#and a few odds and ends that go with it all)

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Guardian Angel

CW: Stalking, people breaking into your apartment (Arkham Knight and others), people brushing off an obvious issue, and violence. Be warned, there are no angels in Gotham. ~2.2k words

You have a stalker. Probably. Maybe. If you do, they're so good at covering their tracks that you're starting to believe you're just paranoid.

But it's the odd events, the trinkets moved slightly out of place, that have you checking over your shoulder.

There wasn't even any evidence at first. Your day had been completely normal. All you were doing was cooking dinner, when your nerves went on end, and goosebumps rose on your skin. The feeling of being watched, of being prey set in.

It didn't make sense, didn't have a reason, but you closed your curtains and triple checked your locks nonetheless. (The bat you keep by your bed slept next to you that night)

You would have forgotten about the incident entirely if, a week later, the same feeling crept up your spine while you walked home. You'd never walked faster to get to your building. You'd practically sprinted up the stairs to your apartment, and slammed to the door behind you.

Even within your home, it took almost the whole night for the feeling to fade.

Two times could be a coincidence, but then things started getting stranger.

You could have sworn you left your keys on the counter the night before, so why, why did you find them on the coffee table?

It makes you uneasy, almost sick, but you're already late to work. So you do the only thing you can, you brush it off.

Until it happens. A thing you can't brush off.

You knew you had used the last of the sugar yesterday. Knew it because you had made a mental note to pick some up the next time you went to the store.

But there's sugar. It's not a lot. Just enough to get you through a few days. Enough to make you think you might have just missed the last of it.

You know you're right. You know you were out of sugar and even if your coworkers laugh and tell you to get more sleep, that having an angel that refills your sugar can't be that bad, you know someone's been in your apartment.

You set traps, set cameras, get your locks changed, take note of everything. You don't get any evidence.

But you notice that your window doesn't squeak anymore when you open it. Your shower doesn't rattle when you go to start it. Your oven actually heats up to the temperature you set it to.

It's been like this for months now. And you're starting to believe that Gotham does have its own set of angels that go around trying to make your life a little easier.

That is until, you meet him.

You'd been unlucky. Gotten grabbed and dragged into the alley by your apartment by some haggard looking man waving a gun. It wasn't the first time you'd been mugged in Gotham, and you doubted it would be the last.

You had reluctantly pulled your wallet and phone out of your pockets and handed them off when an armored-clad person dropped between the gun and you.

At first, it was a relief. Being saved by Batman or Nightwing is practically a rite of passage in Gotham.

But then you watched the would-be mugger hit the ground with a sickening crunch of his arm. Then you watched your savior turn to face you, and you knew it was him.

You didn't have an explanation, you didn't have proof. You'd never even seen a glimpse of the helmet that hid his face before. But you knew. He's the one that's been following you. He's the one that's been in your home.

No amount of good deeds can overshadow how violating it feels, to know he's been watching you, observing you, doing things for you. You instinctively step back.

He only matches the distance you tried to create with a step of his own.

"Who are you? What do you want," You snap, sounding braver than you feel.

He doesn't answer at first, just tilts his head like he's studying you. You think it might be because he's never seen you think close before.

"I saved you," he says instead, completely avoiding your question. You wonder if he's expecting to be treated like a hero, if he's looking for your praise. It makes your stomach churn.

"You've been following you. You're the one who's been in my apartment," You protest, eyes darting.

You half expect someone to come help you. With the way he's dressed, with how he's carrying himself, he has to be some kind of new villian you missed on the news.

He straightens out at your accusation, "Have I?"

You almost falter, almost do chalk it up to paranoia, but you just knew. Every fiber of your being knows, "Yes," You breathe out instead, "You have."

He nods slowly, then turns his back to you. A part of you wants to run, to try and escape and scream and get as far away from the man who feels like he could make you disappear without a trace.

He bends down and scoops up your phone and wallet before turning back to you. You freeze when he walks closer, each step steady and measured, then extends your belongings to you. Your hand shakes when you snatch at them.

You half expect him to yank them away, to make you beg, but he doesn't. He only keeps his grip tight on them, forcing you to be connected while you tug helpless at your things.

He watches you with his head slightly cocked before speaking again, "And if I have?"

He's easy, robotic cadence makes your blood grow cold, "Then you should stop," You retort, voice as cold as your veins.

"And if I won't," he prompts, finally releasing his hold on your things.

"I'll go to the police," You threaten, stuffing your wallet and phone back into your pockets.

"They can't help you," he warns. It makes you uneasy, that he makes no attempt to keep space between you. Even if his body language doesn't seem dangerous, everything else about him does.

"They can contact Batman," You try instead.

He laughs. It sounds humorless, empty, "He can't help you either."

You lose your nerve then, when he pats your cheek, and the guns holstered to his side seem to glint at you. "Get home," he tells you, and it makes you feel like you're some kind of pet.

And then he's gone, leaving you to an alley empty of anything, save for you and the mugger crumpled to the ground. All you can do is go home. Sleep doesn't come for you that night.

He's sloppy, now that he knows you know. You can tell it's on purpose.

Flashes of glowing blue outside your window, your things carelessly shifted about your apartment, the broken fan that hasn't worked since you moved in left on and spinning when you come home from work.

The only place he hasn't seemed to touch is your bedroom. You're not sure if it's because he's showing some slightest form of respect or if he's simply too good at hiding his tracks for you to notice.

Both options make you feel anxious, and you constantly comb over your things for proof of his presence.

You rack your brain over it, lose sleep over it, but you can't come up with one idea of who he is and why he's doing this.

There's nothing on him in the news, nothing on the internet, not even a whisper on the streets.

It feels like it's all one big, sick game to him when your favorite flowers start showing up at your door, when your gas tank fills itself.

When you tell your coworkers, in a near panic, about your rent being mysteriously paid, they tell you it's harmless, it's kind of sweet, really.

Shouldn't you just be grateful that someone's doing all that for you? Shouldn't you be thankful to have an angel looking out for you in this city?

But you know it's not harmless. You know he's capable of so much more. You know he's no angel.

The sound of the mugger's arm snapping still haunts you.

But you don't know what to do. You're stuck, on edge, and slowly coming to terms with having to live like this forever.

That is, until your bad luck seems to get even worse. You were in your pajamas, already half asleep as you're lounging on your couch, when your world gets thrown into chaos.

There's a click in your apartment door's lock, and you have the terrifying realization that tonight's the one night you'd forgotten to throw the deadbolt.

"I told ya I could get the keys to this floor. And barely anybody lives in this building afta what happen ta Murphy," the heavy Gotham accent fills your apartment and three men file into your living room like they own it.

They freeze when they see you, and you don't hesitate to sprint for your fire escape.

You've just managed to throw your window open when one of them grabs you around the middle and hauls you back, throwing you to the floor. Your head knocks against the ground, and everything spins.

You think you whimper as they start bickering. "You said no one would be here!"

"They weren't supposed ta be! It's all supposed ta be empty," one of them snaps back. It only makes your head pound and your vision swim.

You try to push yourself off the floor, but a boot lands at the center of your back and forces you back to the ground, "We have to kill them."

Murmurs of reluctance fill the room, and for a second, you think you'll get to live.

"They saw our faces," You hear the telltale sound of a gun clicking off its safety, "I'll do it."

You flinch with the shot sounds, but no more pain comes. The weight comes off your back, and a body collapses to the floor next to you.

You lift your head just enough to see a familiar blur of blue charge at the remaining two men.

It's not so much of a fight as it is an execution. It's a struggle to keep your eyes open, but anything you can't see you can hear.

There's no mercy in his actions, all wrath and fury, and you want to laugh because, in a way, he is your guardian angel. An avenging angel, pummeling the people who threatened you into something unrecognizable.

You're sure how long it lasts, how long you hear his fists connect to their flesh. But eventually, your apartment goes quiet. The sound of fabric shuffling reaches your ears, and calloused hands carefully help you move until you're sitting up.

Warm palms press to your face you realize he's taken his gloves off. You force your eyes to open, morbidly curious if he's removed his helmet, too. You're not sure why you're disappointed he hasn't.

"Saved me again," You mumble, words almost slurring.

"You're not safe here," he says softly, and his thumb runs over your cheek like he's trying to comfort you.

"They didn't think anyone lived here," You supply, but he apparently doesn't find that very reassuring.

"Let's get you out here," he says instead, and you blame it on your head injury for being impressed at how he doesn't show any signs of struggling when he picks you up and cradles you to his chest.

"Don't have anywhere to go," you say weakly, mentally trying to do the math on how much a safe hotel would cost at this time of night.

The moonlight seems to give his helmet an odd shine as you stare hazily at him. It almost looks like a halo.

"I have a place," he tells you, already carrying you out of your apartment window.

That snaps you out of your thoughts. It makes you frown, even in your dazed state, you know you don't want to go with him. That even with the trick of the light, he's no angel.

You start to squirm, "No– no, wait–"

"You need somewhere safe to recover," he says, and he doesn't seem to notice your fidgeting. Your heart leaps to your throat, at how securely he's holding you. With anyone else, it would have felt like a promise of protection.

"I don't trust you, you're not safe," You stumble out, head growing heavy with each step he takes from your apartment.

"No one's safe. But I don't have any plans on hurting you," he murmurs, seemingly more occupied with getting you to wherever he's planning to take you.

"But you could," You exhale out, and your voice sounds weak even to yourself.

That makes him pause, and his helmet tips as if he's focusing on you, "Maybe, but I wouldn't like it."

You want to argue more, demand he set you down. But your brain feels so foggy, and you're so tired and drained that your head just kind of finds itself on his shoulder.

"You can sleep," he says, and your eyes fall shut at how soft he sounds, "I'll keep watch."

You really do want to protest, but his shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. You can't help but think, as you drift off, that your angel might have fallen far lower than you can handle.

[puari-vol]

Peer Pressure

CW: Hypnosis

I stood quietly and unobtrusively off in a corner of the ‘slumber party’ trying my best not to bother anyone. Occasionally I glanced over at my friend Kelsey who was talking animatedly with some girls and wondered why she had insisted I come along. Of course I had agreed at the time, it seemed like a good way to make friends. But now that I was here…I couldn’t bring myself to try talking to anyone. I fixed my eyes on the cup of water in my hand. This was all… fine, I was just being Kelsey's designated driver. I was being helpful, like a good friend should be. It didn’t matter if I had fun or not. 

I zoned out enough that when Kelsey tapped me on the shoulder I jumped

“Did you really just stand in the corner this whole time? Geez come on you goof its time for the movie!” 

She took my arm and dragged me toward the TV. Both couches were full so I ended up sitting cross legged on the ground in front of them. Kelsey was about to sit next to me before she was suddenly pulled away to sit with some other girls, so now I was just sitting next to two strangers. They didn't seem to mind me, but they didn't introduce themselves either.

The lights go off and the movie starts, the chatter dies down as everybody watches. It seemed like there was something wrong with the audio, there was an odd droning sound playing under the movie. But it wasn’t loud enough to be annoying and nobody else seemed to notice so I kept quiet. The movie was honestly kinda boring, I glanced around and accidentally made eye contact with someone doing the same thing. I felt myself blush and turned back to pay attention. The movie kept going and after a while I started to space out. I was so out of it that when something changed it took me a while to notice. The movie wasn’t playing anymore, or maybe…this was part of the movie? The screen just showed a pink and purple spiral spinning around and around. The droning had gotten louder. How long had the spiral been on the screen? I couldn’t remember. I looked to the girl on my right, about to ask if something was wrong with the movie. But she was just staring at the screen, focused. I noticed everyone else was doing much the same. I quickly turned back to the screen, not wanting to embarrass myself. As I watched I tried to remember what had been happening in the movie for this to make sense, the spiral and been going for at least a few minutes now, but the more I tried the more the details of the movie seemed fuzzy and distant. I stared intently at the screen, trying to find out what everyone else was looking at…

I blinked when there was suddenly someone sitting in front of me. I only noticed because she waved her hand in front of my face after she sat down. She was backlit by the spiral on the screen and she smiled at me. 

“Hey there” she said softly “First time here?”

I just nodded feeling strangely dizzy.

“Kelsy said she was bringing someone knew, is that you?”

I nodded again, she was gazing intently at me and I started to feel self conscious, I averted my eyes and saw that everyone else was still just staring at the spiral

“Well Kelsy has good taste, you’ll be lovely”

I blush, not expecting the compliment

“Um thanks” I mumble no longer able to meet her eyes. She was grinning at me now

“Are you ready?”

“Uh…for what?”

“To learn about the button that turns off your brain” 

I blinked as I tried to sort through the nonsense statement

“The what?”

She giggled and pointed off to my left 

“Just watch, you’ll get the idea”

I looked and saw she was pointing at the girls sitting on one of the couches, all of their eyes were glued to the spiral. As I watched, another girl came up behind them. Starting with the girl on the far left, she leaned down and whispered something into her ear. Then reached over and tapped her on the forehead. At once, she went limp. Head lolling forward, eyes closed. She slumped into the girl sitting next to her, who jolted as if suddenly startled awake, eyes blinking rapidly. But the girl behind the couch simply reached over and tapped her on the forehead as well. And suddenly both girls seemed to be fast asleep leaning into each other. The girl behind the couch smiled and gave them both a pat on the head before moving on to the rest of the couch

“You see? All good girls like you have a button that turns off their brain” 

I was staring open mouthed at the girls now asleep on the couch

“But…but I’m not-”

“Shhhhh”

I felt a hand on my cheek, and my head was turned to face the girl in front of me again. I was blushing like crazy now and I stammered something incoherent. The girl just smiled kindly

“Don’t worry, you won't be bothered by that kind of stuff soon”

Hand still on my cheek, she turned my head to the right, where I watched the girl sitting right next to me get tapped on the forehead. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she slumped back, mouth open and drooling.

“Isn’t she pretty?” 

She put her hand below my chin and made me nod, I hardly noticed I was just staring at the girl

“Doesn’t she look beautiful, all sleepy like that?”

She made me nod again

“Don’t you want to look like that?”

I nodded, I wasn’t sure if she made me or not

She turned my head to face her again. Her other hand was held up in front of me, her index finger pointed at me. My eyes focused on the tip of her finger

“W-wait”

“Nighty night”

She tapped me on the forehead

[seventeenreasonswhy]

Super Shy ~ A JWW School-Life Romance Pt. 3

Star Athlete!Wonwoo x Shy Wallflower!Reader

Jeon Wonwoo... THE Jeon Wonwoo is... paying attention to you!?

~1.5k words

Read Part 1 + Part 2

Series content: fluff, first crush plot line, school-life anime vibes, slow burn/yearning, some light angst, classmates to friends to lovers, fem reader, reader is ~*super shy*~ and has low self-esteem, reader is kind of bullied (?), sweetie pie Wonwoo, appearances by Choi Hansol and more!, all characters are in high school so no explicit content (but probably kissing eventually).

My Masterlist

Author’s note: Thank you to everyone who has read, reblogged, and liked this little series so far! This part reveals more about Y/N’s interests and talents, which she’s afraid to share because she is insecure! But not for long with sweet Jeon Wonwoo around. Also she has a fictional younger sister named Daehee (not after anyone in particular, I just like that name). 😉 These two are so innocent and cute, I’m having such fun writing them! Enjoy!!

Taglist: @clownprincehoeshi @soffiyuhh  @wonwoos-wineparty @hamji-hae @junniesoleilkth @seokqt @haniinah @yangtyunhannie @cherrylovescheol @lukeys-giggle @cookiearmy @sojuxxi  @vixensss @lixisoul99 @mjpark15 @lelsforlino  @neivivenaj  @blvkkeddcc (lmk if you want to be tagged!)

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

“Whoa you’re going all out on that, Y/N—”

Your younger sister, Daehee, had come down for breakfast with her bangs still in curlers, wearing her school uniform shirt over her Hello Kitty pajama pants. She was watching you as you concentrated on preparing various dishes at the stove. A thin omelet, grilled shishito peppers, vegetable tempura; it was pretty simple stuff, but you’d developed an urge to create aesthetically pleasing lunches these days.

You couldn’t really explain it, although somewhere in your heart you knew it probably had something to do with Jeon Wonwoo.

For the past week, Jean Wonwoo had been spending lunch on the roof alone with you.

The two of you barely exchanged words, really. Your longest conversation probably lasted only a few minutes. But not for Wonwoo’s lack of trying! You still wondered why he was spending his lunchtime up there at all—even more so why would he keep trying to strike up conversations with you? You guessed he really was just that nice. But every time you were around him you couldn’t help clamming up somehow.

“Are you in any clubs, Y/N?” he’d asked you the other day, between bites of his kimbap.

“Uh, no...” you answered quietly, your nerves frazzled from your total lack of conversational skills.

“None of them appeal to you?”

“Uh, not really that...” you didn’t know how to answer him. You’d ended up just looking at him blankly, like a fool. However, nothing in his facial expression or his tone made you feel like you had to necessarily come up with an answer... But his gaze was intent, and you found it hard to hold onto for more than about three seconds.

“What do you do for fun? To relax?” he followed up breezily, “You’re the class mystery.”

“Um,” the odd self-consciousness you felt at being called ‘the class mystery’ aside, you couldn’t really think of anything to say to him.

Actually, there was one thing that came to mind... but it wasn’t something you’d ever shared with anyone. Your one ‘hobby.’ Though to you it felt more like... squeezing a stress ball. It was what you did when you needed to turn your brain off.

He wants to know what I do to relax?

You couldn’t say what compelled you, but you pulled out your phone and found the photo album you had saved of your miniature paintings.

You worked with acrylic paint on very small canvasses, using very fine, small brushes to create miniature floral designs, portraits, landscapes... Your style was incredibly detailed. You had hundreds of tiny canvasses in little boxes and frames all over your room. You took pictures of most of these tiny paintings when you finished. You had even recorded a couple of time-lapse videos, showing you creating them in fast motion. You’d never felt compelled to create a social media account to display or monetize them, though. You painted because it was what you had done since you were a preteen—the careful, methodical process of dabbing tiny paintbrushes into your carefully mixed colors, getting the tone and shading of a poppy flower’s petal on a tiny scale just right... For you, creating these paintings was like a meditative practice.

By some stroke of inspiration—or insanity—you handed your phone to Wonwoo. His face became visibly more curious as he took your phone carefully in his hands.

“Wowwww,” Wonwoo said, holding the screen closer to his face. He seemed absorbed in your phone—you even caught him zoom in on a few pictures. You could tell he was looking carefully through the album.

“You’re crazy talented!” he said after a while. He sounded genuinely impressed.

“No, haha,” you somehow laughed, coughed, and gasped at the same time, your heart accelerating out of embarrassment from his compliment.

“No, seriously—Y/N, these are really incredible!” he said. “They’re so detailed, and they’re so small! How do you even do that!?” His eyes were glued to your phone screen. A part of you was screaming inside, why on earth you would show these to him!? and urging you to snatch your phone right out of his hand, throw it over the side of the building even. You couldn’t believe that Wonwoo was seeing this, this... habit. And YOU had been the one to show him, of all things!

“I wouldn’t say they’re ‘incredible,’” you said, filling up with more and more anxiety over coming off as bragging or crossing some social boundary that you shouldn’t have crossed.

Wonwoo finally looked up from the screen, looking directly at you instead. You still couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but you felt his eyes on you. After a long pause, you dared to glance up at him...

But he quickly looked away from you.

Ugh, I’m probably making him feel like he has to be super nice or something...

“Oh, whoa—a time-lapse?” He said, quickly recovering from the somewhat awkward moment when your eyes had met. But his stumbling across the most recent time-lapse video that you’d made prompted you to snap out of your reverie and bolt to grab your phone out of Wonwoo’s hands.

“Ah, don’t watch that!” you lunged for your phone, but Wonwoo reflexively pulled his hand away, surprised by your reaction but still effortlessly dodging your attempt. He smirked down at you, and your heart almost stopped.

“Why not?” he said, and the deep resonance of his voice made you realize how close your bodies were—you were practically sprawled over him after reaching for your phone, his face just inches from yours...

Your whole body seemed to flush a deep shade of red before you catapulted backward away from him. You could have sworn that you saw that Wonwoo smiling to himself, but you were so flustered and anxious about the way you’d completely invaded his personal space that you couldn’t think straight.

“I won’t watch it,” he said light-heartedly, smiling at you as he tossed your phone back to you. “But you are super talented, Y/N. Painting is such a unique skill, too.”

And just like that, he went back to eating his kimbap like nothing had happened. His relaxed, friendly tone mercifully neutralized the atmosphere, but you just stood there clutching your phone to your chest.

“It’s not that I’m embarrassed,” you started, even though you couldn’t look Wonwoo in the eye, “It’s just—I’ve never shared these paintings with anyone except my family...” Your heart kind of ached for some reason as you said this to Wonwoo, who just continued to look at you in silence. What on earth had compelled you to share that with him?

Agh, say something! You willed for this pause in conversation pass, but it didn’t seem to be budging.

“Thank you for showing me,” Wonwoo said at last. His low, gentle voice seemed to shoot directly into your bloodstream, flushing you an even deeper shade of red than you thought was humanly possible. You looked at him briefly, and something about the way he was looking back at you...  

The moment had played over and over again like a movie in your head for the past few days. The directness of his gaze. The rich, sincere quality of his voice. The way he’d smiled to himself... you couldn’t stop thinking of that particular lunch hour.

Standing at the kitchen counter, Daehee watched you dip veggies in tempura batter and toss them in the pot of hot oil on the stove. You let your mind run through the questions it had been asking all week: why was he spending time with you like this? Did he lose a bet? Is there some kind of hidden camera prank you should be wary of? More than that, why was he being so nice?

“Hellooo, earth to Y/N! I said you’re really going to town on your lunches these days,” Daehee tried again to get a rise out of you.

“Oh,” you said, taking the last piece of tempura squash out of the oil. “I just like experimenting.” You weren’t lying, exactly—you did like exploring all kinds of different food and dishes. Cooking was fun to you, different from the calm of painting.

You would be lying if you said that an added bonus wasn’t Wonwoo noticing and complimenting your work.

You liked it when he praised you. It felt like he meant it.

No one could be that good at faking sincerity, could they?

You couldn’t help but hear that small voice in the back of your head, doubting Wonwoo’s intentions.

But he hadn’t done anything other than come up to the roof during lunch this week, mostly just eating in silence with you—the two of you simply looking out at the sky...

But after you had shown him your paintings...

Maybe it was since then that you had started to put more effort into your lunches.

[kusanagihaku]

the promises carved into our tears 

⭢ haku x mc, 3.6k

I will look for you in my next life, and the next, and the next. Now that I have tasted how sweet a happy ending with you can be, I will turn my back on fate over and over again, if only to meet you one last time.

or: a red string soulmate au where hotarubi works for yuelao, 如果可以-style. on ao3 here.

“Nightmares again?” 

Haku sinks into a chair, blinking blearily at Subaru as flames clear slowly from the edge of his vision. “Mm.” 

Subaru smiles sympathetically. He sets a warm teacup down on the table in front of Haku, and motions for him to take a sip. “Gyokuro blend, from Nakamura Tokichi. Zenji’s just stepped out to get this week’s list of clients from Yuelao.” 

Haku murmurs a thanks as he cradles the teacup in his hands. It is nearly too hot to hold, but the weight in his hands is grounding, and it doesn’t take more than a few sips before the fog behind his eyes clear. 

Good. He has a full day of work ahead of him. 

It started after The Incident back at Darkwick – after the smoke had cleared, all major and minor deities had descended on the island, eager to recruit a freshly dead ghoul into their ranks. 

Once most of them had gotten over the shock of also needing to work in the afterlife (Daikokuten had laughed, saying, “How else do you think the gods keep this world running, if not for the behind the scenes work of us supernatural beings?” before promptly offering Taiga a job) and the shock of there being another ghoul in their midst (Zenji’s non-apology was rather sheepish, and mostly directed at Jiro), Towa was the first to be recruited, enticed by Yuelao’s stories of soulmates tied together with red string and destined lovers with fates written in the stars. Haru had followed, of course – only for a while, until Towa gets settled, he said. I’ll worry about him. 

Naturally Zenji got pulled along too, claiming the red strings he’d tie would be brilliant source material for his next manuscript. After all, love sells, doesn’t it? 

Subaru didn’t have the heart to remind him there would be nobody around to publish his manuscript, now that none of them were corporeal, but had followed him anyway, despite an offer from Ame-no-Uzume to work as a kabuki talent scout. There was something repelling about going back to his old life, he said, and left it at that. 

Of course, they pulled the shell of their vice-captain along too. It was the least they could do, with what was left of Haku. 

Not that Haku minded – working for Yuelao isn’t particularly taxing. He sends them a list of soulmates meant to meet that week, each pair of serial numbers complete with the time and location; all they have to do is map out their routes each day, show up at the correct place and time with the red soulmate strings, then let the latent magic floating in the fabric of the universe do its work. 

It’s mostly paperwork anyway, with the biggest part of their job being signing off on each pair after the soulmate strings tie themselves. He can’t complain; it’s been easy work for the past twenty odd years, the days slipping by like water between his fingers. Not a bad way to spend eternity. 

And it’s fulfilling too  – like what Zenji says, there’s something special in seeing bonds form between two people that are two sides of the same coin. It reminds him of–

Haku sets his empty cup down. Shakes his head to clear it. 

Subaru looks up from the book he is reading, but does not say anything. He picks up the teapot, instead, and refills Haku’s cup. 

Haku nods in thanks. 

The comfortable silence stretches out again, drifting like dust motes in the late morning light. It is only interrupted when Zenji arrives back home, banging his way through the entrance of their shared home with a triumphant, “Guess who I met on the way home!”

Haku cracks a smile. There is always something infectious about Zenji’s enthusiasm, no matter how tired he is. “Who?” 

“Towa!” Zenji exclaims. He sets his messenger bag on the table. “Still as floaty as ever. He rejected my offer to let him listen to my latest plot idea, though. It seemed like he had somewhere to be.” 

Subaru laughs. “He must have been heading to a binding. He’s still on morning shift, after all.” 

Zenji hums as he unzips his messenger bag and pulls out their soulmate lists for the week. “I told him he and Haru were welcome over for dinner any time. Don’t think he heard me, though.” 

Subaru nudges a freshly-poured cup of tea away from Zenji’s stack of paper. “I’ll text Haru. It’s been a while since we last saw him.”

And it has been – the last time Haku remembers seeing the red-haired ghoul was sometime two or three months ago in April. All five of them were slated to work a freshman orientation at a university, easily one of the busiest times of the year for the entire Yuelao organisation. Instead of going to his allocated location and waiting, however, Towa had just tossed all the red strings he had in his box up in the air, waved a hand, and trusted that all the strings would go where they were meant to go. 

Haru had cried at the logistical nightmare, then promptly banned Towa from holding the box containing their soulmate strings ever again. Haku wonders idly if Haru ever recovered from the stress. 

Zenji shuffles the stack of paper into three smaller piles, then hands one pile each to Subaru and Haku. They descend into silence, the way they always do with a new list, quietly setting virtual push-pins on their Maps apps to plan out their individual routes for the week. 

Haku is at the end of his list before he sees it. Tucked under entry number 85, his last pair for the week, is a single serial number, slid in at 5.17pm at a park in Meguro. 

He blinks. That’s not supposed to happen. Don’t they usually come in a pair? 

He waits until Subaru looks up from his own list before carefully highlighting the problem. 

Subaru glances over the strange entry, brow furrowed. “Must have been an administrative error. Perhaps whoever was compiling the lists forgot to copy paste the second serial number in?” 

Haku looks doubtfully at the lone serial number sitting at the bottom of the page. Administration has never made a mistake before. “Perhaps.” 

Zenji leans over, peering over his glasses. “My last one for the week is there too,” he says. “At 5.09pm. We can go together to figure it out.” 

Subaru rests his chin on his hands. “My day ends at 4.28pm. Shall we head there together? I’m curious to see what happens.” 

A wave of gratefulness for their wiling companionship slides a smile onto Haku’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, why not?” 

-

The end of the week does not come soon enough. 

They meet at the corner near the Meguro River as the summer sun begins to dip lower in the sky. It is a short walk to the park they are meant to be at, and along the way Zenji regales them with how one of his bindings this morning looked like it was right out of a romance novel. 

“Was it better than the one last week?” Haku teases, and Zenji laughs, bright and loud. 

“The one at the cat cafe? No, nothing can beat that! I could tell right away those two were meant to be, I swear.” 

The park they stop in front of is small, more like a playground than anything else. There is a small child sitting on the swings, blue push-popsicle sweating in his little fist. His feet barely touch the floor as he swings gently back and forth, looking around the neighbourhood with wide, curious eyes. 

“That’ll be him, then,” Haku says. He leans over to check Zenji’s list, then flicks his wrist to check the time. “Any minute, now.” 

Subaru sighs, smiling. “I love it when they find their soulmates young. It’s the best kind of friendship, isn’t it?” 

“Exactly,” Zenji coos. He tugs open his messenger bag to retrieve his box of red strings. “It’s always adorable. Goodness, I want to pinch his little cheeks… he has no idea what’s in store for him.” 

Haku snorts fondly at the two of them. Thank goodness they weren’t visible to humans – three strange men standing in a playground staring at a child? Never mind they still looked like they were in their mid-twenties, they’d be reported for kidnapping straight away. 

Before he can say anything, though, a slightly older boy rounds the corner on his bicycle. It is evident he is new to cycling, shiny orange bicycle wobbling from side to side as he banks hard to the right, trying to make too sharp of a turn. 

Haku barely has time to blink before the boy’s bicycle screeches too far to the right, flinging the boy onto the soft, packed earth of the playground. 

There is a teary “ow,” as the boy sits up, cradling a scraped knee. His hands are bloody, too, roughness of the ground having rubbed abrasions onto the skin of his palm. 

The boy on the swing slips off his seat neatly. He barely comes up to Haku’s hip. “I saw that.”

The boy on the floor whips around at the sound, scowling through his tears. “No, you didn’t.” 

“I did,” he confirms. His tongue flashes blue as he speaks. “It’s okay, though. My brother says it’s normal to fall when you just start learning. Do you need help?”

The older boy hesitates. “Maybe.”

As he helps him up, Zenji slides his box open, and lifts a single red string out of it. He blows, gently, and they watch as the thin thread rolls off the tips of his fingers and drifts over to where the older boy has just regained his balance. It loops around their arms and knots around both their little fingers, giving off a gentle glow as both ends seal, before disappearing. 

The only evidence that anything ever happened is Zenji’s beam as he scribbles a quick signature beside their serial numbers. “Lovely!” 

He clicks his pen closed before tucking everything haphazardly back into his bag, and they watch as the boys pick up the bicycle and begin to walk away. Subaru turns to face Haku. “It’s going to be 5.17pm soon.”

Haku looks down at his watch. Two minutes. 

He has barely retrieved his own box of strings out from his bag when a voice sounds out behind them – “Excuse me. Coming through.”

Time stops. 

It is a voice he can recognise anywhere, a voice he hears in the moments between closing his eyes and falling asleep, one he hears echoing through the threads of his dreams and nightmares alike. It sinks into his skin, past the beat of his heart and the pulse of his nerves, and fills his veins with a feeling he does not quite dare to describe as hope. It sends tremors down the tips of his fingers; it calls open a rift in his memory he has never attempted to heal.  

He turns around, almost mechanically, and sees you. 

-

You swear to every deity there is that if the universe has a reason it’s making you late to your part-time job today, it better be a fucking good one. 

First the trains weren’t running as frequently as they were supposed to, then there was an issue with the gantries malfunctioning at the station exit, then you dropped your bottle and had to run after it for a bit to get it back and in the process missed the green light to cross the road… and now, finally on the home stretch to your employer’s place there are three fucking idiots standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking your way. 

You huff. Your employer better be flexing their omniscient powers to read your situation – what for work for a minor god if they make you relive every tiny inconvenience to explain why you’re fifteen minutes late to your job? 

(Never mind that they’re actually incredibly nice and don’t really care when you head in for work as long as you get their paperwork done.) 

“Excuse me,” you call out. “Coming through.” 

All three men whip around. On their faces are various states of astonishment, frozen almost comically in their surprise. 

You’re about to sigh and push forward, when you suddenly notice the colour of their eyes. 

Shit. 

They’re not human. 

Fuck. 

You send a quick prayer to your employer. Hopefully they’re listening – the last time you ran into another supernatural being he made you look for his glasses for two hours before receiving a call saying he left them at home. 

You don’t generally mind helping minor deities here and there, honestly, especially not since they bless you right after for your help. Most of them are really nice. In fact, you’d even say you’re used to doing little things for them, having grown up with the Sight and being able to see supernatural beings for most of your life. But these three don’t look like they need any help, and you’re going to be late to what you know is going to be a mountain of paperwork and— 

You think the tallest one might be crying. 

Ah.

Before you can ask if he’s okay and if they need any help, something bright and glowing rises from the box one of them is holding. 

It elongates, spinning itself slowly mid-air, one end gliding over to you like it has found its target. The other end floats up to the man with green hair. As you watch in bewilderment, it gently wraps around both your little fingers, then tightens with a flash of gold. 

It sends a searing pain through your arms, a shock that slams the air out of you and turns your vision an inky black. 

-

You are standing on a wooden porch, shade of dripping wisteria providing you a little shelter from the grey drizzle. The quiet patter of the rain is only interrupted when someone calls your name, a soft summoning that fills you with warmth. You turn your head to see the brown-haired man – Subaru whispers into your mind, like his name has been there all along – smiling at you. Tea is ready, he says. Come inside. 

You are looking down from the top of a long staircase, closely packed torii gates lining the path down. The stone steps beneath your feet are faded with age, but the red of the dates are vibrant, almost as if they were recently painted. The blue haired man in front of you turns, grinning brightly; his ruby eyes sparkle in the dim light as he extends his hand backwards. Zenji – the flash of his name brings along with it a swell of affection. Come, my dear, he says. They’re waiting for us. 

You are sitting on a cushion laid out on the porch of a traditional Japanese house, back resting against doors made of paper and wood. It overlooks a quiet garden that extends on all three sides; the peacefulness of the stone lanterns makes it feel like a secret you are bound to keep. Your legs are stretched out in front of you, covered by a black blazer with gold trim and pressed against the long legs of someone else. Your hands lay in your lap, fingers intertwined with his graceful ones. When you look up at the man with green hair, his eyes closed and dozing, something in you shifts like a sunbeam – Haku. His name is a cloud on your tongue, painting the inside of your lungs a new, different, golden sort of warmth. It tangles itself into the base of your throat, all tender and sweet; your heart aches with a fondness you’ve never thought possible. Haku. 

You are dangling your feet off the edge of a dock, watching diamonds of moonlight dance off the ripples in the water. Translucent fish float lazily around your feet, drifting in invisible eddies only they can see. An arm is curled behind you as you lean against someone’s shoulder; you don’t have to look up to know the giddy feeling running through your veins is because of the soft kisses Haku is dropping into your hair. He raises his hand to brush your cheek, to tilt your chin up to face him. You watch the monochrome of the moon wash his eyelashes a silvery grey as he dips towards you, before your eyes flutter closed at the gentle warmth of his lips on yours, languorous and insistent and exploring. How lucky you are, you remember, to be able to love him like this. How lucky you are, to have him love you. 

You are pressed up against the back of a door, your shirt half unbuttoned and blazer long discarded somewhere on the floor. Haku’s hands are everywhere, mouth hot on the hollow behind your ear as your fingers scrabble against the buttons of his vest. Princess, he groans, all teeth and tongue on your neck as he slips a leg between yours. Please. And you acquiesce, as you always do, melting into him under the deftness of his fingers and the heat of his breath. He hangs stars on the ladder of your spine and his name on the roof of your mouth; you dance in the fire he lights in the kiln of your hips. You think, as he pulls gasp after gasp from the scorch of your skin, that if it is for Haku you will burn yourself inside out, if only he asks. 

You are sitting - no, lying - in a pile of rubble. There are flames licking up the walls around you, ghastly bright and smokeless, unending despite the rain that seems to be pouring around everything else. You are dimly aware of how close the flames are to you, but the burning that flickers from under your skin is infinitely more unbearable.   

There are sobs above you from the figure who has pulled you into his lap, cradling you in his arms and shielding you from the rain; you barely need to open your eyes to hear the guilt leaking out each breath Haku takes.  

“Don’t cry,” you rasp. Some part of you recognises the irony, given the tears staining your own cheeks, but you raise a heavy hand anyway, thumb brushing the wetness away from his cheeks. It is hard to form words. You hope Haku understands. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. He are shaking uncontrollably, tsunamis rolling off the tense slope of his shoulders. “I should have tried harder—“

“No,” you say, again, this time a little more vehemently. The scratch of your throat worsens, but you no longer have the strength to cough out the petals that have lodged themselves in your lungs. 

You want to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, it was never his fault, that he has done nothing but try as hard as he could to break your curse the moment you stepped into Darkwick. He has spent so much of himself making your final months lovely, and even now with the walls crumbling around him he still has not let you go. 

I’m sorry, you want to say. For meeting you on the train that day, already like this, already cursed. For not meeting you earlier in this life, from the beginning already too late. For being filled with flower and fire, even though all I want to be is filled with my love for you. 

But it is getting hard to breathe, and it is getting dark, and you are so, so tired. 

“Wait for me,” you say, instead. You tilt your face into the palm of his hand, and inhale the last of his scent as best as you can. 

When you gather the strength to speak again, your voice is an oath made, fierce and low, carved into the ache of your tears. You look up at Haku, your love, your light, radiant even in his grief, even as your vision is blurry and fading. “We’ll meet again, I promise.” 

I will look for you in my next life, and the next, and the next, until we meet again. I will look for you in every lifetime. Now that I have tasted how sweet a happy ending with you can be, I will turn my back on fate over and over again, if only to meet you one last time. 

-

You blink, and suddenly you are back, gasping for air as an ache cracks open in your chest, gaping and yearning. 

You are vaguely aware of the wetness on your cheeks, and that the tallest man – Zenji – is openly bawling now, but the moment your eyes meet his the rest of the world blurs. 

Haku. 

He has not moved, you think, all hesitance and incredulity, frozen with the helplessness of a man who has wanted so much for so long but has only dared to hope for so little. His gaze shines with unshed tears, disbelief wrapping itself taut around the clench of his fists, like he is trying not to reach out for you, trying to keep the spark of his skin from setting your world ablaze again. 

But, oh, in this life you’ve been raised fireproof, heart forged into a glass-clear that sings for the sunset of his hands. In this life, you are not on a train, you are not too late, and you are not filled the potency of a curse but the promise of a happy ending. 

We’ll meet again, I promise. 

You take a small step forward. The red string wound around your finger ripples, flashes gold in the evening light. 

“Haku?” 

[everythingne]

double dealing: two wheeler (ls2)

there's no real need for you to get on two wheels--considering logan's four work just fine. but it comes in handy sometimes (requested by @dozyisdead, thank u love!!)

double dealing verse / last logan installment

notes/warnings: this delves into more of the 'double dealing' esc side of this whole little series sooo... illusions to planned car accidents, minor injury, smuggling documents

a call from Alex so late at night is unprecedented. Sure, its not the most random thing on the planet, but its odd considering you're not even in Austin yet. Zipping along the highway, you send him an auto reply message, a quick 'I'm on my bike, I'll stop and talk to you soon!' but the Thai driver doesn't seem to care.

He calls again. And then again, and by the time you've found a safe spot to pull off--down an exit ramp and in a gas station, he's called sixteen times.

It's two in the morning, so you park your bike to get gas anyways, and answer his incessant calls.

"Alex, what the hell is going on?" You huff out, poking the 'Regular' button on the gas pump as you hear the phone connect.

"Hey, Carrie... what highway are you on?"

Oh, motherfucker. You think, he's using codenames.

You shove the nozzle into the tank, clicking back the pump's trigger as the fuel pours out. It can't move fast enough, "Uhm... after I get gas, I'll be back on I-10, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, uh..." Alex sighs and you can picture the way he's gripping his shifter as you hear his car roaring under his voice, "Bandit's caught in the mix transporting some goods, we think there was either a mix up with Godfather's intel or if Payday's got some sort of bet going on."

You watch the price of the gas click up, your hand tensing as you wait for the meter to fill, murmuring to Alex, "Doesn't he have the newbies with him?"

"That's the reason we're calling you in." Alex's car screeches and you can imagine him Jersey sliding into an exit lane, "I'm with Lion and Shades, we're gonna divert the goods with Bandit, see if we can figure out what Payday and The Minister are doing. All I need to know is if you can fit the kids on the bike."

The loud clunk of the gas filling up has you slamming the nozzle back in its holder and closing your tank, kicking up your stand as your bike roars to life, "If Ollie can hold on to the other kid tight, then yeah, probably."

"Meet us at the Walmart in Manor--off 290." Alex says and you nod sharply, pulling out of the gas station. You're not far, like maybe twenty or so minutes out.

"Got it. See you in twenty." You say and end the call. You don't know Texas well enough, but luckily tou knew Manor was somewhat close by. You'd gotten off at Exit 720 for Brenham, following Highway 290 up to Austin. Originally planning to stop for gas and food when you got low, which ended up being in McDade.

McDade to Manor, twenty minutes roughly. But you were sure you could shorten that.

The streetlights pass in a blur of color as you dip between the few cars--and ride alongside the big rigs, in the mostly empty roads. You can't even really think, or breathe right, until you pull up alongisde three cars in the back corner of a Walmart parking lot. Which is.. painfully American. Alex's--or, Smokey's 1970 Pontiac LeMans, Max's--or The Lion's 1999 Subaru WRX, and finally George's--or Shades' 2000 Porsche Boxster.

"Here's the deal," George is quick to say as you click up your visor so they can see you better. You find taking the whole helmet off would be redundant. You'd just delay departure at that point.

"Bandit's got two newbies with him. They were supposed to be with Goss but he was out of commission. So, we figured since this is a low urgency run, it would be fine." George rubs his jaw and shrugs, "seems like someone caught wind."

"Which," Alex cuts George off, "makes no sense. No one should be going after this, it's a deal from the county police chief. If we do this run, they won't bother us with the racing, classic corruption shit, y'know? We do it everywhere, building rapport, doing favors, and what not."

Max nods, walking over to lean next to George, "Obviously, we don't want the kids--if you can call Franco a kid, I guess, in all this shit so soon. They're supposed to do the basic shit, the street racing, the parts running. Not this stuff. We also wouldn't pull you into this unless it was dire."

You nod. Logan had told you countless stories about 'ascending' through the ranks. How the most senior racers, like Fernando or Lewis, handled the most egregious shipments and situations while newer drivers like him or Oscar did base level stuff. You were also surprised to find out all of it is voluntary, and for a lifetime, when Logan did a run with Sebastian Vettel a few months back.

So, even if Logan went to Indycar or NASCAR, or wherever--if he was in the area and they needed him, and he wanted to, he would go.

"We need to get Franco and Ollie out of that car. They aren't even really indoctrinated into this all yet." George hums, "The others in the area are on a bigger drop, or just not able to come out. Hence, why we reached out to you."

"You know Bandit's driving style well." Alex hums, "and while we distract Payday and whoever's with him--I think it's... Minister, we should be able to get him to a secure location and pass the kids to you."

Max eyes your bike carefully. You can tell he's not too keen on the idea of shoving you and two lanky boys on one bike, but it's all you have. He hums, then murmurs, "Can you even fit with two of them?"

"It'll be a tight squeeze and not at all safe but... I think as long as they hold on we can make it work." You eye your bike, having absolutely no idea how to make it work, "If possible, could we do it somewhere close to a drop off point?"

"Yeah." George nods, "I can call Hotshot again and see if he's in Austin now can swing by and take them from you... probably somewhere between Austin and Cedar Park. Bandit's southbound, maybe twenty minutes out from Cedar Park now, so we should get moving."

You nod, "So I'm just trailing Bandit?"

"Pretty much." Alex nods, "stay close, follow hand gestures. We'll have to get you a radio to communicate with us for next time."

"If. There's a next time." Max hums, then nods his head to his car. George quickly follows suit, but Alex pauses to give you a fist bump.

"We got this. Don't worry about it." He smiles. As the cars roar to life, you follow suit, and out of the highway the four of you go. Just a year ago, when you had been in Australia with Logan and Oscar, when you'd gotten all tangled up in this... you hadn't owned this bike. But afte expressing your love for highspeeds and the feeling of the wind rippling across your skin, you'd sold your car and bought the bike.

Less practical, sure, but a hell of a lot more fun. Plus, Logan's car could fit your suitcases and whatever you needed for traveling, so it didn't matter to you.

The three cars in front of you move at perfect speeds, and at Alex's command, you all go dark and slowly exit off to 183, where Logan should be travelling southbound. Luckily, you are able to spot him zipping down, two cars hot on his trail. The first car dips in, a sporty Porsche Cayman, and nearly knocks the back of his car.

Logan dodges, but nearly skids into the gaps in the guard railing. You don't want to imagine it piercing his car, but you can't help it.

You grit your teeth as Alex turns on his lights and dips across the grass median with Max behind him doing the same. They bound acorss, but perfectly time slipping into the gaps in the guardrails right behind where Logan's speeding down the highway--Alex nearly plowing into the side of the Porsche.

George stays on the other side of the road and signals for you to follow him off another exit. Blowing two red lights--and praying that this run is successful so that won't come to bite you in the ass later, you end up about two miles behind Logan and the rest.

Pulling up alongside George, he waves for you to stay back, and peels forward. You stay within eyesight, but hold off a few hundred feet. You can see Alex has put himself between the Porsche--which you think is Lance's, and the Toyota 86 you know is Checo's. All three cars are a bit dented up, you assume from the cheap shot pit maneuvers Lance was attempting.

Max comes up alongside Checo, and through hand gestures, you see the Toyota come back, falling alongside George. And you're waved up. You come between the two cars and a small parcel is handed to you from Checo, and you toss it into George's passengers window--very precariously, before backing up again at your cue. You don't want to think of what it is.

Looking ahead, it seems like they're having a harder time getting Lance to get off Logan's ass, and so you drift off to follow the right hand lane as they see what they're doing.

Eventually you realize they're trying to box Lance into the left lane. Max splitting the lanes in the front, Alex on his right side with Logan ahead of him ready to peel off, and George and Checo holding up the back in the back.

You can imagine the radios filled with excessive swearing as Lance nearly ramming into the back of Max's car is met with George tapping the back of his car.

Finally, Logan dips off to an exit and you gun off, following him and glancing aside to see George swerve big time to avoid Lance just absolutely obliterating the side of his car. You follow down, flicking your headlights off when Logan does. Your heart is in your throat as Logan merges off into a side street and slows down significantly. You boht move, only lit up by streetlights, before coming to park under an overpass.

As Logan's car slows to a stop, you glance back behind you. Other than houses and trees, the area seems vacant. Logan's car shuts off and you follow suit, propping your bike up on its stand and throwing your leg over as you clamber off it and watch the three across from you.

"You guys alright?!" You shout and the three nod. Logan helping the two climb out of the back seat. Even in the hush of the back road, there's a lot of tension from Ollie and Frnaco, the two almost jittery as Logan slams the drivers door closed once they've gotten out.

You can't blame Logan for being pissed, the lives of two kids who weren't even really involved was in danger.

You take off your helmet, setting it on the seat, and make your way over to where Logan's popped open his trunk and is digging in it for something. You look over to where Franco and Ollie stand off to the side, murmuring amongst themselves, then back to Logan as he places his helmet in your hands with a bit more force than needed.

Unluckily, you catch a glimpse of what he's been asked to smuggle--a few guns, semi-automatic weaponry you try to blink out of your eyes as the trunk slams shut. It's the loudest noise in the area, other than the hum of someone's air conditioning unit down the side road.

"You can fit them?" Logan asks gruffly and you shrug, reaching out to intertwine one of your hands. A soft, soothing rub of your thumb along his skin as you hum out your reply,

"Don't have much of a choice."

Logan lets out a low whistle, and you can imagine when there's more time and more context, you'll talk about the whole thing during a late night drive. Probably back home in Florida.

"We both need to get moving." He murmurs and you nod, pulling him closer by the hand for a chaste goodbye kiss, and you're both murmuring at the other to be quick and safe. The night chill on your hand is more prominent when Logan lets go, making his way back over to his car.

Opposite of him, you make your way over to Franco and hand him Logan's helmet. Ironically, it fits well enough. So you shove your helmet on Ollie's head.

"Listen," You point at them and challenge them with your best attempt at a stern, motherly tone, "I have no idea if this is going to work, but you two need to hold onto me like you will die if you let go, because you will."

Your phone buzzes, and you look down to a text from Alex. 'District park nearby, go there.'

You quickly plug the address into your phone, luckily the place is only fifteen or so minutes away. Logan starts his car and you wave him on as he peels off into the night, and after four or five attempts, you manage to squeeze both Ollie and Franco onto the back of your bike. Driving much slower than you usually would, you take the backroads to the park, and are delighted when you see Lando waiting outside the gates.

It's a bit of an adventure getting them both off again, and as you kill your bike and pop it onto the stand, Lando claps, his voice chiming with his hysterical laughing, "I'm impressed no one fell off!"

"i almost did!" Franco complains, popping Logan's helmet off his head and shaking out his hair, "because Ollie can't sit up all the way!"

"I had nowhere to go!" Ollie whacks Franco's arm, and as you watch, you can't help but laugh to yourself. It's just absurd. How the hell did you get all tangled up in this? You have a feeling it won't be the last time.

After the Austin GP, you're sitting on Logan's trunk. Your bike is parked alongside his car, the modernity of your bike somehow working with his older bodied car.

"Ay!" A voice chimes and you glance over to where Ollie jogs over with an almost happy hop to his steps, very much like a puppy, "guess who finally got a callsign!"

"A radio nickname," A much slower Charles Leclerc trails behind Ollie, but pauses at the sight of your bike and whistles, "Nice two wheels, Logan."

Logan hums in confusion before looking at what Charles is ogling, and you can't help but giggle at the mans shock when Logan informs him the bike is yours.

"I wasn't aware your girlfriend was cooler than you." Charles smiles, crossing his arms, and Ollie launches into the story of fitting him and Franco onto the back of the bike. And now, you feel like Charles thinks bikes are death traps a little bit more, just judging the white sheen that crosses over his face in the track lights that illuminate whatever race is going on.

"Did you ever figure out why Payday was on our ass?" Ollie asks Logan, and you watch your boyfriend sigh, leaning on his trunk and smiling at Ollie.

"I did, yes.." He trails off, glances to Charles, and then out onto the track, "we'll call it... bad faith and bad intel."

"Come on, I've got a name now! I should get to know." Ollie complains, and you smile as Alex and George drag Lando and Oscar over, laughter ringing in the air. These were the moments with the racers you loved the most.

"You're just a driver." Charles hums, giving Ollie a whack on the arm in good faith, "Not even a runner yet, Ollie. Don't get a big head about it now."

Ollie nods, a little bashful, and is quickly swept off in conversation with the group about what car he's gonna get and 'not-tracks' they want to take him on to see how he can drive out on the highways. Logan pats your thigh to gain your attention, and when you glance over, Alex hands you a little box--inside, a kit for a motorcycle radio.

"We convinced Max." He smiles, "Welcome in Carrie."

You smirk, giving Alex a fistbump as Logan leans into your side, the night stars twinkling above, the rumble of cars zipping by on bet fueled races. Nights like these you could get used to. But you might need to invest in a side car or something.

double dealing taglist (open!)

@colmathgames2 @sialexia

general tag list (open!)

@d3kstar

[gunaerystargarygun]

The brain worms continue to infest my brain.

Posted on Ao3, but posting here as well: Here's my contribution to the Stan x Reader genre.

Tags: Vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, porn with mild plot, c'mon you guys know me at this point.

Know When to Fold 'Em

"Thanks for all your help, you're doin great, dood!" Soos's voice is full of pride, contentment as you hand over small zipped bag, the profits of the day. You smile, giving a slight shrug of your shoulders. "Soos, you've told me that every day for the past two years."

"And I mean it every time! Can't imagine runnin' this place without ya," he beams at you, his crooked smile making your own smile grow a little larger. Despite him being a few years younger than you, he makes a fantastic boss. "Can't believe Mr. Pines thought you was gonna be useless when I hired ya."

Well, that makes the smile drop.

You met Mr. Pines, well, both Mr. Pines when you got a job here at the shack, cashier and handyperson. A little odd, yes, but you needed the job and for a tourist trap? The place paid well enough, you could afford a small house and just about everything else you needed. You tap your foot, pressing your lips together. "Soos, not that I don't appreciate the words of encouragement, but you don't have to be up here." You throw a thumb over your shoulder and gesture to the shack. "I'm sure Melody could use your help with the baby."

"You sure? I feel kinda bad leavin' you here with all the clean up and restocking." Just as you're about to assure him that you're more than capable of restocking bobble heads and putting out minimally designed bumper stickers, the doorbell chimes and another voice breaks in. "Don't worry about it, Soos. I'll make sure everything gets put back in its place." The old Mr. Mystery poses in front of you. He stands tall, a rather tacky Hawaiian shirt with luau girls and surfboards plastered on it, a pair of khakis completing the look. He stretches his arms out in a flourish, making his entrance more grand.

You roll your eyes slightly, it's the same every time he comes into the shack, which...has been quite a lot, recently. "I haven't had a complaint once," you remark as Stanley begins to look around the place.

"That's cause Soos is too nice of a boss," he says, running his finger along the underside of the checkout counter. "See all this dust? Unbelievable!" He sticks out a finger towards your face, which you squint at.

"There's nothing there."

"To the untrained eye, maybe! This place may as well be covered in mud." You grumble an unhappy sound before Soos speaks up again. "Ah c'mon, Mr. Pines, they're a great worker!" Soos' arm comes around you in a one sided hug, squeezing you tight against his side. "Say, you been around a lot." Soos relaxes his grip on you, which lets you take in a deep breath. "You miss runnin' the shack?"

"What? No, no." He waves a hand dismissively. "Just makin' sure my life's work is still up and runnin', you know. Plus, the kids loved this place."

That was true. You had the pleasure of meeting the twins at the start of this summer. The girl, Mabel, was charming as all get out - she even made you a sweater, which you promised to wear in the colder months. The young boy, Dipper? A little surly. You swore he was running tests on when you weren't looking, or was trying to, anyway. At least by the end of the summer, whatever anxiety he had about you seemed to wash away.

"Okay! I'm gonna trust this place to yous guys. Lock up!" Soos waves his goodbyes, disappearing from the gift shop and somewhere into the house.

"I can handle this, you know?" You make your way to the small storage closet, taking out a box and ripping it open.

"I'm sure you can," he shrugs his shoulders. "Just makin' sure you do it right." Stanley then makes his way behind the register and takes a seat. You stand, blinking.

"What?" He asks.

"Aren't you going to help?"

"Huh? Oh, no, I'm not helpin' like that. I'm supervisin' ya," he laughs, slapping his own knee before propping them up on the counter.

You don't know why you expected anything different. You've known Stanley for the better part of two years and while he certainly has his redeeming qualities, being extra helpful isn't one of them. You sigh, and begin unpacking the restocks.

To your surprise, Stan is the one who strikes up the conversation. It's simple questions at first, how the shack has been, the types of tourists that've been coming around, and how Soos has been running the place. Whenever you think you finish with an answer, he probes for me, and you notice, his eyes stay on you a large majority of the time.

You feel your face flush a little with that.

Finally, the restocking is done, and you get the broom. Minimal housekeeping; the weather has been dry, so no mud. "You got any plans tonight?" The question catches you off guard, making you turn completely around to face Stan.

"Uh, other than eating a frozen pizza? No. Why?"

"Wanna play a couple round of cards?" He stuffs his hands in his khaki pockets, shrugging, as if he doesn't care how you answer the question. The way he shifts his attention to the floor, however, makes you think otherwise. "Ford's out on a nature hike, or whatever it is that nerds do in the woods, so I got no plans myself."

"Sure." You answer. "Sounds like fun, and beats eating the pizza alone."

By the look of quick surprise, he clearly wasn't expecting you to say yes. He shrugs it off fast enough, shooting a finger gun at you. "Perfect! What's the address? I'll be over at seven." You grab a pen and paper, scribbling it down and passing it over.

Huh, this'll be the first time he sees your house. You think that you better clean up a little bit, not that you think he'd particularly care, but still.

It takes very little to actually clean up your house. A few stray pieces of clothing that make it to the hamper (you missed each time you threw it in, but who's here to see?) and washing a few of the dishes. Just as you finish putting the pizza in, there's a knock at your door.

You hurry up, stopping at the mirror in the hallway just before the door, and look at yourself. You smooth out your shirt, nodding and opening the door.

Stanley stands on your porch with a twelve pack in one hand and two bottles of liquor, held precariously by the neck, in the other. He's still in the same outfit from earlier, but the top few buttons are undone. Were they like that earlier? "Figured it'd be impolite if I only brought it for myself," he shrugs the pack in his arm a little, the bottles clinking together. He glances around. "Nice place."

"Thanks," you say, stepping to the side and letting him in. "Just set it on the table." You watch as he strides through your house, the pack of alcohol landing with a thump while the bottles settle down nicely. He pulls out a chair, easing into it as he props up a foot on one of his knees. The way he leans against the table...

"Where's the cards?" You clear your throat, sliding out a chair across from him and taking a seat. You need something else to distract you.

"Right here," he sticks a hand in his pocket and pulls out a rather beat-up-looking deck of cards and slaps them on the table. "You shuffle, or me?" You eye the cards for a moment, reaching out and grabbing the deck.

"I will." The cards are pleasantly worn, and you can't help but wonder how much use these things have gotten. "Go easy on me? Been a while since I played."

"First rounds are on me," he nods. "Don't try and pull the wool over my eyes." He playfully points an accusatory finger at you.

"I know, I know." You cut the deck, shuffling them thoroughly before dealing them out.

It's...pleasant. You didn't expect it to be unpleasant, to be fair, but aside from the one off times of drinking, there's a handful of times when the two of you have been alone together. Stan takes the time to tell you a wild tale of when he was a "much younger buck,"  when he managed to steal a shipment of some undisclosed items from a smuggler. It's amusing, even if it isn't real. You can never tell with him.

Eventually, the oven dings and the pizza is ready. It's served, and you bring two glasses out as well. Before the beer, Stan reaches for the liquor and twists off the cap. "Want one?" You press your lips together, thinking for a moment.

"Hit me." It's a guesstimate on how much a shot would be. Or maybe two.

Either way, you wait until Stan pours his before clinking your glasses together and downing it. Whiskey may not be your go-to, especially when it's warm, but the burn in your throat has a familiar comfort. You cough a little, shaking your head and nodding. "Strong." You comment.

"That's the point." He says. Stan sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers as a sign to hand the cards over. You do, still reeling from the shot as you fish out a bottle of beer. It goes down much easier than the whiskey.

You try very hard to not stare at his hands, but it's difficult. It wasn't something you noticed immediately, but Stan's hands are.... big. Large. Pretty much every synonym for big is how you would describe them, and you vaguely recall the one time you touched them as you passed him something in the shop. They were rough, calloused, but also incredibly warm.

You're not drunk enough to blame that thought on the alcohol right now, so you just push it from your mind as he deals the cards.

Once again, things go back to being pleasant. You nurse your beer as the cards continue to get played, one bottle quickly multiplying between the two of you, along with the cash piling in the center of the table. The conversation steers to him telling you about the adventures he had with the Twins, an endearing tone in his voice that you can't help but smile at. The pizza gets devoured, and when you glance up to the clock, you realize that it's almost eleven o'clock. Have you really been here this long?

That's when it clicks in your alcohol muddled brain.

Stan is lonely. He's been in the shop almost every day for the past week, since the twins left, and even before then, he and the twins were around quite a bit. It would make sense, he went from being around them, his brother, Soos's family, and you for almost three months straight. You look down at the cards, your focus fading for a moment before he speaks.

"Think I mighta run you outta money," he gestures to the table. Your attention turns to it and yeah, there's a decent pile of cash on it. You're pretty sure there's also monopoly money in there, but you're a little too drunk to really notice. "Got anything else to bet?" You think for a moment, tapping the table.

"M'clothes." You answer, plainly. He stares at you.

"Uh, didn't quite catch that?"

"M'CLOTHES." You say it in a louder tone, making sure he can hear it this time. "S'all I got, I'm not up for bettin' my appliances." You point at the blender that sits atop the counter.

"C'mon," he rubs at the back of his neck. "That'd involve me takin' my clothes off too, you don't wanna see that."

"What if I told you that's why I suggested it?" holy shit, why are you saying this? Why are you suddenly so bold, what the hell is in this drink?

"I'd tell ya, you should stop teasin' an old man." You grab the deck of cards, shuffling them in the absolutely worst way ever before slamming them back on the table and pushing them over to him. "Deal 'em."

"You're too drunk for this." The rather sincere reply catches you off guard.

"No, I'm not." You say, stern in your rebuttal. "Look." You jump to your feet, a little wobbly, and begin putting one foot in front of the other, walking a line in the linoleum of your kitchen. While you're not walking perfectly straight, you're doing better than expected. You think so, anyway. "See? I'm f-" just as you're about to finish your sentence, you perform the miraculous feat of tripping over air. You fall a freshly logged tree.

You expect to crash to the floor in the most painful crash since the last time you went to the roller rink, but you never meet the ground. Slowly, you open your eyes, staring up at him. You must have spun in your fall, his hands tucked under your armpits. "What were you sayin' about bein sober enough?" Oh, he's so fucking smug about this.

"I trip on nothin' all the time, drinkin' doesn't have anything to do with this." you weakly shrug your hands, but this close, you catch the smell on him. Mixed with the alcohol, you can catch the scent of cigar smoke, but something faintly woodsy and earthy. It takes everything in you to not sniff at the air. "Uh-huh." he chuckles.

There's a brief moment of silence that passes over the two of you. He doesn't make a move to pull you up, but you're not making a move to get up, either. Instead, you raise a hand and gently press it against his cheek. "You're handsome." You mumble.

"Oh, you're fuckin' wasted."

That makes you twist in his grip. You manage to push yourself to your knees, putting your face just a few inches away from his. "Stop talkin' like I don't mean it."

"You don't mean it."

"I mean this." You grab the sides of his tacky Hawaiian shirt and pull him forward. Your lips crash against his, not realizing how hard you pulled him into you. The scrape of his stubble burns against your chin, a slight shiver running through you. There's the faint taste of tobacco that lingers on him, the chapped skin of his lips. It isn't how you expected this to happen, but to be quite frank, you didn't think this was ever going to happen.

It's only a moment later that you realize he hasn't made a move to kiss you back. He hasn't done anything. You quickly pull back, embarrassed. Why did you do that? God, you're never drinking again. You're not even an alcoholic, and you're planning to go to a 12 step program the second you get sober enough to drive. Your mind races - where else could you move? Maybe the Arctic, right? That's far enough way, that way you c-

You're actually not even far away from him before his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his broad chest. You squeak in surprise, hands resting on his thick thighs as he deepens the kiss.

Even through the clothes, he's hot, almost like a furnace. He's burning against you, and this kiss. It makes you dizzy, head spinning. There's a hunger in the kiss, a desperation that you don't think you've ever felt when you kissed other people. His hand holds a tight grip on you, squeezing your side, and you practically melt right into him.

It's a little awkward at first before you two manage to change your positions; neither one of you is keen on breaking the kiss. Eventually, you end up sitting on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, he sits on the kitchen floor. Shifting, you can feel the hardness of his cock beneath the fabric of the khakis.

Your hands reach for the hem of your shirt. They don't make it far, Stan's hands gripping your wrist. He's somehow even stronger than you expected, your stomach flipping at the pressure. He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours, panting. You're expecting him to say something filthy, something that's going to make you squirm in his lap.

"Say your alphabet," is what he says instead.

What.

"What?" You ask.

"Say your alphabet," he repeats. "Not sleepin' with ya if you're not in the right state of mind."

"I walked, didn't I?"

"You fell."

Okay, fair enough.

So, you recite your alphabet. It's deliberate, and it's not too slow to cause any concern. As soon as you finish, he releases your wrists and grabs your shirt. It's the fastest your shirt has ever been removed, Stan's face immediately between your tits as soon as he's able. The stubble scratches as your skin, laughing slightly as he plants kisses against your chest. His hands reach around to your back, and you expect him to have trouble with it.

It's off before you can even blink.

"You're suspiciously good at that," you say.

"Aww, you jealous?" He laughs, sliding the bra off and tossing it somewhere behind him. "Don't worry, ain't nobody else gettin' the treatment you are."

"That's what you tell m-" you're cut off, Stan's tongue flicking against your nipple.

"Sayin' somethin', sweetheart?" He glances up, not giving you a chance to speak before he presses his mouth against your left nipple. You grab his shoulders, squirming against him as his tongue swirls around the hardened flesh. One arm wraps around your waist, grinding you against him while his free hand finds your other breast, kneading the flesh in his hand.

Your body feels like it's on fire under his touch. He plays with how much pressure he can put on you, rolling a nipple between his fingers while he sucks mercilessly on your other. Sweat beads on your brow, bucking against him while whimpering sounds escape you. "C'mon, sweetheart." He takes his mouth away from you, the cold air assaulting wet flesh. He playfully bucks his hips up, his cock grinding against you for just a moment. "Wanna hear what a good job I'm doin," he changes the arm that holds you against him, his other hand rising and brushing against the spit slickened skin.

Between the cold and his rough, calloused hand, you feel like you're already on the edge. "You aren't done already, are ya?"

"N-no," you mumble, tilting your head back and moaning as his mouth closes around the other nipple. Judging from the way his tongue flicks against your skin, he certainly appreciates the reaction. The way he sucks against your skin is greedy, teeth nipping at the skin. You're going to have bruises, you've accepted that. Your hands move from his shoulders to his hair, running through the gray, surprisingly soft, hair.

Using everything you can muster, you grind yourself against him. He groans against your skin, the grip on your skin tightening. He pulls away from you with an obscene sound, the words practically a growl in his throat. "Where's the bed?"

"Down the hall, last door on the right."

He gives pause for a moment, thinking. "Too far." He decides, aloud. Before you can process what he says, you're suddenly scooped up. You wrap your arms around him, tits bouncing as he hoists you around him. You leave the kitchen, and in a few feet, you're tossed unceremoniously on the couch. Your hands find the button of your jeans, getting them half way down your thighs before Stan takes over. They're off before you can even blink, Stan settling between your thighs. He picks one up, hooking your leg over his shoulder while he presses a thumb against your soaked panties.

You're already trembling, and your entire body jumps as he presses his thumb against your clit, rotating it in small painfully slow circles. He leans over you, grinning. "You want somethin'?"

"You know what I want," you breathe, fingers gripping the couch cushion.

"'Fraid I don't, sweetheart. You're gonna have to tell me." He lets up on the pressure, eliciting a whine from you. "I want your fingers," you reach out, gently touching his arm.

He's happy to comply. "Wasn't so hard, was it?" There's that smug fuckin' tone in his voice again. You expect him to pull off your underwear, but it doesn't seem like he's patient enough for that. Instead, he pulls them to the side, his middle and ring fingers sliding up and down against your wet cunt.

"W-wait!" You sit up some as he presses against you. "It's, uh..." you clear your throat. "It's been a while." You feel almost embarrassed to admit it, but with how thick his fingers are, and two of them? You don't wanna run the risk of getting hurt. He pauses, offering just the middle one to you in compromise. You make a face, and he laughs before he raises the finger to his mouth. He presses it against his tongue before dipping it back between your thighs. "Don't think that would've been an issue," you murmur as you feel him begin to slide into you.

You tilt your face against the couch arm, moaning as he buries the finger inside of you. "Bein' careful doesn't hurt," that's true, and you do honestly appreciate the sentiment. He moves his hand in a steady rhythm, the other hand keeping your legs spread apart. You bite your lip, and after a few minutes, he judges that you're ready for another and adds the ringer finger inside of you.

It's thick, and stretches you in the best possible way. "Feels good, don't it?" He leans over you, his face just a few inches away from yours. You don't know why it slips out - maybe you lapse back into what you were taught when you were younger. "Y-yes, sir." You pant the words out.

Stan's fingers stutter for just a moment before he thrusts them back into you, a moan immediately muffled by his lips against yours. He curls his fingers in the same way as before, the way that made your body shake like a leaf in his hand. "Like the way that sounds comin' outta you," he says the words against your neck, pressing kisses against your rapid pulse.

You can't handle it anymore. "Stanley," your voice teeters on the edge of breaking, fingers twisting in the Hawaiian shirt fabric. "F-fuck, Stanley, I-I.." the words die in your throat as he suddenly removes his fingers from your cunt. "W-what?" The words come out a whine, grabbing the shirt tighter and moving your hips to try and find his hand. "Stan," you groan.

"I can't have you all tired out before we get to the good stuff," he tells you. His hands move to the belt, making quick work of it. He slips off the khakis, positioning himself between your legs again before pressing the shaft of his cock against you, sliding against the slickness. You look between your legs, the head of his cock dipping in against your cunt before his hand tilts it up, bumping against your overly sensitive clit.

You're dizzy, just like before. Your head swims, biting your lip as he teases you constantly, angling himself and barely pushing himself in before pulling out. "You're lookin' desperate, sweetheart." He does a poor job of concealing his own desire, unable to take his eyes off your body. "Fuck, you're drippin'." He grins at you. "Still got it, huh?"

You suddenly brace your arms against his shoulders, pushing him back against the couch and straddling his lap. "You talk too much," the words come out in one rushed breath as you reach between your legs and grab the base of his cock, holding him steady as you bury him inside of you. A stifled moan escapes you as your body adjusts to his size. One hand grabs your waist, stilling any movement you might make, while the other grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "You alright?" You nod your head, your lips slightly pursed from how he squeezes your face.

"Good," he breathes, releasing your face. His hand drops to your chest, holding your breast. As soon as you roll your hips forward, Stan can't keep his mouth shut. "Shit, fuck," his eyes are half-lidded, head resting against the back of the couch as you ride him. "You're tight as a fuckin drum, and hotter than hell." You smile, bracing your hands against the couch as you snap your hips forward, rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Both of his hands are on your tits, thumb brushing over the nipples. "Perfect," he mumbles out. Sweat beads across your body, Stan's hand eventually traveling downwards and finding your clit again. The moan rips from your throat as the calloused finger pads press against you, an almost aggressive rub against you - but it's exactly what your body wants. "There ya are," he practically purrs the words out as you lean down.

Your lips catch his, sloppy kisses without much care, as long as you can kiss him. Your burning in every sense of the word, body and nerves as Stan grabs your ass, timing your movements with his own thrusts. He somehow manages to go even deeper inside of you, each thrust sending another wave of pleasure through you. "Stanley!" His name is barely above a whisper as he suddenly pushes you back against the cushions, back on top of you.

He takes a leg, hiking it over his shoulder and leaning over you, your body curling slightly. His pace is merciless, whatever words you had before devolving into incoherent moans of pleasure as they spill from your lips. It's when the orgasm wrecks your body that you swear to God, you see literal stars in your vision as you cum. Your body tenses, nails digging into his forearms so hard that you're a little worried you may draw blood. Stanley, somehow, has enough sense to pull himself from you, his cock sliding against you before he cums.

Thick, milky ropes land on your stomach and tits as he slows his thrusts, breathing heavily before slumping down over you. You're catching your own breath, a hand raising to his back and gently running up and down the now sweat soaked shirt.

"You good?" He asks, his voice somehow hoarser than before.

You can't really respond, offering a thumbs up in response.

"Huh, fucked you so good you lost the ability to talk huh?" Weakly, and playfully, you slap him.

"Asshole." He snorts, removing himself from you and sitting back against the couch. He looks at you. Then the mess on you. "Where's your shower?"

"Bathroom, which is in the bedroom." You yawn. Stan picks the boxes out of his khakis, sliding them on before bending beside you. "Put yer arms around me," you stare at him a moment. "C'mon, before I change my mind." You do as he says, looping your arms around his neck as his hands slide under your sweaty body, hoisting you up.

"Not too much for you, is it, old man?" You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I can still drop you, ya know?"

"Mhmm." You mumblr. He feigns the drop, your grip tightening on him.

"Gotcha." He winks at you, but at this point, you're too tired to really fight back. Stan manages to open the door to your room and find the bathroom, setting you on the closed toilet. He reaches into the shower, turning the knobs and keeping his hand in for a moment. "You want it on the hotter or colder side?"

"Uh, hotter." The question catches you off guard.

"Figures, every woman wants it hot as hell." He adjusts the knob behind the curtain, taking it back and shaking off the water. "What?" He asks, raising a brow as you make a face at him.

"Just, uh..." again, you're trying to avoid sounding like an asshole. "Didn't expect aftercare?

"I may be a lot of things, and one of those things may be an asshole, but I'm not that big of an asshole." He sets his hands on his hips and you can't help but snort a giggle. "Up." he tells you, offering an arm. You stand on wobbly legs, leaning against him.

"Not sure how this is gonna work." You admit. "Kinda feel like a newborn deer."

"I'm gonna help you," he says. "Also, get a new metaphor."

"That's a simile."

"Oh, look at me, I paid attention in English." He mocks in a joking tone. "Just.. stand here." You do as your told, watching as he unbuttons his top and shakes it off, revealing the sweat covered girdle that's still wrapped around his waist. "You kept that on the whole time?" That's...kind of impressive.

"Done a lot more uncomfortable things, sweetheart." He says. He drops the girdle on your bathroom floor, gesturing for you to get in the shower. You do, Stan offering his arm for support as he follows you in shortly after. He keeps an arm around you, just below your breasts, in case you slip.

It does make you feel safe. You take the washcloth, soaping it up and slowly begin to scrub your body. The hot water feels amazing on your tired body, breathing in the smell of your soap and shampoo. When you're happily scrubbed, you turn in Stan's arms. "Your turn." You say.

"What?"

"You need to get clean too," you tell him. You don't let him protest, reaching over to your shampoo and squirting a pump into your palm and scrubbing it onto his scalp. There may have been a moment of protest, but it falls off quickly. His eyes shut, letting you work as you comb through his thinning hair. You take a few steps back, turning as carefully as you can so that he's under the stream of water. You work diligently, ensuring all the soap is off before you apply the conditioner and repeat it. He's strangely quiet the entire time, and yet you notice, he's relaxed. It's the first time you think you've ever seen his body this loose.

You grab the washcloth again, soaping it up again before pressing it against his chest. Now that there's no risk of soap in his eyes, Stan cracks one of his eyes open and looks down at you. "You're sweet, y'know?"

"Mhm." You hum in response.

"Seriously," he says. His thumb and forefinger catch your chin, tilting you up to meet his gaze. He leans down, the kiss tender, soft.

There's no intent behind it than affection. Somehow, it makes you feel hotter than what happened in the kitchen. You know you have the dopiest smile on your face, but at the moment, you don't care. You drag the rag over his body, his stomach, everywhere you can as he holds you close to him. When he's finally rinsed, he turns off the shower and carefully helps you step out. A few towels later, you're dry, warm, and exhausted.

You have a few oversized t-shirts that you used to clean the house in, and you manage to find one that fits Stan. There's no way he's making it home tonight. In your own pajamas, you climb into bed as Stan sits on the side of it. "Oh this thing is way comfier than your couch, no offense." He tests the springs, looking at you. "Maybe next time we'll make it to the bed."

"I'll hold you to that," you laugh. "Not tonight, though."

"What a shame," he winks. "You, uh, actually fine with me sleeping in here?" You're getting comfortable beneath the sheets, resting your head on the pillow.

"Stan," you start. "You were literally inside me. You can sleep next to me."

"You'd be surprised how often those two things don't go hand in hand," he remarks off-handedly. Your face creases in worry, about to sit up before he reaches out and pushes you back down. "Story for another day." He pulls the sheets back, sliding in beside you and staring up at the ceiling. A shiver runs through you, scooting closer to him and hooking a leg over his. He raises an arm, putting it behind you so that you're able to rest your head against his chest. "Don't get used to this," you know he doesn't mean a word of that.

"Goodnight, Stan." You stretch, placing a kiss on his cheek. You settle back down, shutting your eyes.

Gently, you feel the ghost of a kiss on the top of your head. "Goodnight."

You fall asleep to his heartbeat, something you think you'd enjoy getting used to

[python333]

what's a noise to an eardrum? — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis you've been on a mission for a while, and instead of going back to your quarters after coming back, you head to ghost's.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters simon "ghost" riley.

word count 2.2k

warnings ghost's pov, 2nd person pov [you/your/yourself], sleep deprivation, bad cliches, bad writing, might be ooc

note hey gang!!! i think i got all the warnings since this is pretty lighthearted considering what i usually post, so enjoy :) lmk your thoughts!

Ghost was sitting at his desk―in his own sleeping quarters, since it’s technically past curfew and he doesn’t need any trouble from recruits about him being in his office after hours, the annoying little shits―typing away at his computer, trying to get a report on his latest assignment done before going to bed.

He’s had a little bit of trouble sleeping lately. Not to say that it’s your fault, but it’s definitely your fault. He doesn’t necessarily need you around to go to sleep, but since you volunteered for a mission a week ago, he’s been a little on edge. Originally, it would’ve been Soap and a few other sergeants heading out to a small town in some country down in Central America, but you took the place of Soap after Price had explained the mission. 

It could technically be done by one person, he’d said in short, but it’s quicker to send out a squadron than a single soldier.

You weren’t the best sniper they had, but you had enough experience with it for Price to approve of you going with one other person to keep watch of you. The long duration of the mission was really to be blamed on how often your target had been moving, leaving you with little room to take any shots. It wasn’t too important of a mission, however―as long as you didn’t miss your target in the end―so Ghost is sure Price is glad that he only had to send out one soldier instead of around six or seven.

Still, despite how there was little to no chance of you coming out of this mission in multiple pieces, Ghost found himself worried; something he, admittedly, feels for a lot of the soldiers here. His worry for you is different, though. Maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe it has something to do with how he’s seen you grow over the years that you’ve been here, and how close you’ve gotten to going from a Private to a Lance Corporal. It’s a relatively low rank for someone in the 141, which only makes him―dare he admit it―prouder. A weird feeling lingers in his mind when the word proud comes to mind as he thinks of you, but he ignores that feeling, instead opting to focus on the report he so desperately wanted to finish.

Despite his usual sleep aversion, he finds himself wanting to sleep for once.

Just as he gets to the middle of his report, he hears a knock at the door. Before Ghost can even say anything, he hears the door open, and his head whips around to see who would decide that it’s a good idea to enter his room without his permission. Though, all of his confusion and building anger dissipates the moment he sees that it’s you. Fresh from medical, he can safely assume, seeing the various bandages and bruises on you, and that odd too-clean smell that’s sticking to you. You look so exhausted, it’s almost funny. Almost. 

You close the door behind you and Ghost turns his head back to his laptop. It’s not that he doesn’t want to look at you, but it’s a little harder to when you look so disheveled. He hears a few footsteps, then the squeaking of bed springs, and a sigh before the rustling of bed sheets. In the faint reflection of his computer screen, Ghost can just barely see you getting comfortable under the covers of his bed, seeming to fully disregard his presence. He doesn’t mind, though. He gets it; that feeling after being on guard for so long, not sure how much of it you can let down even though you’re back on base, and that strange structureless feeling where you wish you had bones but only feel like flesh. 

It’s odd, put simply. When Ghost thinks of the feeling, he thinks of the age-old question, if a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? The feeling is like a constant questioning of what you’re experiencing, the wonderance of whether or not you can feel safe if the safest you’ve ever felt is a feeling lost somewhere beyond you. If you lose a feeling, was it ever felt? If you lost safety, were you ever safe, or, as Maslow would put it, were you always missing that basic need? Ghost knows plenty about missing safety. He knows that his mind blanks when he tries to think about the last time he felt safe before the 141. 

He knows that you know plenty about missing safety, too. Not a lot, because you never say enough to clue him in on just how much you’re missing, but he has his suspicions. Some are confirmed, others mere theories, but still―he knows you well enough. That’s why you’re in his room, not saying a word, just breathing heavily into his pillow and trying to garner warmth from his blanket. He can see you staring at him from the bed. He’s sure you want him to say something, and because it’s you that’s looking at him, he does.

“Back already?” Ghost asks dryly, drawing a small huff out of you. 

“Soap said y’missed me,” you reply, making Ghost scoff, “when he visited me in the infirmary.” 

“Too big of a mouth on ‘im,” Ghost saves the draft of his report, deciding to just save writing it for another time, instead closing out of the program and hovering his finger over the power button on his keyboard, “don’t know how y’managed to understand him.” 

You hum and sit up in Ghost’s bed, the blankets rustling again, and as Ghost’s screen goes black, he turns around to see you sitting up with the blankets wrapped around you like a jacket. He blinks at you, before raising an eyebrow at your position.

“Ruinin’ my blankets?” he asks, though sounding barely offended, “After walking in unannounced besides that little knock?”

“Ruin’s a pretty strong word,” you argue, “and it wasn’t a little knock. It was loud. Practically echoed off the walls.”

Ghost can sense your sarcasm from a mile away, but continues to play along, leaning back in his chair. You look a little more tired covered in blankets, he thinks, those dark circles under your eyes are a little more pronounced. He sees them a lot. Those darkened semi-circles that he used to think were just a part of you, some kind of skin condition, but later realized they were a product of your sleep deprivation. It would’ve been his first thought had he not always seen you with the bags under your eyes, but after going on leave with you―a few months ago, back to his small house, after you had admitted that you preferred staying with him to going back to your dingy apartment―and witnessing you getting proper rest, seeing those circles get a little lighter, he knew that it was more of a sleep issue. 

He’s gone through his fair share of sleeping problems. He still goes through them; everyone in the military does, he’s sure. Ghost used to think that he took the brunt of it, compared to the rest of the task force, not because of the missions but because of what came before the missions. He’s changed his way of thinking since then, has opened up his mind a little more beyond the idea of suffering more than someone else in a specific sense, but he still had that feeling that he took on the majority of nightmares. The word “nightmare” feels a little juvenile for him, but until someone creates a better word for the repulsive things he sees after closing his eyes and just barely drifting asleep, that’s what he’s stuck with. 

“You better hope y’didn’t wake anyone up with it, then,” Ghost hums, “I doubt anyone wants to be awake right now.” 

He sees a small smile grow on your face and small spots of blood arise from beneath the cracked skin of your lips. 

“Everyone here sleeps like a rock as far as I know,” you reply, before pausing, considering, “maybe except for the guys who came in a few weeks ago.”

“I’m sure they’ll be gone by next month,” Ghost tells you, his tone almost reassuring, “I don’t think they can handle any of… this.” 

“You don’t think they can handle your bullying?” you scoff, making Ghost huff out a small laugh, “Weak.” 

“Not everyone’s as strong as you, unfortunately,” Ghost hums sarcastically, getting up from his chair and walking the short distance over to his bed where you’re sitting. Automatically, you move so that Ghost can sit down next to you.

You’re both silent for a little bit. Ghost can see the few healing bruises on your face a little clearer here. Small dark yellows and reds on the sharper points of your face, the parts where the bone is a little closer to the skin, particularly your cheeks and a few over your jawline and near your chin. They’re a bad look on you, not because Ghost doesn’t think you can handle yourself, but because he knows that you can handle yourself, so the only way you could’ve gotten those bruises is if you were forced into a corner. He would consider that they were an accident, somehow self-inflicted, but he knows better than that. 

“Are you tired?” Ghost asks, even though he knows the answer.

“I haven’t slept in a few days.” There it is.

“And for the few days that you did sleep?” He thinks he knows the answer to this too.

“I don’t know if you can really call it that.” Bingo.

It’s not surprising to him. Not only has he been on enough missions with you to know how hard it is for you to sleep outside of the base, but he’s managed to get you to actually tell him about your sleeping struggles. He knows. He watches you subtly kick off your boots, letting them fall over onto their sides, as if you could read his mind and know what he’s going to request next.

“Lay down,” Ghost puts a bare hand on your clothed shoulder and lightly pushes at it, prompting you to lean back onto your side, settling into the bed with the blankets still wrapped around you.

Ghost doesn’t mind the lack of blankets he’s getting. As long as you’re the one hogging them, he finds it easier to go without them, strangely enough. He lays down onto the bed next to you, his head naturally above yours, and neither of you bother to change positions. He doesn’t attempt to pull the blankets from you, and you don’t try to move away from him, the both of you simply existing together in one small space with nothing interrupting you two. A thin layer of air, similar to the blanket covering you, seems to cover the both of you, not trapping you together but instead comforting the both of you. The air feels woven from Ghost’s thoughts, yarn strewn from his cerebral cortex, emotions run through an invisible loom to create the beautiful quilt that covers the both of you. 

Ghost’s hand comes up to thumb at the edge of his balaclava, and he pulls it up the tiniest bit, but then pauses to think.

He knows that if you just turn your head up the tiniest bit, you’ll see his face. The blonde stubble peeking out from under his skin, the small dent forming in the middle of his nose from the constant wearing of his balaclava, and possibly the most embarrassing of all, that small smile he wears that pulls at his already cracking lips that draws blood on occasion. Despite all of this, he pulls his face covering all the way off, and tosses it onto his desk. Your face doesn’t move an inch despite how obvious it is that some kind of fabric has hit the desk. 

He considers saying thank you, but Ghost doesn’t deem it necessary. You’re so close to sleeping that he doesn’t want to risk ruining your chances by talking to you. So, instead, he just brings his arm over your side and lets his hand reach up into the nape of your neck to toy with the small hairs tapering off there. They’re short enough that he’s essentially just brushing his fingers against the skin of your neck, but he assumes you don’t mind, considering how you continue to not move. You stay still peacefully, soft breaths leaving you as your body starts to actually relax.

So you weren’t lying about your lack of sleep, he thinks, his own eyes slowly closing, not that I thought you were, anyway.

Your breathing creates the perfect white noise to him. The vibrations emitting from your larynx that escape your mouth reach his ear canals, where they bounce off of his eardrums, and move down from his middle ears to his inner ears where the nerve endings that live there turn the vibrations into electrical impulses and are translated by his brain into actual sound. The translation sounds like more than just a simple sound, though; it’s like your breathing is translated into actual words rather than breathing, words like safe and guarded. Those small vibrations bounce around in his ears and turn into syllables, then eventually whispers, then firm speech. 

Those words are like music to his ears, as cliché as it is, and he cherishes every word he hears―more than he’ll ever let you know.

[0x-cinder]

Zoro and fem!reader are having a drinking contest and a barely sober reader ends up dancing with an arrogant stranger.

Trigger Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mild references to sex, non-detailed descriptions of vomiting.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦. 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

"I wasn't Jealous!"

"Give up, swordsman, you'll never beat me!" you exclaimed.

"No shot, Princess!" The swordsman barked, downing his third beer of the night, "There's no way I'm letting a woman out-drink me!"

With a determined look in your eye, you waved down the bartender and ordered your third drink, "Watch me."

Zoro laughed in response and followed your lead, requesting another beer.

The rules were simple—a drinking contest where the loser had to help Sanji with the dishes for a week. You didn't plan on losing, so you made sure to choose a punishment that Zoro would despise.

However, after watching you down your sixth drink of the night, Zoro began to think that accepting your challenge may have been a bad decision, especially because you started swaying just after the fourth round.

"Alright Princess," he said sternly, leaning in so that you could hear him over all the noise inside the busy tavern, "maybe you should call it quits for the night."

"I will do no such thing!" you exclaimed, shaking your head profusely, "not until you surrender!"

Zoro paused, weighed his competitive spirit against the thought of carrying you, blacked out, back to the Sunny…

It was a short walk to the docks. You'd be fine.

Taking his silence as a refusal to yield, you waved down the tired-looking bartender and ordered another round.

A few minutes later, you felt the sudden urge to use the restroom as seven rounds of drinks finally reached your bladder. You stood, steadying yourself against the bar.

"Be right back," you slurred to the swordsman before making your way across the tavern towards the lady's room, putting a great deal of effort into appearing as sober as possible.

Zoro chuckled as he watched you stumble away.

You joined the Strawhats three months ago when the crew docked in your hometown for supplies. Zoro and Luffy stopped for a drink at your father's bar after being chased by an angry shopkeeper for "scaring away paying customers." Luffy caught you scribbling a story on a napkin behind the bar and, after sneaking a peak at what you'd written, decided you'd be the crew's chronicler, responsible for documenting the Strawhat's "glorious adventures."

The swordsman didn't talk to you much at first, but he soon got used to your presence as his crow's nest became your favorite writing spot. He'd noticed that you'd stop writing to watch him train sometimes and found himself pushing harder to impress you. Then, after a close run-in with the Blackbeard Pirates, he convinced you to let him teach you how to wield a sword. His chances of losing you were significantly lower if you were armed.

The bartender slid a glass of water across the bar, snapping the green-haired man out of his thoughts.

"For your friend," he winked, "You'd better give up soon, the poor lass is going to drink herself sick."

The green-haired man figured the barkeep was probably right anddecided to "give up" for your sake once you returned. You'd probably be too hungover to remember it in the morning, anyway.

Yet, 5 more minutes passed. You still hadn't returned. Zoro let out an exasperated sigh, no way she got herself stuck in the bathroom he thought.

Zoro crossed the tavern floor and lifted his hand to knock on the bathroom door.

Before his knuckles hit the wood, however, the door swung open to reveal a woman who looked nothing like you. "Wrong one, handsome, the men's is over there," she said, gesturing towards a door down the hall.

Zoro didn't respond, too focused on soothing the mild panic rising in his chest. The woman gave him an odd look before maneuvering around him and disappearing into the crowd on the dance floor.

Where the fuck did she go? He thought, How on earth did I lose track of her?

The swordsman circled the tavern's main room, his anxiety growing with every face he spied that wasn't yours.

Just as he started to get the horrible feeling that you'd somehow left the bar without him noticing, he caught a glimpse of you near the center of the crowd of dancing bodies.

Eyes locked on your position, Zoro pushed through the crowd to find you dancing in the center of it all. His panic eased, relieved to have found you, but anger quickly took his place as he noticed the hands of an unfamiliar man wrapped around your waist, guiding your hips with his to the music, holding you too close for the swordsman's comfort.

The stranger spun you around, and your eyes met his. Your smile widened. "Zoro! There you are,∼" you shouted, pushing away from your dance partner and stumbling towards the swordsman, "I wondered where you'd gone!"

"Hey, you disappeared on me, Woman." Zoro argued, pushing his index finger against your forehead.

You took his hand and spun around, "Whatever. Come dance with me∼"

"I don't dance"

"C'mon∼" you snaked your arms around his neck, pushing yourself against him.

Zoro felt every inch of his body grow warmer at your touch; his mind ran blank for a moment before he reminded himself that he should probably get you home. He gently pushed you off of him, "You've had a lot to drink, maybe we should-"

"Don't waste your time with this killjoy, sweetheart," A voice sounded over your shoulder. Your dance partner appeared behind you, reaching for your left arm, which now hung loosely by your side. "Come hang out with the fun people∼"

Zoro couldn't stop the glare that spread across his features as the stranger gave your arm a slight tug, which, in your unstable state, was enough to make you stumble right into him. The man caught you, arms pressed tight around your waist to provide as much stability as he could without falling to the ground with you.

You gave him a sheepish smile. "oops, sorry."

"You're welcome to fall for me any time, darling." He winked.

Zoro felt rage start to seep back through his veins.

"Alright, princess, time to go. You're gonna hurt yourself and I promised Nami I'd return you in one piece," the swordsman said sternly, reaching for you.

The stranger leaned closer to Zoro, still holding you firm against him, "C'mon man, don't be a cockblock." He said with a smirk.

Zoro's blood reached its boiling point. Before he could stop himself, he swung his already clenched fist straight into the bastard's face, propelling him backward. You would have gone flying with him if Zoro hadn't caught your wrist and pulled you back.

Your stomach heaved at the sudden commotion, and the room spun as you hunched over and vomited, barely missing Zoro's right foot.

The swordsman didn't give you a chance to recover as your former dance partner stood back up, red in the face with anger and humiliation. Not to mention the bartender, who was making his way around the bar to catch whoever was disturbing the peace.

Zoro scooped you up and dashed out of the tavern. Of course, he would have loved to stay for the fight, but he didn't want to risk getting you caught in the middle of it, especially in your heavily intoxicated state.

Once he was certain no one was tailing you both, Zoro turned into an alleyway and set you down, where you proceeded to hurl the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. The green-haired man sighed and pulled your hair away from your face as he waited for you to finish.

Once your stomach was empty, you stood. Still a little dizzy, but at least the nausea had subsided.

"Better?" Zoro asked, removing his hand from your hair.

"Much better."

"You shouldn't dance with strange men." He chided.

"And you shouldn't punch people just because you're jealous."

Zoro felt his face flush. "I wasn't jealous, woman."

"Yeah you were." you teased, pointing a finger into his chest, "I was just having fun and you punched him because you were jealous." you smiled, drawing out the syllables in the word "jealous" just to tease him.

"Remind me never to let you have more than three drinks ever again."

"And remind me never to make you jealous again." you giggled.

"I was not!"

"Were too∼"

"Why would I care who you dance with!?"

"I don't know, you tell me∼"

"I can't because I don't!"

"Then why'd you punch him?"

"Because he just wanted to fuck you!"

You both went silent. You'd been so focused on the argument that you hadn't realized you'd been moving closer to Zoro with every retort.

You held his gaze and a devious grin spread across your lips, "And why does that bother you so much?"

Checkmate.

Zoro remained silent, but he didn't pull away from you. "I-" his eyes flickered down to your lips. For a second, you were sure he was going to kiss you.

"Forget it." He sighed, smelling the alcohol on your breath; kissing you while you were like this would make him no better than that bastard in the tavern. He started to back away, "You're drunk, you don't know what you're-"

"I'm sober enough to know you want to kiss me."

The swordsman froze, heat rushing to his face, "I-" he stuttered, looking away. Your eyes were tempting him, and he was desperately trying to keep his composure.

"Am I wrong?"

"You're drunk." He was so close you could feel his breath catch in his throat.

"But am. I. wrong?"

Unable to hold back any longer, the swordsman closed the gap between you, pushing his lips firmly against yours. Sparks of heat rushed through your body as you kissed him back, placing your hands on his chest as his came to rest on your hips.

The kiss started slow and sweet, almost cautious. You'd never seen Zoro treat anything as gently as he was treating you; it made your stomach flutter. You slid your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. He responded by snaking his hands around your waist and pulling you closer. His movements became more desperate as he pushed your body against the wall of the alleyway. You moved your hands into his mossy hair, and he groaned, pulling you tight against him as if you were going to disappear the moment he let go. You smiled against him and bit his bottom lip playfully. He went rigid for a moment before breaking the kiss.

"Slow down there, princess. I don't want-" he stumbled to find the right words. "I didn't mean to-"

You looked up at him expectantly.

He stepped back. "Fuck. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath and another step back, "I'm sorry."

"You're missing a crucial difference, swordsman." You hummed, ruffling his hair.

"What do you mean?"

"I actually want you."

He stood for a moment, stunned by your words, letting them sink in.

"You…want me?"

[kitkat13001]

✶⋆.˚ 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎

>> xiao x adeptus!reader

>> reader and xiao are old friends

though adeptus xiao maintains a semi-permanent residence in the attic room of the wangshu inn, he spends most of his time abroad hunting monsters. the room itself is plain in nature, only bearing a small bed, straw mat, a nightstand, and a small table in the corner. the basic necessities for living—though with the bareness of the room it’s hard to tell anyone does stay there. 

xiao does not have any true home. wangshu inn is merely a place he goes to rest once he’s done his job. 

xiao has grown used to his solitude—so much so that when you show up on the roof of wangshu inn he’s surprised. he’d forgotten his existence wasn’t null to everyone.

he’s flooded with memories as you hug him and smile so brightly, just as greetings with an old and dear friend should go. it takes a moment for xiao to even muster up a hello. after all, it’s been decades since he’s even seen you. but every time you smile it feels as though no time has passed at all. 

you need a place to stay, you explain, since the mountains became too stuffy and you decided to explore the world on your own. you'd ended up in the plains of liyue and sensed an incredibly familiar presence. upon your questioning of locals and being told of ‘some mysterious figure who lives in the attic’ and ‘a spirit who fights monsters in the hills’ you knew it was xiao and had come to see him. 

the first few days are a little odd. you come and go as you please, leaving xiao’s things untouched and spending most of your time down in the inn or out and about in liyue. xiao maintains his normal schedule of hunting and fighting monsters. he only returns at night (sometimes not even then), and by then you’re fast asleep in his bed. it makes it a little easier for him to crawl in beside you, knowing you can’t see his burning red cheeks.

but slowly, things begin to change.

xiao comes back one night, and his bed is made. strange, because verr goldet ensures no one go up in the attic to clean or any other such task. his bed is never made unless xiao himself makes it (which he never does). 

upon further inspection, the covers on the bed are not even his. in place of the plain white sheets is a fluffy white comforter and pale blue throw blanket. there’s two pillows instead of one. 

it’s your doing—that much is clear. but when he’d agreed to let you stay, he didn’t think you would seem so comfortable in his space. with him. and he didn’t think he would be so content to allow it. 

the changes don’t stop at the covers. in fact, the entire bed is replaced with a larger, more comfortable one the next time he’s home. when confronted, you just shrug and smile a devious little smile, telling him that it’s easier to upgrade the bed to fit both of you than to go out and find yourself a whole separate bed. your eyes gleam with satisfaction at the red dusting his cheeks. 

after the bed, there’s a rug. an ornamental rug with swirling patterns in your favorite color. xiao nearly scoffs when he sees it. you could never resist buying anything in that color. that much is proved when a tea set painted with that same shade appears on his little corner table. he just sighs a little. tea would go well with almond tofu, at least. 

other things begin to appear in the little room. despite it filling up, the room actually feels bigger. cozier, maybe is the word he’s searching for. strange, because ‘cozy’ is a foreign word and feeling to the mighty adeptus xiao.

a mirror in the shape of a heart, a set of candles, a ‘prettier’ nightstand. curtains, more rugs, paintings, calligraphy. 

things you’d picked up at the market, or while you were at the harbor. each addition always came bearing some kind of funny story or anecdote that you're all too happy to recount over almond tofu and sweet tea. 

you don’t mind, do you? you always ask, big eyes fluttering and lips pouting. and xiao always says no. and strangely, he means it. 

over the span of just a few weeks, the room is practically unrecognizable. it looked like a nice liyue apartment instead of the attic of an inn. it looked like a home. 

and xiao finds himself coming home every night, no longer staying out in the plains so late. taking days to rest at your insistence. having evening tea with you on the roof. 

you travel together now, xiao ever so hesitantly agreeing to go to the harbor with you. just this once, he says. only at night, and in the least crowded parts. and you agree with a smile. 

you’re sitting on the docks, legs swinging over the edge and watching the moon reflect off the water and ships disappear over the horizon. 

xiao looks over at you for a moment, and his breath hitches at how breathtaking you look in the moonlight.

eyes shining and reflecting the glowing sea, hair dancing in the slight breeze, lips settled into a soft smile. 

xiao comes to a realization that night, as you drag him around by the hand as you laugh, taking him to all of your favorite spots. 

it’s not the attic that feels like home, cozy as it may be. it’s you. 

[erendur]

Tragic heroes, and why the sons of Fëanor are the heroes of the Silm (ok, the Finwëans)

A few rambling thoughts on the respective merits of Doriath vs the Fëanorians/Finwëans, differences between LOTR and the Silm and different types of heroes.

We can all agree that LOTR is about small, ordinary people, who against all odds manage to defeat Evil thanks to their courage and moral qualities. LOTR’s universe is quite simple, morally wise : there are the good guys, who have their weaknesses but a lot of courage and an infallible moral compass, and the evil ones, who have no redeeming qualities, and in fact no human traits at all (Sauron is an Evil Eye ; he is served by faceless wraith, at times riding monsters, and is served by armies of non-human monsters). We are offered a very brief glimpse of a slightly more complicated picture morally, when we see the Easterlings (human, non-dead servants of evil, and we are made to wonder what motivates them to serve Sauron), but it’s only a parenthesis. The heroes have weaknesses of course, they are afraid, and it makes them great, but they are all morally upright, and right. They rarely, if ever, makes mistakes, and they are rarely, if ever, wrong (especially morally).

The Silm is another beast entirely. It’s not a story about plucky underdogs defeating Evil, it’s a mash-up of genres from creation myth to mythology to epic to, uh, magical ladies and their magical talking dog. 

But I think that, overall, the Silm belongs to the tragic genre, and deals with tragic heroes (a Christian tragedy with a side of Fall, but I’m not going to get into that).

Tragic heroes typically have several characteristics : they are important people (royals, people in power) ; they make bad decisions, and suffer because of them, while not being morally evil ; they often make mistakes (and suffer) because of hybris (pride, arrogance). They have great potential, but make a mess of it. They have flaws, but are not evil. 

We, as readers/audience, are meant to sympathise with them. “You’re only saying that because they’re hot”. Yes, duh. They are princes and kings and they’re hot and talented, and then they make bad decisions and they die. That’s the whole point of tragedy.

And I would argue that these characteristics apply to all of the main characters of the story. 

They all, Morgoth included, have great potential. Yes, even the bad guy of the Silm is not the pure Evil of Sauron in LOTR, he had the potential to be the best, but…pride and bad choices. He ends up being unredeemably evil of course, but it’s gradual,  and it’s a Miltonian Satan we have here (Milton’s Paradise Lost’s Satan is often described as the “hero” of the poem, a tragic one, of course), not the faceless pure Evil of LOTR (plus, he gets chased by a giant spider and has a door flung into his face). 

Fëanor is the greatest Elf ever; his sons start with amazing potential. Among the other Finwëans,  Fingolfin is the best at fighting, until he gets squished by Morgoth’s foot. Fingon is a true, galant hero, doing magical rescues and fighting dragons, until he gets slaughtered in battle and trampled under his foes. Finrod is “the wise”, who ends up fighting a werewolf to the death with his teeth after following an ill-devised plan to fulfil a silly oath he took (and he knew swearing an oath was a bad idea ! He told the Fëanorians ! He told Galadriel !).

They all make bad decisions, and mistakes, Valar included (oh dear, do they make mistakes ! And they know it !). Even the best of guys (according to the narration) made bad decisions : Thingol, Elwing and Dior all make the choice of hanging on to that damned Silmaril, with terrible consequences for them (Melian told them not to !). Obviously, Fëanor and his sons make the stupidest of oaths. Finwë gets remarried (Indis marries him). Turgon decides, for some reason, not to listen to Ulmo. Obviously, I could go on…

There are, of course, a few characters who do no wrong, but I would argue that they are very peripheral to the story :

There are, of course, the ones who suffer through no fault of their own at all : Elured and Elurin, the nameless people who get killed in Doriath and Sirion (wrong place, wrong time), the nameless, countless ones who are abducted/killed/tortured by Morgoth. But the Silm, like all tragedies, does not focus on these people (we’re only interested in Important People here, not the nameless victims of the decisions made by others).

Elured and Elurin are a pathetic touch, and tragic figures, but they are not the heroes of the story, just like Astyanax is not the hero of the Illiad (his parents and his killers are) or Oedipus’ dad is not the hero of Oedipus Rex. Or like, Desdemona is not the heroine of Othello (it’s Othello). I could go on (the princes in the Tower are not the heroes of Richard III !)

Galadriel is in the Silm like the characters that survive at the end of Hamlet : the only reason they are still there is because they didn’t do much, and do not matter very much to the story.

Eärendil is a a true, non-tragic hero, but it’s not his story.

The only characters that are given some limelight are the ones who get to make the decision that provokes their downfall. Some make bad decisions, but are not morally guilty of anything, and get rewarded by the narration. Elwing, for instance, gets enough screen time to flee from the Fëanorians in Doriath with the Silmaril, marry, have children, refuse to return the Silmaril, have her own personal tragedy episode II, then her almost-happily ever after because even though she made bad choices, she is not morally guilty of anything, and she can be rewarded by the story. Finrod gets reembodied quickly and reunited with his father (he’s only guilty of minor rebellion and is otherwise a great guy). Fingon took part in Alqualondë so I guess he’ll have to wait a bit more (but we don’t know, it’s all speculations).

Others are less lucky. The Fëanorians, obviously, not only made bad decisions but also committed atrocities, so no happy ending for them. Húrin and his children get awfully punished for transgressions not of their own will (murder, incest). They are, arguably, the most tragic of the lot.

The Tale of Beren and Lúthien is of course the antithesis of what I’ve just said, and I think that’s partly why it feels jarring for the non-fans. Tolkien knows it, who go like “and now, on a completely different tone amid all the tragedy and destruction…” 

Lúthien makes no wrong choice, ever, does not make bad decisions (except for insisting on wearing a Silmaril that makes her die more quickly, but that’s an aside). She’s a magical lady with no flaws (note that she’s not really given human qualities : she’s not brave or clever in any realistic way, she’s got magic instead), Beren is a great guy with no flaws who follows her lead. They swoop in into Angband (Boromir would have been livid), confront superlative odds (evil dark lord of all bad creatures Sauron, Morgoth in his Satan stage, death and destiny to finish with) and win effortlessly. There are a few moustache twirling villains (Curufin and Celegorm, who stop being tragic heroes to become the bad guys in a historical novel), Lúthien’s dad is against the lovers being together, but we know that they’re going to win in the end. They have a magical talking dog.

I’m not criticising people who love Beren and Lúthien (I don’t, I belong to the Jane Austen school of “pictures of perfection make me sick and wicked), but it’s a bit like if the action suddenly stopped in Othello or Macbeth to have a brief interlude of A Winter’s Tale. Of course A Winter’s Tale is great, but we were in the middle of something else. 

So, to finish with… The Silmarillion is all about tragic, flawed, tragic characters, who make bad choices (mostly out of pride) and are punished for them. So, of course, the Finwëans are like… poster boys for that.

I haven’t touched on the curse and fate elements there, but it’s another characteristic of Greek tragic heroes that they suffer as the result of a family curse, and Fate. In the Silm, both of these elements are present : there are references to fate, without much precision about the exact meaning of the word, and of course the Finwëans are under the effects of the Doom, and the Fëanorians of the Oath, without any of these two elements being explicitly defined and explained. We simply don’t know what the exact nature of each is (how magical, binding they are in particular). It’s another key element of tragedy, usually : the conflict between free will, the desire to do good, and the effect of a curse/fate, and to what extent the characters’ actions are informed/influenced by each of these elements.

I’ll just finish with the very obvious point that none of these people are real, and therefore nothing that they do “has to be”. Tolkien didn’t have to have the sons of Fëanor swear an oath (they could just murder because they think it’s expedient, or because they are bad) ; he could have shown us the sons of Fëanor attacking Doriath the minute they had a Silmaril, without negotiations ; he didn’t have to tell us that they sent a message to Elwing of “friendship yet of Stern Demand” ; he didn’t have to write about Maglor raising E&E, and he did not have to show us the last two sons of Fëanor, alone and having lost everything, driven to despair. He could have shown us the sons of Fëanor randomly attacking their neighbours out of greed, or cruelty. He could have written Elwing as a passive victim whose entire family was killed  without warning because her evil orc-like neighbours wanted to rob her of her family possessions (like, their OWN stuff)… But that’s not what he wrote. 

[problems-exe]

The Poem

The story of how Prim and Lu got together in the printerjamau

Wrote this a bit ago and decided it was about time I posted it. This is incredibly long, so I apologize for that, but for those interested in their story, I think it's worth the read.

Begins after the cut :]

The sound of the wind breezing through the desolate building rooftop does nothing to drown out the rapid beating of their soul.

Prim finds themselves sitting, not alone, but with a close friend. Listening to her ramble about the latest au she visited and the small bakery from which she had bought treats. The bag sitting at her side was long emptied, its contents having been eaten hours ago. Prim has found themselves a lot less alone lately.

Despite their best efforts, it's hard for them to focus on Lu’s rambles, distracted by the intense feeling of something in the air. Something about today felt distantly off. It wasn't unusual for the two to meet like this, a gift cradled in one of the skeleton's hands. But Lu had seemed so.. anxious when she asked them to meet. It was odd. She had seemed… flustered? Almost? But that wouldn't make any sense-

“Prim?” Lu pulled them out of their daze with the utterance of their name, a concerned and nervous expression on her face.

“Sorry, that wasn't that interesting, was it? I got a bit carried away…” She states, averting Prim's eyelights as a deep blush settles on her face, accentuated by the deep orangish-pinkish hues of the sun setting before them.

‘She looks so beautiful like this,’ Prim shoves that thought as soon as it crosses their mind, nervous glitches appearing up their body as they force themselves to refocus on the conversation again.

“Nah. Long day. Just zoned out.” Prim replies after a pause. A lie. And they know it's one. Their day had been fine, a typical day as any. They're always honest with her; why are they being like this now?

“Oh,” She sounded surprised, as if she had been expecting Prim to call her boring.

“I'm sorry, do you want to talk about it? I've been rambling on for a while…” She continues, looking back at Prim with a crooked smile. The usual squint of her eye sockets not present. Something was wrong. She'd been acting noticeably off all evening; they should have picked up on the pieces sooner. Prim was the worst person for something like this.

“Are- are you feeling alright? You seem.. upset.” Prim slowly gets out, thinking through the words before settling on them. Lu looks a bit startled at the question.

“I'm, um, yeah! Yeah, I'm alright, just-” She fumbles with her words for a moment, blush on her face darkening, and Prim's expression turns into a concerned frown.

“I wrote you something.” She continues, digging around in her bag for a split second before retrieving a clean, white envelope. Clasped shut with a cat sticker, the words “For Prim” written in cursive on the back. She bashfully presents the letter to Prim, and they momentarily gawk at it, carefully taking it from her hand. Careful to not get ink on it.

“You mentioned wanting to read one of my poems sometime, so..” *She adverts her gaze, voice trailing off at the end as Prim looks over the parchment presented to them. Their soul pounds in their chest, and they scramble to find balance in its weight. They stare at the small envelope, feeling deeply touched by the gesture. They reach to carefully remove the cat sticker before Lu's hands stop them.

“Don't, um, don't read it here. Read it when you get home. It'd feel embarrassing to watch you read it in front of me.” She states, with a nervous laugh, gently pulling her hands away. Prim nods carefully after a moment, slowly and delicately moving to place the parchment in their bag, careful not to bend it.

“I better get going now,” Lu interjects after watching Prim's bag close. They look up at her, surprised.

“Already?” They respond, concern still evident in their face.

“Yeah, I've got a long day tomorrow. I'll see you in a few days?” She responds, sounding hopeful, pleading almost.

“Obviously,” Prim responds immediately, worry still swirling in their chest.

“Right. Of course.” She states, as if reassuring herself.

“I'll see you then.” She continues, a tight smile on her face. She gives a wave of goodbye before disappearing into a portal, leaving Prim sitting alone. Surprised by the abruptness of it all.

They clutch at the strap to their bag, the featherlight weight of the envelope feeling heavy at their side. They're worried about what they'll find written in there. It's hard to fathom Lu acting so.. afraid over one of her poems. She'd sounded excited at the idea of sharing some with them when Prim had brought it up. Maybe she got cold feet? Even then…

Well, no point in speculating. They'll find out when they get home.

Prim sits for a moment longer, taking in the sunset one last time, attempting to calm their racing thoughts. After feeling more composed, they reluctantly rise to their feet, a tinge of anxiety gnawing at their chest.

Navigating through the usual motions of leaving a get-together like this, they slide one of their feet along the asphalt, leaving a trail of ink behind. They place their foot back next to the other, standing in place as the ink pools around them.

They begin to sink into the puddle, dragged into darkness for a split second before emerging in the cozy living room of their apartment, ink swiftly vanishing beneath them.

Taking a cautious step toward the nearby couch, they gingerly take a seat, pausing to take a deep breath. They turn their attention to the coffee table before them, using their hand to slide a few objects to the side, making room for the letter nestled in their bag.

Pausing once more to collect themselves, they carefully unfasten their bag, delicately reaching inside to withdraw the envelope. They stare at it pensively, toying with the small sticker that sealed it, a tiny yet almost taunting obstacle. They smooth the envelope with a thumb, using one hand to slowly and meticulously peel off the sticker, careful not to rip the parchment

They feel lost in their own little world, with nothing but themselves and the letter existing within the tranquil room. Unfurling the page from the envelope, they place the latter on the couch alongside them before setting the sheet down on the cleared space of the coffee table.

Their eyelights graze over the page, reading its contents carefully. It reads,

Prim,

I've written this poem for you to convey the words I've struggled to say aloud. I’m sorry for not finding the courage to tell you in person. As an artist yourself, I'm sure you understand that sometimes it's easier to express our emotions through our work.

I understand if my feelings aren't mutual; I know this must have come as a shock to you.

I just hope this doesn't change anything between us.

Yours Always,

Lu

Below this, begins the poem,

On a canvas brimming with vibrant dreams,

Where colors mix and blend with gentle grace,

I've etched our story, yours and mine,

In shades, that time will embrace.

Your smile, a brush of vibrant hue,

Turns every moment into radiant light,

And in your eyes, I find the clues,

To ignite my soul with a beautiful sight.

Each day with you, a masterstroke,

A blend of joy and true elation,

Your laughter dispels the shadows,

Bestowing me a profound sensation.

From twilight’s glow to dawn’s first rays,

My love’s a spectrum rich and rare,

In every shade, in every phase,

You're a masterpiece beyond compare.

With every brush and every stroke,

I craft a world where we could be,

A place where dreams and hearts intertwine,

A canvas created for you and me.

So I ask now, with hopeful heart,

To step inside this vivid scene,

To share a life, to play a part,

Will you be my love, my dream?

Prim sits in stunned silence, reading and rereading the words, page blurring as they attempt to process what they've just read. Lu likes them. Actually likes them. It's hard to comprehend. Why would Lu choose someone like them when she could have anyone she wanted? Lu's affection felt like a dream, too surreal to grasp.

The confession weighs heavily on Prim's chest, butterflies fluttering in their stomach. They're at a loss for words, mind racing with questions and uncertainty, but also a strong feeling of excitement that they can't push down. Their face turns a deep shade of cyan, magenta, and yellow as the realization sinks in. Lu likes them, and they like her. The words of the poem echo in their mind, evoking a soft smile. Despite being alone they start to feel embarrassed by their reaction, prompting them to pull their scarf up to cover their blushing cheeks as they read through the page once again.

A panic settles in as Prim suddenly realizes that they need to respond to Lu's confession. What do they say to her? Nothing they could say would come even close to matching what she had written for them. They never had been the best at expressing their emotions. But… Lu needed that right now. She deserved a proper response from Prim.

No wonder she had been so nervous earlier, she had poured her heart out to the inky skeleton. She's probably feeling as anxious as Prim does right now, waiting for their response.

Well, better not keep her waiting any longer.

They cast a final gaze at the poem before rising to their feet, letting their scarf fall from their face. They secure their bag firmly over their shoulder, one of their hands clasped around its strap. With unwavering determination, they proceed, ignoring their nerves.

They begin the familiar routine of creating a portal, their foot swiping across the ground with a trail of ink following in its wake. The ink gathers at their feet, pulling them into the encompassing darkness.

Upon emerging, they find themselves standing outside The Star Sanses’ base, as well as Lu's home. The Omega Timeline bathes everything in the glow of starlight, casting the surrounding area in a celestial glow. After countless visits, the building's layout is etched into their memory, allowing them to easily locate Lu's room from the outside, even in the darkness.

After a brief walk, they arrive at Lu's window, gazing up to get a glance at it. They can see her curtains partially drawn, revealing a few of her plants resting on the windowsill. Their nerves intensify as they turn their attention to the tall tree adjacent to her window. Taking a deep nervous breath, they begin the familiar climb. Despite having done this many times before, the weight of the moment makes their movements feel awkward and slow, taking longer than usual to ascend the tree.

Eventually, they settle on a sturdy branch, close enough to reach Lu's window. They pause for a moment, trying to calm their anxiety before tentatively tapping on the window and leaning back, waiting for Lu to open it.

Moments later, they catch a glimpse of Lu's face peeking through the curtains, her eyelights meeting theirs. Despite the dim lighting, her deep blush is unmistakable. With a soft click, the window unlocks and slides open, revealing Lu's head as she peeks through to see them clearly.

“What are you doing out here?” She asks, her voice filled with unease, a nervous expression on her face.

“Me too,” Prim responds quickly, their cheeks darkening as the words leave their mouth, realizing that their statement didn't quite make sense.

“...What?” Lu asks after a pause, her head tilted slightly in confusion, a slight laugh heard in her tone.

"I mean— I read the poem. Me too. I, um, I feel the same,” Prim stammers, avoiding Lu's gaze, turning their face away and tugging their scarf over their cheeks once more.

“Oh,” She breathes, surprise evident in her voice. There's another moment of silence, broken only by the chirping of the crickets and the rustle of the wind.

The air feels tight as the silence sits between them, Prim's soul pounding anxiously in their chest. They're starting to wonder if it was a bad idea coming here. What if they misunderstood the situation? What if they just messed everything up?

Gently, Lu's hand takes hold of Prim's arm, snapping them out of their thoughts; they timidly look up, finding Lu's gentle smile waiting for them. Prim feels the blush on their face deepen and forces themselves to not look away. It's hard to gauge her expression as Prim searches her face, but she doesn't appear to be upset. Lu tugs on their arm, and Prim understands the unspoken message. With Lu's help, they slowly make their way through the window and into her bedroom, landing softly on her carpet.

The silence doesn't last much longer once Prim is inside. Lu's expression is soft and adoring as she delicately takes Prim's hands, their eyelights meeting in a moment of quiet connection.

“...Really?” She asks, her voice gentle and hopeful. The look on her face leaves Prim feeling flustered, wondering how they had gotten so lucky. Prim nods, struggling to find the words, their throat tightening. Lu's smile widens.

“I want to hear you say it out loud, though,” Lu playfully pouts, her affectionate expression coaxing the words out of Prim. They feel like they'd do anything, as long as she continued to look at them like that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I, uhm…I like you. I have for a while now,” Prim responds, their voice slightly shaky. Lu's smile grows impossibly wider, her eyelights fuzzy at the edges, glistening with tears of joy.

“Will you be my partner, Prim?” Lu asks, her voice filled with hope and excitement.

“I'd like that,” Prim replies easily, their face flushed, gazing back at Lu with the same adoration.

“Cool,” She responds with a wet giggle, using one hand to wipe happy tears from her eye sockets.

“Cool,” Prim repeats, with a similarly elated expression. They gently replace Lu's hand with theirs, wiping the tears from her face. The two of them stay like that for a moment, silent, until Lu speaks again.

“May I..?” She asks, face flushed, eyelights flicking down to their mouth. Prim nods, and Lu leans in.

Yeah, coming here had been the right decision after all.

[preservationofnormalcy]

Hey Norm! Have you ever had any personal experience with extraterrestrial extranormal events, even if you haven't been to space?

Does Jennster count? Hah!

[Groan]

Anyway. A few. The nature of the...Zetan situation is that ETs are sort of rare, and the ones that are here don't like drawing attention to themselves. Most of them. I'm friends with Jenny's grandad, he's been in contact with the Office for decades. I said it earlier, but one of my friends growing up was an ET.

You know, I guess I didn't have too many encounters. There was the situation with the Zetans and a Lycan pack we had to defuse a while back, it was an eye contact thing.

There was this one time I was in Oregon for a conference. Sasquatch preservation, I think. A lot of Esoteric Rangers reupping their best practices, that sort of thing.

A couple of us were drinking around a fire after a meeting. We saw this huge ball of fire streak through the sky, and BAM. Hit the ground a little ways away. We all sort of look at each other for a minute - what were the odds of a bunch of OPN staff being nearby a possible ET crash?

Anyway we trudge through the forest to find it. We had to be careful. If it was a Zetan we had to wait until either a staff member with lycanthropy was available or wait until we could get some equipment to nullify their...effect. If it was a non-Zetan ET that was a ton of paperwork and a completely unknown element, so we needed caution there too.

Turns out it was a Zetan. I got the shivers early and we set up a perimeter until a lycan staff member came by - they're immune, of course - and was able to provide some medical care. The Zetan ended up being fine, so I hear. It's standard practice to not stand facing one if you must go near one, not to make eye contact with it, so we all sort of stood awkwardly facing away from her. I don't understand Zetan but the lycan told us later she was very appreciative. I don't think I can say who or what she was, even if I knew for sure. Classified, you know. But she left us all a scrap of metal from her ship. Not protocol, of course, but it's still in my things somewhere.

Oh, you know what. It's in that box there, Jenny. The small black one. That thing cost me days in paperwork. Enjoy it. Oh, did the henchmen bring this one in? I don't think I've seen it...

Oh right. You can read it. I didn’t even consider that. This says "Escape Pod Theta." She was crash-landing, that makes sen- And then "Creche Ship Haptanzar-011." She came from a Zetan Creche Ship.

Oh my god. That’s— There's usually only one or two per sector. They're more heavily defended than their capital ships, but if she was crashing in an escape pod...

And in Sol, that’s….no wonder Doe looked tense. Well, tense for him. It’s…best to not ask, I think. There’s a reason we don’t go beyond the moon.

[sharkboywrites]

Haayyy >__0 if your rqs are open I'd looove to see another floyd x male reader fic... I would love to see some hurt/comfort stuff around floyd's bpd getting in the way of him finally having a meaningful relationship, n the reader comforting him about it. If you could somehow imply that the reader is trans. and autistic. that would be cool !! but it is opt. ^_^

floyd bpd is a major hc of mine and I hardly see anyone actually pointing it out or writing about it ... that stuff's gotta be done!! he's bpdtastic!! and no one gaf 😭😭😭!!!!!

Tough Times

Bpd Floyd x Trans autistic reader

A/N: Hii! So to be completely honest I don’t really know everything about bpd, although I suspect I may have it but that’s unrelated, but I’ll try my best to write it. Please correct me if I get anything wrong! Also I’ll try to fit in the reader’s own traits but I might have a bit of trouble with it

Trans reader, autistic reader, Floyd had bpd

Floyd was hard to deal with for most people

Most people thought he was too crazy, too quick to change his emotions, and was completely unpredictable and dangerous.

You weren’t most people though.

While Floyd did have his quirks, you still love him, the two of you were practically inseparable. Like seriously, it started to become odd to see one of you without the other.

Although, while you two still loved each other, sometimes it would be hard. Each episode either of you had would cause a problem in your relationship, whether it be your dysphoria or meltdowns, or Floyd’s sudden mood changes and impulsive behavior.

It hurt Floyd more than he’d ever wanted to let you know.

He really hated the way he acted, the way it caused problems between the two of you, the way he would get you into trouble along with him whenever he was impulsive.

Having these feelings just made things worse for him. The more he tried to shove it down, the worse his mood swings would get. One moment he’d be clinging to you like if he’d die if he let you go, and the next he’d be avoiding you like the plague, doing stuff that would get him into trouble.

It worried you. You knew something was wrong with the way he was acting, but you weren’t sure how to address it with him right.

During the next time he was with you, you decided it would be the best time to try and talk to him about it. You sat him down in your dorm room and gently caressed his hand as you told him what you felt was wrong.

His emotions were everywhere. One moments he was upset and crying, the next angry and yelling, mostly at himself, but in the end he was able to tell you what was wrong.

You held him closely, assuring him that even though he had these problems, you were always there for him. You weren’t going to leave him over this, that the two of you could always talk it out, just like the way you did during your own episodes.

For the next few days you made sure to shower him in affection, staying by his side almost all day, giving him treats, and reinforcing how much you love him. Your actions were reassuring to him, and while he still had some complicated feelings, you were helping to make him feel much better.

Sometimes things may be hard between the two of you, you both have your problems, but at the end of the day you both love each other, and both of you will always do your best to not let that get in the way.

[lost-estradiographer]

I

know that voting for the status quo sucks.

To say it "sucks" massively understates the exact amount of suffering that exists under the status quo, an amount that I acknowledge I am too privileged to ever fully grasp.

I cannot magically provide some viable third-party candidate just barely a month before the election. I cannot solve Israel/Palestine Conflict that has haunted the world for over 70 years. I am a 29-year old transgender woman working her way through her own mental illnesses, trauma, and an undergraduate degree. I was never going to be the one to solve anything here.

All I can tell you is that regardless of whether you vote or not, there will be a presidential election. It's going to be a shitshow, regardless. Whether you vote or not, there will be a different president in January. Voting for the status quo may not be directly in your interests.

We had four years of Trump and we are still trying to unfuck ourselves from that. The beginning of my antagonistic relationship with the government was protesting in the streets of DC under his administration. I've fled from the Metro PD. I've put on a change of clothes and slipped out the back door of a gay sports bar.

Fucking vote.

Fucking vote.

Fucking vote.

Honestly, I

I don't want to see this voter apathy shit anymore.

People are going to keep dying under any president. Any president can, and probably wil, be morally culpable for the deaths of innocent people, both in the country and abroad. Carter might be the last president we had that wasn't overtly a war criminal and we still had foreign civilians killed by U.S. military involvement under the Carter admin.

I'm torn between asking you to block me, or asking you to message me, if you're taking the route of voter apathy. I'll tell you right away, here and now, that I probably don't have a solution to whatever problem is keeping you from voting for Harris. I can't even solve my own problems right, tbh. The government isn't really here for me, either.

But there isn't going to be some sort of miraculous revolution that results in The Ending Where Everyone Lives. If there's a revolution, then supply chains will falter and children and the infirm will die of preventable diseases and infections and complications in hospitals that would have otherwise been able to easily deal with such things. That's what happens in a revolution. I'm after the long-term idea where Humanity as a species lives. I'm after the route where we don't have an ending, we keep going.

Fucking vote, because exactly one of the two leading presidential candidates believes climate change is real, and it is the single greatest threat to all life on earth. We have spent the past 250 years, not just playing God with the environment, but actively creating an ecological niche in which future generations of humanity must continue to play God with the environment, dragging it back to a healthy place drop by drop, inch by inch, a degree at a time.

Or, I mean, don't vote. Either way, we'll all die at some point. Perhaps some of us will be lucky enough to die standing by our principles.

Those lucky few will become soil one day, just like I will.

I am begging you on my hands and knees to fucking vote, though, because our options are The Status Quo vs. Worse. That's

That's it.

There is no door number three right now. Our system, our flawed and broken and imbalanced and unjust system, does not accommodate for a third door. Whether you vote or not, you will be dragged through either Door 1 or Door 2 with all of humanity, as we whirl through the cosmos upon our tiny little speck of dust. The only other legitimate option is to allow oneself to become trampled; to become soil early. I don't say legitimate to give this option legitimacy, but to make clear that again, there is no door three. Door three is a casket. A one-way bed.

I didn't vote in 2016, and I'm hoping that you'll vote for the status quo this time, because that's the route that gives me the best odds of having a long and healthy life to regret my failure through inaction.

Just please

Fucking vote.

Or again, if you're taking the apathy route, probably just save me the time of blocking you, because you're not going to magically pull a viable third-party candidate out of your pocket less than six weeks before the election.

[galacticlamps]

ok I have A Lot of thoughts about the staircase confession (well really about Edwin's whole character arc, but all roads lead to rome) but for now I just wanna say that, yes, I was bracing myself for something to go terribly wrong when I first watched it, and yes, part of me was initially worried its placement might be an uncharacteristically foolish choice made in the name of Drama or Pacing or Making a Compelling Episode of Television but at the expense of narrative sense--

But I wanna say that having taken all that into account, and watched it play out, and sat with it - and honestly become rather transfixed by it - I really think it's a beautifully crafted moment and truly the only way that arc could've arrived at such a satisfying conclusion.

And if I had to pinpoint why I not only buy it but also have come to really treasure it, I'd have to put it down to the fact that it genuinely is a confession, and nothing else.

That moment is an announcement of what Edwin has come to understand about himself, but because it takes the form of a character admitting romantic feelings for such a close friend, I think it can be very easy, when writing that kind of thing, to imbue it with other elements like a plea or a request or even the start of a new relationship that, intentionally or not, would change the shape of the moment and can quickly overshadow what a huge deal the telling is all on its own. But that's not the case here. Since it is only a confession, unaccompanied by anything else, and since we see afterward how it was enough, evidently, to fix the strangeness that had grown between him & Charles, we're forced to understand that it was never Edwin's feelings that were actually making things difficult for him - it was not being able to tell Charles about them. 'Terrified' as he's been of this, Edwin learns that his feelings don't need to either disappear completely or be totally reciprocated in order for him to be able to return to the peace, stability, and security of the relationship with which he defines his existence - and the scale of that relief a) tells us a hell of a lot about Edwin as a character and b) totally justifies the way his declaration just bursts out of him at what would otherwise be such a poorly chosen moment, in my opinion.

Whether or not they are or ever could be reciprocated, Edwin's feelings are definitively proven not to be the problem here - only his potential choice to bottle it up - his repression - is. And where that repression had once been mainly involuntary, a product of what he'd been through, now that he's got this new awareness of himself, if he still fails to admit what he's found either to himself or to the one person he's so unambiguously close with, then that repression will be by his own choice and actions.

And he won't do that. Among other things, he's coming into this scene having just (unknowingly) absolved the soul of his own school bully and accidental killer by pointing out a fact that is every bit as central to his self-discovery as anything about his sexuality or his attraction to Charles is: the idea that "If you punish yourself, everywhere becomes Hell"

So narratively speaking, of course it makes sense that Edwin literally cannot get out of Hell until he stops punishing himself - and right now, the thing that's torturing him is something he has control over. It's not who he is or what he feels, but what he chooses to do with those feelings that's hurting him, and he's even already made the conscious choice to tell Charles about them, he was just interrupted. But now that they're back together and he's literally in the middle of an attempt to escape Hell, there is absolutely no way he can so much as stop for breath without telling Charles the truth. Even the stopping for breath is so loaded - because they're ghosts, they don't need to breathe, but also they're in Hell, so the one thing they can feel is pain, however nonsensical. And Edwin certainly is in pain. But whether he knows what he's about to do or not when he says he 'just needs a tick,' a breather is absolutely not what's gonna give him enough relief to keep climbing - it's fixing that other hurt, though, that will.

Like everything else in that scene, there's a lot of layers to him promising Charles "You don't have to feel the same way, I just needed you to know" - but I don't think that means it isn't also true on a surface level. It's the act of telling Charles that matters so much more than whatever follows it, and while that might have gone unnoticed if anything else major had happened in the same conversation, now we're forced to acknowledge its staggering and singular importance for what it is. The moment is well-earned and properly built up to, but until we see it happen in all its wonderful simplicity, and we see the aftermath (or lack thereof, even), we couldn't properly anticipate how much of a weight off Edwin's shoulders merely getting to share the truth with Charles was going to be, why he couldn't wait for a better, safer opportunity before giving in to that desire, or how badly he needed to say it and nothing else - and I really, really love the weight that act of just being honest, seen, and known is given in their story/relationship.

[queenofthursday6599-blog]

You know I don't think Timmy actually ended up sharing Wanda and Cosmo for all that long with Chloe in the grand scheme of things.

I mean there's various points in the show that seem to imply that having Fairy GodParents is a temporary thing. Like extremely temporary for most kids.

As in even being 10, and having gotten Cosmo and Wanda at age 8, Timmy's considered as having been a GodChild for a long time. Even if that's only a couple years.

Like there's a reason why there's multiple episodes about all of Fairy World being interested in whatever Timmy's up to.

Timmy's an outlier case.

He's going to end up aging out of the system (bar any breaking of any major rule that the fairies can't find a way to forgive) and everyone knows it.

They made a whole live action trilogy of bending the rules just for him where he gets to keep his fairies as an adult, and then turns into a fairy at the end of that trilogy.

He's a, probably wouldn't have made it to adulthood without fairies, kind of a case.

That's not the case for most kids who get fairies, or at least it's heavily implied that's not the case for most kids who get fairies.

Take Cosmo and Wanda being Crocker's fairies in 1972, and having already been his fairies for about 2 years by that point, but having had been Billy Gate's fairies in 1970.

We're never even given a hint that Billy lost his fairies traumatically, because he grew up to invent the internet just fine, and we never hear about him beyond that. And it seems like if a kid traumatically loses their fairies before their ready, it ends with them being a screwed up adult.

Which tells me that whatever situation Billy was in to need fairies resolved itself shortly after the time travel thing.

Heck even then, it was heavily implied that Crocker's life, even qualifying for fairies, was better than Timmy's was. Considering the only things mentioned is that he's got a single mom that works multiple jobs, and when she doesn't she tends to focus on her hobbies, and an evil babysitter to deal with.

He's not bullied at that point, he's not struggling academically, the only things wrong with his life (before getting over dosed on magic mindwipe and being disfigured and losing his mind as a result, which turned him into a social outcast) is that he's got a single mom who works a lot and leaves him with a mean babysitter so she can have me time.

That's it, that's what makes him qualify.

And he would have aged out of at least one of those problems before turning 18. He would have been 14 when he would have naturally outgrown needing to have a babysitter (as that's how old Vicky starts babysitting Timmy).

Then by that point he would have also been old enough to get a part time job of his own. Lightening the financial lode on his mother, and possibly freeing up some of her working time to actually spend with her.

Meaning it's possible that both of his fairy qualifying problems would have resolved themselves by age 14 or 15.

But also the kind of miserable it takes to get godparents (at least when that baseline is first established) is temporary for most kids.

I wouldn't be surprised if the typical Fairy GodParent & GodChild relationship typically only lasted like a year or two for most kids.

[And it seems like the majority of kids we meet who have GodParents, get them at age 10.

I'm pretty sure Timmy being 8 and getting his Fairies, is the youngest kid we ever see having Fairies.

Other than de-aged Vicky that one episode, but because it happened in the constraints of one of Timmy's wishes, I'm not going to count it. Especially because when Cosmo and Wanda are reassigned to Vicky, no one comes to erase Timmy's memory of having fairies, so she doesn't have to worry at all about hiding them which all other godkids do.

Also Vicky is just given Cosmo and Wanda and not her own fairy, which I feel heavily implies that all of this is falling under wish logic, and not normal logic.

Crocker is the second youngest, because he had Cosmo and Wanda at 9.]

Especially in cases where the root of the kid's misery is something they have the power to personally confront and change.

Like if a kid gets a fairy because they're being bulled at school to the point it's ruining everything else in their life. [Bully is making it to where they can't complete school or home work, causing grades to drop, meaning no extracurricular stuff, and getting in trouble with parents.]

But that kid manages to reveal what's happening, and gets things to change, and their life goes back to how it was before. Then that kid obviously doesn't need a GodParent anymore to make up for their miserable life.

I could easily see plenty of situations where a kid might only have a GodParent for less than a year.

Like Hazel's situation from A New Wish weirds me out, because all her problems are super temporary problems that resolve in like a few months to a year for most kids who have those problems.

It's missing her older brother who left for collage. Which most kids eventually get over after just getting used to them no longer living in the same house as them.

When the younger sibling gets used to the older siblings absence, a pretty good chunk of them revel in the bizarre experience of being either the new oldest, or an only child for the rest of their own childhood.

It's moving to a new city and having to make all new friends. Which Hazel does over the course of season 1. She's got 3 friends if Dev counts.

Everything causing her to need fairies is all extremely temporary. Which is a large part of the reason why I don't think she'll be one of the kids to age out of the system the way Timmy was.

She's got parents who love her, she's not struggling at school, she doesn't have an abusive babysitter, she's already started making friends at her new school, her brother came home from collage, but even then that's something she'd just grow out of eventually.

So I feel like unless something in her life changes for the worst, she's going to only have Cosmo and Wanda for a few years at most. And lose them around age 14-15.

Sure her problems are a lot more relatable than Timmy's ever were.

Which is understandable considering Timmy was a kid who had literally everything going wrong in his life, except he wasn't living in poverty.

From neglectful parents, being bullied as school, an abusive babysitter, being specifically targeted by a teacher for harassment, being the target of a girl's stalker crush on him, being canonically considered an idiot even without Crocker targeting him (even though I'm pretty sure he just has ADHD). And that's just the major stuff he starts off with.

That's not even getting into like the magical enemies he makes over the course of the show. Who are out to get him from then on.

And the fact that his parents weren't actively malicious towards him, just forgetful and oblivious.

But Hazel's problems are also all a lot more temporary than Timmy's ever were.

And that's like, the big thing that makes them different and give me the feeling that, while Timmy definitely aged out and had fairies until the last possible moment, kids like Chloe and Hazel probably only had fairies for a few years at most.

That's most likely why Wanda and Cosmo still refer to Timmy as their last godchild before retiring. Even though they were assigned Chloe years after they were assigned to Timmy.

Chloe's issues probably resolved at some point and Timmy returned to being a singular GodChild from that point on.

[I'm guessing she grew a backbone at some point, lets her parents know all the pressure they put on her was making her miserable, and stopped being a complete doormat for literally everyone. Because those were her big problems that caused her to qualify for Fairies.]

Which was probably extremely awkward for Timmy in the aftermath of Chloe having her memories purged of fairies, considering they only spent time together because they were made to share fairies.

Sure Timmy had seen kids lose their fairies before, like with Remy, but he'd never cared then because he hardly spent any time with Remy, and no one would call him and Remy friends.

But it had to be weird when it inevitably happened with Chloe, because by the end there, she basically lived in the Turner house.

Heck of the two kids who get fairies in A New Wish, I'd say that Dev is the kid more likely to be an age out case than Hazel. If he ever regains godparents.

Considering having a single parent, who literally loves business and money more than he'll ever love his own kid, is a bit more of a permanent misery than "I moved to a new town and have no friends, and my brother went off to collage" is.

Just to be honest.

Like maybe it's different rules because Hazel is a post-retirement passion project for Cosmo and Wanda, and they can stay with her until she'd age out because they're not on official rotation or whatever.

But no one will be able to convince me that she'd actually need fairies the entire rest of her childhood unless something horrible happens to her in season 2.

Like baby girl those are some temporary issues that tend to resolve themselves within a year, how are you going to keep qualifying for fairy godparentship the rest of this series?