve skimmed over, before he jumps back off to be rescued once again. I’ve said this before, but I do like that they’re putting Johnny into the role of Sonic's friend who’s a bit more exasperated by Sonic and not afraid to say it. I think the comic kind of needs that right now, since Amy’s still in her fangirl stage, Tails is much the same, and Porker’s too nervous to speak up

Amy gets to do cool stuff as well! She’s not called “Aim” for nothing! (Which is why StC opted to give her a bow, in case you were wondering)

Big explosion splash page! Like Johnny, I’d also stay silent when faced with that commentary lol

Add another tally to the “reasons why Grimer decides to quit at the end of the series” chart

The story ends with Robotnik vowing to begin work on another thruster to replace the one that Sonic’s destroyed and, judging by the preview text in the bottom, it looks as if Sonic’s actions may have delayed by not prevented the return of the Death Egg